He laughed before hanging the phone up, but there was no amusement in it. The phone was tossed onto the desk with a curse and Nikolas took such a long drag that the cigarette was already half gone. He held his breath in for a long while and after he exhaled, he just stared at the door.
"You gonna stand in the hallway all night?"
Fucking werewolves and their fine-tuned senses. I pulled the towels around me and stepped out into the room. “Thought about it."
"You love him?” Nikolas growled.
"Who?"
He pointed to his own neck. “Him."
"Lucien?” I shrugged. “In a way, yes. It's..."
"Complicated?"
I nodded. “We were good friends before I did what I did to him. You know that."
"Oh yeah, you two were damn near inseparable.” He crushed the cigarette in the palm of his hand. “Guess it fits, you being his servant now."
"I think it does,” I said. “We both need each other in different ways, and I'm thrilled to have my friend back."
"You find you a room yet?"
"I didn't have much of a chance to look around before Simon got called away, but maybe."
"Stay with me."
"Oh, I don't think—"
"Don't think; just do it."
"Why? So I can keep watching you go off with Peter night after night? Sorry, but I'm not sure I constantly want that thrown in my face.” He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Yeah, your relationship with him is complicated. Right?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to be honest with me. Don't give me some bullshit excuse that you think I want—or need—to hear."
"Honestly?” He looked up and I saw worry and fear and a wealth of uncertainty in his eyes for the first time in all the years I'd known him. “You hungry?"
I started to say no, but my stomach picked that exact time to growl. “Yeah, I guess I am."
"Get your clothes on, precious. We'll talk over food."
* * * *
Nikolas’ idea of food had been dragging me off to some hole in the wall greasy spoon. The menu had been so full of items that looked good that I'd finally handed the menu off to him and told him to get something good. He'd gotten a little bit of everything—and then some.
We'd ended up in woods in the middle of nowhere with a blanket spread on the ground. Conversation had been light, mostly centered around the food and a few jokes here and there, but the events of the night so far were heavy between us. It was as if we were deliberately not talking ... by talking.
After a while, I lay back on the ground, stuffed full of chili cheese fries, two tacos, and a fried burrito so spicy I still had tears in my eyes.
"You should try this fried avocado."
"I don't think I can."
"Oh, come on.” He leaned over me, holding a piece of fried goodness to my lips. “Just one bite: all crunchy and salty on the outside and rich and creamy on the inside. You'll love it."
I took the bite and groaned, vowing that this was a greasy spoon we'd have to come back to.
"Mmm ... that's good."
"I think we should make this a date, say once a week?” I just stared at him, clueless about what to say to that. “Unless you're not interested. And hey, that's cool."
And here we were, finally getting to the serious stuff. I swallowed hard. “Did you mean what you said earlier?"
"I never say anything I don't mean."
"Then I think it's time we finished that talk, don't you?"
He groaned and licked at the corner of my mouth. “Can't we just ... not?"
I couldn't help but laugh. That was the Nikolas I knew. He settled between my legs, kissed me, and then shimmied down so he could lay his head on my chest. Okay, so maybe this wasn't the Nikolas I knew...
"I don't know where to start."
"How about we start with Peter."
"Oh, shit.” He shook his head. “I figured you'd want to start with something easy. That is probably the most complex fucking situation ever."
"Tell me about him.” I figured he would get defensive and get up, but he didn't. He just shifted to get more comfortable. I slid a hand down the back of his shirt, massaging where I could reach. To have that skin to skin contact with him not pulling away was just awesome. But yeah, back to questions, which Nikolas had yet to start answering. “You let him fuck you?"
"Yeah."
"You suck him off? Fuck him?"
"Sucked him off once, just after his accident to help him get centered. Fucked him? Just that once.” He stretched and moved into my touch. “Should have never done it. Knew it wasn't what he really wanted, that he was all fucked up by what was happening to him. But when he called my wolf and my wolf answered ... I just couldn't stop myself. Now, I think he's afraid of it happening again."
"Do you want it to?"
"No, I like getting fucked all the time.” He raised his head and winked. “You know me: I like to be in the driver's seat."
"Do you love him, Nikolas?"
"Yeah.” He nodded as if he was still thinking it over, then nodded some more. “I mean, there's something between us that just ... draws us together, you know? He's my friend, but it's more than that. I think it has a lot to do with the pack and ... Hell, I don't know. But it's not like what I feel for you. I mean, it is, but it isn't."
"I was pretty screwed up in the head last night and I talked to someone."
"Oh?"
"You want to know what he said?” Nikolas looked up at me, nodding, but I could see the worry he was trying to hide. “He said he believed it was possible for one person to have more than one soul mate. And that Peter was one of yours."
"I ain't never believed in that soul mate bullshit."
I could hear a huge but in there. “But?"
"But I'm starting to think there's something to it.” He sighed and laid his head down again. “I never meant for things to turn out this way."
I thought back to Simon's words from the night before, knowing that he'd probably been right. I mean, he did know quite a bit more about human nature than I did, considering his former position as an angel. Monogamy wasn't something either of us was capable of. Truthfully, I would probably be the first to screw up. Nikolas was a hell of a lot more stubborn than me.
