by Megan Derr
Midnight wished everything would hurry up; he was so tired of waiting. He wanted to be able to help Devlin and Barra on their missions for Lord Tamor and not just sit at home or safely in their inn rooms all the time.
At last Devlin's townhouse came into view. He climbed the steps quickly, letting himself in and closing the door quietly behind him because Barra always fussed at him for slamming it. He stripped rapidly out of his going-out clothes, putting the coat, scarf, hat, and gloves away properly. His clothes were plain black with practically no ornamentation or frills. He hated the fancy clothes Barra was always trying to shove him into. Again with the looking silly and foppish. He wanted to look like Devlin—strong and powerful and unflappable. Maybe Devlin could do that and wear lace and jewels and colors, but Midnight knew he couldn't. He'd heard how women who saw him, on a few rare occasions, said he looked like a doll.
So, he would never wear the fancy clothes, but he did concede to needing much covering when he went out—especially his hair and nails, the color of which he would never be able to explain away. Over a dinner that included more wine than usual, Devlin had once said that in certain areas they would pass for 'intriguing and beguiling artifice'. Once he had realized his words, he had been furious with himself, and so Midnight had never figured out what he meant.
Barra had refused to tell him as well. Midnight hated when they did that.
The house was oddly quiet, he realized suddenly. Barra hadn't even come bustling in to make certain Midnight had hung everything up properly instead of leaving it lying about. Devlin had not poked his head out of the library to grumble at him for whatever reason he could scrape up.
Coupled with the way they had cheerfully—even eagerly, he thought now—pushed him toward the door, he was starting to suspect something was occurring and they had not wanted him party to it. That stung. Devlin included him in most anything unless it was 'for adults', which usually meant a request from Lord Tamor.
If Barra was not pestering him, perhaps he was simply at his pub. That was better than thinking he was conspiring against Midnight. Devlin… he normally did not go out in the evenings unless some unavoidable commitment forced his hand. As he had not mentioned such an engagement, he would most likely be in the library. He spent more time there than all the other rooms in the house combined.
Midnight abandoned the front hall and headed directly for the library, determined to learn if there was a conspiracy after all—but he drew up short as he reached it.
The door was closed. The library door was never closed, save when Devlin was in one of his moods. Anyone passing by when he was in a mood could all but feel the malevolence pouring out.
At the moment, the door was only mostly closed, as though someone had pushed it shut but not bothered to see if it actually latched. Midnight hesitated, then scowled and strode forward. Devlin had said he was always welcome in the library, no matter the time or occasion.
Still, as his fingers grasped the door itself, he hesitated again. Annoyed with himself, Midnight nevertheless slowly pushed the door partway open. He immediately saw Devlin—then saw in the next moment that Devlin was not alone.
He was also missing most of his clothes. So was his companion, and really, Midnight was never going to sit on that settee again.
Midnight swallowed as Devlin's shirt joined the rest of the scattered piles on the floor and pulled the door shut again—but not all the way because he could not seem to tear his eyes away from the sight before him.
Devlin was—they were—it was just like the images in the books Midnight had found on the low, low shelves right behind Devlin's desk when Devlin had been out one night.
Shifting, feeling guilty and uncomfortable and wholly incapable of leaving, Midnight tore his eyes away from the sight of Devlin completely nude to examine the man he was touching and kissing and—
He was pretty, Midnight supposed. He had long, straight black hair that spilled all over the settee as Devlin, uh, pushed the man into it. His skin was pale and seemed to glow in the firelight. Even as Midnight continued to stare, Devlin sank a hand into the long, dark hair and kissed the man thoroughly.
Midnight clapped a hand over his mouth to keep any noises from escaping.
