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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
All That Glitters
Copyright © 2008 by Aislinn Kerry
ISBN: 1-59998-921-2
Edited by Anne Scott
Cover by Anne Cain
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
electronic publication: April 2008
All That Glitters
Aislinn Kerry
Dedication
For Terra.
Because Kynan’s story would have been very different without her enthusiasm, insight, and
general awesomeness.
All That Glitters
Chapter One
Aneirin saved my life the day I met him, and saved it twice again before he finally killed
me. It’s a chance encounter: I’m in a seedy little pub on the edge of Montmartre, drowning my
sorrows in a pint of ale, when a stranger sits down next to me and slings his arm around my
shoulders like we’re old friends. Beneath the table, I feel the point of a dagger press against my
ribs.
I know what he wants, of course—money—and it’s a pity for us both that I have none.
He decides to rough me up as punishment for my poverty, and that’s when Aneirin steps in,
though neither of us saw him coming. All I know is that suddenly there’s a searing line of fire
along my side, and the man with the knife is gone.
I turn, startled, and Aneirin’s behind me. He grips the rough by the collar and growls
something into his face. I don’t hear his words, but the rough does, and he pales.
Aneirin tosses him aside with a casual disregard fit for a king. I’m so pleased to see him
scrambling for the door that I nearly forget about the heat dripping down my side, staining my
last good shirt. Aneirin turns back to me and I am transfixed.
Aneirin means “all gold”. I don’t know why he’s come to France with a Welsh name, but he
looks down at me, his face fierce, his skin burnished by the lamplight, and it suits him.
I don’t realize the irony of the name until later.
The rest of the patrons settle down from the excitement and Aneirin takes my arm. For a
moment I’m scared again. It’s a dirty little pub in a bad part of town; it would shock no one for
one rough to beat up another just to steal his mark. I have nothing left to steal, and one hole
poked in me already. Should he decide to finish my knifing properly, I doubt anyone would
notice, much less care. I hold my hand to my side, fear fluttering in my chest.
He stares down at me, and I up at him. Then his gaze flicks away and back, and some of the
fierceness has faded. He sighs and gives a quick tug on my arm. “Come along. You’ll need to
have that seen to.”
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I let him draw me to my feet. Anything is better than bleeding out while I wait for someone
else to try to kill me. “I can’t afford a surgeon,” I protest, limping after him. I give him a critical
look and doubt that he can, either. His clothes are in as much disrepair as mine.
He doesn’t reply. By this time I’m pretty sure he doesn’t intend to kill me, so I follow after
him. But the throb in my side grows with each step; we haven’t gone long before I have to stop
and lean against a street post while I gasp for breath.
Aneirin continues a few more paces before he realizes I’m no longer behind him. I watch
him walking away from me, too out of breath to call out to him. He stops and turns back, looking
for me. His eyes are dark with worry, and it’s nice. No one else has cared enough to worry about
me in a long time.
He returns to my side. I try to smile and make a joke of it, but I can’t manage much more
than a grimace. He slips my arm around his shoulder and helps me walk. Somehow, we make it
to his home.
It’s just a single room that he rents by the month, but it has a bed and a pillow and I’m
ridiculously glad to see it. Aneirin lowers me onto the bed without hesitation, like he doesn’t care
that I’m going to bleed all over the linens and his landlady will have fits. I try to figure out how
I’ll pay him for the damages, but the pain makes me light-headed. I decide to worry about it
later, when I’ve had my hole patched up. I watch him through half-closed eyes as he moves
around the room. He’s rushed, fumbling and swearing beneath his breath. It’s neither French nor
my native Welsh, so I don’t understand the words, but it’s easy enough to make out the tone.
A fog is settling over me, and I can’t quite manage to understand what the rush is all about.
The room is warm and the bed soft. I press my face into the pillow and let numbness roll over
me.
Hands grab me, startling me out of my daze with a rough shake. Aneirin looms above me.
For a brief moment I hate him, because he’s brought the pain back.
“Wake up!” He gives me another shake for good measure. “You can’t sleep, not yet. You’re
too badly injured.”
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He rolls me onto my side. Pain stabs through me, as sharp as the rough’s knife. I want to
curl in on myself and cry. I wish he’d left me alone; at least then I’d have died in peace. Now,
the pain claws at me like a rabid dog. I’m certain I’ll die weeping, wracked with it.
He presses a poultice to my wound and wraps strips of fabric around my waist to bandage it.
Slowly, the pain begins to fade. I still hurt, but only time will help with that, and the poultice has
taken enough of the edge off that I can dry my cheeks and look up to thank Aneirin. His back is
turned to me as he wipes my blood from his hands. I hope he didn’t notice my tears.
I reach a hand for him, but stop before I touch him. My hand hovers above his shoulder, and
I can neither continue nor withdraw. “Why did you do that?”
He turns back to me. There’s something in his eyes that makes my heart race, but all he says
is, “You were bleeding.”
He sounds almost apologetic. I get the strange sense that he means something else. But I
accept his explanation with a nod. I like to believe there are still people who will help a stranger
for no other reason than because he’s in need of it. Aneirin makes the belief easy. I have not been
home for many years, but he reminds me of everything I miss about it.
He insists that I stay with him, and the first night I am too weary to protest. I sleep through
the entire day, and wake to moonlight bright across my face. Disoriented and half-asleep, I start
to panic. Aneirin is there, a soothing presence at my side, trying to calm me. I push him away
and throw myself from the bed. He catches me and pins me against the mattress, enduring my
struggles until I have woken enough to remember where I am.
He tells me to stay in bed, but I’ve always been stubborn. Now that the immediate danger
has passed, I’m convinced I am as fine as I ever was. When he returns to the room the next night
to find me slumped against the wall, my bandages stained with fresh blood from the wound I
reopened, he doesn’t tell me “I told you so.” But I look into his eyes and see he’s disappointed.
This time, when he tells me to stay in bed, I obey. I don’t think he trusts me, though,
because from then on he stays with me. We spend several days sitting in his bed, our backs
propped against the headboard, talking to one another of our lives.
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Aneirin is happy to talk about the present, but whenever I ask him about the past, his eyes go
cold. He looks away and changes the subject, or gets out of bed and tells me it’s time to change
my bandages.
My teachers always told me I was a fool, and with Aneirin I prove them right. I know I
should leave it alone, but I press him anyway, until one day he breaks.
He says nothing, but I’m looking up at him and I see it, as plain as day. His eyes, hard and
brittle as they always are when I ask him such things, suddenly shatter like frozen glass and
anger spills across his expression like dye from a broken bottle. He turns his face away from me,
lips pressed into a thin line. I wish I could take back the words.
I kneel next to him and grab his arm. I try to apologize, but he doesn’t let me speak. “Get
some rest,” he says without looking at me. And he gets to his feet and leaves.
I wonder if he’s no longer worried that I’ll hurt myself, or if he no longer cares. Then I
wonder why that thought bothers me so.
I am asleep when he returns. Though he makes no noise, I awake. It is nearly dawn; he’s
been out all night. I sit up and watch him through the faint light. “Nye—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “You’re well enough now.” He still won’t look at
me, and his voice is as hard as stone. “If you won’t respect my privacy, you may leave.”
“That’s not what I want.” It’s stupid, so damn stupid, but it’s the truth, and I can’t lie to him.
“Nye, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me.”
He stares at me like that’s the stupidest thing I could have said. Behind the scorn, though,
there’s resignation.
After a moment, he glances away and sighs. When he looks back, his gaze is kind again. “I
brought you some food,” he says, and I know that things will be all right between us. “I thought
you might be hungry.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought. A small smile tugs at the edge of his mouth; he pulls a
loaf of bread and small wheel of cheese from his bag. I break the loaf in two and offer him one of
the halves.
He shakes his head. “It’s yours, mo charaid. I ate earlier.”
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I hesitate, but my stomach convinces me. It is not long before there is nothing left of either
the bread or cheese but a few wayward crumbs. Aneirin is smiling at me when I finish. “Do you
feel better now?”
“Yes.”
He sits down next to me on the bed. My exhaustion has returned now that things have been
repaired between us; I lean into him and my head droops onto his shoulder. The last thing I
remember is the warm comfort of Aneirin’s arm sliding around my shoulders.
I don’t know how he affords it, but Aneirin takes very good care of me, and I heal quickly. I
am left with a scar and a dislike for lower-city pubs, but little else.
I never do end up moving back to my rooms. I don’t bring it up, and Aneirin never asks me.
At some point, he stops sleeping in the armchair and joins me in the bed, but we sleep with our
backs to each other and he only touches me to wake me from my nightmares.
We don’t talk about my nightmares. He assumes they’re about the knifing at the pub, and I
let him.
One night I wake up screaming, and I can see in his eyes that he’s going to ask me about it. I
turn away before he’s able to speak. I cross the room to the washstand in the corner. The water in
the ewer is cold as I splash it on my face; I hope it will steady me, but it doesn’t. Not enough.
I lean my hands against the stand and keep my back toward Aneirin. I know what he will ask
me, and I know what will follow. It’s always the same.
He approaches me. I can feel his warmth on my back and I tense. His hand touches my
shoulder, lightly resting against it. It’s all I can do not to jerk away. “Kynan,” he says quietly.
“Won’t you tell me about it?”
“No.” He takes his hand away. I can feel his hurt and I wish it didn’t affect me so. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I turn to face him. His skin is gold in the lamplight, like the first day we met. “You’ll think
I’m mad.”
“For dreams?” His brows draw together and he waves his hand. It’s a dismissive gesture. I
wish I could dismiss them so easily. “They mean nothing.”
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“I dream of monsters,” I whisper. I hate myself for saying the words that will drive him
away, but I can do nothing else. I can’t lie to him. I won’t, even if the truth takes him from me.
Slowly, he raises his gaze to mine. What I find there is not what I expect. There is no scorn,
nor the creeping suspicion of madness. There’s wariness, but little more. I’ve dealt with worse
than wariness before. I draw a breath and, slowly, I begin to speak.
“I barely knew my family.” I can’t look at him as I tell this story. If wariness turns to scorn,
I don’t want to see it. “I was young when they died, but I remember I had a sister, and that my
mother was very beautiful.” I wrap my arms about myself, tense with pain. “I’ve dreamt about
them all my life, though. About their deaths. It always starts the same, with my sister screaming.
We share a bed at night and I reach for her to comfort her, but she’s not there. She screams again
and calls for our mother, and I know that the gwrach-y-rhibyn has taken her. She’s screaming
and I’m running through the house trying to find her, but I can’t. Her screams are terrible, but
when she stops screaming, it’s worse.”
I close my eyes. I’m shuddering, but I can’t help it. Aneirin reaches for me, but I shy away.
“I find the gwrach, but it’s too late, and my family lies at her feet. She smiles at me, and it’s
horrible. Her mouth is covered in their blood. There are screams again, but this time they’re my
own, because she’s chasing me and I know she’ll kill me too. But I always wake before she does.
And when I wake, I always wish that she had.”
Silence settles over us after I finish my story. I can’t look at Aneirin; I’m afraid of what I’ll
see. I wait for him to condemn me, but he says nothing, and I can’t decide whether that’s better
or worse.
When he does speak, all he says is, “It’s just a dream, Kynan.”
I shake my head hard. My hair is damp and the strands cling to my cheeks. I think I must
look as mad as everyone believes I am. “It is truth,” I insist. Aneirin steps back from the heat
behind my words. “I know it is. Everyone thinks I’m mad because of it, but I know it, Nye.”
He takes my hand and draws me to the bed, though I fight him every step of the way. He
pulls on me until I sit, and he wraps his arms about my waist. “Tell me about the gwrach,” he
says.
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I suspect he’s humoring me. I almost hate him for it, but it’s been so long since I’ve been
able to tell anyone. Perhaps he is only pretending to believe, but I will take what I can get.
“She is horrendous,” I tell him, “with skin as pale and translucent as ice, and madness in her
eyes. Her clothes are in tatters and she’s covered in blood. Not just my family’s, but old, dried
blood, from others she’s come to. There are many. So many.”
I shiver at the thought, remembering the caked layers of blood, cracking and flaking as she
smiles at me. I feel like a child again, back in the orphanage in Ceredigion. I try not to cry, and
try not to let Aneirin see me struggling.
Somehow, though, he knows. He moves his hands from my waist to my shoulder and turns
me to face him. I look up into his eyes and they’re sad and sympathetic and they tell me many
things, but they don’t tell me that he thinks I’m mad. And then I am a child again, clinging to
him and weeping in his arms, overcome with pain, grief and fright.
He holds me and rubs my back. The tears go on and on and on, but he doesn’t sigh or show
impatience with my lost control. I have held it in since I was a child and learned that it was a
weakness and would bring me nothing but censure. There was no patience for tears in the
orphanage. I know Aneirin must be getting tired of the flood but I can’t stop.
Finally, he gives a soft sigh and lifts my head from his shoulder and presses his mouth to
mine. I cannot think of anything beyond the comfort that he offers. I fist my hands in his hair and
kiss him with desperation.
It is not what I expect, but it is everything I need. Heat and warmth and tenderness.
Aneirin’s hands slide gently into my hair. He does not grab as I do—I try to gentle my grip, but I
am unable to do anything but cling. He strokes and soothes, with his mouth as well as his hands.
He slips into my mouth as though he belongs there, and I welcome him. His tongue is slick
against mine, lithe and quick. It is like dancing, and just as exhilarating.
