The Falling

by J. C. Owens

  He had given his master blood every second day, but never enough to make him feel ill. He was given more food than he could remember, allowed to sleep beside his master’s bed on a thick pallet of furs. And now, he had a horse.

  The travel itself had renewed his spirits in a way nothing else could have. To be outside, to see new vistas, riding again, brought out a curiosity that had been smothered for so long.

  He had always loved the outdoors, and it felt as though a veil had been lifted, as though he could breathe again, exist again in something other than a fog of despair and pain.

  It was hard to restrain a feeling of gratitude toward Shaynith-una.

  Foolish, he knew, as the demon’s actions were hardly those of mercy or kindness, merely a practical observation of keeping his bloodservant in a state of peace conducive to the sweet blood the knight seemed to so crave. He was thinking of himself, not Brenaith.

  Still, as a contrast to the hell he had so far endured, this was almost beyond his capability to understand. It was as though he were dreaming, and indeed, he often woke, fully expecting to be back in Stratlin’s custody.

  They traveled surrounded by the shadow knight’s troops, huge, winged demons of a sort Brenaith had never encountered before. They held none of the frightening mutations that seemed so prevalent in demon society, but were sleek and strong, so similar in appearance, that for some time, Brenaith had wondered if they were created from a single being. Over time, he began to detect personalities, small differences that set them each apart, but it was still difficult to identify each one with any speed or assurance.

  Easier were the four that seemed to be the honor guard of the knight himself. They were smaller than their kin, but seemed even deadlier, with a similar build to their lord, even possessing his deadly fangs, but with the dark skin of the demon kind, covered with fine, soft fur. Their wings were smaller, but with the shape of a raptor-rather than the batlike shape of most demons- showing that if they could indeed fly, they would possess a speed and maneuverability that would shame the larger, bulkier troops. They were treated with a quiet deference that showed they must hold higher rank than the others.

  These four were more unique, had more character than Brenaith had yet encountered in other demons, and he could tell each of them apart with ease, as much by their manner and tone of voice as anything else.

  Tar, their evident leader, was silent but completely watchful, his gaze constantly shifting as they rode, always on guard over his lord. His lack of speech seemed to hold dark secrets rather than any sense of peace, though he seemed at ease in the presence of his three companions and Shaynith-una.

  Spensa, the second one, seemed to tease Tar quite unashamedly, and the other demon seemed to give him a latitude and patience that seemed foreign to his nature. They often could be seen leaning against each other during rest times or eating shoulder to shoulder. Their closeness did not have the ring of lovers, but showed a bond Brenaith had never seen before among his captors.

  He had told himself that demons had no finer qualities, held no concept of greater things. Yet, here and now, that idea was being challenged. The order and peace within Shaynith-una’s demons seemed very, very different than anything he had yet encountered.

  Pensir, the third of the honor guard, was quiet, yet with a good humor that confused Brenaith completely. He had never yet seen true humor displayed among the demons. Cruel humor, crude humor yes, but not this almost gentle amusement that almost rivaled Tynan’s…

  He jerked back from the thought, anger rising. There could be no comparison between his beloved and these…creatures. There never would be.

  That left only the fourth. Naban. Brenaith could not sense anything from this one. He rivaled his lord for cold calmness, and certainly Shaynith-una seemed closest to him, most at ease in a closer way than usually seen between a demon lord and his underlings. Often Naban would come to his lord’s room, wherever they might be staying, whether encampment or inn, and they would speak in some dialect that Brenaith could not understand, though the words held a grace and lilt that was fascinating, so very different from the guttural, harsh sounds of the demon language. The four of them in total seemed to be…companions… Brenaith hated to call them that, and yet, there seemed no other name for the closeness they shared with their lord. The similarities were so strong, so potent, and he found himself mourning his lost comrades all over again.

  Once he had had this. Once he had held friendships as close, and shared laughter and friendship. To observe this in these strangers seemed to tear the wounds open once more, bring them to the surface, now, when he had thought them buried deep enough to endure. Faces and smiles echoed from the past, and he fought down useless tears.

  He mused wanly on the fact that with renewed strength, tears came more easily.

  It did not seem a positive result of his better circumstances.

  On this night, they sat round a fire in the middle of their encampment, the six of them replete with good food.

  Brenaith knelt on a cushion next to his lord, head drooping wearily against Shaynith-una’s thigh as the knight held it against him, stroking almost absentmindedly through his hair.

  The wood sparked sharply, startling Brenaith from his tortured musings. He jerked, and the fingers tightened briefly, holding him as though the knight thought he would bolt.

  He wanted to bitterly reassure his lord that such an action was long beyond him. He had learned control through harsh experience, and no rebellion lay within him now, no desire to test his new master’s temper.

  He was quite thoroughly tamed.

  His lord gave a low, soft chuckle that had his companions looking up questioningly.

  “My little pet believes himself utterly broken. With no strength, no will of his own.”

  Spensa tilted his head, a grin tilting one side of his lips, showing a hint of fang. “If he had been so broken, so tame, you would never have accepted him as a bloodservant. How little he knows you.”

