Anthology Blood Claim

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

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Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Blood Claim

What Vampires Will Do For Desire

#2 in the Blood Series

Other Erotic Tales from MLR Press

An Adrien English Mystery #1: Fatal Shadows

An Adrien English Mystery #2: A Dangerous Thing

An Adrien English Mystery #3: The Hell You Say

Boy Meets Body Partners in Crime #1

I'll Be Dead for Christmas Partners in Crime #2

Fearless

Goldsands

Diary of a Hustler

Love Hurts

Ardennian Boy

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Bond-Shattering

California Creamin' and other stories

A Bit of Rough

Out There in the Night

Details of the Hunt

Blood Desires

Sucks!

Lola Dances

The Ties That Bind

Coming Soon:

Man, Oh, Man Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks & Cash

Pulse

The Good Thief

Hostage

Tusks

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Kingsley & I

Footsteps in the Dark Partners in Crime #3

An Adrien English Mystery #4 Death of a Pirate King

* * * *

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are products of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

whole or in part in any form.

Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet
www.mlrpress.com
Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Editing by Judith David
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN# 978-1-934531-54-9
First Edition 2008

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

CONTENTS

Winner Takes All
Wolfe's Recluse
Gift of the Raven

* * * *

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Winner Takes All

Laura Baumbach

"All you have to do is nod and I'll end this quickly."
William Pray stared back into Malcolm Crane's harsh blue

eyes and made very sure he didn't move a single muscle that
could be taken as a sign of agreement. He wasn't going down
that easily, no matter how much agony he was in. He couldn't
afford to.

Malcolm huffed cold air into William's face, making his eyes

water. "You never did know when to cut your losses and
surrender graciously, did you, William?"

"Just a part of my charm."
Malcolm grinned and then buried his fangs deep into

William's exposed shoulder, sucking blood and life from his
opponent, just a little, just enough to weaken him further. As
he pulled back, he tore viciously at William's skin, leaving a
gaping wound that trickled precious blood onto the tarpaper
roof of the abandoned apartment building. The wound showed
no signs of healing anytime soon.

He ran a fingertip through the puddle of blood created

beside William's battered face, drawing crude symbols on the
roof's surface just far enough away that William could see
them if he strained his neck and rolled his eyes. Malcolm
knew William wouldn't be able to resist looking, and he
couldn't. All vampires knew the ancient language. It was part
of the conversion, a genetic imprint passed on to the newly

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

converted, innate knowledge all vampires possessed after
their awakening.

The symbols leapt from the gritty surface, their meaning

searing into William's brain, unlocking his final waning
reserves of vampiric strength. He surged up, his one still-
functioning hand around Malcolm's thick throat. It was a
pathetic attempt, but one William had to make. He managed
to catch Malcolm by surprise, enabling him to throw the
vampire off enough to roll on top of him, pinning Malcolm to
the rooftop.

He tightened his fingers around Malcolm's windpipe before

he remembered vampires as old as Malcolm didn't need to
breathe. A malicious smile on Malcolm's face chilled William to
the bone.

"Poor choice of defense, but I applaud your efforts to fight

back." Pale gray-blue eyes studied him thoughtfully, a sudden
intimate interest beyond the approaching victory lighting
them. It would have made William blush if he'd had the blood
to spare.

"You always could surprise me ... in so many ways."

Malcolm's stare turned colder still, and his lips twisted into a
biting smirk. "I hope it's a trait you've passed on to your
offspring."

William tried to pull back, but Malcolm held him in place

and rolled them over together. A sharp metal roof vent
impaled William through the back, and he screamed into the
humid, still dawn-tinged air, the sound more an animal than
human. With a powerful thrust, Malcolm used his considerable

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

weight to crush William all the way down to the to the
tarpaper surface.

Malcolm Crane had been taken in his thirty-second year of

life during a bloody, vicious Celtic war. A celebrated,
successful leader and brutal warrior, his body had been
preserved for all time in its hard, thick-muscled perfection,
honed by a human life of battle and grueling physical labor of
the ancient times. Malcolm was broad, hard, and chiseled like
a statue that paid homage to the perfect male form.

William's body reflected his prior life as a photojournalist.

He was medium height, slender of build, with a keen mind
and zero fighting skills. The most exercise he had ever done
as human was jogging. He was no fighting match for Malcolm
and he knew it, but there was more at stake than his undead
existence. The blood markings Malcolm scrolled into the
rooftop told him as much. But the pain, the pain was
unbearable, agonizing, consuming.

Through the haze, William sensed Malcolm staring at him.

He blinked to clear the tears of agony away and face his
executioner with as much courage as he could gather.

He'd gambled everything he had in this long-awaited battle

with Malcolm—his fortune, his power, his property and his
very existence. He hadn't lost easily. Partly because that
wasn't what Malcolm would want and partly because William
had hoped if he gave the ruthless ancient a glorious win, the
old warrior would be merciful and not take everything
William's losing would entitle him. He had only been a
vampire a few short years, but he had planned wisely,
accrued power and wealth trying to make up financially for his

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

sudden absence from his mortal life. He had been a creature
of the night covertly arranging to pay college tuition.

William didn't care about his power or even the properties

and money that he had hoped would go to his mortal heir, but
there was one thing William didn't want Malcolm to claim.
One very important thing he had to protect even if it was with
his last breath. But he knew now that was lost as well. Knew
it as clearly as he knew he was moments away from slipping
out of existence.

He shuddered with the effort to pull in a breath deep

enough to make his words heard, not caring if they sounded
like a plea. "Don't make it hurt. Don't make him suffer,
please."

Malcolm ran two fingertips down William's less damaged

cheek, the touch sensuous and possessive, but with an
element of hesitation.

"Why should I do that, William? What has earned him that

privilege?"

Lying inches from Malcolm's handsome, angular face, with

Malcolm's weight crushing down on him, William accepted the
intimate touch in death that he had refused to accept in life.

He had always been attracted to the man physically, but

Malcolm's sometimes brutally cruel warrior nature had been
too great a barrier for William to ignore. It had even brought
them to this closing chapter in their relationship. In the long
run, Malcolm did not take rejection well.

"My dying request." William shivered and gasped, life

draining away alarmingly fast, but he found enough will to
lock stares with Malcolm hovering over him. He watched as

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Malcolm's cold glare churned to something dark, heated, and
unspoken. "If you ever loved me at all, show him mercy."

The dark look froze, quickly replaced with a bitter stare.

"Mercy?" Malcolm chuckled and traced the outline of William's
swollen lips. "What is that?"

"Yes, mercy." Malcolm's fingers moved with William's

mouth as he talked, and William didn't bother to shake them
off, even going so far as to let his tongue flick against them
as he moistened his lips between words, using all the
weapons at his disposal to sway the vampire. "Have you lost
touch so completely with humanity that you forget the
meaning of the word? Isn't that one of the coveted traits of
the finest of warriors? Mercy with victory?"

Malcolm's response was low, guttural, and cruel. "You

know nothing of being a warrior nor of me!"

Now, even with nothing left to lose, the older vampire's

ability to thrust paralyzing menace into mere words still made
William cringe, but it didn't stop him from fighting back with
more words of his own.

"I know you've won. I'm not sorry to leave this life. You've

won this battle and, with it, everything I possess. If you're
still are a true warrior, show him mercy. Don't lose touch with
the human you once were, Malcolm. Don't lose yourself
completely to this unholy existence. Please, don't make him
suffer because of me."

"Always the altruist, even now when brute strength would

have served you better." Malcolm's sneer had lost some of its
sharpness, the bitterness replaced by a glimmer of something
William read as grudging respect or maybe veiled affection.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

He used it to push home his point as his last breath

escaped his crumbling body. "You are the most powerful,
Malcolm, the winner. But what will show the better man? The
brutal winner or the merciful one?"

Malcolm's nostrils flared, his cold eyes narrowed, and

William's heart sank. "Brutal or merciful, the winner still takes
all."

With a last defeated sigh, William's spark of unearthly life

faded and his body turned to ash, dissolving under the weight
of Malcolm's body, leaving the ancient vampire lying in the
dust of the man who had once been his most steadfast
detractor and his unachieved fondest desire.

His own hand was full of the ash that had once been

William's left hand. Malcolm rolled the gold wedding band left
behind in his palm. He read the inscription, then slipped it
into his pocket as he rose to his feet. He didn't even try to
brush the ash from his clothes.

* * * *

Malcolm couldn't believe the young man's name was

actually Hunter. Hunter Pray. It was absurd and yet fitting at
the same time. Since Hunter's father's demise five months
ago by Malcolm's hand, the young freelance photographer
had become the ancient vampire's hunted prey. Hunter was
the last chip to be cashed in from the deadly high-stakes
game that Malcolm and William had played and that William
had lost. The twenty-four-year-old was the final acquisition
for Malcolm. The one he had saved for last. The only

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

remaining piece of his rival's most treasured possessions to
claim. And the sweetest.

He had even begun entering Hunter's apartment while he

slept, just to unnerve the human, play with him. He would
enter by the perpetually open window and stand in the
shadows until, even in sleep; the young man would sense a
presence. Then he would vanish faster than Hunter's
reactions could track him, always moving slow enough that
the human's disoriented senses registered the flash of
movement, the rustle of cloth, the swoosh of air as he
departed out the sixth-floor window in the twenty-story
apartment building. He knew from experience how unnerved
it would leave his victims.

That was just the first three nights.
Now he came to marvel at how like the father the son was.

William had had a small dimple in the corner of his mouth
that never relaxed, not even in slumber. Hunter possessed
the same dimple and the same full, deeply pink lips. So,
entranced, Malcolm started watching Hunter from a distance
during his waking hours as well.

When awake, the human's eyes shone with the familiar,

intense, consuming interest in life that William's had held,
and Hunter's physical mannerisms mimicked his father's—
rapid, impatient, energetic, and impulsive. Malcolm almost
regretted his decision to end the existence of a human so
enamored with living. But then, that would make the prize all
the more sweet, wouldn't it?

Hunter was a beautiful young man with an underlying

thread of confidence Malcolm could actually feel in the air

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

when he got physically close to Hunter. The one time he
allowed Hunter to see him face to face, he had been intrigued
by the way the young man's gold-flecked hazel eyes met and
held his. Intrigued and aroused.

The brief glance had been startlingly warm and open. It

darted over his own sharp-boned features, wandered up to
his closely cropped hair, and then dropped to his pale lips,
moving on up to linger on his gray eyes with a stare that
could have been interpreted as attraction if Malcolm had been
prone to romantic notions. He wasn't. He couldn't even
remember what romance and love felt like anymore, but he
suspected it was right about then his interest in Hunter began
to shift from quick-meal-and-prize-won to something more ...
intimate.

He had planned very carefully so that he could savor every

moment of this victory kill. Malcolm imagined the young
man's blood would be sweet, full of youth and strength, with
a fervor for justice just like his father's—only better, innocent
and untainted by even a short time as a vampire like
William's blood had been.

Malcolm stalked him nightly. He followed Hunter home

from his evenings out with friends. He sat in a darkened
corner of the large, solemn reading room at the local library
where Hunter spent most evenings reading, apparently
researching some isolated, war-torn North African region. It
was all unimportant, but Malcolm knew the value of learning
about a victim. Plus he enjoyed watching Hunter in everyday
moments, unguarded and relaxed, like now.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Face down, Hunter shifted and stirred under the thin

covers, distress on his slumbering face, his senses already
picking up on the intruder at his side. His nude body twisted
in the sheets so that his lithe frame was outlined by the
shroud of blue linen. A frown marred his forehead, and his
lips parted to allow a soft gasp to escape.

Malcolm could smell the apprehension on Hunter's breath

and in his sweat. It brought a slight twist of pleasure to one
corner of his mouth. He picked up a pair of discarded jeans
from the foot of the bed and brought them to his face.
Pressing the button-fly crotch to his cheek, Malcolm inhaled
the rich, musky smell lingering in the soft, well-washed fabric,
delighting in the scent that was primitive and base, a dried,
faint mix of Hunter's sweat and hormones.

It was pure and earthy, untainted by the tobacco, drugs,

or alcohol that seemed to plague most of the humans
Hunter's age. It was a natural aphrodisiac—ambrosia
promising that his blood would be as sweet. Knowing he
would have to leave soon when Hunter awoke, Malcolm
couldn't resist moving closer. He tossed the jeans to a nearby
chair and silently stepped to the head of the bed.

Hunter was short, like his father, not more than five feet

eight, but the one hundred and forty-five pounds on his frame
were lightly muscled and well-defined. One hand curled
loosely under his chin, his faintly shadowed jaw framed by
tousled fawn-brown hair that curled at his neck and fringed
the wrinkled pillowcase.

A faded old scar under Hunter's right eyebrow glistened

with a bead of sweat. Malcolm wondered what injury had had

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

the pleasure of drawing this man's blood for the first time. He
had a sudden urge to lick the tiny crevice of raggedly healed
flesh.

First he imagined the taste of Hunter's terror-fueled sweat.

Then his imagination questioned what the sweat would taste
like pooling in the scar when created by wild passion and lust
instead. Malcolm felt his passion rise, and the long-forgotten
stirring in his blood almost made him recoil.

His prey stirred again. Hunter rolled onto his back,

signaling the man's sleep-laden mind had finally registered
his presence and was about to awaken. Dressed in black, a
mere layer of darkness in the gray and black shadows of the
room, he watched and waited until Hunter had actually
started up in bed, disoriented and panting, to stare into the
corners of the bedroom. Only then did Malcolm swoosh out
the open window.

He heard the tap-tap of the window blinds swaying in the

draft of displaced air along with a tense, "Who's there? Damn
it, answer me!"

* * * *

"Who's there?" Hunter sat up in bed, staring into the

deepest shadows in his room, searching for the source of
growing disquiet that had invaded his life lately. "Damn it,
answer me!"

But the bedroom was dark and empty. He knew it would

be—it always was—but he couldn't shake the feeling that
there had been someone, something, watching him. If not

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

watching, than waiting for him. The last ten days of this
feeling were beginning to play hell with his sleep.

"Freaking nightmare!"
Ten days had passed since he began to feel eyes on him,

sense a presence with him in empty rooms. Sometimes it was
beside him when he awakened at night, hair and sheets
plastered to his skin with a sheen of sweat, even though the
bedroom's air was cool and pleasant, a gentle breeze from his
habitually open window. He'd close the window, but there was
no reason to. There was no balcony, no fire escape, no trellis
or drain pipe for an intruder to use, and he was too high for
easy access. An intruder who got into his bedroom through
the window would have to be able to fly.

Throwing back the damp sheets, Hunter swung both feet

over the edge of the mattress and sat naked, hunched over
his knees. He rolled his shoulders to shake off the tension and
ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing when they came
away clammy with sweat. Sighing, he turned on the bedside
table lamp and made another quick visual scan around the
dimly lit room before standing up.

Empty. The room was empty. Just him, the bedroom

furniture, and a pair of jeans slung across the bedroom chair
in a corner of the room. He was totally alone. He stopped and
stared at the rumpled heap of worn denim, unable to force
himself to walk toward it. Where before the night breeze had
felt refreshing on his damp skin, he shivered now in the
sudden chill, a flicker of fear skittering down his back. He
stood naked, covered in gooseflesh, unable to grab his usual
covering. After all, they were pants, just a pair of old jeans.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

"Fuck."
Jeans that should have been on the end of the bed where

he always put them so they would be handy if he needed
them in the middle of the night. Because he always slept
nude. With jeans at the end of the bed. Always.

"Well, just ... fuck."
Suddenly, it wasn't the least bit reassuring that he was

totally, completely alone. No roommate, no friend staying the
night, no lover in his bed. Of course, he'd never had a
roommate, didn't collect close friends, and there hadn't been
a serious lover since college. He didn't have time for them.
They could never adjust to his whirlwind travel schedule or
his erratic hours.

The impact of his isolated life was never clearer than it was

at this single moment in time. He'd been in war zones that
hadn't made him this apprehensive. Something akin to
menace seemed to linger on the air, dangerous, primal.
Threatening.

Finding the willpower to move again, Hunter strode to the

bedroom door. He found it still securely locked. Unhappy, he
jerked the jeans off the chair and slid into them.

He tugged the jeans into place over his ass and moved to

the open window, his cool, sweaty hands arranging his half-
hard cock more comfortably to one side as he buttoned the
fly. It was a tight fit. He usually liked the way the thrill of
danger always made him hard, but tonight it was just
inconvenient and slightly disturbing. This wasn't some foreign
battle or prowling lion that he could run from by hopping a
plane or boarding a safari Jeep.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

He wasn't intruding on someone else's territory. This was

something stalking him. Just him. Someone had been in the
room.

It was about more than just a pair of misplaced jeans. He

didn't know how he knew it, but he did. He'd felt a similar but
more fleeting sensation now and then over the years since his
parents had died, like a lingering presence or an
unexplainable force nearby. He had always consoled himself
with the fairy tale that it was one or both of his sorely missed
parents watching over him from beyond. The presence always
had left him with a feeling of safety and comfort. This time it
was the same—but different.

The tingle between his shoulder blades made him tense,

restless, and sweaty with apprehension.

The breeze gusted up, and the blinds clattered softly

against the window frame. Hunter raised the slats higher and
leaned out the opening. The rush of air carried the smells of
the city with it, but it still felt good on his skin, in his face,
lifting the damp strands of hair and drying his scalp.

From his parents and their experiences, Hunter learned to

love wide-open spaces and physical freedom. He'd spent most
of his childhood and youth traveling with his parents from
untamed country to the next primitive territory. They'd made
him a partner in the family business as they photographed
and chronicled natural disasters, military uprisings, and
amazing events around the world. Hunter loved nature,
craved the rush of energy the wind carried on it.

Except this wind carried something dangerous with it.

Something or someone. He pulled back into the room.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

"Burglar?" he asked the silent walls, but glanced out the

window. "Nah. Nothing here to risk the climb for." Six floors
up in a twenty-story building? Not a real person.

"Ghosts, then?" The thought of a ghostly apparition

tweaked his memory. Something. Someone ghostly. "Crap.
Maybe I got his picture this time!"

Tearing out of the room, Hunter headed across the hall

and entered his spare-bedroom-turned-dark-room.
Reflexively, he reached for and found comfort in the old,
heavy, pebbled metal of the paper vault, part of his father's
legacy to him. He used digital SRL camera for his
assignments. But nothing satisfied his creativity in the same
way as it did to take his personal photographs on film, to
develop them on the enlarger and in chemical baths the way
his father had taught him to do.

Soft, dim amber safelights glowed at the touch of a switch.

He used the guest bathroom for the actual developing, but
the final product of his recent photo shoot hung clipped to
wires that crisscrossed a corner of spare bedroom.

"No, no, not that one. Where are you?" Hunter sorted his

way through the drying prints, looking for the ones that had
sparked his memory.

"Yes! Here you are." He tugged three pictures off the line

and studied each one carefully, moving closer to the light to
be sure he wasn't missing anything.

"What the hell?" He sorted through them three times and

went back to the line to see if he had grabbed the wrong
ones.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

When a thorough search revealed he had the pictures he

wanted, he scanned them again and still, again, found
nothing in the frames but an empty chair and a glass of red
wine. The very pale, intense, platinum-blond man that had
been sitting in the chair across from him in the outdoor café
yesterday evening wasn't visible in the photograph. But
Hunter couldn't remember a time when the man had left the
table when he had taken the shots.

Hunter had covertly snapped his picture from under a

rumpled cloth dinner napkin. The man had been staring at
Hunter, and Hunter couldn't resist capturing the man's animal
magnetism on film, even without permission. Hunter found
the man's intensity and boldness attractive. His flawless skin
looked like fine marble, and his eyes were the same gray of
an approaching thunderstorm. He was built large and
muscular, with chiseled, high-boned cheeks and a thin streak
of the palest of pinks for lips. The way the man held his
mouth in a firm line made Hunter imagine a kiss from those
powerful lips would be demanding and just as bold as the
man's unwavering stare. Hunter had felt slightly undressed by
the look. And aroused.

He examined the pictures more closely. Breath caught in

his lungs and his throat tightened as he noticed the level of
wine in the glass changed in each shot, decreasing slightly.
But no one was there to drink it. Where was the man?

The photographs had been meant to fuel a few harmless

wet dreams, but now Hunter had the unsettling impression
this man could be the source of his disturbing nights. But that

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

was ridiculous. He was just a man. Attractive and sexy, but a
man.

"Must have been a bad roll of film. That's it. Bad film.

That's gotta be it." But instead of tossing them into the
wastebasket, he carefully took them out into the living room
and laid them on a nearby table.

* * * *

Two nights had passed since Malcolm last visited his prey,

nights spent thinking, examining, and planning. Two nights of
questioning himself, searching his feelings and thoughts,
reliving his past lives and lovers. They had been long, cold
nights filled with few revelations. Malcolm had never been a
man who deluded himself. He was harsh, unforgiving, the
ultimate survivor over the long centuries. But he did so alone,
unhindered by any of the human qualities William had prized.
He considered mercy, charity, love human weaknesses. But it
had been those very qualities in William that Malcolm had
secretly admired, desired to embrace, if only vicariously
through the other vampire. Maybe William wasn't the only
one who could provide those connections for him. Maybe it
was time for a change.

The sidewalk bench was made of concrete and wooden

slats, both materials still warm to the touch in the last feeble
rays of sunlight. The park behind him was still populated with
restless children and chattering adults, all winding down from
a Sunday spent together. It was a small park, mostly grass
and swing sets, with no shadowed alcoves for unsavory types
to lurk.

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Malcolm settled onto the bench and waited, long black

cashmere coat casually draping his strong, hard-muscled
frame, forever preserved as it was on the final night of bloody
battle when he had the misfortune to stumble across a
creature feeding on the dying warriors on the battlefield. In a
flash of teeth and pain, his human existence had ended.

He had been disoriented and outraged at first, but as he

learned his new abilities, he reveled in his unimaginable
power and strength. Regret over his lost human existence
had never entered his warrior's mind or his warrior's heart.
He had no close ties, his tribesmen all dead at his feet, and
had found no need for any companions since. He preferred to
face millennia alone, the way vampires were meant to live.

The chatter of tired children faded away on a sharp gust of

autumn wind that brought a fresh scent to Malcolm. His
nostrils flared, eager for more, and his lips twitched as he
realized his mouth was watering, anticipating the first sweet
taste of his prey's ruby-red blood. His teeth ached and his
cock stirred, an obvious bulge in his finely tailored suit pants.
He did so love the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the
coming kill. He wondered how much terror he had managed
to instill in Hunter these last few nights. Fear always gave the
blood a sharp tang he had grown to appreciate and savor
over time. Like fine wine and the most fragrant single malt
scotch.

Shadows grew longer, darker, seemingly muffling the

street noises like an old familiar cloak, wrapping the sky and
surrounding trees in a blackened huddle. Only the sound of
the rustling trees penetrated the cloak, the sky empty of

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

moonlight and stars. Streetlights popped on one by one, but
their yellow glare did nothing more than cast an eerie
shimmer on the scene.

A foul stench struck Malcolm as a pair of twenty-something

young men in too-large jeans that hung off their hips and
bagged at their kneecaps strolled into sight, their sneering
faces and curled lips so typical of the generation. Malcolm
held their hostile stares until they could no longer face his
steely glare, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.
Their rough, uneducated voices carried easily to Malcolm's
sensitive hearing.

"Let's go back an' roll that guy, Rock. Dude, he gots

money. You see he got it. Let's go back."

"No way, man. You look at his eyes? Them dead eyes,

Jam. I ain't messin' with a guy with no dead eyes."

"You a pussy, Rock."
"Fuck you. You do him yourself, you such a man."
"Fuck that. Let's jack a ride instead. Gotta be a BMW in

this neighborhood."

The voices faded and so did their owners' foul scent. Any

other night, Malcolm would have gladly relieved them of the
burden of their directionless lives without a care, but tonight
he had a sweeter toy to play with.

A battered Buick with a hole in its muffler rumbled past,

nearly deafening with its choked wheezes, but the tapping of
light footsteps under the noise made Malcolm cock his head to
gather the sound more fully to him.

The soft tap of leather soles to concrete was distinctive

now, a slight skipping gait that included frequent half turns

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and rapid shuffles to regain momentum. Hunter Pray walked
like he needed to take in everything in his surrounds,
constantly looking around him in a dizzying three-sixty spin
as he journeyed through life. There was something about that
restless, eager quality that caused Malcolm's chest to ache
ever so slightly.

Casual and relaxed, the vampire settled back on the

sidewalk bench, his gaze brazenly tracking the smaller man
striding toward him, a light bouncing pace making Hunter's
longish fawn bangs flop into his hazel eyes. One hand
clutched a worn leather strap attached to a professional
quality camera that was slung over his neck and one shoulder
to keep it from swaying with each enthusiastic step. The other
hand pushed the tousled hair out of the way every few
seconds so he could see where he was going.

He passed under a streetlamp and paused, his gaze

targeting the waiting figure on the bench. Malcolm's breath
caught in his lungs as he inhaled deeply to capture Hunter's
scent, the rich aroma of male hormones and worn denim.

The artificial light played over Hunter's face, highlighting

his brow, his full lips, and emphasizing his straight, clean-
shaven jaw, making the tantalizing scar under his eye appear
luminous.

Like a siren's call, the tiny scar's glistening, ragged line

begged Malcolm to touch it, to taste it, to feel the slickness of
its shiny surface. His cock soared to full erection. Anger rose
along with it as Malcolm was forced to draw his coat over his
lap to prevent Hunter from bolting at the sight.

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Hunter didn't pause under the light for long, but his

carefree expression mutated to cautious interest. His eyes
narrowed, but the slight smile didn't leave his face. Hunter's
pace slowed, his steps no longer as jaunty as they had been,
but he kept his questioning gaze focused on Malcolm's cool
stare. He walked toward the bench, hands nervously fingering
the camera. He began to hum a tune, his voice low and light,
pleasantly on key.

It was a clever ruse, but Malcolm heard the click of the

camera shutter all the same. It didn't matter. He could take
all he liked. The pictures would never be developed, and if
they were, they wouldn't show anything anyway.

Thirty feet away, the sidewalk and park now deserted,

Hunter stopped humming. He pulled his dark brown corduroy
field coat more tightly around him and the camera housing,
leaving the uncapped lens casually exposed.

"This is, like, the third time our paths have crossed in the

last few days." Hunter cocked his head to one side and
brushed his hair out of his eyes, keen gaze studying Malcolm.
"Should I know you?"

The scar grabbed the light again, and Malcolm's gaze was

draw to it, his mouth watering at the prospect of tasting the
shining crease of ravaged flesh.

"You should." He gave Hunter a glance with just enough

lustful interest to be intriguing, but not enough to make the
young man run for the hills. Malcolm wasn't in the mood to
chase down his prey tonight. A few more soft, coat-muffled
clicks of the camera touched his hearing. A flash of
amusement softened his bold smile. "Get to know me, I

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mean." His stare moved down the length of Hunter's body, his
intent and interest unmistakable. "We seem destined to
meet."

"Does kind of seem that way, doesn't it?" Now twenty feet

away, Hunter kept right on walking, slower, more cautiously,
but drawn.

Gazes still locked together, Malcolm eased off the bench,

letting the full impact of his height and broad frame dwarf his
surroundings, the nearby bushes, and Hunter. His level of
interest and wonder rose when Hunter didn't blink or slow
down. Even the moderate degree of fear Malcolm could smell
in the air around the man didn't increase. He was surprised to
discover that he was grudgingly impressed. He'd had the
pleasure of watching seasoned, monstrous warriors tremble
at the full sight of him, yet this small slip of a shutterbug did
not. Malcolm found himself vexed, yet undeniably pleased.

From behind him came a screech of tires. Looking over his

shoulder, Malcolm watched as the car's headlights suddenly
veered and the car shot directly at him. The faces of the two
street thugs that had passed earlier registered on him just
before a solid mass struck him squarely in the chest.

With a muffled grunt, Malcolm flew off his feet and over

the bench and landed hard on the ground. Instinct took over,
his arms locking around his attacker, and both bodies rolled
down the small sloping lawn to land at the base of a sturdy
tree. Malcolm made sure he was the victor on top. Bits and
pieces of the shattered bench flew through the air, then
rained down and lay scattered in the grass around them.

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The car tires screeched again, roaring off into the night, a

litany of foul curses and shouted threats in its wake.

Underneath his two hundred and fifty pounds of solid

weight, a pair of wide hazel eyes stared up at him, panic
evident in them. It took a second before he realized the air
had been knocked out of the man under him, his weight
preventing Hunter from taking in a much needed breath.

