by Megan Derr
He reached up reflexively to touch where his arm now ended. What frustrated him most was that they'd taken his right arm. He was ambidextrous, his mother had made certain of that, but he'd still been more inclined to use his right than his left.
Darn it, he wanted to be doing something. Well, almost anything. As much as he hated being benched, he had no desire to resume pursuit of the goblins. If their goal had been to mess him up for life, they'd succeeded.
But sitting around here with nothing but time wasn't helping. All he did was brood, sulk, worry, and try desperately not to wonder what had become of his arm. Deacon pinched his eyes shut and tried not to puke as he pictured his arm being turned into a hamburger or stew meat. "How long are you going to keep me caged here?"
"Until we've dealt with the bastards who did this," Amr said. "I know you hate it, and I'm sorry, but they're angry their operation is threatened, and they have a personal vendetta against you. Until further notice, I want you right here where I know you're safe."
Deacon's mouth flattened. "I'm fairly certain they're done with me at this point. They were waiting, prepared. The entire goal of that debacle was to take my arm."
"I don't think it was," Amr said. "I think you have it backwards, so to speak."
Deacon turned to look at him, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
Amr set down the pen he was holding and pushed away the papers he'd been reading over, regarding him somberly. "I mean, I think their goal was to take you and send your arm to Mordred as some sort of statement or warning."
"Oh," Deacon said, voice cracking. He closed his eyes again, trying not to scream or vomit. "I suppose I should have realized that."
"You have far more important things to deal with right now," Amr said. "I know you hate being here with nothing to do, but I am deathly afraid they will come for you to finish what they started, and as secure as Mordred Tower is, I prefer you right here in my penthouse. It's the only place that's as close to impossible to breach as we can get."
Deacon nodded. "Can I at least have something to do? I'm tired of sitting here feeling sorry for myself. I can only do my physical therapy so many times a day."
"You could try the other kind of therapist."
"No," Deacon said flatly.
Amr lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "You and Ken. There's nothing wrong with therapy. Clan Mordred has excellent resources in that respect, and if you don't feel comfortable with someone within the clan I can find another elsewhere."
"Just drop it. I don't want a therapist. If I change my mind, I'll let you know. For now, if you want to help me, then give me something to do."
"All right." Amr motioned for Deacon to join him at the table, poured him a cup of the chai he'd made earlier, then shuffled his papers and presented them. "Rust had a massive private estate outside the city—thousands of acres. We're hoping to turn into a facility for training, recovery, that kind of thing. There's a manmade lake on it, tons of forest, hiking trails and campsites, and it butts up against a state park."
"Why does one person need this much land?"
Amr shrugged. "Even the world is never enough for some people. But we can put it to use. He actually purchased a whole lot of land all over the place, but I've returned or sold all of that to various groups: Natives, Draculas, and so forth. Tell me what you think, see what further ideas you might have. We were going to present it as a surprise to you next month, but no harm in showing you early."
Deacon pulled the papers—notes, rough plans, forms, and more—closer to examine thoroughly. He smiled, the first time he'd really felt like doing so since waking up minus an arm, as he took it all in. "This is everything I used to talk about in Montréal."
Amr echoed his smile. "Yes. Ken found your proposals amongst all our papers when I was trying to sort them out one day, after they got completely scattered and disorganized in the move, and brought it up at the last meeting. The land was also on the agenda, and the two came together."
"This is wonderful. It's got the training grounds, the medical facilities…" And everything had been modified to include dragons, a dream none of them had dared believe in. "When do you start work on it?"
"Not for a few months yet. There's still paperwork going through, for permits and such. Also we wanted you to see it firsthand, see what you thought after that, any further ideas and such."
"I could do that now," Deacon said, and held up a hand when Amr immediately scowled. "It's not like anyone but you and a couple of trusted others would know where I was. It's remote and out of the way, far away from work, which even I admit I need a break from. Ironically, I was going to ask you for some leave once this goblin problem was taken care of. I could still contribute, which is better than sitting here stewing. That far away from everything, I'd also be safe. Nobody would have to worry about me while trying to stop the goblins."
