“This could be dangerous. There are Inferna here.”
“Yeah? Wonder what their cocks are like. Maybe I’ll find out.”
“If you dare—”
“What?” Shane gets up into his face, lips a hairsbreadth from Drake, and it’s impossible not to want to kiss him, to bruise those pretty lips. “You gonna tell everyone I’m yours? You gonna claim me again, big man? Everyone in here knows you threw me away. Go on, claim me.”
“I can’t.” Not that he doesn’t want to.
Behind Shane, he can see a couple of the bounty hunters grab one of the poser mages, see one of the Waterfae writhing on a few slithery appendages, and curses under his breath. “I fucking hate magical orgies and you know it.”
“Spell only lasts until we come. All of us, and I bet there’s a few people here with pretty fantastic endurance. Wonder how long it takes to make an Earthsprite come?”
Drake can’t really deny how hard he is now, not with the way he’s rutting down, urgent, needy, gripping Shane’s hips and holding him. “Please—”
“I’ll end the spell if you let me suck you off.”
That’s all the flimsy justification he needs, and Drake scrambles to his feet, yanks himself out and tangles a hand in silky black hair.” Fine,” he mutters, “but no one better turn into a centaur this time.”
Shane’s got to be just as bad off as he is, given the way he dives forward, sucking on Drake’s cock with a slurping groan, taking it into his mouth with such hungry abandon it raises a shiver on his spine. Somehow, he always expects Shane’s body to be as cold as his heart now, but it isn’t. He’s hot to the touch, always has been, and it’s searing and wet and perfect inside his mouth.
“Miss when your hair was red. Looked so hot on you.” He can remember the way it glinted in the sun streaming through the window of their apartment, fiery red and almost alive, always so soft to the touch. He remembers playing with it in the mornings, waking Shane like that, seeing his sleeping face settle into a gentle smile.
“You love sucking cock, don’t you?” His voice comes out soft, but he knows Shane can hear him, even over the noise in the rest of the room. It’s strange, having people who can see them, but damned if it’s going to make him stop when Shane’s swallowing his cock, slick tongue dragging up the underside, teeth catching just a little bit against the head, just the way Drake loves it. “You remember waking me up like this, you little pervert? Go on, take more. Get my cock down your throat where you obviously want it.”
He jerks on Shane’s hair, hips thrusting forward until he sees tears streaming down those pretty pale cheeks, then slamming the last inch of it in, down his throat until he can feel Shane’s nose pressing against his abdomen. God, it feels good to see him struggling, to see him hard and writhing against his own hand, even as he shudders and sobs around the thick length stretching out his mouth.
“Perfect cocksucking whore.” The words come back too easily, no matter that they don’t feel right now, not now that he’s ostensibly working for the Good Guys. It’s far too easy to remember how good it feels to just grab Shane and fuck him, to screw him into whatever available flat surface he can find, to rough him up a bit until he’s trembling and twitching.
A couple of the bounty hunters, the ones who’d recognized them earlier, drift over from their own coupling, eyeing Shane with undisguised contempt and even more poorly-hidden lust. One of them, a human Drake thinks might be called Jimmy Dego, reaches over and grabs Shane’s ass.
“Watch it,” Drake growls, but the men don’t listen to him. Hands slide around and yank off the Vassal’s designer jeans, tossing them to the ground. Drake’s hands tighten in Shane’s hair enough that he hears sloppy choking noises, and he nearly grabs for his sword before remembering.
He’s not Shane’s boyfriend.
He’s not Shane’s lover.
Hell, he has less right to Shane than the bounty hunters, because they’ve never rejected Shane, never slammed their doors on him when he turned up begging and drunk and desperate in the middle of the night.
Instead of marking his claim like he wants to, Drake pulls out of Shane’s mouth, looking down at him. He doesn’t say anything, even as Jimmy Dego laughs and licks one of his fingers, sliding it into Shane’s ass.
Drake could cheerfully kill him.
He holds Shane’s empty eyes, asking quietly, “Do you want me to do something about this?”