When he tries to draw away, he takes the calm with him. The horror of the nightmare creeps
back in on me. “Oh, don’t,” I whisper and chase his mouth with mine.
He protests for a moment, but then he curls a hand around the back of my neck and kisses
me again.
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Gold he calls himself, but I am the one who shimmers in his hands. I am molten, liquid and
vibrant and brilliantly hot, and he is the flame that heats me. I press in against his chest, closer to
the fire. His chest vibrates beneath my hand with his groan.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek, a quick kiss of flame. He trails his fingers down the
center of my chest. My shirt’s ties part beneath his touch until his palm is pressed flat against my
breastbone. My heart pounds against his hand. I gasp and press into his mouth, chasing his heat.
He draws away. I start to protest. His touch at my waist silences me. He slips his hand
beneath the edge of my shirt, dances his fingers along my ribs. I shiver again, but there is no pain
or fear now. I know nothing but his touch, his heat. I arch into his caress, needing much more
than he’s giving me.
Aneirin’s fingers tighten in my hair. His kisses ignite a line of fire down my throat. I grip his
shoulders and allow my head to fall to the side.
I am filled with his scent, drowning in him. He pulls my shirt off and presses me down into
the bed. I do whatever he asks in the desperate hope that he will not stop. My nightmares are far
away; I am surrounded by his heat and light. His touch burns as bright as the sun and I yearn for
more.
He draws back to look down at me. His eyes are bright and fierce. I run my hand over the
rough stubble on his cheek. I trail it lower, sliding my fingers over his jaw, his throat, his
shoulder and chest. His arms begin to tremble with the strain of holding himself above me, but
he allows me my exploration. He doesn’t stop me until I come to his waist and start to circle
around to his back.
He sits up, takes my hands, and stretches them overhead. The movement brings his chest in
close above me. I rear up and take his pebbled nipple into my mouth.
He stiffens above me, his hands clenching tight around my wrists. I hear the breath tear
through his chest and when I tilt my head back and look up, he is watching me with awe. It
pleases me that I am able to bring him the slightest understanding of what he’s already given to
me. I smile against his skin and scrape my teeth over his flesh. He swears softly in a language I
don’t understand, as he did the day we met. His heart beats just above me. I suck on his skin and
feel it race. I tilt my head back and draw my tongue up his chest to the hollow of his throat.
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He threads his fingers through my hair and watches me. We are impossibly close. His eyes
are large above me, his breath warm on my face. We simply stare at each other for a moment. I
reach a hand up and touch his brow and then we’re kissing again. He moves above me, and the
friction of his body against mine is enough to drive me to true madness. I do not think; I simply
act, arching up against him and wrapping a leg around his thigh. His breath unravels; his teeth
nip at my lip.
I dig my fingers deep into his hips, pressing up into him. He’s hard against me, and utterly
intoxicating.
He pulls back from the kiss. I press my lips together to restrain the pleas that threaten to spill
from me. He watches me with a warm gaze, vaguely amused. I relax, reassured that he doesn’t
mean to abandon me in my need.
Gradually, his mood sobers. His smile fades. He brushes his lips across my temple and leans
his forehead against mine.
“Kynan,” he whispers. “If you want me to stop, you may say so. I will do as you ask.”
“Stop?” I can scarcely believe the words. I push him back so that I can look into his face.
“Do you want to stop?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, “No. I don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
He smiles, and it makes his face radiant. Heat builds in his gaze. I expect him to kiss me
again, but he doesn’t. He presses his mouth to my throat, my shoulder and chest. His lips brush
my stomach and I tighten my hands in his hair. I cannot breathe for wanting him. His fingers
touch my waist, curling beneath the edge of my pants. I bite back a moan. I need him with a
fierce desperation.
He circles his tongue around my navel, and lower. His fingers work deftly at the ties of my
breeches, clearing the way for his kiss, until he has freed me from their restraint. The cool draft
that flutters through the room is agonizing against my heated flesh. I bite down hard on my lip,
battling for self-control. It spirals out of my reach when he curls his hand around me and draws
me into the heat of his mouth.
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I know I am whimpering now and I cannot help myself. I arch off the bed, pressing up into
his mouth. He accepts more of me, then licks a slow, agonizing line of fire along the underside of
my erection.
“Nye,” I gasp, knotting my fingers in his hair. “Nye, please.”
He doesn’t respond. He’d have to release me to do so, and I am too fevered to bear it. He
glances up at me, his eyes bright through the strands of hair that have fallen across his face. He
draws me deep again, and I am lost within the rapture of his kiss.
I stiffen beneath him as his mouth works over me, muscles quivering with too much
pleasure for one man to contain. I am growing close, I can feel it, but I’m not ready for this to
end yet. I tug on his hair, pulling him away. He gives me a concerned look, like maybe he’s done
something wrong. I grab his thighs and pull him up my body, and his expression clears. He
smiles at me.
I must release him to let him finish undressing, but I hate to do so. The fire fades without his
heat to fuel it. I long for the caress of its flames. He moves quickly, as though he feels the same
burning desire. Naked, he crawls up the length of my body and lets his weight settle against me. I
close my teeth over his shoulder, groaning. He gasps and thrusts against my stomach and I can
no longer wait.
I spit in my palms and take him in my hands, stroking. My fingers slip over slickened skin. I
hook my legs over his hips, knees against his back, urging him against me. He draws back just
enough to position himself, and even that is too much. I need the heat and flame of his passion. I
seek it blindly, running my hands over his chest and pushing myself up to bring our bodies
together. He strokes my hair and whispers something to me as he bears me back down onto the
bed. I am too lost to understand the words, but it doesn’t matter. I know what he’s saying. I lay
back, looking up at him, and I can see it in his eyes. They are intent and focused, emotions
shimmering in their depths. I cannot look away, even when he angles his hips and presses against
me and the exquisite pleasure cascades over me.
He moves slowly, and pauses frequently. I know he’s trying to give me time to adjust, that
he doesn’t want to hurt me, but I’m mad with need. I try to pull him farther into me. He resists,
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muscles tightening and straining against me. “No,” he gasps against my temple, his chest
heaving. “Wait, I want to—”
But I am too far gone to care what he wants. I care for nothing but the threshold that I stand
upon, that he has brought me to but prevented my passage across. Tightening my legs around
him, I thrust my hips up against his. We both cry out at the feel of him settled fully within me.
I open my eyes. He looks down at me with a panicked expression. I see in his eyes the
scramble for control, and I tighten around him to keep him from it. I have no control left, only
desire and the driving need to satisfy it, and I want him to join me in my abandon.
He drags my mouth to his. The graceful, careful kiss of before is gone now, lost in our
desperation. There is only desire and its satisfaction. We lick and bite and strain against one
another’s mouths, and our bodies also strain together. His fingers tighten in my hair as he
withdraws from me, then tug sharply when he thrusts back in. I arch beneath him, crying out into
his mouth. It is too much, and far too little. I glow like an ember from his heat and still I yearn
for more.
Aneirin retreats from the kiss and presses his face against the curve of my shoulder. His lips
work gently over my throat as he moves within me. I grab his back and pull my legs higher
around his waist. The angle is suddenly sharper, deeper, and I am lost in a violent white-hot
explosion of sensation. I am engulfed, consumed by the inferno. Dimly, above the roar of the
fire, I hear Aneirin’s hoarse cry. He shudders beneath my hands and empties himself within me.
The flames die out without the heat of passion, and we are all that remain, clutching one
another, shuddering and gasping. I ease my legs from around his waist and relax into the bed. I
wait for the horror of the nightmares to return, but they’re gone.
Shaken by what we have done together and what he has done for me, I run my hands over
Aneirin’s back and press a kiss to his hair. “Diolch yn fawr iawn,” I breathe. Thank you.
Slowly, he stirs and raises his head from my chest. He frames my face with his hands and
gives me a soft kiss. Against my mouth, he whispers, “Se do bheatha, mo charaid.”
I’ve pushed him once before and I know I shouldn’t try my luck. I brush the backs of my
fingers over his temple and cannot help myself. “That’s not Welsh.”
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He stills above me and I’m certain I ruined it. But he doesn’t give me a chance to start
berating myself for a fool. “It’s not,” he says. He’s not quite looking at me anymore. “I only
meant to say you’re welcome.”
“What language is it, though?” I am a fool, and my teachers would paddle me until I was
raw if they heard my foolishness. I had thought Aneirin still before, but now he is like stone.
There is a moment where it seems as though the world itself stands still and the only thing
that moves is my heart, racing in anticipation of his anger. I wait for him to snap at me and leave
me with only my nightmares for company. But Aneirin surprises me. Very quietly, and still not
looking at me, he says, “Gàidhlig.”
I touch his face. He doesn’t respond, so I grab his chin and turn his head until he looks at
me. “It’s beautiful, Nye.” I rise up on my elbows to kiss him again.
He’s not happy, I can tell. But he doesn’t snap at me, and he doesn’t abandon me, and that’s
progress enough. I wrap my arms around him and draw him down onto the bed. We spend the
rest of the night in one another’s arms.
In the morning, he is gone.
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Chapter Two
It doesn’t surprise me to wake alone. I haven’t woken to Aneirin’s company since I was ill,
and there’s no reason to expect that to change now. Even so, I feel a vague wistfulness as I dress
myself in our empty room.
It’s been a long time since I slept in another’s arms, and even longer since I woke in them. I
would have liked to spend a languorous morning with him, waking slowly with soft touches and
gentle kisses. But I scold myself for wanting anything more than he has given me. I finish
dressing quickly and go out to buy something to eat.
He’s gone all day, like he usually is. I don’t know what work he does or how he’s able to
support the both of us, but that’s another topic he won’t discuss. The sky is dark and the stars just
beginning to appear before he returns. His gaze sweeps over me, appraising, as though afraid I’ll
shatter like I did before.
Whatever he sees, it appeases him. He drops onto the bed with a weary sound that brings me
to my feet, draws me to stand before him. His eyes are dark and unreadable. I move close, touch
his face, and whisper, “Nye.”
Before I can say more, he pulls back and looks away. His hands fumble with something, and
take out a few shining livres. “It’s not a lot,” he says, “but it’ll feed you for the week, at least. I
wanted—”
He is suddenly awkward and uncertain. It enthralls me. I take the coins and set them aside.
My mouth skims his; I curl my hands around the back of his neck. Slowly, his lips soften beneath
mine, allowing me into his mouth. When he is warm and pliant, I pull him close and sweep my
tongue against his. Heat flares between us as from stoked coals, and the money falls aside,
forgotten.
I don’t know why he’s so hesitant with me, but he chased away my nightmares the night
before and now I want to return the favor. Whatever it is that has unsettled him, I resolve to
make him forget. I slide my hands down his chest and pull his shirt off over his head. We must
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part to do so; when he pulls my mouth back to his hungrily, I am pleased with the knowledge
that I’m succeeding. This time, I am the one bearing him down onto the bed, and he allows me to
do so.
I straddle his hips and slide my fingers along the contours between his muscles. Gazing at
him, I can’t help but wonder if I looked as beautiful to him last night as he does to me now.
He raises his arms to me. I cannot resist his silent entreaty. I lower myself to him, chest
against chest. I bring my mouth back to his and he wraps his arms about my neck, holding me
close. I slide my arms beneath his back to embrace him fully.
I expect to feel the smoothness and heat of his flesh beneath my fingertips, but the skin I
touch is rippled and rough. I stiffen and try to sit up but Aneirin tightens his arms about me.
“Nye.” I struggle to push away. I can hear the urgency in my voice. “Nye, what—”
“Shh,” he whispers against my mouth, trying to draw me back into the kiss. I resist his
temptation and disentangle myself from his arms, sitting up. He frowns up at me, irritated and
impatient. “It doesn’t matter, mo charaid.”
“Doesn’t matter? Those are scars.”
He looks away. “Yes.” Unhappiness deepens the lines in his face. I regret bringing it to him,
but it’s not in my power to stop what I’ve begun.
“What happened?” He won’t look at me. “Nye, what happened to you?”
“It doesn’t matter!” He pushes me off and rises from the bed. “They are old and healed and
do not bother me, except when others force me to talk about them.” He snatches up his shirt and
pulls it on again. He is agitated enough that he turns, and allows me my first glimpse of his back.
I gape at him like a fool, slack-jawed. The entirety of his back, from nape to hips, is a mass
of rippled, glossy scars. He looks as though someone tried to flay him alive. Sympathetic agony
rises to choke me until I can do nothing but stare at him with tears in my eyes.
Eventually, I find my voice. “Nye,” I breathe. “Who did this to you? What did they do?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is wooden, his shoulders knotted with tension. “They are back
in Scotland, and I never intend to set foot there again.”
“Won’t you tell me about it?” I ask, sinking down onto the bed.
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“If you insist.” He speaks, but he doesn’t face me. His voice is heavy with resignation and
regret. I wish I had kept my hands to myself. “What do you want to know?”
I want to know about the scars, but more than that, I want him to stop sounding so broken.
So I say, “Tell me about something happy. Tell me about someone you loved.”
I mean for him to tell me about a mother or father or sibling, but he surprises me. “Oh,” he
says with a heavy sigh. “You want me to tell you about Cailean? My wife?”
I am suddenly cold. My voice is frozen, and I cannot speak. He takes my silence as assent,
but this is not what I wanted from him. I do not want to know about the woman he loved and left
behind.
