by PG Forte
I’m sickened by this charade we must continue to play…
Damian mulled Conrad’s words over in his mind as he left the kitchen and headed down the corridor that led to the front hall. Why would he say such a thing? What does it mean? The hollow, sick feeling in the center of his chest insisted he already knew the answer.
Ten years ago, after it had become clear the twins had aged as much as they were ever likely to—so that, in their appearance at least, they now resembled “normal” vampires—Conrad decided it was safer for them to live on their own for a while. He and Damian had returned to San Francisco, ostensibly to resume their old existence, while preparing the way for the twins to eventually rejoin them. In order to keep anyone from wondering overmuch about their previous whereabouts, they’d agreed to maintain the pretense that they’d reconciled with one another and were once again a happy couple.
It hadn’t been very difficult pretending to be something that, for almost four hundred years, they actually had been. Damian didn’t doubt that most of the people who’d seen them together believed their act to be genuine. Up until recently, he’d half believed it himself.
After having had no contact with Conrad for over a hundred years, Damian had been happy to go along with whatever lie Conrad proposed. As long as it kept him living under Conrad’s roof, on the receiving end of his smiles and the occasional caress, he was content. So what if it was just for show? It still felt real.
Conrad’s behavior of late had forced Damian to re-evaluate their situation. As was now painfully clear to him, of all the people who’d been taken in by their charade it seemed no one had been more misled than he himself.
I’m sickened by this charade…
Damian had no doubt Conrad was telling the truth. He’d certainly looked sick enough when he said it. The expression on his face had been one of complete disgust. And then he’d asked for Georgia.
“Dios mio,” Damian grumbled as he headed up the main staircase. “Why all this mystery? Why her? Why now? What the hell is going on?” Perhaps Georgia had not actually poisoned Conrad’s mind against him, as Damian had long believed had been the case, but she had certainly never been a friend to him—not that he ever wanted her for one.
“And now I must run and fetch her for him? Bueno, Damian, what a good little dog you are. Bah!” Well, he wouldn’t do it, that’s all. Conrad could think whatever he liked about that, but there was no way Damian was going to do as he’d been told. Not this time. Or, at least, not until after he’d had the chance to fortify himself with a small snack.
As he reached the second floor landing, Damian paused for a moment to look around. He glanced down the corridor and spied one of the young men the estate employed for just such a purpose. “You, there!” he called to him. “¡Ven aquí! Come here. I’m hungry.”
The young man’s eyes widened, his step faltered. “Uh, y-yes s-sir,” he stuttered.
Damian silently cursed himself for his lack of manners. “Perdoname,” he murmured as the young man drew closer. “Please excuse my rudeness… What was your name again?”
“Ramon, sir,” he replied, still blinking warily at Damian.
“Ah, of course. Ramon.” Damian nodded. “You know, that was my brother’s name. Or did I already mention that when I hired you?”
Ramon shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t think you did.”
“Well, no matter.” Damian waved all thoughts of his long-dead brother away. They’d never been close and he couldn’t honestly say he missed him. “Do you have a moment to spare for me, Ramon?” He took hold of the young man’s hand, smiling when he nodded his reluctant, but inevitable, consent. “Bueníssimo.”
Damian led Ramon to the marble bench conveniently located on the landing and pulled him down to sit beside him. He smiled at the boy. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he asked, as though the rapid pattering of the young man’s heart had not already provided the answer.
Ramon shook his head. “N-no, sir?”
“No?” For shame. Still smiling, Damian lifted Ramon’s chin on the edge of his hand. Foolish boy, do you think I can’t tell when you’re lying? “Well, that’s good.” He brushed a soft kiss across Ramon’s lips and lied right back to him, “Because I’m sure I’m the last person anyone need fear.”
Damian kissed the young man again, deeper this time. Drawing him in. Gentling him with his kiss. Letting the chemicals in his saliva drug the boy into submission. It was a useful technique, one that he had, of course, learned from Conrad. The bastard. How many times had Conrad used this very same technique on him, quieting his protests, his concerns, his complaints—when it hadn’t even been necessary!
