by Anthology
He pulled his hands away and caught Sam’s gaze. “Why did you join the Bureau?”
Sam shrugged elegantly. “I wanted to be a hero.”
“Not me. They recruited me, you know? When I was still just a dumb kid thinking a college degree would get me somewhere. I admit it, I was flattered. And I thought the Bureau was somewhere I could finally belong. A place where it wouldn’t matter so much that I was.... But it did matter. It does. In the end, everyone.... The more people look at me, the more they realize I’m not one of them.”
Gravely, Sam stared. Charles knew what he saw: dyed hair showing white at the roots, unsettling green eyes, skin unnaturally pale for anyone, especially a man who lived in Southern California. And because Sam was smart, he might even have guessed at the things he couldn’t see. The long scars along Charles’ back. The deep yearning for other men.
Sam had family out in San Bernardino—a big clan of aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins, nephews and nieces. He had a steady girl whose blue eyes had vertical pupils like his. He had a home. But he understood Charles’ grief, and he patted his knee again. “You can’t just give up, Charlie. Every living being has a place where they belong.”
“I belong here,” Charles replied, waving his arms to indicate his house.
“Yeah, okay. But also, every living being has a someone.”
Charles shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
With a small sigh, Sam sat back in his chair again. “What will you do? For dough, I mean?”
“I’ve got some saved.”
“You never were much of a spender. How long will it last?”
“Dunno. I’ll probably.... I’ve been thinking eventually I’ll do some PI jobs. Catch enough cheating husbands to pay the bills.” He’d been mulling over that idea for a few weeks. Basic investigative work like that was a piece of cake, and he had some contacts in the LAPD who would probably help throw a little work his way as he was getting started. And he could pick and choose which cases to take. None of them would involve demons.
“That’s a good idea,” Sam said. “You’ll make a great private dick. Hell, maybe I should consider it myself. I’m real tired of getting almost killed.” He rubbed ruefully at parallel scars on his left cheek. Harpy claws. Charles had been with him on that assignment.
They were both silent for a good ten minutes as the sky turned indigo and the stars began to appear. Sitting quietly with a companion and listening to crickets chirp wasn’t such a bad thing.
Eventually Sam groaned slightly and hauled himself upright. “Have to go. Got a date with Anita tonight. She wants to try that fancy steak place in Beverly Hills. I keep telling her I can make good steak at home and it won’t cost me a week’s salary, but she’s being stubborn. Wants to wear her new dress, I bet.”
“She’s a nice girl.” Charles had met her only twice, but she’d smiled at him and didn’t make him feel like a freak.
“Yeah, she is. I want to ask her to marry me, but I’m not sure I have the balls for it. What if she says no?”
Charles felt his mouth stretch into an unfamiliar grin. “She won’t.”
“If you’re so confident, maybe I oughtta get you to ask her for me.” Sam chuckled as he pulled a small notepad and pen from his pocket. “I know you have my phone number, but I’m going to write it down for you anyway. I want you to call me, okay? Invite me to do something with you. Even just coffee or whatever. We’ll have a good time, and then the next time I’ll call you, right? And you know that little hot rod I’ve been working on? We’ll take it out to El Mirage and drive so fucking fast we’ll feel like we’re flying.”
Charles took the little piece of paper containing Sam’s scrawl. He tucked it into his pocket—along with the black feather he always kept there. “I’ll call,” he promised.
With a satisfied nod, Sam clapped Charles on the shoulder. He left the porch and walked to his car, but before he climbed in, he paused to wave. Charles could barely see him in the darkness, but he waved back.
LONG AFTER Sam was gone, Charles remained on the porch. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the outside light, and there was no moon, but he could see passably well anyway. He had good eyesight. As he’d been doing for weeks now—ever since Kansas—he let his mind wander. He thought about flying and sex, about monsters and heroes. He thought about the call of a man’s heart.
