by Kallysten
Long ago, before he had ever met his Sire, he had believed he would one day become a doctor. He had started studying for it, and over the decades had tried to help with first aid on battlefields whenever he could. He only hoped he knew enough to do this correctly—and he had to do it; he was sure it was the right thing to do.
Knowing it was the right thing, however, did not make breaking those seventeen bones any easier.
When he was done with the last one, Marc was sure he was about to be sick. He could only hope everything would heal properly and that he wouldn't need to do this again.
Taking great care not to touch Blake's hands now that he was finished, he picked him up—so frail, still; too frail—and carried him to his bed. Mentally exhausted, he didn't even think of undressing Blake, and simply laid him on the bed before spreading a spare blanket over him.
He spent long minutes watching Blake in the semi-darkness, half wishing that he would wake and somehow tell Marc that it was OK, the pain wasn't too bad and it was worth it. But Blake remained unconscious, and Marc eventually, reluctantly, left the room.
Good thing he had thought of getting some alcohol on his way home; maybe the whiskey would stop the shaking of his hands.
His Master had given him a lesson today.
It was an old lesson, learned and relearned in blood too many times to count or remember. A lesson as old as time itself. A lesson Blake had learned for the first time as a human—so long ago, so very long, sometimes he couldn't remember what it had been like to feel a heart thumping inside his chest or to feel warm; remembering that he had a heartbeat again was like a little death every time.
It was an important lesson.
When he had been a child, scavenging for food, hunting for a safe shelter in a town too crowded already with refugees, he had learned that even the most friendly face or demeanor could hide ugly things. Hunger and fear could turn the nicest people into ruthless creatures.
When he had been turned, he had thought, for decades, that there was finally one person he could trust: his Sire. That trust had been shattered in an instant the day his Sire had abandoned him. Even his return hadn't fully healed Blake's wounds. He had forgiven, but not forgotten.
And then his Master—
Blake shook his head on the pillow, chasing those memories away.
His Master had reminded him of that primordial lesson. He ought to be grateful. And if he had been stupid enough to forget again and need another reminder, it was his own fault. He had no one to blame but himself. He wouldn't forget again, though. This time, he had learned his lesson once and for all.
He would never trust anyone again.
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Chapter 15
Localization spells, according to Simon, were among the easiest to cast. That didn't mean they were always helpful.
Using the piece of paper they had found nailed to the box, Simon performed many spells to find Jen. At first, all they indicated was a general direction, and Kate, Daniel, and Simon had traveled that way, Daniel hiding from sunlight beneath blankets in the back of the car. Traveling by night was too dangerous when they didn't know a particular region or whether it was infested with demons or not. Even by day, Simon usually enveloped the car in magic that would make them all but invisible if they stumbled on a group of demons. The demons didn't like to fight during the daytime, but that didn't mean they wouldn't.
They left Leawood with enough supplies to last them a few days—human food and blood for Daniel—but eventually they had to stop and buy more. Money didn't mean much in these troubled times, and they soon realized that a night or two of fighting with local military groups gave them more credit than actual currency.
The problem, as Simon explained it, was simple enough: Jen was traveling, too, and the spell could only pinpoint where she was the moment it was cast. They were following her west and south across the continent, Jen traveling by night while they tried to catch up by day. They would get to her, eventually—or at least Kate told herself as much every time the doubts chimed too loudly in her mind.
She couldn't help wondering how Blake was doing, and whether he could speak again. Marc had said vampires could heal any injury with sufficient blood, but she still wasn't sure what Blake was now. She wondered how much progress he had made and how well Marc was coping. She wondered, mostly, whether he would remember her when she next saw him. She missed him and Marc terribly.
Sometimes, she wished she hadn't agreed to let Marc take Blake away. She could be more helpful being there, she told herself in those moments, than by chasing the shadow of a woman across endless miles. That was when she usually remembered that Blake wasn't even able to look at her, and the anger returned, burning brighter and fueling her for another day or two.
It all became more difficult, however, the night Jen disappeared.
"What do you mean, disappeared?"
Fisting her hand in Simon's shirt, she pulled him closer and glared at him as though he had just told her he was single-handedly responsible for the demon invasion. She knew, dimly, she was being unfair, but there was no one else she could blame.
"Let him go, Kate."
Daniel's fingers curled around her wrist and squeezed lightly. She released Simon, but continued to glare. He was very pale, and beads of sweat were pearling on his forehead.
"You said she was here,” she said, trying to control her temper, but her voice still shook. “You said she's been here for days—"
"And she was!” Simon cut in, wringing his hands in front of him. “When we left this morning, the spell pointed at this town, like it has for the past three days. But now there's nothing!"
Kate looked around her. The streets were deserted except for a few men in mismatched uniforms, all heading toward the fortifications without particular haste. They had passed the fortified walls just after sunset descended on the small town. The wall guards might not even have opened the gates for them if not for the two armored trucks slipping out of the town at that moment. Kate had gritted her teeth when Simon had informed them he couldn't possibly do any magic before eating; she had refused to stop for lunch, and eating in the car made Simon nauseous. Finding a place to eat had taken some time, as had Simon redoing the spell three times with the same lack of results.