He toyed with the idea of letting the man struggle, but

Hunter's distinctive, alluring scent, now laced with relief as
well as a larger fear, overwhelmed him. It made Malcolm
weak in the knees, slightly disoriented, and hard as steel.
Even now he could felt his swollen erection digging into
Hunter's thigh, hot, hard, and eager. He knew Hunter could
feel it, too.

Instead of rolling off and standing up, Malcolm tumbled

onto his back, dragging Hunter along with him, until the
human was lying stretched out over his chest, the man's legs
splayed on either side of Malcolm's hips. Hunter's startled
face hovered inches above his own. For an instant, he almost
gave in to the compulsion to flick out his tongue and lick the
silvery thread of scar tissue so close to his lips. One hand
grasped the swell of Hunter's ass cheek and the other pressed
between Hunter's shoulder blades, pinning the man to him.

Several rapid, startled breaths jiggled Hunter up and

down, increasing the friction between their two bodies.
Malcolm was inordinately pleased to detect a bulge of heat
pressed into his lower abdomen as Hunter's erection grew to
a mild firmness with each deep, anxious breath and resulting
body rub. Then the gasps eased and Hunter tried to slide off

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Malcolm, but the vampire wordlessly tightened his restraining
hold. Hunter got the hint and ceased to resist.

"You okay?" He cautiously eyed Malcolm, then hesitantly

added, "Is this where we finally introduce ourselves?"

Warm, minty breath laced with the smell of adrenaline and

worry wafted off the human in layers that teased Malcolm's
senses and tantalized his already straining arousal.

The fear and worry weren't direct at him—instead they

were apparently for him. His eyes narrowed. He increased his
grip to the point that Hunter grimaced, creating tiny lines of
pain at the corners of his eyes that Malcolm ignored,
inexplicably angered by the man's concern.

Voice harsh and low, he still couldn't keep a current of

disbelief out of it. "You attempted to protect me."

Blinking hard over a wide-eyed stare, Hunter adopted a

Valley Girl duh! tone and answered, "Ah, yea-ah. Impending
vehicular homicide makes me do silly things."

Malcolm stared back in a neutral, cold gaze for several

long, tense seconds. He could smell the fear in Hunter shift to
be more personal now, but the man's concerned gaze, fixed
so very close to his own, didn't show it. It remained steady
and open despite Hunter's instinctive awareness of the danger
he was in.

He was so much like his father. Trusting past the point of

good sense.

"It may not have been in your best interests to do so." His

deep voice was deceptively soft but unerringly cold. When
Hunter didn't flinch, Malcolm pulled him up his chest another
inch and whispered against Hunter's parted mouth, "I am a

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danger to you." He felt the heat pressed into his abdomen
jerk and grow, a swelling cock lengthening against him.

"Ah ... well." A flash of pink tongue touched the parted lips

hovering above his, and the urge to wet them down with his
own tongue was too much to resist. Malcolm entangled his
hand in the man's hair and held him in place as Hunter
instinctively strained back.

His gaze fell to Hunter's mouth as he slowly ran his own

tongue delicately over the trembling, silky strips of soft, full
flesh. When he was done, he pulled back and eased his hold
on Hunter's head. He found it intoxicating that Hunter didn't
draw away once he had his freedom to do so. Intoxicating,
highly arousing, and responsive.

Maybe the son wasn't so much like the father after all.
"I kind of figured that might be a possibility." This time it

was murmured, a stuttered grunt heavy with lust and
excitement. The man's heartbeat thundered in his chest,
pounded against Malcolm's still breast in a rhythm that
matched the pulse hammering through the shaft buried
against Malcolm's abdomen.

"Yet knowing this—" Malcolm touched his tongue to his

teeth, soothing the ache growing in them as the barely
detectable scent of fresh blood suddenly reached him "—you
risked yourself for me."

The scent of blood grew stronger. Hunter must have

suffered an injury in the fall that was just now trickling to the
surface from under his clothing. His blood scent was musky,
like a spring rainstorm on rich black soil ... clean and earthy,

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bold. Nothing like Malcolm had imagined. Yet another surprise
from this human.

The night breeze rose higher, stirring the fallen leaves near

them and carrying muted, distant voices.

"I find danger can be exciting." Shifting his hips, Hunter

tried to ease his erection off Malcolm's stomach to one side.

Malcolm didn't stop him, surprised when he was relieved

the sexual tension had lessened for the moment. This was too
good to be over so fast.

The restraining hold gone, Hunter used one arm to prop

his upper body off Malcolm's, but he didn't make a move to
stand up. His tone was firm, but still laced with an undeniable
apprehension.

"And..." He stared down into Malcolm's face, gaze

searching the vampire's features as if he'd find there a reason
for his own actions. "I'm not a person who watches while
others get hurt without trying to do something to prevent it."

He started to lick his lips again, then paused, glanced at

Malcolm's mouth, and swallowed nervously, a self-conscious,
strained look on his face. Malcolm could see the man battle to
force his thoughts back to the topic at hand. "It's kind of what
I do."

Malcolm managed to deadpan, "Really? So you're a

superhero?"

Hunter was silent for a full three seconds before he burst

out laughing. He rolled off Malcolm and came to his feet,
dusting dirt and dry leaves off his jacket and jeans. Hunter's
laughter was genuine, musical and hearty, delight audible in

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it and in the startled grin on his young, smooth face. He
looked more beautiful than his father had ever been.

Malcolm rose up smoothly with grace that belied his large

stature.

"Not exactly. I'm a photojournalist. Freelance. I document

the world's woes and the unfortunate people caught up in
them. I try to bring media and world attention to people that
need help."

"Ah. Even worse—a self-appointed savior." Malcolm

mocked the righteous tone in Hunter's voice and watched
with satisfaction as the man's eyes narrowed. He took
advantage of his towering height and loomed menacingly over
Hunter. His actions caused a spike in the scent of lustful
hormones from the smaller man. He dropped his voice to a
husky, growling whisper, more threatening than any shout.
"Who comes to your rescue when you are in danger?"

"No one so far." Boldly leaning toward Malcolm's hulking

presence, Hunter stared at the vampire's mouth, nervously
letting his tongue trace back and forth across his own
quavering lower lip twice. He then locked gazes with Malcolm
and quietly said, "But I've always had this dream that some
freaking tall, broad-shouldered, steely-eyed warrior would
materialize out of the dark and save my ass when I needed it
most." He blinked hard several times, but kept his gaze on
Malcolm. "Know anyone like that?"

Malcolm felt a twinge of something sharp and hot twist in

his chest. This sensual human was beautiful, confusing,
impulsive, and unpredictable. Malcolm wanted to taste his
blood and drink from him, here and now, but the faraway

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voices from before were drawing closer, and Malcolm had the
sudden need to prolong this game, extend the claiming of his
prize just a bit more.

"I might know someone." Malcolm reached out and ran his

thumb over the eyebrow scar in what could only be described
as a caress. Lust and the faint scents of precum mixed with
blood filled his nostrils and invaded his mind, shaking his iron
control. Taking this prize would be better than he had
imagined. It was almost worth killing William to be able to
claim it. "Why don't we go someplace private and discuss it?"

Hunter drew back. He cast a glance at a trio of people

approaching from the end of the block, taking in the
destroyed bench and the deep tire marks in the dirt and
grass. "I don't feel like taking the time explaining this to the
police right now."

He backed away from Malcolm and hurried down the

sidewalk, away from the new arrivals. "I was thinking
someplace more public." Walking backward, the usual
bouncing step in his restless stride and a flirtatious, sultry
look in his eyes, he smiled at Malcolm. "For now. Coffee?"

* * * *

The little diner was clean, cheery, and the food

homemade. It was three blocks from his apartment, and
Hunter was a regular there when he wasn't out of town on an
assignment. The staff was mostly older women, social and
good-natured. He was well known and liked there. People
would remember seeing him and whom he was with if
anything bad happened to him later.

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The short walk from the park was a quiet one. He tried to

walk beside the stranger, but the taller man's stride was
difficult for him to match. He ended up doing his usual skip-
and-bounce step. It kept him swaying back and forth on the
sidewalk and made conversation difficult. His companion
didn't seem to expect a lot of talk anyway, so Hunter just led
the way.

He spent most of the time fighting off two urges. One to

run far away, to get lost in a crowd somewhere—and the
other, stronger urge to pull the seductive, mysterious, and
admittedly dangerous man into the bushes and explore the
firm body attached to the slick, sensual tongue that had
lavished his lips earlier. The man's taste was like his scent,
masculine and indefinable.

The front of the shop was partially plate glass windows. As

they approached the diner, Hunter couldn't completely
suppress a gasp when just his image was reflected in the
sparkling clear surface. Behind him was only a wall of
unbroken darkness dotted with starbursts from streetlamps.
He walked more slowly, letting the man's physical presence
register at his back, large and now more menacing than sexy.
The plate glass still showed only one pale, dark-haired,
startled face in the distorted reflection. He glanced over his
shoulder to make sure the presence he felt was really there
despite what the window was telling him. One look in the
amused, steely gray eyes told him the man was aware Hunter
had noted the missing reflection and he was patiently waiting
for a reaction.

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Shaken, Hunter pulled open the door, walked briskly to a

table away from the windowed section, and sat down in a
booth. "Want coffee? I come here for the coffee. Well, for the
meatloaf really, but the coffee is great."

Hunter expected the man to sit opposite him, but he

automatically slide further into the booth as the large man
shoved the table forward with a nudge of his black designer
boot and sat down beside him. Nervous, but turned on by the
man's boldness and close proximity, he waved at a waitress,
coaxing her closer to the table.

"I like it here. The waitresses are mostly older ladies, and

they like to play mother hen to all the single guys that come
in." He smiled and mumbled, "Kind of let's me pretend I still
have a mom now and then." That was a piece of personal
information he hadn't meant to reveal, but he couldn't take it
back. "If that makes me sound weak, I don't care. I miss my
mom. She died unexpectedly." All the same, he was relieved
when the man only gave a single nod by way of
acknowledgment.

He held the man's neutral gaze for a moment, then studied

the design on the laminated tabletop. "I miss my dad, too.
They were great people. They taught me to be who I am."

"Photojournalists, too, I gather?"
"Yeah. But they taught me more than how to take a good

picture." He unwrapped his own prized camera from under his
layers of outer clothing and placed it on the table between
them, checking it for signs of damage from his recent activity
in the park. He couldn't resist turning the lens toward the

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man and letting his fingers play over the shutter button. They
itched to press it, but this close, the man was sure to hear it.

"I grew up traveling the world with them while they

worked, seeing sights and living places other kids my age
would have nightmares about. But not me. I loved the
excitement near the war zones, on the fringe of riots, in a
dark seedy alley in some poverty-stricken village. I dreamed
about spending my life traveling, taking photographs,
exploring the world few others see."

"Embracing the dark side?"
The man captured Hunter's gaze and held it trapped in his

chilling, steel gray stare. It seemed to Hunter that the doors
to hell could lie beyond those fathomless eyes.

Hell or maybe a dark version of heaven? He heard an

invitation into that darker embrace in those low tones,
smooth as fine brandy. Lust flared in the pit of his abdomen,
and he became acutely aware of the wet patch on his boxers
clinging coldly to his skin where his cock had wept during the
car attack. He imagined he could smell his own scent. He
gave the man a bold, honest look. "Flirting with it, maybe."

"That can have consequences of its own."
The man's intense stare seemed to transmit a new

message, one that sent a thrill of excitement straight to
Hunter's groin. Hunter impulsively let lust take control of the
moment. "Yeah, I was, maybe, hoping it would."

The man's eyelids suddenly dropped to a sultry half-mast,

and his nostrils flared, making Hunter wonder if he could
smell his arousal, too. The whole imagined fantasy was
enough to make his cock unfurl from the partially hard state it

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had retreated to during the walk to the diner. It forced him to
shift in his seat to make more room in his jeans for it.
Warmth rushed through his veins, heating his skin. He shed
his jacket and scarf, letting them fall around his shoulders
and down into the booth seat, fingers returning to the camera
to toy with its levers and buttons.

"Do I get to know your name?" He looked up from the

camera to capture the man's unwavering gaze.

The man's expression of firm reserve never altered, but his

voice had just the slightest touch of surrender in it, as if he
didn't give out the information entirely willingly. "Malcolm
Crane."

Hunter wasn't surprised. It was strong and bold, just like

the man. "Nice. It fits you."

"And you prefer to be called...?"
"Hunter. Hunter Pray." He held Malcolm's stare for a

moment, then added, "But I think you know that already, Mr.
Crane."

"One's name and what one wants to be called can be two

different things. For example, you may call me Malcolm."

"Okay. Malcolm."
"Your name fits you as well—a challenge, a worthy

opponent to be stalked and, eventually, claimed." Something
dark and unnamed flashed in Malcolm's eyes. Hunter's cock
jumped, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears as Malcolm
added, "Pray for the prey?"

"I don't pray anymore. Not since my parents died."
The dark look didn't fade from his stormy gray eyes.

"Death is a natural part of living."

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"True, but theirs came before their time."
"How so?"
"They were killed in a riot in a small, backward Romanian

village where they were documenting atrocities in a local
power struggle." Hunter took a deep breath, his fingers
traveling over the camera, adjusting the lens and hitting the
shutter lever as he turned the camera every angle he could
while snapping pictures. He realized what he was doing only
when a large, cool hand closed over his where it held the
camera and stopped him from spinning the device. Staring
into the man's unflinching, uncaring eyes, he let the shutter
close three more time, aimed directly at Malcolm, before he
stilled. "Nervous habit. Sorry."

"It is of no consequence." It was a short sentence, but it

had an ominous ring to it. The grip on his hand was strong
and commanding, and it didn't leave when Hunter stopped
playing with the camera. The power in the mere touch was
amazing. It sent a shiver down his spine he knew Malcolm
could feel through their joined hands.

A waitress appeared, two empty mugs in one hand, a pot

of steaming black brew in the other. At a nod of thanks from
Hunter, she set a mug in front of each man and filled them.
Malcolm pinned her in place with a look, made an
abbreviated, half-wave at her, and she turned hurriedly away
without asking if they wanted anything more.

Hunter shot Malcolm a disappointed glare, but then

decided the conversation was dampening his appetite. For
food, anyway.

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"You were left alone?" The hand finally slipped off of his.

Hunter took a deep breath, relieved, even if a small part of
him ached over the loss of contact.

"Yeah. The only child of two only children." Hunter took a

sip of the steaming coffee, gaze dropping into the swirling
dark brown depths, memories rushing in and making his eyes
brim. It had been ages since he'd felt the urge to cry over his
parents' deaths, but something about this man made the hurt
of their loss feel fresh again. "It was an ugly death. They
were attacked with axes and shovels. I only saw the pictures,
but it wasn't pretty. Their bodies were shipped home, but
only my mother's arrived. Backward province. Poor records.
They said they lost my father's body before it was shipped It's
never been recovered." He took another quick sip of the hot
liquid to refocus his thoughts and drive back the ache of loss.
"That was a few years ago, my freshman year in college. It
was the first time I wasn't on assignment with them since I
was eight." Regret crept into his voice. "If I'd been there, I
might have been able to help."

"Or maybe you'd be dead as well." There it was again.

That disturbing way Malcolm had of bringing danger and
death aimed at Hunter back into the conversation.

"Maybe." He shook off the uncharacteristic melancholy and

found the courage to look directly at Malcolm again. "My dad's
motto was flee and stay free. I'm more of the confront and
confirm type. Meet danger head on. Roll the dice and take my
chances. Winner takes all."

Feeling bolder, he stared at Malcolm, but something cold

and frightening turned the man's eyes a darker shade of gray,

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and Hunter swore a ring of blood red now encircled the gray
irises.

A shiver that had nothing to do with sexual interest

slithered down his spine, and the urge to continue flirting with
the man faded away, held in check by a sudden sense of self-
preservation.

"I probably taunt danger more often than I should."

Cradling his camera, Hunter made a move to slide out of the
booth, but Malcolm didn't budge. They shared a long, silent
stare until Hunter realized his jaw was trembling.

Fear and attraction had always made for an intriguingly

powerful sexual response for him, but the fear and attraction
had never been in the same object of his sexual interest.
Usually it was a setting of unrest or turmoil that created the
fear, and Hunter would find a compatible soul in the chaos
with whom to share the release of his sexual tension.
Combining the two was proving to be a powerful aphrodisiac,
but in this case real, honest-to-God, bone-chilling fear was
overwhelming the intense attraction he had for the towering,
pale stranger.

"Thanks for the coffee, but I think it's best if I go now. I ...

I guess I'm freaked out by the car crash thing. I'm not going
to be good company tonight." Without another word, he
pulled himself to a standing position on the booth seat and
hopped over its high back into the next unoccupied booth.

Camera clutched to his chest with one hand and his coat in

the other, he headed for the door without looking back. He
didn't even stop when his scarf slipped from his grip, snagged
on an empty chair as he barreled out of the diner onto the

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sidewalk. He was almost a block away when he realized he
was still holding his breath. The last war zone he'd visited
hadn't felt this dangerous.

* * * *

There was no sign Malcolm had followed him, but Hunter

put the chain on the apartment door and slid the deadbolt
into place as soon as the steel door closed behind him. He
leaned against the cool, solid surface, the palms of both
hands flat on the smooth metal. He found himself comparing
the chill of the hard steel with touch of Malcolm's hand. The
flesh had the same sense of solid strength as well as the
smooth coolness. A flash of desire bolted through him, but he
used the accompanying burst of fight-or-flight, fear-fueled
adrenaline to push it away. This time his fear and desire were
too entwined for him. A dangerous setting wasn't the same as
a dangerous suitor.

Logically, there was no reason why a man like Malcolm

Crane would be stalking him. By the cut and quality of
Malcolm's clothing and his rock-solid self-confidence, the man
was very successful at whatever it was he did and was used
to having the finest things life had to offer. Why he was
interested in Hunter remained known only to Malcolm. But
Hunter felt sure Malcolm wanted him and especially him.

With a deep sigh of regret drawn through dry, pursed lips,

Hunter backed away from the door, carefully setting his
camera on the small desk by the entryway. He tossed his coat
over one end of the sofa, losing a moment to a fruitless
search for his scarf before he remembered leaving it dangling

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off a diner chair in his haste to put space between his
impulsive libido and Malcolm.

It had been his father's scarf, one of the few treasures

he'd kept and continued to use over the years. His mother
had knit it using varied shades of blue and green to remind
them of a particularly pleasant assignment in Northern
Ireland. The blue of ocean and green of the traditional
shamrocks highlighted his father's eyes and fawn-colored
hair, just as they did Hunter's. Cursing himself for leaving it
behind, he made a mental note to go back to the diner in the
morning to try to reclaim it.

The adrenaline rush that had fueled his exit from the diner

and his rapid trip home began to ebb. Lethargy crept into his
muscles, and the crisp sheets and cool night breeze of his
bedroom called to him, his fears fading in the familiar security
of home.

He stripped as he walked, gathering the discarded items

over one shoulder until he was completely naked by the time
he entered the bath off his bedroom. A breeze gently blew in
from the open window. Hunter inhaled the fresh night air,
letting the familiar scents ease his rattled nerves.

Dropping everything but his jeans into an open hamper

inside the door, he then moved to the curtained shower and
adjusted the water temperature. Billowing waves of white
steam filled the room, chasing away some of his lingering chill
from earlier.

He stepped under the stream of water, relaxing into its

soothing heat, letting the streams pulse hard against his
flesh. The sound of the water filled his ears. He let the

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splashing beat invade his mind, blocking out everything else,
including thought. Bowing his head, Hunter let the spray
pound across his neck and between his shoulders, acutely
aware of the rivers of cooling water that ran along his spine
into the crease between his asscheeks and trickled around his
ribs to the vee of his groin. Eyes closed and mind lost in the
fog of steamy relaxation, he imagined the trail of running
water to be a lover's touch, wet fingertips or, better yet, a
moist tongue exploring his body.

Frustrated with the earlier rampant, yet ultimately

unfulfilled sexual tensions, his cock jumped to full attention at
the first slippery touch of his soap-lathered hand. Swollen and
heavy, the circumcised shaft jutted up and away from his
abdomen, a respectable seven inches, slender, but firm like
the rest of his body. It was a shade darker than his abdomen,
the head dusky pink. Its length was ribbed with veins that
stood out close to the surface, like supporting steel cables
pulled taunt along the structure.

His balls hung close to the base of his shaft, compact and

unevenly suspended in their lightly furred sac of wrinkled
flesh. They were very sensitive to touch, even more so than
any of his lovers' sacs had seemed to be, especially the thin
strip of flesh directly behind them. A slippery touch, a wet
kiss, or just a bit of the right kind of pressure, and sufficiently
aroused, he had more than once reached orgasm from that
alone.

He fingered the sac, bringing it forward, feeling it tighten

as the pulling caused a delicious pressure to tug at the
sensitive skin behind it. He clenched his ass to still the

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immediate fluttering at his opening, his body begging for
attention.

Rubbing two soaped fingers over the delicate strip, he

fisted his cock with his other hand, sighing at the satiny
smoothness of lather and hard flesh. Warm, moist air filled
his nostrils and bathed his lungs. His skin flushed, his face
aflame with surface heat and a growing internal glow of
desire and need.

The last thing he wanted to think about right now was a

menacing man who seemed to be stalking him and who made
gooseflesh break out on his skin.

Yet Malcolm Crane, malevolent, ghostly pale, and intensely

unnerving, was the only thing he could visualize, no matter
how hard he fought it. As scary as Malcolm was, his pale,
alabaster skin gave him a classic physical attractiveness. He
radiated a raw sensuality and possessed an intriguingly
dangerous quality Hunter had always found exceedingly
appealing. Add the unexpected mystery of Malcolm's failure to
appear in the first set of photos or in the diner window
reflection, and Hunter was hopelessly entranced with the
man, stalker attitude be damned. So, gooseflesh or not, head
bent under the pulsing spray and body supported by one
hand on the wall in front of him, Malcolm Crane was the face
Hunter saw behind his closed eyes. His hand stroked and
tugged, but Malcolm's large, cool hands were the hands he
imagined. He gripped his cock firmly, almost roughly, the way
he imagined the imposing man would do, occasionally rubbing
a slippery palm over the swollen head, mixing pearls of

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creamy white pre-cum with larger dollops of bright white
soap.

He formed a ring of index finger and thumb around the

shaft and moved it slowly up and down in the slick coating of
soap gel, letting his mind envision Malcolm's face at his groin
and his pale, thin lips sliding up and down his cock. He
increased the pressure so that the corona of the tip had to be
dragged through the tight ring of his hand. Each upward pass
made the supersensitive skin under the bulbous edge tingle
and burn.

His asshole winked, his cheeks clenched hard, both

searching for the long, thick monster of a cock Hunter
imagined Malcolm possessed under those immaculately
tailored trousers. Having experienced Malcolm's erection
pressing against his body in the park, he tried to replay the
incident in his head, savoring the feeling of the hard shaft. His
leg tingled at the memory. His cock jumped, and flashes of
heat infused his abdomen and limbs, fueled by the
subconscious memory of at least nine heavy inches of thick
fullness jabbing into his body as he lay under the fallen
Malcolm.

Hunter groaned out loud, his own panting breath rasping in

his ears over the pulsing water. He felt his knee weaken, the
visual so real he had to stop himself from reaching down to
tangle his hand in the short brush of hair on Malcolm's head.

Leaning his head against the wall to free his other hand,

Hunter rested his weight on his forehead, shivering as the
pulsing spray moved to stream harder into the small of his
back and channel a river between his cheeks. He used one

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hand to part the globes of his ass, letting the trickle tease his
opening before he reached under and between his spread legs
to plunge two suds-covered fingers into his body. Placing his
thumb behind his sac, he stroked over the sensitive spot,
pressing just hard enough to make his eyes water. His balls
jerked up the last centimeter as he twisted the two fingers
jabbing deep into his ass. The memory of Malcolm's piercing
gaze rippled through him, as did the memory of the other's
tongue running over his lips. He sucked on his lower lip,
hoping to reclaim the taste.

Electric bolts of pleasure shot out from the pit of his

abdomen and groin, setting fire to his entire body. Gooseflesh
prickled his skin. His knees locked, his asshole spasmed in a
burning grip, and his eyes clenched tight while a strained
litany of "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus, Malcolm, fffffffffuck!" poured
from his panting lips. Opal threads of cum spurted from his
cock and were instantly washed away.

Hunter slumped against the shower wall, tired fingers

hurriedly finding new purchase on the tile surface to keep him
upright. He felt drained and shaky, the orgasm one of the
fastest and most powerful he'd experienced in ages. It left
him weak-kneed and gasping. He was astonished by strange
flashes of Malcolm's intense, victorious stare and wickedly
satisfied smile, flashes so vivid that they seemed real.

His abandoned opening fluttered and burned, unsatisfied

and still eager for more, fuller attention. Even his cock had
only marginally softened. A knotted blaze of unleashed desire
glowed and flared in the pit of his abdomen, making him
squirm and gasp. His skin was hypersensitive to every touch

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as he rinsed the remaining soap away and stepped out of the
shower.

Waves of gooseflesh broke out again. Hunter cursed under

his breath and dried off, hurriedly toweling his hair into a
tousled, but no longer dripping, mess. He tumbled into just
his worn jeans, leaving them partially unbuttoned in his haste
to leave the haunting visions behind, hoping they would
disappear along with the fading mist of the shower.

He strode out into the hallway and sped through to the

living room to retrieve his camera. It sat waiting for him on
the stand, its single, all-seeing eye staring at him as he paced
barefoot and flushed across the room. Despite the cool air
from the bedroom, Hunter found the air thick and unusually
still, like his hearing had become suddenly muffled.

A quick scan of the room revealed nothing unusual. His

coat lay on the end of the couch, the same mail lay on the
table by the camera where he had dropped it earlier, and the
chain and deadbolt were still securely latched. Even so, he
had a nagging sense of something being out of place. He
turned the knob on the twin lamp sitting on the side table,
snapping its second bulb on. The whole area brightened.

He searched the room a second time, but the lure of the

new photographs he had snapped of Malcolm at the park and
diner were too great to be ignored or delayed by a childish
insecurity. The door was still locked. There was no one here.
Hunter shook off the unsettling aura, hefted the camera, and
padded off to his makeshift darkroom, shaking tufts of drying
hair out of his eyes.

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Dim amber safelights gave the darkroom a surreal, B-

movie quality once he was sequestered behind the closed
door to begin the labor-intensive job of developing the roll of
film. Hunter worked through each painstaking step with an
automatic sureness of hand that spoke of years of practice.
So much of it was done without conscious thought, Hunter
was mildly surprised when the film negative began to reveal
its hidden secrets so quickly. He stared it, examining each
frame, eyes squinting to catch every detail and shadow on the
ghostly cells.

He tried to tell himself that the shivers that ran down his

spine and made him glance over his shoulder every few
seconds were caused by lack of sleep and a lingering
adrenaline rush from the hasty, dark walk home. But, Hunter
couldn't rid his mind of the unsettling, passionate images of
Malcolm in the shower. It seemed those would be his only
images because Malcolm didn't appear to be on this new roll
of film either.

With several of the newly developed photos held fanlike in

one hand, eyes riveted to the pictures, Hunter moved out of
the surreal dim of the darkroom into the light of the living
area. He was still only dressed in his unbuttoned jeans, the
flesh of his bare chest and bare feet bracketing the worn,
button-fly denims.

Head down studying the pictures, Hunter came to a stop a

few feet into the room. The same heavy, vaguely off feeling
touched him again. The shadows in the room looked darker,
thicker. Looking around the room, he scrutinized every gray-
shrouded corner.

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It took a moment for him to realize one of the bulbs in the

lamp was out. Burned out, probably, but he couldn't keep his
gaze from darting to the front door to check that the locks
were still in place.

Not as reassured as he would have liked to see the chain

still draped securely in the place, Hunter slowly began to walk
toward the lamp to check the bulb. As he walked past the
couch, he suddenly realized what had struck him as odd
earlier, what he hadn't noticed, but what now he was sure
had been there.

Haltingly, one hand still holding the pictures, he reached

down to touch his scarf where it lay casually tossed on top of
his coat. The scarf that belonged to his father, the one he had
left behind at the diner during his hasty retreat a few hours
ago. The scarf that couldn't possibly be here, behind his solid,
locked door.

Mouth so dry his throat seemed to shrink closed, Hunter

took a halting step toward the front door, wishing it were
unlocked and standing open now instead of tightly sealed.

But after the first step, the need to know, the need to

understand, the same need that made him such a good
photojournalist, made him seek a sensible answer to an
impossible puzzle. He turned toward his bedroom.

