Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Publisher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Author
Also by Jade Astor

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

Publishing

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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

his mouth, and down to the left side of
his neck. A brief burst of pain startled
him, followed by the peace of total
silence and darkness.

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

knowledge of my homeland or the
people in it. Knight or knave, my life as I
know it began only a day or two before I
met you. Of any time earlier, I can recall
nothing."

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

he faced tomorrow night, and all that
came after it, alone.

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:

http://www.jadeastor.webs.com/

Email:

JadeAstor@aol.com

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

Document Outline

Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Publisher
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Author
Also by Jade Astor

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