by KJ Charles
“You don’t feel she might need someone with her?” asked Stephen as they walked away. “She must be feeling terribly guilty.”
“She’ll live. Leo never had any more morals than Tom, not really.”
“Hart had a lot to answer for,” said Stephen grimly. “That poor lost soul.”
“Monk?”
“Xan.”
“What?”
“Do you believe in hell?” Stephen said abruptly.
“No, not really. Should I?”
Stephen shrugged. “I don’t believe in demons and pitchforks. But I think, if you had to define hell, you could take a good man and deny him the rites he believed in, and condemn his soul to a slow process of madness and vengeance and corruption until it was nothing but a mass of rage and hate and seething evil that his true self would have loathed. I think that would be hell.” He took a few more steps, accompanied by Crane’s appalled silence. “I don’t know, of course. Never met the man. Maybe he went so bad because he was flawed. Or, maybe what we encountered had no consciousness left from what he used to be. I hope it didn’t.”
Crane swallowed. “Do you think—there are prayers, rituals. If they were done, even without a body, would that help him now?”
“I’ve no idea,” Stephen said. “It couldn’t hurt.”
“No. I’ll see them done. For Xan Ji-yin, and Arabella Cryer, and poor bloody Monk. And Town, too. Do you think he meant to do it all, or was he made to?”
Stephen sighed. “Everyone can do evil. Some people can be forced to it, and some fight against it, and some don’t even need an invitation. I imagine Mr. Cryer made a choice initially; I don’t suppose he understood the consequences of that choice any more than Pa and Lo and Rackham did.”
They walked on through the hot streets, Crane felt better with each step, as his muscles moved and worked and loosened and the summer sun warmed his skin. He was also ravenously hungry, he realised, and had no doubt that Stephen was the same, but there was no point suggesting they stop to eat. His pockets were bare, and he was well aware of the glances of amazed revulsion they were garnering, as people veered away from the stench, then realised just how well dressed one of the stinking men was.
“Good God, I want to wash.”
“Wash. Eat.” Stephen glanced up at him. “And so on.”
That forced Crane to ask the question. “Stephen. The truth, please. Is that thing—could it be still in me?”
“What? No, of course not. If I thought it was, we wouldn’t be strolling home now.”
“Yes, but how can you be sure? What if it left something in me, and we fucked and it got at you—”
“First,” Stephen said firmly, “if it had got a grip on you, we’d all be dead. That thing, with your potential? It would have been a bloodbath. Second, I know it’s not in you because I was in you too. For which thank God, because if I hadn’t had your blood in my veins today, I wouldn’t have known what it was doing in time, or stood a chance of beating it. But I did, and I won, and it’s gone. Trust me.”
Crane nodded, assimilating that, feeling the fear fade. “So you fought it, fought over me, in my blood?”
“More or less. Lit the power up, called the magpies.”
“I know, I felt it, but…didn’t that make you vulnerable to it? If it had won, and you were in my blood—”
“Oh, well, that makes no difference,” Stephen said hastily. “If something of that malevolence had got hold of the Magpie Lord’s power it would have been a disaster of epic proportions, so preventing that was the important thing.”
“I beg to differ. Christ, Stephen. Come home with me, and this time, don’t leave.”
Crane’s mansion flat on the Strand had, among its other luxuries, a tiled bathroom, with water piped in. It was cold, since the boiler wasn’t on, but Stephen sat by the basin with a hand dangling in the water, which bubbled gently against his fingers till the steam rose.
Crane watched him. “God, you’re useful. Useful, beautiful, remarkable.”
“Washable,” Stephen said. “I want to throw this suit away, I think.”
“I’ve wanted you to do that for months.”
They stripped off their bloody, rat-stinking clothes, and Stephen grabbed the heap and dropped them outside the back kitchen door. Crane took the opportunity to start washing, soaping and sluicing himself, scrubbing his contaminated skin with a rough sponge.
