The Only Option

by Megan Derr

  He shook that thought aside, banished it to join all the other unwanted thoughts that had burned away. Withdrawing his fingers, he slicked his cock and pressed it to Tilo's hole, then once more captured those slender wrists and pressed them firmly to the bedding. He bit hard at Tilo's throat as he pushed inside his body, felt the deep moan that drew out.

  “Rochus—” Tilo struggled against his grip, but not with any real effort. If he'd been trying, a dragon at full strength could toss Rochus clear across the room and, if angry enough, through the wall. He growled. “Fuck me, already.”

  Rochus pulled out slightly and then slammed back in, stilling again as Tilo moaned even louder, then repeated the motion, stilling every time until Tilo finally howled for him, long and broken and desperate. Only then did Rochus give him the hard pounding they both craved, going until he could scarcely breathe and his entire body ached with it, trembled with the effort of holding off his own climax.

  When he could take no more, he bent and sank his teeth into Tilo's throat, this time breaking skin, filling his mouth with the hot, sweet taste of fresh dragon blood as he slammed into Tilo's body one last time and came apart. Tilo screamed as he came, his release hot and sticky between them.

  Rochus slumped atop him until he could muster the energy to roll off. He turned on his side to face the door, yawning as exhaustion followed quickly in the wake of several days of hard travel followed by an unexpectedly busy evening.

  Behind him, Tilo had already dropped off, snoring softly, one arm draped lazily over Rochus's hips. Normally Rochus would wake him up and tell him to go, but he was entirely too lethargic to muster the energy. Against all sense, he let sleep overtake him.

  He was stirred in the night by a mouth on his throat and slick, clever fingers returning all the teasing torment Rochus had subjected Tilo to earlier. Sleepiness warred with desire, and Rochus reached up a heavy, fumbling hand to drag Tilo closer, turning to kiss him awkwardly. “Get on with it then, kit.”

  A husky chuckle filled Rochus's ear and then the fingers withdrew, quickly followed by a long, hard cock that wasted no time in fucking Rochus into sharp, hungry wakefulness. After a few firm thrusts, however, Tilo withdrew. Before Rochus could begin lobbing curses at him, he rolled Rochus to his stomach and up onto his knees, then spread him wide and fucked back into him, pounding with hard, deep strokes that left Rochus breathless and dizzy.

  The hazy, dim-lit world around them vanished entirely as he came apart a second time, gasping for breath, then moaning as Tilo pressed his wrist to Rochus's mouth and filled it with sweet blood once more.

  By the time Rochus once more stretched out on the bed, he could barely breathe, let alone think or, goddess forbid, move. He only barely felt the soft brush of lips against his cheek, barely heard the softly murmured, “Farewell, magus,” and the quiet opening and closing of the door.

  He woke to gray, hazy sunlight and a familiar rough tongue on his cheek. Groaning, Rochus cracked open one eye and glared blearily. “Memory. Can't you ever let a man sleep?” Hadn't the door been closed? Well, that rarely did more than slow Memory down.

  Memory purred at him and gently butted her head against his cheek. Rochus sighed and sat up, folding his legs in front of him and smiling faintly as Memory climbed into his lap for her morning petting. She was the very color of white-gray mist, long-haired, fluffy, and enormous—what was known as a Valder Mountain Cat.

  She was also dead. She'd been the runt of the litter, too small and weak to survive, and had died within minutes of being born. Normally bringing the dead back to half-life was impossible, for the only way to do it was in the immediate moments following death, when the spirit was still within and there were sufficient dregs of life to be filled with necromantic power. But he'd been there when she'd breathed her last and surrendered to an impulse, filling her with his power. She'd been his faithful companion ever since. Though Song, Silence, and Fury were also dear to him, Memory was most precious.

  “Yes, I'm aware I smell funny,” he said when she mewed at him and pricked his skin slightly. “You'll have to get over it because I'm not remotely sorry.” The only thing he was sorry about was not being able to enjoy a morning farewell, but given the night's performance, he doubted he'd have been capable of it anyway.

