by Tal Bauer
Alain shot him a dark look.
They were no closer to understanding why the vampires had Demon Fire, why the vampires were searching for the hunters, or why an incubus had targeted Cristoph.
“It’s not that they were looking for what we do.” Alain tried to puzzle through it with Cristoph again. “The dark creatures and the demons have always known about hunters. But why ask about a single hunter? What do they want with the commandant?”
“How many hunters are there? You said there were only one or two knights at a time nowadays.” Cristoph leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees.
“There are only a few knights at a time now here in the Vatican. But we’re not the only hunters in the world. The original Knights Templar sent out missionaries.” He grinned. “Turned out, we were late to the party. Most everyone else already had hunters. Our missionaries became emissaries, and we learned from everyone we could. Prayers and scrying from India and China. More about possession from Africa. And, in the new world, we learned about shapeshifting.”
He caught how Cristoph’s eyes darkened when he spoke of Africa.
“There are hundreds of hunters in the world, across every culture. We share information. Work together when we can. Your shaman in Africa that sent you here? He was a hunter.” Alain stood, stretching. The day had grown long. “What was Lotario’s last update?”
Cristoph swiped on his phone screen. Alain’s cell phone was still gone, but Cristoph had Lotario’s number from two nights ago. A string of text messages between Lotario and Cristoph had kept them connected while Lotario went to work with Angelo, digging through records of bodies and unclaimed corpses.
“His last message, and I quote, was ‘fuck this shit.’” Cristoph grinned. “He was heading for the potter’s cemetery to dig up some bodies. Then back to the station. Angelo was going to bring him more corpses.”
“The commandant sent an email, too. He’s up in his apartment, tucked in tight.”
“Do we stand guard for the commandant?” Cristoph looked ready to stand guard all night if Alain ordered it.
Chuckling, Alain shook his head. “The commandant is a knight, remember? He’s got demon traps in the walls of his apartment and salt lines on his doors and windows. We all do. Wards high and low.”
“Does he have armor and a sword, too?” Cristoph winked.
“We used to have a holy sword in the old days.” Alain leaned back, crossing his feet as he sighed. Exhaustion weighed on him, and the light banter was a perfect escape for the moment. There wasn’t anything they could do, not with so few answers and no leads. Lotario would find them a new lead, a location to scout, a vampire to track. He had to believe that, or he’d go crazy with nothing to do, nowhere to turn, with no answers and only ever-deepening mysteries.
But he could sit here and protect Cristoph. Keep him safe. Maybe even train him, just a tiny bit.
“The Knights Templar had a sword in the Order. I mean, every knight had a sword, but the Order had a special one. Almost six feet long, the stories said. It was a holy blade, possessed with some kind of power.”
“Sweet. What do you have now?”
“Iron and silver blades. Stakes. Guns. Shotguns and pistols. Bullets tipped with everything that can kill the darkness. Herbs, holy water, saint’s blood…” He ticked off the weapons on his fingers, counting aloud. “The blood you smeared me in? That was saint’s blood mixed with the ash of a crucifix and the fang of a vampire. An antidote to vampire wounds. Not a bite. But wounds.”
“Where do you get saint’s blood?”
Alain took a deep breath. If Cristoph wanted to know… “We drain the popes’ bodies after they die.”
“Holy shit…” Cristoph’s eyes bugged out as his mouth formed a perfect O.
“Oh. And we use overproof vodka.” He tried to change the subject, quickly moving to safer territory.
“Vodka?”
“Lotario kills revenants and ghosts with vodka. One hundred and ninety proof. It’s a local rotgut he gets from somewhere. He soaks the revenants and lights them on fire.”
A part of Alain warmed as the sound of Cristoph’s laughter slipped through his heart and soul. It was dangerous, so dangerous, to let Cristoph get this close. To let him smile and laugh and look at Alain in that way. Standing, Alain broke the moment that had stretched long, shared grins and soft gazes darting over each other’s faces. “You hungry?”
“Starved.” Cristoph rubbed his taut belly as he stood, stretching. His shirt rode up, revealing a thin strip of tanned skin above his sagging jeans stretched tight over defined hipbones.
