by Becca Abbott
Michael grinned. He came to the table, pulling over a bench and took one at random. “Tales of the Demonic,” he read aloud. “This isn’t a Lady Bethany adventure?”
“No, it’s not.” Stefn laughed. “I admit the title is a bit lurid, but it claims to be the personal account of priest who met and conversed at length with a naragi around the time of the war.”
“Hmm. If it’s that old, there might be an occasional kernel of truth within.” Diverted, Michael opened it. Musty book smell wafted up from the yellowed pages. There was a signature just inside the cover, the ink too faded to make it out. The printer’s mark had the tiny curlicue representing Lothmont, but otherwise it was unfamiliar.
Michael turned to the first page. It was crowded with small, archaic script. Hand-lettered almost certainly, he decided, noting a page here and there where the lines of text were slightly skewed.
“Here you are!” Auron appeared at top of the stairs. “What the devil are you doing? I’ve been up and around for over an hour and not a sight of either of you,” he complained. “Did you forget I’m leaving today? Must I depart without so much as a wave?”
Michael laughed. “Have you noticed how sensitive Auron is?” he asked Stefn, then to Auron, solicitously. “Would you like a hug?”
Auron’s pained expression turned to hopeful delight. “I’d rather have one from Eldering,” he said.
“You’re both disgusting.” But Stefn’s scowl was not convincing and when he turned to put away his books, his lips twitched suspiciously.
Auron was indeed ready to go. His carriage and escort waited at the front of the house. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. “Try to behave yourselves while I’m away. I’d hate to think of you two having fun without me.”
“Are you sure you won’t take Lord Arranz with you?”
Michael, startled, looked over at Stefn and was struck by the teasing note he heard.
“It’s tempting,” Auron laughed, “but he’s too notorious for me these days. I’ll leave you to keep him in line.” He climbed into the coach, waving to the driver.
“He made you sound like my wife,” muttered Michael, watching as the coach and riders headed down the lane toward the gate.
“Well, I do wear your ring,” retorted Stefn, fingering his neckcloth.
An uncomfortable mixture of guilt and desire sent Michael’s temper flaring. Turning around, he went back into the house.
Stefn followed. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
“I’m beginning to understand why your father beat you,” gritted Michael.
“Do you plan to beat me, too, then?”
Michael spun around. Stefn stopped, chin at a pugnacious angle, slim hands clenched. Behind the defiance, however, lurked a darkness Michael suddenly recognized. The recognition fed his own turmoil.
“Why should I exhaust myself in such a fruitless exercise?” he asked. “It clearly had no effect.”
To his surprise, Stefn laughed. “Very wise,” he said. “For I promise you, my lord, I have been practicing down in the armory yard every morning. You won’t find it so easy to have your way these days.”
Michael’s competitive spirit rose inevitably to the bait. “Bold words, my lord. What if I were to accept your challenge?”
Suddenly, they might have been alone in the corridor, alone in the entire world. The very air seemed charged with a restless, hungry power. Did Stefn feel it?
“You’ve been lying about for a week, my lord. Are you sure you wouldn’t want some time to practice?”
“Insults, too?” Michael pretended deep disdain. “When and where, sir?”
Stefn inclined his head. There was trepidation in his expression, and a kind of feverish excitement. The way he held his body sent shivers through Michael. “The courtyard in an hour?” he asked.
“Do I need a second?”
“It’s tempting,” admitted Stefn. The wicked glint in his eyes was unmistakable, “but I’ll settle for first blood.”
“Too kind. In an hour?”
Did he have any idea how desirable he was? These past months of travel, exercise and, Michael suspected, a decent diet, had transformed Stefn. He would never be large, but his once-frail body had become smoothly muscled, his movements more confident and sure. Michael had no doubt Stefn would acquit himself respectably. His pulse quickened at the prospect.
