Bachelor and the Beast (Once Upon a Man)

A Silver Publishing Book

Bachelor and the Beast

E-book ISBN: 9781614958291

First E-book Publication: February 2013

Cover design by Reese Dante

Editor: Jae Ashley

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Chapter 1

Sir Baldemar lay back on the

couch in his solar as the gentle strains of
the  lute  tickled  his  ears  and  soothed  his
mind.  A  long  afternoon  of  sword
practice in the bailey had left him weary
and  aching.  He  had  been  grateful  when
the  time  came  for  him  to  get  out  of  the
sun,  enjoy  a  warm,  scented  bath
prepared  by  his  servant,  Carew,  and  lie
wrapped  in  a  drying  cloth  while
listening to ballads.

Some of the songs sounded

familiar, though of course it was normal
for a singer to alter them as he desired.
Others were new to him, and he
wondered if they had been composed for

the occasion. It pleased him to think of
ballads being created exclusively for his
own entertainment. As a knight and lord
of his own keep, small though it might
be, he had a right to expect nothing less.

Briefly he toyed with the idea of

commissioning  a  special  ballad  about
his  own  exploits  on  the  battlefield  and
his  adventures  on  behalf  of  the  great
King  Jasper.  Of  course,  any  such  tales
would  have  to  be  embellished.  At  the
age of thirty, Baldemar had been a knight
for only five years. He had yet to see any
skirmishes  outside  of  one  tourney  in  a
neighboring  fiefdom  and  a  few  clashes
with robbers in the village he governed.
Yet  he  felt  confident  that  for  the  right
price,  his  recently  acquired  minstrel

would  be  able  to  invent  something
convincing.  Though  his  voice  was  not
invariably  pleasing,  his  dexterity  with
the  lute  compensated  for  the  occasional
shrill note.

Besides, Rosarius possessed

other talents. His current ballad ended
with a young woman drowning herself in
a stream, all for the unrequited love of a
knight whose station was far above hers.
Baldemar held up a hand to halt the
performance.

"You have pleased my ears

enough for one afternoon. Now 'tis time
to gratify other parts of my body."

A smile stole over Rosarius's

face as he let his fingers drop from the
strings and lowered his instrument.

"Indeed. Mourning a fair maiden's
broken heart is all well and good in
song, but in real life I prefer to focus on
the affairs of men."

"As do I." Laughing, Baldemar

reached  down  and  whisked  away  the
drying  cloth  that  covered  the  lower  half
of  his  body.  His  own  maleness  stood
thick  and  at  the  ready,  curving  upward
like  a  finger  crooked  in  invitation.  He
watched  Rosarius  lick  his  full,  red  lips,
set  aside  his  lute,  and  settle  onto  his
knees beside Baldemar's couch.

Baldemar moaned a little as

those  same  soft  lips  slid  over  his  cock
and  enveloped  him  in  moist  heat  that
penetrated straight to his bollocks. Soon
they  began  to  throb,  too,  keeping  time

with the insistent pulse vibrating his
shaft. Raising his hips from the couch, he
pushed his way deeper into Rosarius's
mouth.

Rosarius

murmured

encouragement,  prompting  Baldemar  to
slide  along  his  curling  tongue.  Finally
his  engorged  tip  touched  the  back  of
Rosarius's  throat.  Baldemar  paused  to
wonder  if  disporting  himself  in  such  a
way  would  affect  Rosarius's  singing
voice  either  for  better  or  worse.  Still,
what  difference  did  it  make?  He  was  a
knight  and  the  man  kneeling  before  him
was  naught  but  a  traveling  minstrel.
Though  Rosarius  claimed  to  be  of  high
birth, brought low only by circumstance,
his  throat  was  for  sale,  obviously  in

more ways than one. What he did with it
afterward was not Baldemar's concern.

Reaching out, Baldemar slid his

fingers  into  Rosarius's  flame-colored
hair. With each timed lift of his hips, he
pushed  down  with  his  powerful  sword-
bearing hand. As his passion grew more
intense,  his  gestures  became  rougher.
Before long, he heard  Rosarius gasp for
breath  and  felt  streams  of  saliva  pour
down  his  shaft.  Caring  nothing  for
Rosarius's

possible

discomfort,

Baldemar twisted his fingers in deeper
and pounded away at his mouth, in much
the same way his fellow knights might
use a battering ram on an enemy castle.

By the time he achieved his long-

awaited release, Rosarius's face was

drenched  in  sweat  and  his  body  seemed
limp  with  exhaustion  and  perhaps  a
momentary  loss  of  breath.  When
Baldemar  let  go,  Rosarius  slumped  to
the  floor  and  lay  still,  his  shoulders
heaving as he tried to compose himself.

"That was most satisfying,"

Baldemar  announced,  retrieving  the
drying cloth and using it to tidy himself.
He  tossed  it  away  for  his  servants  to
retrieve and clean later. "When you first
arrived  here,  you  promised  that  your
mouth  was  sweet,  and  you  did  not
exaggerate  in  the  least.  You  have
pleased me well."

"I am glad," Rosarius said,

pulling himself to a crouching position.
His cheeks remained a little flushed, and

his hair hung to his shoulders in a messy
tangle, but otherwise his health appeared
restored. That comforted Baldemar, in
case he wanted to make use of him later.
"Are there other ways I can please you
now?"

"No. Now I prefer to close my

eyes and rest undisturbed. Go to the
kitchen and instruct Carew to feed you. I
shall take my dinner here, as I do not
wish to dress again this evening."

The blush in Rosarius's cheeks

darkened for a moment. "Will we not
take supper together? I had hoped…"

"We

shall

not,"

Baldemar

growled.  "I  have  made  my  intentions
known  to  you,  and  I  will  not  alter  my
plans.  Now  be  off  with  you  before  I

forget the gentler emotions your songs
aroused in me earlier."

Rosarius clenched his teeth, but

he  bowed  and  backed  away.  "I  shall
deliver  the  message,"  he  said  without  a
trace of the deference Baldemar felt was
his  due.  Had  his  long  afternoon  and  his
various taxing activities not tired him so,
he  might  have  been  inclined  to  punish
such insolence. As it was, he decided to
let it go.  In a day or two he would send
Rosarius  on  his  way  and  the  matter
would  be  finished.  For  now,  he  wanted
to sleep.

Baldemar spent the remainder of

the  daylight  hours  lying  naked  on  his
couch,  not  even  bothering  to  cover
himself  with  a  sheet.  Carew's  wrinkled

brows  shot  up  in  surprise  when  he
delivered supper and found his master in
his  natural  state,  but  Baldemar  cared
nothing  for  the  old  man's  disapproval.
Without  speaking,  Carew  arranged  the
plates  and  goblet  of  wine  on  a  small
table  near  the  couch,  so  that  Baldemar
could eat and drink without rising.

Just to amuse himself, Baldemar

tugged on his cock while  Carew backed
away,  curious  to  see  if  the  old  man
would betray any emotion or even a hint
of  withered  desire.  The  consummate
servant, with a lifetime of experience in
following orders without protest, Carew
withdrew with a stone face.

When night fell, Baldemar finally

roused himself from his couch and

sauntered  naked  to  his  bedchamber,
which  lay  a  few  doors  down  the
corridor.  Just  before  he  slipped  inside,
he  saw  Rosarius  lingering  nearby,
watching  him.  The  glow  from  a  sconce
reflected the hungry, even desperate look
on the minstrel's face. Baldemar knew he
was waiting for an invitation to share his
bed.  Though  he  would  not  have  minded
falling  asleep  with  those  fair  lips
wrapped around his shaft again, he found
the power of denying Rosarius's obvious
desire even more potent.

"Go to your pallet, minstrel," he

said  with  a  laugh.  He  lingered  on  the
threshold long enough to give Rosarius a
good  view  of  exactly  what  had  been
denied  him.  Then  he  went  inside  and

shut the door.

* * * *

Late the next morning, Baldemar

allowed  Carew  to  dress  him  before  he
strolled  down  the  spiral  stairs  to  his
meal.  His  cook  had  prepared  warm
bread and honey, together with a plate of
salted fish. Rosarius was nowhere to be
seen,  suggesting  he  had  found  the  good
sense to take his meal with the servants.
Baldemar  decided  to  seek  him  out  after
breakfast.  By  then,  his  body  would  feel
refreshed  and  ready  for  pleasure  once
again.  He  felt  mildly  annoyed  when
Carew  entered  the  dining  hall  and
bowed.

"Sir Baldemar, a merchant from

the village is here. He has brought with
him fabrics for you to inspect."

"Indeed?"

Baldemar

gulped

down  the  last  of  his  ale  and  wiped  his
mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "Well,
bid  him  come  forward  with  his  wares,
then. It so happens I am in the mood for a
diversion."

Bowing again, Carew withdrew.

A moment later he returned with a young
man  Baldemar  recognized  as  the  son  of
the  village's  cloth-merchant.  He  had  not
seen, or perhaps had simply not noticed,
him since he was little more than a child.
Now he was most certainly grown, with
dark  curls  that  reached  to  his  shoulders
and a hint of beard upon his chin.

"You

have

come

alone?"

Baldemar asked, rising as the young man
slid  a  large  bag  from  his  shoulder.  At
Baldemar's  gesture,  he  began  to  spread
his  wares  on  the  other  side  of  the  long
dining table.

"I have, Sir Baldemar," the youth

answered in a spirited tone. "My father
is of the opinion that I should take a
greater role in the business now that I am
of age."

"He is quite right. I take it, then,

that it has fallen to you to give me
complete satisfaction with respect to
your goods?"

"'Tis, Sir Baldemar." Blushing a

bit, the young man gave a quick half-
bow. He waved his hand over the cloth

he  had  laid  out,  but  Baldemar's  eyes
never  left  his  face…  especially  those
wide,  pink  lips.  Baldemar  suspected
they would taste like the sweet cakes his
cook sometimes prepared for his dinner.
"I  have  here  fine  fabrics  of  various
textures,  soft  to  the  skin  and  finely
woven. Any or all can be used to make a
most striking tunic or robe."

"I have no doubt you are skilled

in many areas of garment-making,"
Baldemar

said,

stepping

closer.

"Perhaps  you  might  examine  those  I  am
already wearing in order to tell me what
you  think  of  the  workmanship  involved.
After  all,  I  should  hate  to  purchase
fabrics  from  you  and  have  them  ruined
by an incompetent tailor."

The young man's blush deepened.

"Beg  pardon,  Sir  Baldemar,  but  the
tailor's  work  is  not  my  own  to  judge.  I
am  loath  to  venture  an  opinion  that  may
not be sound."

"Nonsense. Come forward and

place your hands around my waist. I
have long suspected that this tunic I wear
today was stitched improperly along the
sides. It feels overly tight in some places
and yet seems to fall about me like a
banner hung by a blind man."

Boldly, he slid his palms along

the  merchant's  forearms  and  drew  him
closer.  He  heard  a  faint  gasp  as  he
brought  his  lips  down  on  that  soft,
untried mouth. He had been mistaken, he
realized—the  taste  was  far  more

pleasing than anything his cook had ever
prepared  for  him.  Better  still,  the  young
man  hesitated  only  for  a  moment  before
kissing him back—hesitantly at first, and
then  ardently.  His  excitement  growing,
Baldemar  pressed  his  tongue  and  his
body forward.

So absorbed was he in claiming

his newest conquest that Baldemar did
not hear the scuffle of boots on the floor.
He did, however, hear very clearly the
angry cry that followed.

"What is this?" Rosarius's voice

rose to an outraged scream. Baldemar
leaped back, startled. "You dare to
betray me like this?"

Baldemar's shock turned to fury.

"Betray you? How dare you burst into

this room uninvited, minstrel? Had I
desired your company, I would have sent
for you!"

"Who is this pup? You would

throw  over  my  favors  for  those  a  mere
guildsman?"  Rosarius  strode  forward,
his  face  crimson  and  his  flame-colored
hair standing on end. A wave of his hand
sent  the  merchant  rolling  into  the  corner
as  if  a  physical  blow  had  struck  him.
Baldemar  blinked,  surprised,  but  the
momentary  distraction  did  nothing  to
lessen his anger.

"You presume to dictate whose

favors I may enjoy, and when? Spending
my mornings as I please is my right as a
knight and as lord of this keep. Such
impudence as yours is astonishing. Take

care, minstrel, lest your lute end up
wedged into a most inconvenient place."

This time Rosarius staggered

back under the force of Baldemar's harsh
words.  "I  told  you  before  that  I  am  no
mere  minstrel,"  he  snarled  when  he
recovered  himself.  "I  am  the  son  of  a
great  lord,  one  who  could  raze  this
paltry  castle  and  have  you  hanged  from
the turret with a single whisper."

"Then I suggest you go back to

your  father  and  assist  him  in  preparing
his  offense  against  me.  I  shall  await  his
troops with bated breath." Reaching into
the  pouch  at  his  waist,  Baldemar  seized
a  handful  of  silver  coins  and  flung  them
at  Rosarius.  They  rolled  around  his  feet
before  clattering  to  the  stone  floor.

"Those should speed you on your way—
consider them payment for the services
you rendered me last night. Unfortunately
for you, nothing further is desired."

Rosarius looked down at the

coins, and his entire body stiffened. "I
have

already

explained

that

circumstances  not  of  my  own  making
prevent me from returning to my father's
castle,"  he  fumed.  "It  is  most  unseemly
of  you  to  wield  that  knowledge  as  a
weapon. And to hurl your coins at me as
though  I  were  a  common  whore  is  an
even  greater  insult—one  I  can  never
forgive."

Baldemar glanced over his

shoulder to see the cloth merchant
struggling to his hands and knees,

rubbing  his  chest.  The  front  of  his  tunic
revealed  a  burn  mark,  as  though  he  had
fallen against a candle or a torch. Yet no
such  instrument  lay  anywhere  near  him
on the floor. In fact, no flames burned in
the dining hall this early in the day.

"How

did

you

that?"

Baldemar  demanded.  His  confidence
faded a bit when he saw that  Rosarius's
eyes  had  turned  as  red  as  his  hair.
Impossible  as  it  seemed,  bursts  of  fire
leaped from his gaze.

"You say you wish to spend your

mornings  dallying  in  whatever  manner,
and  with  whomever,  you  choose.  Very
well—you  should  remember  this  past
hour with particular fondness, as it shall
be the last glimpse of daylight you shall

ever enjoy. The next young man on
whom you place your mouth will find it
nowhere near as pleasing as this one
did, I vow."

"You would dare to threaten

me?"  His  anger  returning,  Baldemar
started  toward  Rosarius,  his  hands
outstretched to seize him by the tunic, the
throat,  or  any  other  body  part  he  could
grasp. Baldemar's eyes barely registered
the movement as Rosarius slipped out of
his  path  and  stood  by  the  double  doors
that opened to the keep. A sweep of his
hand caused both to fly wide, untouched.
Moments later the outer doors burst open
as  well,  affording  a  view  clear  to  the
bailey.

Rosarius paused to turn his

seething wrath onto the merchant, who
stood rubbing his chest with a
dumbfounded expression.

"Go now, unless you wish to

share  your  lord's  fate,"  he  warned,  his
arm  still  raised  above  his  head.  The
merchant  lurched  to  his  feet,  ran  to  the
table to grab the cloth he had spread out,
and rushed through both sets of doors as
Rosarius  laughed  in  triumph.  "There!
There  is  love  and  loyalty  for  you!  He
values his own skin, and even his paltry
wares,  far  above  your  life,  great  knight.
What an ally you could have had in me,
but  instead  you  choose  to  insult  me.
Well, no matter.  In spite of the way you
have  treated  me,  'tis  my  choice  to  grant
you a long—and sanguineous—life. And

best of all, you shall think of me every
single night unto eternity."

