Charles said nothing, only tried to make himself smaller in the seat.
Whitby rapped Charles’s knees hard with his cane. “Answer me, boy. Honor me in this, at least. Tell me why you are such a failure to me. Is it deliberate? Are you simply stupid and misguided in your zeal? Which is it, boy?” When Charles said nothing, he slapped his cane against Charles’s leg again, harder this time, making him jump and crush his hat further against his chest. “Answer me!”
Charles bent himself double and took the third blow and the fourth and the string of furious cursing, but he did not answer. He couldn’t. The realization made him feel dull and strange and stupid, and in fact the beating was oddly grounding, a sort of calmer, less sexual feeling than he had when Smith abused him. What’s happened to me? he wondered, sad and distant, as if watching himself from far away. How did I ever come to this version of myself? How did I ever become such a worthless, pathetic waste of a man? But there was no answer, so he simply stayed quiet, distancing himself again, so well that he didn’t notice at first when the beating stopped, didn’t even notice the carriage had come to a stop until the door opened and his grandfather was shoving him out.
“Go,” Whitby growled. He leaned out of the carriage, his thin white hair wild, his spittle catching in the corner of his mouth. “Go. Get out of my sight. Go fuck your little master. You can rot with him, you worthless little pike. I wash my hands of you, blood kin or not. I’d rather see the Elliotts win than have the House fall to such as you. Though, I suppose—”
He reached into his pocket and tossed something small and black at Charles, who caught it before he realized what it was. He lifted the metal up in his hand and felt a strange, fuzzy feeling come across his mind. It was a pistol.
“Do us all a favor,” Whitby purred. “Find just enough spine to use it. On yourself or Smith—it’s all the same to me. It’s likely optimistic to think you have balls enough for even this, but damn the Goddess for her witchery! You cannot push the blood down forever.” He curled his lip at Charles, made one more sound of disgust, then shut the door.
The coach rolled away, leaving Charles standing there in a quiet, narrow alley, a loaded pistol in his hand. He stared down at it, dreamlike, and he thought he heard it whisper to him.
“Don’t think. Don’t stop. Just lift it. Lift it to your head, prime it, and pull it. Don’t think. Don’t slow down, don’t think, don’t think, just end this, end this, end this end this end this—”
Charles shut his eyes and lifted the pistol to his temple. But before he could so much as reach for the priming, a hand closed over his and stopped the pistol’s ascent. It was a slender, sun-browned hand, and just the sight of it made Charles sob.
Timothy.
“Hush,” the Catalian said. He slid his hand over the pistol and deftly took it away from Charles, then tossed it into a barrel of dirty water behind him.
Charles lifted both his hands, dropping his ruined hat so that he could push against Timothy’s chest, to try to make him go away. Oh, he wanted him, wanted him desperately, but how? What was the point? He needed to run; he needed to go. This would not help! But Fielding closed his hands around Charles’s wrists, keeping him from pulling away. Charles howled, shocking himself at the sound he made. He sounded like a wounded animal in a cage. He felt like one. He felt worse than one.
“Hush,” Timothy said again, maddeningly gentle, invitingly calm. He backed Charles slowly up against a wall, but he used it to support him rather than trap him. He kept firm hold of Charles’s wrists, but his long, thin thumbs reached up to brush soothingly over the backs of Charles’s hands. “Let it go. Let everything he said go.”
“Get away from me,” Charles whispered. His voice was hoarse and raw, and he felt the tears burning at his eyes. Pathetic, sniveling fool. A single sob escaped, and he shoved hard at Fielding.
But Timothy would not be moved. “You think I will watch that and simply leave?” He swore in Catalian, then took Charles’s chin in his hand and lifted it, forcing Charles’s attention to his face. His dark eyes were blazing. “I just stood here in the alley and watched that mathdu ghora insult you tak, put, ud shora, and then goad you into putting a bullet in your head. Coward.” Charles winced, then jolted when Timothy sighed and brushed a quick, gentling kiss across the bridge of his nose. “Not you, quiera. Your sorry excuse of a grandfather.”
