A Time to Rise_Second Edition

by Tal Bauer

  He popped the button on Cristoph’s fly.

  Cristoph’s hands fisted in the sheets, his head thrown back, and he swallowed back a muffled scream as Alain tugged his jeans down and closed his lips around Cristoph.

  “I want to hear it.” He stared up at Cristoph from between his legs. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

  Cristoph tasted amazing. Alain sucked screams out of him, long, wailing moans, curses, and pleas to God. He writhed under Alain’s tongue, spasming against the bed. He chanted Alain’s name and grabbed his hair. His toes curled in the sheets next to Alain’s head.

  Alain popped off, his lips wet. He dragged his nails down Cristoph’s chest, over his nipples, skirting his belly button. “Not yet.”

  “Fuck,” Cristoph gasped. His body hitched, curling almost in half.

  He pressed a wet kiss to Cristoph’s thigh and stood, quickly stripping. He was back on Cristoph in a moment. “If I look in your pants,” he breathed into Cristoph’s ear, “will I find a condom in your pocket?” Cristoph had been heading out of town, running away. Running from Alain, and he’d been in a bar. He’d bet his knighthood on Cristoph’s plans.

  Shuddering, Cristoph nodded, barely able to speak.

  He slid back and grabbed the jeans. There, in the front pocket, was a single lubed condom. He tossed it on the bed.

  “I’ve got to open you up.”

  Bleary eyes blinked, searching for Alain. One hand rose, reaching out. Alain wrapped his fingers around Cristoph’s and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Then he moved, his hands grabbing Cristoph’s thighs and pushing his legs back, spreading them wide, leaving him open and exposed and bent in half.

  Alain’s hands landed on either side of Cristoph’s round ass. Spreading him open, his tongue snaked down in between his ass cheeks and dragged over his hole, switching between hot licks and gentle sucks and deep sweeps before sliding deep into Cristoph’s ass.

  Cristoph went rigid, then flew apart, shaking beneath Alain’s lips and his hands, so much that Alain had to hold him tight, arms wrapped around his hips, Cristoph’s ass lifted off the bed. Cristoph sobbed his name, ripped the sheets from the corners of the bed, fistfuls of white cotton in his shaking hands.

  Alain sat back and grabbed one of his pillows. He slid it under Cristoph’s hips.

  The condom wrapper tearing mixed with the sound of Cristoph’s gasps, his heaving pants. “Alain,” Cristoph breathed. “Alain, fuck.” He threw his head back as he grabbed the edge of the mattress above him.

  Alain gripped Cristoph’s knees and spread him wide before leaning close for a kiss. His cock pushed against Cristoph’s body at his saliva-slick hole.

  “Do it,” Cristoph whispered. “Fucking do it. I want you so badl—”

  Closing the breath that separate their lips, Alain captured Cristoph’s mouth, his tongue parting Cristoph’s lips.

  The kiss broke as he slid inside, gasping at the sudden rush of sensation. He pressed his forehead to Cristoph’s cheek and squeezed his eyes shut. His body was a live wire, burning from the inside, shocks of lightning zinging through his soul, and every muscle spasmed with too much feeling. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed into Cristoph’s hair, blond strands sticking to his lips. Slow, gentle thrusts had him sinking all the way into Cristoph. Cristoph’s hands scratched down his back, nails digging into his skin.

  Alain rocked into Cristoph—long, slow, deep—until his blood burned and his spine melted. Cristoph kept up a steady litany of begging, cries to God mixed with Alain’s name slipping out in desperate whimpers.

  His voice pushed Alain, faster, harder, deeper, until Cristoph was sliding up the mattress on every thrust, the sheets ruined, sweat-soaked and pulled free. Until Cristoph was screaming, begging for more and shouting his name, pleading to God, and urging him on. Cristoph grabbed Alain’s cheek and the headboard behind him as he struggled to draw in ragged breaths between each rough thrust.

  Alain’s fingers dug deep into Cristoph’s skin, leaving purple bruises on his hips. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t make himself stop. Not ever. He was flying, racing toward the edge of a cliff, and his soul screamed, bared before Cristoph, every nerve in his body singing with rapture, all together, all at once.