He almost dozed, and he knew he should go to bed. When he left Kansas, he’d expected nightmares to plague him. But they hadn’t—not a single one. His sleep was filled with visions of bronze skin, glowing eyes, and black wings. He dreamed of a creature bowing naked before him and begging him for... for everything.
Sometimes he woke up angry, convinced Tenrael had somehow bewitched him. Sometimes he woke up happy for the freedom he’d given the demon—a freedom Charles himself would never quite have. But always he woke up achingly hard and alone.
Maybe he wouldn’t sleep at all tonight. Perhaps he’d go for a walk instead, pad barefoot along the wet sand and listen to the waves endlessly crashing.
Gods, his back itched.
He had almost decided on a course of action when his sharp ears caught a strange, soft sound like something battering against air. And then something landed in his front yard. It was large but nearly silent, and all he could see in the darkness were its burning eyes.
As Charles sat frozen, wondering if he really had fallen asleep, Tenrael ascended the porch stairs to stand before him. He wore nothing but a white cloth wrapped around his loins, and with a few impatient tugs he removed even that and tossed it aside. He sank to his knees and bowed deeply. “Master,” he whispered.
For a long moment, Charles couldn’t say anything. His throat was completely stopped up. But he swallowed a few times and managed a choked sort of noise. “No. I gave you yourself.”
Tenrael rose up on his knees. His hair had grown down to his shoulders, and although there wasn’t enough light to tell for sure, Charles would have bet it was clean and silky, and that it was as glossy as the feathers on his wings. Tenrael’s skin was unmarred. Perfect. And, oh gods, his beautiful cock was fully erect.
“I want to give myself back,” he said.
“Why?” Before Tenrael could answer, Charles heard a car rumbling a block away, and it occurred to him that even at night his neighbors might notice a naked demon on his porch. So Charles closed his book, stood, and picked up the empty water glass. “Come inside.”
Tenrael followed as obediently as if he’d been summoned; then he stood, looking around the living room curiously while Charles placed the book near his favorite armchair. Charles took the glass into the kitchen, and when he came back, Tenrael still waited, his hands folded in front of him.
“Why?” Charles repeated.
“I want to be yours.”
“You don’t owe me a debt for freeing you. You don’t—”
“That’s not it.” When Tenrael trembled slightly, his furled wings shook. His erection had subsided, making Charles long to stroke the soft flesh back to life. “Please,” Tenrael said.
Charles fought to control himself, but that single word almost broke him. He surged forward, pressing Tenrael back against the closed door, and he kissed those lush lips he’d been remembering in his dreams. Tenrael whimpered softly and opened his mouth, eagerly allowing entrance to Charles’ tongue. He tasted wonderful.
But Charles wasn’t satisfied. He moved his mouth to Tenrael’s jawline, licking and sucking, and bit the cord of his neck. He left tooth marks on Tenrael’s shoulder and along his collarbone, and he dug his thumbs into Tenrael’s hips hard enough to bruise. In spite of the pain—or maybe because of it—Tenrael clutched Charles’ shirt, keeping him close, and moaned jumbled pleas: “Yes... more... please... please....”
Charles teased Tenrael’s nipples until they were peaked, red, and tender; then he nibbled at his flat belly. Although Tenrael’s cock was hard again, the head red and shining, Charles didn’t touch it. He mouthed Tenrael�
�s balls instead, and stroked the tender skin behind them. Charles had never been so hungry for anyone, so desperate to taste him, possess him, to—
That last thought made Charles freeze; then he rose back to his feet. He yanked himself from Tenrael’s grip and stepped back. “Why?” he asked for the third time, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand.
According to the Bureau’s mages, repeating an incantation three times made it stronger. Maybe they were right, because now Tenrael took a deep, shuddering breath. “I changed. I don’t know whether it’s my years with humans that did it or my minutes with you, but I’m not what I was. I’m... I’d say I’ve been corrupted, but I’m a demon, so I suppose the opposite is true. There’s no joy for me now in bringing bad dreams and stirring bad thoughts. And when I fly, I don’t feel free.”
