“Nothing for it,” I said aloud, as if hearing the words would bolster my courage. “Best to get it over with quickly. Like an amputation—just one fast slice.”
Dear heavens, maybe I was going mad, talking to myself in the confines of my office. Not to suggest I was the only one; I sometimes heard my colleagues muttering to themselves as I passed by their open doors. Still, the habit wasn’t a pleasant one, and I wanted to be normal, for Griffin’s sake.
I’d never cared what anyone thought of me before. Everyone already considered me odd, but I’d accepted my fate even before I reached adulthood. I wasn’t athletic enough, or competitive enough, or manly enough; I was too bookish, too quiet, too awkward.
And that was fine, really. Or, if not fine, at least tolerable. Survivable.
Before Griffin had come along, I’d been living inside a photograph: just a facsimile of life, without either color or depth. Could I go back to it, now that I had seen the alternative?
I took a sip of coffee. It had gone cold while I sat there wool-gathering. Or delaying, to be honest.
Swallowing the coffee, I squared my shoulders and left my sanctuary. Unfortunately, by the time I’d reached Bradley’s office, my determination had faded, and I was back to slouching and tucking my elbows in. Suppressing a sigh, I knocked on Bradley’s door. His voice distractedly called for me to enter.
His office was the opposite of mine: absolutely neat, with nothing on the desk except for an expensive pen set, a leather blotter, and the latest issue of The American Historical Review. Bradley had been busy reading an article; he glanced up, and his eyes widened to see me standing in his door.
And with good reason. I’d never been in his office, never having had the slightest desire to interact with him beyond what was absolutely necessary. Or beyond what he forced, given he had no such inhibitions about barging into my office.
“Percy?” he asked in obvious puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”
No “How can I help you?” or “Good to see you, old fellow, how did you make out in the snow yesterday?” I hadn’t expected anything different, but it would have been nice to be proved wrong.
If only I could turn around and leave, but it was too late. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Bradley. I need your help.”
~ * ~
A satisfied smirk crawled across Bradley’s blandly handsome face. “Well, well, got something your dusty scrolls can’t answer, eh?” he asked. He was joking, I was sure of it—but the cruel edge in his voice was no less real.
He’d marked me the first day we’d met, greeting me with a finger-crushing handshake and a snide remark about those dainty professors I’d studied under at Arkham. Both of us had known our respective places immediately. Bradley was an adult version of the boys who had tormented me at school, just as I took the role of the boys he’d no doubt tormented. He was a man’s man, despite his vocation; after all, he studied American history. A litany of red-blooded patriots, fighting savages and redcoats alike, taming the wilderness, proving their worth with bulging sinews and roaring guns.
How I fit into his narrative, I wasn’t certain. Probably as some quivering coward, sniveling behind the stockade walls with the women, while pseudo-Bradleys shot Indians and wrestled bears.
“Er, y-yes,” I said. He didn’t offer me a seat. I hovered near the door, unsure what to do with my hands. “That is, I, er, I was w-wondering—”
“Oh ho, come to me for advice, eh?” Bradley’s smirk turned into a leer. “Looking for tips on how to get little Maggie Parkhurst to crack her thighs?”
“I, er…what?”
“Don’t bother, if you ask me. She’s frigid.” Because of course any of the secretarial staff who didn’t welcome his advances must be frigid; the fault couldn’t possibly be his. “A few years ago, I would have said just drag her into one of the storerooms, but those days are over thanks to your friend Christine.”
I swallowed back my revulsion and tried not to imagine the clammy touch of his hand anywhere on my bare skin. “N-no. I wanted to ask about Theron Blackbyrne.”
“Ah, because of the grave-robbing! Dreadful business—the newspaper wanted a quote from me about it, you know.” He puffed out his chest slightly.
“Oh. Yes, exactly. I just wondered…I don’t know much about him, you see, and I was curious…”
“You’ve come to the right man, Percy. I know more than anyone else—and don’t listen to the old biddy at the county library, either. She doesn’t have access to source material I do.”