Amr's scowl shifted to a pensive frown, and after a couple of minutes he replied, "Fine. As long as you have Pentacle and check in morning and evening."
Relief ran through Deacon, making him slump slightly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Amr said. "I wish I could do more."
"You're doing more than enough," Deacon said. "You always have. Back when my mom was killed, it really meant a lot how much you were there for my family—for me. There were plenty in the clan who thought I was too young to step into the role, but you stood by me. And you'll always be the snot-nosed brat who used to pull me under the water from below and scare me to death."
Amr laughed. "To be fair, you were always shoving me off the pier. When it was thirty degrees out."
"We're Canadian, you could handle it." Deacon drew all the papers together and stacked them neatly. "Can I take these with me?"
"I'll have copies made for you, so you can have them for your own files. If you want to go pack, I'll arrange transport and such, and you can leave tomorrow. If I tried to make you wait longer than that, I think I'd find you and a car missing in the morning."
Deacon gave him a fleeting smile and, escorted by Pentacle and Cam, went to pack.
He returned an hour later to see they had company: a long, lean cowboy with revolvers at his hips. He always looked just slightly a step out of time, save for the eyes, which were old and wise and typical of paranormals who'd managed to survive numerous nightmares. "Hey, Jackie."
"Deacon." Jackie's eyes dropped to the stump of his right arm, brow pinching. "Sorry about all you've suffered, son. We're hunting down those little bastards quick as we can, but they done fled the city, and we ain't sure where they gone yet."
"You're not supposed to tell him anything," Amr said with a sigh.
Jackie shrugged. "Man lost his arm to them bastards. He got a right to know something."
"I don't care about the goblins. The less I think about them, the happier I am," Deacon said. "Where's Wyatt? How is he? Can I see him before I leave?" Even though he had no idea, really, what he would say or do. How he would handle that Wyatt wallowed in the violence that Deacon abhorred.
"He won't come out of his damn room," Jackie said. "Think he's up to something, and I got a guess as to what, but it ain't my place to be telling. Heard tell you got to see his knife come out, though. He's right crushed about that, but more upset he didn't do it sooner." He tipped up the brim of his hat, the full impact of his brown eyes hitting Deacon. Jackie was so quiet and calm, so deceptively laid back, it could be easy to forget he was almost eighty years old, a highly skilled sorcerer, and from one of the most powerful families in the paranormal world. Like so much else in their world, though, the truth was in the eyes. And the truth was that only a fool crossed Jackie. "I been trying to talk sense into him, but Wyatt… Well, ain't hard to tell that boy's lived a hard, lonely life. He don't always remember he ain't alone now."
"What happened to him?" Deacon asked, remembering all over again that chilling laugh, that long, wicked knife, how easily he'd gutted the goblins like he was cleaning his kills after the hunt. The way he'd�
� the way he'd enjoyed it. He hesitated, then said, "Does it have anything to do with the fact he's dragon potential?"
Amr and Jackie stared. "He's what?" Jackie asked, while at the same time Amr said, "He is?"
"Haven't had him tested yet because it didn't seem important and we were busy, but yeah, I think so," Deacon said. "He shows all the signs: he treats the city like it's his territory, he said he's immune to bloodborne diseases, he can identify what species blood belongs to by taste, he's fearless, and he's fixated on those vanilla spice lattes of his. If I had to guess, I'd put him at about 35-40% dragon."
Amr whistled.
Jackie stared between them. "You saying he could be a dragon?"
"No, only that he has a lot of dragon in him," Deacon replied. "Forty is the threshold for turning, but when it's that low we like to have solid proof they'd be happier that way and make the change successfully, and I don't think Wyatt meets either of those qualifications." He frowned.
Amr eyed him. "There's something else."
Deacon hesitated, then nodded. "Pentacle called him feral, and I think he's right. Whatever control Wyatt possesses as a human would vanish with the change."
