Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Here, but drink slowly this time.’ André held out the refilled brandy glass. ‘Sip by sip.’

  When Jonathan took hold of the fat, rounded glass, he was alarmed to feel André’s hand curve around his, lifting the drink to his mouth. The count’s skin was extraordinarily cool, yet its very coldness was exotic and exciting, and sent a thrill through Jonathan’s shocked body.

  I can’t feel this! thought Jonathan helplessly, feeling it anyway. He’s two hundred years old. I don’t know him. Dear God in heaven, he’s a man! He’s a man! He’s a man!

  ‘Sip,’ André urged again, his free hand returning to Jonathan’s burning back.

  Jonathan sipped. Far faster than was wise, but he was desperate for some kind of anaesthesia. He was experiencing something he had never felt before, and something he had never in his wildest dreams or darkest nightmares expected to feel – and the worst part was that it was ravishingly delicious. The brandy seemed to be having no effect on him whatsoever, but as he was allowed to take a breath, André’s cologne made his head whirl. It was the smell of roses, and a sharp visceral musk.

  ‘Think of Belinda and Michiko,’ whispered the count in his ear. ‘Imagine them together.’ That long cool hand was still on his back, moving a little, rubbing him through the cotton of his shirt. ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ cried Jonathan, horrified by the strange sound of his own voice; its shrillness, its girlishness.

  ‘Does the idea of same-sex love repel you?’ André’s voice was deep now, very masculine and cajoling. ‘Surely not.’ The final two words were not a question but an observation – and not one about Belinda and Michiko.

  I’m being seduced, thought Jonathan. Just as Belinda was, here on this couch. And for all her single-mindedness, all her steadfast resistance of any kind of exploitation, she succumbed to this man within moments of meeting him.

  ‘Jonathan?’ prompted André gently, his hand still now, and so chilling through Jonathan’s lightweight shirt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ repeated Jonathan, feeling broken apart but somehow strangely resigned. He looked up, staring into the middle distance, intensely aware of the alluring figure beside him yet knowing it was he, himself, who had the choice.

  ‘Look! Get it over with, if you’re going to,’ he said suddenly, unable to cope with the growing tension any more. If André made a move and it was thoroughly repellent, well, at least he would know. He would know, and he could leap up and flee from the room as fast as his feet would carry him. And if it wasn’t? He couldn’t know until the moment came.

  ‘It is your choice,’ said André quietly, as if he had viewed the brief debate in Jonathan’s mind. Maybe he had?

  Jonathan turned his face, and found his lips just inches from his companion’s. He could smell the brandied sweetness of André’s breath, and almost drowned in the aquamarine pools of his eyes.

  He’s so beautiful, thought Jonathan. He attracts me. I want him. But my body doesn’t quite know how I want him. He shuddered, filled with thoughts and fears of buggery. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, his voice extraordinarily small.

  ‘Do not worry,’ said André, reaching up and undoing the thong that tied his striated locks back. ‘I know what it is we need to know.’

  Jonathan bit his lip to restrain a gasp. André’s hair was soft, thick and shiny, despite its peculiar coloration. Jonathan felt a strong urge to bury his hands in it.

  ‘Go ahead, do it,’ urged André.

  His breathing shallow, his heart racing, Jonathan put up his hands and slid them through André’s silky tresses until he was cradling the other man’s head. He watched André’s lips part, almost in ecstasy, revealing the soft rosy interior of his mouth. Without thinking, Jonathan lunged forward and kissed him.

  It’s just like kissing a woman, he thought, feeling André’s strong, slender arms come around him. The sensations were the same: velvety lips under his, parting provocatively and admitting his tongue. He was so used to kissing like a man – probing strongly and taking the initiative – that he continued to do so, while André seemed perfectly happy to let him, relaxing back on to the settee and drawing him down.

  ‘Mmmm …’ murmured the count as they broke apart for a moment, and he reached up to touch Jonathan’s chin. ‘Not so bad, is it?’ He smiled, then took Jonathan’s hand, from where it still held his head, and turned his face so he could moistly kiss its palm.

