"I know.” He smiled down at the witch. “I will do it.” Then he turned Fiel towards home. Without any prompting the bay broke into a gallop. Within moments Sebea's house disappeared at their backs. Although Martín knew it was useless to look, he turned in the saddle. The road stretched as open before them as behind. When they passed the spot where Fiel killed the beast, only a slight darkness on the earth marked the previous night's battle. Fiel shied, dancing to the side of the road, before cantering off again.
Nearing the hacienda, Martín reined his mount back. Throngs of villagers, their costumes gay and masks ranging from simple cotton scarves to elaborate papier-mâché creations, moved along the road. Martín pulled the leather mask from his belt and tied it about his face.
Tonight the gates of the compound were thrown wide. Nearly all the people from the pueblo and surrounding lands came. None had been invited although all were expected to attend. As was custom, private entertainments would be held within the house for special guests. Outside the walls great pits held full steer turning on spits. The smoke and smell of roasting meat wafted over the crowd of revelers. Martín loosed Fiel into a makeshift corral constructed for the guests’ mounts and then slipped beneath the gates with the crowd. He clutched the egg and package tightly to himself as he made his way toward the house. Although Martín knew many of the people, none recognized him and a few even called him Don Aritza. But when he stared at them, they would shake their heads in confusion and wander away.
Inside the court a tent, capable of holding almost a hundred people, held back the descending evening. Violins and guitars thrummed, accompanied by old women clapping their hands. Inside and outside was all movement and light. And dancing, everywhere there was dancing. Women stood upright, with their hands down by their sides. Faces as grave as funeral guests and eyes fixed upon the ground before them they floated over the makeshift dance floors. The hems of their dresses swept the ground in great circles. The men were livelier. They danced with grace and spirit; circling, swaying about their nearly stationary partners.
A pretty young girl danced with her brother. A young man snuck behind her and tossed his hat directly upon her head where it fell down over her eyes. Quickly he disappeared into the crowd. She danced for some time with the hat on. Then, with a flourish, she tossed it off onto the ground. Shouts and cat-calls rose and the young man slunk out on the floor to retrieve it. If she'd kept it, and offered it back to him, the man would be her beau for the evening.
Young ladies amused themselves by breaking eggs filled with cologne or other essences upon the gallants. The girls hid a great number of these in the folds of their dresses. When the favorite's back was turned, a señorita would sneak up behind him and break it upon his head. He was then bound by honor to find the lady and return the compliment. Giggling, fragrant couples chased each other through the crowd.
One reveler among many, Martín moved towards the back of the hacienda.
"Did you hear about the Frenchwoman's servant?” A man's gruff question caught Martín's otherwise focused attention. “What happened to her?"
He paused for a moment to listen. “Sí,” the voice of an older woman answered the speaker. “They say she fell down the stairs, but,” her voice dropped to a near whisper, and Martín strained to catch the words, “my sister helped to lay her out. She says there were hoof prints all over her body, like the woman had been trampled by a horse."
"Madre de Díos.” The old man swallowed and crossed himself. Martín mimicked the gesture as he moved off toward his goal.
If he knew the Señorita's habits, and Martín was fairly certain he did, she would still be dressing. The lady required a grand entrance at the height of the festivities. Quietly, he snuck into the first room of her apartments. Behind the closed bedroom door he could hear the vile woman moving. Martín pulled the paper wrapped mask from beneath his shirt and cut the blackened strings with his stiletto.
He propped the jeweled piece where she could not fail to see it. Then he fished a paper from her desk and inked a quill. My darling bride, he scribbled in a fair approximation of Hector's script, this priceless heirloom came with my family from the treasures of the Inca. I would be honored if you wore it this night. Thinking a moment Martín added, it is worth more than my entire estate. Then he signed it—Your beloved husband.