Of that, I had no doubt. If nothing else, the museum would have bought anything truly valuable the library had on hand, not wanting the competition. Still, it seemed rather petty to feud with an elderly public librarian. “Oh no, you’re—” I swallowed against bile “you’re quite the expert. So, er, is it true Blackbyrne dabbled in the occult?”
Bradley burst into laughter. “Only you, Percy,” he gasped out between chuckles. “Has all the ancient nonsense you study turned you into an occultist?”
“No, no, of course not.” I pasted an idiotic smile on my face like an ill-fitting mask. “It was just, ah, I’d heard he’d been accused, and…”
“Oh yes, he was.” Bradley’s speech took on a lecturing aspect, for which I was grateful. “Superstitious rubbish, of course. He supposedly met with other alleged witches in the woods outside Salem to perform dark rites.”
“Yes, very silly,” I said, before he could begin to recite the long litany of names, too many of which were of innocents who had ended up dangling from the end of a noose. Stories of the witches who had met such a dreadful fate had haunted my nightmares as a child. “Still,” I forged ahead, “I was told the accusations didn’t end with Salem.”
I’d been told no such thing, of course. Fortunately, Bradley needed no prompting.
“Oh yes, yes. Blackbyrne spent time in Europe. Of course lesser minds used his absence to claim he was seen in or near various castles and manors in Bavaria and Transylvania; places of legend, where superstitious peasants huddle around the fire and pray not to be carried off by the devil in the night. They even claim he joined some kind of cult while over there.” He leaned forward, as though imparting some secret knowledge. “Some diaries even hint he left instructions behind on how to resurrect him.”
My heart quickened. “Really?”
“Supposedly, he and the other families who followed him to Widdershins were all in on it together.” Bradley shrugged carelessly, but I recalled the odd arrangement of the graves and shivered. “About sixty years ago, it was all the rage to try to trace some kind of hidden message in the very streets of the town—ignoring the fact some of the streets have been realigned, and the city has grown considerably. As I said, it’s all balderdash. I’m rather disappointed another staff member would even express interest in such nonsense.” He paused and watched me slyly. “But don’t worry. I won’t mention it to the director.”
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to speak the secret name of fire. I wanted to summon up a Guardian with blood and thunder, and laugh when he wet himself in terror.
The Arcanorum would let me. If I’d understood its hints aright, I could call up a plague of psychopomps: whippoorwills in summer, crows in winter, which would dog him and haunt him until they snatched his soul from his lips.
My breath caught in my throat. Dear heavens, what was I thinking?
Griffin had warned me against the book. He hadn’t warned me against myself.
I forced my breath past the obstruction. “Thank you,” I said through lips gone numb. “I-I have to go.”
“Of course,” he called as I groped for the door handle. “Come back any time you want to make a fool of yourself.”
I slammed the door behind me and fled.
Chapter 17
I trudged back to my office, my mind reeling. My heart pounded, as if I’d run a race, and the last dregs of anger left bitter acid in my veins. I’d loathed Bradley from the moment we’d met, but I’d never ima
gined doing him actual harm.
Then again, I’d never before been in a position of power over him before. Over anyone. Given the chance, would I become the very thing I hated?
No, of course not. I couldn’t actually carry out the acts I’d fantasized.
Could I?
Maybe Griffin had been right. Maybe the Arcanorum wasn’t good for me.
I’d been walking quickly without paying attention to where my steps took me; when I came around the corner and found Griffin himself standing in front of Miss Parkhurst’s desk, I was even more surprised than I would have been otherwise.
The sight of him stole my breath. The waves of his hair tumbled over his collar, and the cut of his coat showed off his physique to good effect. He hadn’t said anything about coming by, when I’d left him earlier. Actually, he hadn’t said anything more than a mumbled: “Come back to bed.”
The memory made my ears grow hot—along with other parts. The balm of his presence spread over the sandpaper scratches Bradley had left behind, and the knot in my stomach relaxed.