He looked away, but his mouth felt drier than the Sahara. His palms itched, wanting to reach for Cristoph’s hips, slide his hands under his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin.
No. No, you closed that door. No. Your dreams have to end. There’s no future there. No future except in blood. You vowed. Remember? Remember your vow.
Alain led Cristoph to the canteen where they grabbed takeout containers of manicotti, salad, and garlic bread. They ignored all the blatant stares as they moved through the buffet line. Cristoph served as Alain held the containers open, and they chuckled as the manicotti slipped and slid all over the spatula before Cristoph managed to get it in the containers.
When Cristoph held up a piece of garlic bread for Alain to try, offering to feed him from his fingers, Alain’s heart nearly burst. The canteen went silent, no longer pretending not to stare.
What was Cristoph doing? He knew Alain was ostracized. He knew he’d be on the outs for this.
He didn’t seem to care. After Alain carefully chewed off the end—staying far away from Cristoph’s fingers—Cristoph gobbled down the rest, stuffing his cheeks, his smile wide.
They headed out, Cristoph waving a two-fingered salute to the silent room as they left and headed up to Alain’s apartment.
“You know you’ll just get more grief for that.” Alain stood on the opposite side of the elevator, keeping his distance from Cristoph. “Your friends already despise me.”
“They aren’t my friends. And I don’t care what they think.” Cristoph’s gaze pierced his. “I want them to know I chose you. That you’re not alone. I know where my loyalties are.”
What could he say to that? No one stood with Alain. No one had, not in twelve years. It was too much, and he looked away, looked down, tried to escape from the heat burning out of Cristoph’s gaze.
He led Cristoph to his apartment silently. They stood in Alain’s kitchen and ate, sidestepping the scattered skulls and spilled tarot cards and the jars filled with blood. Alain pointed out everything, naming the animal or creature the blood had come from, how the blood was used in a spell, or what weapons to dip in which against which creatures.
Cristoph asked about each of the weapons hanging on the wall. There were silver blades and blades dipped in holy water, blades coated with lamb’s blood and goat’s blood. Shotguns with salt shells. A broadsword, but not, Alain said with a smile, the broadsword from the Order.
When they finished, Alain tossed their empty trays and then poured a shot of vodka for them both into chipped plastic cups. Cristoph clinked his glass and downed his shot.
Silence descended over the pair.
“Can I ask you a question?” Cristoph twirled his cup on the counter, slow spins, and didn’t look up at Alain.
“Sure.” Alain stuffed his hands in his pants pocket and hitched his shoulders. “I’ve answered everything else you’ve asked today. Even though I broke every rule of the Order to do so.”
Cristoph licked his lips. He didn’t look up. “It’s about the incubus.”
Alain stilled.
“I asked Lotario what incubi do—”
“When?” Alain frowned. He didn’t remember that.
“Over text.” Cristoph sent him a wry grin but looked back down to the chipped countertop. His finger picked at a crack. “I mean, you know I saw you. That the incubus became you.” He looked up, straight into Al
ain’s gaze. “For me.”
Heat flashed through Alain, followed by ice. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take this, Cristoph confronting him about the truth of the incubus. The meaning he tried to ignore, tried to run from. He turned away, hands clenching the warped edge of his kitchen sink. A bare bulb above was the only light in the kitchen, burning down on Alain like a spotlight. He was being stripped raw beneath it. Like the light was flaying him open.
“Cristoph…”
“I haven’t asked my question.”
Alain’s hands white-knuckled the counter. His heart pounded, crashing like the bass of St. Peter’s bells.
“I know what you saw, too, Alain. I was pretty out of it. But I did see my face on the incubus. It was wearing my face when it pulled you in for a kiss.” Cristoph’s chin lifted. “And Lotario confirmed it.”
Damn that man. Damn Lotario. Damn him to the blackness beyond the Veil.
Silence fell.
“I still haven’t heard a question,” Alain choked out.
Cristoph chewed on his lip. Shuffled one foot. “‘Your deepest desire,’ Lotario said. The incubus shows you what you want most.”
The faucet dripped. In the courtyard below, a braying laugh burst out, one guard messing with another.
“Is it true?”