"What is this madness?" Again

Baldemar  strode  toward  him,  prepared
to  attack.  This  time,  Rosarius  brought
down  his  hand  swiftly,  as  one  might
bring  down  an  axe  in  battle.  Yet
Rosarius held no weapon.

Nor did he need one, Baldemar

realized  a  moment  later,  as  he  watched
the bailey fill with a thick black mist that
gradually  extinguished  every  trace  of
green grass and blue sky.  To his horror,
the  mist  soon  began  to  converge  into  a
solid

shape,

equally

black

and

possessed of a most foul odor. He
covered his face as it seeped into the
room. Again he shouted for Rosarius, but

when he looked back at the spot he had
stood in, he found it deserted.

The mist rolled in faster, chasing

the  light  from  Baldemar's  eyes  and
choking the air from his lungs. He felt an
odd sensation against his cheek, like the
brush  of  fur,  along  with  a  sound  that
reminded  him  of  the  flapping  of  bird
wings. Desperately he waved his hands,
clawing  at  the  darkness  that  enveloped
him. Fluttering wings parted long enough
for  him  to  see  what  the  mist  had
transformed into.

Baldemar went limp with terror.

Filling  the  dining  room,  the  entry  hall,
and  the  bailey  were  bats.  Hundreds  or
more,  all  of  them  fluttering  straight
toward him, their sharp teeth gnashing as

they chattered with hunger.

He stifled a scream. Such would

be  unbecoming  for  a  knight,  untested
bachelor  though  he  might  be.  His  last
thought  was  for  the  king,  whom  he  had
hoped  to  serve  with  dignity  and  honor.
Caught  up  in  his  own  pride  and
hedonism,  how  far  he  had  strayed  from
those ideals! Death was no more than he
deserved.

One of the creatures latched onto

his  throat,  its  fangs  piercing  his  flesh.
Baldemar felt the trickle of blood down
his chest, but his mind had no time even
to  register  the  pain.  Already  another  of
the  beasts  had  bitten  down  on  the  other
side  of  his  neck.  A  third  and  a  fourth
latched  onto  his  tunic.  Many  more

attached themselves, teeth-first, onto his
arms, legs, and scalp.

A single, drawn-out wail, this

one quite involuntary and therefore, he
hoped, forgivable, escaped from his
lungs as he collapsed to the floor.

Chapter 2

The man crouched in the forest,

every  muscle  in  his  body  aflame  with
agony,  peering  through  the  trees  at  the
towering  stone  structure  just  ahead.
Nothing about it seemed threatening—in
fact,  its  run-down  appearance  and  the
lack  of  soldiers  on  its  wall  walk
suggested  it  might  even  be  abandoned.
For many days he had walked, his limbs
dragging in the heavy armor that encased
them,  hunger  burning  in  his  stomach.
From  time  to  time  he  stopped  to  drink
from streams or pick handfuls of berries
growing  wild  in  the  forest.  The  single
knife  he  carried  sufficed  to  cut  through
brambles and undergrowth. His tall flat-

topped  helmet  proved  too  stifling  to
wear  over  his  face  for  long,  and  the
slitted  eyehole  made  navigating  the
dense  woods  difficult.  He  would  have
preferred  to  leave  it  behind,  but  he
settled for strapping it to his back along
with  the  leather  satchel  that  contained  a
few spare garments.

Where his journey was meant to

end,  or  where  it  had  started,  he  knew
not. He had the sense of a long trek, and
before  that  a  great  deal  of  blood  and
pain.  Yet  the  details  were  vague,  even
more  wispy  and  nebulous  than  the
strange  dreams  that  tormented  him  each
night when he collapsed onto the ground
to chase sleep.

Now, at last, he had found

shelter,  and  a  place  where,  perhaps,
other  humans  dwelled.  No  doubt  a
village  stood  nearby,  where  he  might
find food and ale and a proper bed. Yet
he  was  close  to  starving,  he  had  no
coins,  and  he  knew  there  would  be
questions  for  which  he  had  no  credible
account.

Cautiously,

donned

his

helmet,  approached  the  keep,  and  tested
the  heavy  wooden  door,  which  seemed
to  be  barred  from  the  inside.  Next,  he
tried  pounding  with  the  heavy  iron
knocker  attached.  Again,  he  failed  to
attract  anyone's  attention.  Discouraged,
he was about to return to the cover of the
trees  and  scan  the  wall  for  another  way
inside  when  he  spotted  a  hooded  figure

pulling  a  small  wagon  toward  him.
'Twas  a  man,  he  discerned  as  the  figure
drew  closer,  wearing  the  plain  brown
garb of a simple country-dweller.

Looking up to find a fully

armored  warrior  standing  beside  the
keep,  the  startled  peasant  dropped  the
handles  of  his  cart.  Hastily  the  man
bowed  and  touched  his  forehead.  "Beg
pardon, my lord knight."

Confident that the man presented

no threat, he removed his helmet. "What
is your business at the keep?" he
demanded.

"I bring supplies, my lord knight,

as I do every fourth day." The man
gestured to the cart behind him. "Bread,
ale, and the like."

"So a few men, at least, do dwell

here."  Moving  to  the  cart,  he  lifted  the
cloth  covering  long  enough  to  see  that
the  man  spoke  truth.  His  deprived
stomach clenched. It was all he could do
not to seize the loaves of bread and jugs
of  ale  and  devour  every  crumb  and
droplet  on  the  spot.  "Not  many,  by  the
look.  They  will  open  the  door  for  you,
then?"

"Open it they must, but I hope I

am long fled before they do, my lord."
The man's face paled. "No one enters
this keep any more, nor have they in well
over a year."

"Why not?"
"'Tis afflicted by a most dreadful

curse, my lord knight. All the servants

but one fled, and he remains only
because he is too old to start a new life
elsewhere."

"A curse? Of what sort?"
"I know not the details. I know

only that those few who are fool enough
to enter are lucky to leave with their
lives." Quickly he flipped back the
wagon's

covering,

unloaded

the

supplies,  and  arranged  them  on  the
ground  in  front  of  the  heavy  wooden
door.  "I  beg  pardon  for  speaking  freely
to  your  honor,  but  'tis  no  place  a  sane
man  would  wish  to  go.  In  any  case,  Sir
Baldemar  will  no  doubt  turn  you  away
when he finds you—or worse."

"Sir Baldemar." He rolled it

over on his tongue. The name of this

mysterious  and  apparently  cruel  man
meant  nothing  to  him.  Yet  his  curiosity
raged.  "Well,  I  am  not  afraid  of  Sir
Baldemar.  Get  on  your  way  now,  and  I
will deal with him myself."

"As my lord knight wishes."

Trembling,  the  peasant  bowed,  turned,
and  practically  ran  up  the  hill,  dragging
his  ramshackle  and  now  empty  cart
behind him.

Soon after, as he had expected,

the  door  creaked  open.  A  white-haired
head  appeared  first,  followed  by  the
stooped  body  of  the  servant  who  had
arrived  to  collect  the  supplies.  The  old
man  gasped  in  terror  when  powerful
hands  dragged  him  outside  and  pushed
him up against the stone wall.

"I have come to see Sir

Baldemar," he announced to his pitiful
captive. "Why did you not open the door
when I banged on it earlier?"

"Beg pardon, my lord knight, but

I heard nothing. I am old now, and my
ears are not what they once were."

"You are the only servant here? I

find that hard to believe, in a keep such
as this. Surely it takes a large staff to
maintain your lord's comfort."

"My lord Baldemar prefers that I

alone  tend  to  his  needs,"  the  old  man
insisted.  His  voice  had  sunk  to  a  raspy
whisper.  "But  who  are  you,  my  lord
knight? Many seasons have passed since
we  have  had  a  visitor.  Does  Sir
Baldemar expect you?"

The knight's grip on the old man's

tunic  loosened.  "I—do  not  know  if  he
does or not," he confessed.  Then, out of
nowhere,  a  name  trickled  into  his  mind
and  rose  naturally  to  his  lips.  "I  am
Donlin."

"Sir Donlin, by the look," the old

man supplied, crooking an eyebrow as
he looked down at Donlin's battered
armor and surcoat smudged with dirt and
what appeared to be dried blood. Donlin
found himself losing what little patience
he had.

"Enough of your chatter. Where

is Sir Baldemar? I demand an audience
with him forthwith."

"He is… away… until evening,"

the old man said with a touch of

annoyance.

"Then you will serve me in his

stead  until  he  returns."  Donlin  touched
the dagger at his side. "I require a bath,
nourishment,  and  a  place  to  rest.  I  will
see  to  it  that  Sir  Baldemar  does  not
punish you. Now let us go."

The old man opened his mouth to

protest,  but  apparently  realized  the
futility  and  closed  it  again.  Sighing,  he
gathered  the  supplies  and  carried  them
inside. His helmet under one arm and the
other hand resting on his dagger,  Donlin
followed.

Within the keep, Donlin found

accommodations far preferable to the
woods, but less luxurious than he might
have expected. Carew, as the old servant

identified  himself,  obviously  struggled
to maintain the rooms alone. A thick pall
of dust covered everything including the
furnishings, the walls, and the tapestries
that  hung  upon  them.  The  table  in  the
dining  hall,  where  Donlin  eagerly
consumed  at  least  half  of  the  bread  and
ale  delivered  by  the  peasant,  looked
likewise  dirty  and  long  disused.
Apparently  Sir  Baldemar  preferred  to
take  his  meals  elsewhere  and  seldom
entertained. Donlin dreaded meeting this
harsh  man,  but  at  the  same  time  he
longed  to  see  the  face  that  seemed  to
inspire so much fear among his inferiors.

Another thought tugged at his

clouded mind also: when at last they
met, would Sir Baldemar recognize him?

Scarcely  did  he  dare  to  hope  for  such
good  fortune,  but  he  could  not  help  but
think  that  he  had  been  guided  to  this
place  for  some  specific  reason.  If  only
he  could  recall  anything  of  his  life
before  he  had  awoken,  battered  and
naked,  in  the  woods,  his  clothes  and
armor strewn about him.

At least now he had his name

again, assuming it was really his. He
only hoped the rest of his memory would
return in time.

After the meal, Carew led him to

a  wooden  washtub  he  had  set  up  in  one
of  the  overgrown  back  gardens.  Though
Donlin would have preferred to bathe in
front of a fire and let the heat soothe his
aching  limbs  and  shoulders,  he  allowed

Carew  to  assist  him  in  shedding  his
armor,  gambeson,  and  leggings.  Caring
nothing  for  modesty,  Donlin  peeled
away  the  last  of  his  garments  and
submerged  himself  in  the  sun-warmed
water. Relief and relaxation seeped into
his travel-grimed skin and tired muscles.
He  kept  his  dagger  within  easy  reach,
however.

Carew scowled as Donlin leaned

his head against the edge of the tub and
sighed. "When do you expect your
master?"

"Not until nightfall," Carew

replied in a clipped tone.

"Is he out hunting?" Donlin's

stomach, temporarily appeased by the
bread and ale, began tingling again.

Perhaps Sir Baldemar would return with
a fine venison to share with his guest.
Carew, however, did not answer. "Well,
no matter. Open my bag, fetch me a clean
tunic, and leave me. I must make myself
ready to greet him with proper deference
when he returns."

"As my lord knight wishes."

Sour-faced,  Carew  fished  the  required
garment  from  his  bag,  dropped  a  quick
bow,  and  returned  to  the  keep.  Donlin
continued to soak, eyeing the clothes the
servant had left draped over the garden's
low  stone  wall.  He  had  promised  to
greet  Sir  Baldemar  with  all  due
ceremony, but it occurred to him that he
had  no  way  of  knowing  if  he  might,  in
fact, outrank his host. For aught he knew,

Donlin was the son of a king or perhaps
even a king in his own right.

After the bath, Donlin dressed

and  girded  himself  with  his  dagger.
Since  Carew  did  not  return  either  to
gather  his  soiled  clothing  or  escort  him
to  a  bed  or  even  a  pallet  to  rest  on,  he
spread his cloak on a nearby stone bench
and stretched out.  Though made of rock,
it still felt far more comfortable than the
bare  ground.  Nestling  his  head  against
the  crook  of  his  arm,  yet  keeping  his
dagger ready at his side, Donlin lay still
and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his
face.  He  would  rest  for  a  moment,  and
then go in search of Carew. The old man
might pretend not to hear or comprehend
when  it  suited  him,  but  he  could  hardly

do so with Donlin staring at him
directly.

Slowly, he allowed himself to

close his eyes. In a matter of moments,
he had plunged deep in slumber.

When he opened them again,

shadows

had

moved

across

the

courtyard,  and  the  air  seemed  much
cooler  and  less  fragrant.  A  few  stray
insects buzzed around his ears. Lurching
into  an  upright  position,  he  watched  the
last  streaks  of  crimson  sink  behind  a
distant,  tree-covered  hill.  With  an  oath,
he scrubbed a furious hand over his face.
He  had  slept  away  the  daylight  hours,
and  Sir  Baldemar  would  return  at  any
moment.  Hastily  he  rose,  tugged  down
his  tunic,  and  tried  to  rake  his  scruffy

hair back into place. While he was yet in
mid-motion,  the  side  door  to  the  keep
opened with a bang.  Carew stood there,
motionless,  as  a  much  taller  man  swept
past him and stormed into the garden.

This, Donlin knew, was Sir

Baldemar.

Broad-shouldered

and

imposing in a magnificent tunic of green
and gold, with close-cropped black hair
and icy blue eyes, he did indeed seem a
figure  who  could  freeze  his  enemies'
hearts  with  dread.  Discreetly  Donlin
brushed  his  hand  over  the  hilt  of  his
dagger,  still  tucked  into  the  belt  around
his waist.

"So you are the miscreant who

has forced his way into my keep," Sir
Baldemar accused, his cheeks drawn

and white with anger. In fact, Donlin did
not think he had ever seen a man quite so
pale—though,  as  in  so  many  other
matters,  his  recollection  was  hardly
trustworthy.  "You  have  taken  food  from
my  servant  and  demanded  that  he  tend
your bath. What explanation have you for
such presumptive acts?"

Standing his ground, Donlin

thrust his own chest forward and met Sir
Baldemar's iron stare with a determined
scowl.  Until  the  very  moment  he  parted
his  lips,  he  had  no  idea  what  words  he
might  use  to  excuse  his  behavior.
Fortunately, and to his own surprise, his
tongue  took  command  and  seemed  to
speak of its own accord.

"I am Sir Donlin, lord knight, a

weary

traveler

who

seeks

your

hospitality. I regret my forwardness, but
hunger and a desire to greet you in a
state

cleanliness

momentarily

overtook my good manners. Your
servant informed me of your generous
nature—"

"Did he?" Raising a dark brow,

Sir Baldemar turned toward Carew, who
flattened himself against the stone wall
as if he wished to dissolve into it. "I find
that difficult to believe."

"Indeed he did. Over the course

of my journey, I myself have heard many
times  of  Sir  Baldemar's  renowned
wisdom.  I  hope  these  admirable
qualities  will  outweigh  your  justified
outrage."

Pallid blue eyes, as cold as the

ice  on  a  winter  stream,  drank  in  the
length  of  Donlin's  body.  Their  stark
glare  paused  on  the  hand  attempting  to
conceal  the  dagger  and  then  crept
upward again. Baldemar's face stretched
taut  as  a  smile  raised  the  corners  of  his
narrow, colorless lips.

"Your concern for my servant is

misplaced, but it shows you are a decent
man—if  not  entirely  an  honest  one.  As
for  myself,  I  think  honesty  is  quite
overrated  in  the  majority  of  cases."  He
held  out  a  gloved  hand.  "You  are
welcome as my guest, Sir Donlin."