“We met in Inverness,” he says, and I wish desperately that I could cover my ears, but the
rest of me is as frozen as my voice. I can do nothing but wait and listen and dread what is
coming. “She was beautiful. She was always beautiful, even when—” His throat closes up for a
moment and he pauses. He still won’t look at me, but suddenly I start to think that maybe it’s a
kindness. Could I bear to witness the emotions on his face as he talks about this woman to whom
he gave his heart? I do not know.
After a moment, he continues. “She was beautiful.” He says it firmly, as though he’s trying
to convince himself of something. “And she wouldn’t look twice at me. I followed on her heels
like a puppy, sick with my love for her, and she ignored me as though I were a pest that someone
else would eliminate for her.”
Despite my apprehensions, I find myself curious. “How did you get her to marry you?”
“It was an accident.” His laughter is choked and edged with pain. “A matter of luck and little
more. Something spooked her horse while she was riding and it threw her. I was fortunate
enough to be nearby. I grabbed its reins and led it aside before it could trample her. Her gratitude
softened her to me somewhat.” He pauses for a moment. “She liked to tell me that I saved her
life. I wish to God I hadn’t.”
The confession, quiet and wracked with agony, startles me out of my selfish preoccupation
with my own emotions. I stare at his back and see the lines of pain drawn in the slump of his
shoulders, the bowing of his head. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Now I wish for
his sake, rather than mine, that I had left well enough alone.
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I scramble off the bed and go to him. I want to touch him, to give him some small comfort,
but my hand hesitates above the twisted scars on his shoulder. “Why?” I whisper. “What
happened, Nye?”
He turns to me, but not fully, twisting at the waist. “She was killed,” he growls. “By a
creature of evil. A monster like the one that killed your family.”
The world wobbles around me. And briefly, I understand why those who knew and loved me
would call me mad for such a tale. Because when I’m not the one saying it, it sounds crazy. But
Aneirin didn’t scorn my story, and I can afford him no less courtesy. “I’m sorry.” I rest a light
touch on his shoulder. The muscles beneath my fingers tense as though I’ve hit him.
“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”
“It’s sympathy.” I grip his shoulder and turn him to face me. He won’t look me in the eye,
but I don’t force the issue. “And it’s for your pain. I do know that.”
“My pain?” He gives a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. “You know nothing of my pain,
Kynan. This? This is nothing. I have endured worse on my good days.”
I want to ease his pain, but I only know one way to do so. I hope it will give him what he
needs.
I slide in close, bringing our bodies together, and ease my arms around him. He remains stiff
against me, watching me as though he doesn’t understand what I’m doing. When I bury my
fingers in his hair and drag his mouth to mine, he puts his hands on my shoulders and tries to
push me back.
“Kynan.” He looks away. “This isn’t necessary.”
“You did this for me.” I brush his hands away and move in again. He doesn’t try to stop me,
and there’s a look of resignation in his eyes. “Allow me to do it for you.”
“Truly,” he says, “I’m fine.”
He’s not. Even I can see that much. His wounds are deep, and they may have healed on the
surface, but I can sense a deeper festering. I want to take away his pain. I want to help him heal. I
don’t want to have to see such an empty, heartbroken look in his eyes again.
I bring my hands to his chest. He allows me to pull his shirt off again. I push him down to
the bed on his stomach, and even then he doesn’t stop me, although tension flows through him
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when I kiss his back. He quivers, his hands tightening on the linens beneath him, but he doesn’t
stop me.
I start at his nape, kissing every ridge of scar tissue. By the time I’ve reached his hips, he’s
forgotten about his shame and relaxed beneath me. It is worth more than all the livres he could
give me in a lifetime. I press a kiss to the base of his spine, then continue lower.
The tension that goes through him now has nothing to do with shame, and I’m pleased by it.
I gently bite the flesh at the top of his thigh. He makes a sharp noise and twists beneath me.
His cheeks are flushed, his eyes hungry. His erection lies heavily against his stomach. I
know that he wants the same thing I do, and I want desperately to give it to him. I lean over him
and lick a long, slow path up its length. The strangled noises he makes are almost as beautiful as
he is. I draw him fully into my mouth and lick the salt from his skin.
The room is dark and quiet but for the small, hungry noises that Aneirin is making. He
allows me to continue for a time, then twines his fingers through my hair and tries to pull me up.
I know what he wants, but I’m enthralled by the tastes and textures that cling to his skin. He is
hard and hot and smooth. I can feel his pulse against my lips, heavy and slow, but its rhythm
increases when I circle my tongue around his head. His fingers tighten painfully in my hair and
his entire body trembles.
“Kynan.” His voice is low and rough. “It’s too much. I cannot— You won’t—”
I suck and lick until his words dissolve into breathless moans. Then I draw back and look up
at him, circling my fingers over his slick flesh. “This is not about me.” My tone allows no room
for compromise. “I want to give you what you want.”
His hips thrust up against my touch. “I want—you,” he says through gritted teeth.
“You have that,” I murmur, lowering my mouth to him again. “Is there nothing else?”
But I already know what he wants. I hold the evidence of his desire in my hands. He inhales
sharply when I slide my mouth over him again. His hips rise off the bed, thrusting into my
mouth, and I take him deeper.
He cries out and grabs me, pulling me up the bed until I’m sprawled over his chest. His
hands frame my face and guide me into a deep kiss. He murmurs against my mouth, “Not like
that, Kynan. I want—” His hand settles at my lower back, pulling my hips in against his as he
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thrusts up against me. His erection slides against my stomach; he doesn’t need to say anything
more for me to know what he wants.
I draw back from his kiss, smiling, and straddle his hips. His eyes are dark and steady on
mine. They flutter closed when I rise up onto my knees and position him against me. I lower my
weight onto him, taking him into me, and we both groan.
His hands move restlessly over my back. I run mine up his chest and circle his nipples. He
bites down on his lower lip. I love that I am able to give this to him, that I am able to repay him
in some small way for what he has done for me. When his hips flex and he thrusts up into me, I
tighten around him to heighten his pleasure. He gasps and curls his hand around my erection. His
touch ignites my flesh, but I bring my hands to his and try to draw them away.
He stops me with a look. “I want to,” he whispers, and presses up into me again. His hand
tightens around me and I cry out. I brace my hands on his chest, struggling for balance as the
world seems suddenly precarious and unsteady. I’m dizzy, drunk on his touch, and I don’t know
how things got away from me so quickly. He wraps his arms around my back and draws me
down to lie on his chest. I curl my arms under his shoulders in a close embrace. He moves in me
with short, sharp motions that drive me mad. My breath catches in my throat, then unravels on a
whimper. I claw at him, seeking purchase on sweat-slicked skin, but it is too much. There’s no
control left to be had, and I am lost. I cry out against his skin, shudder and convulse and spill my
seed onto his stomach.
I hear echoes of my own need in Aneirin’s cries, feel it in the tightening of his arms about
me and the force of his thrusts within me. I press kisses to his throat and push back against him,
helping him to his release. It comes with a low, unsteady groan and a last, deep thrust. His arms
vise around me and he buries his face against my chest. We are both shaking, both gasping for
breath in the aftermath. It is all we can do to lie together for a time, holding on to one another.
I am happy to hold him, happy to be held. A long time passes before I draw away from his
embrace. It’s not until I do that I feel the heat and dampness on my skin and realize that he’s
been crying quietly against my chest. My heart breaks for him.
“Nye,” I whisper, kissing the tears from his cheeks. “Nye, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
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He holds me and cries, and I nearly cry with him at my helplessness. There’s nothing I can
do to relieve this pain. And so I simply hold him until the tears have dried, and longer. He shows
no desire to leave my embrace, so I keep my arms wrapped tightly around him until he sleeps.
My own sleep does not come so easily.
My dreams worsen as the days pass, but I say nothing of them. Aneirin has his own horrors
to battle, and he’s helped me enough with mine. I refuse to add to his burdens.
I wake up screaming, but only occasionally, and when Aneirin asks me about it I tell him
that they were nothing, mere dreams. I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe me, but I don’t
tell him the truth and he doesn’t ask. That’s proof enough for me that I’ve made the right choice.
Had he been able to take on my burdens, he would have pressed me for the truth until I relented.
I will not give him what he does not want.
It comes to the point that I begin to feel the creeping chill of the nightmares even in the
bright, clear light of day. I walk down the streets of Paris and feel the gwrach watching me, but
when I look over my shoulder, I am alone. I turn a corner and feel a chill pass over me, though
the street before me is empty. I raise a hand to a passing stranger and my greeting dies upon my
lips as I see the madness of the gwrach in her eyes. There is no safe haven left for me but
Aneirin’s small, secluded room.
And finally, even that refuge is taken from me. I wake one night with a scream tangling in
my throat, just before I am taken by the gwrach. I open my eyes to find her wrinkled face still
above me. Her eyes are as mad as I remember, and dark stains surround her mouth.
Dried blood. My sister’s blood.
I scream again and push her back from me but she will not move. She smiles, and revulsion
ripples down my spine. The smile reveals her bloodstained teeth and two long, sharp fangs. I
scream again, and in my voice I hear the madness I have been accused of.
She bends toward my throat and I can do nothing to stop her. I know that I will die now, as
my family died. Despair rises to choke me. I close my eyes and brace for her attack.
It doesn’t come. A roaring rush deafens me, and her weight disappears. I open my eyes and
discover that it’s not fear deafening me, but Aneirin. He stands above me, his hands around the
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gwrach’s throat, roaring in her face. I scramble away to the other side of the room. I don’t want
to be any nearer to her than I have to be. Even with the breadth of the room between us, I can
still smell her fetid breath. I gag on it.
“Get out,” Aneirin snarls at her. “Get out of my home!”
I don’t expect it to work. I expect that we’ll both die beneath her fangs. But slowly, the
gwrach’s lips lower over her teeth. She shrinks away until she’s cowering before Aneirin. He
points a finger at the window in silent command. “Get out.”
She leaves. I sink down into a huddled mass on the floor. Aneirin stands on the other side of
the room still and I know there will be comfort in his arms, but I don’t move. Absurdly, I’m
almost as frightened of him as I am of the gwrach. His face is still twisted with violent fury, and
there’s no one for him to direct his anger onto but me. I curl against the wall and hope he doesn’t
notice me.
I feel his approach, and I try not to cringe from it. He stands before me, silent and imposing.
After a moment, he sighs and kneels. I scavenge up enough courage to peek through my fingers,
expecting the worst, but the anger has fled and there’s only Aneirin now, kneeling before me and
watching me with a worried expression. With a hoarse cry, I throw myself into his arms.
His arms come around me, holding me. I bury my face against his shoulder, gasping and
shaking within his embrace.
After some time, Aneirin eases me back and tilts my face up toward his. His eyes are dark
with concern. “Kynan,” he says quietly. “Did she hurt you?”
I shake my head wildly. Eventually, I find enough breath between gasps to sob, “I thought
she was here but— They told me I was mad!”
“You are not mad.” Aneirin’s voice is both sympathetic and violently fierce. He gathers me
into his arms again and holds me tightly. I cling to him and he surrounds me. He is my shelter.
“If anyone’s mad, it’s those damn fools who were too frightened to listen to you.” He pushes me
back and looks down at me again. “She will not harm you, Kynan. Do you understand me? She
will not come back here again.”
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“How do you know?” The window’s still open, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how
vulnerable our room is. The casement fastens with a flimsy little latch, and what good will that
do against a monster of the night? There’s nothing to keep me safe here but Aneirin.
He lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed. I curl against his chest, pressing my cheek
into the pillow so that Aneirin’s broad shoulders block the window from my view. I still don’t
feel safe, but I close my eyes and tell myself I’m a fool.
Eventually, many hours later, sleep comes, and I dream of old, mad women drenched in the
blood of children.
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Chapter Three
I feel steadier the next day, though I still jump at the smallest sounds, certain that the gwrach
has come to finish us off properly. Aneirin is distant, though. When I wake, he strips me naked
and has me stand before him, shivering in the cold while he looks me over. He says he’s
checking to make sure that I was not harmed, and he will not accept my assurances until he’s
seen so for himself. When he’s completed his inspection, I expect that perhaps he will kiss me, or
embrace me, but all he does is tell me to dress myself and turn away. I’m not brave enough to
ask him what’s wrong, not at first. I dress quietly, watching his back, but he doesn’t look at me.
When I am clothed, I stand awkwardly behind him and wonder what happened.
He turns suddenly, spinning to face me. His face is bright with anger. “You should have told
me.”
I gape up at him. “I-I’m sorry? Tell you what?”
“About the gwrach!”
“But…I did tell you about her, Nye.”
“You should have told me that she was here. If I had known—” He catches his breath and
presses his lips together. “You might not have had to wake up with fangs in your face.”
“What would you have had me say? That my nightmares have come to life and followed me
to Paris?” I throw my hands up in frustration. “Then you would call me mad like everyone else.”
The look he gives me makes a chill run down my spine. “I have never thought you mad,
Kynan.”
“Well you would have. Everyone does.” I cross my arms tightly over my chest to hide my
trembling. “I couldn’t bear it if it happened again. Not from you. Nye, I—”
I don’t know what I mean to say, but I never find out, because he interrupts me with an
impatient gesture. “I know you better than that, Kynan. You ought to know me better.”
I laugh harshly. “I thought I knew my friends and family better than that. Then they tried to
put me in a madhouse.” All of my strength is suddenly gone. I sink down onto the edge of the
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bed. Aneirin’s expression is wary, which I suppose is better than the anger. “Haven’t you
wondered why a Welshman would come to France, of all places? It’s because of them. Because
no matter how they might feel about me, none of them are crazy enough to follow me onto
French land, just so they can take me home and throw me in a madhouse.”