Finally, Cristoph’s question. The one question Alain never wanted to hear, never wanted to answer. He didn’t want to confront this, didn’t want to answer for his feelings, for the way his heart had run away from his ironclad control. Because no matter what, no matter how he felt, no matter how Cristoph felt, and no matter how warm and wonderful and agonizingly beautiful it felt to have Cristoph look at him the way he did, just like in his dreams, nothing could happen.
Nothing could ever happen between them.
He coughed. Hitched his shoulders as he gripped the counter. “It doesn’t matter if it is,” he grunted. “Nothing can happen, Cristoph.”
“What?” Cristoph’s voice was soft, a shocked breath escaping his lips.
Alain shook his head. “I’m flattered, Cristoph, I am. You don’t know what it means to me, that you would—”
“Alain—”
Alain whirled, facing Cristoph as he braced himself back on the sink. “I can’t, Cristoph!” he hissed. “I can’t!”
Cristoph froze, halfway around the kitchen counter. His eyes went wide as his lips parted. “Is this—” Cristoph shook his head once. “Is this about the guy you lost? The other knight? You and he— You were lovers, weren’t you?”
Alain’s eyes slid closed. His arms shook as he fought to remain standing. He was going to die. His heart couldn’t take this, not this constant longing mixed with despair. The counter was going to crack beneath his grasp.
Letting go, he collapsed forward, falling to his knees on the worn linoleum of his kitchen. He tried to breathe, tried to drag in a ragged breath, but couldn’t. “He’s more than gone,” he whispered. His body trembled, shivers that coiled up his spine. “He doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”
Cristoph kneeled in front of him, hands grabbing his shoulders as his big eyes stared into Alain’s. “Jesus, Alain. He doesn’t exist anymore? What the hell does that mean?”
He pitched forward, burying his face in Cristoph’s neck. There were no sobs, no tears. Not after twelve years. “I can’t survive that again. I can’t let there be any risk of that happening to you.” Cristoph’s scent burrowed into his nose, warm and bright. “I can’t take that kind of loss again.”
Cristoph tried to smile. It stabbed Alain in the center of his heart. “You don’t want to start anything because you’re afraid you’ll lose me?”
Desperately, Alain tried to fight his body’s reaction to Cristoph, to his warmth and his strength and his damned determination. “It’s the only way to be sure.” His eyes blinked past Cristoph’s neck, studying his weapons hanging on the wall. Mental calculations flew through his mind, which classes of weapons worked best against each type of supernatural creature or etheric entity. Anything to keep his mind off Cristoph and his touch. Alain fought not to sigh into his arms. He stiffened. Tried to pull away.
Cristoph let him go. He sat back. “So, I want you, and you want me, but…”
Nodding, Alain grimaced. “But.”
Cristoph pulled himself up. He held out his hand for Alain. Alain clambered up, unsteady. Cristoph held him until he was balanced.
“Alain…” Cristoph’s dark eyes found his, burning with desire. Hunger. And sadness. “What do you really want?”
Time seemed to stop as Alain stared into Cristoph’s eyes. He struggled not to scream or rage at God and the universe, or to seize Cristoph with both hands.
He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.
He wanted to grab Cristoph, haul him close, bury his fingers in Cristoph’s hair, kiss him senseless.
Alain closed his eyes and stroked his hands down Cristoph’s arms. His fingers found Cristoph’s, tangled them together. He leaned close, pressing their foreheads together, nuzzling his skin. A sigh slipped past Cristoph’s lips.
There was no end to this hurt, no bottom to his desire. Unrestrained, unbridled yearning burst from him, laced with a bitterly resigned anguish. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t he reach forward, close the single breath separating their lips? Why did he hold himself back?
One bloody night twelve years ago answered him in his memories. Alain shuddered. His hands rose, gripping Cristoph’s shirt, tangling in the white cotton. Cristoph’s breath hitched, a quiet gasp. Alain reached for the back of Cristoph’s head, stroking his neck. Silken blond strands slipped through his fingers.
Alain’s soul was screaming. His heart burned, thrashing and pleading and begging for what was right in front of him. For another chance.