Lifting his own hand, Donlin

clasped the fingers offered in friendship.
He found Baldemar's grip abnormally

firm, almost crushing.

"I thank you," he said, lowering

his head as Sir Baldemar released him.
"I am in your debt."

"Yes."

Baldemar's

smile

returned and then faded. "That you are."
He  motioned  toward  Carew.  "Prepare
the  table.  My  guest  and  I  will  dine
together.  I  fear  I  can  offer  only  paltry
rations,  brother  knight,  but  my  chosen
way of life is an ascetic one."

"I am grateful for whatever you

can spare, fair host. You have been more
than gracious already."

Grunting in response, Baldemar

turned on his heel and strode back
inside, bidding Donlin to follow. Carew
hurried ahead, no doubt rushing to

prepare  a  meal  that  would  appease  his
master's temper, which Donlin knew still
bubbled  under  the  surface.  Had  a  bad
hunt  helped  to  flatten  his  mood?  Sadly,
Donlin  had  heard  no  offer  of  venison.
Nonetheless,  he  followed  his  host  back
to  the  same  table  where  he  had  broken
bread earlier. Again  Carew served him,
though  this  time  he  brought  sweet,  dark
wine and a thick stew instead of ale and
plain  bread.  Sir  Baldemar  seated
himself  opposite  his  guest,  but  took  no
supper.

"Will you not join me?" Donlin

asked,  fighting  the  fresh  hunger  pangs
that  urged  him  to  swallow  his  meal
whole.  To  do  so  before  the  lord  of  the
keep  had  dined  would  be  a  far  more

serious

breach

manners

than

demanding an outdoor bath. Was
Baldemar testing him?

"I will not," Baldemar said,

crossing his arms over his chest. "I shall
nourish myself at another time."

He waved his hand, still gloved,

and Donlin bent to his food with a moan
of  gratitude.  Within  moments,  he  had
devoured  it  all.  Pulse  racing,  he  looked
up  to  find  Baldemar  watching  him
intently.  Did  some  illness  prevent  him
from dining like a normal man?

Unbidden, Carew reappeared to

refill both his bowl and his goblet.

Still close to starving, Donlin

polished off his second bowl of stew
and drank deeply of his wine. Its flavor

was unusually rich and full, its effect on
him swift and potent. Already his hands
and wrists felt heavy each time he raised
the cup to his lips.

"You must tell me more about

this journey of yours," Baldemar said.
"Where did you start from? What is your
destination?"

"I fear that the answers to both

questions are somewhat… unclear to me
just now." Donlin blinked and shook his
head as his vision grew as hazy as a
morning mist. His speech sounded
slippery and vague.

"My lord host must forgive me

for being such poor company. My only
excuse is exhaustion."

"Of course." Baldemar rose.

"'Tis  I  who  should  apologize.  We  shall
have  plenty  of  time  to  speak  of  these
matters  tomorrow  evening.  Tonight,  you
must  sleep."  He  clapped  his  hands  and
Carew appeared.

"I cannot understand it," Donlin

said, struggling to his feet. "I thought
myself well rested. Indeed, I seem to
have slept most of the daylight away."

"Clearly, you are more travel-

wearied than even you know," Baldemar
said. "Carew tells me that the state of
your

armor

reflects

your

recent

involvement in a great and bloody battle.
No doubt you have suffered severe trials
and hardships."

"I… have?" As he tried to step

forward, Donlin stumbled and reached

out. His hand landed, palm-down, on the
table beside his wine goblet. His
stomach churned as a terrible realization
hit him like one of his host's gloved fists
in his gut. "Drugged…"

"'Tis but a potion to help you

sleep," Baldemar assured him, not
bothering to deny the accusation. "You
will suffer no ill effects, I assure you."

Donlin started to protest, but

before he could utter a word he had
sagged

into

Carew's

arms.

With

surprising

strength,

the

old

man

supported his weight until Baldemar
himself stepped forward and hoisted
Donlin over his shoulder.

The next thing he knew, he was

being placed into a soft bed—a feather

mattress,  by  the  feel  of  it—and  swiftly
relieved  of  his  belt  and  dagger.  He
sensed  Sir  Baldemar  bending  low  over
his  pillow,  the  coolness  of  his  skin
tickling  Donlin's  cheek  like  a  brisk
autumn  breeze.  Fingers,  gloveness  now,
skittered  cool  but  gentle  down  the  side
of his throat.

"'Twas good fortune for us both

that  you  stumbled  upon  my  keep,  Sir
Donlin,"  Baldemar  whispered.  "I  offer
you  my  hospitality  and  my  protection
most freely. What I ask in return you will
not even miss come morning."

Again

Donlin

struggled

answer, but this time his tongue failed to
move at all. Instead, he felt Baldemar's
cool lips brush across his cheek, over

Chapter 3

Donlin lay abed that morning

having  a  vivid  dream  about  Sir
Baldemar.  He  was  straddling  him  and
rocking  back  and  forth.  Pleasure  rolled
through  his  body  as  Baldemar's  cock
pierced him.

"Come inside me," he managed

to  gasp,  humping  up  and  down  on
Baldemar's  stiff  cock.  Donlin  felt  the
silky  membranes  between  his  taut
buttocks close up tight and warm around
it,  rather  like  a  drawstring  pouch.
Baldemar's  erect  member  bucked  and
swelled, pushing out against the sides of
his  body,  stuffing  Donlin  so  full  he
imagined  he  might  split  open  from  the

force and pleasure. "Fill me, lord knight,
I beg you," he wheezed.

At the same time, with his own

cock  eager  for  release,  Donlin  reached
out  and  wrapped  both  hands  around
himself.  His  bollocks  let  go  in  a  long,
hot,  liquid  rush  that  emptied  their
contents over Sir Baldemar's bare chest.
When Donlin looked down, he found that
his host's moistened skin glowed almost
translucent  in  the  light  from  the  wall
sconces.

He flew awake, a moan still on

his  lips,  as  the  door  opened.  Carew
came  in  with  bread,  honey,  and  ale,
along  with  a  jug  of  water  for  washing.
Donlin  shifted  to  accept  the  tray  and
noticed  that  he  was  nude,  though

thankfully not as hard as he had been in
his dream.

Again part of his memory had

vanished.  He  recalled  nothing  past
sitting down to supper with his host and
admiring his looks and lordly manner. At
least  he  had  slept  well  and  deeply.  He
had  a  sense  the  day  would  be  a  trying
one.

"What has become of my tunic?

And my armor?"

"Sir Baldemar has ordered me to

clean  your  armor,"  Carew  said  and
sniffed. "I shall attend to it as soon as my
other  duties  permit.  As  to  the  clothing
you  wore  last  night,  Sir  Baldemar  had
me  remove  it  so  that  you  might  sleep
more  comfortably.  He  has  provided

fresh garments instead." He pointed to
the garments on a peg in the corner of the
room.

"Is Sir Baldemar here?"
"He will be gone until nightfall."
Back out hunting, no doubt.

Perhaps  he  would  have  better  luck
today…  as  Donlin  intended  to.  "I  shall
walk to the village this morning," Donlin
decided  at  length.  Perhaps  something
there would help him remember his past,
and  in  any  case  he  did  not  relish
spending  a  full  day  with  this  sour-faced
servant. "Is it far?"

"No. You will reach it easily. I

might suggest you remain here instead,
though. The village is a rough place, and
its citizens are not fond of this keep."

"So I gathered yesterday. No

matter,  I  am  able  to  protect  myself.  Just
take  care  to  listen  for  my  knock  and
admit  me  in  a  timely  manner  when  I
return."

Carew rolled his eyes and

withdrew. Donlin finished his breakfast,
washed  his  face  and  hands,  and  shaved
his  cheeks  with  the  edge  of  his  dagger.
After  he  had  finished,  he  stared  awhile
into  the  brazier  propped  up  beside  the
basin.  The  face  that  gazed  back  at  him
was  in  the  range  of  twenty-five  years,
perhaps,  with  thick  brown  hair  that  fell
to  his  shoulders  and  bright  eyes  that
spoke  of  intelligence.  Yet  he  might  as
well  have  been  looking  upon  a  stranger
for the very first time.

He saw no sign of Carew, or

anyone  else,  as  he  let  himself  out  of  the
keep  and  started  off  down  the  road  he
had  seen  the  peasant  take  with  his  cart.
The day was pleasant, the sun strong but
not  punishing,  and  he  hoped  Sir
Baldemar  was  enjoying  the  weather  on
his hunt.

The village he approached

seemed  neither  particularly  prosperous
nor  run-down.  Though  he  had  nothing
specific in his memory to compare it to,
he  sensed  it  was  much  like  many  others
of its kind.

Various peasants and merchants

in  the  street  stared  at  him  as  he  walked
down  the  lane.  They  averted  their  faces
whenever he looked back at them.  None

struck him as threatening despite
Carew's warning. He suspected the old
man made a habit of exaggerating.

At the end of the lane he spotted

an  apothecary's  shop.  The  door  stood
shut  but  a  shadow  lingered  in  the
window. A sudden thought struck Donlin
and he bent his steps toward it. As he put
his foot on the threshold, the door swung
open as if of its own accord. He walked
in,  looking  about  at  the  many  shelves  of
jars containing a variety of powders and
potions. A  boy  of  perhaps  fifteen  years,
wearing  a  coarse  brown  tunic  that  hung
much too large for him, stood among the
chaos.

"Are

you

the

apothecary's

apprentice?" Donlin asked. The boy

narrowed his eyes in a sullen expression
but said nothing.

"Do not waste your time with

him. He cannot speak." A man of middle
years, his shoulders slightly stooped, no
doubt from spending long hours over his
workbench,  and  his  face  heavily
bearded,  stepped  forward  to  greet  him.
"Off  with  you,  Simon,"  he  said  to  the
boy,  who  withdrew  with  obvious
resentment  and  disappeared  behind  the
rear curtain.

"Young people today have no

respect," the bearded man said with a
sigh. "Even thrashing them does no good
when they are so set in their ways. Your
honor seeks a potion, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"A healing unguent? A love

potion?" The man winked. "Perhaps you
would like something to help your wife
conceive a strong son?"

"No. What I seek may not exist. I

wish to purchase… a memory potion."

"Ah, yes. I have entertained

requests for those before. Men often
wish to forget the less happy events of
their lives."

"That is not quite what I mean. I

do not wish to forget anything. Rather, I
wish to remember. You see, I have
certain… questions about my past."

"Oh? What is it you wish to

recall? A lost secret or the name of a
past lover, perhaps?"

"I cannot say with any certainty."

Donlin  paused.  Did  he  have  a  lover
somewhere?  For  all  he  knew,  he  might
have a wife. Perhaps even a family. Pain
stabbed  his  heart,  both  because  he  was
fated to disappoint them and because he
wanted  no  such  thing.  Again  the  details
of  his  dream  about  Sir  Baldemar
returned, vivid and arousing. Were those
the dreams of a married man? He thought
not. "I do not think so."

The

apothecary

squinted,

considered the matter, and nodded.
"Wait here."

The man went through the curtain

in the back that had earlier swallowed
up the apprentice. Donlin waited awhile
and occupied himself with examining the
shelf of wares. He even sniffed a few,

finding a foul odor within some jars and
sweeter scents in others. He replaced
each jar just as he found it, careful not to
breathe any vapors too deeply or spill
anything on his skin.

Finally the man returned with a

small pouch, which he opened to display
a  grey  powder  inside.  "Place  the
contents of this sack in your wine or ale
when  next  you  sit  down  to  supper. You
should feel the doors to the past opening
inside  your  head  within  a  matter  of
hours."

Donlin hesitated to accept it. His

face grew warm as he fought back a
blush. "I fear I have no coin to pay you."

"No matter. I have long had the

privilege of supplying your lord at the

keep with anything he needs to ensure
his household's health and happiness."

Donlin started to ask how the

apothecary knew of his connection to the
keep, but assumed the peasant with the
handcart had informed everyone in the
village of an armored knight's arrival.

His fingers closed around the

pouch. "You say this will bring forgotten
events back to mind?"

"It will. However, I must warn

you to exercise caution. Not all
memories are happy ones. Some things
are better off left where they are."

"I am aware of that." Donlin

gripped the pouch as he tied it onto his
belt. "I am grateful nonetheless for what
you may help me to remember, good or

ill."

Donlin nodded his thanks to the

apothecary  and  left  the  shop.  The  same
peasants  and  merchants  continued  to
watch him as he passed through town the
way  he  had  come.  He  felt  their  eyes  on
his  back  as  he  trudged  toward  the  keep.
Their  mistrust  seemed  to  burn  his  skin.
Worse  than  the  uneasy  feeling  it  gave
him  was  his  not  knowing  if  it  might  be
justified.

* * * *

This time, apparently having

taken his warning to heart, Carew
admitted him as soon as he banged on
the double entry doors.

"Master says I am to feed you

whenever you wish," Carew said as
Donlin entered the bailey. "He will be
along later—after sundown."

"He will not dine with me?"
"No. 'Tis not his way."
"Very well. You may prepare my

supper at dusk. I shall take my rest in the
meantime."

"As you wish," Carew said.

Donlin  saw  the  old  man's  jaw  clench  in
an  open  display  of  irritation.  Baldemar
certainly  allowed  him  to  get  away  with
plenty, perhaps because he was the only
servant left in the keep.  Not for the first
time,  Donlin  pondered  the  fate  of  the
others. Why did Baldemar choose to live
such a simple and isolated life?

Back in his chamber, he found

that  his  armor,  gambeson,  and  surcoat
had  been  cleaned  and  left  on  a  table.
Paying  little  attention  to  the  returned
garments,  he  untied  the  bag  of  dark
powder and gazed down at it for a long
while.  Earlier,  he  had  been  confident
that  it  would  help  him,  but  now  he  felt
less  sure.  Before  he  sampled  the
powder,  he  decided  to  inquire  whether
the  apothecary  was  a  trustworthy  man.
Should  it  fail,  he  risked  little  more  than
an aching stomach. Should it succeed, he
might  uncover  memories  that  would
make his stay here more complicated.

Before he went down to supper,

Donlin left the pouch hidden beneath the
quilt on his bed. When he returned to the

dining room, he found his meal laid out
for him.

Alone, he dined on another

quantity  of  stew  and  wine.  An  odd
feeling  came  over  him  as  he  drank
slowly  from  his  goblet. A  soft  scuffling
sound  caused  him  to  glance  up.  Sir
Baldemar  stood  in  the  doorway  as
before,  tall  and  bold,  his  well-muscled
upper  body  encased  in  a  tunic  of  deep
blue  like  a  midnight  sky.  A  thick  gold
chain  hung  around  his  neck,  and  black
leggings  perfectly  molded  around  his
finely shaped legs, giving way to pointed
buckskin  slippers.  Tonight,  he  wore  no
gloves.

Donlin rose from the table in

deference, but Baldemar waved him

back into his seat and took the ornate
chair at the head of the table for himself.
His intense gaze traveled down to the
empty bowl in front of Donlin.

"You enjoyed your meal, I trust?"
"Indeed I have, though I had

hoped you would join me."

Sir Baldemar steepled his long

fingers. The details of his dream again
intruded on Donlin's mind. He could
picture those fingers sinking into his own
fevered flesh. "I do not enjoy dining with
others. 'Tis a personal preference I hope
you will forgive."

"We all have preferences, the

reasons  for  which  are  known  only  to
ourselves,"  Donlin said meaningfully. "I
would  not  presume  to  judge,  as  I  hope

none  would  judge  my  own  habits  too
harshly."  He  searched  Baldemar's  pale
blue  eyes  for  a  spark  of  understanding,
but they remained impassive.

