“Did you fuck her?”
“I wanted—” Fort wet his lips. “I used her mouth.”
Griff’s heart surged into his throat and tried to choke him. “What position?”
“Ruler God!” Fort cast him a look of pure dislike. “On her knees, you little shit! All right?”
The loose working trews Fort wore were tented. Griff flicked his tongue out to collect a drop of roberry from the corner of his mouth and watched the bulge twitch. “So you didn’t fuck her after all, the high-priced whore,” he murmured, suddenly and vividly aware that all he wore were his costume tights. Even his feet were bare.
Fort stared at the roberry pot. “I had to get back to the Fair.”
“Of course you did.”
“I still have credit on the chit. We could…” The big man ran a hand through his hair.
Griff closed the distance between them, his legs trembling. “Yes?” he whispered.
“We could share.” Fort shot out a big hand and gripped Griff’s jaw, tilting his head up at an awkward angle. “I asked her. Described you. She agreed.”
Griff laid his fingers lightly over Fort’s wrist. “You could do that? Share a woman with me?” The return of hope was so acute, it was agonizing.
A pause. “Yes.” The word came out in a gravelly bass.
“What else can you do, Fort?” Griff wasn’t sure his voice was even audible, but Fort’s eyes went smoky, the way he loved. “This?” He used the big man’s grip to steady himself as he rose to press his lips against Fort’s, no more than a fleeting pressure, the merest hint of tongue.
The other man went rigid against him, his broad chest barely moving with his shallow breath. He didn’t respond.
Griff whispered into his mouth. “You touch me, touch my cock, and I come apart, you know that?”
“Yes,” croaked Fort.
“So that’s another thing you can do.” Griff snaked a hand down between their bodies and loosened the laces of Fort’s trews. “Close your eyes, Fort. Pretend I’m her.”
The silence was so profound, the sound of their rasping breaths filled the wagon.
Griff slipped his fingers under Fort’s waistband and a heated length of velvet over steel thrust itself into his grasp. He slid his thumb over the smooth, bulbous head and Fort hissed. But he didn’t close his eyes.
Infinitely slowly, Griff lowered himself to his knees, rubbing his cheek against the soft linen shirt, the hard stomach, the jutting hipbones. Fort could stand there and take it or he could fucking run. Either way, he was getting every chance.
But the other man stood as if frozen. Griff pulled the trews down far enough to release Fort’s magnificent cock so that it arched forward as if spring-loaded.
What the hell. Why not?
He pushed some more, until the trews hung halfway down Fort’s massive thighs and the warm weight of his testicles fell into Griff’s eager palm.
Deliberately, Griff raised his eyes, snaring Fort’s molten gaze. Holding the big man’s eye, he stuck out his tongue and licked a trail around the smooth dome of Fort’s cock head, tasting heat, his nostrils full of male musk.
“Ruler—!” Fort jerked so violently Griff lost his grip.
He sat back on his heels, staring up, a half-smile on his lips. “You haven’t shut your eyes. Is this something else you can do?”
“Bastard.” Fort fumbled his hands behind him and braced himself against the table. His voice was so hoarse and deep it was barely intelligible. “Go on, damn you!”
Griff administered another kitten lick, whisking his tongue over the weeping slit, almost as if Fort’s broad shaft was one of the spun sugar cones they sold in the Fair. But he didn’t taste sweet, not at all. He was hot and salty, like tears, with a trace of bitterness. Utterly intoxicating.
Where Griff’s shoulder pressed into Fort’s thigh, the shudders rippled bone-deep. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the scarred knuckles whiten on the edge of the table. No, he didn’t have time for finesse.
Griff wrapped a hand around the base of the big man’s cock, leaned forward and swallowed the other half in a single hasty gulp. Fort made a strangled sound, deep in his throat. Immediately, the tumbler set up a powerful rhythm, hollowing his cheeks with each pull, lashing the sweet spot under the head with his tongue on every pass.
Fragments of thought wheeled through his brain. Feel how good it is, bastard. See how I know, know exactly what you like. No woman could know better, love it more.