"She might be dead,” Daniel said with a wary look toward Kate. “If Simon can't find her anymore, she might have been discovered as a traitor and staked."
Simon nodded vigorously, but a bad feeling was twisting Kate's stomach, and it didn't have anything to do with the overcooked beans they had been served for dinner.
"A traitor, yes,” she murmured, looking at the sleepy streets around her again. “She might be dead. Or... she might have betrayed someone else. Do you remember—"
A sudden alarm started blaring through the streets, lights popping up at every window. From where the three of them stood, they could see a flurry of movements over the fortifications, could hear the bang of metal on metal.
"She betrayed them!” Kate cried out, loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “Like she betrayed us in the City!” She ran to the back of the car, opened the trunk and pulled out her sword before handing Daniel his own.
His expression when he took it was mixed shock and fury. “You mean—"
"I bet she was in one of those trucks we saw riding out. I bet this town's leaders were in those trucks, too. She must have led them right to an ambush, like she did to us. And then..."
In Kate's mind, the night they had closed the breach in the City stood out more clearly than ever. She had been so sure she would die, and then Blake had barged through the streets, yelling as he attacked the handful of demons that protected the breach while Simon worked on the spell to close it. Jen had jumped through before the spell was completed. And during the entire thing, demons had attacked the squad's base. It was only Marc's quick thinking that had prevented a massacre.
She met Daniel's eyes, and knew at once that he had just come to the
same conclusion she had.
"She went through the breach,” he said loudly, his gaze turning from Kate to Simon. “What kind of protection spell can you whip up for the town?"
Simon's eyes widened, in fear or surprise, Kate couldn't have said. “I... don't know. I have to think."
"Then think fast,” Kate said, and started running toward the fortifications. She hadn't come there to fight demons, but that didn't mean she'd stand still and watch a city be destroyed.
For the five weeks it took for Blake's hands to heal—rather than the half-dozen days a vampire would have needed—Marc carefully took off the splints every few days to check on the healing. Thankfully, he didn't need to break anything again, but even his gentle manipulations made Blake grind his teeth in pain. Never, however, did Blake close his eyes to fight the agony. Since he had awoken, the afternoon after Marc had taken care of his hands, there had been a wary glint to his gaze, as though he expected to be hit again.
With that blow that had rendered Blake unconscious, Marc knew that he had shattered the trust Blake had started to have in him. He wished he had thought before acting; his only defense was that he had meant to make things easier for Blake—and himself, admittedly—but he doubted explaining that to Blake would change anything. Instead, he resumed their established routine, and feigned ignorance of the renewed fear permeating the air. As weeks passed and it finally became obvious that the broken hands were healing, Blake's scent gradually started losing its fearful edge again, to Marc's relief.
Once a week, he could offer the convalescent human blood to help the healing, but for these meals as for all others, Marc always needed to nudge Blake into drinking all he was offered. He had started suspecting that Blake, since he was not fully a vampire, might not need as much blood as Marc did, but he decided to keep on demanding that Blake drink all he was offered, at least until his hands were completely healed.
Something amazed him, though. From the little he knew, Blake had spent decades in demon hands, if not more. Yet after only a few weeks, he was feeding, albeit reluctantly, without needing to be offered blood from a wrist as he had first seemed to require; he wasn't falling to his knees or offering himself anymore; and more and more often—not often enough still, but it was a start—Marc caught glimpses of annoyance, amusement, or exasperation in his eyes, and it was a definite improvement over the blank looks that had been his only expression for so long. Because of all of this, Marc had no doubt that Blake's mind would heal as his body did, slowly but surely. He would regain his voice and cutting tongue. What would he say, then? Would he reproach Marc for not coming to find him through the breach? Would he accuse Marc of taking advantage of his body like Simon had? Would he hate Marc for seeing him so weak? He had always tried so hard to hide his weaknesses...
The day finally came when, upon inspecting Blake's hands, Marc proclaimed that they were fully healed. He breathed a double sigh of relief; he wouldn't have to remember what he had done every time he saw the splints, and at the same time the mental torture of touching Blake and making him come without being touched in return was about to end. The physical obstacle of broken fingers was gone, and Marc was determined that whatever mind block might exist would soon be nothing more than a memory.
"We're starting two things today,” he informed Blake as he removed the last splint. “First, you probably need to relearn how to use your hands. It's not going to be fun, but I don't see a way around it. Can you try to move your fingers?"
There was a now predictable delay between Marc's request and Blake's compliance; it sometimes seemed that Blake was testing his limits, taking more and more time to do what Marc asked, as though to see how long it would take for the punishment to fall. It was irritating, but Marc tried his best not to show it and waited as patiently as he could. After a few seconds, Blake's gaze, which had been set on Marc, dropped to his hands, and a line of concentration—or was it pain?—appeared on his forehead as he slowly wiggled his fingers. It was more than Marc had expected him to be able to do, but it was clear that there was room for improvement.
"We'll work on that,” Marc said quietly, then cleared his throat. “And we'll work on having you take care of your own needs. No more playing in the shower. You understand what I mean?"
