by Harper, Lou
Bran tried to reciprocate, but Denton's jeans were too tight. "Get them off," he said, tugging at them.
Denton stood up long enough to peel off his jeans and briefs. Bran used the opportunity to arrange himself into a more suitable position on the couch. He also pushed his jeans down a few more inches. He wore a black jockstrap, which Denton found surprisingly kinky. From a thick thatch of dark hair, his cock rose solid and proud. Denton took back his spot, knees on either side of Bran's hips. Bran wrapped his long fingers around both their dicks so Denton's Prince Albert rubbed against the underside of Bran's cock.
Denton thought it delightfully debauched to have frantic, half-dressed sex on the living room couch. He was in his T-shirt and socks, and while Bran technically still had all his clothes on, their disordered state only made him look more wanton. Denton felt outright smug seeing Mr. Cool-and-Composed disheveled and breathing heavily. Then he stopped thinking as the pleasure of skin-on-skin drove everything else out of his mind.
They climaxed seconds apart, making a sticky mess mostly on Bran's chest and stomach.
"Whew." Denton fished his briefs from the floor. It served well enough to wipe off most of the cum. "I can't believe I got you in the sack at last," he said, nestling between Bran and the back of the couch. It was a warm and cozy spot, matching Denton's mood.
Bran had his forearm over his eyes. "This won't end well."
What an odd thing to say, Denton thought. Oh well, he'd think about it another day. Right now he was happy.
HUNGRY SPIRIT
Chapter One
Denton sat cross-legged on the floor of Bran's living room. Both eyes closed, he tried hard to find his third eye—an imaginary spot between his eyebrows that was supposed to fill him with light. According to Bran, anyway. Easier said than done. Denton had never had much luck focusing on anything for long, other than writing code—because code was pure, beautiful logic. With everything else, his mind wandered. Right now his nose itched, and it took all his self-control not to scratch. That, of course, shifted his concentration to the tip of his nose. Maybe his third eye had slipped down there—everything else was screwy about him; why not this? He pictured a tiny eye blinking above his nostrils. Freakish but funny.
"Stop fidgeting!" Bran snapped.
Denton opened his eyes—the real ones—and saw Bran sitting across from him, with an irritated groove between his brows, where his third eye would've been. Bran was not happy. They'd been training for weeks, ever since Bran had received a beat-up old book in the mail from his mother. The tome was in Spanish, so Bran had to translate it first. It had been slow going, as the language was archaic. They'd both been busy too—Denton with a difficult website for a difficult client, and Bran had his next book's deadline looming over him. The situation made them both testy. Denton got annoyed with himself for failing, and with Bran for making him do the stupid thing in the first place.
"I didn't move a muscle," he protested.
"You were twitching nose to toe."
Denton looked at his feet. His toes flexed in the orange socks. They had a habit of moving on their own. He rarely noticed it himself. "I can't help it. I never could sit still for long. It used to drive my teachers crazy."
Bran remained stern. "I've noticed. Are you even trying? I thought you wanted to get a handle on your talent."
Denton hated the schoolmaster tone; he hated how it made him feel like a child. His irritation rose. "No, I fucking love getting ambushed by dead people. This is a big joke for me, and I enjoy being lectured and treated like a failure!"
Blankness spread over Bran's face, while the flex of his jaw muscles hinted at some suppressed emotion. Probably annoyance. For a moment, Denton thought they might have their first fight, but Bran simply stood and walked out of the room. What the hell was Denton supposed to do?
A familiar feeling of frustration welled up in Denton. It had become his dominant emotion when it came to Bran. When they'd gotten physical about a month ago, he'd thought it would change things, but it didn't, not really. They were still barely more than neighbors with benefits. While Bran unquestionably took his task of helping Denton to gain control over his necromancer skills very seriously, he kept Denton at arm's length. Even when they had sex, it was always initiated by Denton, ended too quick, and, fuck, they never even got properly naked. Jerking each other off while mostly dressed had held a certain kinky appeal at first, but it had quickly become dissatisfying. Bran wouldn't even let Denton blow him, and what healthy man turned down a BJ? Especially since he had no problem with doing it to Denton. Yet whenever Denton pushed for more, Bran clammed up and had somewhere else to be.
If it wasn't for a few curiously tender glances and gestures from Bran, and the fact that Denton truly wanted get better with his talent, he would've bagged it and moved on. But here he was, sitting on the floor like a big fat idiot. Scratch that and make it big skinny idiot. Maybe he had deep-seated psychological issues, getting involved with emotionally unavailable men. Joy seemed to think so.
Bran returned and handed Denton a milky-white globe an inch or more in diameter. His fingers caressingly brushed Denton's palm, and his voice was warm and full of apology. Bastard. "I'm not a good teacher. Try this. It might help."
"What is it?" Denton asked, grumbling, reluctant to let go of his disgruntlement.
"Moonstone. Hold it in your hand. Play with it if you want. It might help you concentrate."
"I thought the problem was I couldn't keep still."
"You were scattered. It's not the same thing. You know how I chant when I do a smudging?"
"Yeah, I wondered about that."