All around them were clothes. The dark green jacket Devlin had been wearing was on the floor, and an ornate crimson jacket decorated with white and gold lace—it obviously belonged to the stranger—was tossed over the settee. Here and there jewels winked at him from the folds of costly fabric. Oh, he should not be so—but he was—
Feeling suddenly ashamed, for spying and feeling such strange things, Midnight turned and crept away as quietly as he could. Once he reached the stairs, he ran as fast as he dared, stopping only long enough to avoid slamming his door shut, then bolted to his bed and threw himself down upon it.
His breeches were tight and uncomfortable and Midnight hated it because the reason for it was Devlin, and he'd never thought of Devlin—and oh, what was he supposed to do?
Why had that long haired stranger come here, anyway? This was all his fault, Midnight was sure of it. If he hadn't come, then Midnight wouldn't have wondered what was going on in the library and gone to see that.
His breeches were still too tight. It only got worse when he pictured Devlin bare-chested in the firelight, the way he'd held that bloody stranger and gripped his long hair and—and—
He realized his hand was fumbling with his breeches and tried to jerk it away, but his hand was having none of that. It felt good and wrong and right and awful—until he finally could do nothing more than picture Devlin and stroke and—
Staring miserably at the mess he'd made, Midnight wondered how he was ever going to explain to Barra the state of his laundry.
Standing up, he stripped out of his clothes and kicked them under the bed. Maybe Barra would forget about them if he never saw them. Midnight strode to his wardrobe to pick out a night robe, but stopped short at the sight of the fancy clothes over which he and Barra argued every morning.
He had many colors but no red. Good, he thought. Red was an ugly color. Only stupid intruders stealing away his Devlin wore red. He bet the lord stranger did not look very good in it either.
Reaching out, Midnight snagged the newest of his jackets, a deep, rich turquoise with black and silver accents. He and Barra had nearly started shouting over it just that morning, he had been so set against wearing it.
Perhaps it was not so bad… Devlin wore such clothes. Maybe he could at least try it—certainly he would manage it better than he-of–the-crimson-jacket.
Carrying it to his mirror, Midnight shrugged into it and tried to picture how he would look properly done up, the way Barra was always trying to make him. Better than the stranger, definitely. Maybe he would try jewelry.
He would probably look even better with long hair, and maybe then Devlin would not be stolen away by interloping bastards who had no business being in Devlin's library and stealing Devlin away from him. He shared Devlin's heartbeat, no one else.
Yes, he decided and went to put the coat back, trading it for a black night robe. If the fool downstairs was pretty, then Midnight would be prettier still. By the time he was done, Devlin would look at him and no other.
And maybe, a tiny, nervous little voice whispered in the back of his mind, maybe someday he would be the one on the settee with Devlin.
The idea felt illicit, wrong, like some deep, dark secret—but it also felt good and right, and if he had to be long haired and fancy to manage it, he would. His Heartbeat wasn't allowed to belong to anyone else.
Magic
It was raining when he woke, a light, cold drizzle that he rather thought did not bode well for the rest of the evening. At least it was not a downpour—that would have been downright ominous.
Midnight threw back the coats covering him and sat up with a groan, stretching and working out every kink acquired from his awkward sleeping arrangement. Gathering up the heavy greatcoats, he slowly stood and sought out
the others.
They sat nearby, talking quietly, but the conversation faded off as he approached. As one, they stood, murmuring pleasantries that he returned. He returned the coats to Neirin and Ceadda, thanking all of them for staying with him.
"Rested?" Barra asked.
"Yes," Midnight said, nodding. He was grateful he did not flush as shreds of his dream still teased at the edge of his mind. Lord, he had not thought of that night in years. That had been just over six years ago, the night everything had truly changed between him and Devlin.
At least, according to him. Until their kiss, he had wondered if Devlin would never see him as anything but a child.
"Let us be off," Neirin said. "Best not to invite trouble by lingering, and I, for one, could do with a proper bite to eat."
Midnight grinned. "I could stand a bite myself."
"As could I," Ceadda said idly, but with a gleam in his eyes.
"Hahaha," Neirin replied, rolling his eyes.