The armory courtyard was high-walled and deserted. At precisely one hour, Michael arrived to find Stefn waiting on a bench against the wall, his coat neatly folded beside him. A pair of foils lay nearby, still in their case. He got up when Michael approached.
“Choose your weapon,” he offered, gesturing to the swords.
Michael tested them both and made his selection. “What are the stakes of this battle, my lord? Do I have my way with you afterwards?”
“You may not be victorious.”
“Unlikely, but I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s possible.” Michael grinned. “I shall have to be especially wary of being distracted by your beauty, my dear cethe. You are most irresistible when you’re at your fiercest.”
Stefn’s color deepened. He picked up the remaining weapon, holding it with easy familiarity. “Don’t be so patronizing. I’ve not named my tribute.”
“And what would that be?”
“You will submit to me!”
For a moment, Michael wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, my lord.” Green eyes flashed with promise. “If I win, you will be my slave!”
“Almost, you convince me to lose,” murmured Michael, diverted by the very idea.
“Do you think so?” Stefn’s lip curled. “A slave obeys his master, no matter what the command. Don’t assume you know what my commands will be.”
Tossing his head, he turned his back on Michael, striding into the center of the yard. Michael, bemused, removed his coat, throwing it over the bench beside Stefn’s, then followed.
They saluted each other in the silence of the empty courtyard. Michael, smiling slightly, fixed his gaze on Stefn’s face, watchful. Even so, he almost missed the slight shift of those green eyes and, when Stefn leapt forward, Michael only barely avoided the swift, sure thrust.
Damn! He had been practicing! Michael parried Stefn’s next swing, ready for it this time. The clash of their swords and their harsh breathing echoed off the yard’s high walls.
The boy had trained against Hunters; of course his skills would be good. Michael nearly misread a feint and cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. He’d reckoned on dispatching Stefn quickly, but it was proving harder than he’d imagined. Stefn was very fast and, being smaller, presented less of a target.
Michael’s focus narrowed, his training responding to the challenge. The flash of steel in the sunlight, the music of metal on metal, the thin, sharp razor of fear, all lent speed and strength to his muscles. Suddenly, it was Stefn in retreat, Stefn struggling to parry the blur of blows coming at him.
Then it was over, Stefn’s sword flying from his hand. His heel caught on something and he went down in an undignified sprawl. Immediately, he twisted around and was on his feet again, but there was nowhere to go. His white linen shirt was damp, clinging to his chest and shoulders. Blood from the cut just above his wrist dripped onto the stones.
“First blood,” gasped Michael. “Thank Loth!”
Hair fell into Stefn’s eyes, wet with sweat. He shook it back. His crooked grin held resignation and disappointment. “You’ve a true demon’s speed, that much is true,” he said breathlessly. Then, swallowing hard. “What is my tribute?”
Michael turned away from the dread he saw in Stefn’s eyes. He shrugged. “I think I will have you wait upon me at dinner every night this week.”
He heard Stefn’s quick intake of breath.
“And in a footman’s uniform,” added Michael. “You should look very dashing.”
Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he turned back around. Stef
n stared up at him, blank.
“Do you object?”
“T-that’s all? Serve you dinner?”
“Perhaps you don’t think you can manage it?” Michael quirked an eyebrow.
“Don’t be an ass,” retorted Stefn.
Michael shook his head and went to retrieve his coat. The sun had cleared Shia’s outer walls, light filling the courtyard. Looking around, Michael saw Stefn had not moved, but stood, head down, arms folded over his chest. Leaving him to his thoughts, Michael returned to the keep.
PART XXIII
The surviving nara, facing their eventual demise at the hands of the righteous, made all haste to spread their seed among the humans. So it was that, after the death of St. Aramis and the full extent of their perfidy came to light, the demons’ blood had spread through the race of Man like a plague.
from: Craig, A Modern History of Tanyrin,
Year of Loth’s Dominion 1506
The Demon Duke of Blackmarsh was coming to Tantagrel. Severyn received Lord Damon’s brief note with pleasure. As in Lothmont, the family-owned home in Tantagrel was rented out, so he looked forward to hosting the duke at Lothlain House.