As quietly as he entered, Martín slunk from the guest quarters. Now to find Hector. Most likely he would be in the hacienda, entertaining the more prominent visitors. A crowd watched the waltzing in the main hall and Martín vainly searched among them for his lover. Very few of the gente de razón knew the steps. Knowledge of the waltz was considered a high accomplishment, a sign of aristocracy. As the night drew on, spectators repeatedly and loudly applauded the dancers. Old men and women jumped out of their seats in admiration and the young people waved their hats and handkerchiefs.
A few times, Martín spotted the Señorita in their midst. Her crimson dress flashed as she moved. Red hair piled artfully on her head, side curls framed the mask. Some drew back from the visage of the jeweled horror, muttering prayers. Many, however, laughed, most likely thinking it a grand joke ... in the midst of life affirming marriage, death still wandered.
After hours of searching among the jumble of people, Martín spied the object of his quest. Hector stood near the stairs, removed from the bulk of the crowd without being conspicuously absent. Neither the dancing, nor the man with whom he spoke, seemed to hold Hector's attention.
Martín approached and tapped Hector on the shoulder. When Hector turned, Martín stamped down his rising distress. His lover's face was flushed feverish and drawn tight with pain. Clouded eyes held no recognition for Martín, the man who shared his life since they were children. Martín bowed, “Señor, your wife wishes your company for a moment."
Sighing as though in resignation, Hector nodded and indicated Martín should lead the way. Hector followed Martín into the narrow hall leading to the back of the house. It was one of the few areas where the guests would not congregate. The corridor terminated in a T-intersection, with a tiny door set in the paneling of the far wall. Halls stretched to both the right and left. Martín stepped out of the way as though to let Hector pass into the right hand passage. Hector barely acknowledged him as he turned to make his way to the back of the house.
With one hand Martín knocked off Hector's sombrero and with the other broke the egg upon his head. The Don stopped dead, the witch's oil running down his face and over his clothes. “Madre de Díos, what was that for?” he sputtered, furious.
Martín didn't answer. There wasn't time. He covered Hector's mouth with one hand and shoved him back into the tiny closet. Oil slicked fingers fumbled with the buttons on Hector's trousers. As Martín fought with the fabric, he pushed Hector against the wall. Never in his life had he treated his lover so rough. Still, he had to take him back, make him his again.
Little bubbles of fear danced under Martín's skin as his lips traversed Hector's collar where his shirt gaped, his hand running across taut trousers. His breath flowed against fevered skin as he kissed Hector's cheek. “Forgive me,” he whispered. Martín could feel the swell of his own erection pressed against his lover's back. As Hector struggled he used his weight to push him against the wall.
Martín rubbed himself against the body he'd missed so much. The touch brought a fever to his skin, the kisses along the base of Hector's neck, an ache deep inside. Desire welled up within Martín as he fought with their clothes. The cloth clung to his hips as he forced the material away from his body. Pressed against Hector's naked backside, Martín rubbed his cock in the cleft. Martín pulled Hector's cheeks apart, his cock head pushing against the tight entrance to his lover's body.
Fighting back tears, Martín prayed. "Te amo, Corazón." He knew what he had to do. "Me disculpas.” Martín wasn't certain he could ever forgive himself.
Hector shuddered. He reared back, his entire body going taut. “Martín?” He hissed the question. “You came
back to me?"
"Sí!" Martín could hardly whisper an acknowledgement.
"I thought you would never come back.” Relief flooded Hector's voice.
"Always,” Martín punctuated his words with hot kisses, “I would never leave you."
Hands braced against the wall, legs spread, Hector yielded to the pressure of Martín's shaft. God yes! To have him back, truly back. Slowly Martín entered, hissing as Hector's tight heat enveloped him. As Martín's cock stretched and pulled the delicate opening, Hector's hips pushed to meet him, until his entire length was sheathed within.
Hector looked over his shoulder, dark eyes half-lidded with desire. "Bésame!" He demanded and Martín complied, pressing his lips against Hector's hot mouth. Each shift, every tremble, was met with burning kisses. With a sigh, Hector opened his mouth, and Martín's tongue slipped inside. Heaven.