One of the darker shadows disengaged from the living

room wall and shifted fluidly toward him. The eyes seemed to
materialize first—cold, gray with a touch of red to them like in
a photo taken with a cheap camera.

Hunter immediately stopped short, his heart choking him,

pounding in his constricted throat. As the dim lamplight

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pushed the black shadows away from the shape, the
towering, reserved figure of Malcolm Crane emerged.

Malcolm was still immaculately dressed in the same black

overcoat, business suit, and black collarless dress shirt he'd
worn earlier, his polished boots unscuffed and his trousers
unwrinkled. If he had climbed the apartment building wall—
the only way into Hunter's locked apartment—he was not only
an amazing man, but astonishingly tidy as well.

Even though he wasn't truly surprised to see Malcolm, a

bolt of fear shot through Hunter. His breathing turned to
shallow panting that forced his heart rate to rocket until he
could hear it pounding in his ears. Despite it all, or because of
it, he was uncomfortably aware his cock was fully hard,
pressing against the seam of his jeans, trying to jut out of the
partially unbuttoned confines of denim. He stood still, ten feet
away from the man, studying Malcolm's calm, almost
expressionless, bold features.

Malcolm returned his silent stare and after a few seconds,

maybe because Hunter hadn't run or screamed, the man's
eyes seemed to warm with a hint of respect and a renewed
light of interest. His pale lips twitched with the grudging
beginnings of a pleased smirk.

Hoping to hang on to some tiny strand of control in the

situation, Hunter glanced past Malcolm toward his bedroom.
"How?"

"That's an old wives' tale." The smirk tugged harder at

Malcolm's mouth. He didn't move, but his presence was filling
the room, making it difficult for Hunter to breathe.

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Thrown off base, Hunter blinked and stammered, "What

is?"

"Needing an invitation to enter a dwelling for the first

time." Malcolm slipped off his long coat and draped it over the
back of a chair. He looked larger without it. His suit jacket
followed. He slowly unbuttoned the neck of his shirt, eyes
never leaving Hunter's confused stare while he talked.

"I meant, how did you get up to a sixth-story window?"
"It's not hard." Malcolm smiled, his clothes immaculate, no

visible evidence of having climbed a sheer wall. "For me. With
or without the invitation."

Malcolm hadn't made a move closer, but Hunter felt as if

the man was invading his personal space, engulfing him in
some kind of powerful aura. He took a small step to one side
to escape it, instinctively gravitating in the direction of the
front door. He stopped when he heard what sounded like a
low hiss. The door was only a few feet away, but he knew
he'd never make it.

Frozen in place with panic, Hunter tried to laugh. It

sounded husky and raw, nothing like his laugh. His gaze
dropped to the photos in his hand. His eyes were telling him
the truth about his visitor, but his mind wasn't accepting it.

"I thought that invitation stuff was for vampires."
When Malcolm answered him with nothing more than an

intense, knowing look, a shiver ran down his spine, so strong
his shoulders shook. Hunter impulsively thrust the pictures at
his uninvited visitor.

"You aren't in any of them." He paused to take a deep

breath, then plunged ahead. "You should be in them. I know

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you were in them when I took them, but ... you're not there."
His voice rose by the last sentence. He had to clear his throat
and swallow to bring the tone down. It came out a husky rasp
instead.

He took a step closer to Malcolm, pictures held out

accusingly. "It's not the film. I thought it was, the first time it
happened, but the film is good. Everything else is in the
shot." He swallowed hard again, terrified and turned on by it,
by the man in front of him. "Everything but you."

Malcolm made no move to take the photos from Hunter's

hand. His gaze had become lazy, sultry, that light of renewed
interest taking on a lustful, predatory quality. His long, thick
fingers began to work off the links at his shirt cuffs. Once
free, he dropped the glinting metal into his pants pocket.

Hunter's gaze followed every move. He had to wet his lips

to keep them from cracking. The air in the room seemed to
grow thin as he imagined all the reasons this man might need
to remove his shirt. Keeping it clean of bloodstains took first
place.

Since it had started to shake, Hunter dropped his hand. He

tossed the photos onto the couch, where they scattered over
his coat and scarf. The sight of the scarf made his stomach
clench, and he looked up at Malcolm to find the man standing
a mere foot away from him, bare-chested, sculptured,
alabaster body boasting a hardened physique as perfect as
any of Michelangelo's statues—and just about the same color.

Taken by surprise, Hunter started, gooseflesh covering his

body, his pulse hammering through his veins, his hearing
suddenly acute to the point that his breathing rasped in his

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ears. The scent of his own body and its primal, sexual
reaction to this dangerous, alluring, predatory man filled the
air between them. It was embarrassing to be so obviously
turned on, but Hunter couldn't control it. He was attracted to
danger, always had been, and this man—or whatever he
was—was danger personified, all wrapped up in alluring
muscle and mystery.

The room grew warm, the air heavy, sensual against

Hunter's chilled flesh. The sensation increased the closer
Malcolm moved to him. It was intoxicating, suffocating,
delicious, and exciting.

Hunter stumbled back, colliding with the end of the sofa.

Malcolm merely watched him grope for a hold on the couch
arm in order to stay upright, no offer of help, no rush to
rescue him. Hunter liked that. Too many of the larger men he
was attracted to tried to treat him like a frail flower just
because he was smaller. It was ironic that this man would
treat him as an equal. But once again, the minute he regained
his footing, Malcolm was standing a breath away. Hunter
never saw him move.

"Who are you?" He barely stopped himself from adding

what are you? "Why are you here?" A clean, slightly tangy
scent surrounded Malcolm, one Hunter couldn't place but
found mildly exciting.

Malcolm's eyelids drooped, and his gaze shifted to look at

the scarf on the couch, then slid a heated stare back up to
meet Hunter's. "Just before he died, I promised your father I
would visit his son." The words were cold, factual, but
something hot and needy lit up Malcolm's eyes.

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Hunter leaned back to give himself breathing space,

attraction and lust battling fear and, now, confusion. This
wasn't a direction Hunter expected the conversation to take.

"You took your time." Despite a lingering sense of survivor

guilt, Hunter had accepted his parents' deaths long ago. It
was an effort to hear even his own voice over the steady
pulse echoing in his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind
he wondered if the pulse was his own. "My father's been dead
for years."

"From his mortal existence, yes." Malcolm extended one

sinewy, powerful hand and ran a single fingertip up Hunter's
bare arm, over his shoulder, and down the shallow valley that
defined his chest, dropping away just as it reached his belly
button. "But his immortal life ended just a few months ago."

"What are you talking about? Immoral life?" Even as he

said it, Hunter knew what Malcolm meant. Knew it, but didn't
want to believe it. Couldn't believe it.

"He was vampire."
It was short, simple, and carried a weight so heavy Hunter

stumbled back. This time Malcolm did reach out, but it was to
pull him brutally forward, both upper arms held immobile in a
pair of cool, callused hands.

Their bare chests and stomachs rubbed skin against skin.

The silky sensation was full of waves of excitement like static
electricity that rippled across Hunter's flesh and seeped into
his muscle and bone. It was hard to catch his breath. He
couldn't look away from Malcolm despite the fear that knotted
in his belly. Close-up, Hunter could see the blood-red ring
that flared around the man's irises.

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"I don't believe you." It was indistinct, nothing more than

a whisper of near soundless air, but Malcolm smiled, and his
eyes told Hunter he had heard him. Then the smile grew, and
the sharp, pointed tips of Malcolm's pearly white canines were
visible. Light danced off them as they grew longer, and the
reality of who—what—had him in its embrace struck Hunter
squarely in the gut.

Vampire. Mythical creature, folklore demon, living dead,

nightmare fodder, unreal.

Someplace deep inside, someplace locked far away, primal

and old, told him it was true. He knew it was true. Just as he
had known for some time that this man in front of him wasn't
a man. Not any longer. It terrified him, and yet, goddamn
him, it excited him more than anything else or anyone else
ever had.

Malcolm's stare was mesmerizing. Hunter shivered, unsure

whether it was from the possessive gaze or the seductive
caress. Both made him weak in the knees, a fine sheen of
sweat popping out on his skin as he struggled with the
concept of the deadly creature before him and his own
ingrained, if foolhardy, desire to court danger in all its forms.

The tangy scent radiated off Malcolm, sharp and faintly

metallic. He stood so close, a powerful tower of sculptured
white stone, suffused with sensual force and a dominating
presence that captured Hunter's most base desires.

He released one of Hunter's arms to reach into his pants

pocket. Alarmingly, Hunter found himself wishing for the cool
grip back, distressed by the loss of even a little physical

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contact with this ... this what? Vampire? He could barely
make himself think it, let alone say it.

A gold band appeared in Malcolm's hand, the vampire

holding it so Hunter could see the inscription on the inside. It
read, forever, my true desire, with a date. Today's date but a
year from the past. His parents' wedding date of twenty-six
years ago. Malcolm had known his father.

"He was like you? A vampire? That's why his body was

never returned?" Hunter's personal history suddenly fell
apart, unraveling to re-forming in a different pattern. "My
parents weren't killed in a riot?"

"Yes, they were initially. By villagers who had discovered

William and his wife had been attacked and bitten by a local
vampire that preyed on visiting foreigners. They knew if your
parents weren't destroyed properly, they would rise as
vampires. Your father awakened early and escaped, only
wounded. Your mother was spared the awakening
altogether."

"Awakening?" Slowly, his parents' deaths were making

sense, more sense than they had years ago.

"The conversion from human to vampire. It is somewhat

... unpleasant." Malcolm extended the gold band.

A peace offering or a gift, Hunter took the proffered ring in

his free hand, clenching it in his fist, eyes closed and heart
aching anew. A dull throb that ebbed to a pinpoint of pain.
"It's weird, but I always felt like my father was still near until
lately."

He felt the burn of tears but blinked them back, suddenly

seeing a different side to this whole surreal situation.

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"Did he like being a ... vampire?" There, he'd said it out

loud, and no one had laughed.

Malcolm stroked his thumb over Hunter's cheek, again and

again tracing the line of his jaw up under his ear and then
down his neck, mapping the artery that ended under Hunter's
breastbone.

There was a deafening pause while Malcolm stared into

Hunter's face, scrutinizing every detail. Hunter knew how
much he looked like his father. He knew Malcolm was
comparing them at this moment. He could see the recognition
in the vampire's expression. Finally, something clicked in
Malcolm's eyes. His ramrod-straight shoulders relaxed, and
his harsh façade slipped just a bit.

"No. He didn't. He hated every moment of it." Malcolm

sighed and dropped his hand away from Hunter's cheek.
Something exasperated, even affectionate, entered his voice,
something he couldn't hide with harsh words and a piercing
stare. "As ridiculous as it was, William regarded suicide, even
as an unholy creature, as out of the question." He glanced at
Hunter's fist, where the wedding ring was still tightly clasped.
"He felt it would lessen whatever chance he still had of seeing
your mother in the afterlife." A fire blazed to life in the
vampire's eyes, anger and pain obvious. His words were
sharp and clipped, resentful, spat out between gritted teeth.
"He was full of idealistic theory and foolish sentiment."

"But you liked him." A flash of insight hit Hunter, leaving a

jolt of excitement and, surprisingly, jealousy in his chest.
"You had feelings for him, didn't you?" Malcolm sneered at
him, but Hunter could see the pain and loss. Malcolm's

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feelings for William were transmitted in one flashing glare
before they were smothered by a murderous scowl, but
Hunter had seen and he knew. "You loved him."

It took several seconds for Malcolm to respond, the words

resigned and slightly bitter when they did come. "William's
heart belonged only to your mother. Forever, just like the
ring's inscription says. He hated every single day they were
apart." It wasn't an answer, but it told Hunter everything.
Malcolm had loved his father. An unrequited love.

As shocking and unreal as all this was, standing in the

harsh embrace of a flesh-and-blood vampire, touch as cool as
the late autumn breeze and fangs glinting sharply in the
lamplight, it made sense. The pain of Malcolm's fingers
digging into his arm was real. The thrill of excitement in his
stomach and the heat of desire at his groin were real. The
revelation of his father being newly dead meant little. William
had been long gone from Hunter's life, if not his memories,
for many years. The renewed loss he had momentarily felt
dimmed and slipped away.

"And now he's gone. Not so immortal after all. Another old

wives' tale?" He didn't expect an answer, and he wasn't
disappointed. He didn't think the vampire was going to offer
up a list of viable ways to end a vampire's existence.
Certainly not one Hunter might be tempted to use at some
point. "How can you be sure he's gone?"

Malcolm pulled Hunter more tightly to his chest, his cock

stiff and tall in his pants, pressing into Hunter's bare belly.
Hunter's cock answered, full, eager to escape out the top of
his partially unbuttoned jeans. Malcolm bared his fangs

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slightly, the effect at first chilling but ultimately fascinating to
Hunter.

"I know because I killed him." It was a guttural growl, but

something choked and painful entwined around the words like
an unwelcome, clinging vine crumbling the mortar between
once solid brickwork.

Hunter searched Malcolm's face, so close to his own,

looking for some sign of weakness and finding none except a
shimmering, elusive need for ... what? Him? His father? Or
maybe just a need to feel something again.

"Why?" He was surprised at how calm he sounded, how

calm he was. There was no animosity toward Malcolm for his
deed, just a growing sense of amazement.

"We had a bet." A hand grabbed his waist, slipping around

it, traveling up his spine to grip the back of his neck, forcing
him to arch back to keep a distance between his bare flesh
and those glinting fangs. "He lost."

Hunter knew it was meant to sound cold and uncaring, but

Malcolm's eyes betrayed him. Experience created by years of
courting and then embracing or eluding danger gave him an
instinctive ability to see more than one side of a situation.
And there was definitely more here. "You know what,
Malcolm? I think my father won."

The grip on his neck became bruising. Malcolm shot him a

murderous glare but said nothing. The silence was as telling
as the spoken truth would have been. "You freed him from an
existence he hated, when he couldn't do it himself. You gave
him his chance at being reunited with my mother."

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Malcolm's nostrils flared, his mouth pinched until he

ground out, "I cut out his heart and watched him crumble to
ash underneath me." It was merciless.

Hunter stared, unfazed, into the unyielding gray eyes

boring into his own. His answer was short and sincere. "Thank
you."

And apparently unexpected.
Malcolm flinched, just a little, before he brought himself

back under control. "An idealistic fool, just like your father."

Disdain. Harshness. Intolerance. They were all there, along

with a twist of grudging wonder. Malcolm's gaze traveled
searchingly over Hunter's face, and Hunter had the feeling the
vampire was memorizing him, drinking in everything about
him, looking for something. Hunter decided to throw the last
thread of self-preservation to the wind and give Malcolm what
he was looking for.

"Maybe. But there's one way we're very different." He

relaxed the arch in his spine, feeling the grip on his neck
lessening as his muscles shifted, bringing his face closer to
Malcolm's mouth, his lips almost brushing the pale, thin ones
as he talked.

"Do tell." Malcolm made no move to stop Hunter, his

breath teasing Hunter's purposefully parted mouth.

"My heart doesn't belong to anybody yet, and ... I'm not

inclined to rebuff your advances. If that's why you came
here."

Hunter stroked a thumb over Malcolm's lower lip. A light

passing touch to one canine unexpectedly produced a small
cut on the ball of the digit. He jumped but didn't pull away.

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A stonelike tower of control, Malcolm waited, a faint

narrowing of his now red-ringed eyes his only reaction.

Hunter took a ragged breath, watched the red eyes as they

dilated. He rubbed his injured thumb over a pale lip, smearing
it a ruby red, then slid his thumb into Malcolm's parted
mouth. Malcolm's tongue instantly laved it, blood wiped away,
a groan vibrating in the back of the vampire's throat so husky
and raw, a shiver of anticipation raced down Hunter's back
and burst into a thousand little bolts of pleasure.

When the blood stopped flowing, Malcolm tilted his head

up and carefully forced the thumb from his mouth. "I came to
claim my winnings."

Hunter was left panting, hard and more aroused then he

could ever remember being. He was still afraid, but it was
nothing compared to the passion and need he was
experiencing. The warm flush, the dizziness, the sheer
craving to be touched and satisfied.

The smell of lust and sweat filled the air between them,

musky, potent, intoxicating. Hunter was enveloped in the
vampire's power and strength, captured, restrained, cradled.
He felt unsteady just standing still. The air in the room grew
thicker. His next breath was hard to drag into his protesting
lungs and then suddenly the hard-won air was locked inside,
his mouth sealed to Malcolm's cool lips.

It was a rough, raw, ravenous kiss. Hunter's lips parted for

Malcolm's questing tongue, and his mouth surrendered
without a fight, opening wide to the invasion, his hands
clenched on Malcolm's smooth alabaster shoulders. He
swallowed, and the taste of copper washed down his throat,

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spicy and sharp, a more exotic elixir than the blood he knew
it was.

Blood. Malcolm's blood, vampire blood, thick liquid

ambrosia that literally burned like whiskey and left him more
intoxicated. It was like sucking the syrupy brown sauce off his
favorite Chinese dish, full of bite, sharp and spicy, a little
burn, a little sweet, all delicious, making him quest further
down Malcolm's throat, yearning for more.

In his mind he could see the blood coating the roof of his

mouth, trickling over the crevices in his tongue, creating tiny
rivers of black-red to tantalize every taste bud it touched. He
felt it slide down his throat and seep into his cells, staining
everything in its path. It felt like it had a life of its own. He
wanted more.

It was ... addictive.
That he was going to have a lifetime of savoring this rolled

though his mind, and he sobered slightly. He flinched. A frown
knitted his brows together, his eyes narrowed, and his heart
tripped into high gear, uncertainty pushing lustful needs
aside. He never thought of the long term in anything. Why
would he feel that way now? He lived every day for the
moment, never planning ahead, and certainly not planning a
future with a vampire as his lover.

He wanted to lose himself in the fierce embrace, but a

nagging itch kept tickling his brain until he pulled back,
panting, flushed, sweaty, and reeling. He didn't think he could
take a steady diet of this without stroking out. His lips and
arms wanted to dive right back into the kiss, but he needed

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to hear one more old wives' tale shattered before he could
fully enjoy it.

Head tilted back by Malcolm's grip, Hunter let his lust-

heavy eyelids flutter up to study Malcolm's chiseled, pale
features, hoping to see the answer in the vampire's
expression as well as hear it in his throaty voice. "If a
vampire tastes a person's blood, can they really know his
thoughts? Control him?"

"No." It was said in part smugness, part disdain. "A

vampire is merely nourished by a human's blood."

"That's a relief." Hunter drew in a deep breath to sigh out

his gratitude, but the air was pushed from his lungs with a
grunt. His back slammed up against the wall by the bedroom
door, his body pressed chest to chest to Malcolm's iron
length.

The vampire's hand wove its way into his hair and tugged,

bowing his back slightly and arching his groin out to grind on
the thick thigh forced between his legs. It was delicious, if
unexpected, demanding yet wholly seductive. As powerful, as
swift, as the lift and slam had been, Hunter knew Malcolm
was being restrained, and the thoughts of what more lay
beneath that restraint thrilled him as much as it frightened
him.

Harsh, raw, and unapologetic, Malcolm murmured, "It's

after a human tastes a vampire's blood that the mental and
physical binding occurs."

"Fuck."
The taste of spiced copper and vibrant, liquid lust lingered

on his palate and burned the corners of his mouth. The tip of

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Hunter's tongue immediately darted to one corner to wipe it
away, but captured it instead as though it was the finest
ambrosia. His skin prickled at the thought of what he had just
done, what Malcolm had just said. He believed the truth in
the vampire's words, felt it coursing in his own veins, heard
the whispers weaving ghostly tendrils of control through his
mind.

"Well ... just ... fuck."
Hunter sucked in a deep breath to tell Malcolm to stop, to

let him go, to move away so he could think, but his hands,
one still tightly clenching his father's ring, moved to the
vampire's neck instead. Once there, they hung on. He pulled
the taller man closer and wrapped a leg around him, his
hands now busy undoing both their flies, his fingers suddenly
thick and uncoordinated, fumbling over the remaining buttons
on his own jeans and battling with the zipper tab on
Malcolm's dress pants.

Bracing them both, Malcolm let him work, merely

transferring his own lips to rain attention on the line of
Hunter's jaw and the curve of his sweat-slick neck.

It took too long, but finally both cocks sprang free. Then

things moved too fast for Hunter to process. Air whipped
around them, vibrating with electricity, leaving his flesh
feeling slightly scorched. One minute he was pinned between
his living room wall and Malcolm's body, and the next he was
gasping for air, lying completely naked, pinned between his
bed's mattress and the vampire's cool, hard weight.

His pulse pounded in his head, and his cock matched the

hammering beat with its own throbbing rhythm. Hunter's

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nerves were so hypersensitive, every lick to his neck felt like
a wet stroke that ended at his weeping cock. The scent of
pre-cum filled the air, and the bump and grind of cock on
cock turned slick as satin on steel.

He struggled to fill his lungs, the air heavy despite the light

breeze from the open window. Lips moved from his neck to
his mouth, devouring, dominating, and delicious. Malcolm's
rough, wet tongue sucked on his lower lip, teasing its
sensitive lining, urging his teeth to open. His mouth
surrendered, and Malcolm invaded full force, crushing
Hunter's mouth to his, arms wrapped tightly around him,
hand holding his head in place by a powerful, possessive grip
on his hair.

The kiss was deep, powerful, all encompassing. It made

the room spin and the dim bedside lamplight glow like a
supernova. It stole Hunter's breath, his rapidly diminishing
resistance, and his last lingering doubt that this was real. He
knew with certainty that it was not some bizarre erotic
dream. Or nightmare. The creature who had him locked in his
arms was a vampire after all. But any fear he had over what
making love with a vampire might entail was overshadowed
by the passion and desire consuming him.

A deep moan of pleasure escaped him, and there was an

answering murmur that could have been admonishment or
agreement. The murmur vibrated through his chest, sending
shocks of need and want straight to his groin. His balls pulled
up and his cock jerked, frantic for more than belly friction in
its own wet droplets. Hunter craved the heat of a thick, hard
shaft, slick and supple as satin-capped steel sliding into his

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body, piercing him to his heart, stoking the fires of passion
until it burned him from the inside out.

Suddenly the spicy hot burn of slick copper washed over

his taste buds. And this time Hunter gulped greedily at
Malcolm's blood, hungry for the connection that intensified
every nerve in his body, every touch and stroke, every
response from his willing lips to his eager cock and spasming
opening. He hungered for it all, his soul consumed by the
need as much as his body was consumed by Malcolm's mouth
and hands. The vampire's cool-as-ivory cock skated alongside
his as the taller, larger man hunched over Hunter, curled
around him from on top, lips to lips and cock to cock, weight
and ravenous hunger enfolding him as completely as
Malcolm's arms did.

Skin sweat-slick and fevered, Hunter clenched his ass and

tried to buck his hips, desperate for more contact, more
friction. He moaned and whimpered, the sounds muffled by
tongue and lips, but the tone clear. The grip in his hair
tightened, but Malcolm didn't relent in the kiss or his
dominant, unyielding position. As frustrating as it was, Hunter
felt a thrill wash through him as Malcolm pinned him more
fully to the mattress and renewed his oral assault.

It was passionate and powerful. Hunter couldn't resist the

lure of stroke and rub, his own tongue drawn into a dance of
slide and savor with Malcolm's agile mouth. His ass fluttered
and spasmed wide then clenched, his gut achingly empty,
longing to be filled, ridden, stretched, and claimed. The cock
sliding across his belly felt so long, so cool, so hard on his
heated flesh. The mental image of a huge penis-shaped ice

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sculpture filling his ass flashed across his mind. His cock
jerked, and he felt it spill a small pool of pre-cum, boiling hot
to sticky cool in seconds as the chill night air stole its heat. He
writhed and turned, his fists pounding on Malcolm's shoulder,
first pushing the vampire away, then pulling him closer, fear
and lust battling in every touch, grunt, and moaning whimper.

There was a light pinpoint prick to the side of his tongue

that made Hunter start and pull his tongue back. One of
Malcolm's thick, square hands grabbed his jaw, holding him in
place and his mouth open as the vampire's tongue lapped at
the lining of his mouth and suckled at the bleeding wound.
The sting of the cut intensified, then spread, fanning out to
run tiny rivers of fire down his skin. He felt like he'd been
doused in gasoline, skin raw, burning, ready to ignite at the
first hint of a spark. And then the whispers where back in his
head, a mellow, rich baritone, smoothing away the burn and
extinguishing the pain while they fed the passion and desire.

Hunter stopped pushing Malcolm away. He wrapped his

arms around the vampire's neck and returned the fervor of
the kiss in kind, giving Malcolm control but without giving up
his own desires. He freed a leg and threw it over Malcolm's
hip and ass, locking it around one of his heavily muscled
thighs, heel digging in as hard as he could.

Malcolm wrenched Hunter's head away and stared down

into his unrepentant eyes.

"I want more, Malcolm. I want you to fuck me. If you're

going to own me, do it right. Claim every part of me."

A hard, penetrating glare sliced through Hunter. Malcolm

had gone still, his grip on Hunter's jaw and in his hair like a

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vise, menacing, reminding Hunter who and what he was in
bed with.

"I don't take orders." It was a silky whisper, more

frightening than a bellowed roar. A single, chastising kiss
ghosted over his lips. "From anyone."

Hunter had to work to keep from tearing up from the

painful hold in his hair. "If you want, think of it as a last
request." He felt his heart pulse in his neck, felt the skin
tighten over it, heard the rapid thump-thump-thump in his
ears. He knew Malcolm could see his pulse by the way the
vampire's look flickered to his neck between narrow-eyed
glares and sneering, lethally whispered words.

"If I want?" It was light, amused even, a sudden change in

attitude. "Is that what you want as your last request? To be
fucked?" Malcolm rolled his hips and tilted his groin, causing a
grind and rub of cool cock against hot cock.

Hunter groaned, biting his lip to keep from crying out,

frustrated need boiling in his gut, scalding through his veins
and nerves. "Since I don't think I stand a chance in hell of
surviving this?" The cold, predator's glint in the vampire's
eyes caught his attention. He swallowed hard, fear gaining a
new foothold. "Yes. I'd rather it was something more, but
yes, I'll settle for fucking."

"Why something more?" Malcolm frowned. "The physical

act is enjoyable without the emotional attachment." Hunter
tried to arch and grind again, but Malcolm pressed him firmly
onto the mattress, stilling his movements by sheer greater
weight.

"Honestly?"

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A slight narrowing of Malcolm's gaze gave Hunter

permission to go on. He felt his face heat. His tongue darted
out to moisten his lower lip, and Malcolm's gaze flickered
down to watch. Hunter tasted spiced copper. The knowledge
that it was left behind by Malcolm made his mouth water and
his gut burn with need.

"I guess I've got nothing to lose by saying it out loud. It's

not like there's going to be a morning after to get
embarrassed over sappy cock talk, right?" Tears stung his
eyes, and he gasped a little to bring them under control
before they had the chance to humiliate him by falling.

The hold on his jaw lessened. Hunter worked his jaw to

ease the stiffness in it, then sighed, eyes focusing on
Malcolm's steady gaze. "It's just ... you're everything I've
ever fantasized about in a lover. You make me feel everything
I've dreamed about. Passion, danger, power, need, animal
attraction." His fists balled on the muscled ridge of Malcolm's
broad shoulders, pressing hard on the alabaster surface. "If
things had been different, maybe even ... love."

He snorted a weak laugh, knowing he sounded like a

schoolgirl. "I guess that's why you're not human." He snorted
a short laugh again, and this time a single drop of moisture
managed to trickle out the corner of one eye and into his hair.
"To be my perfect fantasy lover, you'd have to be unreal,
wouldn't you?"

Malcolm was still and silent for so long, cold gray eyes

boring into his, Hunter began to think something was wrong
with the vampire. Even the whisper in his head had gone
silent, but he could still feel its power drifting in his mind, a

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constant presence, as if a cool mountain stream trickled
through the nooks and crannies of his brain.

Something shifted in Malcolm's stare, the icy stare, one

thumb moving to caress the line of Hunter's cheek. It was
alarmingly affectionate, the deep, low voice now raw and
oddly pitched. "Do you want to survive this, Hunter Pray?"

Red tendrils fanned out from the edges of icy-icy gray in

Malcolm's irises, turning the whites of his eyes to pools of
scarlet.

Hunter's breath froze in his lungs, and he had to gasp to

keep the growing dizziness at bay.

"I don't know." In his head, the whisper crooned soft and

low again, and a renewed rush of thrilled desire made his skin
prickle. Passion and lust battled with a sudden panicked urge
to flee. "Will I want to survive?"