Quiera. Charles shut his eyes. “How did you find me?”
“I saw you running, and I came to follow you. I was almost to you when your grandfather caught you.” He brushed a hand over Charles’s collar, his fingers teasing against Charles’s skin. “He cannot kill you himself, or he would. You are his kin. I read the laws on gentry and bastards. They would have his head for it. So he tried this instead.”
“I’m such a fool,” Charles whispered. When Timothy’s hand brushed his neck again, reaching for his cheek in a soothing gesture, he jerked his face away. “Don’t.”
Timothy caught his chin again, but he didn’t force Charles’s head around. “You make this so complicated. You need comforting so badly I ache just looking at you, but you won’t take it. You let your grandfather assault you, but you won’t let me even touch you.”
“Because I don’t want to hurt you,” Charles whispered. “Smith has a spell on me. He has about fifty now, I think. Whatever we triggered that night in the abbey, the spell that made you freeze. He knows I tried to come to orgasm with someone, and he is furious that I won’t tell him who. He says you will never dare try again, not now. He’s done something to me, made me poison to you.” He looked into Timothy’s eyes, aching. “It’s true, I left to try and find you. But it was a foolish whim. I need to go. I need to go as far away from you as possible. I don’t know what the spell will do to you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I can feel it,” Timothy said without concern. “It makes me feel ill. It is trying to push me away. I am ignoring it.”
Charles saw then how pale and nauseated Timothy looked, how his entire forehead was dripping with sweat. It made him want to cry. “Don’t—please!”
“I’m not leaving you. I won’t let you run this time,” Timothy said. But his voice was shaking a little.
Charles cried out, then shoved at him. “Go! Go! I’m not worth it, you idiot! I’m not worth your death! I’m not worth what he will do to you!”
A sad, crooked smile spread over Timothy’s face. “That is terrifying to you, quiera, isn’t it? That someone might find you worthy enough to hurt themselves over. That you, in all your misery, might be worth trying to save, even at such a cost.”
“Just stop,” Charles whispered, his throat so thick he could barely choke out the words. “The other night—Goddess bless, it was amazing, like nothing—But it can’t, not with what I’ve done, not with Smith! You have to go! Go back with my brother, go—”
“No, quiera,” Timothy whispered, nuzzling him gently.
Charles tried to push against his chest, but he didn’t have the strength. He sobbed instead. “Why?”
“Because you are in pain,” Timothy whispered back. “It hurts to touch you, yes, but it hurts more to see you hurt yourself by keeping yourself from comfort.” Charles shut his eyes and swayed, his knees going as Timothy pressed a soft, sad kiss against his cheek. “This is delicious, this rtjla li, but it is not enough.”
Charles tasted the words in his mind. Rtjla li. They sounded sweet and beautiful. “What does that mean?” he asked in a whisper.
“The sweet love,” Timothy said. “A union unfinished. But that is not what I want from you.” He stroked Charles’s face. “Ach, quiera moteari, ma lichera,” he murmured, then let go of Charles’s wrists, cupped his face, and took his mouth with his own.
Charles sobbed. He cried, he wept, he came apart at every single seam as Timothy kissed him slowly, deeply, thoroughly, more tender than any other lover Charles had had, more sensual than the most practiced courtesan, which he supposed Timothy was. He felt the Catalian’s bo
dy responding, his sex growing hard against Charles’s own, the rough, regular friction of his subtle thrusts making silent promises of what lay beyond this kiss, what more this man could give him, what this man wanted very, very much to give him here and now. Delicious carnal images swam in Charles’s mind, memories of the night in the tower mixing with longings unfulfilled, and Charles sank into the kiss. He forgot his fear, his terror, his shame, and his misery, and he slid his hands up Timothy’s chest and around the back of his neck, drawing him even closer.
But Timothy broke the kiss at last, shaking, looking dizzy and sick. “Shak d’rha. Too much.” He touched the center of Charles’s chest. “Something there. I feel it. That is the source of what keeps me away.”