Blake's expressionless look revealed nothing, and the nod Marc hoped for never came. It didn't matter, though; he wasn't planning on giving Blake a choice on this particular issue.
After a little more than a week, Marc didn't know anymore who, of him or Blake, was more frustrated.
Blake was taking the reeducation of his hands very seriously, and spent hours upon hours squeezing the foam ball Marc had found for him. His cooperation, however, stopped there.
Marc wasn't sure what had triggered Blake's arousal this time. Sometimes it was feeding, sometimes it was an accidental or innocent touch, and sometimes it happened at night, although Blake's scent on those mornings, desire and fear mixed tightly, made it clear that his body was reacting to nightmares rather than dreams. Whatever the cause this time, it had been four days already that Blake's sweatpants had been tented by an erection, and Marc had long ago stopped trying to understand how Blake's body could perform this particular trick. He had also stopped wondering how uncomfortable and painful it was; he only needed to look at Blake's face to know.
"I'm not going to help,” he once more told Blake on the fourth night. “If you want to come, you'll have to do something about it yourself, because I'm done with that. I know you understand what I'm saying, Blake, so stop torturing yourself."
And stop torturing me, he mentally added. Blake's scent was driving him mad.
Leaving Blake where he sat on his sofa, Marc strode to the kitchen. The warmed but tasteless blood failed to quench his thirst for something else altogether. If anything, feeding accentuated his awareness of Blake's desire permeating the air. He had to get out of the house, he resolved. There were no demons to slay in this town, which was one reason why Marc had chosen it, but a simple walk might clear his thoughts. His decision made, he left the kitchen.
"I'm going out for..."
He lost his words at the sight when he entered the living room. Blake was kneeling on the floor, head bowed, hands flat on his thighs and legs slightly spread and displaying the purple, painful looking cock that strained against his stomach. Marc's eyes briefly strayed to the tattoo at the top of his thigh; nail marks slashed through it. Blake looked up at Marc after a few seconds, and the pleading in his eyes was both unmistakable and overwhelming.
Marc's already half-hard cock twitched, and he unconsciously took a step back, contradicting his body's demand that he move forward.
"Not going to do it,” he heard himself say, his voice rough and unconvincing. “I won't, Blake. Hear me?"
He didn't expect an answer, but for once, he got one as Blake slowly shook his head. Marc's simmering frustration grew into plain anger.
"Touch yourself,” he demanded harshly, his fists closing tight at his sides. “Now, Blake. Do it."
Marc's eyes followed the bead of sweat that pearled on Blake's forehead and slowly rolled down his cheek and neck; Blake didn't move.
"Don't make me repeat myself, Childe."
The word rolled off Marc's tongue without him being really aware of it; Blake heard it, however, and a distinct thread of fear rose from him even as his hands twitched lightly before stilling again.
The fear calmed Marc's anger a little, enough for him not to lash out, but it didn't sway his determination. He stepped toward Blake and could see his growing anticipation, but he refused still to give in. With measured movements, he knelt in front of Blake and looked straight at him.
"I am not going to touch you anymore,” he repeated once again. “Not as long as you're so damn scared of me. But I swear that you will."
With that, he reached toward Blake and took hold of his right hand. He brought it to Blake's cock. Dark eyes widened, and Blake tried to escape his grip, but Marc only tightened his hold un
til both their hands were curling around Blake's dick.
A needful breath escaped Blake's lips, loud in the silence of the house, so close to a moan that for a second Marc was sure Blake had regained his voice.
"There we go,” he said quietly, soothingly, even as he guided their hands up and down Blake's cock with regular strokes. “See? You're touching yourself, and no one is hurting you."
Blake licked his lips, his eyes closed, and Marc could tell that this wouldn't take long. Thankfully. His own dick was ready to explode, and the sight offered to him threatened to make him come without any other stimulation. He had forgotten how striking Blake was when pleasure held him; he almost regretted having always stood behind him in the shower the last few weeks. Almost. He probably would have lost his mind long ago and fucked Blake senseless if he had seen him like this every few days. As it was, he had to restrain himself not to push things any further than what was already happening.
"Come on, Blake,” he urged, afraid his control was going to snap any second now. “Let it go. Just..."
Blake's hand seemed to move faster under his own, guiding rather than being guided, and Marc was about to release it when Blake's eyes opened again, his pupils so dilated that they left only a thin rim of brown; his body went rigid but his gaze never left Marc as his orgasm finally swept over him, strong and shattering.
For a couple of minutes, neither of them moved as Blake slowly regained his breathing and Marc tried to control his body. Finally, Marc was able to let go and stood with some difficulty.
"Time for sleep,” he uttered. “Get cleaned up and then get some rest. OK?"
Without waiting to see if Blake would reply in any way, he walked to his room, shaking, and closed the door behind him. Leaning back against it, he undid his pants and pulled his cock out. His hand was still covered in Blake's come; it didn't take more than three frantic strokes for him to fall down the same abyss, the image of Blake's pleasure dancing behind his tightly shut eyelids.