Eternally His

by Shawn Lane

  He rested the cold empty bottle against his heated forehead, fighting against his fangs elongating or his claws coming out. In a moment, he could put the bottle down and pick up another should he want it. He thought maybe he did.

  Morton set the empty vessel in the sink and then reached in for another. Two should do it for now. Twisting off the lid, he brought it to his lips.

  “Morton.”

  “Seymour,” he gasped, dropping the bottle and falling to his knees. Blood poured from the bottle, all over the floor, coating his bare skin. His breath knocked from him, Morton glanced quickly around, but there was no one. He was alone in the kitchen. Yet Seymour had whispered his name in his ear.

  Or it had seemed so.

  But pushing out his preternatural senses, he could feel no one in the house other than himself. No one even in the immediate area who was an immortal.

  Yet…

  His stomach twisted in knots and his temples pounded.

  “Seymour?” he whispered faintly, but he received no response.

  Perhaps he was losing what was left of his mind after all. He struggled to stand, being careful not to slip on the blood pooling around him. Suddenly still being naked made him feel very vulnerable, but he didn’t want to re-dress until he’d had a chance to wash.

  He was desperate to see Graham, so he hoped his lover would be back soon. He flicked on the kitchen light, which quickly illuminated the room and the bloody tile floor. The monster part of him wanted to drop to his belly and lap up the discarded blood. Morton wondered if there’d be a time when the non-human side of himself would win the battle.

  With a sigh, he sopped up the bulk of it with paper towels, which he discarded in the trash under the sink. Then he found the mop and took care of the rest. After rinsing off the blood in the shower, he re-dressed and waited for Graham to return.

  Should he tell his lover what happened? Morton didn’t know. Probably, though.

  Restlessly, he roamed the lonely house, turning on lights as he went, not wanting the eerie shroud of darkness to surround him. Silly, of course. He could see in the dark, but still, he wanted the comfort until Graham returned.

  Then, just as he was afraid Graham would never come home, he sensed Graham’s approach. Graham was bonded to him since he had created Graham, just as Morton was, unfortunately, bonded to Seymour. Because of the bonding, he always knew when Graham was near.

  Nearly overcome with relief, Morton waited to greet Graham. His lover came through the front door, like any ordinary person would, dressed in black from head to toe, a startling contrast to his shoulder length blond hair. In his left hand, he held a fabric shopping bag.

  “You’re back!” Morton exclaimed, throwing his arms around Graham, sighing when Graham’s arms tightened around him.

  “Your hair is damp again.” Graham kissed the top of his head. “Did you take another shower?”

  He nodded. “I had a little accident.”

  Graham held him back a little, enough to look into Morton’s eyes, but did not release him. He frowned. “Let me get this blood put away and then we will talk.”

  Morton followed Graham into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and put several bags of blood inside. He didn’t really ask Graham where the blood came from. He always supposed blood banks or something similar. Later, Morton would transfer them to opaque bottles.

  Turning back to him, Graham asked, “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, I had one bottle.”

  “You need more, Morton.”

  Morton shook his head. “I’ve lost my appetite. Kiss me instead.”

  Graham drew him close. “I will kiss you and do other things, also. But not before you tell me of this accident.”

  He knew he would be forced to tell Graham, and he wanted to, really, but it also meant having to think about the eerie voice, the feelings, the panic.

  “I was about to drink a second bottle of blood, but something happened and I dropped it all over the kitchen floor. And I got some on me, so that’s why I showered again.”

  Graham framed Morton’s face in his big hands. “What happened, love?”

  He closed his eyes, shivering as Graham’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip. “I heard a voice say my name.”

  “A voice?”

  Morton lifted his lashes to meet Graham’s gaze. “Seymour’s voice.”

  Graham tensed. “He was here? He is near?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel his presence, Graham. But it was his voice. I know it.”

  “I’m sure. I know your presence, your scent, everything there is to know of you, I feel,” Graham said. “It was this way always for me, but even more so since our bonding.”