“It’s a charm,” Charles whispered, still gasping for breath. “Madeline gave it to me, but Smith did something to it, and now it’s bad.”
“You have to take it off,” Timothy said. “I can bear a great deal, but I cannot bear any more.” He swallowed his nausea, then let Charles see the heat and promise in his eyes. “Take it off, and we will continue as we were. If that is all that is keeping me away, remove it.”
Charles’s hand closed over the stone. He wanted to remove it. He didn’t want Smith and his games any longer, no matter what he had promised or how. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe my will can be enough. He wanted Timothy’s kiss and the music that was purring softly against the edges of his mind. But he couldn’t shift the charm. He drew it several inches upward from his chest, then felt the panic hit him, like someone pulling out the floor of the entire world. He let it fall back into place.
“I can’t,” he whispered, feeling dull and defeated. “I can’t take it off.”
Timothy brushed a kiss against his forehead. “You cannot stay like this. You must seek help.” He pulled back again and nodded to the end of the alley. “Go to the witch. You said she was your friend. She is wise and strong.” A cloud seemed to pass over his face as he added, “She might have need of you as well. Her sister is hiding something. I think the witch has spent herself too much in helping your half brother. Go to the witch, quiera. Go and heal yourself. Otherwise I must hurt myself to kiss you again.” His eyes turned sad, and he reached out to stroke Charles’s chin once more. “Let me go with you. Let me take you there.”
Charles wanted to let him. He wanted to let Timothy take his hand and lead him across the moor to Madeline. He should say no. But he was so tired of being alone. Right or wrong, he wanted Timothy to go with him.
But when he tried to open his mouth to say yes, he felt the shift. The spell, the deep spell, the binding spell was taking over, pulling darkness once more over his brain. Charles blinked, trying to get away from it, but then it tightened again, trying to bind him. Trying to find him.
Smith was waking up.
“No,” he whispered and shoved Timothy away. “Go. Go. Just go.” When Timothy tried again to reach for him, he shoved him even harder. “Go!” he shouted, desperate now. “Leave—I’ll go to Madeline, but alone!”
“Non, quiera!” Timothy said and reached for him again.
But the second he touched Charles, there was a crack, sharp and hard, and Timothy fell backward to the ground. Charles smelled burned flesh and stinking magic, and when he looked down at his lover, he saw the magic beginning to curl around him.
“I won’t let him have you!” he whispered. He drew back, turned, and stumbled down the street.
He moved quickly, running, leaping, darting, first into a side street, then ducking through a garden, then heading into an alley; he could still feel Smith reaching for him, and he moved faster, as fast as he could go. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Timothy hadn’t followed. He saw him very far in the distance, heard him shouting.
Charles ducked into the alley and moved faster.
He felt the magic tearing at him, pulling at his skin. It was like the morning when he had run from the abbey, and he knew it would claim him before long. But then he thought of the Goddess, of what she had told him, how he had pulled part of himself away. No. No, he would not go back. He would not let the spell take him. No matter what it cost.
He felt Smith pulling on him actively now, the spell raking him like claws. It made him stumble and fall. He cut through the drain alley, waded through the sewer, all the while feeling strange new cuts forming on his face, his hands, his arms, his back, his feet, his sex. He winced as unseen hands battered him, trying to knock him down. Still he did not stop. He cleared the edge of town and ran north toward the moor. The hands were tearing into him now.
The spell dug into his chest and into his mind.
He pushed it back.
He stumbled through a ditch and up the slope of the moor. Clouds were forming overhead, promising rain. He kept on. On and on, over the ridge, over the hills, onto the moorland itself. He could see the Stone Circle in the distance.
“Come back!” He heard Smith calling to him in his mind. He wasn’t sure if it was real, if it was the spell, or if it was some sort of madness from the pain. But he could hear it. “Come back, you stupid twit! Come back! You have no will! Your will is mine! You are mine! Come back!”
Charles shook his head, feeling the cuts burn as he did. “No,” he whispered back, because he did not have the strength to shout. “You cannot claim me. You cannot claim all of me. I am not yours. I am my own.”