Not that I would stoop to being treated second best. No, that would never work. This would have to be a continual give and take and a relationship based on total and complete honesty. And that was one thing about Nikolas: he was as honest as they came.
"You know what? I think they've turned out fine."
He rose up on his elbows, shaking his head. “How can you think that?"
"Both of us love other people, but in different ways. We don't choose who we love—we just love.” I caressed his cheek. “I won't be lied to and I won't be second best. Other than that ... I'm not saying it won't be hard, and that we won't fight, but I'm willing to give it a shot if you are."
Nikolas moved off me and laid down behind me, pulling me into his arms. He moved his arm so that it pillowed my head, his free one holding me tight against him. We lay silently for a long while, but there wasn't an ounce of nervousness in me anymore. There might have been a connection between him and Peter, but I was secure in the fact that there was one between us, too.
"If you hadn't showed up tonight, I'd have gone looking for you,” he said after a while. “I had a disciplinary session that ended badly because my head wasn't in the game. All I could think of was you with Lucien's mark, his scent all over and in you, and me realizing that I'd fucked up and lost before I ever got the courage to get started."
"I don't think I've ever heard you talk this much without growling."
"You can thank Peter for that,” he said with a laugh. “That bastard drives me insane sometimes making me talk everything out. I learned a couple things in the process, too."
"What's that?"
"Sometimes talking is the only way to fix things. You can gr
owl and you can fuck and you can fight, but if you don't get down to what's wrong and talk it out, you'll be right back where you started—still growling, still fighting."
"That's very true."
"So what's next?"
"Oh, I imagine I'll have to have a talk with Peter."
"I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because he has no idea how I feel about him and I don't think he's quite realized just how he feels about me, either.” I felt him shrug. “But if you want, I won't stop you."
"After what I said to him last night, I think I should at least let him know that we're okay. That you and him spending time together isn't an issue with me.” I looked back at him. “You want to know what I think?"
"Shoot."
"I think the four of us are bound together in a way that just can't be explained. If we don't learn how to make it work and work well, it could lead to disaster later on."
"I think you're right, precious. You want to know what else I think?"
"Of course."
"I think we should stop talking,” he rolled me onto my back and straddled my legs, moving down to unbuckle my jeans. He worked my jeans down, sliding one hand back to free my tail. A wicked grin lit up his face as he squeezed the base of my tail. “I'm going to mark you here. You know that, don't you?"
"I—"
"They may see you as his when you walk toward them.” He licked a line from the center of the tattoo on my neck, up my chin, and traced my bottom lip with his tongue. “But when you walk away, they'll know who you really belong to."
Oh, shit. I wasn't sure how I'd ever survive him marking my tail, as sensitive as it was. But just the idea of it had me hard and squirming.
He kissed down my neck again, working his way down the center of my chest to my belly. “Now, I've got something else to show you."
"And what is that?"
"Another way to say I love you."
He wrapped his fist around my cock, pulling the foreskin up to cover the head. He looked up and met my gaze before tonguing at the circle of skin. Every muscle in my body went tight and lights flashed behind my eyes.
"Oh, fuck ... Nikolas..."
"We'll get to that.” He nipped the foreskin with his teeth. “Later."
Marginalia
By Laney Cairo
Chapter One
Bailey stood silently, his gloved hands held in front of himself, a reminder to both his team and himself that he was aseptic. Through the window in the operating theatre door he could hear Dr. Ford reassuring the patient.
"...and you'll feel a prick of the needle,” Dr. Ford said, his voice mellifluous, dripping charm. “A little coldness, in your arm, as the anesthetic works. Deep breath in, and relax. Close your eyes, and I'll take care of everything."
The scrub nurse, a melancholic young woman with watery eyes, sighed beside Bailey.
The swinging door to the operating theatre opened, and Dr. Ford looked through, at the waiting team. “Anesthetist says she's out, so she's all yours."
The scrub nurse muttered something obscene as Dr. Ford disappeared off into the scrub room, peeling his gloves off.
Bailey shrugged under his sterile robes, not bothering to reply. He hated Ford, too, just on principle. Ford was the public face of their section, the person the tremulous patients confessed all to, during their appointments. He was charming and gorgeous, displaying all of SirenCare's latest products, but Ford was a complete fucker in the operating suites. When Ford wanted work done, it was Bailey who held the knife.
Didn't matter, because once the patient was out cold, Ford went away and let the skilled people take over.
The woman on the slab looked painfully pale, her skin no doubt melanin stripped by an earlier procedure. That made Bailey's job easier.
A nurse slid a stool up to the head of the slab for Bailey to sit down on, then plugged Bailey's visor into the table's system. A schematic appeared on Bailey's visor, his guide to the changes the patient wanted.
Another nurse draped a sterile cloth across the patient's chest, and pushed a trolley up to Bailey's elbow. The anesthetist nodded at Bailey from behind the bank of monitors.
"She's out cold,” the anesthetist said. “Confirmed on scan. You're good to go."
Bailey bathed the woman's face in sterilizing solution, ran an abrader over the skin, then re-sterilized.