"In any case, I am here now."

Slowly,  his  host  spread  his  hands
between  them.  "I  trust  you  passed  the
day  in  contentment.  I  understand  you
traveled to the village."

"I did." Seeing that Baldemar

expected

some

commentary,

continued, "It seems well populated. The
villagers appear fed and industrious. I
hope they are a source of pride to you."

"They toil because they fear me.

'Tis not necessarily the philosophy I
intended to take as their master, but if it
keeps them obedient, I suppose it will

do."

see."

Donlin

frowned.

Baldemar  did  not,  after  all,  seem  the
hard and cruel tyrant he had been led to
expect, and now his host implied that he
disliked being thought of in such a way.
The man was maddening in his ability to
elude  Donlin's  understanding.  "Well,  I
am  sure  you  are  a  good  master  to  them.
They realize that."

"I am no more than adequate

now," Baldemar said a bit sadly. "'Twas
not always so.  When first  I came to this
fiefdom,  I  was  ambitious  and  proud.
Those  very  qualities  led  me  into
grievous  error.  I  have  paid  most  dearly
for my mistakes."

Donlin wished he could say

something  to  rouse  Baldemar  from  his
melancholy, but he could hardly refer to
his  own  mistakes  when  he  knew  not
what  they  were.  "I  must  tell  you  one
thing.  I  visited  the  apothecary,  and  he
gave  me  a  powder  which  he  assumed
you  would  pay  for.  I  shall  repay  you  in
full, fear not."

"A powder? Of what sort?"
"For… pain in my head. A

lingering effect of battle."

"Ah. Battle wounds can indeed

cause lasting discomfort. Did you find it
helpful?"

"I have not sampled it yet. I

thought it best to inquire first if his skills
were worthy of merit, lest I accidentally
ingest poison."

Baldemar laughed. "Yes, he is a

man of skill. You may trust his wisdom.
He is most experienced in healing. When
I made frequent trips to the village, long
ago, I oft returned with an elixir of one
sort

another.

Never

was

disappointed."

"I am glad to hear it. I shall

sample his wares shortly, then."

"Did Carew attend to your needs

adequately?"

Donlin opened his mouth to

complain about the servant's continual
rudeness,

but

decided

avoid

unpleasantries.  Besides,  now  that  Sir
Baldemar  was  with  him  again,  Carew's
trespasses  seemed  a  minor  point.
Instead,  Donlin  found  that  he  preferred

to  focus  on  his  host's  imposing  manner,
growing  more  determined  than  ever  to
break  through  his  invisible  line  of
defense  and  glimpse  the  real  man
beneath.

Yet something tugged at the back

his

mind—some

hint

unpleasantness  or  even  fear.  Perhaps  he
would  in  fact  be  wiser  to  regard  Sir
Baldemar  with  dread,  as  his  inferiors
seemed to without exception.

"Your

servant

was

most

cooperative,"  Donlin  said,  pushing  his
empty bowl to one side. He was tempted
to  drain  his  goblet,  too,  but  since
Baldemar was not drinking with him, he
thought it best not to. Instead, he set that
aside  too.  "He  attended  to  my  comforts

very well."

Again

Baldemar

hesitated.

"Speaking of comforts, I must apologize
to you for my behavior last night."

"You need do nothing of the kind.

I am an unbidden guest, and as such I
must be grateful for anything you give
me."

"On the contrary. I abused your

trust  most  grievously."  Rising,  Sir
Baldemar  paced  the  length  of  the  dining
hall and then returned to stand in front of
Donlin.  "Have  you  any  recollection  of
what  transpired  last  night  after  we
dined?"

Donlin shrugged. "Precious little,

I fear. Next I was aware, I was in a most
comfortable bed… experiencing a most

gratifying dream."

"Indeed?"

Baldemar

leaned

forward with interest. "What was the
dream about?"

"Well…" Donlin blushed. He

had not expected that question, assuming
Baldemar  would  take  no  interest  in  his
thoughts.  How  exactly  was  he  to
answer?  Instinct told him that the dream
had  centered  around  thoughts  and  acts
too  sinful  to  discuss  openly  in  polite
society.  Yet  here,  in  this  isolated  keep,
the  ordinary  rules  of  discourse  did  not
seem  to  apply.  Donlin  suspected  he  had
known  such  desires  all  his  life,  though
whether  he  had  ever  acted  on  them
remained  as  hazy  as  everything  else  in
his past.

"'Twas a dream of bodily

pleasures, of the sort most men enjoy
now and again after a good supper and
too much wine."

Baldemar suddenly crossed his

arms, and his gaze grew more intense.
"Did I appear in your dream?"

Donlin swallowed. Was this a

test?  Somehow,  he  felt  as  if  Baldemar
could  see  directly  into  his  thoughts.  He
would know if Donlin was lying. Instead
he  decided  to  step  away  from  the
question  as  he  might  have  parried  a
sword thrust in a duel. "I fear the details
have  become  hazy  as  the  day  has  worn
on," he murmured.

"Such is often the way of

dreams," Baldemar agreed with a sigh.

"I used to believe they could predict the
future or held messages teaching me how
to conduct my life. If so, I fear I did not
heed their lessons very well."

"Do you consider your existence

here  unpleasant?"  Donlin  asked  in
surprise.  He  had  assumed  Baldemar
lived  simply  by  his  choice,  because  it
gratified  him  the  way  it  did  monks  and
scholars.

"Every

man's

existence

unpleasant in some ways. I have become
used to the solitude, but I do not embrace
it. Your arrival here cheered me greatly,
though I am ashamed of taking advantage
of it as I did last night."

This time Donlin rose from his

chair as well. The two faced each other

—Baldemar's  gaze  firm  and  resolute,
Donlin's  bewildered  and  searching.  "I
cannot  comprehend  the  need  for  this
confession.  I  have  nothing  but  the  most
soothing recall of my time here."

"At least I can take comfort in

that. But I have been alone so long. You
cannot know the effects that can have on
a man."

"I believe I can… and do."
"You have spent much time

alone?"

"Enough to know of what you

speak."

"Anyhow, I vow I shall do better

hereafter." Baldemar's hands came to
rest on Donlin's forearms. Donlin felt a
shiver run up his body. It was not simply

his  host's  cold  skin,  which  no  doubt
accounted for the gloves he had worn the
night  before.  His  presence  had  a
physical  effect  on  him.  Donlin  had
nothing  to  compare  the  sensation  to,  but
he  knew  that  it  moved  him.  "I  will
treasure  your  forgiveness,  if  you  would
grant it."

"In my mind there is nothing to

forgive. But if you want it, I offer it
freely."

"Yes."

Baldemar's

fingers

tightened on Donlin's sleeves. "I do want
it.  I  need  it."  Tears  came  to  his  eyes.
Donlin  almost  reeled  back  in  shock,  but
he  held  his  ground.  Was  he  dreaming
again?  "I  did  not  ask  to  become  what  I
am. Yet I must live with my shame. I can

only try to control my urges."

"All of us have urges," Donlin

said in another feeble attempt to comfort
him.

His

host's

strong

emotion

bewildered  him.  Yet  he  had  an  idea  of
what  urges  he  might  refer  to.  Donlin,
after all, had felt them too. "As I told you
before,  I  do  not  think  it  is  my  place  to
judge."

"Your kindness is more than I

have earned," Baldemar said. "I must
reward you for easing my heart as no
one has done in many seasons."

Then Baldemar bent down and

kissed him.

Chapter 4

The kiss deepened, Baldemar's

urgent lips crushing Donlin's. His tongue
snaked inside his mouth, sparring briefly
with its counterpart. Meanwhile, his
hands

pressed

against

Donlin's

shoulders,  pulling  him  closer.  Their
coldness  startled  him  at  first,  but  soon
the  fire  building  in  his  own  veins  made
the  difference  between  them  less
evident.  He  responded  with  vigor,
sliding  one  set  of  fingers  up  Baldemar's
chest  and  raking  the  others  through  his
spikes of dark hair.

"I sensed your desire the moment

I entered the room," Baldemar said when
at last they broke apart. "I am pleased I

was not mistaken."

"Indeed you were not. You are

an object of fascination to me, Sir
Baldemar."

"Yet you say others fear and

dread me. How do you reconcile two
such opposite reactions?"

"I never said I feared you."

Donlin

let

both

hands

drop

Baldemar's  waist,  resting  them  on  the
edge  of  his  thick  leather  belt.  "I  sense
you  have  a  dangerous  side,  true,  but
what great knight does not?"

"My dangerous side is a good

deal more deadly than that of most other
knights,"

Baldemar

said

through

clenched teeth. "You would do well to
remember it."

"I shall. Yet I sense that you are

a man of both courage and learning, like
the kings of old, who read poetry in the
morning but could swing a bloodied
sword from midday until sundown. They
saw no contradiction, nor necessarily do
I."

"I admit I have more time for

poetry  than  I  used  to,  since  Carew  does
not offer the sort of conversation I would
prefer.  My  mornings,  though,  are
otherwise  occupied.  Books  are  among
my few evening pleasures. May I assume
the same holds true for you?"

Donlin paused. In truth, he did

not know if he had ever possessed a
single book or even if he had the ability
to read one. He chose his answer with

care.  "'Twould  please  me  to  own  a  fine
collection  of  books.  Yet  they  do  not
make  easy  traveling  companions.  They
grow  wet  and  are  easily  ruined.  I  fear  I
have brought none with me."

"We may remedy that easily

enough," Baldemar said. "The keep has a
modest library you may browse through
at your leisure. I shall instruct Carew to
show you there tomorrow."

"Will you be away again?"

Donlin asked in obvious disappointment.
"I had hoped…"

"I am away every morning,"

Baldemar cut in gruffly. "That can be
neither helped nor changed."

The vehemence of his tone took

Donlin aback. Surely a series of hunting

trips  would  not  engender  such  strong
emotion.  He  wondered  if  perhaps  some
religious obligation or ritual might be at
the  root  of  his  host's  disappearances.
Clearly he was not prepared to elaborate
further.  An  awkward  silence  stretched
between them.

Finally, Baldemar broke it with a

smile—the first genuine one Donlin had
seen cross his face since his arrival.

"As I said, the daylight hours are

lost  to  me,"  he  continued  in  a  lighter
tone,  "but  that  does  not  mean  we  cannot
make full use of the darkness." Taking a
step  backward,  he  picked  up  a  candle
and  gestured  for  Donlin  to  follow  him
from the room.

They walked together back to

Donlin's  chamber,  where  Baldemar
placed the candle in a sconce above the
bed.  When  he  turned  around,  Donlin
stepped  in  front  of  him.  He  stood  close
so  their  faces  lingered  but  a  whisker's
breadth  apart.  Baldemar's  dark  brows
sank on his pale forehead.

"'Tis not wise to startle me so.

Remember what we agreed about
danger."

Donlin's words came out in a

husky rush. "I do—but the prospect of
tasting your lips once again made the
risk worthwhile."

With a growl of lust, Baldemar

gripped  the  sides  of  Donlin's  face  and
pulled  it  toward  his.  Their  second  kiss
was  deeper  and  more  savage  than  the

first,  and  even  more  arousing.  His
member  snapped  up  hard  and  at  the
ready,  pushing  forward  the  front  of  his
tunic.  It  was  his  turn  to  moan  when
Baldemar reached down and covered the
straining mound with his hand.

Still locked together, the two

moved  toward  the  bed.  As  they  did,
Donlin felt Baldemar brush him in a way
that  revealed  his  host's  excitement.  His
flesh strained thick and powerful against
the  layers  of  fine  fabric  that  covered
him,  and  Donlin  felt  it  no  more  than  his
duty  to  relieve  him  of  the  impediment.
Sir  Baldemar  returned  the  favor,  and  in
no  time  they  had  completely  disrobed
one another.

They stretched out side by side

on the soft feather-filled mattress, gazing
without  touching.  Donlin  again  found
himself  struck  by  how  pale  Baldemar
looked,  his  skin  appearing  only  a  few
shades darker than the bedding. His own
body,

equally

unencumbered

garments, sported a much more vigorous
hue.

Was Baldemar sickly? Perhaps

some  interruption  of  health  drove  him
away  during  daylight,  to  be  tended  by  a
distant  physician.  Such  would  explain
his familiarity with the apothecary in the
village.

Though the thought troubled him,

Donlin  did  not  let  it  interrupt  his
admiration  of  Baldemar.  Though  his
flesh  did  resemble  a  bolt  of  fine  linen,

the muscle and bone beneath it seemed
sturdy and well-proportioned, equally so
below the waist. Donlin longed to touch
and stroke him, but as at table, to make
the first gesture was the right of his host.

"How long it has been since I

have enjoyed such closeness," Baldemar
said.  To  Donlin's  surprise,  his  voice
trembled with emotion. "For many years
I used my advantages of rank and wealth
to  gain  the  favors  of  any  man  who
pleased me, and I am somewhat ashamed
to  say  that  many  did.  Only  now,  when  I
have spent many a night alone, pondering
my own failings and mistakes, am I able
to  appreciate  the  simple  act  of  gazing
upon another man."

"I hope you will do more than

gaze,"  Donlin  said,  brushing  his  hand
down  the  center  of  his  own  chest.  He
slowed  his  movements  as  his  palm
swept  lower,  taking  it  away  just  before
it  touched  the  cinnamon-colored  curls
between  his  thighs.  "Wise  men  do  say
that

temporarily

depriving

oneself

increases enjoyment later on."

"In my case, 'tis a more serious

matter

than

simple

deprivation,"

Baldemar said mysteriously. "However,
let us not dwell on that now. I hope we
shall have many opportunities to discuss
our pasts."

"As do I," Donlin said, uneasy

with  the  prospect  of  recounting  such
matters  in  even  the  broadest  sense.
However,  Baldemar  was  correct  about

one thing—this was not the time to
worry about either the future or the past.
It was a time to seize and enjoy the
moment.

At last, Baldemar reached out

and  drew  him  closer.  Donlin's  hot  skin
seemed  to  melt  into  Baldemar's  chilly
hands  as  they  roved  over  his  back,  his
hips,  and  finally  the  curve  of  his
buttocks.  His  host's  thickening  cock
pressed against Donlin's, and a different
sort  of  heat  erupted  from  his  own
member and trickled down the inside of
his thigh.

"Come,"

Baldemar

said,

breaking away just long enough to part
Donlin's legs and hunker down between
his spread thighs. His hands moved over

the flat of Donlin's stomach, and then he
followed  the  same  path  with  his  open
mouth. Donlin wondered at the curiously
sharp  scrape  of  his  host's  teeth  on  his
skin.  Baldemar  certainly  possessed
many  unusual  qualities—yet  he  looked
forward  to  learning  more  about  each  of
them in turn.

He could scarcely have imagined

the  rush  of  pleasure  when  Baldemar's
cool  lips  closed  around  his  burning
shaft.  The  contrast  alone  made  Donlin's
blood  surge  and  his  bollocks  tighten.
With  each  forward  slide  of  Baldemar's
tongue  and  teeth,  Donlin  would  shiver
anew.  He  believed  Baldemar's  tale  of
surviving  without  bodily  gratification—
his  near-desperate  lunges  resembled

those of a starving man at a banquet.

Before long, Baldemar's throat

was  filled  with  every  last  inch  of
Donlin's member, while his cold fingers
caressed  his  sac.  Sweat  dripped  from
the juncture of his legs and oozed down
both sides of Baldemar's face, while the
little  hairs  on  his  thighs  scraped  his
host's  gaunt  cheeks  every  time  they
collided.

