Derek’s hand was like a brand, searing into his flesh. Callan’s nostrils flared as his scent threatened to overpower him, sweet and tantalizing to the point of distraction. Heat pooled at the base of his spine, urging him to pounce, to claim, to sink into his body. Without thinking, he moved closer, crowding Derek.
Derek’s smell changed subtly, but it wasn’t with fear. It became ever sweeter, muskier, as if Callan’s unconcealed arousal triggered his own, but instead of moving, either closer or away, he shook Callan’s arm.
“Focus. There’s no time for that now. They’re almost upon us. Please, focus.”
The words sounded foreign, and Callan struggled to decipher their meaning. But the human part of his brain that was still there understood, even if the rest of him didn’t. He took a step back, tearing himself away from Derek with supreme effort, and reached out farther, seeking those who could hear his silent cry in the wilderness.
Help. I’m hunted. Help me.
And they answered. The wolves had roamed these hills since before Cirda was an island, since before humans had come with their ships and their axes, and they recognized one of their own. They turned, and they listened, and they came.
A howl went up somewhere to the south, much closer than anyone would wish to hear while traipsing through unknown woods, followed closely by another, and then another. The dogs’ barking became frantic as shadows made of fur and bone surged between the trees, driven by Callan’s plea. He bared his teeth, snarling along with them, tasting the blood in his mouth, the screams and shouts and yelps of pain and terror ringing in his ears.
Somebody was calling to him, repeating a name that sounded strange and familiar at the same time. He growled, a dangerous low sound reverberating in his throat—a warning. But the human ignored it, stepping in front of him, his eyes bright and beautiful like the stars that were gradually fading from the sky.
“Callan,” he repeated, “Callan!”
Something snapped, and suddenly he was back, as if someone had reeled him into his own body. Callan gulped, sucking in air, cut off from his heightened senses. He clutched at Derek’s shoulders, heaving and disoriented, his head spinning with the abrupt loss. This was worse than when he’d taken a hit to the head because now he couldn’t take refuge in unconsciousness. Folding, he turned away and retched, coughing up water and acid.
“You’re all right,” Derek said, running his hands over Callan’s hair and bare back. He was shaking as hard as his voice, but Callan couldn’t sense why. “You’re all right. Come on.”
Callan nodded and pushed himself upright. Clutching at each other, they stumbled onward, upward, the receding darkness behind them ringing with wails.
The rising sun touched the horizon as the forest opened before them. They came upon a clearing at the edge of a cliff and collapsed in the high grass that rippled with a fresh morning breeze.
Callan whimpered, burying his face in the wet earth. Next to him, Derek’s breaths were coming out like ragged moans.
What did I just do?
He didn’t want to know the answer. He didn’t want to think about it. They were both still alive, and that was everything that mattered.
No, not everything. He rolled, facing Derek, and reached out to him with a trembling hand, already bracing himself for rejection, inevitable now that he’d exposed the abomination lurking inside him.
But the rejection never came. Derek caught his hand, their fingers intertwining, and pulled him closer, so Callan was lying almost on top of him. Instead of hate or disgust, there was a strange look in his eyes, raw and needy and tender, and then he closed the distance between them and pressed his blistered lips against Callan’s.
It was probably as far from an ideal romantic kiss as it could possibly be, but it was also so much more. They drank each other, their lips and tongues meeting in a dance, overwhelming in its newness and yet as familiar as if they’d done it for years, parting only when there was simply not enough air to continue.
Gazing at him from below, Derek lifted a hand to smooth Callan’s hair off his forehead. His features blurred, and Callan realized with a start he was crying. He couldn’t tell precisely why—for relief, release, or regret.
“I…” he began, but the tears choked him, burning his throat.
“Me too,” Derek said softly, destroying that last barrier between them, and then pulled him in for another kiss.
Chapter Thirteen
CALLAN DIDN’T ASK about what had happened in the woods when he called upon the wolves, and Derek didn’t tell him, figuring he’d inquire about it when he was ready. It was clear Callan had a hard time reconciling his aversion to what he considered dark magic with whatever he’d awakened within himself in his desperate attempt to save them.
Derek couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. He was the one who’d insisted Callan try it despite the man’s unequivocal reluctance. But it had given them another chance at survival, a chance to show how they really felt, and he could never regret that. However it was all going to end, at least they’d know they’d come to care for one another.
It sounded so surreal, with them knowing each other for such a short period of time, having been married in such haste, but it didn’t make it less true. Extreme circumstances were perhaps the best measure of a person’s character, and their circumstances could’ve hardly been more extreme. Yet Callan had met them with unwavering dignity, with a selflessness that had left Derek smitten. If he were to search the entire realm of Ivicia far and wide, he wouldn’t find another man worthier of his affections.
Whether Derek was worthy of Callan’s affections was a different question entirely. If they ever returned home, perhaps Callan would reexamine his attachment with a more critical eye, inevitably finding Derek lacking—in looks, political capital, and character. But right now he tried not to dwell on future heartbreak. The present left no room for either joy or pensive reflection.
