by K. Z. Snow
“What I prefer, Simon, is that you—”
“Ah, the way you say it.” Bentcross closed his eyes and affected a look of rapture. “Let me hear you say my name while we’re lying naked together, our cocks jousting….”
Fanule forced the man’s hand away. “Simon—”
“Ahhh.”
Fanule rolled up his eyes. “You can dispense with the melodrama now, Mr. Bentcross.”
The bounty hunter immediately came out of his near-swoon. He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “If you share a bed with me. You are mightily gifted, Perfidor.” He smiled. “But so am I. With our physical assets and bestial passions, we’d make a marvelous rutting pair.”
What Bentcross lacked in subtlety, he certainly made up for in virility. Fanule was sorely tempted. Had he been in the throes of mania, he would’ve leapt at the chance to bed this man.
But he had his wits about him tonight. He was determined to be more discriminating. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t entirely trust you.”
Bentcross studied him, then made a face of resignation. “Yes, all right. I can see how you might find us less than compatible.” Smiling, he added. “I don’t think our bodies would have such reservations, but I respect your position.”
Fanule relaxed his attitude a bit. “I just need to become more acquainted with you.”
The bounty hunter laughed. “I think, Perfidor, we would’ve fared much better if you’d never heard of me.” He slapped his thighs and got up. “Well, time to move on.”
He seemed a good-natured fellow and was certainly blessed with masculine appeal, but Fanule couldn’t help feeling guarded around him. He watched Bentcross weave through the crowd, exchanging words and laughter and suggestive touches with men and women alike. After he’d taken drafts from three or four people’s glasses, a liberty nobody seemed to mind, a woman Fanule didn’t recognize pushed Bentcross onto a chair and dropped onto his lap. She began kissing him fervidly. Their tongues visibly connected; their hands stirred through each other’s hair.
When they disengaged, Bentcross feigned surprise at what hung from his fingers: a red ribbon, one of several the woman had wound through her elaborate helmet of lemon-colored curls.
Fanule leaned forward and stared at it. His forehead dipped. Still making silly faces, Bentcross jumped from the chair and performed a brief, sinuous dance as he slowly waved the satin strip in front of his crotch and let it caress the buttons of his fly. A group of onlookers laughed and made salacious remarks.
“Be aware of a man who plucks ribbons….”
But aware for what reason? Lizabetta hadn’t specified that. Aware because he could be an enemy? Or an ally? Aware because he could be the perfect lover?
Fanule was stunned. And stymied.
Bentcross finally made it to the front door. Pausing, he cast a look over his shoulder at Fanule and smiled ruefully. The ribbon still dangled from his fingers like a disembodied wound. He pushed open the door and disappeared into the night.
The incident made it difficult for Fanule to concentrate, to sift through the crowd and winnow out the men with potential. Damn it all, but he couldn’t go home without having found some relief. He was thirty-one. He was hale and hungry. More important, sex was a critical fulcrum in his life. Satisfaction helped him achieve balance.
At least that was what he’d come to believe.
Perhaps an hour later, as Fanule considered making a proposal to a man with a shock of golden hair and a knack for conversation, a new customer caught his attention. And gave him something of a jolt.
Will Marchman, looking irresolute and glum, walked in the door.
He was dressed normally this evening, in a nicely tailored black frockcoat, camel-colored trousers of simple worsted, a matching vest, and a shirt thinly striped in complementary shades of brown. He wore no hat and apparently had no oil in his hair, for it fell in soft waves from a side part and brushed the tops of his ears. The blue of his eyes shone through the room’s pall of smoke.
Marchman was a tall, slender youth who carried himself with casual grace. Fanule had seen many older men of higher station try to achieve the bearing that came naturally to this humble salesman.
“Lovely,” Fanule whispered to himself.
The image of Simon Bentcross with that ribbon trapped between his fingers began to fade.