The schematic on Bailey's visor changed, zooming in as Bailey leaned closer, a microscalpel in his hand. Using his tongue to nudge the visor control in his mouth, Bailey switched the display over to a scan of the woman's face, done earlier.
The woman's lingual nerve was clear on the scan, coursing through the flesh beside her mouth. Bailey's focus narrowed, the voices of the scrub nurses fading, and he forgot about the stool he was perched on, the tickle in his bladder and the clammy glue holding his own monitoring equipment on. On one wall, a screen displayed Bailey's stats alongside the patient's. Bailey's pulse slowed, his breathing deepened, and he slid the microscalpel across the woman's face, parallel to the lingual nerve.
The flesh parted, pinpricks of blood welling up huge in Bailey's magnified view, and he worked quickly, tapping each bleed with a cauterizer, sealing the capillaries, then cutting down deeper, through muscle.
He made a small cavity, underneath the risorius muscle, and then slid the capsule containing the miniature battery and processor in. The processor output had a multitude of connectors for the efferent facial nerve, ready to be connected. The placing was not critical, since the patient would spend time in front of a mirror, learning each connection through trial and error.
The processor wired in, Bailey switched instruments to the inserter probe.
Now the placing was critical, and Bailey paused, cross-referencing the schematic on his visor with the settings on the inserter, before settling the inserter over the woman's cheekbone, against the skin. Teal blue was not what Bailey would have chosen, but what did he know about aesthetics?
The capsule, tiny as a speck, nestled under the woman's derma, then Bailey located the nearest dendritic spine. The capsule had a microwire, too small for Bailey to be able to pick up directly. Bailey used a lifter, a tiny magnetic probe, to attract the microwire and introduce it to the dendritic spine, and then dropped a touch of silicone to the connection to secure it.
When the patient learned to isolate the sections of her face through the processor, she would be able to activate entire swathes of the capsules, switching on the capsules to color her facial derma for hours at a time.
Assuming Bailey could insert and connect enough of the capsules, and he got the color schema right.
Four hundred of the capsules, each taking a minute to insert and connect, made for a full day's work.
One of the scrub nurses would rouse Bailey from his trance, once his monitors showed his blood sugar dropping, and he'd suck a glucose drink through a straw. Until then, Bailey's world consisted entirely of dermal cells, capsules and dendritic spines.
* * * *
SirenCare had a dedicated subway station, on the main line into the centre of Sydney, but Bailey didn't join the throng of his fellow employees who were heading for the station, down endless white-tiled staircases. Instead, Bailey cut across the concourse at the front of SirenCare's surgical facility, heading for the street access onto Oxford St.
The concourse opened through a double door that kept the noise and grit out, and Bailey plunged out into the sweltering heat of the outside world. Locked inside an air-conditioned and hermetically-sealed edifice all day, going into the heat always felt like being struck, driving the oxygen from his lungs by replacing it with steam.
Sunglasses were useless in the humidity, so Bailey pushed his up onto his head and blinked in the daylight.
He turned right, pushing his way past street vendors selling cosmetics and skewers of spiced meat, heading downhill and into the shadows cast by the SirenCare tower. It was cooler, out of the sunlight, because the
light pipes that carried sunshine to the shadow around the tower didn't bring heat to the area.
That would happen the next morning, when the sun rose over the tenements and bubbled the asphalt.
Tilly, the coffee vendor, called out, “Night, Bailey!” and Bailey lifted a hand in greeting as he edged around the crowd clustering around Tilly's cart.
Bailey dodged a brawl spilling out of a pub, stepped around children playing on the paving, and paused on the curb, beside a pile of garbage bags, to wait for a break in the traffic.
Electric scooters and ordinary bikes poured down the street, away from SirenCare. Someone shouted, “Bailey!” from behind their helmet and mask, and Bailey waved a hand at their back as they were swallowed by the traffic.
A bus, packed with people, lumbered to a halt up the street, interrupting the traffic, and Bailey plunged across the street, stepping over oil slicks.
Around the corner he went, past what had once been a park until someone with some sense fenced the bare dirt and planted the dead ground with veggies, pouring precious waste water onto the plants.
The other train station, when Bailey pushed his way through the children begging at the entrance, lacked the electric lights and tiled floors of the SirenCare-sponsored station. A single globe swung overhead, augmenting the last of the triple-reflected sunlight coming through the pipes. Cool, dank air flowed up from the underground tunnel, smelling of mildew and fetid water, so Bailey found the filter mask dangling from his work clothes and draped it across his face as he dropped his coin into the turnstile.
The platform was crowded with workers from the clothing factories around the station: tall thin men, women with covered faces, their hands tucked out of sight and children hanging from their backs. Hookers leaned against the station's pillars, resting their feet before a night of work, poor imitations of colorbursts painted onto their cheekbones.
The train rattled up to the station, and the passengers hauled the doors open and pushed into the carriages. Bailey let the surge of passengers carry him into the Standing Only carriage and up against one of the paint-spattered carriage windows. One of the passengers had a boom box, the music starting up as the carriage doors slammed shut.
Spiked Page 13