Martín thrust hard and his slick hand slid along Hector's cock. Hector threw his head back, the oil still running into his eyes and nose and mouth. They slipped under the surface of pain and pleasure as Martín rammed into Hector.
Folded over him, their weight was thrown forward onto Hector's hands. Martín caressed his hole with deep thrusts and Hector's mouth and jaw with his tongue. Hector's shaft burned hot in his hand. Responding to moans and gasps, Martín thrust deep.
His swollen and hard shaft slid within Hector's body, Hector's shaft, swollen and hard, slid between Martín's fingers. The heat of Hector's channel burned up his prick and through his thighs. Hector's fingers clawed at the plaster dropping his head against his arm and the wall. Martín pushed them to the edge of release and held them there as he worked their bodies slowly, rhythmically. Hector cried out as he came, and Martín, cresting and falling on the edge of passion, let the sound sweep him over the edge to his own release. Wracked with the intensity of his orgasm, Martín collapsed across Hector's shaking body.
Hector twisted between Martín and the wall. His hand wandered up to pull the mask from Martín's eyes. “I did not know it was you at first.” A flush crawled into his cheeks as he laughed. “When you asked me to forgive you ... I knew.” Pulling Martín in close, Hector kissed him deep. Then he pulled back. “You left without saying goodbye. I thought I lost you."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?” Hector smiled. “The moment you pulled me in the closet, I thought it might be you.” Tenderly, he brushed the short hair from Martín's face. “When you started to touch me, also I knew.” Then he kissed Martín. “There was never anything,” he whispered, “to be sorry about."
Martín stepped back and laughed. “I will never leave you, Don Aritza."
Hector opened his mouth to speak. Instead he gasped. His hands reached up to pull at his collar. Pain clawed Hector's features as he tore his shirt from his shoulders.
Hector's skin, where he'd been pricked, heaved, and blistered. Tiny, furry feet thumped at the edge of the wound, pushing the angry flesh open. Bile rose in Martín's throat. Hector stared at his own chest in horror.
Out of the lesion a spider crawled, its grey-black body flecked with puss and blood. With a shudder and a yell, Hector swept his hand across his chest flinging the foul thing against the wall. It bounced off the plaster and scuttled towards a corner. Martín jumped back unsheathing the stiletto. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blade flying. It thunked into the creature's body, pinning it to the floor. The spider spasmed. Eight legs drummed out a soft staccato. Then it stilled.
Martín shuddered and stepped to embrace Hector. “It's gone.” He whispered, righting Hector's clothes. “You don't have to worry."
"I'm not worried,” Hector breathed as he leaned against Martín's chest, “You're here."
As the horror faded, Martín became aware of screams echoing from the main hall. Hector jerked back, confusion and lingering terror in his face. Martín shoved himself into some semblance of decency and stepped cautiously into the hall. Then he and Hector headed towards the sound of chaos.
A sea of confusion greeted them as they pushed their way into the main room. Señorita Lolita lay sprawled in the middle of the dance floor, her red dress and hair pooling like blood about her body. Both men approached her form. Her chest did not move and her mouth hung open. Hector reached her first and knelt. Martín took his place beside the Don only seconds after. Tentatively he reached for the mask, sliding his fingers into the eye sockets and his thumb under the teeth. He pulled.
At first nothing happened, then a loud, wet sucking sound emanated from beneath the gold. Straining, Martín twisted. A loud pop and the mask broke free. Women screamed. Men retched. Hector and Martín fell back. Martín flung the mask onto the witch's chest as he scrambled to his feet.
A lipless fanged face, its skin bubbled and pocked, glared up at them. Rummy eyes of blood saw nothing. Blue veins laced the bare bone near the eyes and nose. A sharp, grey nose jutted from the thing's face.
Quickly they gathered a pine box, dumping the body within and nailing the lid shut with iron nails. Then Hector, Martín and six of the strongest men drug the box to the edge of the cottonwoods. They hastily dug a shallow grave and, with little ceremony, dropped the coffin into the pit. As the men shoveled dirt over the wood, Martín tossed the mask into the grave.