"I don't know." A thin smile flickered across Malcolm pale

lips, his gaze taking in every inch of Hunter's face, evaluating
him. He worked the gold ring from Hunter's unresisting fist.
Without looking away from Hunter's wide-eyed, lust-filled
stare, he tossed it on the bedside table and then raked a
heavy, manicured nail over Hunter's exposed jugular, a
predator's gleam in his eyes. "No one ever has."

A shudder ran through Hunter, but he didn't honestly know

if it was from fear or anticipation. Both sensations prompted
him to suck his lower lip between his teeth and bite down. He
flinched at the sharp sting, but the thick, slippery liquid that
washed over his lip and bathed his tongue tasted rich and
warm.

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The grip on his hair became almost intolerable. He knew

the vampire didn't breathe, but he was sure he heard a small
gasp that wasn't his. Past the point of no return, Hunter
touched the tip of his tongue to the blood, deliberately
smearing it over his parted lips. "Let's find out, then."

Malcolm pounced before Hunter drew his next breath.

Skilled hands and cool, firm lips were everywhere at once but
never in one place long. His mouth was ravaged, his eyelids
kissed, face caressed, and ribs traced with blunt, callused
fingers. His hair was pulled to arch his neck, the faintly
shadowed skin exposed, only to be licked and nuzzled,
scraped with blunt teeth, and then ignored. His skin was
lapped at, scoured, sucked, and nipped from his chin to his
taut, burning nipples, then down across his quivering belly,
the wet trail ending in the crease of his thigh where leg met
trunk, and back again. All the while Malcolm's large hands
gripped his wrists tightly. Hunter's frustration mounted,
accompanied by an undeniable wanton desire to be claimed
and marked in any manner the vampire wanted. Hunter felt
almost suffocatingly full, a second presence in his thoughts,
but his body was empty and yearned to be filled as well.

He screamed silently for relief. His fear swung from fear of

being bitten to the fear of not. He wanted Malcolm more than
he had ever wanted any other lover. He could blame the
mental link the vampire declared was created when Hunter
swallowed Malcolm's blood, but he was honest enough with
himself to recognize that he had wanted this mysterious,
menacing stranger long before that. His flesh burned for

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more, his cock so hard it pulsed with the rapid pounding flow
of blood from his hammering heartbeat.

Every cell of his body tingled. Every touch of Malcolm's

tongue was like a cool caress that chilled him and pumped the
flames of desire higher. Hunter twisted and bucked, his hips
and thighs pinned to the mattress by the weight of Malcolm's
upper body nestled between his spread limbs.

He yanked on his wrists, desperate to free them from their

immobilizing hold. He wanted to run his hands over the
rippling muscles and chiseled perfection of broad shoulders,
to see how crisp the short hair on Malcolm's head was, to pull
his face toward him and kiss his pale, firm lips. Instead he
was forced to endure a thousand sensations battering at his
senses with no relief or respite. His groans and gaps filled the
night air with the sounds of pained pleasure, broken
occasionally by a rumbled grunt of appreciation as Malcolm's
hands and mouth brought Hunter to the brink of climax and
back down again. His cock was untouched as yet but for the
irregular bump of cheek or chin as Malcolm explored the bony
ridges of his groin or mouthed the nest of fawn-colored hair.

It came as an unexpected shock when Malcolm's mouth

closed over his cock. Hunter jumped at the delicious slide of
wet flesh sucked vigorously down over the spongy tip. Then
he squirmed and bucked at the unanticipated sting and burn
of razor-sharp teeth raking down the shaft as Malcolm
swallowed his erection to the base. Now he knew why his
hands had been confined. The pain flared, a bright flash so
intense, sweat broke out and ran in rivulets to the sheets.
Then as suddenly as it burst on him, the pain faded, replaced

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by a velvet vise filled with warm honey, gliding over his
abused cock, soothing the wounds and making him harder
than he had been. Hunter realized Malcolm used his lips to
capture the blood as it flowed, holding, using it to wet his
cock, bathing it in his own blood, lubricating and feasting on
him at the same time.

Looking down, eyes forced open by desire to watch his

ruddy pink cock disappearing between those blood-smeared
lips, Hunter found his breath caught in his throat. The sight of
Malcolm's mouth, pursed, wrapped around his shaft, pink
cock and pale lips now the same shade of glistening
black/red, the contrast shocking, exotic, revitalized the flash
of pain he felt when the blood was drawn. It sent bolts of
ecstasy sizzling through his body, muscles spasming, skin
flushed anew and his asshole clenching, empty and wanting.

He turned his hands until his fingertips could grab hold of

some of the flesh of Malcolm's hands, and he dug his nails in,
refusing to be denied a human connection to his vampire
lover. The excitement, this pain, this glory was meant to be
shared. He felt a growled groan of heated lust vibrate through
his cock and into the pit of his stomach. The sound shattered
the last barrier to his climax. His hips reared up, cock planted
deep in Malcolm's throat. His whole world exploded. Cum
boiled up from deep inside. He could trace its path with his
senses. It left his abdomen, ripped through his balls and up
his cock like a tiny volcano erupting, scalding liquid cascading
from his body in pulsed ribbons, all of it consumed by
Malcolm's measures, sure swallows and sucking lips.

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Hunter was flying. The force of his climax echoed in his

chest, welled in every bead of sweat, jumped in his synapses,
and left a buzzing in his ears. He hung in a euphoric cloud,
bathed in the heat of intense pleasure, wrapped in a sheet of
strength that was at once both comforting and restraining.
His mind slowly drifted back to make contact with his body, a
heavy, sated exhaustion blanketing him. That orgasm had
come from the center of his being.

Languid as a drug addict floating on the effects of an

unprecedented high, Hunter didn't resist being rolled onto his
stomach. Malcolm stretched out full length along his back, the
vampire's powerful thighs pushing Hunter's open and up to
allow Malcolm's thick cock to nestle snugly between his
cheeks.

A low murmur growled distinctly in his ear, and

anticipation shot through every fiber in Hunter's
hypersensitive body as the vampire announced, "Now that the
edge is gone from your immediate need ... we do this right."

"Edge?" His voice was breathless, his throat hoarse, dry,

from panting. "That was a whole lot more than my edge,
Malcolm."

"You just think it was." A hard nip of teeth pinched the

flesh at the curve of his neck. Hunter shuddered, waiting for a
solid bite. Nothing followed except Malcolm's whispered,
"Trust me, pet, we've just begun."

Hunter tensed, expecting a sudden and harsh penetration.

His skin tingled, gooseflesh erupting as tiny nibbles and wet,
soothing licks bathed his shoulders and back. Malcolm.

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Malcolm lazily lapping the sweat off Hunter, tasting the flesh
from his neck to the small of his back.

The shock wore off quickly, arousal returning, planting a

twisted knot of anticipation in Hunter's belly and coaxing his
limp cock, if not to fill, to at least take notice of the renewed
attention. Malcolm inched down Hunter's back a lick and
nibble at a time. He paused at the small scabbed cut on
Hunter's back made by the flying bench pieces, sucking and
worrying the raw flesh until Hunter squirmed and grunted his
discomfort. Then he tore open the scratch with a razor-sharp
slash of a tooth. It burned like being sliced with a honed
paring knife.

Hunter could feel his blood well to the surface before

Malcolm's greedy mouth sucked it away. The vampire's
tongue pressed into the wound, spreading its edges so it bled
more freely. It was painful in a small hurt sort of way, but
Hunter's mind moved from the discomfort to realizing how
erotic Malcolm's mouth felt pressed against his back, how
sensually the vampire's lips massaged his flesh while they
suckled, how stiff and blunt the tongue probing into his body
felt, these same mouth, lips, and tongue that had just given
him a blowjob like never before. It all became seductive and
exotic, the pain now a tingling warmth that spread out and
down to his groin.

His cock stirred and filled, rubbing over wrinkled sheets

trapped under his hips. Before he could start thrusting against
the linen for friction, Malcolm slid down between his legs,
nudging his thighs open with his shoulders, giving silent
commands to Hunter by a touch of his hand. A palm pressed

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lightly on the inner thigh told Hunter to raise his leg higher; a
tap to his arm that was fumbling under him for a hold on his
cock told him to remove his hand. He reluctantly obeyed
without understanding how he knew what to do.

Hands massaged his ass cheeks in a slow, kneading

rhythm that pushed them together tightly then moved them
apart so the cool air struck the tight, hidden bud of his
opening, making it ache with need. God, how he wanted to be
filled, taken, claimed the way Malcolm had threatened to do.
He wanted a long, thick cock inside of him, and more than
that, he wanted it to be Malcolm's cock. He wanted Malcolm
to take him, ravage him, make love to him. If he was going to
die, this was the way to go.

A sudden stab of slick wetness mixed with the cool room

air. Hunter grunted and jerked, his hands twisting the sheets
in his fists to keep from rearing up out of bed. A firm
bluntness probed at his eager hole, and Hunter groaned out
his pleasure into the pillows. He couldn't stop himself from
arching his back and raising his hips, pushing back onto the
slick pleasure of Malcolm's jabbing, stroking, questing tongue.
It was too much and not enough. Roughly thrilling against the
sensitive nerve endings of the tight ring of guardian muscle,
yet too little to dissolve the gaping, empty void of needing to
be filled.

"I want more. I need more."
Gasping, Hunter tried to rise up on his knees, to press

back and impale himself as deeply as possible on the tongue
now bathing the rim of his opening. A hard, thundering slap
to one cheek made him gasp and freeze, the firecracker of

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sudden pain unexpected. A large hand placed on the small of
his back froze him in place on his knees, supported by his
own hands and trembling thighs in an awkward half-crouch.
He stayed that way, panting and trembling, silent, Malcolm's
tongue still teasing the rim of his asshole. Finally, the hand
moved from his back to one hip, steadying him, drawing
Hunter into a more comfortable angle.

A fingertip played over the moist opening, rubbing light

circles over the wrinkled, puckered edges, pushing into the
yielding center just enough that Hunter could feel the stretch
and anticipate the coming fullness. But the finger never
ventured further, retreating again and again to rub big and
small loops on his skin, its tantalizing trail occasionally made
slicker by a darting jab of tongue.

Hunter could barely stay upright. His body trembled with

need, and his skin prickled with sizzling bolts of growing
desire. His cock hung free between his spread thighs, full and
heavy. With his forehead pressed into the mattress he had a
good view of his cock jutting out from his belly, its dusky rose
length curved to his navel, clearing the bed by several inches
in its erect state. Beyond his legs, between them, stood
sculptured slabs of pale marble thighs and a pendulous sac
surrounded by curls of coarse hair. He couldn't see Malcolm's
cock, but he could feel it bump against the curve of his ass
now and then, and he could see it in his mind's eye, knew it
was inches away from his open and ready ass, glistening,
thick, and heavy.

He tried to lower his groin enough to touch the bed, to

gain friction on his cock's head, but another hard, stinging

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slap to his already sensitive butt cheek stopped him. He
couldn't stop the choked groan that escaped. Flushed and
fevered, every nerve singing for relief, his mind felt as if it
was stuffed with cotton, disoriented and slow. Only his cock
and ass seemed to have a clear connection with his brain,
both parts overwhelmed by sensation and need. But every
time Hunter's passion began to arch toward climax, Malcolm
changed his tactics and the glow faded, then built again under
a new rhythm of stroking caresses.

Finally, the touch stayed long enough that Hunter felt the

stirring of an orgasm coiling deep in his abdomen. It gathered
energy, his entire focus narrowed to the pattern of licks and
jabs on his opening and ass, building higher and higher
toward the point of no return. He sensed more than heard the
low, deep murmur in his head say something he couldn't
comprehend at that moment, and then, like a light bulb gone
bad, all stimulation was instantly gone, taking with it the
building buzz and pressure of climax.

He pounded a fist on the bed sheets, uncaring if it earned

him punishment. But nothing happened, absolutely nothing.
Malcolm's solid presence remained behind him, but the
vampire had apparently moved back enough that no part of
him touched Hunter.

Hunter's first urge was to roll off the bed, away from this

maddening creature, but that little murmur in his head told
him that would be the short and sure path to non-survival.
Besides, he didn't want this to end. He never wanted it to
end.

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"Bastard, you really are a monster! You're killing me here.

Do something. Please." Ass in the air, thighs spread, face
pressed into the bed, Hunter knew he must look like an eager
rentboy, a slut, a whore begging for a hard fuck.

"I will decide when and how I kill you, pet. And when I do,

rest assured, I will not start at your delightfully red,
handprint-marked ass."

A flush of embarrassment heated Hunter's face. Then

inspiration hit him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his
breath came in shallow pants triggered by excitement and
fear.

Forehead taking the strain off his upper body, Hunter

spread his knees as far as they would go, squatting low to the
mattress, balancing his weight so he could reach around
behind and grab his ass with both hands. He parted his
cheeks, exposing his opening, then tightened the ring of
muscle and relaxed it, a wordless beckoning to Malcolm's
cock.

A sudden sharp intake of breath let him know he had the

vampire's attention, and that awareness sent a thrill through
his body, making his ass wave slightly. A hand fell on his hip
and stayed there, long fingers digging into his flesh hard
enough to leave bruises. Hunter imagined the blue-black
fingerprints on his hip, the red, glowing handprints on both
sides of his ass, the healed but still tender bites on his back
and cock. His balls pulled up and his dick tapped his belly,
pulsing to the beat of his racing heart.

But still nothing happened. No spank, no bite, not even a

ghostly hint of a breath on his skin.

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He presented himself more fully, but when he remained

untouched, Hunter moved one hand to his cock and pushed it
back between his splayed legs, pointing the dusky shaft, its
tip glistening with dabs of creamy white pre-cum, directly at
Malcolm. He swayed back and forth, rubbing the creamy
liquid into the sheets, releasing the musky, pheromone-
drenched scent into the air. The hand on his hip twitched.
Hunter closed his eyes to clear his mind, knowing the
whispering murmur was still there, quiet, and let his mind
form the question he wanted to ask out loud but didn't dare
to. Bored with me already?

The room stayed silent as a tomb for several agonizing

seconds. Then Hunter felt himself lifted and flipped in the air.
He landed on his back on the mattress, eyes wide open, legs
folded back at the knees so his heels rested on the bed, his
raised hips resting on Malcolm's muscular upper thighs, legs
bracketing Malcolm's thick, firm waist. His wrists were
captured in a loose grip at his sides. The air had been
knocked out of him, and his head spun.

Malcolm leaned over him, eyes blood red, fangs extended,

lips curled back in a hissed growl that vibrated through every
fiber of Hunter's body. Malcolm was magnificent and deadly-
looking—power, animal attraction, and control mixed with
stamina and amazing strength. He was the predator at the
top of the food chain.

The vampire slowly bent down until he could latch on to

Hunter's lower lip with his teeth. Tugging on it, he let it slip
out of his grip centimeter by centimeter. The tension split
open the healing bite Hunter had given himself earlier so that

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a small bead of blood welled to the surface when Malcolm
released it.

Hunter could feel the warmth of the blood on his lip. Eyes

locked on the vampire's unearthly gaze, he deliberately
pressed his lips together, smearing the droplet over both of
them, then parted them slightly, the invitation clear.

"So vibrant, rich, so alive. No one has ever made me miss

the warmth of being human, until now." Lips only inches away
from Hunter's, Malcolm spoke into Hunter's parted mouth,
deep voice husky and raw with want. "I have begun to fear,
Hunter Pray, I will never be bored with you."

Touching his pale lips to Hunter's blood-smeared ones,

Malcolm gave him the briefest, chaste kiss, barely making
contact. He then nuzzled his cheek and jaw over the wet
opening, streaking his pale skin with strokes of deep red, all
the while sniffing and inhaling the scent of the rich, coppery
blood.

It was erotic and primal, and it thrilled Hunter to see

himself written across Malcolm's face. The marks only
remained on his skin for moments before they faded,
seemingly sucked into the vampire's very flesh. Hunter
reached out and touched Malcolm's face, wishing his mark
were still on the vampire.

Slowly drawing back, Malcolm slipped out of Hunter's

touch. Once he was sitting back on his heels again, he pulled
Hunter's hips toward him in a powerful yank that slapped
cock to cock.

Hunter groaned as his erection curled forward, swollen and

hot, but his gaze stayed glued to Malcolm, watching, breath

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held, as the vampire used his fangs to slice open the first two
fingers of his own hand.

Blood, viscous and dark, flowed out of the wounds. It

dripped like honey, full-bodied and glistening wet in the dim
bedroom light. Malcolm let the blood pool in his palm, then
used his hand to stroke his stiff, pale cock, anointing the shaft
and head with a liberal coating until the wounds closed. He
made to lick the remainder off his palm, but Hunter reached
out a beckoning, open hand. Flirting with danger, always
pushing the limits.

Wordlessly, Malcolm placed his bloodied hand in Hunter's,

his eyes dilated, his lips parted in anticipation. Hunter
strained up to lick the tips of Malcolm's fingers, then sucked
each one into his mouth to scour it clean with his tongue,
swallowing down the spicy tang of vampire blood, feeling the
bond between them strengthen and grow. Once they were
both clean, he licked the smears from Malcolm's palm, teasing
the sensitive surface with light, lapping caresses until he felt
more than saw Malcolm's hand twitch. Then he sucked both
healed fingers between his lips down to their bases, only to
slowly slide his pursed mouth off again. Malcolm's riveted
gaze took in every swallow, every lick, every seductive
gesture.

A faint sheen of sweat made the vampire's skin glow a

golden ruby, the whites of his eyes red, his gray irises now
flecked with threads of yellow gold. His large square hands
clenched into fists but relaxed long enough to pull Hunter's
hips up and push his legs back, one hand guiding his blood-
slicked cock into Hunter's ass.

Blood Claim

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The burn was immediate, the pain a fleeting shock that

instantly melted into waves of pleasure. Every measured
thrust and withdrawal spread the fiery glow deeper into
Hunter's abdomen. His asshole flared and clenched trying to
pull Malcolm in, the slow, tempered thrusts maddening.
Hunter moaned and bucked, feeling the tip of Malcolm's cock
brush over the small nub of his prostate. Every rub and jab
sent tendrils of electric excitement scurrying along his nerves.
Pressure built at his opening as more of Malcolm's wide girth
eased into his channel. A similar pressure began to uncoil in
the pit of his abdomen. The pressure grew and grew until
Hunter was squirming and writhing, only Malcolm's hands and
iron grip keeping him firmly in place.

Whimpers and gasps joined groaned oaths and curses that

intensified as Malcolm's strokes became more rapid and
deeper. Hunter reached for his own cock, but found his
fingers trapped under Malcolm's hands, pinned to his own
bucking hips, his erection taunt, bobbing with each new
thrust, splatters of tiny white droplets spotting his chest. His
opening was spread wide, the base of Malcolm cock slamming
hard against the clenched ring, coarse hair tickling the tender
flesh around his hole, adding a sensation he'd never been
aware of with other lovers.

Everything about this coupling was new and different, like

it was his first time. He felt more, sensed more, not just what
he was feeling but what Malcolm was experiencing too. He felt
the ridges and bulging veins on Malcolm thick cock and the
deep rim of the head as it passed over his hidden gland and
up his ass, but he also knew the satiny tightness of his hot,

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slick, wet flesh around that cock. It was dizzying trying to sort
out which sensations belonged to whom. In the end, he gave
up and immersed himself in all of them, encouraged by the
indistinct hum of pure pleasure in his head.

Each thrust hammered deeper into him. So deep, the

delicious fullness reached the uncoiling threads of ecstasy
loosing in his gut, nudging them to unfurl faster. He wanted
more, harder, to be taken like he'd never been before. Hunter
was consumed by the need to have Malcolm fully inside of
him, his body impaled on Malcolm's, Malcolm enfolded by his.
This was ecstasy, bliss, the binding act that Hunter knew was
needed to link them together forever.

Now all that was left was the claiming. The taking of his

blood, the final joining, the completion, the ultimate bond
that would either take Hunter's life or give him a new one.

Death or life as a thrall to a vampire master. His protector,

his future, his lover. Which one Malcolm had in store for him,
he couldn't tell, but he was beyond caring, at the point of no
return. Malcolm had won the bet with Hunter's father, and he
deserved his prize.

One of Malcolm's hands moved to pluck at his painfully stiff

tits, but Hunter seized it and quickly pulled it to his lips. Not
giving himself time to think about his actions and what the
vampire would do if he were displeased, Hunter snagged a
tiny bit of the thin skin over Malcolm's inner wrist and bit
down hard. Blood welled out of the wound, coating Malcolm's
wrist.

A sharp intake of air, more surprised than pained,

rewarded his efforts. The grip on his hip became almost

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crushing for a moment. Malcolm plunged his cock deep into
Hunter, then stayed there, grinding his hips, stretching
Hunter's opening impossibly wide, forcing his full length into
the core of Hunter's body. The pleasure was so great, Hunter
almost blacked out. Wildfire blazed in his gut, pulled his balls
up tight, and made his cock christen his chest with more
droplets of liquid passion.

Teetering painfully on the brink of coming, Hunter sucked

the trickle of blood out of the rapidly healing wound. When
the flow stopped seconds later, he let the last beads of red
elixir linger on his lips, painting them in the dark scarlet. He
raised his gaze to meet the vampire's, deliberately licking the
coating off with his tongue.

"You play with fire, pet." Malcolm's voice was raw, rough,

barely audible, but Hunter heard the words in his head as
well. "I have never experienced one such as you."

"So burn me. Leave your mark on me. Claim me."
Malcolm's eyes swirled with mists of red, and the yellow

threads in his irises seemed to grow luminous as his fangs
descended longer. Malcolm reared back slightly, and Hunter
took that as a signal to turn his head to one side and arch his
neck.

Bright pain tore through his shoulder and neck unlike

anything he'd ever felt—vicious, searing, and pure agony. And
then it was gone, replaced by a building sense of excitement.
Bold threads of electricity pulsed along his skin, through the
fibers of his muscles, and into the cells of every one of his
organs. Even his bones throbbed with desire. His heart
pounded against what now seemed like his fragile ribcage. His

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breath was held captive in his stunned lungs. His cock
exploded, stinging strings of hot cum marking both their
abdomens, adding the musky scent of sex and his own sweat
to the heavy air.

Malcolm arched over him, long, sharp fangs embedded in

his upper torso while his long, blunt cock was buried balls-
deep in Hunter's lower torso. He could feel Malcolm erupting
into his ass, pulsing shot after shot of cum into his body at
the same time as Hunter pulsed mouthful after mouthful of
blood into Malcolm's eager mouth. It was like an unbroken
circle of desire and bliss beyond any Hunter had experienced
or would again. He knew it was only possible like this, with
Malcolm, with a vampire lover.

Lethargy from blood loss hit him, his breathing shallow and

labored, his mind clouded with soothing words and the buzz
of climax that refused to recede. Hunter decided it really
wasn't such a bad way to end his search for the most exciting
and dangerous lover. Or such a bad way to meet an end to
his life, either, if it came to that.

His eyelids flickered closed, but not before he caught sight

of the gold ring on the bedside table. Death by vampire.
Maybe he was more like his father than he thought. He'd ask
him if they met in the afterlife.

* * * *

Hunter shifted his head to look up into Malcolm's face. He

had awakened what had turned out to be two days later,
cradled naked in the vampire's arms in bed, his cheek
pillowed on Malcolm's still, broad, hard chest, his arms curled

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around the creature's body like he was clinging to a life raft.
Once fully awake, he hadn't seen the need to change his
position, content to lie in his lover's powerful embrace, a
faint, pleasant hum in his brain reassuring him all was right in
the newly altered world into which he'd been drawn. The
hum, the connection, gave him the courage to test his
boundaries.

"Did you come here to kill me?"
The all-consuming red swirls were gone from Malcolm's

eyes, but a flicker of yellow glinted in the bedroom light,
hard-edged and cold. Hunter made sure he didn't drop his
gaze, waiting and watching.

Malcolm twitched and blinked. His eyes turned back to a

stormy gray-blue, and the odd expression of warmth, desire,
and wonder transformed his stony features. Hunter liked this
look.

Pursing his lips in what Hunter thought was an effort to

hide a smile, Malcolm sniffed, then pulled Hunter further up
onto his chest. He entwined their legs, Hunter's soft cock
pressed into Malcolm's solid abs. Locking his arms around
Hunter's waist as if he thought he might try to escape,
Malcolm stared directly into Hunter's eyes. "Originally, yes."

"And now?" The whisper told him the answer, but he

wanted to hear it out loud, from Malcolm.

The vampire paused a moment, the shadow of unexpected

wonder in his face deepening along with his voice. "No." It
was just one word, but it sounded harsh and hard won.

It scared Hunter just enough for him to make light of it.

"Why?"

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Malcolm's eyes narrowed for a heartbeat. Then a smile

tugged at the corner of his mouth. He successfully fought it
off. "Do I need to show you again?"

He pulled Hunter's head down and nuzzled his throat,

nipping the thin skin at the crook of his neck, working his way
up until he could suck on the tip of Hunter's chin. In between
nips and licks, he asked, "Could it be you were not paying
attention earlier?"

"Hardly." Hunter pulled back so he could look down at

Malcolm. He searched the vampire's face, gauging Malcolm's
expression with the hum in his head, trying to learn to read
both of them accurately. "Are you going to convert me?"

"No."
There hadn't been a flicker of hesitation. Hunter wasn't

sure if that was good or bad for him. Did Malcolm love him for
who he was, as he was, or did he just not want Hunter
around forever?

"Why?"
The sigh and scowl were closer to real this time. "That is

becoming a very irritating word in your vocabulary."

There was that scary tone again. Hunter fought it off with

more humor. "Why?" Irritation flashed across Malcolm's face.
Hunter leaned down and kissed him, deep, hard, and slow.
When he was sure the scowl was gone by the sudden arousal
jabbing him under his own lengthening cock, he pulled back
and smiled at his lover. "Give me more than one-syllable
answers, and I won't have to keep asking why."

Hands gripping Hunter's face, Malcolm's gaze darted over

every surface and plane, studying it, searching for something.

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Hunter wasn't sure what, but his survival instincts told him to
relax into the vampire's hold and let his mind fall open. All
resistance flowing out of him, all his walls and defenses
dropped. He laid his emotions and thoughts bare to all
scrutiny, his fate resting, just like his face, in this creature's
powerful hands.

"Because I want you as you are." Malcolm's tone was

deep, raw, and husky with desire and possessive hunger. It
sent a thrill directly to Hunter's hardening cock. "Unchanged,
unaffected by the awakening. I want your love of life and the
feeling of your warmth next to me." Malcolm wrapped a leg
around Hunter, embracing him with his entire body. "You are
a connection to my past, a part of me I had discarded, but
now find I want to reclaim. Since I can't, I shall claim you
instead." A callused but tender thumb stroked Hunter's cheek,
a lover's gentle caress. "I shall keep you as you are."

"I'll die eventually." Hunter nudged the palm holding his

cheek, wanting more but settling for a touch.

"Thralls live much longer than mere humans. Partaking of

my blood in small amounts will lengthen your life span
considerably."

"I can live with that."
"Yes, you can and will. Live."
"Hey, I'm with you on this one."
Leaning across Malcolm's solid chest, Hunter grabbed his

father's wedding ring from the nightstand and toyed with it,
the inscription forever my true desire playing over and over in
his head. He looked from the ring to Malcolm's face, still
seeing the intense possessiveness and claiming lust for him in

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the vampire's heated stare. "When you won the bet, this ring
became yours, right?"

Taking the ring from Hunter's hands, Malcolm studied it for

a moment, flashing the dim bedroom lamplight on it, reading
the inscription again as if Hunter didn't know the vampire had
it memorized. Suddenly he handed it back, his manner curt
and authoritative. "It's yours now. Put it on."

Unable to hide his pleasure, Hunter put on his most

innocent expression. "You're giving it to me?"

Malcolm's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he answered,

"Yes."

A mischievous smile nudged the innocent look off Hunter's

face. "It says, forever my true desire."

"I am aware of that." There was a long-suffering

impatience to his words, as if the vampire was well aware
Hunter was baiting him.

"You want me to wear a wedding band? From you? One

that proclaims me to be your true desire?" There was a
teasing note in his tone, but Hunter really wanted to hear
Malcolm said it out loud.

"Will you always need this much reassurance?" Malcolm

grunted slightly as Hunter rolled and sat up, straddling the
vampire's hips, his firm, bare ass sliding back to wedge
Malcolm's growing shaft between its warm, smooth globes.
"Because if you do, I'll be forced to drain you right now and
save myself the frustrating burden of a high-maintenance
lover."

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"Do I frustrate you?" Hunter rubbed his ass against the hot

cock that branded his flesh from asshole to low back. A sultry,
seductive smile teased his lips.