Aneirin watches me very carefully, as though he suspects I might suddenly start raving like
a lunatic. “We all have things we’re running from, Kynan. If a Welshman in France is so odd,
perhaps you’ve wondered the same thing about me.”
I give him a twisted, mirthless smile. “Better to wonder why a man with a Scottish accent
and knowledge of Gaelic has taken a Welsh name. You’re not from Wales.”
It’s not a question, and he at least does me the courtesy of not pretending it was. “No,
though I lived there for a time,” he admits, lowering himself into the chair by the window. “I am
from Scotland, but I haven’t been there in a very long time, and I do not intend to go back.
Aneirin is not the name I was born with, but…” He looks down at his lap. His voice has grown
very quiet. “It suits me, I think.”
“What’s your real name?” I blurt the question out. Then I clap my hands over my mouth and
wait for his anger.
When it doesn’t come, I realize just how close we’ve grown. Weeks before, I’d have
endured scathing silence if I’d dared to ask such a question.
He’s quiet for several minutes, deep in thought. Then he says, frowning, “I would prefer you
continue to call me Aneirin, Kynan.”
“As you like. But I’d still like to know.”
“Why?” He looks up at me. There is old pain in his eyes, and fresh pain as well. I wish I
knew what had happened to wound him so. I’m beginning to realize that the scars on his back are
the least of his injuries. “Will it change anything?”
I get to my feet and come to stand before him. He remains seated, watching me as though he
expects me to strike him. I don’t know when he switched from angry to vulnerable, but I want to
give him his strength back. I put my hands on his cheeks, lean down and press my lips to his.
“No,” I whisper against his mouth. “It changes nothing.”
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He closes his eyes, but not before I see the relief that floods them. His hands come up to
slide through my hair. “Logan,” he says, so softly I almost miss it.
I draw back and smile, running my fingers over the edges of his face. “I don’t think I want to
call you Aneirin,” I say, and in his eyes I can see him withdraw from me, although he doesn’t
move a muscle. Walls come up between us, but I touch a finger to his lips before he can
barricade himself completely. “I think I’ll continue to call you Nye.”
This time, his relief is both visible and palpable. It washes over the both of us. His hands
pull me in toward him again, and he doesn’t relent until I’m kneeling on the chair with him,
straddling his legs, and our chests are pressed against one another’s. As he guides me into a kiss,
deeper than the last, I have a vague notion that perhaps we ought to move to the bed before
things continue. But his hands stroke down my back and his teeth nip at my lip and desire rises
up within me and washes the thought away.
We stay where we are, and it’s a long time before either of us have the desire or the strength
to leave.
Nye continues to give me money, handfuls of coins here and there. I think he wants me to
feel independent, less like I’m tied to him, although we both know the truth. He tells me he
wants me to be able to have the things I want. I don’t tell him he’s already given me everything I
could have asked for.
I save the coins, tucking them away for safekeeping, until I’ve gathered a respectable sum.
Then, one day while Nye’s away, I slip out of our room with the money on my belt and walk the
streets until I find a jeweler’s shop. Sunlight streams through the window and glitters off of
silver and gold, emerald and ruby and sapphire, throwing colors like stained glass across the
walls.
The storekeeper watches me with a wary eye as I peruse his goods. I keep my hands tucked
behind my back and don’t resent him for it. He’s probably used to seeing lords and ladies in his
store, not an orphan from the streets with a threadbare shirt and dirt under his nails.
Most of the jeweler’s wares are ostentatious and well beyond my budget. I eye them
wistfully, but don’t allow myself to linger. I can’t afford precious gemstones, or even the
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semiprecious ones. I find a small selection of plain metal jewelry in a corner and gesture the
jeweler over.
“That one.” I point at a simple gold cross on a sturdy chain. “How much?”
He gives me a dubious look and tells me the price. I draw the sum out of my purse and lay it
on the counter before him, and watch his expression shift to surprise.
He asks me if I want to wear my purchase immediately, but I shake my head and ask him to
wrap it for me. He does so, and I slide it safely into my purse.
I make one more stop on the way back, ducking into a patisserie to purchase two blackberry
tarts, and turn toward home with a spring in my step. The sun is nearing the horizon, and I cannot
wait to see Nye again.
I sit cross-legged on the bed and eat my tart while I wait. The cross lays spread out on the
blankets before me, nestled into its paper bed and gleaming brightly, even in the dim room. It’s
the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. I can’t help but stare at it, absentmindedly sucking the
sticky juice from my fingers.
A noise outside the door warns me of Aneirin’s return. I scramble to wrap the cross back up
in its paper.
He gives me a curious look as he steps through the door. I see his eyes flicker to the paper
parcel in my lap. “What have you been doing?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I get to my feet and bring the package to him. “I got something for you.”
“You…what?” He stares at me blankly, like he can’t quite understand my meaning.
“Here.” I hold the package out toward him. My grin stretches across my face. “Open it.”
“What’s this for?” He looks at me wonderingly and sits on the bed. He pulls cautiously at
the edges of the paper. “You didn’t have to do something like this.”
“I know. I wanted to.” I hover over his shoulder, near-bouncing with glee. “Open it, Nye.”
He seems to take forever, easing the folds of paper apart and driving me mad with
anticipation. At last, the parcel is spread on his knees and the cross lies in its center, winking up
at us. Aneirin stares down at it, silent.
“Well?” I ask when I can contain myself no longer. “Do you like it?”
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“I…Kynan…” He looks up at me and my breath freezes in my throat. He doesn’t look
happy, or pleased. His face is twisted with an expression of agony. “I can’t accept this.”
“Of course you can. I bought it for you.”
He slides it off of his lap, keeping it nestled in the wrapping. He edges slowly away,
watching it from the corner of his vision like he thinks it’ll attack him while his back is turned.
“No.” His voice vibrates with tension.
I stare at him, watching fear wash across his face. I’ve never seen its like. “What’s wrong,
Nye? Tell me.”
He closes his eyes and looks away. “No. Not this.”
“Why?” My fingers twist the edge of the paper until it shreds. “Why won’t you trust me?”
“Ah, God. It’s not that.” Carefully, he takes the parcel from me and folds the edges of the
paper in until the gift is wrapped again. Only then does the leashed panic fade from his features.
He cradles it gingerly in his hands and carries it to the dresser. My gaze follows him. He
bears it like a man carrying the noose to his own hanging.
When he returns to my side, he won’t look at me, but I cannot look away. I stare at him,
every line of his torment limned by the lamplight.
“It means something to you,” I say flatly.
He glances sideways at me, then away. “You could say that.”
“What?” But he’s already shaking his head. “Damn it, Nye—”
“Don’t press me on this, Kynan,” he snaps.
I catch my breath at the sharpness of his tone, the hardness in his gaze. He looks at me as
though I’m a stranger.
“All right.” I rise to my feet, feeling numb.
He watches me cross the room. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Out.”
Halfway to the door, I see the patisserie bag with its last remaining tart. I pick it up and
bring it back to him. “I bought this for you, too,” I say quietly.
He reaches for me, but I turn away. I leave, and he watches me go, silent.
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I walk the shadowed streets, cold seeping through to my bones. And though I walk for long
hours, until the moon hangs high overhead, I cannot shake the unease that clings to me.
Aneirin has always been tight-lipped about his past, but it sat easier when we were near-
strangers.
I shared my greatest fears with him, and he does not trust me enough to even begin to open
up to me. No matter how many times I tell myself it shouldn’t matter, I cannot ignore the pain.
I return in the dark, still hours before dawn. Aneirin is asleep, carefully lying on his half of
the bed so as to leave me plenty of room. I take a blanket for my own and curl up on the chair by
the window, instead. I stare out at the stars, waiting for sleep that doesn’t come.
The days pass without any further excitement, but the damage is already done. I try to ignore
our fight, but every lull in our conversation, every awkward silence reminds me of the things that
lie unsaid between us. And with my steadfast certainty in Aneirin shaken, I am left all too aware
of how vulnerable I truly am. Each day that passes leaves me more and more on edge. I don’t
sense the gwrach around every street corner as I did before, but I hesitate before turning them
anyway, because I fear her. And she’s still out there, waiting for me. I would stay home all day
and never set foot out on the street, if she hadn’t proved just how futile a protection “home” was.
I don’t know when the decision comes to me, but it’s there suddenly, with an astonishing
clarity. It frightens me, but only for an instant. Then I’m galvanized into action, and when
Aneirin comes home that night, I’ve nearly finished packing my trunk.
He stands in the doorway, silent as a ghost, and watches me gather my things. The weight of
his gaze falls heavily across my shoulders. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he
remains silent, and tension fills the room until I choke on it. At last, it becomes too much to bear.
I throw down the trousers I am folding and turn to face him. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay here. I can’t.
Not when she’s—” My voice catches in my throat. I look away, struggling for control over
myself. “I’m scared, Nye,” I whisper. “She nearly killed me. Next time, you won’t be able to
surprise her as you did. I won’t wait around for her to drain me like she did the rest of my family.
I’m leaving before she has the chance to try.”
He watches me, his gaze deep and unreadable. I wish desperately for him to say something,
but when he does, it’s no help at all. He says only, “Godspeed, Kynan.” Only that, but there’s
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something hidden deep within his voice that censures me. I twist my hands and try to pretend
that my heart isn’t breaking.
I can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound pathetic. I don’t know what Aneirin takes
my silence for, but eventually he breaks it. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head hard. I haven’t thought that far. I haven’t thought of
anything beyond the blinding need to get away from the gwrach. “Nye…come with me.”
It surprises both of us. I stare at him, shocked by my own suggestion; he stares back at me
with a similar expression. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “I can’t leave Paris,
Kynan. If you go, you go with my blessings, but alone.”
I close my eyes and fight against the despair that threatens to swamp me. “Please,” I
whisper. Now I know I am pathetic, but I can’t find it within myself to care.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I sigh, and even I can recognize that it’s a heartbroken, weary sound. I turn back to my trunk
to finish packing, but he grabs my shoulder.
“Stay,” he says urgently. “Stay with me, Kynan, and fight her. We can fight her together.”
I gape at him. “Fight her? We’ll both die.”
“No. She’s not as strong as you think, mo charaid. The two of us—we can defeat her.”
“It’s madness. Suicide.” I jerk myself out of his hold. “I would do almost anything for you,
Nye, but not this. Not this.”
“Don’t do it for me, cara. Do it for yourself. For your family. Do you want to spend your
life running?”
“Better a long life on the run than a short one making a stand,” I snap.
“You will not die.”
“I don’t believe you.” I spin back to him again, too angry to care for packing. “She is a
monster, Nye, and I am only a man. She will kill us both.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I return to my task. Quietly, his voice drifts across the room.
“You are a coward.”
He could not have shocked me more if he had struck me. I freeze, and slowly turn to him.
“For wanting to live? Then so be it. Better to live a coward than die of bravado.”
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“You will not die.” He strides to me and grabs my arms, dragging me close. “Do you trust
me so little?”
I bite my lip and speak slowly, trying not to anger him more than I already have. “I trust that
you believe you can keep me safe. But I don’t think you could hope to stand against this
monster.”
Some strange emotion twists his face into a harsh smile. “You might be surprised,” he says,
but releases me. “Do you think I would ask you to stay if I thought there was any danger to you,
Kynan?”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I remain silent. There’s nothing I can say that won’t
come out badly, and I don’t want us to part on such terms. I turn back to my trunk, closing the lid
and fastening it. When there are no preparations left to make, I stand with my back facing
Aneirin, tense. “I won’t sit and wait for her to try to kill me again,” I say. “Perhaps I am a
coward, but that would take more strength than I have.”
“Wait for her?” Aneirin sounds surprised. “No wonder you think me rash. I’m not talking
about waiting for her, Kynan. I am talking about seeking her out before she returns and being rid
of her before she can attack again.”
I face him. He is slowly wearing me down, like the ocean’s waves erode stone, and I am
precariously close to crumbling. “I don’t have the first idea how to go about that.”
“I do.”
I raise my brows. “How?”
“That’s a long story, and one for another time.” He takes my hands, squeezes them gently.
His expression is no longer angry, but open and earnest. “Will you stay? Please?”
I close my eyes. My resolve crumbles like sand. Weary, I nod and allow him to draw me
into a fierce embrace. “Very well.” I bring my arms around his back. “I’ll stay, if you’ll help
me.”
We search for the gwrach—or rather, Aneirin searches and I follow where he leads—but
have little luck. I know I should be terrified, and at first, I am. But that emotion is soon
overwhelmed by others, and I cannot bring myself to dwell on the fear. The others are far more
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pleasant. I don’t speak of them to Aneirin, but I suspect he notices my change in mood. At times,
I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, a small smile hovering about his face, as
though it pleases him.
Things come to a head one day when we’re at home. He’s just made a joke, and his eyes are
sparkling with humor and wit. I collapse against his chest, laughing helplessly. “Oh, Nye,” I say,
dashing tears from my eyes, “I do love you.”
We both freeze. It’s the last thing I expect to come from my mouth, and judging by the
stunned expression on his face, I don’t think Aneirin expected it either. My cheeks burn, but
there’s nothing for it now; I look up at him and wait for his reply.