  That being said, he could not remember the last time he'd felt so invigorated. Tilo's blood was like nothing he'd ever had. Or was likely to have again, since Tilo was the only dragon in his forty-three years who'd offered him blood. Until then, the finest thing Rochus had ever tasted was the blood of a healer, and that had been given with great reluctance. No one had ever offered it up so willingly—so eagerly.

  “Best not to waste it then,” he murmured, and after a few last pettings, lifted Memory off his lap and set her aside. “You're in a good mood this morning. Catch yourself a nice plump bird to feast upon?” Memory meowed and preened, and Rochus smiled as he climbed out of bed and went to bathe in the long-cooled water.

  When he was clean and dressed in fresh clothes, and his belongings were packed away, he lifted Memory up and settled her in the crook of one arm, his saddlebags slung over the other shoulder. “Come on, then. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can all be home again.”

  Not that he was in a particular hurry to know why the queen was summoning him to the royal castle. Usually when she had work for him she sent a clerk with all the necessary information and payment. The one and only time he'd had to go to the castle for an assignment was when he was fresh out of training and they wanted a look at him before trusting him to act in the crown's name.

  Hopefully the task would not be too onerous, but he wasn't counting on it. Any problem requiring a necromancer was already nearly as bad as it could get, and any problem requiring he first speak directly to the queen…

  Well, he'd almost rather be a damned vampire.

  Outside, he walked through the chilly, faintly misty air to the stable across the yard and handed over a pence to the boy who'd watched his unicorn for him in the night. Though Fury was missing his horn, sawed off long ago by poachers who'd left him for dead, he was still as beautiful and lively as any unicorn Rochus had ever met. At least he had been once he'd healed up, which had taken time, not least of all because keeping things alive was not a skill Rochus had ever been required to learn.

  Fury's coat and hair were the color of pitch, with a faint rainbow luster to it in full daylight. The stump of his horn gleamed like a black pearl, and his eyes were a swirling, jewel-bright green. He whinnied softly as Rochus approached.

  “Good morning, my handsome fellow,” Rochus murmured, stroking Fury's velvety nose. “Were you treated well?” That got him nuzzled, and Rochus smiled. “Good.” He led Fury out of his stall and got him ready, then led him into the yard. Rochus swung into the saddle, then called to Memory, who mewed and launched up to settle in front of him, purring softly as they headed out.

  A short distance down the road, two ravens burst from a nearby tree and rose into the sky to fly above him. One cawed out, the sound ringing far and loud in the cold, still morning air. The other was silent, but that was typical of the slightly smaller of the two—Silence, and her chattier sister Song, both dead like Memory. They'd been accidental casualties of one of his first assignments, and he'd been young and reckless enough to try bringing them back, still smugly satisfied with himself for managing so well with Memory only a few months prior.

  It wasn't the last time he'd been that cocky, but it was the last time his attempts had been successful. After a few horrific, near-fatal failures, he'd quit making himself pets. Though he couldn't swear he'd behave should something happen to Fury.

  The mist cleared away as morning turned to afternoon and came creeping back in as day slowly began to fade to night. He reached the gates of the royal city just as the last of the sun sank beneath the horizon and the call of ghost owls began to fill the night.

  “Hold!” called a guard. “Who goes there?”

  “Mag
us Rochus Kraemer, Necromancer of the Queen.”

  “Hail and good evening, magus,” the guard replied and vanished from sight as he called, “Raise the gates!”

  The portcullis rose a moment later and Rochus rode through, Memory on his lap, Song and Silence on his shoulders. The streets were largely deserted as he rode through the city. He navigated its twists and turns with familiar ease, for though he did not visit often, he had a sharp memory for such things, a byproduct of all the traveling he did and what he needed to know and be able to recall on a moment for his work.

  When he reached the castle, he rode straight to the stables and tended to Fury himself. He left Memory to her hunting with the admonition not to go killing anyone's pets, unimpressed with her obedient mew. Glaring one last time at her, he left with Song and Silence still on his shoulders.

