by Megan Derr
He jerked awake when a warm, heavy arm fell over him from behind, a hot mouth trailed along his shoulder to his throat. "You always look so peaceful when you're asleep; I almost hate to wake you," Ivan murmured.
"It's much more difficult to have fun when I'm asleep, Vanya," Ailill replied and rolled over—only to be pushed down into the bedding while Ivan climbed on top of time, bent to kiss him.
Ailill held him close and kissed back ravenously. "I've missed you, Vanya."
Ivan snorted in amusement as he shifted to begin teasing his way down Ailill's body. "You've been unconscious for nearly five days straight, cat."
"I still missed you. I'm sorry I got so angry with you."
Pausing in his efforts to suck up a mark on Ailill's chest, Ivan leaned back up to kiss his mouth softly. "You nearly died once. I do not want to see you die again, and as you have proven susceptible to the poison—if you get a full dose, I fear you will die rather than slip into a coma."
"I won't die, Vanya," Ailill said, combing fingers through his thick, damp hair and then tracing the lines of his face. "There's no way I would permit that and certainly you will not. Stop fretting."
Ivan snorted again, but kissed his fingers, then his mouth, before returning to where he had left off. Ailill kept one hand loosely in Ivan's hair, alternately stroking and grabbing it as Ivan alternated kissing, licking, and biting.
He felt entirely too hot and vaguely dizzy, but Ailill really did not care about anything right then except the way Ivan was infuriatingly not putting his mouth where they both wanted it to be. "Now, fire child. I know you know how to suck a cock so stop being a brat and do it."
Ivan laughed—and ignored him, biting at the soft skin of Ailill's inner thigh instead, teasing and sucking at it until Ailill knew he would have a mark there for days. His thighs ached and trembled from strain, from want, and he finally gave Ivan's hair a good yank.
That earned him another husky laugh, but also a hot tongue licking the length of his cock, teasing over the head, before Ivan's mouth finally closed around him and began to suck him quick and dirty and fast.
Ailill sucked in ragged breaths, thrust his hips to get more, go deeper, taking all that Ivan could give, groaning as he felt Ivan's throat around his cock, the way his tongue teased and tormented. His vision began to go black in spots, sweat stinging his eyes, skin so hot he half-feared he was going to catch on fire—
And perhaps they really should have waited just a little longer to play, he thought, as he came down Ivan's throat and the world went black all around him.
When he woke a third time, he was curled up with Ivan in bed. The room was dark save for the fireplace and a small candle still lit on the table. Ailill shifted, groaned, and tried to sit up.
"Lay still, cat," Ivan commanded. "It's the dead of night."
"Please do not tell me that I passed out while we were having sex," Ailill said, groaning again.
Ivan snickered. "Since you said please, I will not tell you."
"Douse it," Ailill retorted and pinched him hard. Ivan grabbed his hand, rolled back, and dragged Ailill on top of him and pulled his head down for a kiss.
"Feeling better, cat?"
Ailill blinked, realizing he did. "Yes, actually. I feel a lot better. Did I finally get enough rest? How long was I out this time?"
"Only a few hours. It's night, so the city has mostly quieted for now. They fear the trouble will start again soon, but right now everyone is too tired. I'm glad you're feeling better. I did not mean to make everything worse; I should have asked—"
Ailill cut him off with a kiss, then drew back. "Vanya, I will continue to pass out if that is what I must do to be certain that all is well between us. And only a dead man would turn down a chance to have your mouth anywhere on him. Now, I think we should resume where we left off and then I want food."
Ivan laughed, but his hands slid along Ailill's body, making him shiver. "Very well, your grace. Let us resume."
Chapter Eleven: Madness
Gael limped through the palace, ignoring the looks cast his way save to smile politely. He knew he looked a fright—clothes torn, dirty, bloody, and for once in his life, not remotely white—but he did not have the energy to go upstairs to his room to change.