That fucking smirk.
It slides across Shane’s shiny wet lips, stretching them wide as he slowly, deliberately spreads his legs. “Nah. I’m good.”
Drake slaps him hard across the face, annoyed when that just makes Shane laugh, and shoves his cock back in as he hears Jimmy crow, “Sloppy bitch’s already been fucked today,” just as he shoves his cock in deep.
Shane just moans, writhing on both cocks, letting himself be yanked forward and back, filled at both ends and obviously loving it. Drake can see his arm working fast, pumping his cock hard, dripping onto the floor, and that pisses him off more. The other guy, whose name he doesn’t know at all, sidles around behind Drake. “Try it,” Drake dares him quietly, “and I’ll break your arms.”
The threat does not go unnoticed. The man holds up his hands, retreating to grab a little Waterfae woman, and Drake tunes out the sound of their squealing with the rest of the bar, all his attention focused on fucking Shane’s face, making the bitch pay for doing what he did, for being what he is, for letting another man touch him, use him, when that’s supposed to be Drake’s job.
“Show you,” he mutters, even though he can’t finish the sentence aloud, can’t say show you you’re mine. He yanks out, working his hand up and down, and he comes with a groan, spilling over Shane’s face, messing up his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, painting those pretty, friction-reddened lips.
It’s a good picture, good enough that he can almost ignore the groan he hears as another man floods Shane’s ass, giving it a smack when he pulls out. Drake sees another couple of men heading over, and grabs Shane by the chin, yanking his face up. “End it. Now.”
Shane sits back on his heels, eyes fluttering closed as he comes over his own fist, letting out a shaky sigh. “Good,” he murmurs, licking his lips, moaning as he gets a taste on his tongue. “Fucking good. You taste so good, baby.”
“End it!”
He doesn’t like seeing the pain on Shane’s face. Still, it’s better than the emptiness. Shane nods numbly, shakily getting to his feet even as his cock twitches under the effects of the spell, trying to rise again.
When Drake feels how easily it’s done, no more than a moment’s work and a flick of power, he wants to strangle Shane again. “You could have done that at any time.”
“Told you that. Didn’t want to. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Shane yanks his jeans on, and Drake notices his eyes blaze briefly before the fluids dripping down his thigh disappear. “This place is a fucking bust. Let’s hit Jiri up.”
“Hell no.”
“You got a better idea?”
Drake grimaces at the thought, but nods. “One.”
Second Interlude
Twelve Years Earlier
It’s not difficult to get a reputation for mayhem in Sunrise City. They’ve got one, Drake and Shane, by the time they turn twenty-one. That’s when they go after Velaria the Enchantress, a self-named idiot who’s nonetheless famous for being the most fearsome mage in the country.
He can tell Shane’s nervous, can see it in the way he takes too long to put on his gloves, too long to sheathe his sword, to buckle everything into place under his civilian gear, just in case they get stopped by the cops due to Shane’s unfortunate inclination to break speed limits. Drake can’t say he’s much more confident—if it weren’t for the size of the bounty on her, he’d be just as happy staying several states away, away from the woman who’d had an entire town doing her bidding, away from the woman legend said was immortal, away from the mage called the most powerful on
e in America.
There aren’t many human mages who voluntarily claim the title, wearing it proudly while still attempting to be part of society. Since the appearance of magic in the world in the last century, it’s been more and more acceptable to admit a bit of talent for swaying weather patterns, or having a pretty good idea about what will be for dinner the next day, or being able to grab hot pans without being burned, but that doesn’t mean most people talk about it. Until a couple years earlier, there’d been no section for “mage” on the IRS forms, and Shane had officially been on unemployment. No matter that things are getting better now, mages remain shrouded in mystery, the way they like it.
As such, Drake and Shane have no idea what they’re up against, facing someone who’s supposed to be the most powerful mage in the country. They’ve never faced human mages before for exactly this reason, along with the fact that they just plain don’t like the idea of going after members of their own species.
Then again, they’ve got bills to pay.