The smile instantly vanished when Malcolm took his face

between both his cupped hands and pulled Hunter to his
chest, eyes filled with an intensity and heat unlike anything
Hunter had ever seen.

Hunter's heart jumped into his throat at the low, raw

sound of Malcolm's rasping voice. The vampire whispered
mere inches from his lips, eyes locked on Hunter's now
serious expression.

"Like no one has frustrated me in all of recorded time."
Hunter was dragged down into a kiss that etched the word

forever into his mind and his heart. It was rough and
demanding, almost brutal in intensity. Hunter knew his lips
would be bruised and swollen later. Without pause, the kiss
suddenly gentled into a passionate embrace, full of desire and
caring so tender, Hunter's eyes flashed open to make sure he
was still kissing Malcolm.

When it was done, Hunter panted heavily, body flooded

with warmth, both emotional and physical. He touched his
tongue to the tender corner of his mouth, enjoying what the
tiny ache told him about his lover's feelings that Malcolm
couldn't say out loud.

Eyes ablaze with wonder and want, he ran a finger over

Malcolm's parted mouth, pricking his fingertip on one barely
extended fang. He slid the bleeding finger across Malcolm's
lips, then into the vampire's mouth. He felt the groan from
Malcolm's chest vibrate through his entire body. His cock

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jumped, and the heat at his ass grew thicker, the tip rubbing
a sticky spot into his spine.

"What do you say we see if we can make up for some of

that unsatisfying recorded time of yours? We've got forever,
right?"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

Wolfe's Recluse

Jet Mykles

The mere sound of his cell phone's ringtone shouldn't

make him hard. It really shouldn't.

But it did.
Matt stared at the tiny little steel-gray rectangle that was

one of his only conduits to life outside his apartment. The
phone's outer screen winked brilliant neon blue at him, and
the caller ID told him what he already knew. Wolfe was
calling. Wolfe was the only one who ever called him anymore.

Swallowing, forcing calm, and ignoring the boner, Matt

reached for the phone and punched the button as he raised it
to his ear. "Hey."

"Hello, Matt." Sultry, sexy voice. Did nothing to quell the

monster in Matt's pants. "Are you done yet?"

Matt clicked the speaker button on his phone and set the

cell on the desk beside him. "Almost." He focused on the
application screens interspersed across one of the monitors
on the desk before him, fingers automatically going to the
keyboard to finish a line of code.

"How 'almost'?"
Matt frowned at himself and hit the backspace to erase the

ridiculous thing he'd just typed. He knew better than to think
he could concentrate with Wolfe's voice in the air. "I'll have it
ready in a few hours."

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"Excellent! Matt, you're wonderful. Our client's going to flip

for this. What would I ever do without you?"

Matt let the warmth of the praise spread through his chest.

"I'm sure you'd manage," he said humbly, toying with the
mouse. The program he'd written for Wolfe was good. Even
he could see that. It was better than any of the other
applications he'd tweaked and fixed in the time he'd been
working for Wolfe, and this was the first one he'd written from
the ground up, so it was even more special.

"Nonsense. I couldn't have done it without you. You are a

workhorse. You've got to let me reward you for this."

Matt smiled. "Bonus?" Not that he needed it. Wolfe paid

him plenty for his meager necessities and then some.

A chuckle. "For certain. But I was thinking something a

little more immediate. Let me take you out to dinner. To
celebrate."

Matt's blood ran cold. His erection deflated. "There's

nothing to celebrate yet. They haven't seen the final product."

"They'll love it. I guarantee it. So, what do you say? I

know a fabulous seafood restaurant right on the beach."

Matt stared unseeing at the papers and notes strewn

across the desktop between him and the two LCD monitors. "I
... No."

"No?"
"I mean, thanks. Really. Thank you. But I can't."
"Why not?"
"I..."
"We don't have to do it tonight ... if you have a hot date?"
He snorted. "You know I don't."

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"Yes, I know you don't. You don't ever go out. Why is

that?"

Matt bristled. "Wolfe, you're my boss. I don't have to tell

you anything about my private life." Especially when the truth
was so very odd.

"You don't have to, but I wish you would. I'd like to think

we're friends."

He sat back in his chair, staring at the phone. "We're sort

of friends."

Chuckle. "I'd like to get rid of the 'sort of' part."
Matt picked at a hole in his jeans. Truthfully, he'd like to

get rid of the "sort of" part too.

"Two years."
"Huh?"
"Two years you've worked for me, and we've never even

met. That's a shame."

Tell me about it.
So the time that he had both dreaded and anticipated had

finally come. "Has it been two years?" He'd figured that Wolfe
would want to meet him someday and was, frankly, surprised
it had taken this long. Wolfe had hired him sight unseen for
the unconventional programming job on the recommendation
of one of Matt's counselors from tech school. Without
questioning it, Wolfe had had all the HR paperwork sent via
express mail to Matt. They had a completely electronic
relationship, working together through email, instant
messaging, and phone calls. Yet, to this day, Wolfe had never
suggested they meet.

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Two years? Matt thought back. Yeah, it must have been

fall, because it had been a few months after that night.

No, don't think about that.
"Yes. It's been two years. And you've done amazing things

to help me grow a small idea into a reality. I couldn't have
come this far without you. It's beyond time that I take you
out for a celebratory dinner."

He squirmed. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to." A little bit of a growl in that voice just did

weird things to Matt's chest.

"I..." Matt swallowed, caught between desire and terror.

He wanted to be with Wolfe, wanted to spend more time with
him. But ... "How about lunch?"

"Lunch?"
"Yeah. A celebratory lunch."
"It's not quite the same thing."
"It's plenty. You've done a lot for me too, you know."
"It's not plenty."
"But..."
"Tell me why you won't let me take you to dinner."
Matt bit his lip, thinking. He couldn't tell the truth. He

knew better. It was nothing but trouble to tell anyone why he
refused to go out at night.

"Did you find out that I'm gay?"
Matt's heart soared. He'd already suspected as much from

looking the man up on the Internet, but to hear it blurted out
like that...

"Look, Matt, it's not like I'm going to jump you or turn you

gay or anything like that—"

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No? Why the hell not?
"—I promise to be a good boy and not make any untoward

advances."

"No. That's not it. I-I'm gay too."
Silence. "You are?"
Matt winced. Smooth move. But it was out now and

probably better for it. "Yes."

"Well, I still won't make any untoward advances." Except

that his voice had gone all warm again, like it did when he
was amused. "Unless you ask nicely."

Matt swallowed. Had he just said that?!
Wolfe continued as though he hadn't just flirted, however

minimally. "The fact remains that I'd like to take you out to
dinner."

"I can't go out at night."
"Why not?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"I just ... can't." It would sound stupid, and you'd either

never talk to me again or you'd call someone to have me
committed. Neither seemed a desirable option.

Wolfe sighed. "All right, Matt. I can't very well force you."
Images flashed through Matt's mind of Wolfe holding him

face down on a mattress, pinning him as his cock stabbed
Matt's willing ass. There was something to be said about
force.

Which was odd because, other than certain fantasies he

entertained about Wolfe, force was not his thing. Especially
since...

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Don't go there. He stared mournfully at the phone. "I'm

sorry."

"So am I. I was looking forward to getting to know you

better."

Why did that sound like an ending?
"Wolfe...?"
"All right." He spoke as though Matt hadn't said anything,

his voice now brisk and efficient. "You're going to upload your
changes so we can get a new compile?"

"Yeah. Wolfe—"
"Good. I'll tell Greg to expect it. Let him know if you're not

ready to compile by five, yeah?"

It felt like the train with everything he'd ever wanted was

leaving the station, with him still standing on the platform.
"Okay. Hey, Wolfe—"

"Talk to you later, Matt. I'll be sure to put a juicy bonus in

your next paycheck."

Matt opened his mouth to repeat the man's name yet

again, but the line clicked off. He frowned at the lighted
screen until the Call Ended message blinked off. With a
frustrated moan, he propped his elbows on the desk, then
rested his forehead in his palms.

Now he'd gone and done it. Wolfe had been nothing but

good to him in the relatively short time they'd almost known
each other, and he'd gone and let his stupid paranoia ruin it.

He dug his fingers into his scalp. Maybe he should call

Wolfe back. He could apologize, and they could meet for
dinner. Maybe he could get Wolfe to make it early. Hope
blossomed in his chest as he raised his head, staring at the

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wall behind his monitors. It would be all right. It had been
two years, after all. Surely it was safe to go out now? Just
one night? Surely just a few hours would be okay?

But the simple thought of going outside his apartment

made his blood run cold. The thought of doing it after the sun
had gone down froze him in his tracks. Daniel hanging limp in
another man's embrace ... He pushed the heels of his hands
into his eye sockets to dispel the image. Nope. He couldn't do
it.

Sighing, he turned his head so that one cheek rested

heavily on his palm and used the other hand on the mouse to
open a web browser window. One click on a handy bookmark
and up came the company website. Very corporate, very
clean and informative about their product. The main
attraction—in Matt's view, at least—was a terrific picture of
owner Wolfe Larsen. It was a professional portrait of the man
in a sharp suit and tie before a washed-out pastel blue
background. Shining black hair was pulled back behind his
neck, which made it look short in this picture. The hair was
sacrificed, in Matt's opinion, the better to show off the sharp,
classic lines of Wolfe's brow, cheeks, nose, and chin, the
deep, intriguing hollows that couched sparkling green eyes.
His smile in this picture was mildly amused.

As opposed to the second picture Matt gained with the

click of the mouse button. This page had a picture of Wolfe at
a charity party. Matt was pretty sure Wolfe would have
started the night dressed up, but by the time the picture was
taken, any jacket and tie he might have worn were long
discarded. The white dress shirt might have started the night

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100

buttoned up, but in the picture all but maybe the bottom two
or three buttons were undone, exposing a luscious display of
bare, hairless chest and one enticing brown nipple. Here
Wolfe's hair was unbound, spilling in decadent waves over
one side of his face and nearly half of that exposed chest.
From the looks of it, those lovely locks had to go to at least
mid back, if not farther. A good-looking young man sat on the
arm of the sprawling chair or couch on which Wolfe sat. The
casual touch of the man's hand on Wolfe's shoulder—a touch
that looked more personal than just a friendly pat—had first
given Matt the impression that Wolfe was gay. Now that he
had confirmation, all he wanted to do was crawl into the
picture and straddle that narrow lap to let those long, wicked
fingers do naughty things to him.

Grunting, Matt found his hand gone from the mouse to

stroking the erection underneath his zipper. He gave partial
thought to indulging—wouldn't be the first time he'd jerked
off to Wolfe's picture—but he closed the browser window
instead and pushed back from the desk. He stood and headed
for the kitchen, needing to distract himself. Jerking off would
just make him think of Wolfe more, and he'd be tempted to
call. But he couldn't call Wolfe. Much as he wanted to, he
couldn't bring himself to go out at night. Besides, Wolfe
Larsen wouldn't want anything to do with a misfit recluse like
him, despite what he said on the phone.

* * * *

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101

"Where is he?" Matt gripped the steering wheel, muttering

to himself as he inched his Jeep down the dark road. "First he
insists on coming to this damn party. Then he ditches me?"

Newly outed and summarily rejected by his parents, Daniel

had wanted to be surrounded "by all things gay" tonight. Matt
could understand the thought, but he and Daniel were so not
right for this scene. Matt had known from the moment they'd
arrived and seen the drugged-out smiles and frantic dancing
to the endless thump-thump music. They were geeks, for
God's sake! Both of them almost done with technical school.
They didn't belong at these types of parties.

But they'd stayed, and now Matt had lost Daniel. At some

point, Daniel had wandered off with a new friend. Matt had
lurked in the drunken crowd around the park's closed
recreation center for nearly forty-five minutes, dodging
unwanted advances and alarming offers, waiting for Daniel to
come back as promised. But his lover had never shown up.
Pissed, he'd finally climbed into his Jeep to go search. Maybe
Daniel was by one of the other park buildings. Far more
comfortable and safe in his car, Matt drove down the narrow
roads that meandered under the towering cypress trees,
keeping his eyes peeled for a glimpse of Daniel.

He saw a lot else. A lot. He'd never have been able to have

sex out in the open like he'd seen in the last twenty minutes.
The threesome in particular had blown his mind. He hadn't
realized that two guys could do that to another at the same
time!

He really needed to find Daniel and get back to sanity at

home.

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Wait! Light blue shirt with a garish logo on the back. Was

that...? Oh, that had better not be Daniel! Not in the arms of
some other guy!

Matt inched the Jeep forward, taking in the details. Yeah,

that was Daniel's shirt with that huge hot pink "I like boys"
logo blazoned across the back. Not that Matt could currently
read it since another guy's pale arms were wrapped around
Daniel's torso. Plus the other guy's long red hair spilled like
blood down Daniel's shoulder and over the other guy's arms.

Matt braked, jaw clenching as the two men moved, the

one leaning against the trunk of a tree, fairly lifting Daniel in
his arms. Daniel's arms hung loosely at his sides, his neck
bent far to the side to make room for the guy to nuzzle it.

Perhaps disturbed by the headlights, the stranger lifted his

head. Blue eyes glowed at Matt. Matt knew they glowed
because he could see the color clearly from twenty feet away.
The redhead smiled, which drew attention to the sharp white
teeth—surrounded by the blood oozing from the corners of his
mouth.

Blood. Red. Blood. Blood on the guy's mouth, blood oozing

down Daniel's neck and into the back of his silly blue T-shirt.

The stranger slowly unwound one arm from around

Daniel's back and reached for Matt. Daniel's body—for it had
to be pretty much a corpse by now—sagged over his other
arm.

"Come to me," the vampire said.
Matt jerked awake, eyes wide and immediately scanning

the room around him as he sat up. Cheery sunlight seeped
through the crack between the thick, opaque curtains

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obscuring the window over the dresser, the lit floor lamp
showing off the paisley-ish pattern on them. The open
bedroom door revealed no one in the living room; the open
bathroom door showed that the bathroom was also empty. He
sat and listened hard, but heard nothing except the normal
sounds of birds and passing cars outside. He slumped back
against the headboard, bringing his knees up so he could rest
his elbows on them. The rumpled sheets were wet from the
cold sweat that sheened his bare skin.

"God." He hadn't had the dream in a while. Not so much a

dream as a memory. A memory of the night he'd lost the man
he loved, the last friend he'd had. The night he'd learned that
reality was not all that it seemed. For a moment, he had to
comb his hands through his hair and concentrate on breathing
over the gripping lump in his chest. Tears burned his tightly
shut eyes.

The familiar pain of the memory didn't last as long as it

used to. Back after it had first happened, the fear and pang of
loss wouldn't release him for hours or even days on end. He'd
holed up in his apartment—their apartment—helpless to
release himself from cold terror and agonizing loneliness. He'd
lost his part-time job, stopped going to school, and wouldn't
talk to the few friends he had. What could he tell them, after
all?

Taking a deep, sighing breath, Matt raised his head, letting

his long, lank brown hair fall about his head and shoulders as
he withdrew his fingers. Swallowing tears, he scooted out of
the bed and padded naked across the carpet to the low table
in the corner of the room. Kneeling on the pillow that sat

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before it, he reached for the box of matches that lay nearest
him and extracted one to light it. Blinking as tears dried up
rather than drenching his cheeks, he lit the four fat candles
that sat before a simple urn and a framed picture of him and
Daniel.

This little makeshift altar was all he had and all he had

been able to do to pay homage to his lover. Daniel's cremated
remains had been given to him. He'd tried, halfheartedly, to
contact Daniel's parents, to return Daniel to them, but he'd
never heard back from them. In the weeks after the incident,
the police visited him twice, once the next day to tell him that
Daniel had been found dead. Daniel had been one of four
people who had been assaulted and left to bleed to death.
They questioned where Matt had been, and he answered that
he'd left the party without Daniel because he couldn't find
him. Part of him had wanted to tell them about the vampire,
but he decided not to. A psychiatric ward had not been
appealing to him. He had fully expected them to accuse him
of Daniel's death. Wasn't that always what happened in the
movies? But other than one follow-up visit a week later to
find out how he was doing and if he'd remembered anything
else, the police had never shown again.

Matt sat back on his heels, staring at the candlelight

reflecting in the stainless steel of Daniel's simple urn.
Unbidden, further memory of the night of Daniel's death
overcame him.

Hardly thinking, Matt slammed into gear and off the road.

His trusty Jeep tore across a grassy area and onto another
dark, winding road. Matt wasn't sure how he did it without

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overturning the Jeep, but he drove as fast as he could out of
the park. He didn't stop, running a bunch of red lights, until
he reached his parking space in the side lot of his building.

Part of him felt guilty for leaving Daniel behind. But most

of him knew that it was far too late. Daniel was dead. There
was nothing he could do for him.

Matt made it to the apartment, bolted the door behind

him, and turned on every light in the place before sinking to
the floor, back pressed into the corner of the bedroom, eyes
focused on the front door through the open bedroom door.

The knock came maybe ten minutes later.
"Open the door, beautiful," called the voice. The same

voice. Shit! How had the monster found him? Daniel's wallet?
Daniel's memories? How many of the vampire legends were
true?

"Open the door."
Matt wracked his brain. Wood! He needed a wooden stake.

What the hell did they have that was wood?

"Open the door." The voice was sweet. Compelling.

Soothing. It made Matt hesitate, made him want to comply.

But he resisted, cherishing the cold, hard reality of fear.

He kept in his mind the painful image of Daniel's corpse in
that monster's arms, and he dashed from the bedroom into
the kitchen.

"You want to come to me."
Tuning out the voice, Matt opened one of the drawers and

drew out a wooden spoon. With strength he didn't know he
had, he cracked it, creating a slim wooden stiletto from the
handle. Would it be enough?

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"Open the door, Matthew."
Matt crumpled to the linoleum, moaning piteously. The

thing knew his name!

"Open the door, Matthew, and let me in. Let me in, sweet."
Matt clutched the two halves of the spoon, keeping the

thought of Daniel in his head as he listened hard for any sign
of the door opening. Daniel, the man he loved. Daniel, who
was dead. Daniel.

He never knew how long the vampire taunted him that

night. He still wasn't really sure what time he'd left the park.
But it had to have been a few hours. It had stayed at his
door, trying to coax him into opening it, teaching him by
example the truth of the legend that vampires couldn't cross
your threshold unless you invited them in. By the time it had
left, he was exhausted enough to pass out for a few hours on
his kitchen floor.

Blinking, Matt tipped his head back to stare at the wall

above the candles and the framed picture. During the first
few months after Daniel's death, he hadn't stepped outside
his apartment at all. He lived on his savings and a little that
Daniel had, surprisingly, stashed away, with Matt named as
beneficiary. The money had lasted for five months, during
which time Matt spoke to no one. His friends from school gave
up on him. But then, he and Daniel really hadn't been all that
close to anyone else. His family had disowned him before
Daniel had experienced a similar fate with his parents, so his
parents and sister never knew. They probably still didn't
know. Matt spent countless hours on the Internet, digging up
all he could about vampires, disappointed when he could

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never distinguish what was fact and what was fantasy or
myth. To this day, the only true facts he knew about
vampires were that they existed and that they couldn't get
inside his apartment without some kind of invitation on his
part. Bereft, confused, scared, he had become the biggest
online game junkie the world had ever seen for a while,
happy to lose himself in fictitious worlds.

Until Wolfe.
Matt let his gaze drop back to Daniel's picture. "You'd like

him," he said aloud. "Would you approve of me being with
him? If I could?"

Silly question, really. He'd known Daniel well enough to

know that he would hate that Matt had lived in seclusion for
as long as he had. Although, Daniel could not have predicted
a death at the hands of a vampire.

Standing, leaving the candles lit, Matt dressed. It was

nearly noon. He'd need to get some work done soon. The
arrangement with Wolfe allowed Matt to keep odd hours,
going to bed at dawn, rising mid-afternoon for work.

So odd, he thought, donning his jeans. Not for the first

time he wondered why Wolfe put up with his strange
behavior. Except for the phone call the previous day, Wolfe
had never questioned why Matt didn't go out. Their
conversations had always been friendly, but when they
weren't about business, they tended to stay on safer, less
personal topics.

Still wondering, Matt wandered into the next room. His

computers hummed gently from the desk and extension that
took up most of the wall, but he ignored them for the

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moment in favor of food. Opening the refrigerator, he stared
at the meager contents. "Geez," he muttered, pushing aside a
few mostly empty take-out containers. "Time to order food."
Thank God for grocery stores that not only took internet
orders, but delivered.

His cell phone rang as he started to compose a list. His

heart picked up pace as he crossed back into the living room
to lift the phone from the desk.

"Hi."
"Hi." Wolfe sounded cheerful, which dispelled some of the

dread in Matt's chest. Perhaps the other man wouldn't hold
their previous conversation against him. "I've been thinking
about what we talked about yesterday."

Matt's heart sank as he dropped onto his ratty but

comfortable old couch. "Oh?"

"Let's go to lunch."
His mouth dropped open. "Really?"
"Yes. It'll have to be a late one. I'm not sure I could pick

you up before three. Is that all right?"

"You don't have to pick me up. I can meet you

somewhere."

Pause. "So it's just the night that gets you?"
Ice gripped Matt's heart. He didn't know how to reply to

that.

"No matter. I'll pick you up. Is three okay? Matt? Hello?"
Shock kept him from thinking straight. "Yeah. Okay."
"Great. I took a glance at the app this morning, by the

way. Brilliant, as expected. Well done!"

"Thanks."

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"Thank you. Okay, gotta run. See you soon."
"Bye." But Wolfe was already gone. Matt swallowed as he

set down the phone.

He was going to see Wolfe!

* * * *

After the shock of the phone call and invitation released

him, Matt jumped into action.

"There's no way I'm getting any work done today," he

muttered as he gathered jeans and shirts from the laundry
corner of his bedroom. "Wolfe will just have to understand
that." Although it should be fine. The project he'd turned in
the previous day had taken up the majority of his time for
nearly a year now. He was due a little break.

He had shoved some clothes into the mini washer that sat

in the corner of his kitchen and started the cycle before he
realized that he couldn't take a shower and do laundry at the
same time. Cursing, he decided to figure out what to wear
with his jeans. Or maybe he could wear some of the dress
slacks he hadn't had on in ages, They had to still be in the
back of the closet.

It was a measure of his excitement that he didn't dwell on

finding a bunch of Daniel's clothes hanging toward the back of
the walk-in closet. Seeing them stopped him, but he slid right
on by. "You'd be happy for me," he said aloud to the memory
of his lover. "I know you would. And, God, I know you'd think
he was gorgeous." The thought of the overreaction Daniel
would have had to Wolfe's hair alone made him smile.

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He pulled a number of items out of the closet, but after a

half hour of trying them on, he decided to stick to jeans. The
dress slacks still fit, but they were too dressy for lunch, and
the casual slacks he'd bought back in school in preparation for
job interviews were in bad shape. Jeans would have to do.
Wolfe wouldn't take him anywhere really ritzy, would he? He
contemplated calling back to ask but didn't want to look
anxious or stupid.

Decision made, he shoved the jeans into the dryer and

hurried to the bathroom for a shower.

He already had a hard-on by the time he got shampoo in

his hair, and it hadn't gone away by the time he'd rinsed the
conditioner out. Just the thought of Wolfe had his blood
pumping in a way it hadn't since Daniel. There was no
avoiding it. The simple prospect of sitting at a table with
Wolfe—watching him talk, watching him eat, listening to that
sinful, sexy voice without the filter of the phone—had him
almost ready to come.

So he lingered with the soap, slicking his bare skin,

imagining his hands might be Wolfe's as they traced the
planes of his chest and the belly he kept flat by religious use
of the rowing machine and treadmill in the next room. He
slipped his palms over the meat of his ass, massaging his
cheeks, kneading them apart so he could slide soapy fingers
up his crack. Touching his own hole made him shiver and
made his cock jerk. He was a bottom through and through—a
fact Daniel had delighted in reminding him of and he'd
delighted in being reminded of. He loved being fucked more

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than fucking, more even than getting a blow-job, although it
was a close call there.

Indulging himself, he bent over under the heated spray of

water. Balancing with one palm flat on the tiles before him,
he soaped up the fingers of his other hand again and reached
back to thoroughly finger himself. He did that sometimes,
when the urge to have sex got particularly bad. He had a
dildo that he'd use, but that was in the bedroom and his
fingers would do just as well right now. He teased himself,
exploring, probing, finding the spots that he knew all too well
and pressing them. He did it with his eyes closed, imagining
his fingers were Wolfe's, fantasizing that the man stood
behind him, making him crazy before he took what would
have to be a gorgeous cock and pushed it into Matt's body.

The thought of that hit Matt hard, hard enough to send

him to his knees in the bathtub so he could free his other
hand to grip his dick. Eyes closed, water streaming over his
flushed chest and shoulders, he pleasured himself back and
front until his balls drew up and shot out heavy spurts of
semen to mix with the water swirling down the drain.

He knelt, stunned, as the orgasm washed from him,

leaving his muscles sated and loose. "Probably better you did
that," he told himself just before pushing to his feet. If he'd
been that pent up when Wolfe arrived, he probably wouldn't
have been able to keep his hands to himself.

He was therefore stunned when, about twenty minutes

later, he stood before the bathroom mirror blow drying his
past shoulder-length hair and found that his dick was perking
up again. Of course, he was thinking of Wolfe, wondering if

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the man would love his hair as much as Daniel had,
wondering if he'd want to sink his fingers into it and use the
hold to yank Matt's head back. God, he used to love it when
Daniel did that!

"You're fucking hopeless," he told his reflection as he set

down the hair dryer.

He studied himself in the mirror. Small and skinny, that's

how he'd always thought of himself. At five foot six, he was
used to most men towering over him. His hair was long and
brown, the color of dark chocolate, matching his eyes. The
eyes that he'd always thought were far too big. It made him
look younger and more innocent than he'd ever felt, but other
men seemed to like the look, so who was he to complain? His
shoulders and chest were nothing to drool over, although he
had developed some tone thanks to the rowing machine. He
was rather proud of his flat belly and the muscles in his
thighs. Nothing huge, but there was some muscle there. The
cock that wouldn't stay down wasn't large but wasn't small
either, just the right size to sink into someone's mouth and a
little down his throat.

"Oh, yeah, that helped," he groaned at himself.
Back in the bedroom, he discovered it was two thirty. Too

late to jerk off. For all he knew, Wolfe might be early. He'd
just have to hope the hard-on went away.

As he dressed in the jeans still warm from the dryer, he

caught sight of the lit candles in the corner.

Reverently, he knelt on the pillow. "It's just lunch, right?"

he asked the picture. "It's not like he's even interested. He's
never even seen me."

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He smiled at the instant recollection of any number of a

dozen compliments Daniel had showered on him in praise of
his looks, his wit, and his personality. Daniel hadn't liked it
when he cut himself down. "I do miss you," he whispered,
lightly caressing the curved side of the urn. As he snuffed out
each of the candles, he realized that the loss seemed even
less, growing softer with time. "I'll never forget you, but I
have to get on with my life."

Of course, there was still the matter of the vampires.
He stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at nothing,

his erection wilting at the thought. Even if Wolfe is interested,
so what? Is he going to want a guy who won't go out of his
apartment at night? He'll probably write you off as a nutcase.

"So you'll just have to work on going out," he told himself

firmly as he pulled on his dress shirt and buttoned it up. "You
need to get over it and live some kind of life." Muttering
encouraging words to himself, he sat on the bed to drag on
socks and shoes.

By the time he told himself to stop worrying about it and

just take things as they came, he looked up and saw the
clock.

Three thirty.
Where was Wolfe?
His phone rang about ten minutes later.
"I'm sorry," said Wolfe, "Harold Jenkins from Baeler Corp.

just called and demanded to talk to me." He sounded
exasperated. "We're about to get on a conference call with his
CIO and CFO. I'm going to be late."

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Disappointment squeezed Matt's heart, but he fought it out

of his voice. "Hey, it happens. We can do this another time."

"No. I'll just be a little later. I'd rather make this quick. I'll

call you when they let me go."

By the time five o'clock came around, Matt was in a fine

funk. Wolfe hadn't called. He expected the other man to call
and cancel at any moment, if he called at all. So sure was he,
in fact, that he'd ditched the dress shirt for a T-shirt and
switched the jeans for drawstring pants.

Barefoot, he stood at the window in his living room,

watching the night take over from the day, imagining his
hopes dispelling with the gold of the sunlight. He'd found the
night so frightening for so long, but tonight it was more
depressing.