They trudged through the grasslands along the edge of the cliffs this side of the island, heading north. The near miss with the search party made them temporarily forgo the plans to sneak back to the harbor. The environs of the main village were too dangerous for them now. They had to either find a solution or a new plan, and soon. Derek’s sprained ankle didn’t allow him to do more than hop awkwardly, leaning heavily on the other man. He didn’t want to think about how he was going to steal aboard a moored ship in this condition.
To distract himself from the pain, he threw a furtive glance at his husband. Callan’s perfect profile was outlined against the blue-gray sky, the dark stubble standing out against pale skin. He looked tired, almost haggard.
Derek wanted nothing more than to kiss him again.
“You’re staring,” Callan said. He didn’t turn to him, but the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile.
“You can’t fault me for admiring the most beautiful thing on this blasted island,” Derek said. Callan’s taut muscles moved under Derek’s arm where he was leaning on his shoulder, and he was momentarily distracted by the mental image of those strong arms wrapped around him, that powerful body pinning him down.
He wanted to live long enough to see how it’d feel in reality, if only for a short while.
“You have the worst taste.”
“This coming from you,” Derek said derisively.
Callan stopped and faced him, cupped the side of Derek’s face, and tilted it upward, so he could meet his eyes. The look he wore was serious, almost grave, but the traces of the earlier smile still lingered on his lips.
“I’ll have you know I have impeccable taste,” he said and kissed him.
Derek responded readily, eagerly. He still couldn’t quite believe he was kissing the very same man he’d had to reconcile himself to marrying only a week ago. But it felt so good, so right, that he didn’t pause to wonder how he’d come to change his mind so drastically.
Finally, they broke apart, compelled by the rising sun to continue their miserable journey. Derek list
ened for sounds of pursuit, but none came. Whatever the outcome of the wolves’ attack on the hunting party had been, at the very least they’d turned away from their quarry.
The ground gradually leveled, and at length, they came upon a rivulet that cut through the grass and cascaded in a thin stream into the sea below the cliffs. The water was clear and cold, and Derek had never tasted anything more delicious than that first sip. They both drank greedily and then followed the rivulet back into the thicket, wading in the shallow water to cool their battered feet and mask their scent as much as they could.
“We have to get some rest,” Callan said once the trees closed around them again.
Derek nodded. As loath as he was to stop, there was no denying they were literally falling off their feet, especially him. So, instead of pushing forward, they found a narrow ravine where the stream almost disappeared beneath the mossy rocks. The bank of the ravine, held by the gnarled roots of a large tree, provided enough cover, at least at a casual glance, and while the wet earth and pine needles weren’t the most comfortable bed, they could at least settle without getting muddy.
It was just for a few minutes, Derek told himself as he sat down heavily beside Callan, wincing at the pain that lanced through his leg. Just a few minutes to catch their breath and rest their aching muscles and clear their heads.
WHEN DEREK OPENED his eyes, the rays of light between the pines all fell at wrong angles. He started, sitting up from where he was pressed against Callan’s warm, solid body.
“Shh,” Callan said, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right.”
“What time is it?” Derek asked, blinking owlishly and squinting at the light. “Have you slept at all?”
“Yes, don’t worry. I’m fine. And I’m guessing it’s early afternoon.”
“Afternoon? We’ve slept through the day?”
He pushed himself upright and nearly fell. His ankle was badly swollen and hot to the touch, much worse than it’d been that morning, and the cut on his thigh threatened to open with every unwary move. He could stand, but only barely. Walking would be torment, even favoring his good left leg.
Callan got up and held him, putting his arm around his waist. His touch was fast becoming familiar, a soothing comfort it would be all too easy to get accustomed to.
“We needed it. And in any case, it’s better if we move in the dark.”
The sleep had gone long way in restoring their strength, but it’d been far from comfortable, and now hunger was beginning to make itself known. Derek hadn’t eaten since they’d been fed dry fish on the raiders’ ship, and for Callan it’d been even longer. If they were going to spend any more time on the island, they’d have to somehow forage for whatever food they could scrape up.
They started off again, following a deer trail that skirted the edge of the forest. The high cliffs receded into long miles of rocky beach, and they caught glimpses of the white-frothed green expanse of the sea amid the tree trunks. The sore ankle made it a very slow process; it seemed as though they’d barely covered any ground before the sky above the sea was turning purple and blue, and the water’s brilliant green darkened into murky gray.
“Look,” Callan said, stopping.
Derek lifted his head. He’d been too busy scanning the ground to prevent himself from tripping to pay much attention to what was going on around him, and, frankly, too preoccupied with the pain and the gnawing hunger.
Tiny lights flickered somewhere in the distance, and wisps of smoke rose from what had to be chimneys. It was the first sign of human habitation they’d come across since escaping.
“Is that a village?”
“If it is, it’s a small one,” Callan said. “Stay here. I’ll go take a look.”
As wary as Derek was of staying alone in a strange forest teeming with wild animals and people who were out to kill him, he wanted even less to appear like a whining weakling, so he nodded and sat down to wait.