They track Velaria to a small house on top of a mountain, something that should really be called a lair with how much effort she’s put into the spooky décor. She comes out as if sensing their presence, all carefully styled robes and long flowing tresses, voice a sultry echoing thing. “Inferior mortals, I command you to leave—”
Shane swats her with a bolt of power. It’s his usual opening move, intended to throw the target off guard and piss them off, usually goading them into revealing previously unsuspected powers. Drake tenses, sword drawn and in his hands, waiting for the attack.
Velaria falls over, flattened by the bolt, lying in a tangled, groaning heap of limbs.
Shane advances, hands held in front of him, one twitching toward the hilt of his sword. “Cut the crap, lady. Stand up and let’s go a few rounds.”
When she looks up, eyes shrouded by a fall of dark auburn hair, there’s genuine fear in her face. “P-please, I don’t know who you are, I swear I haven’t done anything to hurt you, whatever I did I’m sorry!”
Drake looks to Shane, then down at the woman. “Jesus, how hard did you hit her?”
“Not at all! That blow wouldn’t have felled an Earthsprite.”
Velaria’s eyes widen further, darting between the two men like ping-pong balls. “Y-you would go up against an Earthsprite? What are you?”
Shane blinks at her, nonplussed. “I’m just a mage, lady. Shit, I thought you were supposed to be the best.”
“I am the best! I’m the most powerful mage in America!”
Shane looks down at her, silently making his point.
Under the weight of that stare, she crumples. “At least, I was. Listen, kid, I don’t know what the hell you are, but you sure as hell aren’t human.”
The confusion Drake feels is nothing next to what’s on Shane’s face. “But…but everyone’s afraid of mages.”
“Obviously. Honestly, boy, how do you think we keep everyone from realizing what we can and can’t do?” She flips her hair back. “Now leave me alone, I have some important things to finish.”
There’s a tiny part of Drake that thinks it’s a trick, that she’s faking helplessness so they won’t be ready for her next strike. That’s proved certainly, pathetically wrong when they take her hostage in a matter of seconds, delivering her to their buyer in an hour.
Drake finds Shane in the corner when he comes home that night, burying himself in a bottle of whiskey. “Maybe I’m not human. Maybe I never was. Hell, my parents could have just been waiting to tell me.”
Drake’s lips close over his, a more effective gag than any they own in a box under the bed. “Whatever this is about, we’ll figure it out. We’ll get to the bottom of it, together.”
Shane’s smile is too easy to read. Drake never stops feeling guilty for breaking that promise.
Chapter Five
Shane glares at Drake, sour and unamused as they pull up to the church. “This isn’t funny.”
“Not making a joke. The Church has plenty of good sources for finding things, and they’ll always do me a favor.”
“Of course they will. You’re the only thing keeping them from being fucking destroyed by creatures of the night.” Shane slams the car door shut harder than he’d intended, denting it and not giving a shit. Drake seems to think it’s his car, rather than whichever nice one he’d seen close by and unattended.
“You might want to show a little more respect. They’ve got a lot to deal with, you know? It’s not like the old days, when anyone with a stupid idea and a wad of cash could start a religion.”
“Don’t give me a history lesson, you were never a very good student. The Church gets plenty in donations. They’re living just fine in their stone walls.”
Drake returns his glare, buttoning up his top button before knocking on the heavy wooden door. Shane doesn’t bother to do up his shirt—if anything, he scoots down his jeans an inch or so, just to piss Drake off.
The big heavy door opens, swinging out on its hinges as a young priest, no more than thirty, opens the door. “Drake,” he says, smiling at the sight and hurrying over to clasp his hands. “I’d heard there was evil afoot in the city this evening. I’m glad you’re unhurt.”
“As I am glad you are safe, Father.”
“And you’re both really glad that I’m okay, right?” Shane drawls, trying not to throw up in his mouth. God, the idea of Drake on his knees for anything, anyone other than him is enough to make him retch.
The priest’s eyes narrow at the sight of him. “Ah. Vassal. I didn’t see you there.”
