He considers possible scenarios as he unscrews the cap, and settles on lying back down, stretching out on his side, curled against the Second’s back. David nudges his legs apart with one knee and slides his hand down between them, slickened fingers just barely, barely touching.
Dev is still anxious, eyes shut. Waiting for the inevitable—for David to get tired of playing at lovemaking and just turn him facedown and fuck him.
Instead, David teases him open gently, pressing one finger in and then two, allowing plenty of time for the muscles tight around his fingers to relax. Normally pain is just part of the equation with them—there’s only so gentle one can be when one is in a hurry. Up until now it’s been a real shame that David hasn’t had much opportunity to really show off his skills. He’s used to Dev tensing up and crying out that first few seconds, but demanding more before David can worry he’s being too rough.
This time the cry is different; David takes him very, very slowly, loving every inch of heat and friction—the urgency he’s been fighting dissolves under the need to feel and feel and the whole world collapses into a moment that feels both endless and instant.
He shifts forward so Dev’s more fully on his stomach and wraps one arm around him, holding him tightly, palm over heart. His other hand moves down to stroke with the same achingly slow undulation as his hips.
Hoarse whimpers turn into desperate moans—one of Dev’s hands clenches in the sheets, his other all but clawing David’s arm until their fingers entwine. Far from passive, however, Deven plants a knee into the bed and pushes back—surprisingly, he doesn’t try to rush things, but just returns an equal amount of force, bringing them both as fully together as possible. Every time David slides in as far as he can and their hips collide it’s like a slow-motion earthquake, the bones of the Earth shaking and shattering with tectonic strength over geological time.
David’s mind has come completely unmoored—he can’t think, can’t plan ahead, can only feel. He’s done exactly this same thing before with someone else, but it was nothing like this—slow or not that was still just sex. This is another beast entirely. This is destroying what he considers his own outside edge; this is dissolution. This is drowning…and being grateful to drown.
For the first time in as long as he can remember he has absolutely no conscious control over what’s happening. He should be terrified. He should fight for the sovereignty of his own mind. He should…should want…
He doesn’t care.
He barely notices when his body starts moving a little faster—driven, he won’t realize until later, by his partner gradually increasing pressure, applying more muscle tension here, pushing a little harder there. All he really knows is that the sounds they’re both making become more urgent and the sensations even more intense…harder…God, yes…
In this strange half-dissolved state coming is almost an afterthought. It feels like he’s been in the middle of an orgasm for an hour or more. But that kind of joining can’t last forever. He knows he has to let it go.
How can I ever let you go?
He doesn’t have to decide that either—again, his body takes over, but instead of the screaming theatrics he’d expect, everything goes
Silent.
Complete, utter stillness fills the room. His mind is quiet for the first time in…
Now, he’s the one shaking.
Neither of them understands peace. Their lives are under constant declaration of war: with other vampires, with each other, with themselves. His instinct is to fight—even to fight against peace. He knows Deven feels the same way. But just for a moment, neither draws a weapon. Just for a moment, they let the love between them breathe.
Perhaps an hour, or perhaps a minute passes before David realizes he wants to see his lover’s face. He carefully withdraws, earning a faint gasp, then shifts over just enough to take light hold of Dev’s shoulder and turn him onto his back.
Their eyes meet. Everything has taken on a reverent tone, the bedroom a dark cathedral where agnostic and apostate both have come to pray.
“You win,” Deven says softly.
David smiles. “I always win.”
“You might wish you hadn’t.” Sadness in those damned lovely eyes. “I’m going to break your heart.”
He smiles again, this time touched with both acceptance and regret. That much was never in question. “I know.” He leans down and kisses Dev on the mouth. “I’ll risk it.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Deven says as David nudges his chin up and begins kissing along his throat.
“Do what?” David murmurs.
“Love,” comes the whispered reply. “I don’t know how to love you.”
David pauses, heart skipping violently at what is dangerously close to the words he’s been longing to hear for weeks. It may be as close as he gets. “You don’t have to,” he replies. “You owe me nothing. You never have to say it, even if you feel it. Just…just let me love you, if you can.”
He feels a hand encircle his neck, and he stares down into the face he’s woken staring into dozens of times and dreamed about a hundred more. To his astonishment, as he watches, the color of Deven’s eyes changes, darkening from pale lavender all the way to a deep violet. He’s never seen anything like it—vampire eyes go silver when they are about to feed or kill, but it is the same effect for everyone regardless of the original color. At the same time, there seems to be more light in them than there should be, a soft radiance like moon and star combined that disappears so quickly David is sure he imagined it.
“You continue to surprise me,” Deven says with a smile.
David almost laughs, but is a little too unsettled by what he has seen—is still seeing—and answers a bit unsteadily, “I think that should probably be my line.”
But the strangeness soon begins to dissipate, and the stillness keeps hold, as they settle in, David’s arms offering shelter and solace, Dev’s breath on his neck like a lullaby. David drinks in everything he can about the moment, knowing there will be more like it…knowing that he has awakened something in both of them that will no longer be denied…will never, ever be denied.
