by K. Z. Snow
He felt lightheaded.
The man was Adin Swift, his educated drinking buddy, the guy who claimed to be a vampire and, from all indications, was. They always met at dusk or later. Although Adin was a diurnal breed, or so he said, strong sunlight could make him very ill. Or so he said.
Without thinking about it, Jackson walked the short distance to the sea. He’d grabbed a towel but hadn’t bothered getting dressed. Adin continued to stand on the beach, still as a sand castle.
Jackson stopped beside him. “Going in?” he asked quietly.
“I thought I heard someone coming.” Adin turned to him and smiled. The breeze ruffled his hair.
Hard to believe a vampire could look like Eros himself.
Ill at ease, Jackson dropped his towel and waded into the water. He had to. His cock had begun to thicken, an unexpected and profoundly embarrassing development. Flustered by his wayward hormones, he leapt up, arched, and dove. The gritty bottom scraped along his chest and the top of his partial erection. When he surfaced, Adin was only a few feet away.
They slid headlong into the sea like a pair of dolphins and began to swim, sinewy arms stroking side by side.
The swim became a race. Adin shot forward like a bullet. Jackson paused, treading water. Son of a bitch was a vampire. No mortal creature could move at warp speed. His form wasn’t even visible. Jackson could only see his fast-streaming wake and the curling fans of water his body displaced.
Jackson did a U-turn beneath the surface and headed back toward shore. In a heartbeat, Adin was beside him again. They kept pace with one another until, shoaling, they stumbled to their feet. Laughing between breaths, shaking and slicking the hair off their faces, they clapped each other on the shoulder.
The touch was a tad too lingering to be casual, although neither acknowledged it in any way. There was no follow-through. But at that moment, Jackson knew he wanted this man. And he knew he’d felt a spring of desire as soon as he’d laid eyes on Adin four days ago. Vampire or not.
“Well,” Adin said, barely winded, “how macho was that?”
“I don’t know. I never gave a whole lot of thought to the standards for machismo. Good thing, too, or I’d feel like a pussy. You took off like a fucking whaleboat on a Nantucket sleigh ride.”
“A whaleboat on a what?” Adin asked.
They sloshed toward the beach.
“In the nineteenth century, when the crew of a whaleboat—you know, the small dinghy-type boats carried on a whaling ship—”
“Yes, I’ve seen them,” Adin said. “I’ve been through New England.”
He obviously meant he’d seen them docked. Jackson lifted his eyebrows. It wasn’t easy getting used to the breadth of this man’s experience. “After a whale was harpooned,” he continued, “it often pulled the boat at breakneck speed through the ocean.”
“Ah, I see. I never had occasion to hear that phrase.”
Adin’s full lips glistened with moisture. His sensuousness was almost obscene; his beauty, nearly divine. Jackson, shaken by his hyperbolic thoughts, wondered if he was tripping on some island herb a local had slipped into his food or drink just for kicks.
Speculating about the source of his reaction didn’t diminish it. He felt a craving, acute and undeniable, and it stunned him. Had Adin said, “God, you turn me on,” Jackson would have pulled the man’s wet body against his and savored the clench before sliding down the taut length of him—sliding slowly, his hands and chest never breaking contact, until he reached the dense curvature of that cock. He wanted to draw it into his mouth and reinforce it with iron.
Goddamn.
When they’d walked beyond the surf line, they simply stood there, taking in the balmy night. Adin dipped forward with a dancer’s fluidity and grabbed his towel off the sand. Jackson turned to face the water so only mermaids and sprites could see his sprouting wood.
A towel hit his back. “This one must be yours,” Adin said.
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks.” He fumbled to secure it around his waist.
“Don’t be ashamed if you’re getting a boner,” Adin said with surprising nonchalance. “Americans are so screwed up about sex that nudity to them is tantamount to being fondled during an orgy.”
Cheeks blazing, Jackson turned. Adin watched him with a half-smile. His gaze was maddeningly perceptive.