He watched as Marchman tried to overcome his indecision. All the tables were full, and the tavern’s patrons, whether standing or sitting, were getting more boisterous. They hooted and hollered and hung on each other. The piano played without pause. Cigars and pipes sent smoke wreathing around the gaslight fixtures. Beverages crossed the bar at a blinding pace.
Marchman was clearly unfamiliar with the Boar’s Tusk—in fact, had admitted as much when Fanule spoke with him at the Circus—and looked very much like an overgrown orphan as he made his way to the bar. His diffidence was both touching and amusing. Sweet William had no chance of finding calmer waters anywhere else on Skipskin Mews; every other establishment would be as turbulent as this one.
Glass of foaming lager in hand, Marchman leaned against the bar near the taps. Fanule quietly chuckled at the look of nonchalance he affected, for it was betrayed by the restless shifting of his eyes. His gaze plowed through the room from end to end. Occasionally, it lingered on a particular face or body before faltering away when the owner of that face or body caught him staring.
No female received such looks from him. Yes, the delectable Mr. Marchman was definitely a twor.
During his eyes’ next pass over the revelers, a narrow tunnel appeared between him and Fanule. They glimpsed one another. Fanule raised his glass. When he saw Will’s uncertain half-smile, he motioned with his head for Will to come over. Probably grateful to see someone, anyone he recognized, the young snake oil salesman inched through the crowd.
“Mr. Perfidor,” he said stiffly when he reached the table.
“Mr. Marchman.” Smiling, Fanule nudged a chair out with his foot. “Please, join me.”
Sweet William’s gaze moved from Fanule’s face to the chair. He was torn.
“I assure you,” said Fanule, “no one here will give a single mouse dropping if we sit together.”
Marchman nodded, although he still didn’t seem convinced. “Thank you.” He reluctantly took a seat.
“And please, call me Fan. At least while we’re in this district.”
The sound of shattering glass cut through the general cacophony. Marchman instinctively ducked. Laughing, Fanule turned up his hands. “As you can see, formality is hardly in order here. May I call you Will?”
The young man quickly swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Yes, all right.”
Fanule motioned to a barmaid named Cosette to bring Will another drink. He used his hands to indicate a larger glass. “I had the impression you were unfamiliar with this part of the city.”
“I am.” Finally, Will managed a complete smile, albeit a small one. The alcohol must have been relaxing him. “Can’t you tell?”
“Indeed. So, what brings you here?” Languidly, Fanule sipped more wine. “You looked rather morose when you walked in.”
Will had rested one arm on the table. His expression again clouded as he stared at the movement of his fingers on the beer glass. “It’s nothing, really. Someone was to meet me at my….” His gaze flickered up, then down, as color suffused his cheeks. “Well, it was a private meeting. Business related,” he hastened to add. “But the other individual—”
“Never showed up,” Fanule said quietly. “And you didn’t want to spend the evening at home, either brooding or seething.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.” Will seemed grateful that his companion understood.
Fanule understood, all right. He could easily infer what kind of business required private meetings after nightfall. It was precisely such business that had brought him to the Boar’s Tusk.
With his understanding came a pang of sympathy for Will. “Try not to take it as
a personal affront,” he said. “There are many inconsiderate people in the world. It’s impossible to gauge the quality of someone’s character until you’ve known that person for a while.”
“That’s true. So true.” Sunk in thought, Will took a drink and licked his lips. “I think sometimes we’re just blinded by….”
He didn’t seem to know how to finish, likely because he didn’t want to reveal the nature of his disappointment. Fanule’s heart again stitched for the young man. “Blinded by a pleasing appearance, perhaps, or empty declarations and false promises. Or our own needs and wishful thinking.”
Slowly, Will nodded. “You seem to have considerable experience in the world.”
“I do.”
Their eyes met. It was obvious Will still hadn’t grown accustomed to Fanule’s, for his brows knit slightly. When Cosette delivered his fresh beer, he looked at her with a kind of dazed relief, as if she’d just broken a spell.
“Compliments of the Eminence,” she said with a sly smile. She winked at Fanule.
The Eminence chuckled quietly.