“Good thing everyone’s welcome in the church, isn’t it?” Shane asks cheerfully. He moves to enter, but Drake puts out a hand, blocking his way.
“Wait outside.”
“The Church is inclusive. I know, I saw the pamphlet.”
“Shane, wait outside.”
“I can come in if I want.”
“No. You’re not welcome.” Drake’s eyes are hard, and his grip on Shane’s arm is firm. “Not after last time. Wait out here and I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Shane sighs, trying not to look as pleased as he feels. It gives him the shivers, being inside that place, not that it’s why he made a scene before. That was just basic fun, really, not anything planned out. “If you say so. Worship extra hard to get the gay off, okay?”
“Damn it—”
“Watch the blasphemy! That’s very naughty. Do the priests spank you if you’re bad enough?”
Drake stops responding, hurrying inside the Church with the priest only too happy to join him.
Shane sighs in relief, watching the door close just as the presence he’d sensed coalesces behind him, resolving into a figure he knows all too well. Another second and Drake would have seen, and that’s guaranteed a bad ending. He turns, smoothly sinking down to one knee, head bowed. “Master.”
The freezing wind that sweeps through the street would have made grown men cry, would have frozen small animals to death in seconds. Shane doesn’t blink. All his attention is focused on the tall figure swirling into being, cold incarnate forming itself into the figure of a sharp-featured man. Everything about him shimmers, ice-blue and white and green and dark, frozen red, hair nothing less than a waterfall arrested mid-crash. His eyes flick this way and that before settling on Shane. “Vassal. You are on the hunt.”
“Yes, Master.” Shane remembers feeling afraid of the Ice King. He remembers feeling a lot of things. Now it’s form and politeness more than any fear that keeps him on his knees, keeps his tongue in check.
“You seek the Soul-Thief?”
“Yes, Master.”
The Ice King’s lips narrow slightly. “You’ve not hunted anything in nearly two years. Could it be that Roy told you of a certain…bargain?”
“He said I’d get my soul back.” Shane had tried lying to the Ice King before. It hadn’t ended in his favor. Far better to tell the truth and let the ice chips fall where they may than suffer through a punishment like t
hat again.
“And if I were to tell you that he lied? That I promised only him that sort of reward, and none of the others whose lives I hold?” He reaches into the air, long fingers glistening with tiny lights, even as something inside Shane feels the scrape of a fingernail across it. It’s the most real the pain has been in years, and he gasps, clutching at his chest, for all the good that does him.
Tears burn his eyes with their heat, and Shane says quietly, “Master, I would beg you to offer me the same.”
“Why should I? You are the most powerful servant I’ve ever had under my command. Tell me why I should willingly relinquish my most powerful tool.”
“Because he’s no good to you.”
The Ice King’s head whips around, features sharpening further, obviously wrestling an ancient urge to strike. “Sister Wife.”
“Brother Husband,” the woman returns, forming out of the air as the Ice King had, and could not be a more opposite picture. The flame to his frost, she wreathes herself in red-gold-orange-yellow, her skin alive with the heat of an inferno, her hair a living, moving creature. Like the Ice King, she wears no clothing, and her bare feet melt the snow where they touch.
Oh, shit.
Even as dulled as his emotions have become, Shane feels a twinge of apprehension. It doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s not exactly encouraging for these two to be anywhere near each other, whether they’re able to master the ancient urges to violence or not. And given the history the two have as far as Shane knows, he’s vastly more willing to put his money on “not.”
“Why do you say my Vassal is unworthy? He has bested every Vassal you’ve thrown at him in nine years.”
“Because you kept using him past his date of expiration, Brother Husband.” The Fire Queen is at Shane’s side in an instant, raking long-nailed fingers through his hair, and it’s difficult not to twitch and tremble away from the feeling. “How long do your Vassals usually keep? Two, three years? How long before the ice freezes their hearts, their minds as well as their souls?”
“This is no business of yours, Sister Wife. Leave him be.”
Icebound Page 5