  Approaching the keep, he nodded to the guards who pulled the heavy doors open for him and strode into the great hall. Rochus swept his eyes over the hall, across the royal table, but did not see his uncle. Unsurprising, he usually preferred to dine in his room, but it would have been nice to see him on the chance Rochus had to depart immediately to carry out whatever task he was about to be assigned.

  Queen Irmhild turned from speaking with the woman to her left, and the frown on her face turned into a pleased smile. “Good, you're here. Took you long enough, magus.”

  Rochus came to a halt at the foot of the dais and sank to one knee. On his shoulder, Song gave out a short, sharp, echoing caw, eliciting soft whispers and murmurs along the length of the crowded great hall that had fallen silent as his arrival was noticed. “My apologies for the late arrival, Your Majesty. I was far afield when the message arrived.”

  “Mmm,” Irmhild murmured. “No matter, you're here now and no harm done. Rise.” When Rochus had stood, she said, “You and your peculiar birds. Did you bring that damnable cat along as well?”

  “She goes where I go, Your Majesty.”

  “See she stays out of my birdhouse, or she'll find herself dead for good, magus.”

  “She's been admonished, Your Majesty.”

  Irmhild grunted but did not otherwise reply.

  Rochus bit back the questions that wanted out because impatience and rudeness would not get him anywhere. He would know why he was here when Irmhild wanted him to know.

  After a few minutes, when conversation had resumed and most had ceased to pay attention to them, the queen finally gave a slight smile and said, “I suppose you would like to know why you're here, magus.”

  “At Your Majesty's pleasure,” Rochus replied.

  Irmhild laughed. “I remember when you were not nearly so polite, magus. Of course, I was even ruder than you in those days, hmm?”

  Beside her, Consort Gretchen snorted softly. “Was? What is all this past tense?”

  “You be quiet,” Irmhild said, smile widening. She looked at Gretchen briefly, and kissed her fingers, before finally shifting her attention back to Rochus. “Magus, you have been brought here because I've been called upon to repay a debt and it is not one I can refuse.”

  Rochus frowned, brow drawing down. “Of course, Majesty, though I confess I'm confused as to how I can be of any help.”

  “Necromancers are not in great supply, and you are one of only five who fit the requirements—and the only one currently on the continent.” She lifted the cup she still held, drained the wine that remained in it, and set it down with a hard clack. “You, my dear magus and old friend, are to be married.”

  Rochus blinked. Stared at her. On his right shoulder, Song cawed again, startling everyone nearby. “Beg pardon, Majesty?” he said at last.

  She laughed. “You are to be married. Lord Landau has called in a favor. He is in want of a spouse and says only a necromancer will do. Given what his family once did for mine, as I said, this is not a request I can refuse. Therefore, you are to marry him—tomorrow.”

  Rochus was too baffled to feel anything else, though he knew anger would eventually spark to life. “Married. Tomorrow. What is the rush?”

  “That is his affair and none of mine,” Irmhild replied. “I've had him summoned. You two can talk tonight, and tomorrow morning we'll have the ceremony. It's long past time you were properly settled down anyway, magus. This will be good for you.”

  And there was the anger, but Rochus tamped down on it with discipline hard won over decades of practice. Landau, Landau… How did he know that name?

  Soft footsteps came from behind him and only then did Rochus notice that silence had once more fallen across the great hall. “You called, Your Majesty?”

  The voice swept over Rochus like fire and ice all at once, anger and disbelief lodging in his chest and momentarily stealing his ability to breathe. He turned as the man drew even with him and glared at Tilo, who stared back with sad, guilty eyes.

  “Well met, my lord,” Rochus bit out venomously.

  Tilo swallowed, his eyes dimming like a dampened fire. “Well met, magus.”

  Chapter Two

  After excusing them from dinner, because there was no way he would make it through a tedious royal dinner without finding himself arrested and fined, Rochus led Tilo through the castle to his own rooms. He paid good money to have them retained for his permanent use, but it was a luxury he considered well worthwhile.