As his bollocks started to tighten

with  the  need  for  release,  Donlin
grabbed  Baldemar's  head  and  crushed
him  flat  against  his  groin.  His  groans
grew  more  feral  while  he  punched  hard
with  his  hips.  In  truth,  he  was  amazed
that  Baldemar didn't gag or pull back in
the  slightest.  If  anything,  he  seemed  to

grow more fervent in his attentions,
especially when Donlin at last achieved
full release.

While Donlin's body thrashed in

excitement  and  physical  liberation,
Baldemar  lifted  his  shoulders  and  slid
his  lips  free.  A  moment  later,  he  had
plunged  forward  again—and  this  time,
he  embedded  those  sharp  teeth  in
Donlin's thigh.

Donlin gasped as pain shot up

his  leg,  flaring  in  his  chest  and  causing
his head to spin. When he looked down,
he  was  stunned  to  see  Baldemar  licking
away  the  blood  as  it  flowed.  Shock
jolted  him—what  manner  of  taking
pleasure  was  this?  He  struggled  to  ask
Baldemar  that  very  question,  but  his

open lips were unable to form the word.
Bright  lights  danced  in  front  of  his  eyes
as  the  feeding  continued,  his  life  force
draining  from  him  in  a  crimson  stream.
Baldemar  lapped  up  every  drop  that
rolled from his torn flesh.

A moment later everything went

dark.

* * * *

Donlin opened his eyes to find

the  candle  burned  low  and  shadows
crisscrossing  the  bed.  Day  had  not
dawned,  but  the  beginning  of  the  night
was  lost  to  his  mind.  He  recalled
Baldemar  joining  him  here,  and  he
recalled his host's mouth roving hungrily

over his skin. When he glanced down
and saw a single droplet of blood on the
sheet, he knew he had not been
dreaming.

Hastily

stood,

wrapped

himself  in  the  bedclothes,  and  carried
the candle out into the corridor with him.
His leg felt stiff, though when he bent to
examine  the  site  of  the  wound,  he  found
nothing  but  a  faded  bruise  and  only  the
faintest  hint  of  a  puncture.  He  saw  no
sign  of  Baldemar,  but  a  bit  of  searching
turned  up  Carew. As  usual,  the  old  man
looked  less  than  pleased  to  see  him,
especially  when  he  noted  Donlin's  state
of undress.

"Where is your master? I must

speak with him."

Carew shrugged. "Gone to the

wall walk, like as not. He spends most
of his nights pacing there. Generally, he
does not wish to be disturbed."

"I will chance it. Show me the

way."

Carew rolled his eyes, but

obliged.  Heedless  of  the  discomfort  to
his  bare  feet,  Donlin  padded  up  the
uneven  steps  that  led  to  the  top  of  the
keep.  There  he  found  the  usual  guard
tower  and  a  turret,  with  a  narrow  stone
path  and  high  wall  running  between
them.  In  the  middle  stood  Baldemar,
dressed  again,  leaning  on  his  palms  and
gazing  out  over  the  darkened  bailey  and
the forest beyond.

When he turned and fixed Donlin

with  a  fierce  stare,  Donlin  wondered  if
he  should  have  brought  his  dagger.  Was
not  what  Baldemar  had  done  to  him
cause for mistrust, at the very least?

"See how swollen the moon is,"

his host said in a voice as calm as the
still air. "Reminds me of a pregnant
wench. It shall be at its fullest in a night
or two."

"Indeed. By its look, you are

correct." Donlin frowned, feeling his
stomach clench. This he attributed to
standing at such a great height and in so
vulnerable a state.

"I suppose you have come for an

explanation," Baldemar continued. "I am
glad to see you unharmed."

"I am. The mark is but a minor

bruise, no worse than what I might earn
in a day's battle practice. But why?"

Baldemar motioned him closer.

Setting his bare feet carefully upon the
rough stones, Donlin stepped forward.

"I suppose I could tell you that I,

like many other men, have certain tastes
in my bed that others would look
askance on. That would quiet your
protests, I am certain, but it would not be
a truthful answer."

Donlin shook his head, tugging

the  bedclothes  closer  around  his  body.
The  night  air,  or  perhaps  Baldemar
himself,  caused  his  skin  to  prickle.  "I
find  myself  more  bewildered  than  ever
by your answer." He scowled as another
disturbing thought struck him. "This was

not  the  first  time,  was  it?  Earlier,  you
insisted  you  owed  me  an  apology.  I
could  not  imagine  why  at  the  time.
Now…  I  am  beginning  to  suspect  the
reason."

"You are younger than I, but your

instincts are sharp, as any good knight's
should be." As though gripped by shame,
Baldemar lowered his eyes to the stones
beneath his feet. "I expected you would
not forget the injuries I inflicted on you."

The irony of his statement almost

prompted  Donlin  to  laugh,  but  he  bit
down  on  his  lips  so  as  not  to  seem
impertinent.  "Go  on,"  he  urged  instead,
sensing Baldemar had a good deal more
to say.

"All I can truly offer in defense

is  that  I  am  not  always  in  control  of  my
own  actions.  You  might  think  of  it  as
madness,  which  I  also  did  at  first.  Then
other  discoveries  forced  me  to  assess
the situation differently."

Donlin

stared

him,

comprehending nothing he said.

"Have you ever imagined what it

might  be  like  to  die?"  Baldemar  asked.
"To feel the darkness crawl upon you, to
watch  the  light  slip  from  your  eyes,  to
hear  your  own  heart  slowly  stop
beating?"

Donlin swallowed, shaken by the

thought. No doubt, having seen battle and
presumably  death,  such  fears  had
affected  him  on  occasion. Yet  of  course
he  could  not  remember  them.  "I  would

prefer not to," he choked out.

"As would I. However, I do not

need to imagine it. I have experienced it
firsthand." Baldemar's features hardened
as

Donlin's

face

reflected

his

amazement. "No, you need not hide your
disbelief. Had I heard such a tale, I
would not have credited it either. Still,
the fact remains—I did die."

"You seem alive to me now, as

you  did  when  we  lay  abed  together."
Donlin's  head  lightened  again,  as  when
he had consumed the wine he now knew
was drugged.  In truth, he could see why
others,

Baldemar

included,

had

suspected  madness.  It  remained  a
plausible  explanation  for  many  recent
events.  "Do  you…  do  you  believe

yourself a ghost, then?" he managed to
ask.

"Not a ghost. Something far

worse, though I doubt a word for what I
am  exists.  What  I  did  to  you  twice
resulted  from  a  compulsion.  It  urges  me
to  drink  the  blood  of  men  and  shun  the
daylight.  With  the  greatest  effort,  I  can
keep  myself  from  taking  too  much  and
causing injury or death to those I choose
to  feed  on.  I  cannot  stop  myself  from
seeking  nourishment,  though.  I  promise
you, I have tried."

"But… what can this strange tale

mean?  How  did  such  a  fate  befall  you?
Were  you  attacked  by  a  demon?"  The
moment  he  made  the  suggestion,  Donlin
paused.  A  disquieting  image  flashed

across his mind, so quickly that he could
scarcely grasp the details, much less
interpret its meaning. Only its emotional
effect remained, settling a storm cloud
over his heart.

If his distress revealed itself on

his face or in his posture,  Baldemar did
not  notice.  Instead,  he  moved  forward
with  recounting  the  events  that  had
befallen him.

"I was not attacked by a demon

—at  least,  not  in  the  sense  you  mean.
The man who cursed me dwelled on this
earth,  and  he  looked  like  any  other,  as
far as  I or anyone else could determine.
When I wronged him, he made me suffer
dearly

for

arrogance

and

insensitivity. I do not deny that my

actions deserved punishment. But to pay
with my life—that was too harsh a
penalty."

Donlin blinked as that pale blue

gaze probed him. His host's chilling
stare,

along

with

his

seemingly

bloodless skin, suddenly made sense in a
way they had not before. Perhaps
Baldemar's story was not so impossible
to believe, after all.

"I understand if you wish to

leave  this  place  when  morning  comes,"
Baldemar  said,  this  time  without
passion. "I can instruct  Carew to supply
you with goods and coins.  I maintain no
horse,  but  you  may  purchase  a  mule  in
the  village.  Such  a  beast  will  carry  you
home safely, if not in great style."

He turned away again, resting his

weight  on  his  palms,  gazing  off  into  the
darkness.  Donlin  remained  where  he
stood, turning the offer over even though
it  dishonored  him  to  do  so.  The  ache  in
his  leg  had  dulled  until  it  scarcely
existed,  but  he  found  it  hard  to  forget
how he had come by it. 'Twas not every
day one encountered a host who tore his
guest's  flesh  open  with  his  teeth  and
feasted on the blood within. On the other
hand,  'twas  not  every  day  a  man  awoke
knowing nothing of his own past or even
whether the name he used was really his
own.

"It is decided, then?" he asked,

gingerly sliding a hand onto Baldemar's
shoulder. Baldemar flinched, clearly not

expecting his touch. "You wish me to
go?"

"We do not speak of what I wish.

Of  course  I  would  prefer  for  you  to
remain here. We speak of what would be
best—safest—for you,  Donlin.  Does not
your  own  household  await  you?  Do  you
not long to return to them, and to safety?"

Donlin's fingers remained on

Baldemar's  shoulder,  his  grip  tightening
as  though  he  feared  his  host  might  tear
away from him. Taking a deep breath to
calm  himself,  he  chose  his  words  with
care.

"If I am to speak only the truth, I

confess I know nothing of who might
await me—nor can I be certain they even
exist. The plain fact is that I have no

Chapter 5

Donlin swallowed, knowing he

had no choice but to press forward.
Baldemar stood at the wall, arms folded,
waiting.

"'Tis true." Donlin plunged

ahead. "You are not the only man in this
keep  who  holds  a  secret.  Mine  is  that  I
know not who I am—save for what clues
I have pieced together.  I cannot even be
certain  that  the  name  I  use  is  truly  my
own.  That  is  why  I  went  to  the
apothecary and asked for a potion."

"Headaches." Baldemar nodded.

"I recall you mentioning the matter. You
said they were caused by battle
wounds."

"That seemed a reasonable

guess. However, I know not what causes
my affliction. I realize that I should have
revealed everything at once, but I
confess I was ashamed of my weakness.
I can only hope the potion he supplied
me with may help."

"As do I."
"You said the apothecary is a

man of great skill." Donlin considered
their dual predicament. "If his potion
proves beneficial to me, do you think he
could also cure… you?"

Baldemar's jaw tensed and he

shook his head. "There is no cure for one
such as me. 'Twould be futile to ask. Yet
I am grateful for your concern on my
behalf."

"I told you… I am not one to

judge. How could I?" Donlin laughed
bitterly. "Are we not a well-matched
pair? I wish only to recapture my past…
and you wish only to undo yours."

Baldemar looked at him, and a

slow smile crept across his stern mouth.
"Perhaps, in the end, your quest will
prove as elusive as mine."

"Yes," said Donlin.
Baldemar uncrossed his arms

and the two fell together, taking comfort
in one another's embrace. Donlin wished
they could return to his bed and await
the morning there, but soon Baldemar
drew away.

"Dawn will arrive soon, and I

must hide myself. Will you still be here

when I rise at sundown?"

"You know I will."
Baldemar

nodded,

stepping

away. "Go, then. We shall discuss this at
more length tomorrow night."

"As you wish." With a nod,

Donlin returned to his chamber and
climbed onto the bed. For a long while
after the sun rose he lay atop the covers,
his hands beneath his head and his mind
racing like a blustery autumn wind.

Soon he reached under the

bedclothes and took out the small pouch
he had concealed there earlier. Ale or
wine, the apothecary had said. Donlin
rose.

A brief search of the silent keep

turned up a jug of ale Carew had left on

the  dining  hall's  sideboard.  Pouring
himself  a  goblet  full,  Donlin  seated
himself  at  the  table  and  poured  in  the
powder. He watched it sparkle and flash
as it dissolved.

Closing his eyes, he drank

deeply. Ignoring the burn in his throat
and stomach, he returned to bed and
slept at last.

Over the past two nights, his

slumber  had  been  peaceful.  This  time,
far different thoughts crowded his mind.
Spinning  through  his  head  were  images
of  beastly  fangs  and  flashing,  blood-
drenched  swords.  Screams  rang  in  his
ears  as  he  saw  men  in  armor  fall  and
die.  They  were  his  own  men,  for  he
knew their faces.

Meanwhile, fiery pain racked his

limbs  and  throbbed  in  his  gut.  When
Donlin's  dream-self  looked  down  at  his
body, he found he was covered in blood
and  coarse  dark  hair.  Rather  than
standing, he crawled on the ground like a
beast.

Gasping for breath, Donlin sat up

with tears streaking his face and his
chest heaving. The first thing he saw was
the empty pouch on the floor. As he had
feared, the potion had been successful.

What terrible truth from his past

had his dreams revealed?

* * * *

Following

another

modest

breakfast of bread and ale, during which
Donlin struggled to betray nothing of his
turbulent  emotions,  Carew  showed  him
to the keep's library as promised. On the
room's floor-to-ceiling shelves sat many
interesting  books,  and  to  his  relief
Donlin  could  read  and  understand  them.
Obviously  his  education  had  been  more
than adequate, wherever he had received
it.  He  perused  the  usual  histories  of
kings  and  nobles,  a  few  treatises  on
religion and philosophy, and some of the
poetry  volumes  he  and  Baldemar  had
discussed earlier.

One of the books contained a

series of poems by an anonymous author,
written in a careful hand. The painted
illuminations adorning many of the gold-

trimmed pages intrigued Donlin as much
as  the  text.  Beautiful  renditions  of
dragons,  sea  serpents,  and  other
legendary  beings  dazzled  his  fascinated
eyes. The tales told of brave knights and
a  few  peasants  who  dared  to  challenge
and in some cases befriend the beasts.

The last poem in the book

detailed the tragic events in the life of a
great lord, who dallied in the forest one
night after a hunt. A mysterious creature
attacked,  but  did  not  kill  him.  After
recovering from his wounds, the lord set
out  on  another  hunting  expedition—only
this time 'twas he who became the beast
and  attacked  another  traveler  in  turn.
Donlin

found

the

story

luridly

entertaining

but

special

significance,  until  he  turned  to  the  last
page in the volume. There, the artist had
rendered  his  impression  of  the  beast  in
question.  A

towering,

fur-covered

monstrosity, it sported the fangs, claws,
and chest of a bear, the hindquarters and
tail of a wolf, and the face and eyes of a
man.

Dropping the book, he leaned

back in his chair and felt his entire body
grow damp with sweat.  Donlin knew he
had seen such a beast before. Not only in
his dreams the night before, but standing
before  him  in  the  forest.  Its  sharp,
spittle-flecked  teeth  flashed  white  and
terrible  in  his  mind's  eye.  The  pain  as
those  teeth  sank  into  his  arm,  causing
him  to  drop  his  sword,  seared  his  body

anew.

Trembling, he looked down at

the table and forced himself to reread the
last few lines of the tale. In these, the
poet,

though

choosing

remain

nameless, designated the creature loup-
garou—the man-wolf.

From the page, the painted

creature  seemed  to  look  back  up  at  him
with  eyes  that  glittered  in  triumph.
Behind  its  hideously  stooped  figure,  the
full moon burned with menace.

He leaped from his chair and

started  to  bolt  from  the  room,  then
stopped to replace all the books. Though
not exactly sure why, he thought it best to
give  no  indication  of  what  he  had  been
reading.  Smoothing  his  tunic  and

composing his face, he went in search of
Carew.

"Today I shall return to the

village," he announced. "I have further
business with the apothecary."