"It's a Spanish incantation I learned from my mother. It tells the spirits to leave and never come back, but the ritual would work fine without it. Repeating the words helps me clear my mind from distractions. Half the success of any rite is in using the right tools, going through the prescribed motions. The other half is the medium being in the right frame of mind."
"So anyone who has those could do what you do?"
"No. You either have the talent or not. Same with you. Now close your eyes and feel the stone."
Denton obeyed. The stone was smooth under his fingers. Denton imagined it still being warm from Bran's hand, even if it was heated by his own now.
He decided to visualize it. For some reason, the gem made him think of morning fog—white as the light he was supposed to channel. And there it was, at first barely a fleck, but it grew and filled his field of vision.
Plonk! was the sound of the moonstone slipping out of his fingers and hitting the carpet.
"Sorry!" he said, feeling foolish.
But Bran didn't appear annoyed this time. "Don't be. You were still for a full five minutes."
"I was?"
"Pretty good. We can stop for today."
"Do I get a reward?" Denton rolled forward onto his knees and advanced on Bran, ignoring the Dirty Dancing flashback.
Bran leaned forward and cradled Denton's face between his hands. As they kissed, Denton was aware of both the hot, wet tangle of their tongues and the tender caress of Bran's fingers—as if he was communicating with them the things he never said with words. Or maybe it was Denton's wishful thinking.
Bran pulled away. "I can't. I have a manuscript to get back to my editor by tonight."
"Twenty minutes won't make a difference." It wasn't as if they were going to lounge in bed afterwards.
Bran was already pushing himself off the floor. "I…we could go out later."
Now that stopped Denton's thoughts in their tracks. "Out?"
"Yes."
"As in, into a public place with people? Lots of people?" They'd never left the building in each other's company before, well except that one time to do the cleansing.
"I didn't mean a Lady Gaga concert, only dinner."
Denton was dumbfounded. "Dinner?"
"A meal people have in the evening. You like food."
"I know what dinner is. I just didn'
t think you were sociable enough to have one in a real restaurant."
Bran gave a jerky shrug. "Roger Sparks called. He wanted to express his gratitude."
"And you accepted?"
"He wouldn't take no for an answer."
"I see."
"So, see you at seven?"
***
A witch and a necromancer walk into a bar… Denton shook his head. Those jokes always had trios, and Sparks wasn't a bar. The moment they stepped inside, they were treated like VIPs. The hostess guided them to a cozy corner booth, where they had sparkling water and a wine list on the table before their posteriors had a chance to warm the seats.
Their waitress introduced herself as Ashley and smiled like her life depended on it. She seemed very young, even with her auburn hair pulled into a severe bun. Handing them the menus, she recited the specials and left them alone. A few minutes later, she scurried back to take their orders and kept buzzing around like an overachieving bee for the rest of the night.
Roger Sparks himself arrived alongside the appetizers—grilled calamari salad and crab cakes—not sweating this time, but gushing gratitude. Even Bran's monosyllabic responses failed to dampen the restaurateur's mood. Not long after he'd taken his leave, the entrées arrived—roasted monkfish with risotto for Bran, and New York strip steak with brandy cream sauce for Denton.
Ashley placed the plates in front of them with pride. "Chef Valenti himself made these for you. He asked me to tell you how much he appreciates what you've done for the restaurant. He would've come by to say it himself, but he figures you've been bothered enough already and would probably like to eat in peace." She looked at them, doe-eyed and blushing as she said the words.
Bran remained mute and annoyed, so Denton thanked her and asked to convey their gratitude to the chef.
As soon as she fluttered away, Denton turned to Bran. "Okay, so they are overattentive. No reason to be rude."
Bran twitched an eyebrow. "I wasn't rude."
"Are you saying that was the grand total of your social skills?"
"Probably." He didn't appear in any way bothered by the admission.
Denton pressed on. "Do you go out much?"
"No."
"I must be special, then," Denton said in a teasing tone.
Bran blinked a few times, opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he took a drink of his wine instead. Casting his gaze on his plate, he turned his attention to the pile of rice.
After a few minutes, Denton couldn't take the silence anymore. "I bet Sparks will get you a bunch of new clients."
Bran groaned.
"What's wrong with that?"
Bran stabbed his fish with a fork as if he had a blood feud with aquatic creatures. "I only do the witch stuff because my mother left me her clients when she moved to California."
"You don't like doing it?"
Bran shrugged. "I don't like dealing with people. And I'm not good at it—as you pointed out."
"I noticed. You could just say no."
"Mother would kill me. I charge exorbitant fees to discourage them, but they keep coming back and referring others."
"Sucks to be you."
Denton felt short on sympathy. After all, he was in a similar situation himself—occasionally, he relived the dying moments of other people for money. Unpleasant but preferable to doing it for free. Dealing with live people, on the other hand, he didn't mind at all.
As if reading his thoughts, Bran put his fork down and looked Denton in the eye. "When you learn to control your talent, it'll be easier for you. You'll be able to choose how deeply you experience those death traces and even shut them out completely if you want."
"That would be nice."
"If I were a better teacher, you'd be there by now."
"It's not your fault. I'm too spacey to concentrate."