“What do I want…” Alain breathed. His lips brushed against Cristoph’s as he spoke, an almost-kiss that maddened his blood. They were too close. Shaking, he tried again as his fingers stroked through the hair on the back of Cristoph’s neck. “I haven’t let myself want. Not in twelve years. I thought I couldn’t want anything anymore.”
Cristoph blinked, but his burning gaze stayed locked to Alain’s.
Alain licked his lips. Cristoph’s eyes darted down, watching, and a soft moan escaped him.
“I want you,” Alain whispered. “God, I want you.” His voice shook, trembled. Nearly fractured apart as he tried to speak again. “I want you so badly. I want to kiss you. Have you. I want to make you mine.” His voice dropped, nearly growling. “I want—”
“Tell me,” Cristoph begged. “Tell me, Alain.”
Alain shoved Cristoph hard, driving him backward. Cristoph’s eyes went wide as he hit the kitchen wall, but Alain followed instantly, cupping his face. His thumbs rose, sweeping across Cristoph’s cheeks. Noses brushed, sliding together.
He was flying apart. He’d leaped off a cliff, and he didn’t know if there was anything there at the bottom. His teeth clenched, and a bitten-off curse caught in the back of his throat.
A tortured moan burst from his lips as one fist flew, punching the kitchen wall next to Cristoph’s head hard enough to dent the plaster.
Cristoph didn’t blink. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” There was no going back, not after this. All of his fears blazed. All of his longing surged. “I want to love you,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “And I want you to love me.”
Cristoph’s smile could ignite the sun. Could resurrect a god. Alain almost closed his eyes against the sheer brilliance. His soul reached, desperate, for Cristoph.
“Then do.” Cristoph exhaled, nuzzling the side of Alain’s face as Alain’s bruised fingers scratched furrows in the hideous paisley wallpaper. “Love me. I’m yours, Alain.”
That was the end of his control. He had nothing left, not after that. Nothing left to cling to, no power in the universe he could beg or pray to, no sign or sigil he could cast that could war
d off his passion. Every defense, every bitten-off prayer, every silent plea, every moment he’d chained himself deep within his haunted soul, fled. Nothing stood against the force of his desire.
Twelve years, and he broke for a man who stood up to him, who called him an equal, and who stared into the darkness and asked for more, side by side with him.
Moaning, Alain brought their lips together, capturing Cristoph’s mouth in a soul-deep kiss that tasted like sin and heaven all wrapped up in one.
Cristoph snaked his arms around Alain’s head, his hands burying into Alain’s dark, wild hair. One leg rose, slipping around Alain’s thigh. Alain ground his hips into Cristoph’s. His lips slid down Cristoph’s chin, down his neck, teeth scraping over his skin and his Adam’s apple. He laved at his pulse, at the pounding of Cristoph’s blood, warm beneath his skin. Dropping his hands, he slid them down Cristoph’s body, skimming broad shoulders, his firm back, landing on Cristoph’s taut ass. Cristoph jerked.
Hefting him up, Alain lifted Cristoph into his arms, his hands sliding down to grasp his thighs. Cristoph’s legs wrapped around Alain’s waist, ankles locking behind him as he cupped Alain’s face and dove in for another kiss. A growl slipped from Alain before he kissed Cristoph back, hard. Tongues dueling, Alain’s mind spun as he carried Cristoph toward his bedroom for the second time.
Each step felt more unreal than the last. Each kiss was a damnation, a slide deeper into the place he’d vowed never to go again. Danger loomed ahead after this moment, dark and bloody, but he couldn’t care. Not now.
His legs hit the edge of his bed, and he tossed Cristoph down before climbing on top. Their lips parted for a breath and then came together again. Alain mouthed down Cristoph’s neck as his hands slipped up his shirt. A quick tug and the shirt was gone.
Cristoph’s fingers shook as he tried to undo Alain’s buttons. They kept slipping from his fingers.
“Rip it off,” Alain grunted against Cristoph’s lips. “It’s not mine.”
Buttons flew. Cristoph yanked Lotario’s black shirt down Alain’s arms. A brief struggle, arms tugging free from the remains of the shirt, and then Alain wrapped Cristoph up in his arms, laid him down on his bed. He started kissing a trail down Cristoph’s chest. Between his pecs. Down to his belly button.