  Misery threatening to choke him, Morton could only whisper, “But I am also bonded to another. To Seymour.”

  For a moment, Graham stared at him, his green eyes impossibly filled with sorrow. Morton understood, for he shared that sorrow.

  “I cannot explain your hearing Seymour’s voice if he is not near, but it means greater caution for us. We’ll have to make a decision as to our next move.” Graham tipped his head to cover Morton’s lips with his own. “But for what is left of tonight, I want to be with you.”

  “I want that, too. Here. Now.”

  Graham raised an eyebrow. “In the kitchen?”

  Morton smiled. “We’ve fucked in some strange places before. The kitchen is mild compared to some. We can begin here and work our way to the bed.”

  Hot, scorching lips claimed his, demanding everything from Morton with a mere touch against his own. A ragged moan tore from his lips and he threw his arms around Graham’s neck, pulling the bigger man closer still.

  Graham’s large hands grazed down his back to cup his ass and he pulled Morton against the hard ridge of his crotch. Gasping, Morton practically crawled up Graham’s muscular body.

  Then, Graham broke the kiss to lift him onto the granite counter, yanking at his jeans, growling under his breath.

  “Should I—”

  “Lift up,” Graham ordered. When Morton lifted his ass enough off the counter, his lover pulled the offending clothing off him and dropped it to the floor.

  With a whimper, his lips found Graham’s once more, a deep, intoxicating kiss combined with teeth and tongues, nipping and tangling. Both of their fangs had elongated and he felt one of his sink into Graham’s lip. Graham’s sweet blood swirled over his tongue.

  “Fuck, Morton. Want you,” Graham groaned.

  Morton pulled off his T-shirt, watching through half-closed lids as Graham quickly rid himself of the black leather pants and black shirt.

  He swore suddenly. “Be back.” And he was, nearly instantly, holding a bottle of lube.

  Morton smiled. “Ah, should have thought of that.”

  “Put it next to you for now.” Graham set it on the counter, then placed himself between Morton’s legs and tilted his head to the side to expose his neck. “Since you didn’t have enough to eat, feed on me.”

  “Graham.”

  “Do it, love. I have plenty of blood to spare. Take some.”

  With his fangs already lengthened, it was difficult to resist Graham’s offered neck. Closing his eyes, he lowered his fangs to Graham’s throat and sank his teeth into his flesh. Warm, sweet blood filled his mouth. Feeding on another immortal wasn’t quite the experience of feeding on a mortal, but for Morton it was preferable not to take a life.

  For several moments, he clung to Graham, drinking his fill, feeling his strength fully return. His erection never waned. He seemed to get harder, more aroused, and he began to thrust against Graham.

  Still, he did not get greedy. He pulled back and licked the blood from his lips.

  Graham smiled and kissed his forehead. “Better?”

  He nodded, his fangs retracting then. “I didn’t take too much?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck me, please,” Morton begged, their lust-filled gazes locking.

  Graham pulled Morto
n’s ass to the very edge of the kitchen counter, and when he felt lubed fingers slip inside him, he almost came. Over and over the fingers thrust, spreading him, preparing him for Graham’s big, thick cock.

  With an almost feral growl, his lover withdrew his fingers, then pushed his cock into Morton. Fierce need thrummed through him as he thrust his ass to meet each push of Graham’s cock. Strong, blunt fingers sank into the flesh of his hips, and Graham yanked him closer, pounding into him with almost brutal force.

  Morton wrapped his fist around his throbbing cock, while using his other arm to brace himself on the counter. He stroked himself hard, fast, demanding the orgasm he knew waited just on the edge.

  “Morton,” Graham moaned, jerking stiffly as his cock filled Morton’s ass.

  “Love you.” His own release shot out and over the fingers grasping the head of his penis.

  He lunged forward, wrapping his arms and legs around his big warrior, searing their lips together.

  “Mine,” Graham growled against his mouth.

  “Yes, yours.”