"Feral," Jackie said. "Yeah, to be honest that sounds about right. It ain't common knowledge, but it ain't a secret neither: his grandfather was H.H. Holmes. His aunt and uncle, ones what did most of his raising, weren't any better. I don't know much about his father, but wouldn't be surprised if he ran along the same lines."
Deacon opened his mouth, then closed it. All things considered, he probably shouldn't be surprised, but that was a heck of a thing to hear. "That explains a lot. I never heard much about that mess, but I heard enough. Can't imagine living through it. Being related to that monster. You were right, though: he's not a kid. I should have believed you."
"I didn't believe him, neither, until he and Phoenix got trapped and hexed, and he had to pull out that knife to save'em." Jackie shook his head, pushing restlessly at his hat, then tipping it up again. "Blood everywhere, and more still on Wyatt. He likes it, and hates that he likes it—leaves him in constant torment, ever at war with himself. But you'd know that by now."
"Yeah." Deacon reached up to touch his arm, an ache filling his chest, so sharp and sudden his eyes stung. He ached for his lost arm, but also for Wyatt, who clearly had mental and emotional damage that far exceeded one missing limb. He was violent, and reveled in it, but given what he'd probably lived through…
Whatever Deacon's tumult, there was no denying that above all else, he simply missed Wyatt. Ached to see what could still be built from that single kiss. There was also Pentacle, who asked every day if they were finally going to see 'Blood and Vanilla', and sulking when Deacon told him no.
An idea sparked, and he looked up, scowling briefly at the looks he caught them giving him. "Knock it off. I'm fine. Or will be. I don't need your pity."
"Ain't pity, son, just sympathy and remorse. We all wish things had gone different."
Deacon sighed. "What if Wyatt came with me? Out to the estate we're converting."
"I don't see why not," Amr said.
Jackie pursed his lips, fingers at his hips, tapping his gun belt absently. "I'll see what I can do. Doubt I'll be able to manage it before you leave, but I bet I can get him to follow after ya."
"Good enough." Hope and trepidation curled through Deacon; he'd been starting to think Wyatt really didn't want anything to do with him and nobody wanted to say. Still didn't know what he'd say or do. But at least now there seemed to be a real chance he'd find out.
He yawned, and at Amr's admonishing look, said, "I'm going, I'm going." Even though magic—and the expert work of the goblins, much as everyone hated admitting it—had left a neat, tidy wound that healed easily, Deacon was still wiped most days and could never stay awake longer than a few hours at a time. Just one more reason it was for the best he was off work.
Feeling hopeful and tentatively happy with the outcome of the day, Deacon headed off to sleep.
*~*~*
The estate was beautiful, but the house itself was so ostentatious that Deacon burst out laughing when he walked in. Clearly the late Rust had possessed a bit of a Versailles fetish. Some of the furniture and décor was probably authentic, or authentic copies, to the period. Deacon half-expected to get thrown out for walking around in his oldest pair of jeans, a gray t-shirt that had started life black, and raggedy socks.
He dumped his stuff in the first room he came to with a large bed, outside of the master suite, which he wanted no part of, even if all traces of Rust had been cleared away. Thankfully, the bedrooms didn't all seem to continue the Obnoxious Old French Palace theme, though they were still expensive and ridiculous.
After he was settled, he went around taking pictures to send to Heather and Sadia, two of the handful of people who knew where he was. He snickered at their replies as he headed for the kitchen to make lunch.
Pentacle had discovered the pool, and all the hot tile surrounding it that was perfect for baking, and Deacon hadn't seen him since. Given the endless acres of woods around them, and the hunting permits Amr had arranged, he probably wouldn't see much of Pentacle until he wanted marshmallows, company, or sex. Dragons.
He looked at the contents of the fridge and pantry and sighed, trying to figure out what he could make with minimal difficulty. There were so many little things that had become difficult or annoying, like spreading mayo on a piece of bread. At least he'd figured out dressing himself pretty quickly, though the first few times he'd tried to pull on jeans had been embarrassingly frustrating.