Barra snickered, then transformed and threw his head back, howling long and low. It was met by Troyes's deep, reverberating growl. Midnight and Ceadda transformed, adding their own cries to the night.
Neirin chuckled as he mounted his horse. "A stranger party I have never seen or been part of." He nudged his horse forward and followed the quickly moving group from the woods, Ceadda's cries heralding them to the night.
They made good time, pushing hard, and did not slow until the lights of the village were clearly visible. Transforming back, they gathered together and took stock.
"Food first," Neirin said. "There is no point in attempting anything until we have the proper energy to do so."
They all nodded and continued to walk toward the village, Neirin leading his horse now so as to stay with them.
Midnight rifled through his pockets in vain hope of finding a ribbon. Some days he wished he still preferred to keep his hair ruthlessly short—but that had changed first from sheer determination to make Devlin look at him, and later he had simply come to like it.
Though he would like it more if he could find a bloody ribbon. If they were to eat out, he must appear as normal as possible. Even in the dim light of a cheap tavern, the blue of his hair would be obvious should anyone really look—something they were far more likely to do if it was loose and tumbling all over in a right mess.
Soft chuckles drew his attention, and then a hand appeared in front of his face holding a ribbon.
Midnight laughed and took it, turning to say, "Thank you, Barra."
"You're welcome," Barra said, still chuckling. "Honestly, if I had a pence for every ribbon you managed to lose, I would be wealthier than even His Grace."
"Probably," Midnight conceded. He was remarkably talented at losing them—usually by accident, but not always. He knew very well that part of the plan had always worked: Devlin liked his men with long hair.
With easy, practiced motions, he braided his hair and tied it off, allowing it to fall so that it was mostly hidden by the high collar of his jacket anyway. That done, he reached into a pocket and pulled out supple, black kidskin gloves to hide the blue of his nails. "Do I pass muster, Master Wolf-Elf?"
Barra rolled his eyes. "Not if you and everyone else keep calling me that. I do have a name."
Troyes growled in amusement as he turned from where he had been listening to something Neirin was saying. "Wolf-elf."
"Barra, that is my name," Barra said, glowering, but a smile tugged at his mouth. "You can say it, dragon."
"Wolf-elf."
Neirin chuckled. "Forget it, Barra. Once he latches onto a name, that is the end of it."
Barra smirked in a way that Midnight would have warned them meant trouble if he had been inclined to help them avoid trouble. "Not even for apple pie?"
Troyes growled, eyes narrowing. "Apple pie? Apples?"
"You've never had apple pie?" Barra asked in disbelief.
"No…" Troyes said, growling a bit.
"Then we shall certainly have to remedy that. When we return to the city, I'll make one."
Troyes rumbled and looped an arm around Barra's shoulders, nuzzling his cheek. "Good wolf-elf."
Barra sighed but did not protest the brief kiss Troyes stole, pointedly ignoring Midnight's sniggering.
"Here we go," Midnight said, having mercy on Barra and motioning to a sign over a battered looking door. "Looks more or less respectable, hmm?"
Neirin rolled his eyes but led the way inside and shortly had them ensconced at a table in a relatively secluded corner with food and drink for all necessary parties.
"Do you not need food?" Midnight asked Ceadda, who sat sipping at beer for the sake of something to do.
Ceadda shrugged. "It is not urgent. I will feed in a little while. What of you?"
"I'm well enough," Midnight replied. "I've had more blood in the past two days than I normally have for months at a time." He sighed softly, not quite able to bite it back. "I will be glad when this is all over and we can retire to the country for a bit. I've had more than enough excitement."
"Here, here," Barra said.
Neirin quirked a brow, and Barra suddenly squeaked, shooting Neirin a dirty look.
"Surely," Neirin drawled in his haughtiest tone, "some good has come of your adventure?"
Barra smiled. "Of course. I think we've finally gotten Devlin past his bloody denial."
Neirin gave him a withering look and proceeded not to pout into his beer. After a moment, his head shot up and he gave Barra an amused-impressed look.