“I’ll do your back,” said Stephen softly, behind him.
Crane hooked over a stool with his foot and sat. Stephen’s hands prickled and feathered over his back, slick with soap, sliding down his flanks, working round to caress his chest. His fingertips closed on Crane’s nipples, rolling and working them, and Crane moaned and leaned back against him. Stephen slid down, so his breath was hot on Crane’s back and a warm tongue flickered against the top of Crane’s arse and down between his buttocks, as Stephen’s hands roamed over his thighs, then very deliberately brushed the tip of his straining cock.
Crane groaned. “Dirty little witch.”
“All true,” Stephen murmured, his fingertips dancing, spangling lightning through Crane’s cock. “If you washed me, I wouldn’t be dirty.”
“You’ll always be dirty to me.” Crane pulled him round. Stephen fell willingly into his lap, arching his back to offer himself up, and Crane grabbed the soap and began to run it over his chest, dipping and flicking water to work up a lather. He lavished attention on those sensitive hands till Stephen moaned audibly, then worked his way slowly down the little man’s narrow torso to the jutting hip bones and dark reddish curls at his crotch.
Crane angled the soap and slid it gently along the crack of Stephen’s arse, feeling him writhe at the tease. He dipped a finger in the lather and drew delicate patterns on Stephen’s skin, sliding down and around, under and over, watching him twitch and whimper. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you, my lord,” Stephen said hoarsely. “I want you to fuck me and not let go. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Crane stroked a hand over Stephen’s hair and gave him a wry smile. “My hero.”
“I was terrified.” The words were blurted out. Crane’s fingers stilled as Stephen’s golden eyes met his, their expression suddenly raw. “I thought I’d lost you, Lucien. I thought I’d find that thing wearing your body and eating your mind, and I couldn’t bear it. Oh God.”
“Come here.” Crane brought Stephen upright on his lap and held him close. Stephen bowed his head. Crane could feel him shaking as the day’s tension finally caught up with him, and wrapped both arms round his lover, pressing his mouth to Stephen’s hair.
Stephen gave a little gulp. “Sorry. Sorry. I just…”
“Ssh. It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”
They were silent for a while, Stephen taking long, shallow breaths as he tried to regain control. Crane held him and listened and finally heard the quick, sharp inhalation that signalled his lover pulling himself together.
“All right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, that was an ill-timed fit of vapours.”
“We’ve got all night. Have all the vapours you want.”
Stephen snuggled closer. Crane stroked his hair, ran his fingers over the tips of his ears and brushed them down over his earlobes. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Everything’s all right.”
“Now it is. It’s been such a horrible day,” Stephen said plaintively, into his chest.
“Oh, I don’t know. It had its moments.”
“True. The moments were wonderful. But I’d quite like to forget a lot of the hours.”
“That can be arranged. Whenever you’re ready.” Crane drew a fingernail down the nape of Stephen’s neck, watching him shiver.
“Mmm. Thank you, Lucien.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. Being here.”
“Well, that’s your fault,” Crane pointed out. “You keep saving my skin.”
Stephen looked up, lopsided grin dawning. “But it’s such marvellously decorative skin. It would be a pity to waste it.”
Crane pulled Stephen into a deep kiss at that, hands roaming, feeling the electric prickle in his response. He stroked and licked and bit, not allowing his lover to start thinking again, gently readying the man till Stephen was squirming on his lap in helpless reaction.
“Lucien, my lord, my lord…”
“Mmm?” murmured Crane invitingly.
“Now. Please. Fuck me. Lots.”
“We are going to fuck till you forget your own name, but…” Crane couldn’t imagine anything he wanted less than to manhandle Stephen, not today. “I want you in charge.” He smiled at Stephen’s startled expression. His lover had an uncompromising preference for being on the receiving end, and that suited Crane well, but it was about time Stephen broadened his experience a little. “Come here, witch. Take me inside you.”