  ‘No … no, it isn’t,’ stammered Jonathan, disconcerted as André surged up against him, kissed him again, actively this time, and at the same time began unfastening his shirt buttons. Before he knew it, the garment was open to the waist and the loose tails pulled out, then André was shimmying along beneath him and sucking at his nipple. He felt the count’s teeth close wickedly and he groaned.

  Jonathan had always had sensitive nipples and loved to have them played with and nibbled. For a moment, he thought of Belinda and how beautifully she did this for him, but the next instant he was dragged back to reality, his body excited by the extra layer of piquancy that having a man’s mouth on him created.

  The pair of them rocked and wrestled. Jonathan on top, his hands rubbing and stroking at every bit of his partner he could reach; André beneath, holding tight, his teeth still nipping. As he wriggled and struggled and cried out in excitement, Jonathan was embarrassingly aware of his erection. It was as big and hard as it had ever been before, and it was poking André somewhere in his mid-section. The count too was erect, his organ pressed against the side of Jonathan’s leg. His bulge felt enormous, even through two layers of denim, and wriggling faster, Jonathan wondered what it looked like. Would it be smooth or veined? Circumcised or uncut? Would it be long and thin, or shorter, but very thick?

  Exhibiting, once again, the telepathic ability that Jonathan suspected him of, the count suddenly slithered out of the peculiar clinch and got to his feet.

  ‘Let us make ourselves comfortable,’ he said, with a playful little grin that almost reminded Jonathan of Belinda. What a conundrum the man was; one minute he was the archetypal alpha male, all effortless command, and the next, he was more feminine, more languorous. The weird contrast was confusing but still attractive. Jonathan watched, rapt, as André first unbuttoned his shirt, flicking the tails out of his waistband, and then, standing elegantly on one leg, then the other, removed his boots. He wore no socks, and when he had unbuckled his belt and unfastened his jeans, then removed them, Jonathan discovered he wore no underpants either, and his penis was both sizeable and rigidly hard.

  ‘Now you,’ said the count quietly, still wearing his lustrous blue shirt.

  Nervous, embarrassed, yet excited too, Jonathan began the same procedure. He was convinced he could not get his clothes off with the same graceful ease that André had, but nevertheless he tried, and was rewarded with an encouraging smile. Off came his trainers and his socks, then his belt and his jeans, and finally he slid down his boxer shorts and kicked them away from him.

  André said nothing, but regarded him steadily for a few moments, his frank gaze ultimately settling below the waist.

  Jonathan felt himself blushing again, all over, and his penis growing so rigid that it hurt him. He knew his body was reasonable, and he had never had any complaints from the women he had made love to, but beside this male lover he began to feel inferior.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, André spoke. ‘You have a handsome body, Jonathan. Strong. Straight. And very manly. It is no wonder that a woman like Belinda chooses to be with you.’

  Still speechless, Jonathan stood like a statue, too timid now to move forward. With a gentle smile, the count moved towards him.

  ‘No need to be scared,’ he whispered, wrapping Jonathan in his arms and pressing his cool, smooth body to Jonathan’s warm and sweaty one. ‘No need at all,’ he said, guiding him back towards the couch.

  Then, as they settled down on to the leather, their limbs entwining, their sexes duelling, it dawn
ed on Jonathan that his strange new friend was right.

  He sighed contentedly. He wasn’t scared at all.

  Chapter 14

  Preparations for Departure

  ‘HE DIDN’T FUCK me,’ said Jonathan, his voice solemn in the shadows. ‘And I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t seem to need to.’

  Belinda touched his arm reassuringly. It must have cost Jonathan a lot to reveal what had happened between him and André. Men were touchy about their masculinity, and Jonathan was as much a man as any other. To admit to a homosexual tryst was a major catharsis.

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked quietly, glad for him that it was night and that the darkness was dense.

  It had been after midnight when she had left the chapel with Michiko, and a strange cloudiness had passed across the sky. She had felt tender as they walked through the garden towards the priory; her bottom had been glowing from the spanking she had received, but she had been filled with another radiance too. A glow of satisfaction. The nurturing of a special secret. The knowledge that she had followed a hitherto untrodden path – with yet another charismatic new lover – and that despite the pain, she had loved every second of it!