Hadn’t he always been a fool for him, right from the start? He’d been eager, anxious, blind to whatever danger he might be putting himself in, always ready to please… Not that it was ever really possible to please someone like Conrad.
But, no, that wasn’t true, was it? Once, it had seemed as though Conrad could never be anything but pleased, responding with approval to anything Damian did, or said, or— Ah, but, what did it matter? It was all so very long ago.
A soft moan escaped Ramon’s throat. He squirmed against Damian in a way that suggested he, too, was eager. Ready to please. Frightened no longer. Curious, Damian skated the fingers of one hand down the front of the young man’s chest, all the way to his groin where they met with the surprisingly substantial bulge at the front of his trousers.
Definitely eager. Damian pressed his palm against Ramon’s erection, rubbing, testing, eliciting another moan. How delightful. Here was something else he might, at a later date, be inclined to pursue.
As he started to lift his hand away from Ramon’s lap, Ramon hurriedly covered it with one of his own and pressed it back into place. Another surprise. Very delightful and definitely worth pursuing. But later for that, one hunger at a time.
Damian eased his hand back out from under Ramon’s, silencing the boy’s protest with a shake of his head. He turned Ramon’s face to the side, quickly ran his tongue back and forth over his neck to numb the skin, and then sank his teeth in smoothly, biting down hard enough to release the intoxicating venom. He tightened his grip on the young man’s shoulders and gathered him close, holding him upright when he started to swoon.
Ramon’s blood rolled teasingly over Damian’s tongue. He swallowed it down, savoring the bright, clean taste as it filled his mouth. Oh, very nice. Julie would like this one. He made a mental note to recommend him to her but, as always, whenever his thoughts turned to one of the twins, could thoughts of Conrad be far behind? And could those thoughts ever fail to unsettle him?
Conrad was wrong to keep the twins in the dark about their birth, their heritage, their history—just as he’d been wrong to keep them away from the nest for so long. If only he’d listen to me! Nothing Damian had to say on the subject seemed to make any impact on him, but that was hardly a surprise. When had things ever been different? When, in the five hundred years they’d known one another, had Conrad ever allowed Damian to have his own way in anything?
Most of the time, it had seemed he hadn’t even wanted Damian to have an opinion, let alone voice it. He’d demanded loyalty. He’d demanded fealty. He’d demanded devotion. All of which Damian had given him. Gladly. In abundance. And what had Damian received in return? What had all his love and devotion earned for him? Nothing but coldness, indifference, anger, pain. He’d been betrayed, cast aside, ruined… But enough about that.
Tears prickled Damian’s eyes as he released Ramon’s neck. He took a moment to lick the wounds closed and regain his composure. He had no time today for either pity or pleasure. There was work to be done, repugnant tasks to complete, a sickening charade to maintain. Such was his life.
Ramon blinked in surprise as Damian let him go. “Is that all?” he asked sounding plaintive, sounding disappointed.
Damian smiled. “For now.” He slid his fingers down the young man’s chest once again. “Although I could, per
haps, arrange to spend a little more time with you later this evening?”
A shudder ran through Ramon’s frame. He nodded. “I’d like that.”
“That’s a good boy,” Damian murmured pushing at his shoulder. “Hurry off now. I know how to find you, if I need you.” He smiled as he watched the young man stumble vacantly away. Well, this was an improvement. At least now his evening held the promise of something to look forward to.
A moment later, all his satisfaction dissolved when the lifting of the hairs at the back of his neck alerted him to the fact he was not alone. Reluctantly, he turned his head, not overly surprised to find Conrad watching him from the middle of the stairs.
“What are you doing sitting there?” Conrad asked, his voice strained, his breathing labored.