“But why come to me?”
Tenrael began to step forward, but then slumped back against the door. “I’m nothing now. An empty shell. But all these weeks, I’ve still tasted your kisses and felt your hands on my body. I’ve dreamed of you—and demons never dream. I want to serve you. I want you to fill me. Be my heart and soul, Charles, and I will be your wings.”
The agony within Charles’ chest was terrible, but it was nothing compared to the pain throbbing along the old scars on his back. He moved closer to Tenrael and traced a fingertip over the bite marks on his collarbone. “I’ll hurt you.”
“I know.”
That wasn’t the response Charles expected, and he shook his head. “I’m not a demon. I’m not anything. And I want to be good. Part of me does. But another part.... Maybe I was corrupted the moment I was conceived.” He licked his dry lips. “If I had you, I’d want to mark you. I’d want to make you cry out.”
Tenrael pushed forward until Charles’ palm was flat against his chest. “But would you also want to kiss me? To stroke me and hold me and want me, instead of just using me?”
“Yes,” Charles whispered.
“Would I be yours here?” Tenrael placed his hand over Charles’ thudding heart.
“Yes.”
“When you hurt me, would it be to degrade me? Or to please us both? Because I am still a demon, and for me pleasure and pain are very much entwined.”
For a moment, Charles was silent. “I would never degrade you,” he answered honestly.
Tenrael blinked as droplets of water slipped from his eyes. “Would you value me? Because, please, if you’ll let me, I would like to value you.”
In response, Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out the feather. “I would treasure you.”
Tenrael dropped to his knees and smiled up at him. “Master,” he croaked.
The word was surprisingly sweet.
Charles set the feather on a shelf. He took Tenrael’s hand and towed him to the bedroom, where he spent over an hour tormenting his demon deliciously until Tenrael couldn’t even say please. Then Charles finally took off his own clothing and with a single, hard thrust sank into Tenrael’s tight, welcoming body. He drove hard and fast, shaking the bed, clutching tightly at the legs slung over his shoulders. And when Tenrael arched his back and came, his scream might have been from ecstasy or agony, or maybe from both. It didn’t matter, because his eyes were wide and grateful. When Charles reached his own climax a few moments later, he remained silent so he could hear Tenrael’s voice: “Yes... thank you... yes, master... yes.”
Charles dropped off to sleep that night to the sound of waves, faint but audible through the open bedroom window, and the warmth of Tenrael, curled around his back. Tenrael had placed soft kisses along Charles’ wing scars, and the eternal itching was gone. A PI, Charles thought, might find it useful to have a partner who could fly silently in the night.
He fell asleep smiling, and he dreamed very well.
KIM FIELDING is the bestselling author of numerous m/m romance novels, novellas, and short stories. Like Kim herself, her work is eclectic, spanning genres such as contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, and historical. Her stories are set in alternate worlds, in 15th century Bosnia, in modern-day Oregon. Her heroes are hipster architect werewolves, housekeepers, maimed giants, and conflicted graduate students. They’re usually flawed, they often encounter terrible obstacles, but they always find love.
After having migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States, Kim calls the boring part of California home. She lives there with her husband, her two daughters, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. This may explain why her characters often seem to be in transit as well. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.
Kim Fielding can be found at:
Website: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/KFieldingWrites
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KFieldingWrites
DARKNESS ABSORBED the room, blanketing the lovers in veils of blacks and greys. Walls painted in colors of gloom; creating an atmosphere that washed away any sense of warmth. Left in its place was a murky loneliness. It covered every surface, changing the faces in the once-happy photographs, reducing them to something far more bitter. It made the frames appear empty. A simple flick of a light switch would have brought life back to the room and filled it with radiating oranges and yellows, but Bailey remained consumed by his fears and allowed the darkness to swallow him.