Instead, he slowly made his way to the private gardens and collapsed on the ground in front of the fountain. The sound of the trickling water was calming, the scent of flowers and sunshine soothing. His ankle throbbed, and his left arm sported a nasty cut, but he was in no mood to be fussed over.
Closing his eyes, Gael just enjoyed the piece and solitude of the garden. He reached out, feeling for the minds of the remaining Beasts, grateful that he could feel them. Only five remained, and Gael despaired they would not solve the mystery of the poison in time. It was as if some obstacle was in the way, something that kept them from figuring it out ...
A thought flashed, but then was gone, and Gael was left feeling more tired than ever. Less than a month until the ceremony, and they still had five Beasts. Gael hoped the long period between poisonings meant whoever it was had finally stopped—or perhaps been stopped by the riots. Pain twisted in Gael's chest as he thought of all the blood and mayhem of the past weeks. There had been no time for anything else, just calming, fighting, and healing over and over until he wanted to drop.
The last straw had been the attack on the carriage that had been taking him home. Thinking it belonged to someone else, as Gael had not wanted to summon a royal carriage and had thus traveled in a plain carriage, vigilantes had mobbed it. All he remembered was the scream of the horses when they were incapacitated, the crack of the wood, the smell of it burning, and the acrid tang of blood. By the time he had emerged from the burning wreckage, it had been too late to do more than use what remained of his energy to put the attackers out, then pull on a stolen cloak and limp home.
At least being back in the palace was enough to start healing his flagging energy. He would need to go to the Sanctuary, soon, but he preferred the garden for a little while longer. He felt out Freddie and Etain next, comforted by his sisters as always, even if they were all so exhausted that sleeping for a month sounded merely like a good start.
Footsteps drew him out of a light doze, and Gael yawned as he dragged his eyes open to see the remaining Beasts walking toward him—well, toward the garden. It was clear they had not yet noticed him, too worn out themselves to notice if the whole of the palace burst into flame.
"Greetings," Gael said as they drew close, startling them all—then they laughed tiredly and collapsed on the ground all around him, clearly agreeing that the benches were too far away and the mist of the fountain far preferable. "You look worn to the bone, Beasts. I am sorry for it."
He looked at them—five where there should have been twelve, and those five barely staying conscious. If he were more inclined to tears in his frustration, he would have been crying them. All that remained of the White Beasts were the Panther, Bat, Lion, Fox, and Mongoose.
Lady Matilda, the White Fox, heaved a long sigh. "I do not understand it, Gael. I know that the White Beasts help to keep the peace among all the creatures. By their natures cats and wolves and mice and sheep will all fight, no matter how much their human nature mitigates that. But even without us, they should not be acting this way. They should be mildly irritated, not mad with rage to the point of murder and practically suicide." She angrily wiped away tears. "What is wrong with Verde? We're not Piedre, so why is there so much blood on our streets?"
"I don't know," Gael said quietly, ashamed. They should know, he, Freddie, and Etain. They were the Triad, they should be able to understand and explain it to their own children. But damned if he could, and the harder he tried to figure it out, the more of a headache he gave himself.
Anymore, it seemed the headaches never went away.
"We'll figure it out," Ailill said. "If nothing else, we just have to make it through to the ceremony. We have the jewels, we have the Beasts—even if they're no
t conscious—and we still have the Triad. As long as we can keep one another alive, the gods will be able to fix whatever has gone wrong."
Gael nodded, but his gut roiled with doubts. He sincerely doubted anything would be easier just because he became a god. Nothing was ever that simple. But it was better to become a god and use the advantages that gave him than not to do it. "The city is quiet for now?"
"Yes," replied Seraphin, the White Mongoose, grimacing as she combed through her hair and came away with a handful of soot and ash. "Nobody is allowed to leave their home without permission—or without an escort. Supplies are being delivered house to house and guards patrol constantly."
Rodrigue stirred and said, "We've sent as many soldiers and officials as we can to the outlying cities and villages, but the problems do not seem as extreme there as they are here in the city. It's as if the hostility starts here in the capital and spreads out, weakening as it goes."