"As you wish," Carew said with

an almost imperceptible sniff. "I promise
I shall pay heed to the doors."

Donlin wondered if the old man

had any idea of what had gone on during
the  previous  night.  Could  simple
jealousy  explain  his  hostile  attitude?  Or
did  he  suspect  Donlin  of  wishing  his
master harm? Well, now was no time to
deal  with  his  impertinence.  Quickly  he
gathered  his  dagger  and  belt  and  set  off
toward the village.

The apothecary's lad waited by

the door again, his face as cloudy as
before. With the slightest bow possible,
he withdrew as his master came in.

"Ah, our lord's knightly guest,"

the  apothecary  declared,  smiling  at  his
own jest. Donlin wondered if the truth of
his  feelings  for  Baldemar  were  etched
on his face like the illuminations in those
finely  wrought  books.  "You  have  come
about the memory powder, perhaps? Did
it work as promised?"

"It did—perhaps too well. But I

must know—has your potion ever been
known to inspire false memories?"

The older man stroked his dark

beard, his thick brows sinking in thought.
"To my knowledge it has not. Please
explain the reason for this question."

"Your potion has dredged up a

few images I cannot quite believe to be
true.

They

are

too…

fantastic.

Outrageous."

"Perhaps that is why you

preferred  to  forget  them.  Here—be
seated  and  tell  me  everything  that
happened."  The  apothecary  motioned
Donlin  to  a  wide,  cloth-draped  chair  at
the back of the workshop.

Though

the

chair

was

comfortable,  Donlin  remained  agitated.
He  shook  his  head  in  frustration.  "At
first,  I  felt  nothing.  Then  I  began  to
experience strange sensations. As though
my body were not my own. I dreamed of
a  terrible  transformation."  Briefly  he
described the hair, the blood, the twisted

distortion  of  his  limbs.  By  the  time  he
finished,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  tears.
"Have  you  ever  heard  the  term loup-
garou?"

"I have." The old man's brows

lifted. "'Tis a beast of legend, most
terrible and usually deadly to behold."

"Have you beheld one? Do you

know for certain that they exist?"

"Not with my own eyes, no.

However,  I  have  heard  stories  from
sources  too  reliable  to  dismiss  entirely.
What  is  your  interest  in  these  legends?
How did you come to hear of them?"

"I… encountered the word in a

manuscript,  but  I  already  carried  the
image  of  the  monster  here."  Donlin
touched  his  forehead.  "'Twas  locked

away,  I  believe,  until  your  potion  freed
it.  Unlike  you,  I  think  I  have  actually
looked upon the loup-garou. It may have
attacked  me  in  the  forest  and  stolen  my
wits  away,  leaving  me  with  no  more
identity than a newborn babe."

The apothecary's voice remained

skeptical, but his face sagged in
sympathy. "When you say this creature
attacked you—do you mean you actually
suffered its bite? Or were you injured in
some

other

way—while

fleeing,

possibly?"

"That is exactly my dilemma."

Hot  tears  rose  again,  unbidden  and
unwanted.  Donlin  tried  to  fight  them
back without success. In an effort to hide
them,  he  covered  his  face  with  both

hands.  "I  cannot  be  certain.  The  potion
did  not  open  my  mind  far  enough.  But  I
fear  the  rising  of  the  moon  may  bring  a
worse  misfortune  than  a  few  lost
memories.  I  have  come  to  see  if  your
knowledge  of  such  matters  can  set  my
conscience at rest—or doom me."

"Does Sir Baldemar know aught

of this matter?"

"Nay, nothing. My wish is to

spare him either from danger or worry,
whichever proves to be the truth."

"I understand. You are clearly a

man of honor. How tragic that this has
befallen you."

"Can you do nothing, then?"

Donlin cried in despair. "Is there no
potion, or spell, or prayer you can offer

on my behalf?"

The apothecary raised a long-

nailed  finger,  signaling  for  Donlin  to
wait.  He  busied  himself  at  his
workbench  and  presently  returned  with
another pouch identical to the first.

"I recommend you take another

dose  of  the  memory  powder  tonight,  in
hopes  of  recovering  more  of  what  you
have  lost.  Mayhap  you  will  recall
striking your head on a tree or a rock far
away  from  the  beast's  jaws.  If  you  did
not  suffer  its  bite,  you  have  naught  to
fear."  The  older  man  lowered  his  eyes
as  Donlin  stood  and  grasped  the  pouch
in  a  shaking  hand.  "Alas,  there  is  no
potion that can cure lycanthropy—or any
other  curse,  for  that  matter.  Lesions  of

the body are my domain, not fractures of
the soul. I am sorry. At least in two
nights you will know for certain. You
will be better able to decide what to do
then."

"And if I do transform? I shall be

a  danger  to  anyone  around  me!"  Would
that  include  Baldemar,  he  wondered,
who  claimed  to  be  already  dead?  Still,
he  could  hardly  reveal  such  a  detail  to
the apothecary.

The older man moved closer and

laid  a  comforting  palm  upon  Donlin's
shoulder.  "Tomorrow  night  the  moon
will  be  full.  If  the loup-garou  dwells
within  you,  it  will  make  its  appearance
then.  My  advice  is  that  you  come  to  me
here before the moon rises.  I will assist

you in hiding yourself until daylight
brings relief. And I will see to it that you
are able to harm no one."

"I shall return as you suggest."

Sadly,  Donlin  tied  the  pouch  to  his  belt
and moved toward the door of the shop.
As  he  reached  for  the  latch,  he  spotted
the  boy,  Simon,  pressed  into  the  corner.
The  lad's  brows  were  knit  together  in
extreme

concentration.

His

mouth

churned  furiously,  as  though  he  were
trying  with  all  his  might  to  say
something.  Yet  no  sound  at  all  issued
from his throat. With a brief nod of pity,
Donlin passed from the shop.

The hours until sundown seemed

to drag like years. Little knowing how to
occupy himself, Donlin paced the bailey,

the  garden,  and  his  own  chamber,
practicing what he might say to his host.
Over  his  solitary  dinner,  he  eyed  the
fresh  bag  of  memory  powder,  lying  on
the table before him.

Another dose would, perhaps,

reveal what he needed to know. It might
likewise make plain a stark reality—that
he and Baldemar could never live as
normal men.

Through an effort of will and

training,  his  host  had  learned  to  control
the vile urges his curse had forced upon
him,  so  that  he  maintained  as  close  a
resemblance  to  his  old  existence  as
possible.  But  no  effort  of  will  that
Donlin  could  imagine  would  ever  stop
the  moon  from  growing  full.  With  a

growl of agony, he snatched up the
pouch and tucked it back into his belt.

Finally, when Donlin seemed

ready  to  burst  with  anxiety  and
anticipation,  he  heard  the  scrape  of
footsteps  on  the  threshold  of  the  dining
hall as Sir Baldemar entered. Forgetting
his  sorrows,  Donlin  allowed  himself  to
be  swept  up  in  both  the  moment  and  in
Baldemar's  strong  arms.  His  host's
kisses  suggested  that  for  him,  too,  an
eternity  had  passed  in  the  place  of  a
single afternoon.

"I have not dreamed since my

curse  took  hold."  Baldemar  cupped
Donlin's  face  in  his  palms  and  touched
their foreheads together. "Yet, somehow,
my  thoughts  of  you  carried  me  through

the hours I must spend as a corpse."

"I thought of you as well. Every

breath I drew reminded me that time for
your return was also drawing closer."

"Have you used the apothecary's

potion?" Baldemar asked when they had
finished a fresh round of kissing. "Did it
assist you in remembering anything of
your past?"

"I tried it. I fear that so far its

effects were disappointing." Donlin tried
to meet his eyes, and then to smile, but in
the end he was able to do neither.
Defeated, he averted his gaze by casting
it over Baldemar's shoulder instead.

"Hm.

matter.

Return

tomorrow and inform him. Perhaps the
dose needs adjusting."

"Aye. That is possible." Donlin

felt his cheeks flame against Baldemar's
hands.

"Something else troubles you,"

Baldemar guessed. "What has happened?
Has Carew displeased you? I shall take
pleasure in finally thrashing him, if so.
He has earned more than one punishment
these many years."

"Carew did nothing wrong. In

fact, he showed me to the library exactly
as you instructed. I… spent a most
instructive morning there."

"Yes. Many of the books are

quite  old,  having  lain  in  this  keep  for  a
hundred  years  or  more.  I  have  lost
myself in their pages, too, when I sought
wisdom  or  simply  an  escape  from  the

burdens of existence."

Donlin parted his lips, fully

prepared  to  speak  of  the  volume
containing the tale of the loup-garou. He
had planned and practiced the words he
meant  to  use  for  the  better  part  of  the
day.  Now,  when  the  time  had  come,  he
found that he could not utter them.

Instead, he realized at once what

he had to do. He owed Sir Baldemar, his
honored host and the man he was rapidly
growing  to  love,  no  less.  His  actions
would  cause  pain,  doubtless—but  a  far
greater  anguish  awaited  him  if  Donlin
did not act as he knew duty required.

"Enough talk of books and

studying,"

Donlin

said

finally,

abandoning the lengthy speech he had

prepared. "We have been apart all day
—let us not waste the hours before the
sun rises again."

He slid his fingers through

Baldemar's and the two of them walked
to his chamber as before. Too tense with
desire to engage in conversation, they
stripped and crawled onto the bed.

"You may take my blood if you

wish," Donlin said, opening his arms. "I
know you will not hurt me… just as I
would never harm you. I hope you will
always remember that."

Baldemar's

eyes

glowed.

Whether  he  understood  the  words
completely,  or  was  too  caught  up  in  the
moment,  Donlin  could  not  say.  He  only
hoped that when the more difficult times

came, Baldemar would indeed recall
and take comfort from them.

Baldemar rolled him over,

straddling his backside and lowering his
face  to  Donlin's  shoulders.  Donlin  felt
his  stiff  member  press  against  the  small
of his back as Baldemar bent low to kiss
the base of his neck.  He exhaled deeply
as  Baldemar  dragged  his  tongue  slowly
and  sensuously  over  his  skin,  the  sharp
points  of  his  teeth  following  the
dampened  path.  Finally,  he  found  the
right spot and seemed to pause.

Before he bit down, he used his

hand to wedge his cock against Donlin's
sac and then rubbed the two together
until Donlin's hips squirmed in arousal.
His own cock began leaking seed, which

Baldemar  used  to  moisten  the  tautly
muscled  opening  between  his  buttocks.
Donlin  gasped  as  Baldemar  fitted  his
rounded  tip  inside  and  began  to
manipulate  it  slowly.  Every  push
forward sent it in a bit deeper, and every
gain in that direction gave Donlin a fresh
burst of sensation within his body.

In some ways, the invasion was

painful,  though  it  was  nothing  that  a
knight  and  warrior  could  not  bear.  In
other  ways,  it  seemed  to  be  the
experience  he  had  waited  for  all  his
life…  including,  he  suspected,  the  parts
of  that  life  he  had  forgotten.  It  was
impossible  for  him  to  believe  that
whatever  and  whoever  he  had  been
before  would  not  have  wanted  Sir

Baldemar to claim him—to take his
body and his blood alike.

Caught up in the ferocity of their

joining,  Donlin  reached  down  and
grasped  his  own  cock.  Furiously  he
stroked  his  fist  up  and  down,  bringing
himself closer to fulfillment. At the same
time,  with  a  final  thrust,  Baldemar
entered him fully. They writhed together,
their bodies one, their moans forming an
odd sound—half dirge, half melody.

Just as Donlin felt sweet release

flower inside him, Baldemar plunged his
teeth  into  the  side  of  Donlin's  neck  and
began  to  drink.  Dark  pleasure  flowed
through  his  body,  burning  hot  and  quick
at  both  ends  and  meeting  in  the  middle.
Deliciously  helpless,  conquered  and

tamed by Baldemar's powerful will,
Donlin gave himself over utterly.

Baldemar

drank

what

required  to  fill  his  body  with  life,
temporary  though  it  might  be,  and  then
drew  his  tongue  over  the  wound  in
Donlin's throat to seal it. Meanwhile, the
pumping  movement  of  his  cock  slowed
and

stilled

tremor

seized

Baldemar's  lean  frame.  Donlin  heard
him  moan,  and  felt  him  shudder  against
his own feverish skin. He sensed nothing
in  the  way  of  seed—presumably
Baldemar's curse had robbed him of that
ability  and  privilege—but  his  host's
deep  moans  told  him  he  was  satisfied
and sated.

At least he would have that when

Chapter 6

The instant he awoke, he knew

something was wrong.

His head

throbbed,  his  skin  itched,  and  his  limbs
ached  as  if  the  bones  inside  them  were
melting. When he sat up, the room faded
and  blurred,  as  if  he  had  been  dunked
under  water.  Only  by  shaking  his  head
until  his  teeth  rattled  was  he  able  to
clear it.

Baldemar, of course, had long

ago  left  their  bed.  When  Donlin  opened
the shutters, he saw the sun flaming high
above  the  trees.  Red  and  hot,  the  orb
seared  his  eyes,  and  he  slammed  the
shutter back into place.

Hastily he washed and dressed

in  his  leggings,  tunic,  and  the  gambeson
Carew  had  cleaned  for  him.  Over  these
he  drew  on  as  much  of  his  armor  as  he
could  fasten  without  assistance  and
consigned  the  helmet  and  a  few  other
leftover bits to a pouch. Slinging it over
his back, he crept down to the bailey and
set  off  for  the  apothecary's  shop.  The
walk  toward  the  village  seemed  to  take
longer  than  ever,  and  his  knees  and
ankles  burned  with  every  step.  Both  his
arms  tingled  as  well,  and  when  he
examined the backs of his hands, the skin
looked  mottled  and  shadowed  with  a
fresh  growth  of  dark  hair.  The  change
had begun.

He found himself surprised when

the villagers paid no more attention to

him  this  time  than  they  had  on  his
previous visits. Given the turmoil inside
him, he was convinced that he must look
different  to  them  too—haggard,  twisted,
possibly  less  than  human.  However,  no
one noticed anything amiss.

The apothecary and his lad were

waiting  for  him  at  the  door  to  the  shop.
Again  the  boy's  eyes  bulged  with  fear,
and his limbs trembled slightly when he
accepted  the  sack  holding  the  armor.
Still,  Donlin  had  no  time  to  concern
himself with such matters.

"I have come as you suggested,"

he said, horrified at the way his voice
sounded, even to his own ears. "Some
strange malady grips me, as we feared. I
am begging for your help."

"Of course." The older man

nodded  in  sympathy,  placing  a  fatherly
hand  on  Donlin's  shoulder.  Gently  he
guided  him  to  the  curtained  room  in  the
back of the shop. Donlin stopped in mid-
step  when  he  saw  a  sturdy  iron  cage  in
the  corner,  tall  and  wide  enough  for  a
man to fit inside, complete with a heavy
padlock hanging from the door.

"So this is your plan to keep me

safe,"  he  said,  his  chest  tightening  with
fear.  He  forced  himself  to  breathe
slowly,  attempting  both  to  stave  off  his
panic  and  control  the  physical  pain
creeping through his body.

"Not just you, but the entire

village, and Sir Baldemar as well," the
apothecary told him. "Here you may

transform  in  secret,  while  I  protect  you.
As  I  watch,  I  may  learn  something  that
will  help  us  fight  the  beast  before  it
returns. Tonight, you shall hate and curse
me—I

expect

and

forgive

that.

Tomorrow, when the sun rises, you shall
thank me. Then, with any luck, you may
return to the keep as though nothing
happened."