Strong fingers tunneled into his hair. Coherent thought disintegrated and Griff lost himself in the giving of pleasure, the hot, musky flesh spreading his lips, vibrating against his palate. He dug his fingers into the resilience of Fort’s muscled ass and kept going, breathing through his nose, the sweat springing up on his back and chest, sliding over his ribs.
The fingers in his hair tightened almost to the point of pain. The other man spread his thighs as far as the trews would allow and tilted his pelvis, arching into Griff’s mouth. Fort grunted with every pull. His grip became demanding, moving the tumbler’s head, insisting on a punishing rhythm, fucking into his mouth.
“Griff.” A breathless growl. “Look at me.” A jerk in his hair.
Griff raised his eyes and found himself trapped, just as lost in the smoky lust of Fort’s gaze as he was in the taste and the feel of the huge cock thrusting over the velvet of his tongue.
“Going…to…offer.” Fort’s hands closed over the back of his skull. “Not long. Ah, sweet Lufra!” The groan seemed torn from his chest. “You.” His gray eyes blazed down into Griff’s. “Ruler, your eyes! Show me…my cock…in your mouth.”
Griff’s balls clenched so hard, he very nearly came. His cock reared even higher, leaking into the fabric of his tights. Moaning, he ramped up the suction and at the end of the next stroke, he swallowed.
“Aaargh! Fuck. Oh fuck! Shit!”
He barely had time to draw back enough to avoid drowning. Fort’s cock rippled and a hot flood spurted down his throat. Desperately, Griff gulped, the other man’s seed spilling out of the sides of his mouth. Fort’s face contorted with ecstasy, every muscle in his body going rigid. He dug powerful fingers into Griff’s scalp.
Griff clung, hanging on, gentling Fort’s softening shaft with his tongue. Finally he drew away, burying his face in the notch between hip and thigh, feeling tears prickling behind his eyes, the pulling weight of his rampant cock, throbbing with every beat of his pulse, his scrotum clenched and tight. Gods, all he needed was the merest touch! A feather. The other man’s seed burned over his tongue and throat, as if Fort had branded him, marked him forever.
But before he could move, the big man bent, hooked his hands in Griff’s armpits and hauled him up until they were nose to nose. His eyes were completely wild, so fierce a tremor of delighted apprehension ran up Griff’s spine. “This I can do,” he grated. “This!”
One hand clamped over the back of Griff’s neck, the other grasped his cock through the tights. Fort’s lips slammed down on his while that calloused palm pumped his desperate cock, the rhythm harsh and efficient.
Griff arched and shook, helpless as a bunrat in the grip of a fellwolf, reduced to mere sensation, mindless with pleasure. Fort’s strong tongue fucked into his mouth, giving no quarter, demanding everything. Gods, he’d be able to taste himself! The thought sent the younger man over the edge, the seed surging out of his balls and into his cock in a scalding torrent. Griff bucked, groaning into Fort’s mouth. His vision blanked out.
When he came to, he was still cradled in Fort’s arms, the big man supporting almost his full weight. Griff blinked fiercely, tears standing in his eyes. “Come to bed,” he husked, fumbling an arm up around the other man’s neck. “Stay with me.”
But Fort shook his head, the sexual flush fading from under his skin. “I can’t—” He cleared his throat. “This is all I can do. No more, Griff. No more. I shouldn’t even—” He set the younger man on his feet and concentrated on lacing his
trews.
Griff abandoned his pride, threw good sense out the window. “Twister’s balls, why? What the fuck is wrong with me?” He set his hands on his hips, ignoring the uncomfortable chill of the wet patch on his groin.
Fort’s head jerked up. “Nothing.” His clear gray eyes were sheened with misery, but much deeper lurked a razor edge of frustration and rage. “It’s me.” He shrugged. “You fit in everywhere you go. I’m too fucked up to be any use to anyone. To be a friend.” He dragged in a breath and said, steadily enough, “A lover.”
“Vranshit.” Griff stretched out a hand, gripped the other man’s arm. “You care. I know you do.”
“Ruler God, don’t you get it?” Fort knocked him aside and strode to the door. “It doesn’t matter a shit whether I care or how much I care. I can’t be your lover, Griff. I can’t. I’m not capable of it.”
