by Amy Lane
Bartholomew tried to do the math and failed. “Why would you…?”
“Because a friend of mine was getting his, and he wanted company,” Lachlan said. His friend had been negative, but the company had been appreciated.
“You’re a good man,” Bartholomew said, kissing his jaw, and then his neck, and then his chest.
Lachlan kissed his mouth, fumbling with the lubricant and greasing up his cock as they kissed. In spite of all their activity that afternoon, something inside was driving him to possess Tolly’s slender body like this. Part of it was Bartholomew’s eagerness, but part of it was a little voice in his head that said to bind them together with as many threads, physical and emotional, as possible.
Lachlan had seen too much uncanniness in the last day to so much as think of ignoring that voice.
Bartholomew was hard already, thighs spread, feet propped on the bed. Lachlan slid between his legs, feeling surrounded by long legs and Bartholomew’s commitment to this, which was as strong as his own.
He tested with his fingers first, enough to hear Bartholomew’s happy moan and to realize he’d stretched himself already, hopeful, but still a little too shy to come out and ask for what he wanted.
That was fine. They’d get there. Lachlan found he wanted to please this man more than any lover he’d ever had.
As he positioned himself at Bartholomew’s opening and began to push, it hit him why penetration was such a big deal. He still believed Bartholomew’s virginity had been burned away by their passion that afternoon, but looking at his wide gray eyes, luminous and anxious in the darkness, he realized he was in a position to hurt this man—and Bartholomew was giving him permission to enter his body, trusting that he wouldn’t.
It was the same way Bartholomew had given Lachlan permission to enter his heart in Lachlan’s bed, under his roof.
They were equally courageous acts for someone so very vulnerable, and as Lachlan pushed forward, he brushed Bartholomew’s lips with his thumb, closing his eyes when his cockhead popped in, then opening them quickly to see how Bartholomew took it.
He’d tilted his head back, a look of acceptance washing his features slack.
“Good,” he mumbled. “Keep pushing.”
So Lachlan did, the world’s oldest rhythm taking over his hips, thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, and the sigh of pleasure Bartholomew gave sent a new frisson of excitement up Lachlan’s spine.
A little faster, so he could hear Bartholomew moan.
A little harder to hear his happy, tush-wiggling whimper as Lachlan bottomed out. A little of both, sweat starting across both their brows, Bartholomew’s eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, to hear him beg for a little more, plead for a little harder, and scream loudly in climax, spilling his own hot seed between their bodies.
Lachlan spent next, burying his face in the hollow of Bartholomew’s shoulder and licking his neck and nibbling his ear, to touch him as they came down.
“You’re still inside me,” Bartholomew said dreamily, and Lachlan flexed his softening erection to stay there.
“Yes.”
“You’ll be there forever,” Bartholomew said dreamily.
“If I’m blessed,” Lachlan told him, relaxing and sliding to the side. “I love you, Tolly. I want to be in your heart forever.”
“Love you too,” Bartholomew told him, so happy and sated, Lachlan believed every syllable. “It’s like I needed you inside me all my life but didn’t know it until now.”
Dreams of Lovers Lost
BARTHOLOMEW shifted restlessly, Lachlan’s arm over his chest a warm reminder that he was dreaming—right?
Was he dreaming about the comfort, the kindness, the lover in his bed that he’d dreamed about for years?
Or was Lachlan the reality, and the flock of black birds storming him, screaming as they pecked at his flesh—was that the dream? They were coming for him—no! They were coming through him, trying to get to Lachlan, who had fallen down behind him, and Bartholomew was waving his arms, kicking, shrieking, knocking them aside, because they were hurting him, oh God, they were hurting him, and Bartholomew was just a scrawny IT guy, a meek hedge witch, a wannabe baker, and how could he fight off the madness of crows?
“You can’t have him!” He sat up, throat raw with the cry, Lachlan’s warm body the only thing keeping him on the bed.
“Hey, hey, hey… Tolly, calm down. What’s wrong? Those are some serious closet monsters, yeah?”
Bartholomew fell back into bed, sweating and shaking. “That’s a nightmare?” he gasped.