  She had also been hoping that Jonathan would come to her, so she could tell him about it; and here he was, with his own tale to tell, which was equally wild.

  ‘He took me in his arms,’ her boyfriend said, sliding his own arm around her shoulder and drawing her close. Belinda rested a hand on his chest and felt his heart beating furiously within. ‘He kissed me and touched me and I kissed and touched him. It wasn’t a lot different to the things we do together–’ He paused and seemed to ponder a second ‘–up to a point.’

  ‘And then?’

  Belinda could feel the heat of Jonathan’s blush; his chest was hot beneath her face. ‘He rubbed me until I came. Then he put my hand on his … his cock and sort of rocked against me until he came too.’ He halted again, and Belinda sensed awe in him now and not a little fear. ‘It was cold, Lindi … Like his skin. Cold and sort of thin; not like ordinary semen at all.’ Belinda reached for his hand, and squeezed it tightly. ‘That was when I really believed him. About what he is. It never really sank in until I felt that weird, cold stuff trickling over me.’

  She had been going to tell him about Michiko and the spanking, but now it seemed they could no longer avoid the bigger, more dangerous issue. The strange service that she alone could perform for André and Arabelle.

  ‘Are you going to do it?’ Jonathan asked, as if the tenor of his thoughts had altered too.

  Although she paused for a while, as if considering her answer, Belinda had already made her decision. She had made it quite some time ago, she realised. When she had first seen André asleep in the tower room, she had felt a strange bond with him. Perhaps even before that, when she had been caught in the thunderstorm with Jonathan and had sensed another presence observing them. She wasn’t sure if she believed in fate and destiny and events being mysteriously preordained, but somehow she had known right from the beginning that her life and André von Kastel’s were entangled.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said at last.

  ‘It’s dangerous,’ said Jonathan, his arm enclosing her tighter. ‘If what André told me is correct, there’s a chance that you might die too.’

  His voice was even, resigned, lacking argument; and Belinda was aware that Jonathan had not only accepted her decision, but was glad of it. She smiled. How clever André was. By making love with Jonathan, he had bound him to the cause too – quashed his objections with the power of affection.

  ‘I know,’ she said calmly, ‘but I have no choice. I can’t bear to think of them going on for centuries and centuries like that. So near, but apart. Loving each other, wanting each other, but unable to do anything about it.’

  ‘I certainly couldn’t cope with it,’ said Jonathan. ‘If it were you and me, I would’ve gone mad.’

  For a moment, Belinda forgot the plight of André and Arabelle. Jonathan had spoken spontaneously, without thinking, and revealed feelings for her that were deep and all-encompassing – feelings she suddenly realised she shared. They had had their troubles – only weeks before this holiday they had even discussed splitting up – but the thought of losing him now was suddenly appalling, as much if not more than the thought of losing her life altogether.

  Lost for words, she struggled in his hold, then scooted upward, pressing her lips against his jaw, then his mouth. Despite everything that had happened in the last two days, despite her still smarting bottom that reminded her of pleasure at the hands of Michiko, despite even her fear of what was to come and the very real possibility of death, she wanted desperately to express her love for Jonathan now. Right now. She wanted, no, needed to let him know, while she was still able, that she shared his deep but unarticulated emotion. That she loved him as much as he loved her.

  As his tongue entered her mouth, she felt his body harden against her. Embracing him tightly, she knew that it wasn’t yet too late.

  * * *

  ‘It must be tomorrow night,’ said Michiko, pacing the tower room, something André had observed she always did while thinking and planning.

  ‘So soon?’ he said, feeling a frisson of jumbled anticipation.

  ‘Yes, it is imperative,’ said Michiko, smoothing the voluminous sleeve of the thin green kimono she now wore in readiness. ‘I sense her. I feel her approach.’