“Not to worry,” Adin murmured. “It doesn’t mean you’re gay.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “I already knew that.”
“You do have a nice set, though…if you’ll excuse my saying so.” Adin vigorously buffed his drenched curls. “I’ve had more partners than I can count, male and female, so I’m something of an expert.” Lowering the towel, he slid Jackson a smirk. “Don’t bother thanking me. It was just a statement of fact.”
That was the end of it. No touches, no propositions, not even a timid gaze, pregnant with longing. They shuffled toward the hotel. Jackson’s craving began to dissipate. The sharp claws that had dug into the soft center of him began to retract. He was glad. Since he and Adin lived only ninety miles apart, they could very well be seeing more of each other after they got back home.
It would be all right, Jackson assured himself. He’d have plenty to keep him occupied once he was back in his familiar groove. So would Adin.
More than anything else, Adin Swift was a great conversationalist. And they genuinely liked each other, had similar interests and temperaments. Hell, they’d already started the half-annoying, half-gratifying practice of finishing each other’s sentences. All those things were the makings of a solid friendship.
It would be all right. There’d be no more athletic skinny-dipping on sultry nights.
“I’d invite you in for a drink,” Adin said, “but I have some work to get done. I work best at night.”
“And I sleep best at night,” Jackson replied, “so it’s okay.”
Adin smiled. “Dream deeper.”
Jackson felt his forehead crease.
“It’s something my mother used to tell me.” Adin’s smile became rueful. “When I could still dream, that is.”
* * * *
Darkness drained from the blue-black night. That beautiful face was the first thing to emerge from the paling atmosphere. Jackson loved looking at it.
They sat facing one another, knees touching knees. Jackson took Adin’s hands in both of his. “Are you finally able to dream deeper?”
Adin nodded. He wore the same smile. “That’s what made me come to see you last November and ‘out’ myself.”
The memory of that weekend would forever be vivid in Jackson’s mind. He’d never stuff it into an abandoned well. “I think dreaming deeper is what I’m doing now. I think that’s what this whole weird trip is about. Maybe those mythological creatures don’t exist. Maybe—”
“Oh, they exist,” M said, stepping between the two men and forcing them apart. “And you must indeed contain them, Jackson. It’s just necessary for you to make some stops along the way.”
M turned his gaze on Adin. It wasn’t just a look, it was brazen ogling. And Jackson was none too happy about it.
Chapter Fifteen
As I looked at Swift, both studying him and pleasing my eyes, I could sense Spey’s mounting tension. His cousins in the animal kingdom were similarly covetous of their mates. Swift, however, bore my scrutiny with his usual water-smooth grace.
It wasn’t necessary that I study Spey. I’d had ample opportunity to do so, at very close range. But as things progressed, I knew that I must devote some attention to his mate.
“Why are you staring at Adin?” Spey finally asked me.
I detected suspicion and disapproval in his tone. “His physical beauty is remarkable,” I said, “now that his vigor has been restored. He was even quite lovely when he was ill.”
I didn’t want to influence Spey by stating the rest of my reason—that I suspected he and Swift were inextricably bound, and I could hardly guide the Mender without comp
rehending the nature of this attachment. As recalcitrant as Spey was, though, I knew I might indeed end up having to explain this.
Swift was unmoved by my comment. He’d likely been admired by thousands of people over the course of his long life. Spey, however, was not so unaffected.
His eyes turned up in their sockets and he shook his head. When he spoke, he addressed his mate. “Don’t you ever get sick of being told how fucking pretty you are?”
“The word is usually ‘beautiful’,” said Swift. “And it seems to bother you a whole lot more than it bothers me.”
Spey’s mouth tightened. He looked at me. The man had a most expressive face. “Just don’t get any ideas.”
“Ideas of what nature?” I asked, since the warning—it sounded like a warning—confounded me.
Swift looked down and smiled.