  It was so much better than every dream, every single dream. The reality of Cristoph in his bed was indescribable compared to the frenzy of his dreams, the pale imitations of Cristoph whipped up by his subconscious. Nothing could ever compare to him, to the reality of his existence.

  Cristoph’s body clenched, a roar bursting from his throat as his release exploded. Alain cursed, squeezed his eyes shut, and buried himself in Cristoph as his body crested, as he leaped from the peak of his soul, from the base of his heart, from the length of his yearning. He shouted Cristoph’s name and swore to a God he didn’t believe in, begged Cristoph for forgiveness as he whispered he loved him.

  He didn’t mean to admit that.

  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, his heart racing like it was a single beat away from exploding. Alain squeezed his eyes shut as he gasped, his first inhale after his soul had erupted. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked down.

  Dazed eyes stared up at him. Cristoph stroked down Alain’s cheeks, over his chest. He pulled Alain down, kissing him like Alain’s lips held the secret to life. His ass clenched, and Alain groaned, trying to thrust once more.

  “Holy shit,” Cristoph breathed. “Jesus fucking Christ.” His eyes were still wide, still seemingly trying to gather his bearings, trying to see straight.

  Alain grinned. His lips pressed against the side of Cristoph’s mouth, against his chin. “Such language in the Vatican.”

  “What we just did…” Cristoph closed his eyes, and one hand dragged up Alain’s sweaty, scratched back. “That was not Vatican approved.”

  He grinned again, ducking down and sucking at the skin behind Cristoph’s ear. Cristoph moaned and curled into Alain, still trying to catch his breath.

  Alain held Cristoph as he tucked his face against Alain’s neck and his nose pressed against his skin, breathing him in. As one hand rose, holding onto Alain’s hip, and his long legs pinned him down. As his eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing evened out, and sleep claimed Cristoph’s soul.

  Alain stayed awake, his fingers stroking up and down Cristoph’s arm, his back. His eyes stayed fixed to the ceiling while his thoughts tumbled.

  What have I done?

  His soul was on fire, basking in the warmth of Cristoph, in the passion, in the release. His heart was screaming, begging for more and begging to run. To bury himself in Cristoph’s arms and never let go. To fling himself from the bed and never return.

  Aching fear seeped in around the edges of his searing bliss, quietly muting the wild passion he’d given himself over to.

  What have I done?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cristoph’s phone ringing at three in the morning sent them scrambling, twisting half off the bed and searching for his discarded jeans in the ruins of the scattered sheets, clothes, and pillows.

  Alain found Cristoph’s jeans and pulled out the phone right before it rolled over to voicemail. “Hello?” He winced, hating how breathless he sounded.

  Lotario, damn that man, noticed. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

  Alain hesitated. “We were busy.”

  Silence. The sound of a deep drag on a cigarette and the soft rustle of ash burning away floated over the line. “Busy, huh?” There was a wide, ugly grin in Lotario’s voice.

  “Shut up, Lotario. Just shut up.”

  Lotario chuckled.

  Cristoph had scrambled across the bed, leaning precariously off the edge as he’d searched for his phone. He halfheartedly rolled back, but stayed sprawled on his stomach, his bare ass exposed right in front of Alain. He pillowed his head on his arms, looking back over his shoulder, smiling.

  Alain slapped his
bare ass and then grabbed it, kneading a muscular cheek.

  “What was that?” Lotario, sounding far too cheery and full of brightness for three in the morning, perked up over the line at the slap.

  “Nothing. Why are you calling?”

  “Yeah, about that.” Another drag of the cigarette. “So I went through Angelo’s records. There have been thirteen suspicious deaths in the past month, all buried in the potter’s field. No next of kin, no one to press charges. The vics were all vagrants and indigents. No one anybody would miss.”

  Alain shifted, sitting cross-legged on his mattress, a clump of sweaty bedsheet tangled between his legs. He fumbled with the phone, finally finding the speaker button, and held it between him and Cristoph.

  “How did the thirteen die?” Cristoph sat up as Alain spoke, one knee tucked up close to his chest. Alain’s eyes were drawn down, between his legs.