“Oh.” Stephen scrambled into position on his lap, lowered himself carefully towards Crane’s straining cock, and clutched his shoulders for balance as he eased himself down. “Mmm.”
“However you like,” Crane murmured, kissing Stephen’s neck and shoulder, keeping his own hips still. “You set the pace. You’re in control. Take it exactly as you want.”
“I’m starting to wonder if there is someone else in there,” Stephen muttered, sliding down a careful, agonising inch or so. Crane began to stretch his arms, winced at the sharp reminder of pain and put his hands behind his head instead, so that he didn’t grab the smaller man’s hips and thrust hard. Stephen’s slow movements meant Crane had only half penetrated him yet, and his balls were painfully tight with the need to fill his lover the rest of the way. He bit his lip.
“Are you suffering, my lord?” enquired Stephen softly, feathering kisses over his chest. “Tell me what you want.”
“You’re in charge.”
Stephen paused and tweaked a nipple punitively. “Yes, and I told you to tell me what you want. I like the way you talk to me.”
Crane groaned. “Christ, Stephen. I want you to fuck yourself on me. Pleasure yourself on my cock exactly how you want. Make yourself come.”
“Oh God, yes,” Stephen said, and sank down to take Crane to the hilt in one smooth rush. Crane cried out in time with his lover’s low moan, and Stephen began to fuck in earnest.
His hands were fiery on Crane’s shoulders, the borrowed tattoo shrieking soundlessly on his pale skin, as he moved with concentrated deliberation, up and down, pulling up till only the head of Crane’s cock was in him and then thrusting downwards to take him deep. His own prick was glistening and iron hard against Crane’s stomach, and Crane said hoarsely, “Tell me if I can touch you.”
“No. I want to come like this. Just from you.”
Crane’s breath rasped. Stephen hissed, changed the angle, and threw his head back. “Yes. Is this good for you, Lucien? Do you need to move?”
“I’ve never been harder,” Crane said through his teeth. “And if I move at all, it’ll be to throw you on the floor and ravage you like a wild animal, so don’t even suggest it.”
“I have absolutely no idea who’s in charge now,” Stephen said breathily. He was moving faster, body tight and tense around Crane’s erection.
“You. Always you.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you’ve got me chained to the bed.”
“You won’t need to,” Crane said, feeling Stephen’s hands pulse against him, his straining prick swelling as he rode him harder and harder. “Not that you’ll be able to talk for my cock in your mouth, of course. In your mouth, in your sweet arse, taking my pleasure and making you come till you’re sobbing for mercy, because that’s exactly how you like it, and I will always give you exactly what you want—”
“Lucien!” shrieked Stephen, and climaxed violently, splashing hot against Crane’s belly, passage clenching tight, and rocking with an uncoordinated abandon that brought Crane off just a few strokes later.
They clutched each other, gasping and whispering broken words of love and lust as the tattooed magpies fluttered back and forth between them.
“There’s one on your neck,” Stephen observed, when he had his breath back. “It looks like you’ve never shaved. Go, on, shoo.” He waved a hand at the wandering tattoo, urging it down.
“Bloody birds,” said Crane, watching an inky beak peck at Stephen’s nipple. “No, actually, I take that back.”
“So you should. I’m becoming increasingly fond of them, the more they save our skins.”
“Pure self-interest on their part.” Crane stroked a finger along the fine lines at the corner of Stephen’s eye, the marks of too many things that couldn’t be unseen. “Are you all right, sweet boy? That was what you needed?”
Stephen tipped his head, considering thoughtfully. “Yes. I think it was, actually. Thank you.”
“For God’s sake!” Crane began, and then caught the glint in Stephen’s eye and dumped a scoop of water over him, in lieu of rebuke. Stephen retaliated by sending a wave of water from the basin, drenching Crane completely. Laughing, they washed again, and finally wandered through to the kitchen to raid the larder. Stephen perched naked on the kitchen table as Crane sliced him a wedge of bread and ham.