Donlin ground his teeth as he

considered  the  apothecary's  words.  The
prospect  of  such  confinement  sickened
him,  but  the  alternative  filled  him  with
far  worse  dread.  "'Tis  not  my  intention
to  return  to  the  keep,"  he  said.  "Sir
Baldemar  has  been  most  generous
toward  me,  so  I  cannot  repay  him  by
foisting my accursed presence upon him.

When  the  sun  rises,  if  my  limbs  and  my
wits are restored, I shall depart this land
and  travel  on  to  where  no  one  else  can
find  me.  Better  I  should  die  trying  to
escape  this  beast  inside  me  than  drag
others into hell along with me."

"I understand your decision, and

I cannot argue against it." The older man
nodded sadly. "Meanwhile, I can offer a
potion to help you sleep. It will ease the
pain  and  perhaps  lessen  the  violent
tendencies of the loup-garou once it has
taken  your  place."  He  motioned  to  a
small  pallet  pushed  against  the  rear
wall,  presumably  used  for  patients  who
were  weak  or  required  overnight
treatments. "I invite you to make yourself
comfortable while I prepare the draught.

You will experience relief as soon as
you imbibe the first drop."

"Very well." In truth, Donlin

welcomed the opportunity to lie still for
a  while.  His  senses  were  in  chaos,
making  him  feel  weak  and  feverish.  He
was glad he had come when he had, for
another  hour  and  he  doubted  he  could
have completed the journey on foot.

The apothecary had turned his

back as he began to work, bending over
a  table  heaped  with  pottery  and  jars  of
various sizes. "There is one other thing,"
he called over his shoulder. "You might
as  well  remove  your  garments  now.
They  will  only  add  to  your  discomfort
when your limbs begin to change."

"My garments… yes." Donlin

stirred  and  looked  down  at  himself  as
though  he  had  never  seen  his  own  body
before.  What  the  apothecary  said  made
sense.  Already  sweat  was  soaking
through  his  tunic  and  gambeson,  and
besides,  his  skin  itched  ferociously.
Freeing himself from the confines of his
clothing would make it easier to scratch
and gain relief.

His movements as he stripped

were clumsy and rough, better suited to a
beast  or  a  madman  than  a  knight  of  the
realm.  The  effort  exhausted  him,  and
when  he  had  finished,  he  dropped  onto
the  modest  bedding  and  curled  into  a
pitiful heap.  It did not escape his notice
that  the  same  dark  hairs  that  bristled  on
the back of his arms had sprung up on his

chest  and  stomach  as  well.  Between  his
legs,  the  black  coils  grew  even  thicker,
and  to  his  embarrassment  his  member
stretched out hard and thick.  He tried to
cover  himself  with  the  single  coarse
blanket  provided  when  the  apothecary
returned  and  handed  him  a  wooden
goblet.

"Drink," he said.
Donlin did so, greedily and

thankfully.  As  he  drained  the  cup,  the
apprentice  drifted  back  into  the  room.
Again the lad fixed him with an anxious
stare.  Oddly,  Donlin  thought  as  he
drifted  into  welcome  oblivion,  this  boy
lacked  the  clear,  uncorrupted  gaze  most
of his age group shared.

Instead, his eyes resembled those

of a much older man.

* * * *

As he had every evening for the

past  year,  Baldemar  sensed  the  moment
the last rays of the punishing sun slipped
behind  the  trees.  In  the  darkness  of  his
hiding  place,  once  used  as  the  dungeon
of the keep, he woke and returned to the
world of the living.

One thought alone pulsed in his

mind  as  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full
height and climbed out of the cloth-lined,
sun-proof  sarcophagus  where  he  now
spent his days.  Not since he had lain on
the  cold  stone  floor  of  his  dining  hall,
watching  his  blood  ooze  from  the

thousand  tiny  bites  peppering  his  body,
had  he  clung  so  fervently  to  the  final
shreds  of  his  life.  Now  Donlin  alone,
with  his  trusting  eyes  and  the  sweet
nourishment  he  offered  freely,  out  of
love,  had  the  power  to  stir  his  stone-
dead heart.

"Where is he?" he inquired of

Carew  when  he  reached  the  top  of  the
winding stone staircase. The moment the
old man averted his face and sighed with
irritation,  Baldemar  knew  something
dreadful  had  transpired.  His  buoyant
mood  faded  into  fury.  "Tell  me,"  he
demanded.

"He is gone, milord. Himself and

his possessions both. Fled sometime this
morning. I found the entry gate

unlatched."

"His things are gone as well? All

of them?"

"Aye. He also took the clothes

you left for him. Ungrateful, I call him."

"Do not court my temper, or I

shall forget your age and your many
years of loyalty," Baldemar warned in a
terrible voice. Carew paled and backed
away as Baldemar hurried up to Donlin's
chamber.

emerged

with

fists

clenched, his shoulders quivering in
rage. "How could you allow this to
happen? He walked right past you on his
way out, and you noticed nothing?"

Carew bowed in fear. "I did not

know he was your prisoner, milord. He
had gone to the village twice before, so I

—"

"The

village—yes." As

considered

this

new

information,

Baldemar's  ire  faded.  Donlin  had  been
seeking  treatment  from  the  apothecary
for  his  fractured  memory.  Perhaps  his
apparent  disappearance  was  connected
to  those  inquiries.  Even  the  use  of  his
armor  might  factor  into  that  explanation
—a  recreation  of  the  last  battle  he  had
fought, for example, designed to prod his
thoughts in a fruitful direction. "I will go
there  and  seek  him  myself,"  he
announced.

"To the village?" Carew looked

even more afraid than he had when
Baldemar had threatened a beating. "But
you have not left the keep in a year—and

for good reason."

"Those reasons do not apply to

the situation at hand. If ill fortune has
befallen Donlin, I must find him and
bring him back."

"You plan to walk through the

village as you are?" Carew asked in
overt horror. "And if you meet anyone on
the road?"

"I am capable of controlling my

hunger  from  here  to  the  village.  Do  you
take  me  for  an  uncivilized  beast?"
Baldemar  barked  out  a  derisive  laugh.
"Would the villagers dare to kill me as I
stand? As much as they might distrust or
even hate me, I am still their lord. Their
lives would be forfeit if they raised their
fists to me, and well they know it."

"Superstition can make men

behave in ways they normally might not,
Sir Baldemar."

"Be it so, then. I will behave

with discretion—but if I am called upon
to  defend  myself,  I  shall  do  so  without
fail."  Drawing  back  his  lips  in  an
exaggerated  smile,  Baldemar  bared  his
sharp  white  teeth  until  Carew  gasped
and flinched.

Laughing, Baldemar swept past

him. After buckling on his long-
neglected sword, he strode out of the
keep and into a radiantly moonlit night.

* * * *

The sleeping draught wore off

just in time for the pain of transformation
to  begin  in  earnest.  While  he  had  been
insensible,  he  realized,  the  apothecary
had  dragged  him  into  the  cage  and
fastened  the  padlock.  No  doubt  his
apprentice  had  helped.  Even  now  the
boy  lingered  at  the  back  of  the  room,
staring  at  Donlin  as  he  crouched,  naked
and  miserable,  inside  the  ring  of  iron
bars. The apothecary himself stood much
closer,  a  bold  observer  of  the  spectacle
Donlin had become.

"Sir Baldemar will chase after

you, of course," the older man said in a
calm, detached tone Donlin found
baffling under the present circumstances.
Was a proud knight's agony no more than
a scientific exercise to him? "'Tis getting

dark, and he will soon discover you
have left him. That will displease him
greatly, as I'm sure you know."

"'Tis…'tis all for the best,"

Donlin managed to gasp as a cramp hit
him square in the stomach and forced
him to his knees. "I cannot stay with him.
I am too great a threat."

"He will never see it that way."

The  apothecary  clucked  his  tongue.  "I
know him. However little conscience he
may  retain,  his  pride  will  urge  him
forward. You can be sure that even now,
he  is  tracking  you  down—tracking  you
directly here."

"If he comes, you must not tell

him where I am!" Donlin urged. "I could
not bear for him to see me like this. Let

him think I left him… fled…"

"I shall tell him nothing of the

kind," the apothecary said, his voice
suddenly harsh. "I will not have to, in
any case."

"You mean… you will not speak

to him, if he calls? That is… a wise
approach… though I suspect he will not
give up easily."

"No. That is not what I mean at

all."

Donlin blinked up at him,

startled  by  the  change  in  his  demeanor.
At  the  same  instant,  he  found  himself
confronted  with  a  startling  illusion.  The
apothecary's  thick  beard,  previously  a
thatch  of  black  and  silver,  seemed  to
shift  colors.  In  the  space  of  a  few

breaths it took on a reddish hue. The
older man's lined face, too, seemed to
fill out and grow smoother, as though the
years were melting from his flesh.

'Twas a dream, Donlin thought,

sucking  back  a  calming  breath,  or  the
result  of  his  vision  growing  hazy.  What
else  could  it  be?  Men  did  not  age
backward—not  even  the  most  clever
apothecary  or  alchemist  in  the  land
could make that happen.

"What—what, then?" he managed

to choke out. Again he thought he must
be dreaming when the apothecary
reached into his heavy robe, withdrew a
massive key, and slid it into the padlock.

"I need tell him nothing because

he will find you himself," he said, letting

his hand drop with the lock still in place.
"I  shall  not  release  you  yet—you  might
just have enough time and human reason
left  to  hide  yourself.  Once  the  change
begins,  however,  you  will  have  far  less
control.  Sir  Baldemar  will  arrive  in  the
village  to  find  you  slaughtering  his
people.  Once  you  have  finished,  you
will turn on him."

"I will not! Never would I harm

him!" Donlin started to reach up and
rattle the bars, but he realized that doing
so might actually jar the cage open—the
last thing he wanted.

"You will have no choice

whatsoever. The loup-garou seeks its
prey by instinct. Those it has loved in
human form are generally among its first

targets.  I  have  never  been  sure  why—
simple proximity, perhaps, or the lure of
a  familiar  scent.  Nonetheless,  when  you
attack  him,  he  will  kill  you,  since  all
three  of  us  know  he  cannot  be  killed.  I
shall  enjoy  seeing  his  face  as  he  strikes
down  the  only  man  he  has  ever  found
worthy  of  his  love.  I  shall  enjoy  it  very
much, in fact."

Donlin swallowed, finding his

tongue  now  entirely  too  big  for  his
mouth.  When  he  tried  to  speak,  his
words  came  out  garbled  and  rough,  not
like  his  own  voice  at  all.  "But  why?
What harm have we done you, to inspire
such cruelty?"

"You call it cruelty. Yet it is no

worse than what has been done to me,

over  and  over,  by  men  who  use  me  for
their sport and discard me. Sir Baldemar
was  one  of  them.  I  intend  to  make  sure
he  shall  regret  his  actions  toward  me
forever,  since  he  will  not  do  so  on  his
own."

Again Donlin blinked, unable to

trust his eyes. Somehow, the apothecary
had become a man no older than himself,
with long red hair and youthfully clean-
shaven cheeks.

His head spun as he sank to the

bottom  of  the  cage  and  groveled  on  his
hands  and  knees.  Never,  never  had  he
known  such  pain.  His  skin  burned  as  a
thousand bristly hairs broke through, his
bones  twisted  and  cracked  as  his  limbs
and  torso  changed  shape,  and  even  his

face burst open as a long muzzle erupted
where  his  nose  and  mouth  had  been.
When  he  tried  to  scream,  what  his
lengthening  ears  picked  up  was  the
drawn-out howl of a wolf.

"There. It is time," the red-haired

man  said.  Reaching  out,  he  twisted  the
key until the lock and then the cage itself
fell  open.  He  paused  for  a  moment,
looking down at Donlin's writhing form,
now  more  beast  than  man.  Behind  him,
the  lad  peered  over  his  shoulder  with  a
stricken  expression.  His  rounded  lips
formed a silent scream.

Then both of them turned and

bolted from the room.

* * * *

The light of the full moon had

drawn  a  good  many  peasants  from  their
huts,  Baldemar  noticed.  Rather  than
walk  down  the  main  thoroughfare,  he
kept  to  the  periphery  of  the  shops  and
dwellings  and  observed  them  from  the
shadows. Some strolled along the center
of the village, enjoying the night air with
friends  or  lovers,  while  others  drank
from jugs of ale between raucous shouts
of  laughter.  On  the  green,  a  young  man
played  a  wooden  pipe  as  a  small  group
danced around him.

Baldemar noted their simple

manner of entertaining themselves with a
touch of envy and more than a twinge of
hunger. Walking past, he found himself

watching  each  supple  neck  in  turn,  his
sensitive  ears  picking  up  the  throb  of
blood  beneath  the  skin.  He  distracted
himself  by  squeezing  the  hilt  of  his
sword until the ache in his fingers grew
worse than the one in his empty veins.

last,

spotted

the

apothecary's shop ahead of him.  Though
a  shutter  barred  the  front  window,  faint
candlelight  shone  between  the  wooden
slats—a  good  sign.  Still  clutching  his
sword,  as  any  wise  knight  would  do
when  approaching  a  closed  door,  he
stepped  up  to  the  threshold  and  raised
his free hand to knock.

Before he could do so, a noise

from within gave him pause. It sounded
as though someone—nay, two sets of

feet—were  running  toward  the  place
where  he  stood.  Mingled  with  this  he
heard  a  most  unusual  growling,  though
unlike  that  of  any  beast  he  had  ever
encountered.

Without warning, the door swung

inward  and  the  two  runners  lunged
forward. The first of them collided with
his  chest  and  promptly  fell  backward,
knocking  down  the  boy  who  followed
him.  Stunned,  Baldemar  stared  down  at
the man sprawled at his feet.  Though he
wore the apothecary's robes, his face did
not belong to the one who had served the
village in that capacity for many years.

"'Tis you, Rosarius!" Baldemar

whispered the words in astonishment.
"How did you come to be here? Where

is Simon?"

His consternation grew as the

boy  on  the  floor  raised  his  hand.
Impossible,  thought  Baldemar.  How
could  Simon  age  in  reverse?  Surely  not
even  Rosarius  possessed  such  skill  in
the dark arts.

"Explain yourself!" he bellowed

as the pair of them scrambled to their
feet. They seemed eager to reach the
door and escape him, so Baldemar drew
his sword and blocked it.

"You fool!" Rosarius shouted

back. "Step aside or he will kill us all!"

Even as he spoke, the growling

grew stronger. Baldemar perceived that
it was coming from behind the curtain at
the rear of the shop. Then the curtain

itself began moving.

What

burst

through

resembled  something  from  a  nightmare
—or from the antiquated book Baldemar
had  read  in  the  keep's  library.  Snarling
and  snapping,  its  sharp  teeth  flinging
frothy  white  spittle,  the loup-garou
charged toward them.

Chapter 7

The creature moved forward,

crouching  low  with  its  jagged  teeth
exposed.  Baldemar  lifted  his  sword,
prepared  to  strike  the  menace  down,
when  something  in  its  narrowed  eyes
gave him pause. With a sinking feeling in
his  lifeless  gut,  he  recognized  them  as
belonging to Donlin.

"This is another of your spells,"

he shouted at Rosarius. "I demand you
release him at once!"

"I have done nothing to him,"

Rosarius said, brushing the dirt from his
robe  as  he  climbed  to  his  feet.  "This
spell  he  managed  to  bring  upon  himself
by  wandering  in  the  deep  woods  where

many  foul  demons  dwell.  However,
once I realized the nature of his ailment,
I  knew  he  would  be  the  perfect  weapon
to  use  against  you. After  all,  how  could
you  help  but  love  him?  That  comely
figure… those long, soft locks… entirely
your type, Baldemar."

"Use him against me? What can

you mean?"