Bran shook his head. "I'm terrible at teaching. I wish Mom was here. She's so much better at this. At least, she was with me."
"Was your mother a full-time witch?"
"Still is. Only she got tired of cold winters and lake-effect snow." The wine seemed to have loosened Bran's tongue. Denton liked it.
"How does one go about making a living as a witch?"
"Lots of fortune-telling, personal services. Various rituals."
"Like what?"
"Blessings, banishings, you name it. She has a businessman client who won't make a major investment without consulting her."
"She must be good."
Bran leaned back in his seat. "Half of what she does is real. The other half is…theater."
"What do you mean?"
"Cleansing a house from negative spirits has tangible effects. Protection spells, love spells, and the like are not fool-proof, but they can make a difference. However, what people want most is to know the future."
"And nobody can see the future, right?"
"I didn't say that. She…we both have the gift of second sight, but it doesn't work on command. The moments of prescience are random and unpredictable, and often useless."
"Useless how?"
"People want to hear good news. They don't want to know they'll be audited by the IRS."
"So you simply don't tell them?"
"You warn them about watching matters of money, and say things like they'll overcome adversity. You have to put a positive spin on it. Mother is a master at it."
"And you?"
"What do you think?"
"I see. You'd probably tell them the bad news straight out."
Bran played with his glass. "Maybe. What would you do if a down-on-his-luck guy came to you, desperate for good news, and you had a vision of his imminent death? Would you tell him?"
"I…I dunno. What would you do?"
"I told him great fortune and happiness headed his way."
Realizing they weren't talking of a hypothetical situation made Denton uneasy. He had a feeling he didn't want to know the ending of the story yet couldn't help asking, "Did he die?"
"Got hit by a bus a few minutes later. It was quick."
Denton put his fork down. "That's absolutely the worst story I've heard recently, and I've heard a few doozies."
"I'm sorry, but that's life—a series of terrible stories."
He should've just left it, but the fate of the unknown man kept picking at Denton. "If you told him the truth, he could've done something about it."
Bran shook his head. "No. You can't change the future any more than you can change the past. At least this way he had a few minutes of bliss before he died."
The fatalism of those words didn't sit well with Denton, but he didn't want to argue. "What's the point of knowing the future, then?"
"Exactly. And that's why I refuse to tell fortunes anymore."
Ashley swooped down on them, right on cue, asking how everything was, if they needed anything. Bran made a visible effort to return her smile and asked about dessert. Immediately, she began to gush about the chocolate lava cake with cherry sauce and homemade ice cream. It sounded luscious. Denton caught Bran gazing at him, the corner of his mouth curled up, which in his case counted as a smirk. Turning his gaze away, Bran asked the waitress to bring them a lava cake.
"Was I so obvious?" Denton asked.
"You had a look on your face."
"I have a look?"
"When you want something, yes." Bran lifted his glass and gave Denton a hard-to-read gaze over its rim.
"Then you know I want you all the time?"
Bran swallowed hard and cast his eyes down. It was out of character for him to be flustered. "I shouldn't drink. It goes to my head too fast," he said, placing his glass on top of the white tablecloth.
"'That's good. This is the first real conversation we've had. I finally get to know more about you. It's nice."
"What if you don't like what you learn?"
"Doubtful."
Bran gave him a wistful smile. "You sure?"
"Oh, don't be such a drama queen. When we first met, I thought y
ou were an arrogant prick. Your previous neighbor warned me you were the baddie from a slasher movie. But I think you're a nice guy. And when you relax, like right now, you're almost fun."
Bran tilted his head sideways. "Almost?"
"Give it more wine."
Bran touched his fingers to his glass but didn't lift it. Instead, he stared into the chardonnay as if it was a crystal ball.
Ashley arrived and set a plate in the middle of the table. She placed a dessert spoon in front of each of them and wished them "good appetite" before scuttling away. Bran stared at the shiny silverware in front of him.
Denton grinned. "I guess she made us out for a couple."
Bran didn't reply or make eye contact, but he picked up the spoon and used it to slice a neat little chunk of the cake. Dark chocolate oozed out of the fissure, demanding Denton's undivided attention. The cool sweetness of the ice cream balanced the hot chocolate—like yin and yang. The cherry sauce added a playful note. Denton was scraping the plate clean before he knew it. He caught Bran watching him with eyes darker than the darkest chocolate.
It made Denton a bit self-conscious. "Do I have food on my face?"
Bran shook his head. "I enjoy watching you eat."
Denton took care to eat the rest of his dessert as suggestively as one can without being arrested for public indecency.
Chapter Two
A couple of days later, during their next training session, Denton found his third eye without problem, and, according to Bran, he remained focused for close to half an hour. Bran sounded pleased but didn't waste time on accolades. "Next we'll have to work on you channeling the light without being in a meditative state."
"Hm. Sounds tricky."
"Nah. It's similar to taking the training wheels off your bicycle." Bran sprang up from the floor before Denton could trap him. He'd been evasive since the dinner at Sparks, turning down Denton's sexual overtures and claiming to be busy with his book. In Denton's opinion, no healthy male was too busy for a nookie. Something was up.