"Dilutes. I think the hostility is diluted as it leaves the city," Ailill said, lying on his back on the ground. "Mayhap it's just because I am dreading joining our siblings in the Sanctuary, but it's as if the city has been poisoned with rage."
Gael frowned at that, something niggling ... and then it was gone as his headache kicked up again, making him wince. "That is an intriguing way to look at it. Poison does seem to be the rather overbearing theme of the day." He sighed. "Well, all is quiet for now, so I think we should probably all stop hiding here, get patched up, cleaned, and refreshed. Tomorrow will no doubt bring another battle. We can start looking into this new poison theory as well. Come on, up."
They all groaned, but obediently stood. "Has anyone seen my Voice?" Gael asked.
"He looked one step from falling over," Ailill said. "I made him go with two footmen, who took him to his room."
"Good, I'm glad he's safe," Gael said and slowly limped out of the garden alongside them, brushing aside questions and looks of concern. He would wrap it, rest, and be close enough to fine in the morning.
But first he needed to see Noire.
Gael said good night to the Beasts one-by-one as they peeled off from the group to go to their own rooms until he was left alone with Ailill. "Are you remaining in the palace?"
"Yes," Ailill said. "The riots completely ruined the front half of my home; it's not safe to stay out there anymore, as much as I hate to say it. Thankfully, I had few servants, and they've joined the palace staff smoothly enough for the present—there is no shortage of work to be done these days, after all."
"How is your companion?" Gael asked. "The Duke of Vaklov ... Lord Ivan, was it?"
Ailill nodded, his face lighting up at the mention of him, all traces of exhaustion temporarily vanished. "I made him go to the healing hall; his leg was burned severely enough it warranted immediate attention."
"This is not his fight," Gael said. "I am grateful that he is assisting us anyway. Please extend the Triad's gratitude."
"I will, your highness. Thank you."
Gael smiled and briefly patted Ailill's shoulder. "He must love you very much, to come all this way to get battered, bruised, and set on fire."
Ailill stared at him a moment, going still and then letting out a soft huff of laughter. "I was going to say he was crazy, but I like your reason better, highness."
"Mm," Gael murmured. "Good night, White Panther. Please be careful."
"I will, highness. Please have a care yourself." Sweeping a bow, Ailill slipped down the hall toward his room.
Gael limped his way toward the royal suites, but right before reaching them, turned down the hall to Noire's room. The hall was empty, thankfully, though nobody would have thought it amiss if he was going to see the Voice directly.
He turned the door handle and stopped, equally amused and pleased and frustrated that it was, for once, actually locked. Gael knocked on the door, waited, and then knocked again. When still no answer came, he swallowed his disappointment and turned away. He'd just reached the end of the hall when he heard Noire call, "Wait!"
Turning around, Gael looked at him and immediately felt awful. "I apologize, Noire. I did not mean to wake you."
"You didn't—well—oh, get in here," Noire said and strode down the hall toward him. He drew Gael's arm across his shoulders, slid his own around Gael's waist, and helped him back down the hall into Noire's room. Closing and locking the door behind them, Noire then led him to the sofa and pushed him down onto it. "I dozed off on the couch. I—I was hoping you would come see me, though I know you're busy and would like to rest—"
"Kitten, I want nothing more than to kiss you right now. Please?"
Noire made a rough noise and immediately straddled him, moving gently. He twined his arms around Gael's neck and drew him in. They kissed softly at first, mindful of bruises and scrapes, but soon the need to feel his lover overrode the pain, and Gael kissed hard and deep, drawing back only when the need to breathe became too strong to ignore.
"How are you, kitten?" Gael asked softly, leaning back so that his head rested against the back of the sofa, Noire draped against him. He was warm, so incredibly warm, and it soothed Gael in a way nothing else could to sit there and lightly run his fingers up and down Noire's back.
"I'm fine," Noire said. "Tired. Sore. Is it awful of me to wish that after the ceremony we could just go somewhere for a week or so?"