And perhaps Bradley, in his crudeness, had given me an idea. He would in no way approve of my twist on it, which made it all the sweeter.
I tried to keep my expression professional yet friendly, and tamp down on the overly-joyful smile which wanted to burst onto my mouth. “Griffin?”
He turned, and I caught a glimpse of a more intimate grin before his expression settled into something suitable. “Ah, there you are, Whyborne! I was just looking for you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you weren’t in your office,” Miss Parkhurst said.
Bradley had said such foul things about her; my blood threatened to boil. I forced a stiff smile onto my face. “No need to apologize. I certainly don’t expect you to keep track should I decide to wander off. Thank you for taking the time to assist Mr. Flaherty.”
She blushed slightly and glanced down. Had she fallen for Griffin’s charms as well? I could hardly blame her. “It’s no trouble, sir.”
Griffin watched me approach, his head cocked slightly to the side, as if he sensed something had unsettled me. “I had hoped you and Dr. Putnam might be free for lunch.”
“Yes. Er, I am. But there’s something I need to show you first.”
I felt certain my face betrayed me, but Griffin only looked curious. “Oh? By all means, then.”
Instead of leading the way down to my office, I chose a more well-lit route, taking stairs to the third floor, then following a labyrinthine series of hallways, until we came upon a seldom-used storeroom. I’d been inside only a time or two myself; it contained mainly fragments of cuneiform tablets too small to piece into a coherent whole.
I ushered Griffin inside. He looked around in polite puzzlement. “What was it you—”
I threw the bolt with a loud click.
Griffin turned to me swiftly. His back was to a desk used to examine the tablets; at the moment, it was free of any clutter. Arching a brow, he settled his hip casually against the desk and crossed his arms. “I see. Want to show me something, do you?”
His lazy grin was out-shone by the hungry gleam in his eye. I crossed the room in two strides and clasped his arms tightly.
“Perhaps,” I murmured, my lips a breath away from his. “Or perhaps you might show me something.”
He kissed me with utter abandon: sucking hard on my lower lip, before plunging his tongue deep. My member swelled in response, pressing against the jut of his hip as I ground against him.
I pulled away long enough to draw my handkerchief from my pocket. Griffin shot me a curious look; I ignored it in favor of spreading the white cloth on the ground, to protect the knees of my trousers.
Suitably arranged, I unfastened his trousers. His breath came short and fast, and his length pressed against his drawers, as if desperate for release.
“What are you going to do to me?” he gasped, his voice ragged with lust.
Surely he had to know. I was on my knees in front of—oh. He knew exactly what I intended. He just wanted to hear me say it.
I could say it, in a dozen different tongues, if he wanted. But yet, simple English seemed the hardest.
“Are you going to suck my cock?” he cajoled. His hips twitched as I pulled him free of his clothing.
I swallowed hard, not sure why the words brought a heat to my face, far beyond the act itself. “I…yes.”
“Say it.”
“I-I want to suck your cock.”
His eyes went heavy-lidded, and he made a soft sound of desperation, thrusting his hips forward. His…cock…jutted out proudly: thick and veined and utterly, utterly delicious.
I wrapped my lips around it with a moan. He tasted divine: salt and musk and a trace of sandalwood soap. I wrapped one hand around the base of his erection and set myself to sucking the rest with gusto, even as I pumped him. My other hand I used to unfasten my trousers and draw out my own aching member.
I pulled back to nibble lightly at the head, before sucking on the slit itself, lapping up the slick fluid with my tongue. His soft moan let me know he liked what I was doing. I tongued harder, was rewarded with a gasp of raw pleasure.
I stroked him with my hand, then fastened it around the base of his cock, pointing it up at his belly to give me access to the underside. The wrinkled skin of his sack was drawn up tight, and I licked lightly at it before taking one side into my mouth. His skin was salty and heavy with his scent.
“Whyborne,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Damn. Feels good.”