My gaze fixed on his eyelids. They were so delicate, their pale gray background embroidered with fine, faint blue veins. The lashes that adorned them seemed out of place. They were too dark and lush, like heavy fringe on the edges of threadbare, faded awnings. I thought his lashes looked exactly right, though, fanning over the crests of his cheekbones, like of clusters of black silk thread on pink satin.
“I remember how you were as Mikaela,” Jackson said, the statement acrid with implication.
He’d surely noticed me staring at his mate’s eyes. Discretion was not my strong suit. I’d never worked at mastering it.
“I suspect you do remember,” I told him, “since I existed in that form not long ago. Please explain what bearing that has on the ideas I’m not to entertain.”
A sound came from Swift’s throat, as if he were scraping his voice free. He still smiled. “I believe Jackson doesn’t want you to touch me.”
Spey’s face tightened and reddened.
“Is that true?” I asked him, not understanding why such should be the case. “You allowed me to touch you, almost everywhere on your—”
“That’s enough,” he said, cutting off the flow of my words.
“Enough what? Tell me why I could touch you but I’m not allowed to touch Mr. Swift. I would like to know the reason.”
“Dare you to get your nuts out of that vice,” Adin murmured, shifting his eyes in Jackson’s direction.
Something about our exchange amused him. Or so it seemed. I didn’t quite grasp the nature of humor or amusement. They were odd characteristics, present in some species but not in others, and comprehension of them often eluded me.
Now my gaze was drawn to Swift’s irises. They did suit his eyelashes. They were deep blue faceted with countless tesserae that bore the smallest flecks of silver. Spey, on the other hand, had a wizard’s eyes. Their color was linked to his mental and emotional states and, therefore, was unsettled. Now, green crawled up from a field of dark gray, like moss suddenly sprouting from rock.
“I’ve noticed you like kissing Mr. Swift,” I said. “The act seems to move you in many different ways and signify more than a mating instinct. If I could feel him the way you’ve felt him, I would better understand—”
“You don’t need to understand!” Spey barked. Gold flashed through the green like small bolts of lightning.
Instinctively, I pulled my head back. I’d never developed much tolerance for abrasive noises. “Yes,” I said quietly, “I do need to understand.” The truth was, I needed to gauge his and Swift’s reactions to the contact. My understanding would be furthered by that, not by the contact itself.
Jackson ran a hand over his mouth then tossed his hand into the air. “Fuck it. I’m sick of arguing. Do what you want. You’re directing this show.”
“Are you experiencing jealousy?” I asked curiously, almost certain he was. It was one of the human equivalents of the territorial imperative. I’d witnessed jealousy before. It was important I knew for certain what Spey was feeling.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” Adin asked him.
“No.” He folded his arms over his chest and refused to look at either of us.
Everything Spey did, every look on his face and change in his voice and alteration in his behavior, was a revelation. I absorbed and processed each bit of this input.
Adin stood serenely, perhaps waiting to see how I would proceed. I approached him. He didn’t back away but didn’t step toward me, either. A hint of that smile remained on his face.
I touched my lips to his mouth. It was a pleasing sensation that could easily, under the right circumstances, lead to keen excitement. I knew, because I’d felt such excitement before. I'd felt it most recently with Spey. Being in human form made me vulnerable in many ways. Vulnerability, in my case, led to receptivity. Receptivity led to understanding.
Adin’s lips were very soft and very warm. They barely moved as I put my mouth against them, and they didn’t open. The man was simply letting me kiss him. He wasn’t engaged in the act.
His behavior, too, was revealing. Pleased that I’d learned more, I withdrew.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
I strongly suspected Jackson had snuck a glance at us while we kissed—or, rather, while I tried to kiss his mate—but his eyes were turned firmly to his feet when I pulled away from Swift.
“You can stop seething now,” Adin said. His smile had modulated from amused to tender. “Bacio di bocca spesso cuor non tocca.”
“Bravo,” I whispered. Swift had just told his mate that the kiss hadn’t touched his heart.
I doubted either of them heard my soft word of approbation. They were too preoccupied with each other.
“Damn it,” Spey said softly, “why do you have to look the way you look?”