Nedby was, of course, discreetly outraged, murmuring warnings about witchcraft and the displeasure of clerics. It was thanks to him that word flashed through the city faster than the plague. Severyn was nonetheless pleased to discover Michael’s charm and wit had cleared the way for his grandfather, softening the attitudes of the local highblood. While attending a musicale one evening, the hostess drew him aside, handing him a large, cream-colored envelope.
“Do see His Grace gets this, would you, please, Your Highness? We look forward to making his acquaintance.”
“You’re very kind, Lady Veren. I shall certainly do so.”
That would take the old man by surprise, Severyn reckoned. He tapped his pocket where the envelope rested, well satisfied. His complacent good humor vanished at once, however, as he turned up the street leading to Lothlain House on his way home from the soiree.
Lothlain House was in pandemonium! Servants gathered in groups on the street just outside the palace walls, excited and frightened. His guards were everywhere. They waved his carriage through the gate past yet more guards. From the looks of it, every guard in the city had been summoned! At his front door, Severyn jumped from his carriage before it had stopped moving, running into the house while soldiers called frantically after him. Fortunately, Corliss was there, barking orders and looking harried.
“We were attacked,” said the captain shortly. “A raiding party disguised as merchants. We think they had a knightmage among them.”
Severyn’s stomach clenched. “And our guest?”
“They didn’t find him, although they did get down into the main cellar.”
Severyn headed immediately to the main cellar, Corliss right behind him. Signs of the attack were everywhere along the way, doors wrenched from their hinges, corridor walls singed and blackened. Tables had been upended and chairs overturned. A broken vase scattered scorched flowers across the corridor floor. Severyn was abruptly reminded of the night Mick had devastated the Lothmont slum. There were casualties here, too, although only a handful. He forced himself to look at what remained of the men who had been standing guard at the heavy iron door leading down into cellars.
“Did anyone see anything?” he asked.
“Two men were at the end of the corridor.” Corliss pointed to the left. “One of them lived because he ran for help. He claims he heard someone chanting and the next minute, there was a thunderous roar and flash of blinding light and heat.”
Severyn looked around, cold fear and fury knotting in his chest. The Church dared attack him in his own house?
With Corliss following closely, he descended into the cellars. The path of the invaders was obvious here, winding through the low corridors and cramped rooms toward the easternmost side. He stood several minutes, staring at the blackened wall, knowing what lay on the other side. Without another word, he returned to the upper floor.
“Double the guard around the palace,” Severyn ordered. “Put spies on the abbey. I’m especially interested in any visitors our dear Abbot Carrington may have.”
“What about your quarters?”
“Too obvious.”
“Not at all,” retorted his captain. “It would be perfectly within reason to supplement your personal guard after such an attack.”
“Do as you wish. I’m going to have a word with our prisoner.”
There was no sign of the invaders in his private rooms. The entrance to the secret stair was undisturbed.
Captain Remy rose quickly to his feet at Severyn’s furious entrance. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry about all the fuss,” said Severyn. “It seems they’ve decided you’re not dead, after all.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
Severyn leaned back against the door, arms folded against his chest. “What’s so important about you, I wonder, that the Church would dare raise arms against their prince?”
“Ah.” Remy smiled faintly, mockingly. “I am a Dragon,” he reminded Severyn. “Perhaps they will no longer tolerate a brother being held captive by a prince who calls a naragi, friend.”
“Perhaps. Of course, Locke has been touring the hinterlands. I hear he only returned to Lothmont a week or two ago.”
A muscle leapt in Remy’s jaw. “What of it?”
“Your whereabouts were unknown while he was gone, yet suddenly the Church has at least your general direction.” Severyn remembered the path of destruction in the cellars and how it had led directly to the wall where, safely on this side of it, Remy was kept.