A knock on the door startled him.
"Matt, it's me." Wolfe! "Open up."
Matt stared, frozen. Inky twilight had almost given up the

ghost to night's dark, and it could have been that color—or
lack of it—that kept him rooted to the spot. His door had not
opened except in the full light of day for so very long.

"Matt!" Knock again. "I know you're in there."
Matt found himself at the door, staring at the blank

wooden panel. On the other side stood a man he very much
wanted to know better. Fear paralyzed him.

"Matt!"
"What are you doing here?" Matt's voice, when he found it,

was rusty and soft.

Wolfe heard him anyway, his voice tempering. "I came to

apologize."

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"You didn't need to do that."
"I brought food. You like Italian? I've got this pasta with

garlic sausage that's simply marvelous. You have to try it."

Matt placed both trembling palms on the door, noting the

contrast of the pale skin of his hand and the dark wood panel.

"Matt."
"I..." His jaw worked as he tried to force reason over fear.

Wolfe was here.

"Matt?"
"I..." Heaving a sigh, he rested his forehead on the door

between his palms. "I can't."

"Why not?" Wolfe's voice sounded so close. Impossibly

close considering there was a wooden barrier between them.
Matt could almost imagine the breeze of its passage on his
neck.

He sighed again, closing his eyes. Coward. "I can't let you

in."

"Matt." Low, sultry. The very sound oozed down Matt's

spine to pool hot, like lava, in his belly. He pressed up against
the door, trying to get closer. "Open the door."

His hand dropped to caress the knob. Only the lock kept

him from turning it fully. "I can't."

"Why?"
The knob won't turn. He shook his head, even though

Wolfe couldn't see it. That wasn't right. There was another
reason. "I can't."

"Matt." Slow, reasonable, with that delicious purr. How did

he do that in one syllable? "Open the door. Talk to me."

Vampires. Can't open the door. "No."

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"Tell me why."
Wolfe isn't a vampire, what's the harm? "You won't believe

me."

"Matthew—" His full name sounded so seductive through

that voice. "—there's something that keeps you holed up
every night. I'd very much like to know what it is."

He rolled his forehead on the stained wood, his hand

gripping the doorknob. Warm gratitude flooded his chest. Not
since his last friend had tried in the month after Daniel's
death had anyone wanted to know what was wrong with him.
No one had cared.

He so very much wanted this man to care.
His fingers toyed with the lock.
"Open the door, Matt, and talk to me. Whatever it is, I'll

believe you. I promise."

He said garlic sausage. Is the myth about vampires and

garlic true? Wait, what are you thinking? You've talked to him
during the day. He's no vampire.

He turned the lock, hearing the soft scrape of metal on

metal in the hushed blue twilight. Slowly, he stepped back,
staring at his hands: one on the knob, one still splayed over
the panel at eye level. I can do this. It's just Wolfe at my
door. Just Wolfe.

He twisted the knob and took another step back to let the

door slowly open.

Lust stole his breath. Lit only by the twilight and the night

lamps that illuminated the street below, Wolfe was every bit
as gorgeous as the pictures promised—and then some. Tall.
His sharp chin would rest easily on top of Matt's head if they

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embraced. If he did that, the silky, curly black hair that fairly
floated loose about his head and shoulders would drift down
to caress Matt's cheeks. Sharp, sculpted black brows swept
up sharply from the bridge of his narrow nose toward his
temples. His pale cheekbones followed a parallel line. The
eyes between them were by far the most amazing, impossible
green that Matt had ever seen. How could he see that color so
very clearly in this lighting? He stared, captivated by them
and the thick, curled lashes that surrounded them.

For a moment, Wolfe stared, eyes a little wide, lips parted.

He looked almost as stunned as Matt felt. But it was brief. He
smiled, and Matt's attention was redirected to his full, red
lips. "Hello, Matthew."

He couldn't talk. He should talk. He should say something.

Anything. He couldn't just stand there, gaping at the man.
How transparent and hopeless was that?

But he couldn't stop himself. His heart swelled in his chest,

and his dick started to swell in his pants. His hands itched to
reach out and touch, and his legs wanted to give out and take
him to his knees for some justified worship. The man was
simply beyond belief.

Still smiling, Wolfe raised to eye level a plastic bag with a

full brown paper sackwithin it. "Dinner?"

Matt blinked. It did nothing to dispel the vision. "Yeah."
Wolfe chuckled. "May I come in?"
Another blink. Geez, where was his head? "Yeah. Come

in." Matt stepped aside.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, another

person crossed Matt's threshold. A shiver of fear passed over

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his skin, but it was quickly erased by the sight of Wolfe's long
legs and high, tight butt encased in snug denim. A simple
long-sleeved T-shirt in a deep green bagged around a slim
waist but most definitely hugged a broad back and nicely
muscular shoulders and arms.

"You must try this garlic bread," Wolfe told him, digging

into the bag right after he'd set it down. "I don't know what
they put on it, but the smell alone is divine."

Letting the front door close softly, Matt followed as though

drawn by an invisible rope. He flipped on the overhead light in
the kitchen for the sheer desire of wanting to see Wolfe
better. By the time he reached Wolfe, the man had a big hunk
of bread covered in all sorts of cheesy stuff in his fingers,
holding it up for Matt. Those red lips were grinning at him
again. "Taste."

Snared by the green eyes, Matt opened up. Crusty bread

touched his tongue, and he bit down on instinct. A portion of
his brain told him that what was in his mouth was delicious. A
larger portion of his mind told him that the luscious lips below
those amazing green eyes would taste even better.

Did he whimper?
"Good?"
He nodded, watching those eyes linger over his face,

hoping they liked what they saw. Wolfe's smile melted in the
heat between them as he leaned in closer to Matt. A pink
tongue darted between Wolfe's lips as he lifted the remaining
hunk of bread from Matt's mouth and set it aside on the
counter. Matt chewed by rote, watching that beautiful face
loom closer. He shut his eyes as something warm and wet

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eased over the right corner of his mouth. "Butter," Wolfe
muttered, breath wafting over his skin.

"Mmmm." God, he smelled good! Even over the prevailing

aroma of garlic, cheese, butter, and Italian spices, Matt could
detect the dark, delicious male scent.

A smooth cheek rubbed his. "Swallow."
Matt did.
Hands slid over his shoulders, partly down his arms, then

around his back. "Matt," came a whispered groan near his
ear, "you're more intoxicating than I expected."

His head tilted back as Wolfe drew his body close. Locks of

midnight hair fell forward to caress his face, every bit as silky
and fragrant as expected. Moaning helplessly, he slid his arms
around Wolfe's chest, hands barely overlapping over his
spine. The T-shirt was warm from the body heat beneath it,
and Matt soaked it in like a sponge.

"Matt." Lips ghosting over his temple. "I wanted to go

slow." Lips at the corner of his eye. "Please understand." Lips
lingering over his cheek. "Please understand that I need to
have you." Lips nipped at his. "Please?"

Utter shock succumbed instantly to undeniable lust. Matt

pressed his palms to the back of Wolfe's shoulders, trying to
hold him closer. "Please, Wolfe."

"Yes."
Wolfe's mouth pressed his, opening it for the tongue that

plunged within. Matt succumbed willingly, undoubtedly
whimpering this time as he sucked on Wolfe's tongue, trying
to swallow it down. Delicious. Warm and wet with a different
coppery taste that Matt hadn't ever encountered in his limited

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experience. His brain wouldn't process it, though. Not with
the man kissing him. Not with strong fingers tangling in his
hair, taking command of his head, bending him farther
backward. He held on but wasn't remotely worried about
falling. Wolfe's embrace was strong and secure, arms twined
around him, holding him still, keeping him from escaping.

Escape was the last thing on his mind.
A palm cupped one half of Matt's ass, fingers curling in to

squeeze hard. Matt squirmed, crying out at the perfect
pressure of fingers where none but his own had been for so
very long. He wrapped his leg partway around one of Wolfe's
thighs, bracing his arms on broad shoulders in a halfhearted
attempt to climb him.

He cried again, in loss, when the hand in his hair pulled his

head back and away from Wolfe's punishing kiss.

"Tell me you want this," Wolfe demanded, feral green eyes

boring into Matt's He squeezed Matt's ass again, nails digging
in through the thin fabric of Matt's pants. "You want me to
fuck you?"

"Yes," Matt mewled, knowing he sounded desperate and

hardly caring. His head was crystal clear on one goal, and his
body was on fire with both the cause and the cure in his
arms. He squirmed again, sinking his fingers into glorious
black hair. "Yes, please." He licked his lips, straining against
the hand in his hair. "Fuck me, please, Wolfe."

Those eyes almost closed, a decadent groan escaping

parted, swollen lips. "Damn. Matt."

"Wolfe," he begged, nipping at the man's sharp chin.

"Please. I need it."

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The hand in Matt's hair loosened, slipping down his back.

"Hold on." Matt barely registered what he meant before the
second hand cupped the other half of his ass and he was
lifted off his feet.

His legs automatically wrapped around those slim hips.

"Oh, God!" He buried his face in Wolfe's neck, breathing in
the heated scent of his smooth, pale skin. He'd never had a
lover carry him before! It was a deliciously helpless feeling to
be cradled in Wolfe's firm hold as they made their way into
the bedroom.

Incoherent with need, he couldn't let go when Wolfe

lowered him to the bed. He devoured the lips and tongue that
were offered as Wolfe's weight came down on top of him.
Kissing, crying, squirming, he tore at Wolfe's shirt while the
other man's hand pulled the drawstring of his pants open,
then plunged inside to find his dick. He nearly came out of his
skin, writhing at the acute pleasure of another person's
fingers wrapped around his erection, of the thumb smearing
cum over the tip. He dug his fingers into the heated satin of
the skin of Wolfe's back.

"Sweet," Wolfe murmured, pulling his mouth away so wet

lips could traverse Matt's chin and nuzzle at his neck. He
pulled in a deep, long breath. "So very, very sweet."

Matt tossed his head aside, making plenty of room for

Wolfe. "Wolfe, please."

The flat front of Wolfe's teeth pressed Matt's pulse. His

tongue teased the sensitive skin. He growled, a wild, barely
contained sound that made Matt's hips jerk in response.

Then he was gone, kneeling up over Matt.

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Bereft, Matt reached for him, but Wolfe caught his wrists.

"I'm not going to last," he muttered. "I've got to get inside
you."

"Yes. God, Wolfe, I need that."
"Tell me you have lube."
Matt nodded eagerly. "It's—"
Wolfe released Matt's wrists. "Get it." He shoved back and

off the bed, leaning on the edge as he bent to pull off his
boots.

Matt was caught for a moment, watching the feline beauty

of him. Black hair fell forward to obscure his face, but the rest
of him was plenty feast for the eyes. Matt's hands had rucked
his shirt up under his armpits, exposing a pale, cobbled belly.
If there was hair, Matt couldn't see it, and that just made his
fingers itch to explore the smooth curves.

One boot dropped to the floor, and Wolfe tossed his head

as he shifted to get the other. "Lube, Matt."

Jumping at the darkly toned command, Matt eeled

sideways to reach the drawer of his nightstand. The move
took his loose pants halfway down his thighs. Dropping the
bottle of lube on the mattress beside him, he squirmed the
rest of the way out of his pants, getting his T-shirt off at the
same time.

By the time he was naked, Wolfe was mostly so, only the

shirt—now fallen down to hide his belly again—remained. His
erection was as long and sleek as the rest of him, blushing
red from the lightly furred base to the smooth tip. Wolfe eyed
Matt hotly as he knelt on the bed. "Turn over."

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Eagerly, Matt complied, drawing his knees up under him

and shamelessly presenting his ass.

Palms cupped his cheeks and spread them, exposing him.

He barely felt the warmth before what could only be a tongue
drew a wet, hot line up between, stopping to toy with his
hole.

Matt screamed into his pillow, very nearly coming. Only

once had Daniel ever done that for him, and he'd loved it.
Clearly, Wolfe didn't mind the act at all. His tongue teased the
tight ring of Matt's hole until it opened up and he could worm
inside. Matt panted, clutching his pillow, doing all he could not
to come. Wolfe helped by closing strong fingers around the
base of Matt's erection, stifling the surging feeling. But he
kept tonguing, bringing Matt closer to orgasm despite the
restriction.

"Wolfe." He moaned. "Please, gonna ... can't take ...

please."

Tongue and fingers left him. Matt had to pause to try and

contain himself, helpless to move as Wolfe leaned over him to
get the lube. He heard the cap pop once, then again. Felt the
soft thump as the bottle hit the mattress. Then pressure at
his opening. Wolfe's cock. Oh, God! Wolfe's cock!

A hand gripped his shoulder. "Relax," said that molasses

voice, seeping warmth into his muscles. Matt couldn't help
but comply, sagging just a little as Wolfe pressed into him.

No amount of relaxation could keep him from tightening up

a little. It had been so long since he'd been properly fucked,
and his body wanted to squeeze the delicious invader. Wolfe
paused just inside, spreading his hand over Matt's hip as he

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waited for Matt to melt around him. Moaning happily, Matt
pressed back, slowly impaling himself on Wolfe's heated
erection.

Sex! Good! Yes! Monosyllabic affirmations exploded in his

head as fireworks popped every nerve ending. His skin
crawled with feeling as Wolfe filled him, leaning over him,
blanketing him with the warmth of his body as he came to
rest fully inside.

"Sweet," Wolfe murmured, breath a caress on the back of

Matt's shoulder.

Fingers wove with Matt's, pulling both hands away from

the pillow clutched beneath his chest, spreading his arms out
to either side of him. Weight pressed him down into the
mattress, forcing his knees apart until his chest, belly, and
groin were all flush with the mattress. Pinned, Matt could only
groan as Wolfe pulled back his hips, then pressed within
again.

"So good." He couldn't be sure he said it aloud and

couldn't be bothered to care. He rocked his hips as best he
could as Wolfe set the slow, steady rhythm. He could feel the
taut muscles of Wolfe's belly against the top of his ass. His
own hair covered his face, denying him the chance to look
back to see Wolfe over him, Wolfe fucking him. But Wolfe's
heat and Wolfe's deep, feral growls were enough to assure
him that the other man enjoyed fucking him.

Fingers released his hands, and Wolfe settled heavily atop

him, murmurs too low to understand caressing the back of
Matt's neck. Matt's skin was so sensitized that even the soft
material of Wolfe's T-shirt scratched him, yet another

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delicious sensation. Wolfe's arms slid underneath him, one
palm spreading over his thudding heart and the other slipping
down to circle his cock. Awash in sensation, Matt arched his
back, trying to press himself as close to his lover as he
possibly could.

"Matthew." Faster thrusts now, that thick, gorgeous rod

tunneling into Matt's backside. "So much." Such a desperate
sound, muffled in the bend of Matt's neck. It matched the
desperation racing through Matt's veins, filling the cock that
Wolfe ruthlessly pumped as he rode Matt's body.

Matt whimpered, clutching at the sheets bunched beneath

them, drowning in the heat that pressed around him.

"Come," said the voice, followed by a deep, hard stab from

the cock in his ass.

Pleasure erupted in Matt's balls, spilling upward through

his cock, surging up his spine and nearly taking his head off
as he shouted his release. A second wave of brutal pleasure
tore through him following a sharp pain in the side of his
neck. Matt cried out as his body shook, battered endlessly
with a pleasure that seemed ready to cause him to explode.
The arms that surrounded him kept him whole as Wolfe rode
him hard to his own release.

Only as he sank into blissful, sated, undeniable sleep did it

hit him that Wolfe's mouth was sucking at his neck. What?!

Sleep, said Wolfe, more felt than heard.
Inky black folded over Matthew's thoughts.

* * * *

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Matt woke in a nest of rumpled sheets, the bedspread

tucked up around him, blinking at the sunlight filtering
through the blinds on his bedroom window.

Sunlight?
Bleary, he pushed up to his elbows, turning his head this

way and that, searching for...

"Wolfe?"
No answer.
He turned over on his side, wincing slightly at the

tenderness in his backside, a remembered ache that he'd not
felt for a long time. That, at least, told him that he'd not
imagined the sex.

The sex. He had to pause for a moment to pay homage in

memory to truly spectacular sex. He could not recall having
ever been fucked so hard or so well. With all respect to his
dearly departed Daniel, his lover had never been able to
wring him dry like that. Not in one session.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Matt shoved his fingers

through his loose hair to push it back from his face. No sound
from the kitchen or the open bathroom. No sound of the
television in the next room. He was alone.

Disappointment crashed down on him. Hadn't Wolfe

enjoyed him? Was that why he'd left? Although ... A check of
the clock at his bedside said it was almost seven in the
morning. Wolfe couldn't have arrived at his apartment much
after six the previous night. The sex couldn't have taken more
than an hour or two. Surprise made Matt blink at the rumpled
drawstring pants which lay on the floor beside his feet. If the
sex had even taken two hours, that meant Matt had slept

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over ten hours! He hadn't done that in as long as he could
remember, even before Daniel died.

Damn! What must Wolfe had thought, for him to have

passed out like that? Had Wolfe tried to wake him? Was there
any part of the night that he didn't remember? Matt wracked
his brain, but couldn't for the life of him remember anything
after he'd come.

No. He remembered one thing!
Panicked, he shot to his feet and lunged into the

bathroom. Hurriedly, he grabbed his hair to bare his neck and
twisted around to see if ... Was that a bite? Were those two
little red spots something normal? They certainly didn't look
fresh, more like a wound from days ago where the scab had
already fallen off. Had they been there before? Or had Wolfe
really bitten him?

No. Wolfe couldn't be a vampire. Matt had talked to him

countless times during the day. Though, Matt had never seen
him during the day. Could he, maybe, be awake and out of
sunlight? Or was the whole sunlight thing a sham?

Noting he was more confused than scared—and blaming

that on the daylight—he left the bathroom to pad into the
living room. There was a Post-it Note on one of his monitors.

Left the food. It reheats well.
I'll come by tonight. We need to talk.
W
The W was signed with a ridiculous flourish that seemed so

very Wolfe that it made Matt's heart skip a beat.

The food. Italian. Garlic galore. He went to the kitchen and

found that the contents of the paper bag had been removed

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and now sat in neat little covered tins in his refrigerator, all
but the bread, which was wrapped in aluminum foil in the
oven that Wolfe had left partially open. If Wolfe was a
vampire, he couldn't stand garlic. Unless the garlic thing
wasn't true.

Of course, Wolfe hadn't eaten any, had he?
Groaning, Matt went to sit, still naked, on his couch. He

still held the yellow Post-it in his hand, slightly crumpled. His
body still felt sated and warm, but a tingle of yearning
burbled in his balls when he looked at the W again.

Wolfe? A vampire?
Matt wasn't in much better shape by sundown. He'd

showered, dressed, and eaten. The pasta and salad had been
as good as promised. He'd tried to work for a few hours, but
it was useless.

His mind couldn't stray far from Wolfe. He went from

frightened to turned on to pissed off within minutes, cycling
through emotions like a hormonal teenager. He'd spent some
time kneeling in Daniel's corner of his bedroom, shocked to
realize that the candles had been burning. Only Wolfe could
have lit them before he'd left. Matt was sure he'd doused
them the day before and, if he hadn't, they would have
burned down a lot more by now. But why would Wolfe light
the candles? He didn't know Daniel. He didn't know the
situation. He still didn't know why Matt wouldn't go out at
night. Matt was missing a part of the story here, and Wolfe
was the only one who could fill him in.

He had tried calling Wolfe's cell, not surprised to get voice

mail. He didn't bother leaving a message. Wolfe's call log

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would tell him that Matt called, and Wolfe's own note had
indicated that they needed to talk.

For a few hours, he revisited the sites where he'd gotten

what seemed to be the best information on vampires, but
they told him nothing new. For each "fact" he saw, he could
find other places on the 'Net that refuted it. He had no better
way now of telling what was real and what was fiction than
he'd had in the first few months after he'd seen the vampire
that had killed Daniel.

Matt stood at the window in his living room, sipping coffee

and watching sunlight fade into night. He wore what he
considered to be his frumpiest clothing. Clean, but all of it
was baggy. Oversized flannel shirt, the tails of which hung
almost to his knees, a pair of faded blue sweatpants, and
socks. His hair was pulled back in a tail at the nape of his
neck. He had shaved, but other than that and the shower,
that was about all he'd done for appearance.

As the streetlights flickered on, fear started to creep into

his bones. Oddly enough, it was tempered by a simmering
lust that made his skin tingle. The man who'd brought him
more pleasure than any other person in Matt's lifetime might
also be a ruthless monster that could kill him. The image just
didn't seem right. He knew there were tales of vampires being
sensuous, seductive predators, and he knew many of the
sexual tales that surrounded the myth, but the sexual side of
vampires was just as suspect as the others.

And he'd invited Wolfe in. His heart twisting, he

remembered that clearly. Through a haze of lust and longing,

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he'd invited a monster into his home. He'd let a monster fuck
him.

No. He didn't know Wolfe was a monster. Did he? There

could be another explanation. Although he had yet to come
up with one.

Frustrated, he clutched his coffee mug, willing the night to

come faster.

When the knock came, Matt took three steps toward the

door before he even realized it. He had to force himself to
stop. "Wolfe?"

"It's me."
Swallowing, Matt set his mug down on his desk and turned

on the lamp. Comforting white light pushed back the inky
blue of early night. Then he stepped up to the door, placing
his palm on the panel.

Did he really hear Wolfe's sigh before he spoke? "I know

you're mad at me. Open up. We need to talk."

"What if I don't let you in?"
Pause. Another sigh? "You've already invited me in once,

Matt. That's all it takes."

Fear ratcheted up in Matt's chest. "Are-are you...?"
"Yes. I am. I promise not to hurt you. I promise not to

touch you if you don't say it's okay. Just let me come in and
explain."

Matt watched his hand tremble and wondered at the

detached way he felt the fear icing his veins.

"Please, Matt. It's time you got an explanation on what

happened and heard my apology about Daniel."

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"Daniel?" That jump-started him. His hand dropped to the

doorknob, quickly unlocking it and twisting it open. He glared
at the vision of wonder standing before him. "What do you
know about Daniel?"

Wolfe stepped toward him, and Matt instinctively backed

away. He continued to back up as Wolfe entered his
apartment, and didn't stop until the backs of his thighs hit the
arm of the couch, although Wolfe had stopped just inside,
turning halfway to quietly close the door.

Black and white. Tonight Wolfe looked more traditionally

like the popular image of a vampire. If he had a tail jacket
and a cloak, he'd be perfect. Actually, he was perfect. Black
slacks tapered down his long legs to the tips of his boots. A
crisp, blinding white dress shirt draped his shoulders, open at
the collar to reveal a chest not too many shades darker than
the shirt. He was definitely paler tonight, which made his hair
and eyebrows darker, his green eyes more luminous, and his
red, red lips far more tempting. This man was the main
subject of Matt's fantasies, not to mention the only person to
have touched him in so very long. Monster or not, this was
the only person Matt had talked to—really talked to—since the
night of Daniel's death. Here was the only friend Matt had in
the world and might very well be the thing he most feared.

Matt crushed his hands into fists and crossed them over

the small of his back to keep from reaching as Wolfe turned
back to face him.

Those magnificent eyes were filled with sorrow, enough to

tug at Matt's heart and nearly bring tears to his own eyes.

"The vampire who killed your lover was my fledgling."

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Matt's body froze as his mind whirled. Not only had Wolfe

said the word vampire himself, he'd admitted a link to the
monster who'd ruined Matt's life.

Wolfe paused, watching his face, then continued, voice low

and steady. "Shawn was very young and wasn't the man I
thought him to be. I made him mostly because of loss and
loneliness. Not the best of excuses, but it's the only one I
have."

"You made him?"
"Yes. And I lost control of him. He escaped me. By the

time I tracked him down, he had already killed Daniel."

"He would have killed anyway. He's a v-vampire." You're a

vampire!

"No. Not necessarily. We don't have to kill. We don't

usually kill. Those who do are considered dangerous and are
hunted and destroyed. As I destroyed Shawn."

"Destroyed?"
"Yes. Shawn is gone. For good. I took care of him the night

after he killed your lover."

The couch cushioned Matt's collapse onto it. He kept his

eyes on Wolfe, trying to process what was being told to him.
The vampire was gone. Had been gone. Matt had kept to
himself for no reason. No, there was reason. There were
other vampires. One stood before him. He swallowed, shaking
his head, not at all sure what to think. "You're a vampire." He
whispered the words, hoping against hope that he was
hearing wrong.

"Yes."
"But I've talked to you during the day!"

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"I don't sleep the entire day."
Matt stared wide-eyed at the table before him. The man he

could very well have fallen in love with was a vampire?

He sensed movement on the other side of the room but

didn't look up. "Matthew, I cannot begin to tell you how much
I regret Shawn's actions. I've tried to make up for what he
did in the past two years."

"My job."
"Yes."
That made quite a bit of sense. Now he knew why Wolfe

accepted his odd behavior.

Matt frowned. Make up for what he did? "Daniel wasn't the

only one he killed that night."

"I know."
Wolfe's been taking care of me. He could now think of any

number of little things that had happened to help him or
casual suggestions Wolfe made to point him toward people
who could accommodate his strange schedule. The support
had been seamless, making him wonder why he hadn't seen
it before. "Have you been taking care of the other families as
well?" He didn't know the other people, but he knew of them.
He'd known their names once, thought of trying to contact
them, to see if they knew anything or if they'd been visited.

"At first, yes. But the other losses weren't as devastating.

You have, by far, suffered the most."

Matt drew into himself. Pity. Wolfe was in his life because

of pity. That almost felt worse than the vampire part, which
was just ridiculous.

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He jumped, shying toward the far end of the couch when

Wolfe appeared beside him. "I tried to help you. I tried to
give you time to heal." The voice implored him, begged him
to understand. "I didn't think you'd want further proof that
vampires really exist, so I stayed away. I'd hoped that you'd
convince yourself you'd been seeing things and would go on
with your life."

Matt shook his head, tucking back against the arm of the

couch. "I wasn't seeing things."

"No."
"I wasn't hearing things. He called to me!"
"I know. I'm sorry, Matt. I've only recently realized that."
Matt opened eyes he didn't remember closing, swiped a

hand at tears he hadn't realized he'd shed, and glared at the
vampire. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't know he'd found you like that. I didn't know you

could hear the call until a few weeks ago."

"What are you saying?"
Wolfe took a deep breath. He needs to breathe? Or is that

just for effect? "We can modulate our voices to compel
humans. Most don't even recognize it, but they can't resist.
But some do. The ones who can are very attractive to us.
Because the humans who can resist the call are the humans
who can be converted into vampires."

Again Matt froze. He remembered the other vampire—

Shawn?—calling to him, telling him to open the door. He
remembered resisting for what seemed like forever.

Wolfe continued, watching him sadly. "I only realized you

could resist the call when I tried it on you."

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"What?"
Wolfe winced, gaze skittering away. Long, pale fingers dug

into the arm of the couch. "I wanted to try and help you. Get
you out during the night and let you see that you were safe. I
tried to call you from your apartment last Friday. I doubt you
even realized when. But you resisted. It was mostly fear that
let you do it, but fear in another human wouldn't be enough
to resist me."

"You tried to call me?" Last Friday. What had he been

doing last Friday? He'd long ago lost true track of days. Had
there been a pull? He often felt small urges to go outside, but
they'd been easily squelched. Had that happened on Friday?

"I wanted to get you outside. I thought that..." Wolfe

shook his head, standing straight. One hand speared through
the loose black hair at his temple, forcing shimmering curls to
sway about his neck and shoulders. "It was a mistake, but I
was at my wits' end. I wanted to help you get on with your
life, and I hadn't found any other way to do it." He walked
away, toward the kitchen. "After that, I knew. I knew that
Shawn had likely found you. Scared you. Scarred you. I knew
that your fear was more grounded than I'd expected." He
fingered an empty plate that sat on the counter dividing the
kitchen and living room. "I knew I'd have to actually see
you."

Realization slowly dawned. "You called me last night. You

got me to open the door."

He saw the small smile in profile. "Only a little. You were

already inclined to open the door. I just had to nudge the fear
away some." He faced Matt. "I used lust to do that."

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Matt glared. "You made me want you."
"No. I fanned the flame, but it was already there. You

wanted me, just as I wanted you."

"You?"
"Yes. I can see now that I've been falling in love with you

for some time. Finding out you could resist the call was just
the proving point."

"Love?" The word, said so casually, rang in Matt's

befuddled brain. Wolfe loved him? Wolfe was a vampire. So
what? said a tiny voice in his head.

"Yes. Love."
Matt shook his head. "You don't know me."
"I know you. We've talked on the phone almost every day

for the past two years."