His mouth gapes open, then he closes it and shakes his head, like a man trying to shake off a
dream. “Kynan.” His voice is wary, and I don’t know whether it’s that or the hands that he puts
on my shoulders, pushing me away, but whatever it is hits me like a blow. I swallow hard against
the pain that chokes me. “Kynan, you shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what? Shouldn’t say it?” I hadn’t meant to, but now that the words are spoken, I
will not shirk from them. “It’s the truth.”
He closes his eyes. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I draw back and frown at him.
“Oh, Kynan.” He brings his hand up to his forehead. It’s such a weary gesture that I would
go to him and try to soothe him, but trepidation freezes me in my place. “I’ll only hurt you.”
“You would never hurt me.” I whisper it quietly, but conviction rings through my words. If
there’s one thing in all the world that I know, it’s that Aneirin would never harm me.
He drops his hand and pins me with an agonized look. “You don’t know that. You don’t
know me, Kynan.”
“Whose fault is that?” The statement riles my anger. “Every time I try, you push me away.
We’ve spent nearly every day together for months and you still won’t—”
“Every night,” he corrects quietly, looking away from me. “We’ve spent every night
together.”
I think he means to suggest all that’s between us is the time we spend in bed with one
another. I stare at him, my heart lodged painfully in my throat. “Oh. Well, that explains things,
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doesn’t it?” I push myself away. “If you care for me so little, it’s no wonder you won’t share
anything—”
His gaze is lowered, turned away from me. “I—care for you, Kynan. Mo charaid—”
“No, don’t. No sweet names, Nye.” I raise my chin and watch him levelly across the room.
“Have I just been someone to bed? Someone warm to come home to, to sate your desires with?
Is that it?”
“No!” His voice lashes out harshly. “Kynan—”
“I should have left when I first meant to.” I storm across the room and begin gathering
clothes from the floor. “Why did you convince me to stay, anyway?” It’s a rhetorical question,
but he answers it anyway.
“I care for you,” he whispers brokenly.
“Not enough to tell me the truth.”
He lifts his gaze to mine, and I could almost hate him for looking so distraught. “Kynan—”
“You haven’t told me anything, you know. Nothing but your name, and that only
grudgingly.” I throw the clothes into a bag. “Sure, you care, but not enough to open yourself up
and let me in.” I stop and shake my head. I can’t look at him, or my resolve will crumble. “I
don’t know if that’s enough for me, Nye.”
He doesn’t reply, only watches me sadly. I pack enough for a few days, and then I leave. He
doesn’t try to stop me, but I feel his gaze follow me. When I’m on the street, I pause and glance
up at the building we have called home together. He stands at the window, watching me with his
enigmatic gaze. He reaches toward me, like he might try to stop me. I avert my face and continue
down the street. Every step opens up the fault lines within me. I grip my bag with white fingers
and hope I’ll have found someplace to stay, someplace to hide, before I fall apart.
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Chapter Four
Sometimes, I wonder if I ought to leave Paris. I have little reason to stay, and the gwrach is
plenty of reason to go. I don’t, though. I don’t know why, but I can’t.
I avoid the places that Aneirin and I used to frequent together. I don’t want to run the risk of
accidentally meeting him there. I don’t know what would happen, what I might say, but I’ve only
just managed to put myself back together and I do not want to be shattered again. I tell myself
that I ought to move on, and perhaps with time I’d have managed it. But fate has other plans for
me. For both of us.
A cacophony of shattering glass wakes me in the middle of the night. My room’s dark and I
can see nothing. I try to listen for some hint of what’s happened, but I hear only the ragged
sounds of my breathing. I turn toward the nightstand, fumbling with the candle.
Clawed hands grab me before I’m able to light it. I manage little more than a surprised yelp
before I’m thrown down onto the bed. A slight weight lands on top of me, small and bony, with
skin like parchment. It seems like a harsh word and a heavy look might break it apart, but despite
this impression, it’s impossibly strong. I struggle against it, but I can’t knock it free.
I gasp with fear, my heart thudding heavily within my chest. The copper scent of stale blood
fills my lungs, and I understand what’s happened.
The gwrach has found me. And this time, Aneirin isn’t at my side to scare her off.
Panic seizes me. I struggle wildly, to no avail. She straddles me, one bony knee on either
side of my hips, and pulls my arms above my head to immobilize me. I thrash against her but she
doesn’t move, except to lower herself on top of me and bring her mouth to my throat.
Her teeth press against my flesh, sharp points like pins digging deep. She bites, piercing me,
and I scream. There’s no one to hear me, no one to stop her, but I scream until my throat’s raw.
She ignores me like a cat might ignore the frightened protests of a captured rat. She sucks
greedily at the wound. I can feel my blood flowing from me, leaving me hollow and weak. I beat
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my fists against her shoulders, striking bones that ought to snap like twigs beneath my blows, but
leave bruises on my hands as though I beat against hardened steel.
My blows, ineffectual to begin with, weaken with each mouthful of my blood that she
swallows. It doesn’t take long before I lack the strength to struggle. My head spins with every
attempt, and my limbs feel as though they are tenfold heavier than they ought to be. I stare up at
the dark ceiling, vision blurred with tears that I cannot shed. She is drinking my life away, and
there will be nothing left of me but a husk when she is done. I close my eyes and hope that the
end will come swiftly. Her bite hurts, and I just want the pain to stop.
I am too weary to even startle when the door opens, and light from outside cuts through the
shadows. There is a moment where no one moves, not I nor the gwrach nor the intruder. Then I
am deafened by a ferocious roar, and the gwrach’s weight vanishes. Her fangs tear from throat,
nearly as painful as when they first sank in. I cry out and bring my hands to my throat. Blood
spills over them, staining my palms crimson.
Light appears above me, the flickering flame of a candle, and Aneirin’s face hovers behind
it. “Oh God.” I close my eyes with despair. “Just kill me now and be done with it.”
“Be careful what you wish for, mo charaid.” Aneirin’s voice is strangled. There’s an odd
note to it. His hands slide over the edges of my face and I cannot bring myself to fight him off. I
endure it, swallowing my protests. “Kynan, listen to me. Open your eyes.”
I want to refuse, like a petulant child, but his voice is strangely compelling. I force my eyes
open and look up at him, his beloved face drawn taught with emotion. “Go away,” I whisper.
“Oh please, just go.”
“I won’t.” He sits and draws my head onto his lap. “Kynan, you must listen to me very
carefully. You’re dying.”
I give a harsh, weak laugh. “You think I don’t know it?”
“I can save you.” I laugh again. His hands tighten. “I can, but you must trust me, just once
more. Kynan, have you heard of the vampir?”
“A blood-sucking monster,” I whisper, too horrified to pretend disinterest. “Like the
gwrach.”
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“Yes. Your gwrach is vampir, I suspect.” He pauses and draws a deep breath and I am afraid
to hear what he will say next. “As am I.”
Somewhere deep within me, I knew it was coming, and it’s still a shock. I cry out and try to
throw myself away from him, but I’m too weak to go far. And Aneirin’s there, lifting me up and
trying to soothe. I jerk away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
He draws his hands away with obvious reluctance. I’m shaking, and it’s not from the loss of
blood. He watches me as though his heart is breaking. As though he cares. I want to scream and
claw at him, but I only stare at him and tremble. “You’re a monster,” I accuse.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Yes.”
I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, but I can’t stop trembling. I
feel as though I’m about to fall apart.
“I can save you, Kynan.”
“How?” I demand. “By making me like you?”
“Yes.”
“No. Never.”
“You are dying.”
“Then let me die!”
He looks so sad, and I hate him for it. I want him to leave me alone, but I can’t make him
go. I press my face to my thighs and try to ignore him.
“Damn it, Kynan. I won’t let you kill yourself.” His hands touch my arms. I push him away
feebly, but he returns, gripping me tight. “You don’t want to be turned, and I accept your choice,
but I will not allow you to give up. You may be dying, but you’re not dead yet.” His hands pull
and prod at me until I’m stretched on my back on the bed. I close my eyes against my tears. I
half-expect him to bend over my throat and finish the job the gwrach abandoned, but he doesn’t.
He rips a long strip of fabric from the edge of his shirt and presses it to the ragged wound at my
throat. The pain makes me cry out. He gives me an apologetic look, but the pressure doesn’t
ease.
The fabric comes away vibrant with my blood. Aneirin tears off another and presses it to my
throat again, and again. He continues his ministrations until the bandages come away clean. At
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last, he sits back with a long, weary sigh. “The bleeding’s stopped,” he says quietly. “But you’ve
lost so much… I’ll need to stay, to keep an eye on you.”
We could argue, and I could tell him that his presence only makes the distance between us
harder to bear. I could tell him to leave, and maybe I could even convince him. But there’s no
fight left within me for this battle. I close my eyes and let icy numbness wash over me.
Aneirin tends me well; I must give him that much. I recover and begin to gain strength,
although much more slowly than I’d like. I wish I could be rid of him, but the few times I try to
manage on my own are proof enough that I still need his assistance. I suffer his ministrations,
and try to keep myself too busy to think on his terrible confession.
Days upon days spent convalescing in a bed leads to horrendous boredom, however, and
although I can barely speak to him for the fear choking my throat, eventually I give into my
curiosity. He’s making himself busy, preparing bandages and salves and tidying up the few bits
of clutter lying about. I watch him quietly for a time, and suddenly ask, “Why did you come?”
He stops and looks up at me with a startled expression, as though he’d forgotten I was in the
room with him. Or perhaps he simply forgot that I was capable of speaking to him in more than
monosyllabic sentences. The fault for that, I know, is my own. I’m not sure whether I feel guilty
for it or not.
“I’m sorry?” he asks.
“The day the gwrach attacked me. Why did you come to see me?”
“Oh.” He turns away and resumes his tidying. “I was looking for her. I thought if I found her
first…”
There is so much that’s unsaid between us. It rises as silence falls over the room, until I
nearly choke on all the words I want to say but know I shouldn’t. I stare at him, standing on the
opposite side of the room, and wish so many things had been different.
“Kynan…”
I look up and find his gaze on mine, immeasurably sad.
“I’m sorry for whatever hurt I have caused you.”
I close my eyes and turn my face away. “It’s not enough.”
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Though I can’t see him, I feel the step that he takes, closing the distance between us. “You
said you loved me.”
“I loved a lie.”
“No, Kynan.” His voice is unflaggingly gentle. It galls me. I wish that he would yell and
scream and rave, that he would give some indication he’s as affected by this as I am. “I never
lied to you.”
“You deceived me. What’s the difference?”
He makes a small noise and moves to my bedside. “What would you have had me do?” He
picks up my hand. Skin presses to skin, and the chasm yawns between us wider than ever.
“Politely ask if you wanted to be rescued by a vampir, or if you’d rather stay with the petty thug
who had a blade to your gut? Or perhaps we should have discussed it afterward, while you bled
in the middle of the street. That would have been perfect timing, don’t you think?”
I press my lips together and refuse to rise to his baiting. “Months, Nye. We were together for
months. There was opportunity to tell me.”
“Yes.” He pulls a stool over and sits on it, watching me with a heavy gaze. “And I would
have, but for your nightmares.”
I cannot help myself. I glance up at him, curious.
“You were so frightened. And I knew if I told you, you would fear me too. I couldn’t bear
that.”
I close my eyes again as I feel the stinging rush of tears. I don’t want to cry over him. I
would rather hate him. “You’re a monster,” I accuse, but it comes out more feebly than I’d have
liked.
His fingers tighten around my hand. “It was not my choosing, mo charaid. Would you let
me tell you?”
I don’t want to hear it, but I nod anyway. When he sounds like this, so broken and sad, I can
almost forget what he is. I can almost think of him as the man I thought he was, and that man… I
cannot say no to anything that might ease his pain.
He tells me, though it’s painful for both of us. He tells me about the sons Cailean bore him,
and about the men who invaded their home. He tells me how his wife tried to protect the
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children, then how he tried to protect his wife. He tells me about her rape, and the man—the
vampir—who threatened to inflict it upon her again if Aneirin didn’t drink the blood that would
turn him into a monster.
He tells me how Cailean died, murdered at his own hand when he was newly turned and too
mad from hunger to recognize that he hunted his own wife.
In the end, we are both crying, though I’ve pressed my face to the pillow to hide my tears. I
cannot hate him. I want to, desperately, but I can’t, and I begin to realize that I never have. Hurt
and anger and fear, yes, but not hate.
When he touches me, pushing strands of my hair back to tuck behind my ear, I do not pull
away. “The gwrach,” he murmurs. I tense. “She will be back.”
“I’ll leave.” I turn my head so that my cheek rests on the pillow and I’m watching him. “I’ll
go somewhere else, like I meant to.”
“She will follow you, as she followed you here.”
“What would you have me do, Nye?” It’s not a demand this time, but an entreaty.
He picks up my hand again and squeezes it gently. “I would have you listen. She is as I am. I
know her weaknesses.”
“What are they?”
“Daylight, for what that’s worth.”
I jerk upright. “But you always went out during the day.”
“Yes. Always.” His lips curve with gentle amusement. “Do you think, if I had asked you to
leave the shutters closed, you’d have agreed without an explanation? I thought it would be easier
for us both if I went somewhere else. Somewhere I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed.”
Unhappiness twists beneath my breastbone at this discovery of yet another deception. I trace
lines of stitching in the coverlet, struggling to convince myself that it doesn’t matter. “Daylight,
then. Anything else?”
“Gold. It burns us.”