  “They each appeared different. Some had their throats slit. Others were stabbed. Some looked like suicides. Slashed wrists. One had his leg torn off.”

  Alain frowned.

  “Do you know how hard it is to dig up thirteen graves? I mean, do you have any idea?”

  “You’re showing off for Cristoph, Lotario. It’s the potter’s field. And it’s only been a month. You only had to dig up one. Two tops.

  A snort and an indignant guffaw rolled together, masking a deep chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Actually, none. The bodies were in the open trench, just wrapped up and taped in body bags. But—” Another suck on the cigarette. “—jumping into the trench is gross. And the stench. Fuck, the smell.”

  Cristoph’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide. Alain laughed. “Okay, Lotario, you win. Cristoph looks like he’s ready to puke. And yeah, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “You’ll buy me ten.”

  “Fine.” Alain rubbed his foot against Cristoph’s thigh. “What did you find?”

  “From what I could tell from the bodies that weren’t already too far decomposed, they had been drained of blood.”

  “Vampires?” Cristoph spoke as he scooted forward, his eyes darting between Alain and the phone, a question in his eyes. Alain held the phone up for Cristoph and nodded.

  “Vamps.” Lotario sighed, the wet phlegm of his smoker’s throat catching. Static filled the phone line. “I found fang marks hidden on all their bodies. The other wounds, the things that supposedly killed them? They were all done after the vamps sucked them dry.”

  “Our solitary vampire has been hunting around Rome for a month?” Alain rolled his shoulders. His back twinged. He looked away. It had been a long time since he’d fucked anyone, even longer since he’d been so vigorous.

  “That’s what I thought. Angelo got me blood samples from the vics’ death records. The polizia didn’t perform any autopsies, but they did pull what tiny bit of blood they could from the corpses for DNA evidence, in case someone reports them missing one day. ‘Course, since the vics were drained, it was just bloody backwash from the vamps in their system, but that helps us. Guess what happened when I dropped each of the vics’ vampy bloody backwash into the sample we got from Madelena’s apartment? The one that traced back to the solitary nest, not the alpha?” Lotario paused. “The blood burned.”

  Cristoph reared back, frowning. Alain grabbed his ankle, one thumb stroking down the arch of his foot. “Vampires can’t drink each other’s blood. They can’t merge blood with another vampire. If they try, their blood burns inside of them. It’s a nasty death.” He managed a tight grin. “Also a good way to kill them, if you can get your hands on vampire blood.”

  “Then it’s not the solitary vampire who killed everyone.”

  “Nope.” The flick of a lighter sounded. Another cigarette being lit. “So get this. I said, what the fuck, and I dropped the bloody backwash into the first sample we took from Madelena, the one that took us to the main nest. And…”

  Alain’s stomach sank. Dread filled his chest. His head pounded, a deep ache at the base of his skull. “Don’t tell me it flashed.”

  “Faint, but it was there. Every time.”

  Another frown from Cristoph. “When spilled vampire blood touches its owner—or, well, touches the vampire it bled from, the blood will flash. Like a spark.”

  “It happened with every one of the vics.”

  His mind reeled. Their theory that the solitary vampire was responsible for so many deaths was cast down, refuted. “The main nest killed thirteen people?” It was too much, too many deaths for any nest in so short a time.

  “That’s not all I found.” Another inhale of smoke, and Alain finally got it. Lotario was nervous. He wasn’t just sucking down cigarettes for his endless fix. A shaking exhale, and then Lotario spoke. “The vics had sulfur on them. Every one.”

  Cristoph’s eyes snapped to Alain’s. “Demons,” Cristoph said.

  Alain nodded. “Traces of demons on vampire kills.” He shook his head and rubbed his temples. “They have to be working together.”

  “Demons and vamps, working together, killing a bunch of vagrants. And we still don’t know what the solitary vamp is up to or who is hunting you lot.” Lotario coughed, and the sound of a boot snuffing out a cigarette crackled across the phone. “I’ve got a bit more to do here before I head back. Alain, you still got the blood from Nuzzi’s corpse? With the monkshood in it?”