  After a few more kisses, Graham lowered him gently to the floor, but he didn’t stop holding Morton.

  Sighing against his lover’s chest, Morton said, “What do we do?”

  “I’m not yet sure,” Graham admitted. “We need to stay ahead of Seymour. If you heard him, there is no doubt the rumors of his revival are true.”

  “Albert. It had to be him who saw to Seymour’s revival.”

  “Yes, I am certain. I liked Albert, but obviously it was a mistake to allow him to live.”

  Morton shook his head. “He loves Seymour.”

  “All the more reason,” Graham said. “Let’s retire for what’s left of the night. By tomorrow night we will need to make our move.”

  Chapter 5

  Henry Littlefield opened the door of the room Xavier used as a dressing room.

  Empty.

  He’d hoped after having to cancel Xavier’s performance the night before that Morton would arrive early for tonight’s performance. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  At least he hadn’t gotten a call saying Xavier wouldn’t show tonight. He took out his cell phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a call or a text. Nothing. Good.

  Henry hated dealing with flighty rock performers, and Morton was flightier than most. Probably the gay thing, Henry decided. He’d never managed anyone quite like Morton before. And his damn boyfriend, Graham, was scary as hell. Like some big guy out of a gladiator movie.

  With his index finger, he punched the number for the speed dial for Morton, then waited through three rings, mopping his forehead during the second ring.

  “Henry?”

  Relief made him giddy. He laughed. “Ah, thank God. Are you on your way?”

  “Yes,” Morton said. “But we need to talk.”

  “Talk? No time for that. I’m going to have a club full of horny young people panting to see you in just a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine, but we need to talk. About the future.”

  “Well, I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” And that was certainly true. Morton’s Xavier character was really catching some attention. Henry knew this kid could go far and, therefore, so could Henry.

  “I know. And I want to move out of the club. Go other places.”

  Henry smiled. “That’s great. We’ll talk about getting that going after tonight’s performance. In a few weeks—”

  Morton sighed. “No. Tonight’s club performance is the last one. I want to change venues immediately.”

  “What? That’s not possible. We have a contract.”

  “Break the damn contract, Henry.” Another sigh. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. We’ll talk then.”

  And Morton was gone. Henry grimaced and returned his phone to his pocket. He did not need this.

  Break the contract.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s so easy,” he said aloud, sarcastically. He needed a damn drink is what he needed. He went to Morton’s fridge. He didn’t remember ever seeing any alcohol in there, but he decided to check before going out to the bar.

  Frowning, he saw nothing but the blue bottles containing Morton’s tomato juice concoction. He couldn’t help wondering just what Morton put in them. Probably not alcohol, but one never knew. Henry grabbed one and twisted the cap off, raising it to his nose to sniff it for any hint of vodka.

  Eyes wide, he quickly twisted the cap back on and returned it to the fridge. He might be crazy, but the contents did not smell like tomato juice. Swallowing heavily he backed away from the fridge.

  “It’s not like it’s going to get you,” he said to the empty room.

  But damn it, the stuff Morton had been drinking smelled like blood. He’d swear to it. Admittedly artistic types tended to be extremely strange. But consuming blood? That was totally nuts.

  Henry wasn’t sure how he felt about having an unstable client. Maybe Morton and Graham were some sort of weirdo serial killers or something. Sometimes it was hard to tell about people.

  The door to the dressing room opened and Henry turned to greet Morton. “I…wait. Who are you?”

  Instead of Morton, a slim, pretty blond boy stood in the doorway. Dressed in jeans and a graphic T-shirt, he looked at the most eighteen or nineteen.

  “I’m sorry, but fans aren’t allowed back here,” Henry told him.

  The blond boy smiled, an angelic, sweet smile that should have put Henry at ease. It didn’t. “I am not a fan,” he said in a very proper English accent.

  “Well, regardless, you can’t be back here. It’s restricted.”

  The boy nodded. “Morton is not yet here?”