Though he was grateful for a chance to rest his leg, Derek kept jumping at every sound. The shadows lengthened, and he was seriously considering going after Callan—even if it meant crawling on his hands and knees through the foliage and grass—when he finally returned, nearly crawling himself to avoid being spotted from the shore.
“It’s a fishing village,” Callan said in response to his questioning gaze. “Not much activity going on there except for a few folks tending goats and mending nets. I don’t think they’ve heard anything about us yet.”
“Do you think we might be able to steal some food?” Derek asked, though he wasn’t thrilled about taking anything from people who were so poor. Their presence, however unwilling, had wreaked quite enough havoc on the denizens of Cirda.
“Actually, if we wait till sundown, I think we might be able to steal a boat,” Callan said slowly, his blue eyes alight with something close to tentative hope.
“Really?” Derek’s heart beat faster with both hope and dismay. Stealing a boat was a much graver crime than stealing a handful of beets and carrots. “I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a mariner. I can barely swim, much less sail a boat.”
“I can navigate well enough if the sky is clear,” Callan said. “But we’re a two-day sail from the coast, at least. It’s a no small risk.”
The prospect of dying at sea was hardly better than dying on land, but their options were sadly limited. Any way that would take them off this damned island was bound to be fraught with mortal peril, and trusting their fate to a dingy fishing boat was no better or worse than cowering in the belly of an enemy ship, risking exposure.
“If you say it can be done, then that’s what we’ll do,” Derek said, and Callan squeezed his hand briefly before helping him up again.
They hid behind a dune covered in tufts of yellowed grass, watching the village. It numbered only about half a dozen huts, perched on a rocky elevation above a beautiful beach, peppered with mooring posts. The fishermen were still out at sea, and Callan and Derek waited in tense silence as the sun began to set and dusk enveloped the houses and the compact sheep pens. It was fully dark by the time the boats began to come back to the shore one by one, to be met by spouses and children who hauled heavy buckets of the day’s catch to the kitchens.
Night settled as the lights inside the little houses went out one by one and their inhabitants went to bed. Watching the simple routine, Derek wistfully recalled his old life in Camria. The details that had been so clear before had started to fade, washed away by new experiences like paints in a flood. His life, even in childhood, had never been uncomplicated, especially growing up as a sort of counterpoint to his father in all matters pertaining to their family, but until recently, it had been quiet enough to perhaps be considered boring.
He glanced at the man beside him, who was intently watching the village and the edge of the forest. Nothing about Callan was boring, from his striking good looks to his tumultuous past. Even his droll and arrogant attitude had been only a mask that concealed how much Callan really cared—for his people, for his comrades-at-arms, for his late wife. For Derek, though only gods knew what he’d done to deserve such devotion.
Driven by a protective instinct, he moved closer to his husband. The cold breeze had gotten under his own tattered shirt, making him shiver. Callan, who was half-naked, must have been freezing.
Callan flashed him a distracted smile that made Derek’s heart skip a beat. His beauty was still undeniable, though he stood there dirty, bruised, and ragged, but when he smiled, Derek was truly and utterly lost.
“Ready?” Callan whispered, and Derek nodded. At that moment, he’d follow Callan into the fires of hell, should he suggest it.
But Callan’s intention was far more practical. Keeping low, they slunk toward the water edge where the boats were moored, rocking serenely. The remote location of the village meant no one would be watching for possible thieves; not even a dog’s bark disturbed the peace.
They chose one of the boats that were moored farthest fr
om the houses, with Callan picking the sturdiest-looking one. They took out the nets and every bit of fishing tackle they could see in the moonlight, leaving it on the sand, and then untied the boat and pushed it out into the sea.
The oars felt unexpectedly heavy in Derek’s hands. This was nothing like the carefree summer sailing outings on the lake outside the castle in Camria. Sitting low in the water, these boats were much more robust, almost unwieldy for an inexperienced sailor. Thankfully, Callan seemed to be much more familiar with the vessel, and he was steering it with a confidence Derek could only envy, despite being no less physically wrung out. He couldn’t quite adjust to the fact that he now had free use of his shoulder and had to consciously remind himself of it when he rowed.
The moon shone brightly, leaving an ephemeral trail that spanned the inky expanse all the way to the horizon, its thin line separating the darkness of the water from that of the star-studded sky. With every stroke of the oars, the shore drifted farther and farther away until it was barely visible.
“I can’t believe we did it.” Derek’s voice carried on the water, and he flinched at how loud he sounded. “We got away. It was almost too easy.”
“We’re not out of danger yet,” Callan said. The muscles of his back bunched and flexed as his oar rose and fell. “The most important thing now is to stay on course and pray they didn’t send ships to patrol the coast.”
“I didn’t know you prayed,” Derek said half-jokingly, mostly as a distraction from the ache building in his arms and the throbbing in his abused ankle.
There was a long pause, accentuated by the rhythmic splashes of water.
“I do sometimes,” Callan said, sounding oddly shy. “When I’m desperate enough to forget how rarely the gods listen. Ever since I learned you’d been kidnapped, I’ve been praying for the gods to keep you alive. Perhaps this time they didn’t turn away from me.”
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 14