"I don't know you. I didn't know you were a vampire."
"That's why I couldn't expect you to love me back. Not

until I told you want I am." He spread his hands out to the
side, palms out and open, presenting himself. "That's why I'm
here."

Matt shrank back against an urge to fling himself into

those arms. "L-last night...?"

Wolfe's arms dropped, hands slapping his thighs. "I'd

intended for us to have this talk last night. I..." He shook his
head, looking sheepish. An absurd expression for such an
exquisite creature. "I severely underestimated the effect of
your presence on me. I lost control. Again, I apologize."

I wanted to go slow. Please understand. Please understand

that I need to have you. Wolfe's words echoed in Matt's

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memory, together with the heated cloud of lust and longing
that had surrounded the moment.

"Did you make me like that? Last night?"
"Only a little. I promise. A little to get you to open the

door, a little to make you relax, make you come—"

Matt shivered at the memory.
"—and a little to make you sleep the night."
Matt's hand crept up to rub the back of his neck. "You bit

me."

Was it his imagination, or did Wolfe actually tremble? His

hand reached out to clutch the counter beside him. "Yes. I
did. Again, I'm sorry. But your taste..." His other hand hand
came up to briefly cover his brow. "You can't imagine how
good you taste, Matt. It defies description."

Matt should have been creeped out. He knew that. The

man was talking about drinking his blood. Just like the
monster had drunk Daniel's blood. But for the life of him, Matt
couldn't conjure the image of the vampire and Daniel. All he
could remember was the spike of heat and the freefall into
molten sensation that had followed the prick of Wolfe's bite.

Unable to take in the enormity of what he was being told,

he drew his knees up to his chest, bracing his heels on the
edge of the couch and wrapping his arms around his legs. "I
loved Daniel."

"I know."
"You lit the candles for him last night."
"I did. A small tribute to his memory. He must have been

very special."

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Tears trickled down Matt's cheeks. Stifling a sob, he

pressed his forehead to his knees. "Shit! I don't know what to
think."

He felt Wolfe come closer, but not too close. The low table

before the couch slid over the rug and creaked a little as a
weight settled on it. "I don't expect a miracle tonight,
Matthew."

The sob escaped. Daniel used to say his full name just like

that when things were especially serious. "What do you
expect?"

"I don't know. I love you," continued that dreamy voice.

"I'll wait. Or I'll let you go, if I must. Although I'm going to try
my best to convince you to be with me."

"What does that mean? 'Be with you'?" He brought up his

head, needing to see Wolfe's face. "Dating? Dying?"

The vampire regarded him seriously from just a foot away.

"Dating. Yes, I very much hope. Dying. Only if that's what
you wish. No decisions have to be made now."

"How can you expect me to trust you? You're a..." He

shook his head, voice catching in his throat.

Wolfe's lip trembled as he took another deep breath. "I

don't expect you to trust me yet. How could you? I'll follow
your lead, leave if you want me to." He gripped his hands
between his knees. "Just one thing that you need to realize is
that you're safe. From my kind, at least. You have my
protection whether you reject me or not. I've claimed you as
my own, and none of my kind can touch you without dealing
with me."

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The thought of such a claiming touched a chord in Matt's

heart. He suppressed it for now. "And you're a big threat?"

Wolfe smiled weakly. "I've been what I am for over a

thousand years. I'm very old for my kind. Yes, I'm a threat."

A thousand...? That was too much to contemplate. Matt

shook his head. "I can't ... It's too much."

Wolfe nodded. Stood. "I understand. I'll leave. Please, call

me. When you're ready. I swear on anything you care to
name that you're safe with me."

Matt stared, unable to reconcile the beautiful man whom

he loved with the monster he clearly was. Confusion and
anger warred with fear, stopping any possible words in his
throat.

As though sensing this, Wolfe smiled sadly, nodded,

turned, and left.

* * * *

The espresso machine hissed as Rod shut it off. Grinning,

he grabbed the thick porcelain mug and turned to bring it to
where Matt sat at the counter.

Matt eyed the inky depths of the dark liquid as he brought

the hot mug to his lips. Carefully he sipped. Then sputtered.
He barely managed to set the mug down without spilling as
the sharp, overwhelming taste made his eyes water.

"Hmmm, too much espresso?"
Matt laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Maybe but ... what's spicy?"

"Cayenne and cinnamon."
Matt's jaw dropped. "Cayenne?"

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Rod leaned his elbows on the counter, lifting the same

mug to his own lips. Matt watched him sip, then have a
similar reaction. "Yeah, okay. Too much. So, my 'Cajun
Madness' drink needs work." He set the cup down, chuckling.
"Back to the drawing board."

"What's with the new drink anyway?" Matt folded his arms

on the counter, adjusting his butt on the hard seat of the
polished wooden barstool.

Rod shrugged, reaching up to scratch at the buzzed

auburn hair at the nape of his neck. "I like to try out different
things every once in a while. Customers like it." He laughed,
green eyes dancing as they focused on Matt. "Okay, maybe
not this one."

Matt chuckled. Idly, he glanced over his shoulder. There

were three other patrons in Rod's Koffee Hous, all students
he'd seen before and all slumped in front of their laptops at
individual tables. Rod stayed open faithfully until one nearly
every night, catering to those who needed a comfortable
place to study or chill. Matt had come to appreciate the cozy
little getaway quite a bit in the past few months.

"So, closing time's in about a half hour." Rod's grin

warmed as Matt faced him again. "Can I convince you to stick
around after?"

Matt smiled, blinking slowly. Rod was not only an

attractive man, he'd also become quite a good friend in the
short time they'd known each other. That Rod very much
wanted to be more than just friends was a known quantity
between them. Rod had been making thinly veiled—and some
overt—overtures to Matt almost since the time they'd met.

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Matt had seriously considered the offers; however, memories
of an absurdly gorgeous man with long black hair and intense
green eyes—not to mention fangs—usually kept him from it.
"Thanks. But..."

"No," Rod sighed, finishing for him. He stood. "One of

these days, will you tell me more about this mysterious man
that you're hung up on?"

Matt had considered it. Rod should know, after all, about

the man who'd helped him to acquire the Koffee Hous in the
first place, but Matt had chosen to keep that little tidbit of
information to himself. In this case, what Rod didn't know
wouldn't hurt him, and not knowing the full truth would be
safer for him. "Maybe someday."

Rod screwed his lips into a confused frown. "Have you

called him yet?"

Matt focused on the paper napkin lying on the counter

before him. "Not yet."

"Are you going to?"
Shredding the rough brown recycled paper, he nodded. "I

think so. Yeah."

Three months, two weeks, and four days since Wolfe had

quietly left his apartment. Time enough for Matt to do a lot of
soul searching. Time enough for him to work through fear,
rage, and sorrow to emerge with shaky renewal. A lot had
happened to him personally in that short time. He'd decided
that he was just about ready to confront the thing foremost in
his mind.

Rod sighed. "Well, I hope it's nothing I've done to throw

you back at him."

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Matt laughed. "No, it's nothing you've done. I just think I

need to see him again."

Rod nodded. "Closure. I get it." He glanced toward the

cash register, at the photograph pinned to the corkboard over
it. Him and a taller man with short black hair, dark almond-
shaped eyes, and a wide smile, arms around each other as
they posed. "I had to do something like that for Henry.
Although..." He shrugged.

Matt nodded. "I know." He reached over the counter and

squeezed his friend's hand.

He didn't need the rest of the sentence to know what

followed. Henry, Rod's boyfriend, had been one of the other
men killed the night Daniel died. That connection was the
reason they knew each other. In the month following Wolfe's
last visit, Matt had sought Rod out, wanting to see how other
people Wolfe had "taken care of" were faring. It hadn't taken
much to find Rod and the coffee house that he'd owned for a
little over two years. Rod spoke of Henry often, always fondly,
but clearly he'd gotten on with his life in a much healthier
way than Matt had. Of course, Rod knew nothing of the
vampires. As far as he knew, Henry had been molested and
left for dead, as told by the official report. Matt saw no reason
to tell him the real truth.

Rod gave him a brave little grin as he squeezed back. "But,

hey, life goes on." He stood back, spreading his arms to
indicate the shop around them. "I've got the shop and you've
got this mystery man. Do bring him around sometime so I
can sigh over him, would you?"

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Matt grinned. He knew better. Rod, unlike him, had started

dating again over a year previous. No one serious and he still
missed Henry, but he was doing just fine.

"I'll do that. And on that note—" He stood, sliding his

jacket from the back of the stool. "—I'm going to head out."

Rod checked his watch. "Whoa, is it twelve thirty? I should

start clearing up." He looked past Matt. "Hey, any of you
going to need refills before closing?"

While the students roused themselves to decide if they

needed a last-minute caffeine fix, Matt bade his friend
goodbye and slipped into the night.

Standing on the corner, bathed in the cool light of the

overhead lamp, Matt shoved his hands into the pockets of his
jacket and turned his face up to the moon. Cool air caressed
his face, shuffling through his loose hair. Wispy white clouds
drifted across the otherwise clear sky, glowing bright silver as
they passed in front of the moon. He took one last fortifying
breath before pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and
punching speed dial.

Wolfe picked up on the third ring. "Matt?"
"Hi, Wolfe."
Pause. "What can I do for you?" That silken voice was

carefully modulated but still painfully sexy. It forced Matt to
fondly remember countless phone conversations.

"I'd like to see you."
"When?"
"Tonight good?"
"Certainly. Where."

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"My apartment." He started to walk down the street. As it

turned out, the Koffee Hous was a just a few miles from his
place, a nice forty-five-minute walk. "I'll be there in about an
hour."

"All right. I'll meet you there." Still very carefully said.
"'Kay. Bye." He hung up.
Wolfe was there when he walked up the outside steps to

his front door.

Three months, two weeks, and four days had not

diminished his reaction to the man. His smile was genuine,
reflecting the leap of his heart. "Hello, Wolfe."

Wolfe's answering smile was cautious but warm. His

elegant hands were hidden deep in the pockets of his slacks.
"Hello, Matt."

Matt put his key in the lock. "Will you come in?"
"If that's what you want."
Still wearing the smile, Matt glanced at him. "That's what I

want."

He couldn't blame Wolfe for being careful. It was touching,

actually. Wolfe wasn't sure what was going on or why Matt
wanted to see him, so he was treading carefully. Matt would
think less of him if he didn't behave that way.

He flipped on the light and shrugged out of his jacket,

tossing it onto a chair as he crossed the living room. His
apartment wasn't much different than it had been the last
time Wolfe had been there. Most of the changes in Matt's life
had taken place outside of the confines of his small home.

Sitting on one end of the couch, he motioned at the other

end. "Sit?"

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Wolfe did, smoothing his hands over the deep brown of his

slacks. The emerald of his silk shirt did wonders for his eyes.
All but a few errant wisps of his glorious hair were pulled back
into a ponytail, which Matt thought was a shame. Although, it
was probably better this way. The eyes alone were distraction
enough. With the hair loose, Matt might very well forget what
he wanted to say.

After a few moments, Wolfe tilted his head. "You wanted to

speak to me?"

"Yes. I did." Where to start? He'd rehearsed this

conversation for a week now, but all of his planned lines had
fled from his brain. "First, I want to thank you for your
recommendation."

Wolfe nodded, his long fingers idly toying with the seam in

the arm of the couch. "The new job is going well?"

"It is. Although—" He chuckled. "—my new boss isn't as

flexible about my hours."

That made Wolfe smile. "I'd be happy to take you back and

let you resume your old schedule."

"Would you?"
"Certainly."
"Even if there was no ... us?"
Wolfe's smile faded. "Even so. Aside from the fact that I

want to make sure you're provided for, you are the best
programmer I've ever worked with."

"Worked with a few, have you?"
Responding perhaps to Matt's light tone and continued

smile, Wolfe's lips turned up at the corners again. "A few,
yes."

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Matt nodded. "I didn't ask you here to talk about the job."
"I gathered."
"I've been checking up on you."
"I'd noticed."
"You did?"
"You don't live to be my age without being aware of who is

looking into your private affairs."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense." Suddenly shy, he

switched his gaze down to the knee he had bent on the couch
between them. "It's not like I dug all that deep."

"I'll let you know anything you care to know, Matthew."
He shivered at hearing Wolfe's voice again saying his full

name. "The families of the men who died the night Daniel
died. You helped them out without their knowing."

"Yes. There was no reason to intervene in their lives."
"But there was with me?"
"You are ... special. And I happened to have a job opening

for a programmer."

Matt shook his head. "The company didn't exist until right

after Daniel died."

Wolfe chuckled softly. "You have been doing your

research."

"I like to be thorough when I can."
"Indeed. All right, I started the company to give you

someplace to work. In my defense, it wasn't a far cry from
some of my other venues. But, because it was new, I had to
contact you personally."

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Matt nodded, his heart swelling to hear confirmation that

Wolfe had started a whole new company just to take care of
him.

Wolfe continued. "Then I got to know you, and I had a

good time working with you. I found myself investing far
more of myself in the company because I wanted to spend
more time with you."

Wolfe had been affected by their phone conversations too.

Matt hadn't been alone in that. "I found out much more.
You're almost solely responsible for keeping County General
running." County General was the largest local hospital that
was known to lean heavily on charitable contributions to
make ends meet. "But barely anyone knows it."

"Yes."
"You've kept eight homeless shelters and three gay and

lesbian centers afloat for the last five years and haven't
gotten any kind of credit for it."

"I've received some credit."
He looked up. "Not like you should. You're continually

helping people. Why?"

Wolfe smiled softly. "I have the means."
Matt shook his head. "That doesn't explain it."
Wolfe twisted to face Matt, pulling his knee up to mirror

Matt's position. "I've had centuries to watch human beings. In
that time, I've done more than my part to contribute to
human suffering." He cast his gaze aside. "I'm not proud of
that, and there's nothing I can do to help those whom I've
hurt, but I do have the means to help others." He shrugged.
"It's my way of apology."

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Matt had the distinct feeling that Wolfe did a lot more than

was necessary to atone for past wrongs. But he let it rest.
"How many other vampires are there in the world?"

Wolfe raised an eyebrow at the change of subject, but

followed seamlessly. "It's impossible to tell. I know of perhaps
a dozen others."

"Only a dozen?"
Wolfe smiled. "Contrary to what you see in movies, there

are not legions of vampires living in the sewers of every
metropolis. We are solitary predators and very jealous of our
territories. We tend to kill each other far more often than we
kill our prey."

This is new. "Really?"
"Really. There was a time in the past when there were

more of us, and that is the time when most of the legends
began. But recent decades have seen a decline since most of
us are simply not capable of adapting to our rapidly changing
times."

"But you are."
Wolfe shrugged. "I seem to be an exception."
"But you made Shawn."
A wince shook those broad shoulders. "Yes. I grew tired of

my lonesome existence. It happens from time to time, and
the lure of finding someone who can resist the call is
sometimes too great."

"There aren't many of us?"
Wolfe's look sharpened at his use of the pronoun. "No,

those who can resist the call are very few and far between."

"How many Shawns have there been?"

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"Sorry?"
"How many people have you changed?"
"In my time? Only four."
"Any of them still alive?"
"Two."
"Are they in the picture?"
"No. The last time I saw either of them was close to two

hundred years ago."

It blew his mind that Wolfe spoke in terms of centuries and

hundreds of years so calmly. The fact that he was sitting here
calmly discussing it with Wolfe was another source of wonder.

"I can resist the call."
"Yes, you can."
"Is that why you're attracted to me?"
"Not entirely, but I would be lying to say that it wasn't part

of the attraction."

"Because you could change me."
"Could being the operative word." Wolfe frowned. "I would

never dream of doing such a thing without your consent and
full knowledge."

Matt nodded, chewing his lip. Do I really want to do this?

Last-minute misgivings burbled to the surface. "I miss you,"
he blurted before he could chicken out.

Again, Wolfe followed his abrupt change of topic. "I miss

you."

"I miss talking to you. You were my only friend for so long,

the only one who even remotely knew me. I..." Shy again, he
watched his fingers pick at the worn piping along the top of
the back cushion of the couch. "I'd like to try dating."

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"Are you sure? Given what I am?"
"I'm sure. After everything I've found out about you, I

can't believe you aren't sincere in wanting to help me. I'd like
to get to know you."

"I would like that."
"Just dating," Matt hastened to add, frowning at his

fingernail. "I ... I don't think I'm afraid of you, but I'd like to
take some time before we ... y'know, get back to the sex."

Wolfe's hand closed over Matt's on the back of the couch,

his skin pale and cool in contrast to Matt's new tan. "I think
that's a fine plan."

Matt curled his hand around so he could weave his fingers

with Wolfe's. Only then did he turn to meet that emerald gaze
again. "You're okay with waiting?"

Wolfe's smile was gentle and unbearably sexy. Or did the

sexy part come from those lambent eyes with impossibly
long, sooty lashes? "I'll wait for as long as you need."

* * * *

Matthew sat at the wind-worn picnic table, enjoying the

heat of the fading sunshine as the breeze from the waves
below whipped some of his hair from the ponytail at the back
of his neck. This park at the top of a cliff was one of the
places he and Daniel had enjoyed visiting, a beautiful setting
not too far from school or home.

Daniel's empty urn sat on the table beside him, his ashes

having been cast to the sea about fifteen minutes ago. Matt
was pretty sure he'd approve. He'd had a thing for dolphins

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and would get a kick out of joining them for his final resting
place.

Crossing his arms on the table, Matt cleared his brain of all

but idle thoughts as he watched the glowing orange sun sink
through pink and purple clouds until it finally fizzled and gave
up that flash of green as it disappeared within the ocean.
Beautiful. He couldn't have asked for a lovelier sight for his
last day of life.

Smiling, he stood and gathered the empty urn. He took it

with him back to his Jeep, tucking it on the floor in the
backseat beside the duffle bag. Whistling, he swung into the
driver's seat and buckled in. He made an attempt at taming
his ponytail before starting up the Jeep to head for his new
home. His new life.

Actually, his death.
That still made him chuckle.
Night had taken hold before he reached Wolfe's house in

the hills. The house itself wasn't very impressive-looking.
Nice, but rather ordinary. Kind of secluded on six acres of
tree-filled land in a neighborhood of similar plots. It looked
quaint from the outside. People wouldn't know that a whole
secret suite of rooms was dug into the hill underneath it.

Matt parked his Jeep right next to Wolfe's Lexus. He had

gotten to know Wolfe's place well over the last year. So much
so that the duffle in his backseat was all that had been left to
bring from his apartment.

The porch light flickered on as he stepped up to the door.

Fitting his key into the lock, he crossed into the entryway and

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the rectangle of light on the floor from the kitchen doorway to
his right. "Wolfe?"

No answer—but he hadn't really expected one. Even

though he was surely awake, Wolfe didn't tend to emerge
from the bedroom downstairs without a good reason. Tonight
he had good reason to stay put.

Grinning at the thought, Matt turned away from the

kitchen and took the hallway to the back room. He didn't
need light, but he turned on the lamp in the unused "office"
anyway. Wolfe had plenty of protection around the place,
both mystical and electrical, but they tended to keep the
lamps on in a few rooms anyway so the house looked
somewhat lived in.

He went to the closet and stepped up to the hidden entry

at the back wall. The panel opened, and dim runway lights
illuminated the narrow staircase that took him down to
Wolfe's real home. The rooms above were furnished and
perfectly functional—Wolfe was careful to keep them so—but
they were no comparison to the suite below. It consisted of a
bedroom, a "play" room, Wolfe's real office, and a bathroom.
The square footage of those four rooms was more than that
of the two-bedroom house above.

Wolfe was not in the play room with its state-of-the-art

entertainment center and pool table, but Matt hadn't
expected to find him there. He dumped his bag on the long
sectional couch and continued toward the bedroom.

It was everything a vampire's bedroom should be, in

Matt's humble opinion, and it was decked out tonight. Black,
from the furniture, to the gauzy canopy, to the silk sheets.

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Hints of blue, purple, and red could be seen here and there,
but the room was predominantly black. A fitting contrast to
the pale skin of the man himself. The man who lay waiting for
Matt in the center of an absurdly huge bed. Candles were lit,
making Wolfe seem to glow as he sat up, watching Matt. Hair
as silky and dark as the sheets around him fell across his
shoulders and chest.

"Everything went well?"
Matt smiled, still admiring the decadent beauty of his

lover. One year they'd been together. One year Wolfe had
made him wait before he would even consider giving Matt the
chance to be with him forever. But that year was up tonight.
Tonight, Wolfe was his.

"Everything went fine." Matt grabbed the hem of his T-

shirt and pulled it up and off. "I gave back my keys and
everything." He tossed the shirt aside and grabbed onto one
of the sturdy posts at the foot of the bed to steady himself as
he took off his shoes.

"And Daniel?" Wolfe asked softly.
Warmth flooded Matt's chest. Not once, in all their time

together, had Wolfe been anything but respectful of Matt's
memory of Daniel. Too many former lovers in his own life,
he'd said, for him to dismiss the feelings. He knew the pain
over and over.

Matt was determined that Wolfe would never feel it again.
"Daniel's playing with the dolphins," he replied, sitting on

the edge of the bed to pull off his socks.

"Are you all right?"

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"I'm fabulous." Laughing, he twisted and lunged toward his

lover.

Chuckling softly, Wolfe caught him, easily tumbling back

into the pillows underneath Matt's weight.

Matt caught his jaw in his hands, tilting those lips so he

could taste them. He wormed his tongue between them,
purposely finding one of the delicate tips of Wolfe's fangs and
pricking himself.

It made Wolfe growl and clutch him, instinctively sucking

at the trickle of blood.

Matt growled right along with him, loving the effect he had

on this beautiful creature, needing to be so much more. Cool,
smooth skin warmed only slightly beneath his hands as he
pushed himself up, bracing on Wolfe's chest. He gazed down
at those glowing green eyes, knowing now that they did
indeed glow when need or desire rode the vampire. "You
must be hungry."

Eyelids shuttered just a little, and a rueful grin curled the

corner of Wolfe's mouth. "For you, always."

Matt slid his palms down until each one pressed a nipple.

"Then let's do this."

Wolfe slid his hands up Matt's arms. The feral gleam in his

eyes was still tempered with concern. "You're already mine."
Fingers toyed with the ponytail at his neck. "As I'm yours. We
don't need to do this."

"Yes. We do. I want to stay young and pretty for you."
Scowling, Wolfe yanked his hair.
Matt laughed, collapsing back on top of Wolfe. "Okay,

okay! Geez. You don't have to be so serious."

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Wolfe pulled the band from Matt's hair. "Yes, I do."
"No. You don't. We've talked about it. I took the year you

made me to think about it. I want to do this." He shook out
his now loose hair, letting it drift down his neck and
shoulders, knowing Wolfe enjoyed it. "I love you. My life is
with you."

"You can be with me without doing this."
True. He could. Wolfe had proven that to him. Wolfe could

bite him—and had bitten him a number of times, but not
enough to change him. Wolfe had proved that his feeding on
others didn't have to be the sexual thing it was with Matt,
alleviating that jealousy. Wolfe had assured him that he
would stay with Matt if Matt chose to remain human, that he
had done so with loves in the past.

But Matt didn't want that. He didn't want to grow old while

his lover stayed young. He didn't want to miss that final
connection that would truly mate them. He wanted Wolfe and
all that he was—and he had to change to have that.

He stood, feet braced on the mattress to either side of

Wolfe's silk-draped hips. He only wobbled a little as his hands
went to his fly and pulled the buttons open one by one.
Wolfe's gaze tracked him, his hands on Matt's shins to help
steady him. He helped Matt pull the jeans off, tossing them
aside as Matt lowered to his side on the mattress.

Their movement drew the sheets further down Wolfe's

hips, exposing the pale length of his thighs and the quiet
temptation of his cock. Not hard. No blood pressure, no
erection. That would happen later. Matt lowered his head over
it, taking the cool, soft flesh slowly into his mouth, knowing

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his lover enjoyed the sensation even if there was no
answering hardness. Experience and Wolfe's agonized intake
of breath told him so.

Wolfe's fingers threaded through his hair, cupping the back

of his skull as Matt happily suckled. His hips rocked gently.
Matt kept suckling until he heard Wolfe's gasps grow more
ragged. He looked up to see Wolfe biting his lower lip, fangs
pressing dangerously into the pale pink.

The time had to be right. Matt eased his mouth off Wolfe,

leaving the wet flesh lying on his belly. He kissed his way up
Wolfe's chest, his neck, to finally find Wolfe's lips. Wolfe
groaned, melting into Matt's kiss. The vampire was hungry,
purposely so in preparation of tonight. Tonight he had to
nearly kill Matt to let him be reborn. Matt was no longer
remotely frightened of it. He trusted Wolfe with his life and
his death.

Let's get on with it. Matt bit down on Wolfe's lip.
Wolfe hissed at the pain, yanking back before Matt could

taste his blood. He grabbed Matt's head, pulling him back and
stopping him from tasting.

"Bite me," Matt taunted, arching his neck even more. His

racing pulse had to be too much of a temptation. "Drink."

Apparently, Wolfe couldn't take it anymore. Starved,

aroused, he flipped Matt over onto his back. He shoved one
hand into the hair at the back of Matt's skull, pulling his head
aside to bury his nose in Matt's neck. "I love you," he
murmured.

Matt wrapped his arms around Wolfe's shoulders and his

legs around Wolfe's hips. "I love you too."

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Wolfe's tongue lapped over his pulse. Lips latched on and

sucked hard. Matt gasped, arching up into his lover in
response to the pleasure-pain. He barely felt it when Wolfe's
fangs penetrated his skin. But he knew when the vampire
started to feed. Matt tensed, then relaxed, concentrating on
the spreading warmth in the skin under his hands and draped
over his chest, not on the flutter of his heart as Wolfe drank
more than he had before.

Matt sank, feeling dizzy. His vision swam, so he closed his

eyes. His breath stuttered, not seeming all that important.
Panic tried to flare but couldn't catch hold as he drifted
toward a misty gray coolness that beckoned.

"Matthew."
Lovely voice, very different from the cool gray. The voice

was warm and red, dark and sultry. He should be interested.
He couldn't quite recall why.

"Drink."
Heat. Taste. Taste? The vibrancy of the feeling that spread

through his being couldn't possibly be explained in one word.
Colors were food, red and black sliding into what had once
been his body, or perhaps his soul.

Thump. Thump.
Sweet. No, spicy. No, copper. No, wine. There wasn't a

way to explain. But it filled him with heat, made him aware of
his arms, now clutching smooth satin skin. Of his legs, held
up and apart while a delicious, hard warmth tunneled into his
welcoming body. Of Wolfe over him, body straining as he
thrust, blood pouring down Matt's throat.

"Enough."

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Matt screamed in protest, mouth wide as Wolfe's hand

ripped him from his hold on Wolfe's throat. Whimpering, he
fought the hold, scrambling to bring the wound back where
he could drink, but Wolfe held him, pinned him, fucked him,
distracted him until he was whimpering for an entirely
different reason than dark hunger.

Wolfe's punishing kiss muffled his cries. His tongue

plundered Matt's mouth, scraping on one of Matt's new fangs.
Some of that sweet ambrosia spilled into Matt's mouth, and
he suckled Wolfe's tongue, mewling from two types of
ecstasy, two towering plumes of pleasure that finally touched
off and ignited the explosion deep within him. He detonated,
flying to pieces, and as always, Wolfe's strong embrace was
all that held him together.

Sanity returned very slowly. Just as slowly, Matt took

stock. His body felt pleasantly used, but that was nothing new
after having sex with Wolfe. His neck kind of hurt, but again
that was nothing new. His skin tingled, kind of like the
marching-ant sensation of a limb reawakening after having
been asleep. The fact that when he tried to hum his pleasure
he couldn't because there was no air in his lungs was a tad
alarming. Idly, he wondered and decided his last breath had
been a contented sigh after Wolfe came and sank down on
top of him.

Consciously drawing in a breath, he nearly expelled it

again in shock at the riot of scents that flooded his head. Sex,
sweat, and blood, yes, all far more intense than usual, but he
could also detect what he finally decided was the laundry
detergent on the sheets and the faint floral odor of the

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shampoo he and Wolfe had been using. He pulled in a second
breath as a sample, wiggling a little underneath Wolfe, which
provided another distraction. The softness of the silk beneath
him, the sink of the mattress, the indescribably velvety
goodness of the man draped across him. Fascinated, he ran
his hands over Wolfe's back and neck. Finding hair, he
moaned at the sheer sinful sleekness of it.

Chuckling softly, that sound a whispered caress in Matt's

overloaded brain, Wolfe braced on his elbows above Matt.
"Are you all right?" Fingers lightly caressed Matt's jaw.