Agitated by his harsh voice, the

wolf tensed and shifted as if preparing to
spring.  Baldemar held it at bay with his
sword, but he knew that wouldn't last for
long.  The  wolf  was  biding  its  time,
wearing  its  prey  down,  getting  ready  to
strike.

Rosarius's face twisted in fury. "I

want to see you run him through. I want

to see your pain when you break your
own heart in the same way you broke
mine."

"So be it, then." Baldemar shook

his  head  and  clenched  his  teeth,  baring
his  fangs  as  agony  etched  his  face  with
stark  lines.  "Sometimes  we  cannot  turn
from our duty."

Squaring

his

shoulders,

Baldemar lunged forward with his blade
extended  toward  the  wolf.  At  the  last
moment,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and
instead  ran  the  broadsword  through  the
center  of  Rosarius's  chest.  As  Rosarius
crumpled with a groan, the boy rushed to
the shelf of potions, raised the hem of his
tunic up over his face, and flung one onto
the floor beside the creature.

A pungent green mist rose into

the air as the earthenware jar shattered.
The beast roared and flailed as the misty
tendrils closed around him. Then it, too,
collapsed into a heap.

Forcing himself not to look at the

unmoving  wolf,  Baldemar  turned  and
stood  above  Rosarius,  his  sword
positioned  to  deal  the coup  de  grace.
Yet  he  hesitated,  examining  his  former
minstrel's face. Rosarius's mouth twisted
in  an  angry  scowl  as  blood  rose  to  his
lips.  Ironically,  hungry  though  he  was,
Baldemar  felt  no  desire  for  either  the
man  nor  his  life-force.  Both  were  little
better than poison, he decided.

"I am afraid you will have to

settle for the next best thing to observing

another's  death,  and  that  is  experiencing
your  own,"  he  told  Rosarius.  "Do  you
know  what  I  realized  after  you  cursed
me?  That  you  were  the  one  who  truly
bore the curse. Your sorrow was not that
no  one  could  ever  love  you.  'Twas  that
you  have  no  love  in  your  heart  for
anyone else."

shall

not

remove

your

affliction."  Rosarius  spat  the  words
along  with  a  quantity  of  blood.  "Do  not
suppose  you  can  shame  me  into  it.  You
and  your loup-garou  can  bear  your
misery  together.  You  will  never  be
happy—and  that  is  a  prediction,  not  a
curse." Pausing to draw a deep, choking
breath,  he  lifted  a  blood-smeared  hand
and waved it over the length of his body.

Baldemar  stared,  astonished,  as  the
apothecary's  robe  collapsed  around  him
and  Rosarius's  body  transformed  into  a
pile of fine red dust.

Turning away, Baldemar hurried

to  kneel  beside  the  fallen  wolf.  The
creature lay motionless as the green mist
slowly  dissolved  around  it.  He  pushed
his  hands  into  the  thick  brown  fur  and
felt bitter tears rise to his eyes.

Someone moved to stand behind

him.

Baldemar glanced over his

shoulder  to  find  Simon  returned  to  his
former  self—aged  and  bearded,  his
wide  chest  filling  out  his  tunic  once
again.

"Why did he not tell me of his

affliction?" Baldemar wept.

"He wanted to keep it from you

for  fear  of  causing  you  grief,"  Simon
said, his deep voice returning along with
his usual form. He covered his nose and
mouth with his hand as tendrils of green
mist  circulated  through  the  room  and
faded.  "He  was  prepared  to  flee  this
land  forever  and  live  in  perpetual  exile
rather than cause you harm."

"I understand why you did what

you  had  to,"  Baldemar  said,  dejectedly
stroking  the  wolf's  rumpled  fur.  "The
potion  worked  as  you  intended.  But  tell
me—is he dead?"

"No. 'Tis but a disarming potion,

designed to flood the senses and render
an enemy insensible. I had prepared it
some time ago with a mind to using it on

Rosarius when the right occasion arose."
Simon  frowned.  "That  is  why  I  covered
my  own  face  with  my  tunic.  I  am
surprised  it  did  not  affect  you,  Sir
Baldemar."

"Perhaps I was standing at a

sufficient  distance."  Baldemar  quickly
waved  away  his  concern,  not  wishing
him to dwell upon the implications of his
immunity.  "Never  mind  that.  Are  you
saying  Donlin—or  rather,  this  beast—
will survive?"

"Indeed he will, with no ill

effects  save  an  ache  in  his  head  and  a
certain  weakness  of  his  limbs.  In  this
case,  that  would  not  be  an  entirely
undesirable  outcome."  He  bent  and
peered  more  closely  at  the  wolf's

motionless form. "All the same, I think it
best to restrain him before he begins to
stir. I am uncertain how long the effects
of the potion last."

Baldemar rose, nodding. "Come.

Let  me  help  you."  As  they  half-carried,
half-dragged  the  wolf's  limp  form  into
the adjoining room, he surveyed the iron
cage  in  astonishment.  "Where  did  you
stumble across such a curiosity,  Simon?
'Tis sturdier than the keep's dungeon."

"I have, on occasion, been

charged  with  the  responsibility  of
treating  those  who  have  gone  mad,  or
who  lose  control  of  their  tempers  under
the  influence  of  certain  uncommonly
strong potions. 'Tis wise to prevent them
from  doing  harm  to  themselves  or

others."

"And Rosarius saw fit to use it to

his  own  ends."  Baldemar  withdrew,
grimacing,  as  Simon  snapped  the  lock
back  onto  the  door.  He  thought  he
noticed the wolf's tail flicker. Then it lay
at rest again. "Tell me,  Simon, how and
when  did  he  come  to  take  your  place?
Did no one in the entire village know of
his trickery?"

"He came to me on the pretext of

requiring treatment for a pain in his chest
—a  wounded  heart,  as  he  described  it.
While  I  busied  myself  with  preparing  a
salve  for  him,  he  directed  a  spell  at  me
that  turned  me  into  the  boy  I  was  many
years ago. Then he stole my voice, that I
might warn no one of who he really was

and  what  he  had  done  to  me.  It  pained
me  to  see  him  lie  to  your  friend  as  he
did,  but  I  could  not  make  Sir  Donlin
understand my silent warnings."

"And Donlin would not have

known anyway, having never seen either
of you before he came here for help with
his memory." Baldemar paused. "Have
you any thoughts on that? Why has he
forgotten his origins?"

"'Tis my belief that the initial

attack

the loup-garou proved

overwhelming  to  him,  and  its  venom
potent.  No  doubt  his  wits  became
scrambled  in  the  fever  that  surely
followed the bite. Perhaps in time, as he
learns to accept his fate, he will recover
what was lost."

"There is no cure, then?"
"The only cure I know is what I

just administered." Simon patted the
secure bars of the iron cage. "A sleeping
potion to help with the pain and a sturdy
prison until the man returns."

Baldemar

nodded.

"In

that

respect, at least, I can be of assistance.
My keep has a dungeon… little used for
many years."

"You will need to imprison him

only  during  the  full  moon,"  Simon
explained.  "At  other  times,  he  should
remain much as he was.  No evil dwells
in his heart—of that I am convinced."

"As am I." Baldemar leaned on

his sword. "You may leave us now. I
will watch over him while the night

hours persist. I request only that you take
my place before dawn, when I must
return to the keep on a matter of some
urgency."

"It shall be as you wish," Simon

said. "When morning comes, I will send
him back to you. His mind will be clear
then and he will see the sense in seeking
your help for his condition, rather than
wandering the forest."

"Aye. I have a strong dungeon

that should be able to hold him for a
night when the need arises. He will be
able to harm no one."

"I shall tell him." He started to

go,  but  paused  and  turned  back.  "There
is one thing,  Sir  Baldemar."  He reached
for  his  workbench  and  held  up  a  glass

vessel containing a dark red substance.

Baldemar recognized its scent at

once. He struggled not to let his
ravenous need show on his face as
Simon pressed it into his hand.

"Drink it," the apothecary urged.

"'Tis fine, healthy blood, drawn from my
own  arm  when  Rosarius  was  not
watching.  I  intended  to  try  creating  a
potion  that  would  release  me  from  his
power,  but  as  you  can  see,  that  is  no
longer  necessary.  And  we  both  know
you require it far more than I."

"You… know? About me?"

Baldemar blinked.

"Rosarius bragged about how he

had cursed you when you rejected his
love. Perhaps he wanted others to know,

thinking we might rise against you. I did
not quite believe his tale until I saw that
my  potion  had  no  effect  on  you.
However,  you  can  trust  me  to  reveal
your  secret  to  no  one.  In  fact,  perhaps  I
can  help  you.  I  intend  to  study  the
problem… and Sir Donlin's as well. My
years  of  knowledge  may  enable  me  to
find  a  cure  for  one,  or  even  both,  of
you."

"You are a good man, Simon."

Baldemar held out his hand, and the two
clasped forearms. "I am proud to call
you my friend as well as my physician."

Simon

nodded

and

passed

through  the  curtain.  Alone,  Baldemar
opened  the  flask  and  drank  the  blood
while  his  gaze  rested  on  the  slumbering

wolf. With Simon's help, they would
face their sorrows together. Perhaps
there was hope for them, after all.

* * * *

The moon waned, the sun came,

and  an  exhausted  Donlin  made  his  way
back  to  the  keep  on  foot.  Again  he
carried his armor, some on his body and
some in his pouch. The effort caused him
great  pain  as  every  muscle  and  bone
screamed from the abuse the change and
its reversal had wrought on him.

Carew admitted him at the gate

without argument or delay.

"I saw you coming up the path,"

the old man explained, bowing as Donlin

passed into the bailey. Still in a daze, he
wandered up to his chamber with Carew
following.  Neither  spoke  as  the  servant
assisted  him  in  removing  his  armor,
gambeson,  and  finally  his  tunic.  He  fell
into  bed  naked.  Carew's  eyes  widened
as he pulled the covers over him.

"You

are

most

grievously

bruised, Sir Donlin."

"Am I?" Donlin looked down

and  saw  that  it  was  true.  His  chest  and
limbs  were  mottled  and  purple,  as
though  he  had  endured  a  severe  beating
at the hands of a mob. "Well, no matter. I
am  alive,  and  that  is  all  I  consider
important."

Nodding, Carew left the room.

Donlin nestled himself into the bedding

and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again,

Baldemar sat beside him.

"I am glad you returned,"

Baldemar said. "I assume Simon gave
you my message."

"We had a long conversation,

aye. Has night fallen already?" Donlin
asked.

"Indeed it has. I gave Carew

orders to let you sleep as much as you
needed, but even I never thought it
would take quite this long."

Donlin sat up, rubbing his eyes.

His  jaw  tensed  and  his  pulse  quickened
as  his  mind  cleared  and  reached
backward.  "There  is  another  reason  I
came  back.  I  have  something  most

important to tell you.

Something

happened  while  I  was  asleep,"  he  said
with  sudden  excitement.  "Baldemar,  I
remembered  things.  I  believe  they  are
genuine  memories,  and  not  simply
phantoms."

"Explain."
"I remember now that I am the

younger  son  of  Baron  Lionel  of
Whytshire.  I  led  an  expedition  through
the  west  country  in  pursuit  of  bandits
who  had  been  raiding  my  father's  lands.
One night, while were lost in the woods,
a  terrible  creature  set  upon  us.  My  men
were  lost—and  I  was  bitten.  For  days  I
lay  on  the  forest  floor,  consumed  with
fever.  I have an odd sense that someone
tended me and kept me from death."

"The loup-garou, back in human

form,"  Baldemar  guessed.  "He  was
ashamed  at  what  he  had  done.  He  made
sure  you  would  live  before  he  fled  to
save his own skin."

"Yes. It's all coming back to me

know. The stranger brought herbs to heal
me.  Mayhap  one  of  them  took  my  wits
away,  though  I  suppose  I  will  never
know  for  certain.  When  I  recovered,  I
donned  my  armor  and  set  off  to  seek
shelter.  I  did  not  find  my  men's  bodies,
but I assume they are all dead."

"The loup-garou buried them, I

expect."

Baldemar

nodded.

"Nevertheless, this is wonderful news.
We must send word to your father that
you are alive."

Donlin held up a hand. "I prefer

we do not. Let Lord Lionel believe his
son died with honor while ridding his
lands of brigands. Think of it this way—
if your father yet lived, would you want
him to know what you are now?"

"Perhaps not. He is long dead, so

I cannot answer that." Baldemar sighed.
"Anyway, we can speak of all that later.
For now, I will abide by your wishes."

Donlin nodded. Then, overcome

with  emotion  even  he  could  not  quite
define,  he  dissolved  into  tears.  To  his
surprise,  Baldemar  slid  both  arms
around  him  and  pulled  him  close  to  his
chest.

"I am ashamed of my behavior,"

Donlin said as he wept. "Again I hid the

truth  from  you,  the  only  person  I  should
have  trusted.  I  did  not  want  you  to  see
me  transform  into  a  beast.  I  feared  I
would be diminished in your eyes."

Baldemar's eyes grew moist as

well. "That could never be the case. My
greatest wish is to share all of your
burdens. I believe you would do no less
for me."

"'Tis true. But I wanted to be

strong—to show no weakness. Last night
I was as weak as any man could ever
be."

"Yet you succeeded in inspiring

great fear in everyone who looked upon
you in your changed state." Baldemar
tilted

Donlin's

face

upward

and

smoothed away his tears with a thumb.

"Such an ability cannot be all bad," he
joked.

"I love you, my lord knight. Yet I

have nothing to offer you. As you have
seen, I, too, am cursed."

"Your love is enough—if you

will  accept  mine  in  turn."  Baldemar
smiled  when  Donlin  nodded,  smiling
through his tears. "Simon the apothecary
thinks he might be able to find a cure for
both of us. When he does, I would like to
be present to see your joy and share my
own  with  you.  That  can  only  happen  if
you remain here for some time to come.
Simon is brilliant, but he does not work
quickly."

"Then I suppose I must stay."

Donlin met his steady gaze and felt relief

swell in him. "Besides, you will need
my blood until that happens."

"I need more than that. I need

your love as well."

"That you do, and shall always,

have."  Donlin  shifted  as  Baldemar  shed
his clothes and slid into bed beside him.
For  a  time  they  kissed  and  rubbed
together.  After  a  while,  Donlin  bent  his
head  to  the  side  and  motioned  for
Baldemar  to  bite  him.  Warmth  and
pleasure  flowed  through  his  body  as
Baldemar  drank  his  fill  and  then  licked
the wound closed.

Next Baldemar pivoted around

and took Donlin's cock into his mouth,
while Donlin did the same for him. Their
bodies fit together perfectly as their

skilled and now well practiced tongues
brought one another to the peak of
pleasure.

As they found bliss together,

Donlin realized that it scarcely mattered
who  he  was,  even  if  he  had  never
recovered  his  memories  and  even  if  he
never returned to Whytshire. His life had
begun  the  day  he  had  found  Sir
Baldemar.  And  he  knew  now  that
although Baldemar had believed himself
a  dead  man,  he  too  had  now  found  new
life. Together, they would work to make
that life a good one.

The End

About the Author

Jade Astor is a longtime fan of both

paranormal and male-male love stories.

She was delighted to find a thriving

community of like-minded writers and

readers in the ebook world. Moon Lake

Wolves was her first trilogy to be

published by Silver, followed by the

Once Upon a Man series.

When she is not writing, Jade enjoys

sculpting, tinkering with computers, and

training (and retraining) her small herd

of unruly but adorable rescued

Chihuahuas.

Website:

Also by Jade Astor:

Available from Silver Publishing:

MOON LAKE WOLVES

Darius

Caleb

Serge

ONCE UPON A MAN

Snow Bite, Blood Red

Bachelor and the Beast

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