  Brenaith sucked in a breath, staring at the companion, before cautiously lifting his eyes to his master. He did not know his limits and boundaries with this new captor, and held no trust in the knight’s present lack of violence.

  It would come. It always did.

  Shaynith-una watched him, crimson eyes cold, bottomless, like dark ponds with hidden, dangerous depths. There was no understanding this being, for there were no cracks, no glimpses of something more that could lead to Brenaith wanting to get closer.

  While he looked very different, Shaynith-una was in some ways more demonic than any other Brenaith had encountered, his very essence powerful and pure in a way that the others were not.

  God touched.

  Brenaith shivered, and looked down again at his whitened fingers clutching each other. He could not even dredge up a sense of humiliation at their taunting. Whatever they said, he was broken, a shadow of his former self.

  Fitting then, that he served a shadow knight.

  * * *

  He had no idea where they were bound, and was not foolish enough to ask. His usual method of gleaning information by listening to the demons around him did not work this time. Shaynith-una’s troops were remarkably closed mouthed.

  In the end, it mattered little. For the moment, at least, he was clean, full, and for the first time in five years, remarkably free of bruises.

  Two days ago, they had reached the base of a vast mountain range, and Brenaith had been wistful, thinking of his own mountain home. When he had become a companion, he had left the peaks behind and come to the fertile valleys of the south to be at Tynan’s side. He had missed his home then, but now, even in this unfamiliar area, the sight of mountains filled his soul with longing.

  A hand descended on his shoulder, and he tensed, sliding a sidelong glance and striving for calm as he looked at Shaynith-una riding beside him. Little good calm would do him. His new master would be completely aware of his thoughts. There was no privacy, no place to hide.

&nbs
p; They had ridden hard all that day, and the knight seemed more restless than usual. Everyone else was exhausted and glad of the stop for the night.

  But there was a new light in his master’s eyes, a new energy in his movements. In anyone else, Brenaith would have called it eagerness.

  “Tomorrow, we will be home at last. Five years since last I trod this path.”

  Five years. As long as Brenaith had been captive, tortured, his country collapsing under the thumb of the demons led by a shadow knight. Perhaps even this one…

  The fingers on his shoulder tightened almost painfully as they drew to a halt, before everyone dismounted. Brenaith copied them reluctantly, wishing the ride could have gone on longer, his false freedom extended. As he stood and gathered up his horse’s reins to lead him forward, the grip on his shoulder returned, and he was guided forward to where the shadow knight’s pavilion was being swiftly erected.

  “I did not lead the attack on your people. That honor was given to one of my brethren.” There was no expression in the tone, no indication if he resented that another had held the glory of victory over the despised humans.

  Brenaith felt a lump rise in his throat, nausea rising to choke him. How differently they viewed that same event.

  They entered the pavilion after the horses had been seen to, Brenaith blinded by the darkness for a few moments, so different from the setting sun that brushed the mountain peaks outside, half blinding in its beauty.

  He stopped there, feeling his master walk around him, speaking to several of his servants who had efficiently put together the portable bed and were making it with brisk motions, while others arranged everything from rugs to a desk that the shadow knight often spent hours at, writing and making notes.

  During these times, he was encouraged to kneel at his master’s feet, boredom gnawing at his senses.

  But better boredom than the alternatives he had been subjected to at Stratlin’s fortress.

  He watched as bread and cheese were brought in, something to tide their master over until hot food could be properly prepared. The servants cast sideways glances at the knight, watching his pacing with a hint of tension in their postures, more so than Brenaith had yet seen in their manner during the weeks of travel. It made his own tension, ever prevalent around Shaynith-una, rise yet further. The eagerness of the servants to leave their master’s vicinity pointed to dread knowledge of something Brenaith had not yet encountered.

  The shadow knight paced, eyes unfocussed, his stride quick and impatient, without the usual grace and calm surety that usually marked his movements. Even as Brenaith watched, the red of his eyes darkened, becoming almost black. Long, lethal claws slowly extended, nicking the palms of clenched fists. The pain seemed to bring the knight back to himself for a moment. His gaze lowered, that long tongue emerging to sweep up the drops of his own blood.

  The servants gave respectful murmurs—and fled.

  Brenaith stood motionless, heart beginning to pound with a growing fear. He could feel his pulse throbbing against the ornate collar that lay so snugly on his throat, a constant reminder of his captivity, of his position as the knight’s possession and nothing else.

  At this moment, he could only hope that possession equaled value of a sort to stay the shadow knight’s hand. Whatever was to come certainly did not hold the promise of anything pleasant, not if his survival instincts, so well honed under Stratlin’s tutelage, were giving him the proper signals.

  Shaynith-una hummed, as though the taste of his blood roused some demonic part of him usually left submerged, in control.

  He licked his lips, then turned slowly, facing Brenaith, eyes dilated. It took all Brenaith’s courage to hold fast as the beast now exposed paced toward him, the tips of sharp fangs slipping down, visible in frightening detail.

  Usually his master tasted him in the half light of nighttime, as they lay ready to sleep. But now, this seemed so much more dangerous in the light of day, in the way that his master seemed less in control than he had ever seen.