“Oh,” I breathe, my distress forgotten. “The necklace.” And then, with a rising sense of
horror, “My God, your back.”
“Yes.” His smile is twisted and mirthless. “It was gold that gave me those scars.”
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I am overcome by the urge to draw my fingers over his scars and soothe his pain. I know it’s
old pain, but I can see in his eyes that it hasn’t healed well, despite what he says. Sympathy
makes me want to stay, and terror makes me want to flee. The conflicting desires war with me,
leaving me frozen and trembling.
Aneirin climbs up onto the bed and kneels at my side. He takes both of my hands, watching
me with an earnest expression. “I did not like to deceive you,” he whispers. “Kynan, can you
ever forgive me?”
I look away. “I don’t know.” My voice is strangled.
He sighs, but it holds a note of relief in it. A day before, my answer would have been No,
never, and we both know it.
“If you figure it out,” he says gently, sliding off the bed, “let me know. But rest for now.”
I have a different nightmare that night. It starts the same, with my sister’s screams and my
family’s death. Then it segues into the gwrach’s most recent attack. I fight her off as best I can,
knowing that Aneirin will come and save me at any moment. But she drinks and drinks, and he
never comes. At last, as I feel the life flowing from me, I open my eyes and look up at her. But it
isn’t the gwrach who drinks from me. It’s Aneirin, and as I die, he raises his head and gives me a
wicked, blood-encrusted smile.
I wake screaming. Aneirin’s there, his eyes large with worry, trying to soothe me. I scream
louder and throw myself away from him, but the blankets tangle around my limbs. I end up in a
shuddering heap at the end of the bed, screaming and screaming until my throat is raw from it.
He kneels quietly nearby. I can feel the heat of his presence, so close at my side, but he
doesn’t touch me. “Kynan,” he says urgently. “Kynan, it was a dream. It’s not real.”
“You killed me,” I cry, bringing my arms up to cover my face. “Oh God, Nye, you killed
me.”
“I did not!” His voice lashes out and, oddly, it stabilizes me enough so that when he says,
“Look at me,” I am able to raise my head and do so.
His face is bright with emotion, powerful and terrifying. His gaze catches me and holds me
motionless, breathless and trembling. “You know I care for you, mo charaid.” There’s a
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roughness to his voice now, a desperation. “And even so, I did not harm you, even when I
thought doing so was the only way to save your life. Because you did not want me to. I would
never touch you without your permission. Never. If you believe nothing else about me, cara,
believe that.”
“I want to,” I manage to say between great, sobbing gasps. “I want to, Nye, but I—”
“Shhhh.” His arms come around me, warm and strong. They draw me against his chest and
into a gentle embrace. “Shh, now. It’s just a dream.”
I cling to him, shuddering. His hands move lightly over my back and I find myself wishing
that he might never stop, that we might never have to release each other. My fear is
inconsequential in the face of my overwhelming need for his comfort.
We hold each other and he rocks me, whispering softly against my hair in Gaelic.
It’s a truce, of sorts. Or at least a ceasefire. In any case, the remainder of my convalescence
is markedly less awkward as Aneirin and I learn to become friends again. I know he wants
more—I can see the yearning in his eyes when he looks at me—but it’s more than I can give. I
see, too, that he understands that, and he doesn’t press the issue. I’m stronger now, and had he
tried, I would leave. I think he knows it.
It’s the same as when we first met. He tends to me, I allow his ministrations, and though I
improve, I never get around to asking him to leave. And so he stays. But he doesn’t join me in
the bed this time, not even to sleep with our backs toward each other and our hands to ourselves.
Sometimes when I wake, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. I expect it to make me
uneasy, but instead it comforts me to know he’s standing guard, even when I sleep. That he’s
there, protecting me.
I have more nightmares, but I try not to talk about them. Sometimes Aneirin is in them.
Sometimes he rescues me, and sometimes he kills me, but I’m able to deal with them better on
my own than I was at first. He would give me his comfort if I asked for it, but my pride chokes
me.
We play games to pass the time of my convalescence. It is an odd thing; when he first
proposed a game of cards, I was still angry and bitter, and agreed only because the thought of
defeating him gave me a fierce sense of pleasure. But as the days pass and my anger fades, our
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games become less competitive and more congenial, almost friendly. We play draughts and cards
and Nine Men’s Morris, and occasionally chess, although I haven’t the skill for it that Aneirin
does, and our matches always leave me exhausted.
Aneirin cajoles me into a series of matches one night, a half dozen in a row before I lose my
patience and admit defeat. I’m so tired afterward that I fall asleep where I lie on the bed, propped
on my side. I drift in and out of consciousness for some time. I’m not sure how long I sleep, but
it feels like hours. I wake once because I’ve rolled over on top of the chessboard and a pawn is
trying to burrow itself into my rib. My wordless sound of protest makes Aneirin laugh quietly as
he cleans off the bed and fishes the last of the pieces out from underneath me. When he’s
finished and has set them safely aside, he sits down next to me again and brushes my hair off of
my brow.
“Go back to sleep, Kynan,” he murmurs. “It’s safe now.”
He’s exaggerating, of course. He only means the sharp-edged chess pieces, but his words
comfort me even so. I feel safe with Nye sitting next to me; I drift back to sleep.
And wake sometime later when the mattress tilts sharply beneath me. I am alert suddenly,
my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I clutch at the blankets with some wild notion that I’m about
to go flying out onto the floor. But it’s only Aneirin sliding onto the bed, his weight that made
the mattress tilt. He grimaces and apologizes when he sees he’s woken me.
The third time, I am drawn from sleep by butterfly touches against my cheek. I wake
contented rather than fearful, and my eyes flutter open.
I’d thought it was Aneirin’s fingertips that I felt, but it’s not. He has bent over me, his hair
falling over my face, and brushed a gentle kiss across my cheek. I make a small, strangled sound.
Aneirin draws away immediately and his face flushes—with remorse perhaps, or chagrin, or
embarrassment.
I push myself across the bed, away from him. “I can’t,” I cry brokenly. “Nye, I can’t do this.
I can’t give you what you want from me.”
He stares down at me, and some of his color begins to fade. “What do you think that is,
Kynan?”
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I swallow my fear, and my pride. “You want me to forget what you are. You want me to
pretend things are like they used to be, but I can’t. I can’t forget it, Nye.”
“I know,” he whispers. He traces his hand along my cheek. “I didn’t like lying to you, mo
charaid. I didn’t like pretending to be something I’m not. I’d rather not go back to that. I would
have you love me as I am, or not at all.”
“It’s not that simple.” I sigh. He wants all or nothing, and I can give him neither. I love him
still, but not as he desires. I can’t give him all, but I can’t deny my heart and pretend I feel
nothing, either.
“Isn’t it?” He strokes the side of my face again. I shiver beneath his touch. He leans over me
again and I try to slide away, but I have nowhere to go. His lips brush mine, warm and soft. I cry
out, only half in protest. I want what he offers and my desire is stronger than the strength of my
will.
“It’s too hard, Nye.”
He slides his fingers through my hair. “I only offer comfort. Take what you will of it.”
I shake my head. “Don’t, Nye, please. I want—”
He pauses, then draws back a fraction. “What do you want, Kynan?” he breathes against my
mouth.
“Too much.”
Flames leap in his eyes and he closes the distance between us. This time, there’s no
hesitation in his kiss. He slips into my mouth, draws me into his, and the heat swamps me. It
would take more strength than I have to resist. I curl my arms around his neck and lose myself in
his kiss.
I’ll regret it later; I’m sure of it. But for now, for just this moment, I need the comfort that he
offers. I’ll take it, and suffer the consequences later.
His touch is gentle. When I shiver beneath him, he draws me close against his chest,
thinking I’m cold. I’m not; I’m filled with the warmth of his touch. It’s the sweetness of it that
makes me tremble. I am remembering the first time he kissed me like this, trying to make me
forget the horror of my nightmares. I remember the way he kissed me then—the way he’s kissing
me now—and I forget about my anger and hurt and fear. He is Aneirin, the man who saved me
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from roughs and nursed me to health, the man who held me in his arms and let me cry on his
shoulder, who put me back together when my nightmares left me in pieces. I remember only that
he is Nye, and he is the man I love.
He draws back suddenly and stares down at me, trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, hoarse.
“Kynan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—” He starts to turn away.
“No,” I say. “Don’t.” But this time, I’m not asking him to stop. I fist my hands in his hair
and drag his mouth back to mine. “Don’t leave me alone, Nye, please.”
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Chapter Five
“Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I wrap my arms around his back and roll with him. His eyes widen with surprise, then close
when I frame his face in my hands and press our mouths together. “Just kiss me.”
His fingers trace along the back of my neck and slip beneath my collar to explore my
shoulders. He slides down my arm, caressing the lines of the muscles, and inches the hem of the
shirt up my back.
I sit up and pull it off over my head. Aneirin rubs his hands over my stomach and up my
chest. I open my eyes and look down at him. He is spread on his back below me, and his gaze is
warm and open. His hair makes a dark ink stain upon my pillow. His eyes are even darker with
heat and desire.
“If you want to stop,” he whispers, “tell me. I will. I swear it.”
I growl, frustrated that he keeps trying to make reality intrude when all I want is to forget it.
I jerk his pants down his hips. He pulls his shirt off while I remove them, and then my own. I
crawl up the length of his body and let my weight settle against him. He groans, pressing his
fingers into my back.
I kiss his throat and chest, lick the sweat from where it gathers in the hollow behind his
collarbone. His hands skim over me, a constant caress. He arches and presses himself into me,
his erection against mine. I lose my breath at the feel of him and lean my forehead against his
shoulder.
He slides his hands over my back, tracing lines across my waist and hips, down my thighs to
the backs of my knees and up again. His fingers caress my buttocks, then slip between my
cheeks to brush against my entrance. I raise my head and stare down at Aneirin.
“Do you want this?” he whispers, pressing the tip of his finger into me.
“Yes.” I rock my hips back against him.
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It is so easy to forget, with the maddening pleasure of his touch pulsing through me. I throw
my head back and shudder as he eases farther into me. My blood rushes loudly in my ears; my
pulse pounds heavily. I draw an unsteady breath and arch back against his finger. Hungry,
whimpering sounds claw from my throat as he moves within me, a very gentle thrust and
withdrawal, hardly moving at all.
“Nye,” I gasp. “Please, Nye, more.” I need the white-hot rush of release to wash away the
last painful scraps of memory. He gives me a taste of it, but nowhere near enough.
He presses deep into me, stimulating places that make me gasp and swear from the ecstasy.
Sweat clings to my skin and slides down my spine. I groan and press back against Aneirin’s
touch.
He withdraws, and my noise of protest ravels into a shocked cry when he presses two fingers
into me. My arms tremble; I cannot support myself any longer. I carefully ease myself on top of
Aneirin and let my body settle against his. He watches me with dark, hooded eyes. I don’t know
what he’s thinking, but he presses his fingers into me and I cry out.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes against me. I give him a bewildered look. “Sit
up, cara,” he whispers.
I groan in protest, but obediently push myself up until I’m kneeling on the bed, straddling
his waist. He draws his hand down my stomach and curls it around my erection. I shudder and
tighten around the fingers he holds within me.
He nudges my legs apart and slides down the bed until my knees are planted on either side
of his shoulders. He strokes me a few times, pushes up onto his elbows and takes me into his
mouth.
I gasp and press my palms against the wall to steady myself. It’s all that keeps me upright.
His mouth is hot on my flesh, his tongue quick and lithe. He knows where to touch, with exactly
how much pressure he should lick, just how far to draw me into his mouth.
My head falls back. My chest heaves; I struggle to breathe through the storm of sensations
that rages around me. My hands curl into fists against the wall. The muscles in my thighs tremble
from the intensity of what he makes me feel.
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Another time, I might stop him. He’s brought me too close, too soon, and any other time I’d
tell him to delay my release until we might both get pleasure from it. But this time all I care
about is forgetting, and the closer he brings me, the easier it is to do. If he will bring me to
oblivion so soon, I will not prevent him from doing so. I groan and shudder beneath his touch.
He draws away, though, before I am able to reach true oblivion. I brace my forearms on the
wall and lean my forehead against them, gasping. “God, Nye.”
He trails slow, open-mouthed kisses up my stomach, and my muscles tighten beneath his
lips. He kneads my back, my shoulders, the back of my neck. His touch draws me into his kiss.
I slide my hands into his hair and kiss him hungrily. He makes quiet sounds against my
mouth. His fingers twist in my hair, angling my mouth beneath his. His breathing grows harsh. I
cradle his erection against my palm; he groans and hauls me hard against him, claiming my
mouth.
Sharp, sudden pain makes me jerk back instinctively. I bring my hand to my lip; it comes
away streaked with my blood. I stare at Aneirin. His mouth is stained with crimson. The pain hits
me like a flood of ice water, washing away my illusions and leaving me with only cold, hard
truth.
I want only to forget, but it’s no longer possible. My lip throbs a testament to the truth of
what Aneirin is. I scramble back across the bed, my heart pounding.
Aneirin stares at me. I can see in his eyes the slow realization of what he has done. He
reaches out toward me, supplicating, but I flinch away. He drops his hand back to his side.
“Kynan—”
“Don’t.”
He rolls up onto his knees and crawls across the bed toward me, slowly. He holds his hands
out before him like he’s approaching a wild animal he doesn’t wish to frighten away. I quiver
with tension, but I don’t bolt. Not yet.