“Perhaps your men are not as loyal as you think!”
Severyn moved quickly. He slammed his hand over Remy’s mouth, silencing him. The Hunter stiffened. “I don’t believe it,” Severyn whispered, mouth to Remy’s ear. “I think Mazril Locke is a hypocrite.”
Rigid, there was no response from Remy. Severyn let his hand fall away, but only as far as Remy’s neckcloth. He gently untied it, pulling it off.
“What are you doing?” Remy’s voice rose.
Severyn ripped open his shirt, sending buttons popping off. Remy made a strangled noise, trying to pull away, but Severyn kept a tight grip on the fabric.
There was nothing around the man’s neck, not even a religious talisman. His chest was smooth and nicely sculpted, belly flat.
“Your Highness!” Distress rang in the captain’s voice as Severyn pulled open his breeches, hauling them down around Remy’s knees, his undergarments after them. Severyn caught his breath.
Adrian Remy was generously endowed, but it wasn’t the size or fine shape of his genitals that riveted Severyn’s astonished, horrified gaze. Around the base of his penis, the thin, sensitive flesh was banded by intricate tattoos.
Stefn stood stiffly at Michael’s elbow with the decanter, waiting for the signal to pour. It was his seventh and final night as “footman.” On the other side of the dining room, one of the real footman, Ben, winked at him conspiratorially. Stefn pretended not to see.
The servants all treated his new, dinner-time status with amused good humor. As Marin told him shortly after the fight, they were used to court behavior, where silly bets between young noblemen were commonplace. “Word below-stairs is you’d make a fine footman,” he’d added, chuckling.
It had been a relief to realize they were being perceived as any two young men enjoying a visit in the country. Mostly, however, Stefn still struggled with the outcome of their match. Not the fact that he’d lost, he’d expected to toward the end, but he didn’t understand Michael’s choice of tribute. Stefn had been so sure it was to be himself. The look in Michael’s eyes had seemed to confirm it, yet here he was a week later, untouched, pretending the relationship between them was one of ordinary friendship.
And he didn’t like it. Standing with the decanter, Stefn realized suddenly he had actually hope
d to be ravished! In those breathless moments at the end of their battle, Michael’s sword at his throat, he would have submitted willingly to anything demanded of him. The revelation unnerved Stefn so much he nearly dropped the decanter.
Michael didn’t notice, but finished a bit of bread. Only his profile was visible from Stefn’s position. He wore black, as always, and his pale hair seemed twice as bright, laying smoothly over his shoulders. Stefn was further bedeviled at the memory of how it felt, brushing his skin. How cool. Silky.
The lethet tingled.
Michael settled back in his chair, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. He lay it aside and, without so much as a sideways glance, held up his empty wine glass. Automatically, Stefn leaned forward to refill it, but some devil made him miss, splashing wine liberally over Michael’s hand and wrist — to the considerable detriment of Michael’s pristine white shirt-cuff.
“Agh!” Michael jerked his hand back and glared up at Stefn. “Clumsy fool!”
“Oh, no!” Stefn stared in dismay. “I… I didn’t mean to.”
Ben ran from the room, and before Stefn finished stammering his apologies, the footman was back with a bowl of cloudy water and a cloth. Michael waved him away. “Let Eldering do it,” he said. “He made the mess.”
Stefn dropped to one knee, face heating, and did what he could to remove the red stain from Michael’s shirt. It forced him to hold Michael’s hand and, with those long, callused fingers resting in his, Stefn was once again disconcerted by his unruly feelings.
“That will do,” said Michael finally, a bit unsteadily.
Heart pounding, Stefn scrambled to his feet. He handed over the bowl and cloth to Ben who quickly carried them away.
Silence settled over the dining room. Stefn’s heart pounded. Michael sat with bent head, drumming his fingers on the table.