There was no anger in the question. Fondness tinctured by frustration, perhaps, but no real resentment.
“Because I can’t shift anymore,” Swift answered. Then he laughed. “What a stupendously lame question.”
“It was rhetorical,” Jackson said. “Now quit ridiculing me. You know how sensitive I am.”
Swift laughed harder as Spey, blushing again, grinned.
I very much liked the two of them. I liked them together. How peculiar and regrettable, I thought, that Jackson couldn’t fully accept and express what he felt for the other man. It was but one of the things, and likely the most important, the Prism would help him change.
Something else would not change. It was a fact of the Prism that any Felim’s attitude toward its ward, whether favorable or unfavorable, would not determine the outcome of a journey. How I felt about these men ultimately mattered not.
I circled Jackson’s upper arm with my fingers. “Our interlude is over. I’ve learned from it. Now we must proceed.”
* * * *
Jackson felt a ripple of anxiety as both his companions froze…and then melted away like snowmen under a desert sun. The glaring whiteness simply obliterated them. That wasn’t what made him uneasy. It was M’s sudden interest in Adin that troubled him, and he began to doubt the wisdom of allowing Adin to accompany him.
He wasn’t given the opportunity to worry. Abruptly, he was no longer in the bubble.
Whether or not M was with him, he couldn’t tell. Where Adin was, he didn’t know. Jackson was floating down a hazy, duct-like corridor in which geometric forms, both common and eccentric, slid around him. Some were black and depthless, like the entrances to mines or burrows. In others, moving, shadowy shapes and scenes appeared. They varied in degree of clarity and detail, but neither they nor he paused long enough to allow for scrutiny. He just kept going, surrounded by wafting black holes and clouded windows.
Blinding colors began to appear around some of the forms’ edges. Jackson tried closing his eyes but couldn’t. He tried raising his arms to shield his eyes but couldn’t.
“Let me move!” he grated, but his voice seemed to slam against the very air in front of his face and immediately rebound into his own ears.
Nobody was around to hear or heed him.
Then he glimpsed Adin. Once, twi
ce. More. Adin wasn’t alongside him, though. Adin was in the windows. The scenery in each was different. Old cities, rustic villages. Dim streets and lanes. Rooms, large and small, steeped in darkness that was pocked by candlelight or gaslight or electric light…but never bright light. There was only one constant from diorama to diorama—Adin’s lips were always spotted with blood.
“That’s all over.” Jackson shook his head, denying the images’ relevance. “That’s done with. It has to be.”
Then he was motionless, staring at an alley. He’d apparently been suctioned against one of those dreadful windows. It was the same dreary, trash-littered alley he’d been in last night, where he’d been shunted from frigid fear to soul-numbing agony.
Two male figures moaned and pawed each other behind a grimy Dumpster. Adin’s head lolled.
“Not again. Not that,” Jackson’s said in a brittle whisper. He couldn’t stand seeing what his lover had been, how he’d lived. Letting men and women use his body as a playground, a thrill ride, a premium high. He using their bodies in return.
The scene was a sadistic taunt. His own mind was turning on him. His own fucking mind!
Or was M doing this to him?
What he was witnessing soon overwhelmed any other thought.
“Adin!” Jackson shouted, trying to reach out to him. A barrier stood in his way, some dense, ectoplasmic substance that was crystal clear yet seemed to swallow his arms without allowing them passage. Startled, Jackson pulled them free. “Adin!” he shouted again. “Come to me, goddammit!”
His voice, too, was absorbed, melting into a burble before it could penetrate the invisible, gelatinous wall.
Adin lifted his head. His drooping lids rose. For a fleeting moment, his eyes focused; he no longer looked like a junkie nodding out. He stared straight at Jackson. His hand moved an inch or two from the other man’s head, and his fingers straightened.
“Take me instead,” Jackson implored. He hated the sound of his voice, the soggy, last-resort misery in it. He could feel the sound reflected in his face.
The scene shrank to a pinpoint and disappeared.