Smith roared, and the spell raked Charles from head to toe.
Charles’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell forward onto the ground, gone.
Chapter Nine
catlio
wand
The wand symbol associates with fire.
The wand focuses power and can create the spark of life needed for a spell.
A wand is a tool, but it is also a weapon.
Timothy had lost Charles.
He sagged against the wall of a house and sank down to the ground between two garbage cans as he tried to catch his breath. Ten seconds. He had been stunned by something when he reached for Charles, and for ten seconds, maybe less, he had been frozen, and Charles had run away. Timothy had broken free, climbed to his feet, and followed him, but that was all it had taken. Ten seconds, and Charles was beyond his reach—again. Timothy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sank to the ground, letting his eyes fall closed. Not even half an hour’s search had found him. And now Timothy was crowded beside the refuse, gasping, legs aching, tortured with guilt and rage and fear.
He was still slumped there when the alchemist came past.
Timothy heard Smith before he saw him, his weaselly, murmuring voice echoing softly as he came into the alley, and Timothy reached for his knife. But he still didn’t have his wind back, so he stayed quiet. He would jump Smith when he came past, and he’d throw the knife into his ankle. Then he would drag the blade up the side of his leg, cutting every vein and artery as he went. He would take great pleasure in the kill.
But as the alchemist drew nearer, Timothy realized Smith was murmuring spells. He said them over and over again, faster and faster, his desperation plain. Timothy didn’t recognize any of the words, but every now and again he heard him say, “Charles.” He remembered the last time the alchemist had stunned him, how he hadn’t been able to move until the charms were dislodged. He also realized there was no one here this time to dislodge them for him.
Smith did not see him. He saw almost nothing, it seemed. He looked as if he were following an invisible trail, but he also looked as if he kept losing it. He was sweating and nervous, and his shoulder was full of blood, but he looked ferocious too. He looked as if he would destroy any and every thing he had to in order to get his way.
Timothy waited until Smith had passed, and when he rose, he used every trick he knew, every skill he had to make not a single sound. He looked backward first, reminding himself of all the risks, forcing himself to see that, just as in the war, while he might take pleasure in the pursuit, it was more important he not be caught.
But it was also important, he knew, that Charles not be caught, either.
He raised the tiny throwing knife above his head, and he shut out the world as he stared at the back of Smith’s head, pretending for one beautiful moment that this could be his target, that he dared to risk making it a fatal shot. He forced his gaze down to the center of the alchemist’s back, to the great, broad target it made, and as if the entire world depended on his knife landing exactly there, he sent it flying.
Then he turned and ran like hell back into the street.
Timothy did not stop until he was back at the inn, tossing Catalian gold coins at the hostler and leaping onto the swiftest-looking saddled horse in the yard. But he smiled to himself as he rode out of town, because he’d seen the knife land. He had not missed. And when the alchemist found someone to dig the knife from his back, he would see the Catalian inscription on the handle and he would know who had thrown it.
His smile fell by the time he came back to the abbey. It was raining now, and it was evening. He had been searching for Charles all day, and none of his searching had turned up any sign. No stable and no hay or water waited for the horse; Timothy rubbed it down as best he could, gave it a bucket of water, and turned it loose next to some rich-looking grass. Then went inside to look for Jonathan, hoping that he, at least, could be found.
Timothy did find Jonathan, but it took some doing. He was not in any of the tower rooms or the kitchen, the only truly functional places left. There was, however, a great deal of banging and clanging and guttural noises coming from deeper inside the abbey. Timothy frowned into the ruined hallway from where they were echoing, following the sounds through the winding maze.
It was difficult to believe the abbey had only been unoccupied for ten years; by the rate of decay, of fallen walls and crumbling ceilings and floors, it appeared to have been standing untended for well over one hundred. The halls felt strangely close, as if someone else were there with him—several someones. He thought of the ghosts and started looking more carefully into the shadows, but he saw no shimmering shades of blue or anything but more dirt and dust and rubble.
The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Page 26