  He’d dumped the bloody pendulum in with the rest of his tools in his shoulder bag and left that locked in his office. “Yeah, it’s here.”

  “I’ll bring back the blood samples from both nests. We can’t track the vamp who killed Nuzzi, but at least we can figure out which nest killed him. Maybe it wasn’t the solitary vamp.”

  “Then he just killed the girl?” Alain shook his head. He stared at Cristoph. “Why would a vampire kill a spy against the Vatican? Especially if she was working for the nest. Isn’t that turning against his own kind?”

  “Maybe he really hates the demons. Hates whatever alliance they’ve got going on.”

  “Maybe. Lotario, call us when you’re here. We’ll meet you.”

  “Yeah.” Lotario scoffed. “Don’t let me interrupt anything.”

  “You’re not.” Alain clicked off the phone and tossed it to the side. His eyes burned as he took Cristoph in, naked on his bed, sitting there with his chin resting on his knee and a soft smile on his face.

  “See something you like?” Cristoph spread his legs.

  Oh yes, he did. Alain nodded.

  “Come and get it.”

  * * *

  Hours later, they were back in the kitchen, Cristoph leaning against the counter in his boxers and a borrowed white T-shirt from Alain that stretched deliciously tight across his shoulders. Alain rummaged in his pathetically empty fridge. “I’ve got… some expired yogurt and half a bottle of orange juice?” He pulled back, holding out the food in either hand. “No idea if the yogurt is still good.”

  “It’s yogurt. It’s already spoiled milk.”

  Shrugging, Alain kicked the fridge door closed and brought the food to the counter, grabbing two spoons and an almost-empty bottle of honey on his way. He squirted the honey straight into the yogurt container and passed a spoon to Cristoph. He unscrewed the orange juice carton and set it between them.

  “No glasses?” Cristoph’s eyes twinkled.

  “Both of my cups are dirty.” He licked honeyed yogurt off the spoon. Cristoph’s taste still lingered on his tongue, mixing with the sweetness. He almost moaned.

  In no time at all, they scraped the bottom of the yogurt tub. I’ll have to get more food. I bet he eats a lot, what with that body. Alain shook his head. God, what am I doing?

  “What’s it like being knighted?” Cristoph fiddled with the spoon, his eyes boring into Alain’s.

  “It was one of the best days of my life,” he said softly. The memories cascaded back, soft and sweet, like a classic film reel playing highlights in black and white. “The Holy Father knights you. There’s a small ceremony. When I was knighted, it was me, Best,
Lotario, and—” He swallowed. Smiled to cover his slip, the name he’d almost spoken. Cristoph let it go. “We were kneeling. Best stood in front of us. He prayed, and then pressed his hands to our foreheads.” He squinted. “I don’t know if I can describe what happened next. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  Cristoph tilted his head.

  “You know how priests and clergy are ordained? By apostolic succession? An unbroken line of clergy who have transferred their prayers and their blessings forward, from the apostles to today?” Cristoph nodded. “It’s the same with the knights. From the first ones who found the Well of Souls to now. Each knight has been blessed and prayed over by the knight before him, and he transfers this… blessing down to the next knight. That blessing, the power of it, has been carried down through the line since it was picked up in the Well of Souls by the first knights.”

  “Cool.” Cristoph grinned. “You got some kind of magical super powers?”

  “Well, I didn’t get it. My partner got the blessing. He was supposed to be the superior knight.”

  “But didn’t he—”

  “I ripped it out of him.” He stared into Cristoph’s gaze. “I ripped it out of him the night he—” The memories shifted, no longer warm and happy. Instead, they were bloody, full of screaming. Terror.

  He grabbed one of the blades off his kitchen wall. It wasn’t long, about the length of his forearm. Thin, but not skinny like a rapier. He spun the blade around, hilt facing Cristoph.

  The tension coiling through Cristoph’s shoulders turned to curiosity. “What’s this?”

  “The blade I was knighted with. After the blessing, the Holy Father prayed over us, and then Best chanted the invocations. He touched our heads with our new blades, and then it was done.” He dragged one finger down the top of the blade, staying away from the edge. “This blade has an iron core coated with silver. Feel how heavy.”