The moon shone through the window and highlighted his face with its glow, battling with the shadows as best it could. The boy was void of expression. All he could manage was to stare blankly at his side, unable to pull his eyes from that which had begun to create cracks in his heart.
Bailey had forgotten what the sound of laughter was like, couldn’t recall a reason to do something as simple as smile. In the past hours, or was it days, he wasn’t sure, his reason to go had left him kneeling on his bed, feeling empty. The power to speak had gone with his screams, ones that had cut into his throat and brought pain even when he tried to breathe.
He hadn’t moved from the spot he was in, ignored aches in his legs and the pang of hunger as tears dried on his cheek. The silence of the room felt somehow deafening, all sound lost to the prey of the dark shadows.
In his recent past, he’d swallowed a sob as he witnessed the devastating final breath leave his lips. One so soft, and filled with such finality, yet it still managed to pierce his heart, adding to the depth of the cracks. Beside him lay the body of the man he’d loved for so long, an empty, lifeless shell no longer home to the ray of light called Greyson. His Greyson.
The body no longer resembled the person he still loved, the man he wasn’t ready to let go of. Greyson’s once sun-kissed, healthy skin reduced to something like thin, transparent paper. The familiar blue of his eyes were dirty pools of water, sunk into his head after weeks of refusing to eat. Pink lips turned chapped, harsh to the touch, like a dry wasteland, abandoned and no longer cared for.
Bailey cared though, so much so that his breath hitched in his throat. It hurt to stifle or swallow his sobs, but he didn’t have any more strength left to scream. He held tighter onto the hand of his deceased lover, as acid rain in the form of fresh tears burned tracks down his face. Skated over those already dry, slicing into his flesh and taunting him with the reminder of his loss. Each beat of his breaking heart ached from the stabbing pains in his chest, a war of nations battling within.
He couldn’t will his body to do anything other than stare disbelieving at the man he loved more than that of his own life turning cold in the bed they shared. A place he could no longer think about sleeping in alone. No words left his trembling lips, he couldn’t form them even if he tried. He knew nobody would hear what he had to say. He was alone now, left with the body of the man who showed him how to love, and gave him love in return. The same man who took him from the darkness of his past and opened his heart to something more than pain.
Bailey wondered how love could be so cruel, to melt a heart then to allow it to
shatter again. He bit down on his lip to feel the sweet sting of pain. Yes, he was alone now, and the shadows battling within the room wouldn’t let him forget it.
It was hard to look down and see Greyson this way, even more difficult to pull his eyes away knowing he’d never get to see his lover smiling back at him. No longer would the man reach up and caress his cheek with a gentle touch. Wouldn’t love him the way he alone could. Closing his eyes, Bailey lay beside his recently parted lover and rested his head on his chest.
Bailey placed a hand on Greyson’s torso. It was empty, hollow to the touch without the drumming of his beating heart. So many times they would press their bodies together and listen to the rhythmic dance thumping inside. No more. He settled his face on him, felt the ridges of Greyson’s skeleton against his face. The remnants of months of illness and pain had changed Greyson’s once toned body. Cancer had left its mark on the man, the unforgiving disease had eaten away at him like a ravenous beast. Bailey clung to Greyson’s shirt and sobbed. Wincing as more tears descended with pain. How selfish he felt for moaning about a little hurt, when Greyson had suffered until his dying breath.
Self-loathing had him wondering if that was what he was, selfish. For allowing himself this moment of weakness to complain when his husband never had. Not once.
At least Bailey knew one thing—his love for Greyson never faltered, nor had the adoration in Greyson’s eyes as they looked back his way. Even when pain was at its most unbearable, Greyson never once stopped smiling through it.
There were those times though when Greyson succumbed to it. When his body contorted and had him screaming out. Yet, he always ended the wave of pain with a smile. Bailey always knew he braved it all for him, to stop his lover from crumbling into an uncontrollable mess at the sight of his suffering. Greyson was always the strong one.