“I hope so,” Lachlan said, softly smoothing hair back from his forehead. “Do you have those often?”
“Never.” Bartholomew panted. “I have perfectly boring predictable dreams about baking wedding cakes and my office sprouting iron bars while I wander around wondering where I put my key.” And your house, and a wedding in the shape of a pentagram, with all of my friends dressed in white.
Lachlan snorted softly. “Yikes, Tolly. Seriously, we need to find a way to get you to quit your job.”
Bartholomew yawned and peered at his window, wondering if the sky was beginning to lighten. A crow pecked at the glass, and he emitted a soft shriek and buried his face against Lachlan’s stomach. “Too soon!” he mumbled. “What time is it?”
“About ten minutes before we set our alarm for.” Lachlan’s hands—big and rough and wonderful—rubbed his bare back, and he realized he’d slept naked the night before, Lachlan’s scent, his come, still marking his skin.
“Mm….” Bartholomew undulated against him, liking the way Lachlan’s body felt next to his own, muscles, hairy thighs and chest, everything. Now that he wasn’t terrified, his body was doing a happy dance, because hey, there was a man in his bed, and wasn’t that new and exciting. He locked his lips around an already puffy, sensitized nipple and sucked, liking Lachlan’s gasp and strangled chuckle.
“Tolly?”
“Hit snooze,” Bartholomew said, brazen and happy and not caring.
“Yeah, sure—oh, hey, you’re heading south!” Lachlan didn’t even make it to grab his phone.
He tasted a little like soap and a little like come, but Bartholomew didn’t care. He’d discovered a new favorite thing to do in the morning when he woke up. Judging by the happy catch of breath and the hot taste of precome he spurted almost immediately, Lachlan was also a fan.
IT was a great way to start a morning—even if the alarm never did go off and they were both moving a lot later than they’d planned. But as they dressed and then loaded the van, it wasn’t just the late start that had Bartholomew nervous and on edge. The sun wasn’t quite peeking over the horizon, but he remembered Jordan’s words about needing to perform the protection ceremony at dawn and dusk every day until this crisis was over.
He turned to Lachlan, who had brought another box out of the garage and tucked it into the van, and said, “I should wake Jordan. I was going to let them sleep in for a while, but I don’t want to have to worry about shit getting… well, weirder again, you know?”
They looked around dubiously. No more snakes in trees, thank Goddess, but the squirrels had all fallen asleep in formation and were curled into individual balls in a figure eight from tree to tree. The night before they’d made way for the vehicles and then reformed after the spell, but apparently they took time off to sleep.
Good to know.
The starlings were still gone, the turkeys were sleeping in as a jury, heads tucked against their shoulders, and the cats were apparently splitting the shifts. Most of them were asleep in a little pile in the center of the tiny cottage yard, but Bartholomew’s favorite, a battered ginger tom, and a scrawny, feral calico mama cat stood nonchalantly licking their paws but also keeping an eye on the neighborhood as a whole.
The sky grew a little grayer, and Bartholomew hesitated. He knew this part of himself, the part that didn’t want to be a bother. The part that was used to letting other people step up. On any other day, he would shake A
lex awake or text Dante—Dante was often writing until dawn. But waking Alex would mean waking Jordan, and Dante wasn’t an option right now.
Bartholomew wasn’t that person anymore.
“I’m going to go get Jordan,” he said nervously. “We need to do that protection spell before the sun rises. You get in the truck, okay?”
“One more box,” Lachlan said, but the hair on the back of Bartholomew’s neck was already rising.
“Now!” he shouted and ran to knock on Jordan’s door, calling out, “Jordan! Alex! Get up! Get Kate and Josh! We’ve got to do the thing! Now! Guys—it’s time—fuck!”
The cats had ignored him as he passed, but as he started banging on the door, they leaped to attention, ranging about Jordan’s yard and yowling ominously.
“Jordan! Man, wake up!”
Jordan stumbled to the door in his sleep pants and bare feet, Alex after him in a full set of collared pajamas. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Phone didn’t go off. Gotta stop hoping that will happen. Someone get Josh and Kate.”