“Nothing whatsoever,” Damian replied, hiding his concern as he rose to his feet. Conrad looked even worse now than he had before he’d eaten. What is wrong with the man? Why isn’t he doing more to help himself? And why can’t I stop myself from caring?
Conrad’s fingers tightened on the banister. “Have you contacted Georgia yet?” he demanded crossly.
Damian sighed. “I was just about to go do so.”
“Good.” Conrad nodded. “Thank you.”
“De nada,” Damian murmured as he glanced quickly away. He was more touched than he knew he ought to be by the small courtesy, more touched than he wanted to show. Lap dog!
Without another word, Conrad finished climbing the stairs and headed toward his private suite. Damian watched him go, wishing—despite everything—that he could accompany him there. Wishing, now, that his own evening held something more exciting than the promise of Ramon. And, more than anything else, wishing he had the power to turn back time…
Chapter Four
Alcázares Reales de Sevilla, España
Late Fifteenth Century
The evening was balmy and warm. The air, already thick and sweet with the fragrance of a thousand blossoms, was made even more so by the guitars of the Sevillanas. The courtyard of the royal palace was crowded tonight and in the flickering torchlight, the jewels and glittering raiment worn by those in attendance threatened to outshine the stars.
Truly, if the world had an epicenter, Sevilla was its name. Of that Damian Ysidro Esposito-Montoya, Vizconde de Castile was absolutely certain; and he was one of the privileged few lucky enough to live here, at the very heart of all that was cultured and elegant, beautiful and refined. As he glanced around appreciatively, he was aware of an almost unbearable excitement welling inside him. The night was young and filled with infinite possibilities.
“Well, amigo, it appears your beauty has caught someone’s eyes,” the voice of the duke, his patron, murmured in Damian’s ear. “Did you know of this?”
Damian inclined his head and smiled back at him, his expression an almost perfect blend of humility, adoration and gratitude. “Sí. Muchisimas gracias, Excelencia. I am flattered. You honor me, as always, with your kind regard.”
“You misunderstand me,” the duke replied peevishly. “The eyes to which I’m referring are not my own. They belong to that creature over there, the one lounging against that pillar on the far side of the hall. Who is he? Do we know him?”
Dutifully turning his head in the direction the duke was indicating, Damian cast a desultory glance across the marble floor of the patio de las Doncellas, already knowing what he would find. “Ah. Sí, Excellencia. He arrived here a fortnight ago in the company of that Italian baron you found so amusing at dinner the other night. His name is…oh, dear, let me see if I cannot recall it for you. Is it Señor…Quintano, perhaps? Sí. I’m almost certain that is what he is called.”
While the duke processed the information he’d been given, Damian allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Yes, that was very well done. As the duke’s most trusted attendant, he was expected to remember and keep track of the names and status of everyone at court, as well as any other information His Excellency might find useful to know. As his most intimate companion, on the other hand, he was not expected to have eyes, or even the smallest level of interest, for any other man.
It was important, therefore, that he strike the proper tone when attempting to recall the name of the man who, had the duke but known it, had spent most of the past few evenings watching Damian from beside that very same pillar. Damian was confident his answer—calm, disinterested, just hesitant enough—had achieved the desired effect. In truth, however, there had been no “perhaps” about it. By now, he knew the man’s name almost as well as he did his own.
His name was Conrad, Conrad Quintano, and those eyes that had been at the center of the duke’s complaint, the eyes that Damian could feel trained upon him even now, were surely the most astonishingly mesmerizing orbs the good God had ever created.
In fact, those same adjectives could also be applied to the man himself. Conrad was, perhaps, half a head shorter than Damian, but possessed of so powerful a physique that, just gazing upon it, quite literally stole Damian’s breath away. His face was hard, not beautiful in any sense of the word, but strong and so very masculine. His usual expression was dour, grim, the look of a man who had perhaps seen too much of the world. But fierce as Conrad was wont to appear, there was yet a sweetness to his mouth that Damian could almost taste and he wished, oh, how he wished, that he could taste it in truth.