I trailed my tongue back up along his shaft, before taking it into my mouth again. He thrust against my face, and I let him. Every moan, every whimper, every movement from him fired my blood and stiffened my own erection. I’d never imagined being this utterly aroused before I met him; now, I couldn’t imagine living without it.
“Yes,” he whispered. His fingers twined through my hair, anchoring my head loosely while he pushed his cock into my mouth. “Yes, please, feels good, don’t stop.”
Hearing him beg, tasting his arousal on my tongue, feeling his thick cock fill my mouth: was there anything better in the world? I whimpered encouragement, tugging frantically on my own member. What would it feel like if he had his mouth on me at the same time…?
It was almost enough to send me over the edge. I clung on, determinedly, sucking harder. Griffin’s rhythm shifted suddenly, and his fingers clenched in my hair.
“Oh God, yes, Ival, please, don’t stop, please…!”
His cock seemed to stiffen and swell further, before he released into my mouth. He tasted bitter and musky and wonderful, and I swallowed, aflame from the idea of taking his spend into me, desperate to have it all. He moaned and twitched as I milked the last drops from his softening organ.
He pulled away, his slit leaving a slick trail across my lips. I arched, tugging hard at myself, and his eyes fastened on my erection, his lips parting hungrily. “Yes,” he whispered huskily. “Yes, do it, now, I want to see…”
I closed my eyes, then forced them open when he whimpered, even as white-hot pleasure gathered at the base of my cock. My sack tightened, and everything clenched, my spine bowing inward as I found release with a final few strokes. White gobs of semen spattered against the floor, and I groaned aloud.
Spent, I slumped momentarily against his legs. His hand slid through my hair, and a soft chuckle escaped him. “You will be the death of me, my dear.”
I wanted to lose myself in drowsy happiness, but his words worried me. “I…I’m sorry.”
He laughed and crouched down, pressing a kiss to my semen-slick lips. “For what? It was not meant as a complaint. I wanted your passion. I still want it. Watching you just now, with your lips swollen and your mouth…God. I have no words. You confound me; you drive me mad, and I cannot get enough.”
What did he mean I confounded him? Perhaps it didn’t matter; enough to know he viewed it as a good thing. “I can’t get enough of you, either,” I confessed.
“Mmm.�
� He kissed me again, then drew away. “Say you will spend the night again. Or, if it seems unwise, perhaps I can visit you?”
Warmth spread out from my chest, penetrating even to the tips of my fingers and toes. “No one will notice my absence,” I assured him. “I’m yours, as you want me.”
Had my declaration sounded too premature? Too needy?
If so, Griffin didn’t seem to notice. “Excellent,” he said as he began to put himself back into order. “In the meantime, however, there is still the matter of lunch. Are you…up…for it?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve seen to that,” I said, as I climbed to my feet. The handkerchief which had protected my trousers served to clean off any remaining traces of my passion, and I reordered myself smartly.
Griffin’s eyes were dark with desire, the rusty threads turning the green into something warm and welcoming. “I’d say you’ve seen to me,” he murmured, his fingertips ghosting across the front of my trousers. “But never fear, my dear: I fully intend to return the favor.”
~ * ~
Marsh’s was almost deserted when the waiter led us to a secluded booth. I’d caught a glimpse of the cook when we came inside; his hairless head and staring eyes made me uneasy. We were a bit early for the lunch rush, but a group of clerks laughed and talked at a table near the front window, and a man and woman sat in deep discussion at a booth. The woman looked as if she might burst into tears; perhaps her companion had chosen this public location in the hopes she would restrain herself.
Griffin slid into the booth across from Christine and me, just as he had before. To think, when last we’d been here, we hadn’t yet become…whatever we were. Lovers? Partners-in-crime?
We’d waited a few minutes before leaving the storeroom, giving our breathing a chance to even out and our lips to look a bit less freshly-kissed. Or other things, in my case. I blushed at the memory and hid behind the menu, hoping Christine didn’t notice.
She didn’t. “Your expedition,” she said briskly, after we’d given our orders to the waiter. “I assume it turned out satisfactorily?”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 15