  He motioned for Tilo to precede him inside, then followed him and closed the door with a sharp, muted bang. Then he kept walking, putting space and the large sofa in the middle of the front room between them. He stared out at the dull lights of the royal city through the window. On his shoulders, Song and Silence shuffled restlessly. “Go, enjoy the night,” Rochus said softly. Song cawed and Silence tugged at his hair, then they hopped down to the deep windowsill, fluttered to the edge, and flew off. Rochus pulled down the tapestry to cover the window and keep out most of the chilly night wind.

  Slowly turning around, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Tilo, who was staring at the floor and looking much like a dog caught stealing supper from the table. “I'm going to assume that last night was no coincidence, though I do not know why you thought it necessary to fuck me before my arrival here. I'd also like to know why I am being made to marry you.”

  “Because I need a necromancer—”

  “Then tell the queen to send one like the rest of the damned kingdom!”

  “Don't you think I've tried that?” Tilo demanded, not quite shouting the words, though he may as well have for the fury that filled his voice and blazed in his eyes. “I'm not fucking stupid, nor am I so spoiled a brat or whatever is running through your mind that I thought I must marry a necromancer instead of simply requesting one.”

  Rochus pressed his lips together. Tilo didn't seem to be lying, but then again, he hadn't seemed to be lying last night either. “Why in the world would the queen refuse your petition? She certainly was amenable to your request for a spouse.”

  “I've sent ten notices that my lands required the services of a necromancer. Every single time my requests go unanswered. The last one was sent three months ago.”

  “And upon your arrival? Why come all this way and not ask her directly?” Rochus asked. “Your story melts like ice in spring.”

  “It's not a fucking story!” Tilo bellowed, all the flames in the room flickering hard in reaction, and a wave of heat washing over Rochus before Tilo tamped down on his dragonfire. “I logged every single one, like I log all such things. I came here with every intention of asking her to send a necromancer and explain why ten petitions for help were ignored. But no one goes directly to the queen about such matters.”

  Rochus sighed. “No, they don't. They must go through the relevant Supreme.”

  “Yes, and I did, of course, go to see the Magus Supreme. But his clerks have no record of any of my petitions.” Tilo's gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders slumping.

  Damn it. One or two petitions might go astray, even three in particularly poorly run territories, given all the steps involved: when
a person was troubled, they contacted the lord of the territory, who investigated the matter. If it proved beyond his abilities to resolve, he petitioned the throne for further assistance, either a Queen's Hand if they did not know exactly what was wrong, or a specific type of magi if they did know the exact nature of the problem.

  The petitions from the lord were sent to the nearest royal garrison, who would assign the Hand or relevant magi, or send the matter on to the royal castle if they did not have the magi needed. Necromantic matters were rare enough, and necromancers small enough in number, that they were practically never to hand. All petitions for a necromancer invariably went to the royal castle to be handled directly by the Magus Supreme's office.

  That ten separate petitions had gotten lost along the way… That most certainly merited suspicion.

  “I'm still not following how this provoked you to forcing a marriage,” Rochus said.

  “It was all I had left,” Tilo said, voice thick with bitterness. “I need a necromancer; I have no way of knowing why my petitions are going astray or who is responsible. Every other path available, I have tried. If I went directly to the queen with my complaints, it would take months to sort out, and I've already wasted too much time. This was my only remaining option. I knew her Majesty would not refuse the chance to settle a debt—and nobody could interfere.”

  Rochus dropped his arms. “I see. So what was last night about?”

  Tilo's skin flushed pink, his eyes still on the floor. Rochus suppressed the urge to cross the room and make the little brat look up at him. Licking his lips, looking slowly up then hastily back down, Tilo finally said, “I've never actually met, or even seen, a necromancer. All I knew were the wild stories people like to tell. I didn't want to do something wrong or cause embarrassment, so I went to that tavern because someone said it's a frequent stopping point for travelers and my best chance at finding one. I saw you, decided to chat.”