“What will you do now?” Stephen asked, once he’d devoured half of it.
“Right now? Take you to bed and keep you there till tomorrow lunchtime, at least. Longer term? Move my trading operations here, I think. If I’m staying—and I am—I’ll need to shift the control across and appoint a factor who’ll only steal with one hand, not both. I can build up the European side of things a fair bit, which might be interesting. And I ought to take the Vaudrey estates more seriously as well. I’ve repaired some of my father’s idiocy but there’s a lot more to be done. And my Vaudrey-Steen cousins are becoming a bloody nuisance, which needs dealing with. I won’t be short of work.”
“Sometimes I’m very glad I’m poor,” Stephen said. “Would you also have time to act as a liaison with the Chinese, at least for a while? There’s doubtless chaos brewing in Limehouse with the remaining shamans, and I need someone I can trust to work with us.”
“Will Mrs. Gold be happy with that?”
“I think we have her blessing, yes.”
“In that case, I’m at your command.”
“So you tell me,” said Stephen, eyes warm with affection. “Not always, though, I hope.”
“Certainly not. If you want to take charge of the fucking again, you can damned well save my life to earn it.”
“Now, wait a moment. That means I’m already owed at least three more—”
Crane raised his voice in mock protest and grabbed for him, and they laughed and struggled, while outside the windows and on the roof, the magpies circled and gathered and landed in their hundreds.
About the Author
KJ Charles is an editor by day and a writer by night, living and working in London.
KJ blogs about writing, editing and life on both sides of the publishing fence at kjcharleswriter.wordpress.com, and tweets as kj_charles.
Look for these titles by KJ Charles
Now Available:
A Charm of Magpies
The Magpie Lord
A Case of Possession
Non-Stop Till Tokyo
Think of England
Coming Soon:
A Charm of Magpies
Flight of Magpies
Jackdaw
Danger in the air. Lovers on the brink.
Flight of Magpies
© 2014 KJ Charles
A Charm of Magpies, Book 3
With the justiciary understa
ffed, a series of horrifying occult murders to be investigated, and a young student who is flying—literally—off the rails, magical law enforcer Stephen Day is under increasing stress. And his relationship with his aristocratic lover, Lord Crane, is beginning to feel the strain.
Crane chafes at the restrictions of England’s laws, and there’s a worrying development in the blood-and-sex bond he shares with Stephen. A development that makes a sensible man question if they should be together at all.
When a thief strikes at the heart of Crane’s home, a devastating loss brings his closest relationships into bitter conflict—especially his relationship with Stephen. And as old enemies, new enemies, and unexpected enemies paint the lovers into a corner, the pressure threatens to tear them apart.
Warning: Contains hot-blooded sex, cold-blooded murder, sinister magical goings-on and a lot of swearing.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Flight of Magpies:
Lucien, Lord Crane adjusted his ascot and contemplated himself in the mirror. His shirtfront was perfect, the close weave of the silk and linen blend utterly opaque and snowy white. His new suit, handmade by Hawkes and Cheney at staggering expense, was exquisitely fitted, a masterpiece of tailoring. Crane had been dubious about the subtle silver sheen to the grey cloth, had spent a period of time he wouldn’t have cared to disclose mulling it over before placing the order, but was now forced to admit that Mr. Hawkes had been entirely correct. He was not quite pleased with the arrangement of his ascot, and he was without doubt too tanned by years of sun to fit in with the red or white faces of the English climate, but his pale blond hair was sleek, his demeanour impeccable, his aristocratic features composed. In fact, he looked the very model of a correct English gentleman.
“God, you’re a fop,” said the naked man who lay behind him, sprawled in the tangled bedsheets Crane had recently vacated.
Crane gave him a rebuking glance, via the mirror. “I am no such thing. Fops dress to be noticed. I dress for myself. I would dress for you,” he added, “but it would be casting pearls before swine.”