  “No. He’s on his way, but—”

  His words froze in his throat as a man appeared behind the boy. Tall and muscular with shoulder length auburn hair. He moved the boy out of the way and walked in, closing the door behind the two of them. The man was dressed all in black.

  “Who is this, Albert?” the man asked the boy. This strange man also spoke with an English accent, though not as cultured as the boy’s.

  “I believe he is the manager, sir.”

  “Who are you people? What do you want?” Henry asked, forcing himself to sound brave. These two made him very uneasy.

  “We want Morton. We have learned he performs here,” Albert said.

  Henry frowned. “Are you interested in booking him for your venue?”

  The mysterious man narrowed his eyes and took several steps forward until he stood directly in front of Henry.

  “No,” said the man. “I am interested in reclaiming what is mine. Albert, what shall I do with this mortal?”

  Albert shifted. “Perhaps leave him here unharmed?”

  The man laughed. “I would expect such from you, young one. But I have told you before it does not do well to leave witnesses. We don’t want this man telling our secrets.”

  “Yes, Master Seymour.”

  Henry wasn’t sure exactly what they were talking about, but he knew it couldn’t be good for him. He tried to back away from the man called Seymour, but he found he had nowhere to go.

  “If you tell me your name, I’ll tell Morton you were looking for him,” Henry said, his heart pounding hard, his breath choking in his throat.

  Seymour smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll deliver the message personally.”

  * * * *

  “Graham,” Morton said urgently as they approached the club. He gripped Graham’s arm.

  He glanced at his lover, frowning. “What is it?

  Morton’s dark eyes were wide and panicked. “It’s him. He’s near.”

  “Seymour?” He tightly gripped the wheel of the car.

  “Yes. Graham, we have to get away.”

  Graham made a U-turn and headed away from the club and back toward their house. Soon to be former house. Graham had hoped they’d have more time. But they were clearly out of it.

  “Do you think it’s wise to go back to the house? They might h
ave someone waiting,” Morton said. His fingers had squeezed Graham’s arm almost painfully, but Graham ignored the discomfort.

  “There is blood there for you that we should take with us, as well as other belongings we might need. We’ll sense something before we reach the house.”

  Morton nodded, leaning his forehead against the window, his face a mask of misery. Graham hated this. Hated the torment. He would do anything for Morton and it never seemed enough.

  “We’ll get away,” he heard himself promise.

  “Maybe. But I doubt Henry did. I know Seymour, Graham, if he came across Henry he would kill him without a thought.”

  “I’ve no doubt you are right, love. But there is nothing we can do for Littlefield now.”

  Morton closed his eyes. “It’s all my fault. He didn’t deserve such an end.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. Littlefield was using your beauty and talent to get what he wanted. He didn’t deserve to die, I agree, but that is not on your head, it is on Seymour’s.”

  Behind them Graham saw flashing lights and heard the high pitched squeal of sirens. He pulled over to let the fire engines pass, a sense of renewed dread twisting his gut.

  Morton straightened and bit his lip. “Graham—”

  He nodded. “Yes, I think so. I don’t know why, but I think those trucks are for our house.”

  “We have to get out of here. We have to go somewhere else. Please.”

  And just like that Graham turned the car another direction, heading toward the streets that would take him to the Pacific Coast Highway. Too much visibility on the freeway. But on the PCH, they could travel for a long time away from Los Angeles and their life there.

  * * * *

  Soon they would need to stop. They couldn’t drive once the sun came up, and Graham knew it would be all too soon. He would have preferred they were farther from Los Angeles than this, but having driven at night when there was the least traffic had worked in their favor.

  They passed a sign that read Welcome to Saint George, Utah.

  Morton had fallen asleep about an hour before and he was loathe to wake him, but he needed to get them into a safe, dark motel room.

  Ahead slightly he read the sign indicating food and lodging next right. He took the exit and passed the first couple of motels without stopping. The third one he came upon was called Crystal Inn and from the looks of it there were rooms that would face away from the rising sun. He pulled into the parking lot in front of the office that said to ring the bell for service at night.