“But—”
Fort cut him off. “I came tonight to apologize. To say goodbye.”
“Twister, will you just—”
“I’ve spoken with the Governing Ring of the Fair. I’m leaving tomorrow to scout our route to Mother’s Hearth. I won’t see much of you in the future.” Fort ducked his head, a strangely shy gesture. “Keep the harp. I bought it for you anyway.”
He wrenched open the door and disappeared into the night.
Chapter Nine
The Royal Library of Valaressa:
The Library was a personal project dear to the heart of Queen Ezaretta II of the Kingdom of the Leaves of the Sea. Due to her charming, but relentless enthusiasm, the tower housing the Library was built in less than a decade, its design the result of a kingdom-wide competition. Hammaliel the Bronze of the Aetherii, the winning architect, pierced the tower with numerous windows and cunning apertures, but added the entry foyer and staircase only when forcibly reminded by an irritated monarch.
Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.
Griff shut his mouth with a snap. Two jerky steps and he had the little harp in his hands. He lifted it over his head and raised his knee so he could break it in two, the snarl building in his throat. Twister, how did Fort do this to him every fucking time? Raise him higher than he’d been in his life and leave him feeling like shit.
He lowered his hands. Hell, he couldn’t do it.
What the fuck was supposed to be so wrong with the man? Griff tossed the harp back on the bed. With a grimace of distaste, he peeled off the soiled tights, wadded them into a ball and tossed them into a corner. No one could spend all those years dealing death without collecting his fair share of demons, but other mercenaries took lovers, male or female, as they preferred. Hell, they even Bonded, had children. What he and Fort had together was a celebration of life, of living, but in Fort’s face he saw guilt. And a self-disgust that approached hatred. Shivering, he flung himself full length on the bed and stacked his hands behind his head, remembering the sheen of sweat on Fort’s brow, the sick expression in his eyes, the tremble in the big hands. Gods, what had he got himself into?
Traveler save him, what had Fort seen?
* * * * *
Griff threaded his way through the elaborate knot garden at the foot of the tower housing the Royal Library of Valaressa. He squinted up at the expanse of shining white masonry piercing the blue of the sky, then down at the reflection rippling right across the width of the canal. The complex designs incised in the stone were distorted by the slight movement of the water, the endless scrolls and whorls undulating as if they danced to liquid music. He wondered if the strange effect had been the architect’s intention. Probably.
People saw him as a lightweight, he knew that, a man more interested in amusement than in serious pursuits. But they forgot the discipline required when you risked not only your own life, but the lives of those you cared for every day in the ring. The responsibility.
No, he wasn’t a fool. He had a brain and he intended to use it.
Griff entered the shadowed portico of the Library and consulted the directory carved into the wall, the words highlighted with jewel tones that gleamed softly. It looked like what he wanted was on the fifth floor. Slowly, he climbed the narrow curving stairs, pausing to peer at the artifacts and works of art set in niches on each landing. The light wasn’t the best, but he admired an Aetherian feather sculpture, breathtakingly beautiful, then moved on to a jeweled miniature of a vran, endlessly galloping. He squinted at the rhythmic flurry of the tiny, clawed hooves. Must be some kind of clockwork.
The fifth floor was awash with noise and light. Sunshine streamed into the huge circular room through the pierced and patterned fretwork that ran all the way around the white wall above head height. After the quiet of the entry, he blinked. People sat and argued around large tables, robed servitors bustled about with armfuls of scrolls and books. One man snoozed peacefully on a heap of cushions in the corner, his hands crossed on an ample belly. Griff decided he must be deaf.
His eyes narrowed. Sitting in a square of light was a small familiar figure, writing slowly but steadily, tongue protruding from between her teeth. Grinning, Griff stole up behind her, swept her hair aside and planted a swift kiss on the nape of her neck.
“Lufra, what the—” The brush in Fledge’s hand stuttered across the paper as she twisted around. “Griff!” She frowned, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Look what you made me do!”
He sank onto the bench beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders in a casual hug. Surreptitiously, he sniffed. Ah, that lovely female smell, warm and sweet and strong together.