“Oh, that’s right,” Will said. “You hold some leadership position in Taintwell.”
Nerves crackling, Fanule straightened. “How did you find out? You didn’t seem to know that when I approached you at the Circus.”
He immediately feared his faith in Will Marchman had been misplaced, that the salesman had asked his friends at Hunzinger’s Circus about the tall Mongrel with the purplish black hair. That fear intensified when Will began to fidget. He took a long swallow of beer and thanked Fanule for it. Was he dodging the question?
Suddenly, Will brightened. “It was on the card you gave me. Don’t you remember?”
“Ah yes, my card.” Fanule wasn’t entirely relieved. He still wondered why the question would distress Will if the answer was so simple. “Did you tell anybody you spoke to me? Did you ask anybody about me?”
“No, nobody. I wouldn’t have dared.” Will began to look troubled. “Mr. Perfidor—”
“Fan.”
“I assume you know Branded Mongrels aren’t allowed in the Mechanical Circus.”
“That’s why I asked for your discretion. And if you’re wondering how I got in”—Fanule shrugged and smiled—“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep wondering. But I assure you, my intention is to help, not harm.” He reached out and gave a gentle tug to Will’s chair. “Move closer, would you? It’s getting difficult to converse in here.”
Will’s chair scraped across the wood floor as he repositioned it. Now, his shoulder nearly touched Fanule’s. “Mr. Per… uh, Fan, why are you so keen on talking to somebody who works inside the Circus? Does it have to do only with the Demimen?”
“Primarily.”
“But… why?”
Fanule cautioned himself against divulging anything further, regardless of how much Will Marchman appealed to him. Still, he couldn’t deny he trusted this young man. Marchman seemed uniquely guileless. And he’d kept his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry. I can’t say. But let me ask you this: How much do you know about Mr. Hunzinger?”
Will shrugged. “Next to nothing. I’ve heard he has a house by the sea in the Albasharle district. And a stout wife.”
“You have no interaction?”
“Very little. In exchange for my setup at the Circus, I give him a percentage of my profits.” Will took another drink. The beer seemed to have a mollifying effect on him. “He’s rather gruff and arrogant. Used to having his way, I suspect. It isn’t surprising. He’s a wealthy man with power and influence.”
Although he was aware of Hunzinger’s status, the description chilled Fanule. It was a reminder of what he was up against. “What do other employees say?”
Will gave him a brief, baleful look. “Work diligently and don’t cross him.”
“And how might you cross him?”
“By not doing your job properly, or defying him, or asking too many questions.”
They sat in silence for some minutes as the tavern’s bawdiness boiled around them. Fanule wished that he and Will could touch, that he could simply rest a hand on Will’s trim thigh, or that the young man’s fingers would idly play with his hair and stroke his nape. He needed that.
When Will shifted in his chair, Fanule caught a pleasant whiff of scent—crisp, piquant. “You smell wonderful,” he murmured.
Will blushed. His eyelids lowered, and his lips parted as he breathed through his mouth. At that moment, Fanule made his choice. Damn, this young man tantalized him.
“I confess I do find you… very attractive,” Will murmured back.
It was a strained confession, the most sincere kind, and it went straight to Fanule’s neglected cock. “The feeling is mutual, William.”
“Nobody calls me William.”
“Then I shall.”
Will drank more. His gaze jumped to and from Fanule’s face. “Is there anything…? Do you have any… strange characteristics?” He laughed self-consciously. “I know Mongrels are a mix of races, human and not, and no two Mongrels are exactly alike, but beyond that—”
“A few,” Fanule said with a smile. “By your standards. But no scales or horns or sharp teeth. No extra or missing body parts.”
“I saw your ears,” Will said abruptly. Embarrassed by his bluntness, he blushed and looked down. “I’m so sorry. That was terribly rude of me.”
Every time Will spoke, Fanule’s lust seemed to alter, to broaden and deepen toward other, softer feelings. He was beginning to like Will Marchman. How rare—rare as finding a pearl in the belly of a rat—to have a pure human treat him with such delicate regard.