“Why does this frighten you so?” Aneirin asks softly.
I stare at him. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”
His lips thin. “I am not the gwrach, cara. I did not kill your family. I did not attack you or
chase you from your home.”
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“But you’re like her,” I cry. “You’re the same.”
“It is not the same,” he insists. He hesitates, then puts a hand on my arm. I stiffen and frown
at him, mistrustful. “Will you let me show you?”
“No.” I throw myself away from him. “My God, no.”
“I swear, I will not hurt you.”
“You want to drink my blood; I daresay, it will hurt!”
“There’s a great difference between what she did to your family and what I wish to show
you.” He slides close again, slides his hands up my arms. “Let me show you that there can be
pleasure in it.”
“You’re crazy,” I snap. “I won’t let you drink my blood.”
“You’re afraid of me?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”
I expect him to be angry or insulted, but it still hurts when he climbs off the bed and walks
away from me. I stare after him, torn between my fear of what he is and my love of who he is.
He returns with the cross I bought him, still nestled in its paper bed. “Do you remember
what I said about gold?”
“Yes.”
He hands it to me; I take it and stare. “You may use it, if you feel threatened or in pain. Will
that make you feel more secure?”
I watch him uncertainly. “It really burns you?” The metal feels cool to my touch, and I can’t
quite believe that it could hurt him.
He nods and taps a finger against the cross’s shaft. It stays cool in my palm, but he must feel
something; he sucks in his breath sharply. When he shows his finger to me, a bright red welt cuts
across the pad at its tip. I look at it with surprise.
Aneirin brushes the backs of his fingers across my cheek. “I only want to give you pleasure,
mo charaid. Will you let me?”
My brows draw together in a frown. I can’t deny the fear; it’s just as present as ever. But
desire is, too. He offers me pleasure, and I want it. I long for the release, the oblivion.
And I always have the cross, if I need it.
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“All right,” I whisper in a small, tense voice. I tremble with fear and tighten my hand on the
cross.
Aneirin slips his arms around my waist and draws me close. I expect him to go straight for
the throat, and I wait for it, tensed. But he doesn’t; he fits our bodies together and skims his lips
across mine. He coaxes me with soft, nibbling kisses. Slowly, I relax and lean into him.
He kisses the edge of my ear, then just beneath the lobe. His lips brush my jaw and the skin
of my throat beneath it. I tighten my hands on his shoulders and try to relax. Whatever’s to come,
tension will surely make it worse.
He lingers at my throat, gently kissing and sucking. His lips feel exquisite. I shiver and close
my eyes, and for a moment I forget what he intends to do. In that moment, he strikes.
The tips of his fangs press into my skin and give me only an instant’s warning. My gasp
turns into hoarse cry when he sinks them into my flesh. I stiffen and instinctively struggle against
him.
But he’s right—he promised not to hurt me, and he doesn’t. I know it should hurt, that I
should be in agony, but all I feel is a warm pulse of heat as his mouth sucks at my wound. I
moan, writhing beneath him, and the cross falls out of my hand as I reach for him.
“Nye,” I gasp. My hands twist knots in his hair. “Oh God, Nye, I need—” I break off. I don’t
have words for what I need. He takes my blood, but he fills me with fire in its place. I burn for
him.
“More,” I groan. “I need more.”
He draws my legs around his hips and enters me, as careful and patient as always. I arch and
claw at his back, mad with my need.
His mouth never leaves my throat. He sucks with a rhythm that matches the rhythm of his
thrusts against me, easing into me by slow degrees, each bringing me a breath closer to the
delirium that I crave.
“More,” I whisper, running my fingers through his hair. “More, more, more.”
He gives me more—ever more. Everything that I need, and still not enough to satisfy. I
tighten my legs around his hips and move against him, driving myself up to meet his thrusts. My
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lungs heave, struggling for every breath. I scratch lines down Aneirin’s back and twist beneath
him.
“Damn it, Nye!” I drag his body hard against mine. “Please—”
He tears himself away from my throat and pushes himself up, staring down at me as he
drives into me. His eyes are wild and unfocused. His lips part with his heavy gasps, and a single
crimson drop clings to his lip.
Blood. My blood.
I lift my hand, trembling, and brush the drop from his lip. He smiles at me, but it looks
dazed, drugged. I pull him down to meet my mouth.
My hands race over him. I seek what I need hungrily. I demand it from him, take without
asking, and he gives without needing to be asked. Each thrust fills me with a burst of fire. I moan
and cry and growl against his mouth, moving helplessly beneath him.
“Please,” I whisper brokenly. “Please…”
He braces himself against the bed and pounds himself into me, giving me the last few
strokes that I need. I convulse around him, crying out, and clutch him tightly as the fire of my
climax washes over me. I can only dimly hear Aneirin’s cries above the roar as he empties
himself within me, then collapses on top of me, spent. I ease my arms around him. At last, I have
what I seek. I drift in the cool bliss of oblivion.
It can’t last; I know this. But I take comfort in it while it does, and when it fades and returns
me to reality, it’s not so bad. I am worn and sated, still flushed with the heat of our passion.
Aneirin lies beside me, one arm draped across my stomach.
I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are closed, his lashes curving against his cheeks. He
might be asleep, but I can’t tell. I shift beneath the weight of his limb and reach for the edge of
the blanket.
Aneirin’s arm tightens around me. I look toward him again. He has opened his eyes and is
watching me quietly. He looks pensive, uncertain.
“Do you understand now?” His gaze is distant, withdrawn. He’s put walls up between us, in
case I tell him that no, I still can’t understand. “Do you see what I mean? We are not all like your
gwrach, mo charaid.”
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I am quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” I whisper. Last time, it meant Maybe. This time, I
think it means something more.
I curl up against him, pressing my back against his chest. He slips an arm around my waist
and holds me close. I fall asleep, secure within the circle of his arms.
I wake alone in the bed, disoriented. I sit up, rub the grit out of my eyes, and look around for
Aneirin. For one moment, my heart pounds with panic, certain that I’ve been abandoned. But he
is in the chair by the window, his head lolled to the side as he sleeps. He looks uncomfortable, so
I slip out of bed and carry my pillow over to his chair, propping it beneath his cheek to support
his neck.
And so, the pattern of our routine is set. He always joins me when I go to bed, and holds me
close until I sleep. Then he slips away and takes a sentinel position in the chair at the window. I
think he means to protect me, if the gwrach comes again. I wish I were not such a coward and
could tell him that I’d rather have his warmth in bed.
The next time the gwrach comes, I’m prepared. A gentle hand on my shoulder wakes me,
shaking me lightly. I pry open bleary eyes and peer up at Aneirin through the shadows. There’s
only a candle to fend off the darkness, and his face is tense in its flickering light.
“Kynan,” he says, whisper-soft. “I hear something… She is coming.”
My heart flutters in my throat. I scramble out of bed, then stand in the center of the room,
tense and fearful and uncertain what to do. Aneirin presses a cloth-wrapped bundle into my
hands. I open it; it is the cross. I remember his words, the night he convinced me to make this
stand.
And gold; it burns us.
I swallow hard and tighten my hand around the cross, my only defense against the gwrach.
Nye pulls on a pair of black kid gloves and takes up a weapon of his own—a long, sharp
dagger whose edge gleams golden. It makes me nervous, though I cannot explain why. I lick my
lips and set my attention on the window.
She is fast; I give her that much. One moment, the view beyond the window is empty but for
the vast expanse of stars in the heavens. I blink, and suddenly she’s there, halfway through the
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window. She is startled when she sees us, awake and prepared for her. Her growl lifts her lip off
her teeth, baring her sharp fangs. I cannot repress the shudder that runs through me at the sight.
She leaps at me with little attention spared for Aneirin. I expect it, and still it comes as a
shock. I fall back with a cry, driven by her weight, and my back comes up against the wall. She
pins me there, leering at me with her bloody smile, and leans in toward my throat.
There’s no time for thought, no time for planning. I bring the cross up between our bodies
and press it to the bared skin at her throat. Even with Aneirin’s demonstration the night he
returned the cross to me, I don’t expect much to happen. I am unprepared for the violence of her
reaction.
She screams a sound like a cat’s yowl and throws me from her. I cannot get my feet under
me. I fall, and my head hits hard against the bed’s corner post, snapping sharply to the side.
Something cracks and I crumple to the floor as a wave of numbness rolls over me.
I hear Aneirin’s desperate scream, but I cannot move to help him. From the edge of my
vision, I see him thrust his dagger to the hilt into her chest. She crumples; he tosses her aside and
rushes to me.
“Oh, Kynan. Kynan.” He eases me onto my back. His hands shake as he runs his fingers
over my face. I stare up at him, terrified. I can’t move, and I can’t feel his touch on my
shoulders. It’s a battle just to breathe, and one that I am rapidly losing.
“Kynan, cara…” He bows his head over me. Hot tears fall against my skin. “Let me help
you. Please, mo charaid, let me help you. You cannot recover from this on your own, not like
before. Please.” His voice is torn, agonized. His expression is twisted with pain and grief.
I close my eyes. My head is spinning and I cannot think. I struggle for calm, but I know I’m
slowly suffocating, and it makes me panic. I do not want to die.
Aneirin is still talking, a fast, desperate rush. He is nearly sobbing the words. “Cara, you
know I care for you. You know it, don’t you? I do. I love you, Kynan. Please, let me help you;
let me fix this. I can’t bear to watch you die.”
“Nye,” I whisper with my last bit of breath. He draws back, looking down at me. A storm of
emotion rages across his face—pain, and desperation, and love.
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I close my eyes again. I am spinning closer to the darkness. I have nearly reached it, and as
it rises up to envelop me, I have only one thought. I do not want to die.
I have no breath left with which to speak, but I know Aneirin is still there, and I mouth two
small words.
Do it.
He shifts above me. I feel the warmth of his breath at my throat, then the prick of his fangs
at my skin. I know what is coming, know that it’s preferable to the alternative, but it still terrifies
me. I brace myself for it.
“It will hurt,” he whispers against my skin. “I’m sorry.” Then he sinks his fangs deep and
begins to drink, and there is nothing but pain.
It is nothing at all like the night he fed from me. I didn’t mind it that night, but this hurts
fiercely and reminds me of the gwrach. I press my eyes closed and try not to move beneath his
mouth. I try not to panic, or think of the gwrach’s bite and her bright, mad eyes.
He drinks deeply and quickly, his mouth pulling the blood from me. A fog rises to cover me,
numbing the pain and the panic of suffocation. I relax beneath Aneirin, drifting in it.
The pain returns sharply when he pulls his fangs free of my flesh. I feel the heat of my blood
drip down my throat. He withdraws, enough so that he no longer touches me, but I can still feel
his warmth at my side. Then he returns, pressing a wound to my lips. His blood flows into my
mouth and I choke on the bitter taste of it.
“Drink it, cara,” he whispers, fingers gently stroking the hair at my brow. “I know it tastes
bad, but drink it, or you will die and I’ll be able to do nothing for you.”
Dimly, I understand the sense of his words and I drink, though it makes me gag. I force a
few mouthfuls down my throat. Heat bursts through me. I can feel the flames licking at me,
charring my skin, consuming my muscles and bones until I am nothing but ash. Even my numb,
senseless body burns. I would scream, but I cannot breathe. I would struggle, but I cannot move.
My world is a red-orange inferno and even Aneirin’s light, gentle touch feels like hot pokers. I
pray for the relief of death.
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It comes as a slow, smothering darkness. It takes Aneirin away, takes the flames and the
pain, until there is nothing left. I sink into it with relief and let the nothingness consume me. At
long last, I die.
When I wake, I know only hunger. It is a burning, a hollow ache that demands to be filled.
Hands touch me, running over me, but I ignore them. All that matters is the feeding.
“Come here, mo charaid,” a voice murmurs as hands try to guide me. “Take what you need.
I’ve plenty to spare.”
I resist the stranger’s pull until I catch the sweet, heady scent that clings to him. The hunger
pushes me forward until my face is pressed to him. I inhale the ambrosia on his skin and act
without thought. I bite.
His taste explodes across my tongue and I cannot help but moan. It tastes like sunshine and
starlight and everything good and beautiful in the world. I drink and drink.
With each mouthful, the hunger fades and awareness returns to me, until I release him and
sit back. For a moment I’m disoriented. I don’t recognize where I am or who my companion is.
Then he says quietly, “Kynan,” a worried frown on his face, and memory returns to me in a rush.
Aneirin. The gwrach. The attack, and the ominous crack as my head hit the bedpost. I draw
in a sharp breath.
“It worked?”
Aneirin nods slowly. “It worked.”
“And I’m—” The words stick in my throat. I don’t regret my choice, but I can’t quite
reconcile myself to what I’ve become. To what I have allowed myself to become.
He looks away. “Yes.”
I release my breath with a tremulous sigh. “Thank you, Nye,” I say. I don’t look at him,
either.
We’re both silent. Awkwardness descends on us like a heavy blanket. I lick my lips and
gather courage enough to ask, “So…what now?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Now, I teach you what you need to know about life as vampir. It
will take time, mo charaid. You will be weak for a while and vulnerable.” He closes his eyes and
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hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Kynan. I know you wished to leave me. I would have honored that
before, but I can’t now. You must stay with me so I can teach you.”
My brows draw together, though more from thought than actual displeasure. “If I don’t?” I
ask. I need to know my options.
He’s quiet for a long time. “You will become like the gwrach,” he says at last. “And I will
have to kill you.”