He has drifted just past the edge of sleep when he hears the whisper, so soft he might have dreamed it: “Is tú mo chuisle, David…I love you.”
SONG INSPIRATION:
Don’t you ever say I just walked away
I will always want you
I can’t live a lie, running for my life
I will always want you
I came in like a wrecking ball
I never hit so hard in love
All I wanted was to break your walls
All you ever did was wreck me
I came in like a wrecking ball
Yeah, I just closed my eyes and swung
Left me crashing in a blazing fall
All you ever did was wreck me
Yeah, you wreck me
“Wrecking Ball,” performed by Miley Cyrus
One Night in Sacramento
1952
Love at first sight was a childish human notion. The idea that two people could meet and fall in love in an instant—the kind of deep, passionate love that fairy tales were made of—wasn’t just ridiculous, it was an insult to real relationships that were built on a solid foundation. Instantaneous lust was certainly possible, but anything more than that took time. That belief, that no first glance could give birth to anything lasting, was the product of over a century of maturation and experience.
And it turned out to be total bullshit.
But though he might not believe someone could fall in love in a flash, he did know for a fact that a heart could be broken just that quickly.
That night in Sacramento, he saw both.
Here goes nothing. He stood across the street watching the bar’s patrons come in and out the door, their movements prodded by a pair of experienced bouncers who kept traffic flowing. Many of the people here were still in uniform; some Signets were sticklers for protocol
and demanded that Elite only wear their blacks while on duty, certainly never out to a social event, but others were more relaxed. Given the current climate he imagined they couldn’t afford to be hardasses.
The Blackthorn wars had decimated the Western Elite. He’d heard over a third of the warriors were dead and there hadn’t been time to hire more until the Blackthorn patriarch’s head finally hit the pavement—by the Prime’s own blade, he’d heard—and things calmed down. They were scrambling to recruit more swords and in the meantime patrols were running half-staffed and nonessential posts had been abandoned.
That’s what he was counting on: desperation. If he was lucky they wouldn’t bother checking references. He needed this job, and he needed it now, or he’d be sleeping in the gutter.
Steeling himself, he made his way across the street, but at the last moment veered right away from the door and toward the alley. He was supposed to go in and find Faith; she was First Lieutenant, high enough in the ranks to get him in but not quite as intimidating as the Second himself, who was whispered about a continent away—ruthless, cunning, and one of the greatest warriors the Shadow World had ever seen, he was also known, by some, as the Prime’s lover.
That would be something to see. These days having the balls to let the truth out would land a human in front of McCarthy or at the very least in jail. These days to find someone they had to pretend they were secret agents—passwords given in dark alleys to allow access to smoky, depressing clubs where gender norms were even more strictly enforced than in straight bars. The West was an anomaly in the Shadow World, as there were a number of bars scattered throughout the territory, vampire-only, with far less risk of being bludgeoned to death on the walk home.
It was not a kind world. Yet he had the strangest feeling that one day things would be different—that by the time he died, he would see a world where he could catch someone’s hand in public without fear. It was an odd sort of certainty, and one he had fairly often both about the world in general and about individual people; sometimes he just knew what was going to happen to someone, just by looking at them. Sometimes it was as if he could almost see what was to come playing out in front of him, the theater of the absurd. He had no control over it and didn’t try to.
He leaned back against the wall of the building and lit a cigarette, just to have something to do with his hands.
A moment later a side door burst open, and he shrank back against the wall, trying to be invisible as two figures walked out, apparently mid-argument.
“I am not having this same fight again,” a cold voice cut through the cold night. “If you have a problem with me personally you bring it up when we’re alone. I will not be dressed down like a child in front of my Elite.”
The second voice was younger, a lilting tenor, but was just as steely as the first. “You seem to have forgotten who you work for, boy.”
“Don’t ‘boy’ me. And don’t hide behind your Signet to avoid talking to me. After ten years I know exactly what you’re doing.”
He listened to the two of them seething at each other, breath hard and angry in the quiet alleyway…until he heard the tell-tale sound of someone being shoved back against a wall, and another tell-tale sound he knew as frantic, almost desperate kissing.
Carefully, he leaned forward just far enough to get a glimpse of his company. Two men, one much taller than the other and holding the shorter pinned to the wall—about a foot off the ground, in fact, so they could reach each other. The tall one’s sword flashed in the street light; he was dressed in the black uniform and coat that marked him as Elite. His companion, who had long dark hair and a sinister sort of grace, wore considerably more leather.
He caught sight of a heavy silver chain around the shorter’s neck, and that was enough to make him retreat, slipping back around the corner of the building and all but blundering into the bar. His heart was pounding with…what, exactly? Embarrassment, perhaps, at intruding on such an intimate moment…but more than that, almost like…
Envy, he supposed. He was hardly a celibate man—he’d never wanted for sex whether here in America or Europe—but it had been rare for him to conduct an actual relationship, and the most recent had been furtive, fearful. He’d been involved with a human, a huge mistake; sticking with his own kind was far safer. Things hadn’t ended well, and since then…well…even if he ever slept with a human again, it sure as hell wouldn’t be royalty.