Thankfully, the fridge was full of squeeze bottles and other items that would make fixing food less of a struggle. Deacon was just glad they hadn't sent a personal chef or something. He didn't need to be babied, and he'd never adjust if everyone else did things for him.
Whole days of nothing stretched before him, and Deacon was looking forward to it. Ostensibly, he needed to be looking over the property and making notes and revisions regarding the conversion, but Amr had made it clear his only real job was to relax and recover.
He was just thinking about going to join Pentacle by the pool when he heard a car coming up the long driveway. Picking up his Glock, he went to the front door and stared out one of the glass panels on either side of it—and then set the gun aside, yanked the door open, and rushed out onto the stoop.
Heart nearly bursting in his chest, he called out, "You came!"
Wyatt froze where he was pulling things out of the trunk and stared at him, looking torn between running toward him and jumping right back in the car and speeding off.
Deacon wasn't going to give him a chance to do the latter. He rushed down the stairs, past his own car, and right up to Wyatt. He looped his arm around Wyatt's shoulder and pulled him in close. "I'm glad you're okay. It's good to finally see you again. Why didn't you come visit me?"
Wyatt didn't reply, and then trembling arms came up to hold Deacon tight at the same moment he realized Wyatt was crying. Deacon just held him, nuzzling into Wyatt's soft hair.
Whatever trepidation he'd still felt, whatever worries he'd had about growing close to a man who reveled in things Deacon hated, melted away then. They'd figure it out. All that mattered was that Wyatt was there.
"I'm sorry," Wyatt said eventually. "I was so scared you'd hate me for killing that way, for being the way I am, I didn't act when I should have, and you lost your arm. I should've—"
"You saved us, Wyatt," Deacon said. "Without you, there's no telling what would've happened to me. Amr said he's pretty sure the original plan was to kill me and send my arm to the clan. They were probably going to leave Pentacle dead right there in the mall. They weren't gonna leave you alive, either." He let go so he could brush one of those delicate cheekbones with his thumb. "I'm not going to lie, seeing you like that was kind of scary. But it saved us, you saved us. That's all that matters. Please stop feeling bad. I don't want that. You tried to warn me, and I didn't heed you. If anyone is
to blame in this mess—"
"You're not to blame!" Wyatt bellowed, then more meekly said, "This is stupid. Can we just agree the goblins are assholes?"
"Yes, definitely," Deacon said. "I'm glad you came."
"I wanted to see you," Wyatt said, staring at Deacon's chest, cheeks turning pink. "Wasn't sure you'd want to see me, but Jackie seemed convinced you would."
"I did. I do. When I first woke up, I wasn't sure of anything." He traced one of those delicate cheekbones, smiling faintly. "But I've missed you, and so has Pentacle. Anything else, we're figure out, okay?"
"Okay," Wyatt echoed in a whisper, then in a normal tone added, "I'm not done with your present yet, though. It still needs a lot of tweaking and finetuning."
"I don't need presents," Deacon replied, sliding his hand down Wyatt's arm to twine their fingers together. "Wouldn't mind a kiss, though."
Surprise and delight filled Wyatt's face. "Really? Even after seeing that I'm a monster?" Misery overtook that beautiful face. "Jackie said he told you about my past. In the end, I'm way worse than any goblin."
"How about we go inside?" Deacon said. "Easier to talk there than here in the driveway. But yeah, I still want that kiss." This time, he simply bent to take it, soft and easy, but searing through him like the first time he'd had alcohol. It'd been a shot of vodka, and he'd nearly toppled over from wheezing.
It was the best thing he'd felt since waking up without an arm: Wyatt and his familiar vanilla-coffee taste with the underscore of magic and blood, that small, lean body pressed up against him. Wyatt safe, with him, and far away from anything that could hurt them.
Drawing back, nuzzling his cheek before pulling away entirely, Deacon said huskily, "Come on, brat. Let's get inside."
"Okay. Wait, my things!" Wyatt let go of his hand and returned to the trunk of the car, pulling out more stuff than seemed like should be able to fit, even if Challengers tended to have excellent trunk space.