Gael smiled against his skin, lovely images blossoming in his mind. "No, kitten. I think that's a wonderful idea. I should have thought of it."
Noire laughed. "You? Stop thinking about work?" He sat back, eyes bright with amusement. "I will not believe it until I see it."
"You see it every time I have my cock buried in you, kitten. I promise I am not thinking about work at all, only how to make you scream."
"Don't say such things," Noire said with a moan, closing his eyes and swallowing. "I'm too tired."
Gael chuckled and drew him back down. "Believe me, I have no energy myself. I was just trying to say that I do not think about work all of the time. Or even most of the time. Since meeting you, even work has become extremely hard to focus on."
"Flatterer," Noire muttered against his neck. "There's hot water. I didn't have a full bath brought, but I did request enough hot water to wash up."
"That sounds wonderful," Gael said, "but I am not certain my ankle will tolerate any more walking."
Noire huffed with amusement against his neck, breath hot. "Then don't walk on it. I'll help you to the bathing room." He did not give Gael a chance to argue, simply stood up and then helped Gael to his feet, helping him slowly across the room to the bathing chamber. Inside, he settled Gael on a low stool, then knelt and began to remove his clothes. When Gael was naked, Noire stripped off his own clothes and threw everything into a pile in the corner.
A porcelain basin had been set on the tiled floor along with a tray of soap and rags. Noire dipped a rag in water, lathered it with soap, and then moved toward Gael. "No, you first," Gael said, mouth quirking in amusement when Noire flushed slightly.
But he obediently began to wash himself, scrubbing away dirt and sweat and blood, using another rag to rinse the soap off. He used a rinsing cup to soak his hair, leaned over the empty tub, and quickly cleaned his hair. Damp and flushed from scrubbing—and being watched—Noire lathered a new cloth and finally approached Gael. "What did you do to your ankle?"
"Lost a fight with a coach," Gale said. "I'm lucky I didn't come out of it well-cooked. That feels wonderful," he said with a groan as Noire began to wash away the detritus of the day, paying special care to all his scrapes and bruises. "Remind me to make you do this when I have the energy to take advantage of the situation. I should terminate your position as Voice and employ you as my personal servant."
Noire laughed and flicked water in his face. "I am already yours. Isn't that good enough?"
"That's everything, kitten," Gael murmured and leaned down to his kiss him. "Rinse me off, and then let's go to bed for a bit. Nobody will miss me right away."
Gael shrugged it aside. "It does not smell very nice, but it will take a proper bath to repair my hair. Come on, kitten."
"We should wrap your ankle first," Noire replied and helped him stand, leading him into the bedroom and pushing him down on the bed. "Stay there and rest. I'll go get supplies for the ankle and some fresh clothes for you." He cut off Gael's protest with a kiss. "I'll be careful."
"Brat," Gael replied, but nodded. "Go, then." He fell back on the bed, too tired to bother shifting to lie on it properly, closing his eyes and not quite drifting off. He heard the click of the outer door, and then the soft tread of Noire returning to the bedroom.
He sat up with a groan and watched in silence as Noire knelt and tended his ankle. "You are far too good to me. Too good for me."
Noire looked up with a soft smile, then ducked his head again and finished with his ankle. "There, all wrapped, and that ointment should help, too. By morning you should be feeling much better, though I would not do more walking than you absolutely must."
"Come to bed, kitten," Gael said softly, caressing Noire's cheek with his fingers, breath hitching when Noire turned his head and gave them a quick kiss. He vanished briefly to put out the lights, then returned to the bedroom and got them both comfortable.
"I have clean clothes for you; I snitched them from the laundry maids after explaining your bad ankle and that you begged me to get them for you."
Gael laughed. "More or less the truth." He settled beneath the blankets, pulling Noire close and lying half on top of him. Soothed by the feel and scent of his lover, Gael finally fell asleep.
He was jerked awake by Freddie's sharp voice. The White Lion has fallen. Gael swore and threw back the blankets, climbed out of bed, and went to go find his clothes.