His heart was squeezing around his ribs as he made it to the bar and got a beer, then another, barely tasting either. He couldn’t get that voice out of his mind…what was it about that single sentence that kept repeating in his head? He’d barely had a look at either of the men, but as he drank his third beer he kept casting his eyes around the bar, trying to pick out someone that short, with the same hair and coloring.
After a moment it occurred to him: the taller man had said, “hide behind your Signet.”
Before he could follow the thought to any sort of logical conclusion, someone appeared beside him at the bar and ordered a double shot of something American-sounding that turned out to be bourbon. He felt eyes on him for a moment and pointedly ignored it until the taller man spoke.
“You know what the worst part is?”
He looked over at the man, who was untouchably handsome with a keen intelligence behind his deep blue eyes. “What?”
“I can’t remember for the life of me what we were fighting about,” was the reply. “In fact we’ve never finished an argument—not once in ten years.”
He had to smile at that. “Sounds unhealthy.”
“Absolutely. But have you ever been with someone who knew how to push all of your buttons…because he installed them all himself?” The man laughed and offered his hand. “David Solomon, Second-in-Command of the Western Elite.”
“Jonathan Burke…nobody, really.”
Solomon nodded. “Faith told me about you. She said you shagged the Earl of Somethingbury and got thrown out of England.”
“I don’t suppose she mentioned I need a job.”
“She did.” Solomon motioned for another drink, crooking his finger to indicate one for Jonathan too. The Second gave Jonathan a long, clinical once-over, his friendliness hardening into the sort of detachment one would expect from someone with his reputation. “You look like you could uproot a tree with your teeth, but I’ll need to see you in action before I make a determination. What kind of training do you have?”
“Mostly the kind that involves throwing myself in front of bullets and bashing people into walls until they stop getting up.”
“We favor Eastern-style martial arts that require a more slender frame than yours, but you’re in luck—right now we’re hiring anyone who can win a fight. I imagine we can find a place for you.”
“I would appreciate that, sir. You won’t regret it.”
Solomon’s eyes narrowed, and he paused before saying, “This will probably sound like a come-on, but…I could swear you and I had met before.”
Jonathan started to speak but his vision suddenly doubled—he was getting used to the sensation, and didn’t panic like he used to. Before him he could see, for a moment, two of the Second; the first was the one he was speaking to, and the second seemed oddly older, stronger. He wore something at his throat that glowed blood red.
Then it was gone. “I don’t think so, sir,” Jonathan managed. “I think I would remember meeting you.”
Solomon smiled. “Of course you would.”
Another uniformed officer came over and tapped Solomon on the shoulder, saying something Jonathan didn’t bother to overhear.
“Sorry,” the Second said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Jonathan nodded and lowered his gaze back into his glass. So, unless he screwed up whatever trial Solomon came up with, he had a job. It should have been a relief, but mostly he just felt tired.
The last few months had taken their toll. He barely felt like himself, lingering here all but begging for work; one of the things
Henry had always liked about him was his perpetual good cheer, such a rarity in a vampire—hell, a rarity in a human these days. More than anything he wanted to be able to joke again. He’d always enjoyed making people laugh.
Out of nowhere, his heart began to beat faster. A few seconds later the rest of his senses caught up with his intuition, and he felt a presence he just barely recognized down at the other end of the bar.
Jonathan looked sideways, surreptitiously, and sure enough, there he was: leather, dark hair, sitting up on a stool…the Prime.
Despite the lively mood in the bar, the Prime too was staring into a glass, and Jonathan could feel sorrow hundreds of years old wrapped around his slim shoulders. He would only look young to a human—to anyone with any senses beyond the ordinary, he was clearly very, very old, and more powerful than Jonathan had ever seen among their kind. Jonathan had never been in a Prime’s presence before; he’d been off the night that the Western European Prime paid a visit to the Prime Minister. Now, he understood why everyone always said there was no confusing a Prime for any other vampire unless he wanted you to. That aura of power and nobility was as unmistakable as it was irresistible.
Jonathan tried not to stare, but couldn’t seem to stop—until without warning the Prime turned toward him and met his gaze for just a second.
It was a fight not to fall off the barstool. He’d never seen anything like those eyes…in this light they were almost purple, and had a depth he could fall into for the rest of his life and not care if he ever hit the ground. They made everything Jonathan had ever experienced seem utterly ordinary…as if every night until this one had been a mockery of true reality, and life—his life—would be marked as begun right now.
He saw a flicker of what might have been fear on the Prime’s face before the monarch turned away, siding off the barstool and leaving his half-empty glass behind.
Jonathan couldn’t breathe until he was on the other side of the room. What the hell was that?
Met by Midnight: Shadow World Stories and Scenes, Vol. 1 (The Shadow World) Page 6