  André watched her shudder, feeling the same revulsion himself, and more than that, a blank, all-consuming rage. Time after time, he had eluded Isidora, knowing she had the power to enslave him for ever if she came close enough, but now the tables were finally beginning to turn. With the help of Belinda, Michiko, and even Jonathan, he had the power to destroy her, and to be free; but if she perceived that fact she could well unmake his plans.

  ‘Would that my powers were as sensitive as yours,’ he said, rising and wrapping his own robe around him. ‘Then perhaps I would not have had so many perilous moments in the past. Do you believe she already knows what we intend to do?’

  ‘No, I think not,’ replied Michiko, pausing in her circuit and moving towards André. ‘Remember, her psychic powers are incomplete.’ She took his hands and smiled at him. She was reassuring him, for which he almost loved her. ‘She can sense your consciousness over great distances but she cannot read your mind. Or any other.’ Her dark eyes narrowed conspiratorially. ‘And even if she has employed some new spell and gained the ability to read thoughts, I know a stronger spell to counteract that. I can protect all the minds beneath this roof.’

  ‘What would we do without you, my dear friend?’ said André, smiling at Michiko, then glancing towards Belle’s glowing box.

  ‘You would find ways to prevail, my lord,’ replied Michiko pertly, giving his fingers a fierce squeeze that made him yelp. ‘Now come, we have much work before us! And when dawn comes, you will be no help at all!’

  There was a great deal of apparatus set up on his workbench – burners, flasks of various shapes, pipettes, a pestle and mortar, earthenware vessels and several thuribles. And the great black grimoire lay open at the fateful page.

  ‘First things first,’ André said, smiling at Michiko and feeling focused now the work was in hand. Picking up a white linen handkerchief, he unfolded it, then plucked from its smooth white surface a single red hair about four inches long – which Feltris had deftly retrieved from among Belinda’s clothing. This André placed on a thurible, then tugged a single hair from his own scalp to join the red one.

  Next he strode to the night-table beside his bed and picked up a small rosewood casket, decorated in the same style as Arabelle’s refuge, but smaller, and from this he took another single hair – one strand from the long coiled lock that lay within. It was as red as Belinda’s, almost exactly the same shade, but in this case approximately three feet in length. Twirling it around his finger, he pressed his lips against it with reverence. ‘All that I have of you,’ he murmured, letting Arabelle’
s strand of hair uncoil, then carrying it across and adding it to the others in the thurible. As he lit a taper, he felt Michiko touch his arm.

  ‘Soon you will be with her, my lord,’ the Japanese woman whispered, as they watched the three strands burn to minuscule ashes.

  ‘There have been times when I believed I would never make these preparations,’ he said thoughtfully, stirring the charred mixture with a small glass rod and then tipping it into a fresh vessel. Although he knew this ultimate enchantment by heart, having spent many hours – during his last wakeful period – learning it in readiness, he consulted the grimoire to affirm the next step.

  Hallowed water from the underground stream that ran beneath the chapel, this time lovingly distilled for him by the ever-faithful Oren, was placed in an open-necked glass flask and set to heat over a burner, ready to receive the rest of the ingredients of the potion.

  In other containers, Michiko was mixing components of the complex, many-faceted elixir. Herbs: bettony, agrimony, cedar. Spices; nutmeg, cloves. The magic poisons: belladonna, azarnet and mercury – the monarch among metals. Each mixture was stirred with its own particular pattern – here a square, here a triangle, here a hexagram – and as both the magicians worked, each of them chanted in accord with their beliefs. André called on the Christian trinity of his upbringing, and then on other patrons he had come to understand later. Hecate, the queen of the spirits. Hermes Trismegistus, the mediaeval god of alchemy. Beneficent Isis, the matriarchal goddess of the Ancient Egyptians. The good offices of all these would aid his cause.

  As he chanted, he was aware, too, of Michiko’s liturgical murmurings. André understood very little of her native language, but he knew that for her part she would be calling on the air spirits, the kami of the sky and the heavens beyond, who would also wield their forces to assist him.

  Finally, when all the separate conglomerations were prepared, it was time for the final combining. ‘Be as one,’ whispered André as each vessel yielded up its contents into the flask. ‘Be as one that she and I may be as one.’