  Whatever the other demons feared had risen to the surface, and Brenaith wondered wildly, foolishly, what had triggered this sudden change.

  The sound of a low, menacing growl made him freeze utterly.

  He chanced a look up, then shuddered, lowering his head and trying to show complete and utter submission. This creature would accept nothing less.

  He felt the touch of a wet tongue upon his neck, and he grimaced, fought to keep still. His training knew that stillness, obedience could well save him. To move, to flee, was to trigger predatory instincts buried within all demons.

  Hot breath washed over his skin, raising goose bumps that made him clench his fists.

  “Mine.” The whisper was more growl than word, even as fingers curled around Brenaith’s biceps, pulling him effortlessly closer.

  The strength, so much greater than Brenaith’s, made him feel so helpless, so vulnerable, and he bit his lip heedlessly, only realizing too late that he was bleeding.

  The growl deepened into something that vibrated clear through his chest, the sharp prick of claws warning him not to move, not to protest.

  The shadow knight released him, claws effortlessly slicing through his shirt, leaving stinging trails down his belly, pausing at the ties to his pants.

  Brenaith held his breath, the proximity of those deadly points so close to his manhood shriveling his balls, making his whole body tense up in dreaded expectation.

  This was it then.

  Shaynith-una had not yet taken him sexually, had hardly seemed interested in the concept. Brenaith had foolishly hoped that his blood would be appeasement enough.

  Whatever had changed, whatever had triggered this primal side, it was evident that his blood was not the only thing that would be taken this night.

  He could do this. It could not possibly be worse than what he had undergone with Stratlin—unless the demon standing before him was the part of the knight who loved pain, who would see Brenaith’s own mind used against him.

  Brenaith sucked in a deep breath as the claws cut the ties, his pants sliding down to pool at his bare feet. Squeezing his eyes shut did not take away the sensation of sharp pinpricks smoothing over his manhood, the promise of pain making his skin twitch with expectation.

  A gasp escaped him, and he arched up onto his toes as those claws cupped his testicles, their own weight pressing down upon the tips. He could feel beads of blood rise, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but endure.

  A smirk curved his master’s lips, the cold eyes lighting to red fire, pupils becoming vertical. Brenaith gave a low moan, throwing his head back, as images of Tynan bombarded him, first real memories, and then something more…

  His beloved, whispering of seduction, of their sweat slicked bodies sliding together, of Brenaith’s body feeling the wonder of penetration, of the intimacy of their joining, the true melding of their souls…

  He whimpered, tried to thrust away the images, but they battered him, wormed their way into his deepest thoughts, pushing away reality. The voice sounded so real, so close, so like his Tynan…

  “Sweet Brenaith,” the voice breathed in his ear, sending a shudder through his body, making him arch as a mouth claimed his. “So sweet, so young, so faithful… Touch me, love me, little one…”

  Long fingers grasped his cock, stroked its half hard length with a delicious pressure that took his breath, heat pooling in his loins, a gasp escaping his throat as he found himself clutching broad shoulders.

  The kiss deepened, and he moaned under the assault, a long tongue tangling with his own, his senses spinning.

  He was lifted up effortlessly, the kiss stealing all his breath, all his thoughts. The feeling of furs at his back, of a bed beneath him, only seemed to make the fantasy woven around him more real.

  Furs had been on Tynan’s bed. Was this a dream then? Of what could have been? Tynan was so real, his brown eyes meeting Brenaith’s, that familiar, small smile curving his lips. So real…
>
  “Let me feed, my love. On your blood, on your body.” The whisper stroked over his nerves, made him arch up to the form that covered him so deliciously.

  Anything. He would do anything for Tynan. Whatever he wanted, needed, it was his.

  Pain blossomed on his chest, near his right nipple, and he choked on a scream, only to writhe as the pain morphed into something beyond pleasure. Fingers stroked over his chest, gathering the blood that dripped down his ribs and slathering the warm wetness down to his cleft and over his entrance.

  “Do you want me?” The tone was light, almost playful, with that wonderful sense of humor that Brenaith had so admired.

  He nodded, fingers sliding down a broad, muscled back, as he raised his head, chasing those lips.

  “Need you,” he choked desperately.

  Lips drew back over strangely pointed teeth, a smile that seemed colder than Brenaith remembered…

  He was speared deep, eyes widening with shock and pain, shrinking away from the terrifying growl above him, something that chilled his very being.

  Tynan petted him, stroking back his hair and murmuring against his throat. Soft, sweet nothings, his other hand laying over Brenaith’s heart, as though measuring his thundering pulse.

  “Shh, little one. Let me give you this pleasure…”

  He arched, throwing his arms around the male form above him as teeth sank into his neck, deep, throbbing pain—pure bliss bursting over his mind so that he cried out, thrusting up even as he was pierced, both neck and channel.

  “Tynan!” he screamed, sobbing with joy. His love, his prince. They were as one, as he had always dreamed of. One.

  He came with such force that his whole body clenched, froze, his lips open, his voice silenced.

  White light encased him, and he sank into its embrace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He woke with a gasp, sitting up abruptly, heart pounding.

  Tynan…