“I’ll go. Make sure your amulet’s on!” Bartholomew turned to cut across the cul-de-sac and saw two things. One was that the crows had all convened on the top of his and Alex’s house and were just perched there, covering the roof, staring at the goings-on in the center of the stage.
The other was that Lachlan was already running toward Josh and Kate’s little house, and the crows were fixating on his moving form.
“Hurry!” he called to Jordan and went running after him.
Lachlan had a head start and was pounding on Josh and Kate’s door when the first crow made a run at them. Bartholomew stood at Lachlan’s back in the walkway, unprotected, watching as it flew directly for them.
All he had was his amulet and his fierce desire to protect the man he loved. He held the amulet in front of him, crying, “By one’s protection, one’s mercy, and the other’s luck, you have no power here!”
The bird started to turn, like an ice skater or a giant ship, not able to pivot on a dime. It skidded into Bartholomew, bouncing off the red-and-white shield that buzzed up as Bartholomew cast the spell, and landed with a squawk about ten feet away, flapping awkwardly.
Kate showed up at the door, wearing an oversized T-shirt and muttering, “Fuck, Josh, we over-fucking-slept!”
Josh appeared at her heels in his boxer shorts, and Bartholomew said, “Grab your umbrellas and a frying pan or something. We’re going to have company!”
Josh’s eyes widened at the sight of the crows getting ready to converge. “Motherfucking godless fucking birds and their fucking bastard fascist agendas, fuck me, fuck them, and fuck every fucking bird in this entire fucking neighborhood. I hope they all fucking crash into trees.”
The profanity was muttered more than recited, but by the time Josh was over the threshold, the birds were launching off the rooftops and straight into the apple and plum trees, where they made a hell of a racket, shedding feathers by the bucketload.
Everybody paused for a moment to stare at the spectacle of Josh’s accidentally unleashed spell, and Lachlan shook them all out of it. “Everybody to the center of the cul-de-sac!”
Jordan and Alex were already there. Alex was tracing the pentagram over in white chalk, and Jordan was using another piece of chalk to draw lines out from the pentagram in the direction of all their houses.
“We’ll have to rework all the sigils later,” he said, and Alex muttered, “I know, I know, I know,” as they worked.
“Lachlan, get in the truck!” Bartholomew hollered.
“Sure, sure, Tolly. Let’s just get you guys in a circle first!”
There was no ceremony this time, no pausing to reflect on the sunrise. Jordan and Alex were still holding their chalk as they reached out their hands, and Jordan issued a terse command before they started.
“I’ll go first, and we’re going to build. So me, then me and Barty, me, Barty, and Josh—we pick up a new voice every time, okay?”
They all nodded in assent, and Jordan squeezed Bartholomew’s hand. “May our truth protect us, so may it be.”
They continued, their volume building with each new voice, and Jordan muttered, “Two more times,” before they could break rhythm. Of course, two more times—one each for their missing friends, trapped in the spell that was threatening them now.
Bartholomew saw it as they opened their mouth for the last two rounds. A crow escaped the tree the others were trapped in, flying loopily, threatening to flop awkwardly to the ground at any moment, but with one target in mind.
Lachlan. Oh God.
“May our truth protect us, so may it be,” Bartholomew said, his voice rising. The crow stretched out its talons, reaching for something—Lachlan’s skin? His face? “His amulet!” he squeaked, and the rest of them saw where he was looking. Jordan and Josh squeezed his hand tightly, probably to keep him from breaking ranks, and they all shouted at the same time.
“May our truth protect us, so may it be!”
A fragmented rainbow of power crackled in the sky above them, like an aurora borealis or the static charge of a failed lightning bolt, and the birds all fell out of the trees, apparently stunned. The crow that had come after Lachlan stayed conscious just long enough to snag the amulet at Lachlan’s throat, and Bartholomew gave a cry of pain as Lachlan beat the bird away from his face.
“Don’t let him have it!” Bartholomew cried, falling to his knees. “Don’t let him—”
“Get thee gone, fucker!” Lachlan snarled, and the next sound they all heard was a thump as Lachlan got a good hit in and the bird was thrown hard into the side of the truck. It lay there, indignant but stunned, and the savage ripping in Bartholomew’s chest faded, giving him a moment to breathe.