Midnight really wished they would stop doing things beneath the table.
He turned to Ceadda for distraction. "So you are certain the sorcerer you thought could have done this is really dead?"
"Quite certain," Ceadda replied, sitting back in his chair and idly turning his beer back and forth, jewel green eyes sharp and bright, even in the dim light. "He died about twenty years ago due to problems with his heart. I met him forty years ago, as I said, to discuss a book in my keeping. At that time, I had two copies of it. He did not know that, and I am glad to this day I was wise enough to keep that particular detail to myself. Of the two copies, one was in excellent condition and the other all but falling apart. I cautiously took the poor copy with me to meet him at his home, which, incidentally, is here." Ceadda pursed his lips in thought. "He is dead, but I suppose someone else might have secretly taken up his work. He dabbled in arts that even I prefer to avoid, but that is humans for you."
Neirin rolled his eyes. "As the only true human at this table, I will be gracious and not take offense to that."
Ceadda smiled. "Then you are a rare, intelligent human."
"So the sorcerer died of a weak heart?"
"I'm certain the magic in which he dabbled sped the process," Ceadda replied but nodded. "When I met him, he was not in the best of health. To look at him, you would think all was well, but a vampire can smell it." He tapped his nose, then wrinkled it. "Bad blood, that one. In every sense of the word. What poison his body wasn't born with he added through magic. He was a sorcerer but also dabbled with alchemy, and what he wound up accomplishing I do not want to know."
He shrugged. "I heard through my connections that he had died and came here to see for myself. My encounter with him had always lingered, and I kept an ear out for any word of him. Seemed too easy that he would simply die of his health problems, but I saw the body for myself and confirmed it. He was dead."
Midnight frowned in thought. Dead was dead, though. "What kind of magic interested him? You said they were subjects even you would not touch."
"Oh, everything. He contacted me to get his hands on a spell of control, but the one I gave him was incomplete. I knew for a fact he would find a complete version nowhere other than my library, and I had already made certain he would not look there again. He liked spells of control, spells of coercion—cruel stuff."
Neirin lifted his brows. "Is it so different from using beauty to snare food and convince it that it wants to be food?"
/>
Anger flickered across Ceadda's face. "Yes, it is different. We hunt no differently than any other creature in existence, save that we do it with pleasure rather than pain. You can hardly call that a fault, knight, not when that creature sitting beside you knows only to obey you and die for you and never let an independent thought enter his head."
"That is not the nature of our relationship," Neirin snarled, all but lunging across the table.
"Do not insult me unfairly," Ceadda said coolly, "and I will not insult you. Every other human in existence persuades others with the power of his beauty—at least I only take blood and do so as painlessly as possible."
Neirin grunted, grimacing as he subsided.
Midnight returned to the matter at hand. "Spells of control and coercion?" he repeated. "So, he wanted to force someone or something to do his bidding?"
"Well, a great deal of higher magic involves coercion. Summoning demons is ordering them to come forth, the making of angels is coaxing them into a mortal shape. Then you have the sirens, and of course alchemy is taking basic elements and fusing them with magic to contort and bend both into something entirely new. All of magic is, at heart, coercing, commanding, coaxing, or convincing various things to change in some way. It is only that it can be done by way of beauty or by way of brutality. Silas Walmsley preferred brutality. Whatever his ultimate goal, I never knew. It was enough to know that it was best never achieved.
"He's dead, but it cannot be coincidence that the dead walk where he once lived, and those same dead are being manipulated by unseen forces. I can only surmise he had an apprentice, or that someone otherwise managed to get close enough to take over his work when he died."
Midnight nodded, worrying his bottom lip. "I guess we shall have to investigate his home? I do not see any other way to solve this riddle. But if the sorcerer was right here in the village, one of us would have sensed him, surely. What Devlin or I do not sense, Barra typically smells, and knights and dragons must have their own methods."