Morning light bled over the horizon as the last of the earth was patted down. Finished with the horrid task, the other men left quickly. None seemed eager to stay. Finally, only Martín and Hector were left as witnesses to the burial.
"Díos,” Hector shuddered, “to think I almost wed that.” Both men crossed themselves in unison.
"Thank God you didn't,” Martín agreed.
"Thank God,” Hector slid his arm over Martín's shoulder, “I have a compadre like you to save me."
"I don't want to have to go through that again. Next time, I get to choose your wife."
"No, Corazón,” Hector's grip tightened as he leaned in to whisper in Martín's ear, “I think that, after that, I shall live very happily as a bachelor with you."
Devotion
by Jade Falconer
Also by Jade Falconer
Morningstar
Cold Hands, Warm...
Girls on Film
Tangled Web
Escape
Sanctuary
Savior
Wilhelm sighed, adjusting the hood of his cloak. “I hate this, I can't see anything,” he complained, hurrying along beside an older, gray-haired man. He had to nearly run to keep up; his steward was almost a foot taller than him. He tried to stay alongside the older man, but the crowd was thick and he had to duck behind him to avoid running into people.
The older man slowed his steps slightly. “We are almost there, Your Majesty. We must arrive early to see the best prospects. You'll thank me in the end."
Wilhelm resisted the urge to pout. There was no one to see, anyway. He had to keep his face covered. It was a huge concession, and strictly against the rules, for him to even be out like this. But what was the good of being a prince if you didn't get to break the rules, he grinned to himself. He was excited to see the slave auction. He had gone through so many slaves that he insisted on choosing one himself.
The street widened, and the crowd eased a little. Wilhelm could see they were coming into the public square, and there were hundreds of people milling about. The buzz of conversation surrounded him, and he stayed close to the steward.
The older man steered Wilhelm towards a railing at the side of a small dais where the slaves would be displayed for the merchants. “If you want to see any of them turn or come closer, simply tell me, and I shall do the talking on your behalf,” he instructed. “And, of course, I will bid on whichever you choose."
Wilhelm nodded, moving to the very front of the platform. He was so excited he could barely stand still. It was about time he was allowed to pick his own slaves, after all. He spent more time with them than his family. His father was busy running the Kingdom, of course, and he'd never known his mother. She'd died in childbirth
. He suspected his father had never quite forgiven him for that. So he'd been raised by the castle staff—some free, but mostly slaves. But now that he was older he needed his own personal staff, and none of them had been quite right.
The auction began and a number of slaves were lined up beside the platform. The first was led up to the center of the makeshift stage, and a handler began hawking him. The steward leaned close to speak quietly to Wilhelm. “Well muscled. He could surely perform any physical task. He seems docile enough,” he commented.
Wilhelm nibbled on his lower lip as he stared at the slave. He tried not to admire the man's body too obviously, but he couldn't help it; he liked men much better than he liked women. But this man was too big. Wilhelm himself was lithely muscled; he exercised daily. But he was nothing like this man, who looked like one of the ancient statues he'd seen. “No, I don't think so,” he said softly.
A number of slaves followed, none of whom were of a quality that the steward considered acceptable, so he kept silent. He pointed out another two or three large and capable looking slaves, but Wilhelm still seemed uninterested. Finally, a slender young man stepped up. Again the steward remained silent. But Wilhelm was entranced. The slave was slim and pale, with nearly black hair to his shoulders, and features delicate enough to belong to a girl. In fact, the slave was pretty enough that Wilhelm could imagine he'd been mistaken for a girl a few times. But Wilhelm could immediately tell this slave was all male. He reached out and touched the steward's arm. “What about him?” he whispered.
The steward looked shocked for a moment, before he covered it with a blank expression. “He looks a little thin, sir. Will he able to serve you adequately?"
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 4