A muscled whip curled over his wrist with shocking precision, jerking him away. One of Fledge’s Aetherii, the one with the tawny wings, stood behind them, his arms full of scrolls and his face like a golden thundercloud. “Keep your hands to yourself!” he growled, and his tail tightened, cutting off circulation.
Fledge rose and took the top two scrolls from the pile. “Stop it, Mirry,” she said absently. “Don’t you remember Griff? From the Fair?”
“Ringman?” The tail slipped away and the strange tufted brows drew together. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the Empty Lands.”
Griff stared, nonplussed. “The Empty Lands? Why, for Twister’s sake?”
Mirry began laying scrolls on the table in some order only he appeared to understand. “For the money Jan’s paying you.” His raptor’s gaze lifted suddenly. “Didn’t McLaren tell you?”
Something in Griff’s gut began a slow burn.
“Tell me what?”
The Aetherii straightened. “Jan hired McLaren—and you—to scout for Hssrda activity in the Empty Lands.” He quirked a brow, but said no more.
“Hssrda—?” The spit dried in Griff’s mouth. No wonder Fort had offered to scout the route of the Fair. Mother’s Hearth lay beyond the Empty Lands. Twister’s balls, he was alone out there. Looking for Hssrda.
Gods, he was a fool! Fort could take care of himself. Who better? A nasty little tendril of petulance unfurled amid the general anxiety. You left me behind, it wailed. ME!
Fledge said, “Griff dear, wait a minute.” He ignored her.
“Wait!” That damned tail snagged his elbow and spun him around.
Griff looked back, frowning. He hadn’t even been aware he’d started for the stairs at a jog-trot, his mind churning with the logistics of persuading the Governing Ring to part with another vran, of what to pack and what to leave, how to tell Cizmar he’d have to find someone else for a while.
The Aetherii’s eyes were brilliant with curiosity. He cocked his head to one side, his wings stirring the air. “What did you come here for? This is a Library.”
Griff had to force his brain to make a pattern of the teeming, whirling fragments of thought. “I wanted to know about the Straight Church. What it’s like to be one of the Brethren.”
Mirry’s face hardened. “I can tell you that. Sit down.”
* * * * *
Traveler save him, he was lost. Comprehensively, tota
lly, fucking lost.
Two days later, Griff’s vran shifted restlessly beneath him as he peered for the umpteenth time at the map. He rubbed his aching forehead. Shit, he was a professional acrobat, not a bloody scout. Pity he hadn’t remembered that fact before he’d lit out into the Empty Lands. He sighed, knowing he’d do exactly the same again.
All right, think, think! This was the most direct trail to the Empty Lands, marked at hundred-yard intervals with big light-colored rocks at the side of the path. He was only a day behind Fort and he’d pushed his mount unmercifully, so the other man couldn’t be too far ahead. Not only that, he’d at least had the wits to ask for the stablemate of Fort’s big brown mare. With any luck, the vran’s keener senses would lead him to his quarry.
Moodily, he swayed to the animal’s gait as it paced through the dappled shade, the big clawed hooves kicking up the dry foliage. Running water burbled on his right and he followed it down a gentle slope. It was pretty country, the gray-green foliage of the tall trees screening him from the full heat of the day. He squinted upward. The Shadow was advancing across the sky, nibbling at the face of the Sun. He’d need a place to camp soon.
Gods knew what he thought he was going to say to Fort when he found him. Uneasily, he thought of what Mirry had told him, the word pictures sickeningly vivid in his mind. No wonder Fort had gone that horrible color. It was beyond his comprehension, such deliberate, dispassionate cruelty. Surely no god that was truly a god would require such a thing of his followers?
Except…there was one good thing about the whole stinking mess. It wasn’t him that was the problem, not specifically anyway. Perversely, hope glowed hot in his heart, mocking him with wonderful possibilities. He sighed. There wasn’t much doubt he was going to get his heart broken. Twister, for all he knew, Fort might decide to break every bone in his body in the bargain. He wasn’t even sure why he was chasing the big man so hard, out here in the wilderness he knew so little about. He only knew he needed to finish this thing with Fortitude McLaren—finish it clean one way or the other so he could live the rest of his life without wondering. He huffed out a laugh. Griff’s motto, Don’t die not kno—
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