“Oh my God,” Jordan muttered. “Bartholomew, are you all right?”
“Tolly?” Lachlan thundered toward them, and Bartholomew struggled to his feet.
“Fine,” he muttered, although he wasn’t even close to fine. “Oh God, that hurt. I didn’t… I didn’t expect that!”
Jordan and Josh relinquished his hands, and Lachlan folded him into his chest. “Oh baby,” he murmured. “That… that sucked. You… you looked like you were having a heart attack.”
“Felt like it was being ripped out of my body,” Bartholomew said, wanting to go back to the part of the day when they were both naked and making love and happy. “Oh my God, you’re totally right—that sucked.”
“Lachlan,” Jordan said quietly, “can I see your amulet for a moment—no, don’t take it off.”
Lachlan was big enough that he kept Bartholomew under one shoulder while he turned his body to let Jordan give his amulet a closer look.
“Oh!” Jordan said, sounding surprised. “Well, shit. Bartholomew, you really did work something powerful here. Are you wearing a symbol for Lachlan on yours?”
“A s-saw,” Bartholomew said, shivering. The sun was hitting the cul-de-sac full force, which meant the temperature had just dropped as dawn broke. “Why?”
“Because you both claimed the other’s sigil. Why did you do that?”
Bartholomew frowned. “Isn’t that… I mean, isn’t that what couples do? With symbols?”
Jordan’s laugh was a wee bit on the hysterical side. “Usually when they’re married, Barty. These—I hope you guys are true love always, okay? Because undoing this magic to take these off is going to be a real pain in the ass. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that yarn that was holding them on yesterday changed to a silver chain sometime in the night. These are wedding necklets, so, uh, mazel tov, you’re a couple. For maybe the rest of your lives.”
Bartholomew laughed helplessly. “Sorry, Lachlan. I bet you would have settled for coffee.” But his voice came out a little broken, because he’d tried to say these were serious, but he wasn’t sure if either of them knew what they were getting into.
“Don’t worry about it, Tolly,” Lachlan murmured, kissing his forehead. “I knew. Before I even saw the light show, I kn
ew what I was getting into. Don’t regret it yet—you?”
Bartholomew thought of the ripping pain in his chest, thought of how if he wasn’t careful, if he wasn’t brave, he could give Lachlan that same pain, and Lachlan might not survive.
“I’ll be brave for you,” he said, squeezing Lachlan tight. “I’ll be so brave.”
“Be brave in a few more minutes, okay, Tolly?” Lachlan rumbled. “I sort of need to hold you just another minute more.”
EVERYBODY else had to go inside—it was in the forties and nobody had been dressed warmly. Even Bartholomew and Lachlan, in their hooded sweatshirts and jeans, were shivering by the time they loaded up their vehicles.
Which nobody questioned—which was nice. Bartholomew still couldn’t say why he had to go to the damned Fantasmagoricon. It seemed like the height of folly.
All he knew was that after two years of not yielding to his instinct about Lachlan, not trusting himself enough to hold a real conversation with the man who had obviously been hoping for the same happy ending Bartholomew had been, he needed to trust his instincts now.
Driving into Sacramento only took about half an hour on an early Sunday morning, but Bartholomew used the time in his own head well.
He remembered what Lachlan said, about how saying the word love would steep in their souls until it was a part of them, like power and potion had steeped into their amulets.
He thought Lachlan was more than right. “Crushing” on Lachlan had only needed a little tip before it turned to love. Bartholomew had probably been in love with him from the moment Lachlan had followed him in that epic sprint from the vendor floor to the bathroom.
The look in Lachlan’s eyes before their first kiss had sealed the deal.
This thing they were doing—taking their stock to an event, trying to sell something that made them happy to create—this was going to be their life together. Whatever shape that took, that was what they would work for.
And Lachlan, who had worked so hard with them the night before, who had greeted him with clean underwear yesterday after they’d made love, not even laughing that it was a low priority item to maybe the rest of the world—Lachlan would make himself a part of Bartholomew’s world.