I stiffen, startled. He doesn’t meet my gaze. I slide closer to him and touch his jaw, turning
his face toward me. “It’s a good thing I don’t want to leave, then, isn’t it?”
Hope rises slowly in his eyes. “You did,” he whispered.
“I did.”
“What changed?”
I look down at my lap. I’m not sure even I know the answer to that question. “I love you,” I
whisper. “That’s never changed. I was just…afraid.” I get to my knees and grip his hands tightly
in mine. Hot tears drip down my cheek. “I love you, Nye. And I owe you so much. I owe you my
life, three times over now.”
He pulls me close against his chest and wraps his arms around me. I lean into him and take
comfort in his strength. “I love you, Kynan,” he whispers hoarsely. “I never meant to hurt you.”
I hate to see the heartbreak in his eyes. I turn his face toward mine and skim my mouth over
his. “You had your reasons.” I press my brow to his and admit, “You were probably right not to
tell me. I wouldn’t have listened.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and watches me with hope blazing quietly in his
eyes. “Are you sure?” His expression is still and focused, and I know he’s not asking about my
willingness to hear him out.
“Of course I am,” I breathe against his lips. He has been my rock, my strength, my friend
and comfort. He saved my life, gave it back to me when the gwrach had taken it, and I’m not
sure I’d want to live without him. I would have once, not too long ago, but now I can’t bear the
thought. “I need you, Nye.”
“We need each other, cara.” He holds me close, cradled against his chest.
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I never would have imagined that my life would take this path. That I’d willingly tie myself
to a vampir like the gwrach who had terrorized me since childhood, or that I’d choose to become
one myself. I never would have thought that I’d drink another’s blood with anything but
revulsion. But life changes, and changes us. Aneirin teaches me how to be vampir, and teaches
me that being vampir is not the same as being a monster. He teaches me how to find willing
donors, and how to give pleasure as I feed, rather than pain.
I am happy with Nye, and he with me. We live together, and love together, and I never
regret the choices I made.
About the Author
Aislinn Kerry wrote her first romance on a whim and hasn’t been able to stop since. She has
always been fascinated with the misfits, the misunderstood, and things that go bump in the night.
She blames it on an unnatural obsession with Beauty and the Beast at an impressionable age.
To learn more about Aislinn, please visit
. Send an email to
or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/aislinnkerry.
A world away and centuries past, nothing in this feudal kingdom is ordinary—especially
love.
On Wings of Blue
© 2008 Anne Cain
Eiji is a young traveling musician whose skill with the shamisen attracts almost as
many would-be consorts as his handsome features do. But his beauty also draws the
attention of a ruthless warlord who won’t be denied. Unless Eiji gives himself in every
way to this man, his life will be forfeit…before he’s even known what it is to experience
true love.
Then a small act of kindness to a helpless butterfly changes the course of his destiny.
A creature of magic, Hakusa begs the gods for a chance to be joined with Eiji
forever, even if it means giving up everything he has ever known. But his choice to
become human comes with a cruel price.
Hakusa vows to rescue Eiji from the warlord's scheme. But like delicate notes of the
shamisen, his unearthly magic is slowly fading away.
Just when he needs it most.
Enjoy the following excerpt for On Wings of Blue:
Overhead, a man probably no older than Eiji’s own eighteen years perched on a tree
branch. Long, flowing strands of silver hair framed his handsome face and swept past his
shoulders, down his back. Delicately arched eyebrows furrowed in a look of concern as a
hint of a pout tugged at the corners of his lips. He jumped down from the branch, landing
silently on the ground beside Eiji.
The young man could only be one of Fujiwara’s guests for the festival, and an
important one from the manner of his dress. A thin line of gold traced the hem of the
young man’s jacket, which was painted with the most extraordinary pearlescent ink, a
swirling, barely visible pattern decorating his robes. His hakama matched, the loose-
fitting pleated trousers of indigo silk tied at his waist with a silver sash.
Pushing away from the tree trunk, Eiji gave a deep bow of respect. “Forgive me. I
thought I was alone.” He moved to leave and stopped when the young man reached for
his hand.
“Don’t go,” the stranger begged. “You act as if you don’t know me, Eiji.”
Why the son of some upper-class samurai or lord would know the name of an
entertainer, Eiji couldn’t begin to fathom. He looked up in surprise and felt the heat
spread across his cheeks as he studied the other man’s face. The man’s beauty stole Eiji’s
breath, while the gentleness in his hand made Eiji long to feel that touch everywhere.
“Don’t you recognize me?” the man asked.
Eiji shook his head. “If I’d seen you before, I wouldn’t be able to forget.”
The young man caressed Eiji’s cheeks. “I’m Hakusa,” he said, smiling.
“What?” Eiji gasped, his eyes widening.
“It’s true.” The young man leaned close. “When you stopped coming to the garden, I
kept waiting for you here. All that time, I prayed to the gods and begged them give me
this form.”
Eiji raised both eyebrows. “I’ve gone mad,” he gulped. “Either that or you’re a
demon.”
Hakusa laughed. “No, no.” He took Eiji by the wrist, his touch delicate and full of
tenderness. He placed Eiji’s hand over his breast. “The heart that beats here doesn’t
belong to a demon. It belongs to you.”
Eiji spread his fingers open on the silk. Beneath the cloth, the steady beat of a heart
and warmth of a human body were unmistakable. The rhythm of the pulse quickened
under his fingers, and a heated blush spread across Eiji’s cheeks. “It is all true then,” he
breathed.
A smile dancing on those plump, playful lips, Hakusa closed his eyes. He lifted Eiji’s
hand to his mouth and blew his warm breath along the first finger.
“Remember? I kissed you here.” Hakusa smiled. He pressed his silky lips to the side
of Eiji’s finger.
Eiji’s heart skipped a beat at that gentle caress, a shiver of delight traveling down his
arm and farther still. “I do remember.” Eiji bit down on his lower lip, his face burning. In
a smaller voice, he added, “But I think I like the way this kiss feels even better.”
Eiji leaned in and touched his lips to Hakusa’s. The warmth from the other man’s
body radiated through Eiji and his sweet taste, almost like honey, filled Eiji’s mouth.
Drawn to this heat as it continued to spread through his body, Eiji pressed closer. Their
mouths worked together in slow, rolling motions as the passion in their kiss deepened.
Eiji’s sex responded, his cock stiffening and rising below the folds of his robes. The
swollen tip brushed against the silk, the touch gentle but erotic enough to make the organ
harden even more. Moaning under his breath, Eiji broke out of the kiss. He’d never been
so swept away by the desires of his body or of his heart.
“Mmm,” Hakusa murmured. “I think I like these kinds of kisses better too.” His
mouth curved up in a smile as he lowered his gaze to Eiji’s lap, an expression both
playful and seductive at once. “What else can we do with our lips?”
“You really don’t know?” A soft, breathless chuckle escaped Eiji.
“But my body is new.” Hakusa laughed also. “Please don’t tease me. I still have
much to learn.”
Eiji’s blush deepened. “I can show you.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” Hakusa moved back in with a kiss. His lips traced a path
down to Eiji’s chin, his eyelashes fluttering against Eiji’s cheek before he swept back up
and kissed Eiji above the brow.
“Why are you so warm here?” Hakusa caressed both sides of Eiji’s face.
That gentle, fleeting touch was almost enough to crumble the last of Eiji’s self-
control. “That’s not the only place I’m blushing.”
Hakusa smoothed a hand down Eiji’s chest and waist. His fingers grazed over the
hardness tenting the front of Eiji’s robes and he bent low, lips replacing his hand as he
continued to explore. Eiji sucked in his breath, his cock jerking up towards Hakusa’s
kisses from underneath the cloth.
A whimper came from the back of his throat as his hips thrust forward, the ache in
his sex undeniable. He wanted the velvety touch of Hakusa’s mouth on his cock and the
caress of those full lips on his organ’s throbbing head. Eiji longed to slip the length into
the depths of Hakusa’s mouth, to feel that warmth envelop, surround and claim his cock.
Poetry drew them together. Forbidden love bound their hearts.
A Hidden Beauty
© 2008 Jamie Craig
A student of letters, Micah Yardley wants one thing: To meet Jefferson Dering, a
poet he’s long admired from afar. After hearing his idol speak at Harvard, Micah travels
to Jefferson’s home in Wroxham, entertaining visions of discussing poetry over dinner
and drinks. What he experiences exceeds anything he ever anticipated.
Jefferson finds Micah mesmerizing, passionate, everything he has ever wanted. But
ten years earlier, caught in a compromising position with another young man, he exiled
himself from Boston and proper society. Now Jefferson represses his desire out of respect
for Micah, but his tumultuous emotions stir the restless ghost of Wroxham church—with
deadly consequences.
Amid denial, desire, and the villagers rising panic, a single kiss is enough to change
the course of their lives…and ignite the flame that could fulfill a generations-old promise.
Enjoy the following excerpt for A Hidden Beauty:
Turning on his heel, he grabbed his coat, ignoring Ewan’s frown. “I’m going for a
walk. Don’t wait up for me.”
After Ewan’s earlier assessments, Micah half expected to be stopped. But Ewan let
the door click shut behind him without argument, and Micah fled the inn for the
welcoming night.
Micah went directly to Jefferson’s home, though he suspected it would be a fruitless
journey. The windows were dark, and nothing, not even a hint of smoke, rose from the
chimney. The house didn’t look empty. It looked abandoned. Micah shook his head and
tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. Jefferson hadn’t fled Wroxham.
Micah narrowed his eyes and surveyed the area. Every window in the village blazed
with light, as though nobody wanted to be alone in the dark. Every building seemed
brimming with life, with smoke from the fire, with the smells of supper. Every building
except Jefferson’s cottage and the church.
Micah didn’t hesitate. He crossed the small town square with long strides. A full
moon sat, fat and white, just over the horizon, allowing enough light to move with ease.
Even from a distance he could see the church door was not shut all the way. Had the
hinges been damaged earlier? Micah certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
Jefferson’s voice drifted from the dark shadows. “Not tonight, Micah.”
Though he paused on the threshold, Micah squinted in order to find his friend. “Why
not? Would you really send me away?”
“I would. You should go back to your room.” The rising moon cast more light
through the church windows, and he saw Jefferson’s familiar form in the middle of the
aisle. “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to meet tomorrow. I wish to see you tonight.” Even to his ears, he
sounded like a petulant child. Micah cursed his impatience and took a step into the
church. “You’re my friend, Jefferson. As such, I refuse to look away simply because you
wish to shield me from whatever is troubling you.”
Jefferson took a step back, maintaining the same distance between them. “Micah, if
you are my friend, you’ll accept my wishes.” After a week of listening to Jefferson speak,
he was intimately aware of each nuance in speech and tone. Each word seemed to come
with great effort. “My wish is for privacy.”
“Then you would have stayed locked up in your home.” He pushed the door shut
behind them, blocking out the moon. “I know you. I know you come here when you seek
solace. Why is it so difficult for you to accept my solace instead of a cold, empty
church?”
Jefferson made a short, strangled sound that might have been an aborted laugh. “You
really have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
At least he wasn’t insisting Micah leave anymore. That was a good start.
“No.” Micah ventured further into the church, until he stood at the end of the aisle. It
was then that he realized he’d been mistaken. The church wasn’t cold. It was as hot as an
August day at noon, and he had to unbutton his coat in order to relieve the sudden
discomfort. “Why don’t you tell me, Jefferson? Why did you flee this morning?”
“Because if I stayed, it would only get worse.” He walked to the front of the church,
putting the length of the building between them. “There’s a spirit here, Micah, and I don’t
understand how, but he…he responds to me.”
“A spirit?” More than one theory that day had posited such an option, but Micah had
dismissed it as foolhardy. It was inexplicable that Jefferson would subscribe to the same
theory. “Surely, you jest.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?”
Since Jefferson still faced the altar, Micah couldn’t discern what exactly he was
doing, though the harsh tone of his voice made it clear that laughing was not it. But he
still didn’t understand how a rational man such as Jefferson could believe in spirits.
“Does he haunt you then?” Micah edged to the far right aisle. Jefferson might insist
on keeping the distance between them, but he couldn’t hide from him completely. “How
can you even be sure your spirit is male?”
“He doesn’t haunt me.” Jefferson seemed too distracted to notice him, and Micah
inched closer to him. “He haunts the church, but he only manifests himself to me.
Usually. I know who it is. His name is…was…Joseph Mather. He was a traveling
minister. He helped build this church.”
“You said your grandfather built this church.”
“He did. They built it together. Joseph had been an apprentice to a carpenter before
he decided to preach the Word. He died here. Before it was finished. He took his last
breath over there.” Jefferson gestured at the pew—their pew as Micah was beginning to
think of it. “I found letters of his once, tucked into the Bible my grandfather kept.
They…Joseph and my grandfather…were very close.”
The ache in Jefferson’s voice drew Micah irresistibly closer. “Like us.”
“Yes,” Jefferson said hoarsely. “Exactly like us. Perhaps that’s why…”
Micah waited for Jefferson to finish the sentence, but it never came. Pain tore
through him. He hated seeing his friend like this, in such obvious torment.
“Is the spirit hurting you somehow?” he asked, hoping to prompt more details.
“No, but I am likely causing him a good deal of pain.” Jefferson looked up and
blinked. He moved to take another step back, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
“And you…Micah, please, just stop. Don’t come any closer. Please.”
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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