As of yet, they’d exchanged only a few brief smiles and a handful of words in passing, but Damian had spent most of the intervening hours spinning deliciously erotic fantasies in which they did and said so much more. These last few nights in particular, as he rolled about on his cot, quite unable to sleep, those same sweet syllables had repeated themselves endlessly within his head. Conrad Quintano. Conrad Quintano. Con-rad Quin-ta-no.
“He looks like a peasant,” the duke observed.
Damian sighed. He did not look like a peasant. There was a regal air about the man that showed itself in the way he stood, the way he walked, the way he held himself. “And yet, he seems quite taken with you, my lord.”
“What’s that you say?” the duke snapped. “Me? Are you blind, Montoya? It is you he’s been staring at.”
“Sí.” Damian pressed closer to the duke, faking a tremor. “I fear your Excellency is quite right about that. If looks could kill, I know I would be in grave peril. It’s obvious he envies me my position and wishes to replace me by your side. In truth, now that I think it, I’m not sure I should not fear for my life. He looks to be extremely dangerous. Do you not think so, Excellencia? And more than capable of doing…well, just about anything he might wish to do.”
The last part of his speech was no exaggeration and Damian could not completely suppress an actual shiver of delight as he thought about it. In his fantasies, Conrad had already done a great many things, all of them capably.
The duke frowned. “Has this been going on for some time then? You should have mentioned it to me sooner. Who does the brigand think he is, to threaten you while you are under my protection? It’s insupportable. I shall have those eyes plucked from his head for his presumption. Perhaps I should send a few men over there now, to teach him some manners.”
Ay, Dios mio. Damian bit his lip. It was possible he’d overplayed that last hand. “Oh, but surely that’s not necessary? If your Excellency pleases, would you not prefer me to bring him over here, that you might speak with him instead?”
The duke looked affronted. “You forget yourself. Why should I wish to speak to such a one as he? Did you not just hear me say it? The man is a peasant. I am sure of it.”
“Sí, Excellencia, I am sure you are correct, as always. But, if you’ll forgive me, that is precisely my point. One would not wish to discount the peasants too quickly, would you not agree? For, upon my honor, I’m convinced they must rank among the world’s most proficient lovers.”
“Montoya! What nonsense is this? Is it your intention to insult me?”
Damian shook his head. “No, no, Excelencia. Le rue
go perdonarme. Never would I do such a thing. If my lord will but allow me to explain?”
“Sí. Do so,” the duke replied, glaring at Damian through narrowed eyes. “Immediately.”
“Well, my lord, if you will but consider their numbers, I’m sure you will agree with me. How can they not be prodigiously skillful at the art of lovemaking? There are so very many of them in the world. Given the rate at which they’re reproducing, they must be devoting all of their time to practice!”
It took a moment for Damian’s thrust to hit home. Eventually, it did however. The duke laughed aloud, clapped Damian on the back and turned immediately to the neighbor on his other side and repeated the joke, giving himself the credit for having thought of it.
Satisfied the danger had been averted, Damian allowed himself the luxury of glancing once again in Conrad’s direction, but the space he had occupied all night beside the pillar was now vacant. Disappointed, Damian scanned the courtyard, hoping for at least another glimpse of the man, but Conrad was nowhere in sight. Que pena, Damian thought sighing sadly, his enjoyment of the night severely diminished. What a pity.
Never, in all his life, had Damian known anyone who affected him in the way Conrad did. Next to him, all other men dwindled into insignificance. They left him cold, whereas Conrad fired his blood.
He wanted him as he had never wanted anyone. His body ached to have him in all the most unholy ways. There had to be some means by which he might satisfy the lust that raged within him or it would surely drive him mad.
All he needed was a small space of time in which to indulge his desires, just a few short hours, perhaps a single night, if he were lucky. If he could but contrive a way in which the two of them might be alone together, undisturbed—was that really so much to ask? Ah, if only fate would smile upon him.