“They aren’t the ears I was born with.” Fanule smiled wanly. “Although you would’ve found those even more startling.”
“What were they like?” Will asked with innocent curiosity.
The memory made Fanule’s throat tighten. “Upswept and tapered, as elegant as wings. And more a part of me than anyone could ever know.”
Staring in a new way, a peculiar way, as if he were both concerned and enrapt, Will reached up and carefully threaded his fingers through the hair at Fanule’s temple, coaxing the hair aside.
“There’s scar tissue,” he said. “Something happened to you.”
“Yes.”
At that moment, Will’s eyes were so achingly beautiful that Fanule almost forgot why they were trained on his face.
“I wish it hadn’t,” Will said.
Fanule felt powerless to do anything at that moment but grasp both sides of Will’s face and kiss him.
Chapter Five
WITHOUT a split second’s resistance, Will’s lips softened in acquiescence and then returned the pressure. A moan lightly vibrated against Fanule’s mouth. For a dizzying moment, the kiss became more demanding. The tip of Will’s tongue crossed the threshold of Fanule’s lips. But as Fanule met it with his own tongue, and as their mouths widened to allow more interplay, Will pulled away.
Breathing heavily, he touched the back of his hand to his reddened lips. “Gods,” he said in a voice weighted with desire.
The mere sound of it made Fanule’s balls contract and cock expand. Damn what Lizabetta had said about ribbons. More, he kept thinking. More, more, more.
He dipped forward and sought the smooth, warm column of Will’s neck, kissing it, nibbling at a tendon as he licked its cabled length. The scent and feel of Sweet William’s skin, the sound of his groans, made for a more potent elixir than any in a bottle, any that was ground from root or seed. Fanule wanted to make every muscle in Will’s body dance… then stiffen and go slack.
He slipped his fingers between Will’s parted legs. Smoldering wood greeted them.
“Stop,” Will whispered.
“I hope you mean just for the time being.” Fanule put Will’s hand on his own swollen cock.
Will gripped it. “Sweet lord of hell,” he slurred. He abruptly withdrew his fingers. His gaze fell to Fanule’s open shirt as he poured more beer down
his throat. The glass rocked a little as he unsteadily set it down.
“Let’s go to the Dandelion,” Fanule said against Will’s ear. He tenderly kissed its whorls and traced them with his tongue. “Let’s spend the night there.”
Will moved his head against Fanule’s mouth. “Where?”
“A hotel. Three doors from here. It’s very well kept.”
“I hope I can walk.”
Weakly, Fanule smiled.
ALTHOUGH the rooms were per-night rentals, Isabelle Balder, the proprietor who doubled as a madam, kept them spotless. “No one wants to fuck in a fleabag,” she’d once told Fanule.
At the moment, he would’ve fucked in a snake pit.
He and Will stood pressed together within the flickering glow from a single gas jet. Fanule’s hands smoothed over Will’s hair as they kissed—passionately now, without restraint—and Will’s hands kneaded the muscles of Fanule’s back.
A narrow wardrobe awaited their shed clothing. A clean bed large enough for a couple awaited their bodies. A washstand set with fresh water, soap, and towels awaited the results of their lovemaking. Beside the bed lay a vial of olive oil Fanule had pulled from an inner pocket of his cloak.
“Your skin smells like marigolds,” Fanule whispered as his hands lowered to undo all the buttons on Will’s clothing. He wanted to rip the pieces off… and would have, if he’d cared less about the man. He’d done it many times before.
“Juniper,” Will mumbled. He’d already opened Fanule’s shirt, pulled it free of his waistband, and pushed the fabric aside. His hands and mouth roamed feverishly over Fanule’s chest, stirring hair and tightening muscles. “You’re magnificent,” he said before dropping to his knees.
Fanule rolled his head back and closed his eyes as Will opened the front of his trousers. His erect cock had been straining against the cloth, cinching buttons within buttonholes, and when the flap finally dropped, Will had some difficulty working the rigid organ out of its hiding place.