Matt opened his eyes, jerking in delighted surprise at the

dazzling display of colors in what had before seemed to be a
simple monochrome black silk canopy. The sight distracted
him from the oddly familiar and oddly foreign sensation of
breathing. If he'd thought Wolfe was beautiful before, it was
nothing compared to what he now saw. "Oh, man." The sheer
spectacle nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Wolfe smiled, gently smoothing the tears away with his

thumb. "Take your time. It takes getting used to."

"This is what it's like to be you?"
Wolfe's smile was breathtaking. "Yes."
Matt brought his hands around, reaching to cup Wolfe's

face. He panicked a little to feel strength ebbing from his
limbs.

No doubt reading his expression, Wolfe caught one of his

hands and brought it to his lips. "You'll need to sleep now.
Your body needs to finish changing, and it's better done when
you're not awake."

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Matt shuddered when a shiver of pain seeped into his

bones. "I'll wake up?"

Wolfe's gaze was nothing but reassuring, his lips ghosting

over Matt's knuckles. "Yes. I promise."

Matt blinked heavily, but he jerked his eyes back open, not

wanting to relinquish the sight of his lover. "But..."

Smiling, Wolfe leaned in to kiss each of Matt's eyelids. The

shutters over his eyes closed and refused to obey Matt's
drifting mind's command to open again.

"Sleep, love," Wolfe murmured, decadent voice tucking

Matt into delicious warmth. "When you wake, we'll be
together." Lips brushed his forehead. "Always."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Gift of the Raven

Angela Fiddler

The river was shallow here, which only made the currents

cutting through the rocks by the shore all the stronger. A
flood had carved out the edges of the banks, and the city had
yet to rebuild the safe pathways, mini cement roads with
dividing lines. The crumbling remains of the old path went in
fits and starts down the new banks, and the fading remains of
human interference left Luke feeling better than if there were
no signs of humans at all.

It was quiet. Humans could take dark and cold, but

combine them and even the roughest beat it to the safest,
brightest lit path. The only creatures down here with him had
four legs and the bright, piercing eyes of predators. The
thermometer had taken a dive during the day. Luke felt it
even deep in the basement of the house he'd taken as his. It
wasn't just the smell of burning dust from the central heating
kicking in; when the first delicate lines of ice had formed on
the edge of the smallest puddle left over from the three days
of rain, he'd felt it in his bones.

He exhaled, and his breath fogged around him. He wasn't

as warm as he could have been; it had been at least a day
since he'd fed, but it was a wholly human response to the
change of season. It had been years—almost a century, now
that he thought about it—since the last time he saw a flock of
geese flying south, but the desire to trade his long, dark

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evenings for heat was so strong he felt his body sing with the
need.

A bird screeched above him, the sound echoing against the

trees and rocks around him. It wasn't Corbin, but one of his
minions, Luke had no doubt. He would have felt Corbin, even
in winged form. And sure enough, the silence had time to
settle down around him before he heard the beating of wings
just a little bigger than they ought to have been. Luke didn't
crane his neck to see; Corbin was as black as an empty eye
socket. The beating wings were just in front of him, but Luke
didn't see Corbin until he landed and shifted, if that was the
right word for abruptly becoming something else.

The world was various shades of gray under the bright

moon, but Corbin reflected silver light. His black hair was
short enough that the handsome shape of his skull was
visible, and his green eyes were arctic when compared to his
warm skin. He wore a black turtleneck, and jeans were tight
on his ass. It wasn't hard to remember those details; it was
what he always wore. The only concession he'd make for the
seasons was the gauge of the cotton. That night was freezing,
but Corbin still wore leather gloves that were as soft as a
dying sigh. He never took them off, not even during sex, and
the smell of them left Luke hard and yet still full of loathing.

"Moping is beneath you," Corbin said. "Truly. You sicken

me just by looking at you."

"Then go away, Corbin." Luke picked up a smooth, flat

rock, just meant for skipping across the water, but he didn't
throw it. Instead, he clenched his fist around it. "It will solve
both our problems."

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"I'm bored."
"My heart bleeds."
"Then you won't mind if I lick it up for you," Corbin said,

and was suddenly kneeling over where Luke sat on one of the
crumbling remains of the path. Corbin was hot and heavy, too
full of blood. It gave his cheeks a blush that Luke could only
envy. "It's cold, you're hard, and I'm horny. Let's just fuck."

Luke stood despite Corbin's weight over him. He pushed

Corbin away, and one of Corbin's fangs cut his lip as he
twisted back. Corbin dabbed his lip with the back of his fist.
The blood he gathered up was invisible on the black leather in
the dark, but Luke smelled it. "Playing hard to get," he said.
"Or should I say, playing already got, but would like to get
again."

"It's over, Cory. Everything. I'm done with you." Using

Corbin's human name was an admission of weakness, and if
Luke could have swallowed his tongue in the next instant, he
would have. Corbin, of course, saw it. Corbin missed nothing.

Corbin smiled and opened his arms widely. "Wouldn't you

like the two of us to go back to your place, get naked, and
fuck in front of the fire? I'll even let you suck my fingers. You
know you like that."

Luke brushed off his jeans and headed back up the path to

civilization. "Fuck you, Corbin."

"I'm trying," Corbin called to his retreating back.
The parking lot was empty except for a derelict car parked

in the far corner. It had half a dozen parking tickets from the
city, probably worth more than the car itself. The leather
seats were ripped and shredded in what had once been a

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pretty nice interior, but Luke smelled the death in the car. His
gift told him more than he wanted to know. The owner hadn't
died here, but down by the river, and he'd fallen into the fast
current. It had been a night like this, with the same strong
current, and no one had seen the body slip out of the city.
Luke shook his head, knowing he shouldn't be feeling a pang
of regret. In his heyday he'd caused more than a couple
people to disappear, but he couldn't help the morbid sense of
loss inside him from growing.

Corbin perched up on the car's hood, coiled like a bird that

had just come to rest. He steamed in the chilly air, visible
now under the single streetlight that lit the otherwise dim
parking lot, and Luke knew if he took three steps over to
where Corbin was, he could pull Corbin down to him, force
him over the hood of the car.

Corbin's dark eyes were black under the harsh lights. He

parted his lips, offering, and this was different than the offer
down below. No words. It was primal. They weren't meant to
be solitary creatures, and Luke had been alone for years
before he'd found Corbin turning tricks on the street. He
hadn't wanted to turn him, didn't want the responsibility,
especially not after what had happened to him, but he'd
believed Corbin and his lies.

And they had been lies. How Corbin had looked at him and

known what he was still escaped Luke, but he thought about
it practically every day. He'd hunted Cory only to find himself
trapped. Cory had renamed himself, and Corbin hadn't been
reborn so much as he'd been ... released.

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Still, Luke went to him. Corbin spread his legs wide enough

that the tight denim didn't have enough fabric left to wrinkle.
This close the warmth coming off him was hot enough to prick
the skin on Luke's face. He grabbed Corbin's hips, wishing he
could just overlook what a cold bastard Corbin was
underneath all the heat and unspoken invitation.

Corbin slid down to his ass, about to wrap his legs around

Luke's hips, but Luke stopped him, pinning his knees down.
Corbin fought, but as strong as he was, he was still barely out
of the pup stage. Luke was just stronger. "Not even if you
were the last set of prick and balls in western Canada," he
whispered in Corbin's ear, but still couldn't stop himself from
dragging his fangs across Corbin's cheek.

Luke felt Corbin's groan reverberate through the metal of

the car. "Luke," he began, his voice halfway between a drawl
and a plea, but then he stopped talking. Luke heard it too;
the soft chinking behind them was the sound of a hand
drawing back drapes. The only thing behind them was an old
historic restaurant. Luke turned, suddenly ill at ease having
his back to the blacked-out windows. But when he turned,
one of the windows was lit.

It wasn't the window in the attic, though he expected it to

have been for the effect. Attics always made him think that
the ceiling was about to collapse on him, and he'd always
hated the feeling. It was the second-story window, the one on
the left. And there was definitely a man's shadow against the
bright light, looking down at him. It should have meant
nothing. There was no reason for the alarm Luke was
feeling—but he was. He watched as the man lazily pointed his

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finger from Luke, to Corbin, back to Luke, and then came to
rest on Corbin. "Get in my car," Luke said without looking
away. He was parked on the street, and the engine would still
be warm.

"What?" Corbin asked.
"Get in my car," Luke said, and the car's alarm shreeped.

He didn't want to sprint the few yards between the two cars,
but in another moment or so, the panic would force him to
bolt. Instead, he grabbed Corbin by the arm. "Get in the
fucking car, Corbin. Don't argue with me."

Corbin, for once, didn't. He threw himself into the

passenger seat, sprawling like he owned the car, like he had
every time he'd gotten into the car from the very first. He
even drummed his fingers against his inseam. "My place or
yours?" he asked.

Luke didn't look at him, but stared at the restaurant they

just passed. The Deane House, it was called. He'd passed it a
hundred thousand times on his way to the river bed. It had
only been opened for brunch, so he'd never been inside it, but
it had seemed fairly innocuous in a neighborhood full of
historic buildings. It had even been painted a cheery red brick
color, before the fire that had gutted it months ago. It
seemed odd that they were just now renovating. The windows
on the front side looked like bruised eyes in the darkness, and
the cheery sign advertising their hours had a Closed for
restoration sign over it. It hadn't been there at midnight,
when Luke had driven past.

"I said, your place or mine?" Corbin said, louder this time.

His fingers were constantly moving over his inseam, a dead

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giveaway for how personally he would take the rejection.
Luke was suddenly too tired to fight. "Mine," he said.

"All right," Corbin said and leaned back. "I knew you

couldn't resist."

Luke looked behind him in the rearview mirror, but all the

windows were dark again. The knot in his belly didn't go
away. "It means nothing, Corbin."

"Keep telling yourself that, old man."
Luke's house was so far in the suburbs, the first time he'd

driven up the driveway to the attached garage, Corbin, then
Cory, had made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

"You're still here?" he demanded.
"Yes," Luke said. When he'd been in Seattle, his old

master, Marcus, had had one of the huge, decaying old
houses that he'd saved from the wrecker ball. It had been
divided up into eight different suites, and in the late evening,
before the sun went all the way done, Luke had hated
wandering the broken-down halls. When Marcus had picked
up everything and moved to Calgary, Luke couldn't wait, until
he saw Marcus had purchased practically the same house as a
replacement. There was a dead man who searched through a
bureau that wasn't there anymore, and a woman who
sometimes climbed the narrow, winding staircase with her
walker, and sometimes just lay there on the main floor of the
landing, her head at a strange angle.

Marcus and Luke had rattled around the huge house

together, but grew further and further apart. When they'd
had their first, last, and only fight. Marcus had left him there,

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in a house Luke hated, and promised he'd send for him when
he was settled back in Seattle and had cooled off.

Only he never did. Eventually, Luke sold the house. The

housing market had been hot, and the huge lot the house
stood on had been worth more than Luke thought possible.
He'd used half the money to buy the small, cozy house on
Maple Creek Drive, and the rest he invested. It had done
quite well for him, too.

"Luke, buddy, you here with me? It's getting light out

there."

"Right," Luke said. He turned off the engine and closed the

garage door before getting out of his specially treated car
with its specially treated windows. "After you."

"I don't have a key," Corbin said.
"And I don't believe you. After you."
"You're not a trusting soul, are you?" Corbin asked, but

fished out the keychain from his too-tight jeans.

"No," Luke said. "Leave them when you go."
Corbin tsked, but unlocked the door, punched in the

master code on the alarm, and led the way into the living
room.

Trying very hard to look like he wasn't, Corbin took a look

around. "You haven't changed much."

Luke glanced around the room himself. "I bricked in the

skylight," he said, pointing up. Other than that, the only thing
that had changed was which night-blooming flowers he had in
the garden. The spider plants had runners across the
hardwood floor that he swept around rather than disturbing,
and the big leather couches were overstuffed and

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comfortable. The rug under the coffee table was new, now
that he thought about it, but just new to the house. He loved
the way it had been passed on from family member to family
member, and while he didn't understand the language of the
conversations that had been held over it, they had been
mostly held with love. The rug warmed the entire room for it.

"Still rattling around here all alone with just your ghost?"
Mrs. Reinhart, who had owned the house before Luke, was

still around. She'd died here, a month or so before Luke had
bought the place, and he still saw her sometimes. She spent
time in his garden, working with flowers and herbs that had
long since shriveled and died, and when he was really tired he
saw her in the kitchen, puttering around in the dead of night
when the elderly had trouble sleeping, fixing herself a pot of
tea or a piece of toast. She saw him; he knew she did, but
she barely acknowledged him with a nod before going back to
her business at hand.

"She's still here."
"And are you still pining for your master?"
"Corbin, don't."
Corbin stepped on the rug, kicking off his shoes. His socks

came next, and only barefoot did a hint of softness enter his
face. "So, you want to fuck or not?"

Luke shook his head. "Can you at least pretend you give a

rat's ass? Please, Corbin. For me."

For a moment, Corbin flushed. "My bad. If you want to

pretend you don't think I'm a bastard and I don't remember
that you think I'm really nothing to you, we can," he said. "I
like the couch. Can we fuck here, please?"

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It was good enough, all things considered. Luke knew he

shouldn't have said anything. Corbin wasn't his; he didn't
have to be the one trying to change everything about him. It
wasn't the first time they'd gotten back together for sex—hell,
it wasn't the first time this month—but it was the first time
they'd gotten to the taking-off-clothes part without at least
one screaming match.

Corbin pulled off his sweater. He'd lost weight since he was

human; the last of his fast food diet had sweated out of him.
He'd always been thin, despite everything he ate, but he was
hard now, in all senses of the word. His stomach was flat—no
six-pack apparent—but Luke had never found that particularly
attractive. And his pectorals had finally come, his chest no
longer caved in. He hadn't taken off his gloves. He wouldn't,
not unless Luke asked him to. He stood, wearing only leather
and jeans, waiting for Luke to give him a sign, but Luke just
wanted another minute to soak in the view.

"You are beautiful," he said.
"Thank you," Corbin said. He swallowed, needlessly. "Do

you want me to continue?"

"If you want to."
Corbin frowned, but only for a second. This was the point

where he liked Luke to just take over, make all the decisions
or just worship his cock, but Luke just wasn't interested in the
old roles. Corbin undid his jeans, sliding them off quickly as
though Luke couldn't or wouldn't see his lack of underwear,
and then he was completely naked save for the gloves.
"There. You happy?" The voice was harder than Corbin
probably intended, but he was flushed all over, and his cock

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was already semi-hard. Like it or not—and Luke knew Corbin
didn't like it at all—there was a strong streak in him that
enjoyed being watched, regardless of how open that left him.

"I'm happy," Luke told him. "You can relax. I'm not going

to hurt you."

Another disgusted sound, but Corbin moved his hands to

his thighs, palms out, and stroked the inside of his thighs with
his gloves. Luke recognized the sound. It was Corbin's that
will cost you extra noise, but at least he didn't say it. Luke
knew Corbin loved him, but it was in his own way and at his
own pace, and that was something that they could never
agree on.

"Don't go back, then. Stay with me now," Corbin said.

"Please."

"I'm here. Do you want to take off your gloves?"
Corbin looked down to his fingers. "Not particularly."
"You don't have to if you don't want to."
Corbin only nodded. His hair was short—something new for

him since they'd broken up—but still he swept imaginary hair
off his neck, offering his throat to Luke. "I drank more for
you," he said. "I always drink more for you. Would you drink
from me?"

That was something Luke could do. He went to Corbin and

kissed the tight line of muscle over his collarbone. "Do you
want me to bite here?" he asked and kissed the base of his
neck where the vein surfaced.

Corbin only nodded. Luke bit down into the warm skin and

felt the first bit of blood in his mouth. He shouldn't have gone
so long between his feedings. The hunger forced the feeding

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into something more primal, and he couldn't stop himself
from growling. Corbin put his head down, hands open and
behind his back, and didn't try to escape. Cory let him feed
past the point where Luke knew he should stop. But the blood
was sweet and hot, and he was hungry and cold. When he
finally broke away, Corbin had to brace himself on the couch
just under his ass.

Luke pulled off his clothes, letting them stay where they

landed, and waited while Corbin recovered enough to drop
down to his knees. He crawled to where his jeans were, in
front of the couch, and pulled out a thin tube. He used the
couch to support his weight on his elbow so that he could
smear some of the lube onto his fingers.

Luke stroked the small of Corbin's back gently. Corbin only

flinched after he pushed the second finger inside himself, and
even then only for a second. "We don't have to do this," Luke
said. "I can suck you, if you want."

"No," Corbin said, voice short. He forced himself to take a

deep breath, and holding it inside him seemed to help. Luke
didn't know why, and he supposed if he did, there wouldn't be
the wall there was between them.

"Okay," Corbin said, still short. He let the rest of the

breath out, then took another. "I mean, I'm ready. If you are,
Luke."

If Luke had used a pair of pliers to pull the words out, they

wouldn't have arrived any more mangled or broken. Corbin
was waiting for him on his hands and knees, head inches
away from the cushions, but it was wrong. Luke knew Corbin
would hate it. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the couch

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and pulled Corbin up to him. Corbin's face relaxed. "Thanks,"
he said.

"How long has it been this bad?" Luke asked.
"I'm not looking for you to be my shrink right now," Corbin

said and climbed up onto the couch. He turned around, not
facing Luke. If Luke had said something, he knew Corbin
would have turned around, but in that moment, he honestly
didn't want to see how broken Corbin still was. "Accept this
for what it is," Corbin said, and it was so close to what Luke
had just been thinking, a stab of guilt caught him.

"Just a snack before a booty call," Luke said, knowing he

should just push Corbin away. It should have been easy, with
Corbin not even facing him, but his shoulders were bowed,
and Luke just couldn't do it. Corbin wouldn't argue. Luke
could see him getting dressed, despite how close the sunrise
was, and walking out into the growing light. Luke took
Corbin's hips, unable to ask him to stay, but wanting him to
know that Luke wanted him to stay.

"You got it," Corbin said, but if it was to what Luke said or

what he didn't say, Luke would never know. Corbin sank
down over Luke's cock. For a moment there was too much
resistance. It hurt, but just for a second before Corbin opened
up for him. "Let me. Please, Luke."

That didn't come out as hard. Luke removed his hands,

locking them behind his head. Corbin braced himself on
Luke's knee, with upper body strength that Luke could only
envy. Their bodies didn't forget their rhythm. Corbin started
slow, knowing Luke preferred it that way. Luke closed his
eyes, giving in to the growing tension.

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"Admit it. You missed me," Corbin said. He came to rest in

Luke's lap. Luke wanted to grab his shoulders, pulling him
even further down, but he didn't.

There was no reason to answer, so Luke didn't. "You can

hold my hips," Corbin said. "Just don't—"

Just don't try to control him, Luke thought. He didn't have

to; Luke had learned his lesson. Only once Luke's hand was in
place did Corbin really start to move. He fucked himself, using
Luke more as a tool rather than as a partner, and with his
head bowed Luke had nothing to look at but Corbin's well-
muscled back. Luke could have stood up and forced him over
the couch, but wouldn't. It had taken them over a year before
they'd actually achieved penetration with anything bigger
than a finger. Luke remembered teasing Corbin that it must
have meant that he'd been a pretty lousy hustler, but Cory,
who had been licking his own finger, had stopped for just a
second. "Or a very good one," he'd said, simply, and gone
back to sucking his finger.

"Slap me," Corbin said, voice distant. "Both hands. Please,

Luke."

Luke rubbed Corbin's skin. It was easier with Corbin not to

be able to see his face. Luke slapped him, flat hand open. The
hand print pinked instantly and its heat radiated. Corbin
thrust back, groaning in pain, but he was harder for the blow.
"Again," he moaned.

Luke slapped him again, catching him only with his

fingertips. It was a stinging blow, harder than Luke intended,
but it only pulled another moan from Corbin. "Don't stop," he
said, throwing his head back. "Just don't stop. Please."

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"I won't," Luke promised. And he wouldn't. Corbin's cheeks

turned a deep ruby red. He was close. His shoulders
shuddered, and the moans he made were softer, now full of
need. Luke grabbed onto his hips, something he would never
be allowed to do unless Corbin was completely in his
headspace.

Corbin reached behind him, and the leather on his fingers

was as warm as his skin. He sought out Luke's hands,
entwining their fingers. He leaned back into Luke's chest. The
tension in his body was electric, and he stopped fucking
himself on Luke's cock to better ... writhe—if that was the
word for it—against Luke's body. He let go, trying to get Luke
to dig his nails into the bare skin of Corbin's thighs, to mark
him, but Luke kept his fingers straight.

"You bastard." Corbin was already coming. His entire body

shuddered, and he tightened his muscles on Luke. For a
moment it was too much, but Luke grabbed Corbin's hips and
pulled him all the way down. Luke pushed him away, then
pulled himself back, and that was enough. He came too,
biting down into Corbin's shoulder, and Corbin only shuddered
again. The blood tasted of Corbin's need. Luke's orgasm
crested too quickly, overwhelming for just the split second,
and when it receded, it left him empty and broken. Corbin
remained still for another minute, his entire body just waiting
for Luke to push him off. But instead, Luke just kissed the
spot he'd bitten, cleaning it off until the wound closed itself.

Afterward they went downstairs. If Luke had offered the

invitation, it would have probably sparked an argument, so he
didn't ask. It was full daylight outside, and they both felt it in

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their bones. Luke's body always felt heavier during the day. It
was more difficult for him to move or even articulate coherent
sentences. Corbin didn't feel it as strongly, but they still went
silently and stiffly down to the store room. Luke had
converted it to his master bedroom, but he still thought of it
as a store room. The concrete on the floor had been made of
churned and hardened earth, and it was more welcoming to
him during the day than the finest carpet could have been. It
kept the room cool and protected them while the sun raged
on above them.

They fell into their own sides of the bed and didn't touch as

they fell asleep. Luke woke up once during the day while the
sun was hot enough to reach even the basement. The
radiation flooded his body, making him feel like he was in the
throes of a hangover.

Corbin's naked arm was over the covers. He'd taken off his

glove, something that Luke had never seen him do before,
and his left hand was exposed. Corbin—Cory, his brain
provided because Luke had always hated the name Cory had
chosen—didn't stir, not even when Luke ran his hand down
Cory's arm. It was absolutely dark in the room; Luke's eyes
didn't even have a speck of light to see with, but he felt
where Cory's slightly chilly skin was, and the burn on Cory's
hand ached for both of them.

The rivets from the iron were colder white circles in the

already cool scar tissue. Cory had done it to himself back
when he was a human teenager. There had been no great
tragedy in Cory's life, just a con artist father who cared if he
was there or not only as long as he was useful. As soon as

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Cory was old enough, the old man would drag him along on
his short cons. Most of his marks didn't believe such a caring
father could be up to no good, and he'd taken full advantage
of that. Poor Cory learned quickly that his father loved him
only on the little trips that they took, and his disgust at the
stupidity of people was born. The jobs hadn't lasted, of
course, and eventually his father was arrested and sent to
jail. Cory had been sent to live with his aunt. The woman had
taken the court's maintenance money and then didn't
maintain anything. Cory spent the next few years in and out
of juvie. But he conned his social worker the same way his
father conned his marks, and the stays were never too long.

Cory had just turned eighteen and the money stopped

coming that his aunt had put him on a bus with a one-way
ticket. He'd come to Calgary with a freshly ruined hand, and
the normal jostling of the bus had just about killed him after
some older men had rolled him in the washroom for his pain
meds. That much Luke knew.

He extrapolated the rest. Cory didn't talk about it, but

there were nights when he would listen to Luke speak and
would provide one-word answers that built the story up in bits
and pieces. It had to have been a vampire. Cory hadn't shown
any surprise when Luke came out to him, as it were. The old
scars on his neck were a dead giveaway, regardless.

The vampire, whoever it had been, had wanted Cory. Luke

had only been compelled once, and he remembered how
horrified he had been to have absolutely no control. For a
teenager like Cory, it would have been hell.

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And the hold had been a strong one. It must have been

someone quite powerful. Cory hadn't just touched the iron.
Oh, no. He'd held it to his flesh, and even as he felt the burn
spreading into his hand, the need to obey had still been
there. He'd passed out, and only then had the spell been
broken.

It had wounded him in more ways than physically. His aunt

had taken him to the hospital, where they not only treated
the wound itself; they had him committed for an obvious self-
inflicted injury. Cory had never forgiven for her signing the
papers that had locked him up however temporarily when
that thing had hunted him. When they released him, she had
put him on a bus with an extra roll of bandages, a bottle of
rattling pills that hadn't made it past the first stop off the bus,
and a battered, duct-taped suitcase which hadn't lasted past
the second.

Luke had never seen a wound that had come over on a

vampire after they woke up in their new life, but this mark
had.

But they'd been making it work. Cory still accused him of

wanting his master to return, but the longer they were
together, the less true that was. And even when they did
fight, the make-up sex blew Luke's mind and cock. But then
they'd come out of a pub in September. The autumn
heatwave had finally broken, making Luke wish he'd brought
his jacket in with him. He was about to jokingly offer to bring
the car around for Cory, who always took the chill worse than
he did, but Cory, for an instant, didn't appear to hear him.

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He'd turned away, facing north, and for a second, Luke saw
real fear in Cory's face.

Then the argument started. It led to a fight, then almost a

full brawl, and as much as Luke wanted to disengage, there
was no way to avoid the expert way Cory mashed each and
every one of his buttons.

"I wish you had gone with anyone besides me," he told

Cory, who only pulled his hand back under the covers and
turned his back to Luke.

The message was loud and clear. Luke sighed and went

back to sleep himself.

He woke up alone in bed, but Cory was nearby. Luke

dressed in the dark and left the room. The tantalizing smell of
coffee filled the first floor; he'd forgotten Cory was such an
early riser. He remembered in time that Cory made it
stronger than he liked, yet another thing they argued about,
but this time he just added tap water before taking his mug
outside with him.

Cory was by the pond, watching the fish. They weren't koi;

Luke found those just a little pretentious. They were just
goldfish, grown huge in the freedom Luke had allowed them.

"Where's Joe?" Cory asked, instead of a hello. He was

dressed in his jeans and a flannel shirt of Luke's. It had been
packed away with the rest of Luke's winter-weight clothes, so
Cory must have gone hunting for it.

"He went to the fish pond in the sky, Cory," Luke said.

"Sorry."

Cory had picked out Joe and Billy himself years ago. Billy

was still in the pond. He was the largest, most cantankerous

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of all nine, and as Luke spoke, Billy himself surfaced with a
flash of orange and then swam out of sight, to even their
inhuman eyes.

"Oh." Cory looked away. There weren't a lot of flowers that

were night blooming and could survive the climate so far
north, but Luke had systematically hunted them down and
brought them in. "For fuck sake, Luke," Cory said and shook
his head. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Luke felt like Cory had just rolled up

a newspaper and rapped him on the nose with it.

"What do I mean?" Cory asked and motioned all around

him, at the flowers, the garden swing, the patio table. "You're
trying to re-create life here. You're not ... this isn't ... This
isn't why we are here! You're hiding out."

Luke clicked the mental stopwatch in his head. And they

were off. "This is what I am," he said between clenched teeth.
"Forgive me if I'm not hiding out in an abandoned garage in
an alley somewhere."

"I'm not hiding out," Cory snapped, then covered his

mouth. "I'm sorry. I just—"

Luke stopped already forming his next insult in his head.

Cory had never ever, not once, ever apologized or stopped his
too-quick tongue from cutting. "I didn't come here to fight."

"I'm not trying to—" Luke didn't finish, either. He was

never going to change Cory into a perfect companion, but
that didn't change the desire. "You seem to think there is
more to this life. But there isn't. We exist. We feed. But
greater purpose? There isn't one."

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"I don't choose to believe that," Cory said, and then for the

first time in their relationship—such as it was—they actually
arrived peacefully at an impasse. Cory shivered and wrapped
his arms around himself. His gloves shone in the moonlight.
"Can you at least drive me home?"

The change in him touched on some protective spot inside

Luke that he'd thought was long dead. "You know I will. But
why aren't you going to fly?"

Cory looked up at him and let the exhaustion show on his

face. He'd slept well the night before, but Luke saw it was the
first time in a long time. "There's a bad wind blowing," he
said simply. "And I don't want to be in it. If it's too much
work, I can always take the C-Train."

Luke didn't point out that this comfortable life that

disgusted Cory so much almost always included a car of some
sort. Nor did he want Cory in the wind. In fact, as he stood
there, the wind touched him for the first time. It stole the
steam from his coffee, touched his hair, and tried to wrap
itself around his neck. It wasn't looking for him, but for Cory.
"Stay," he said, not meaning to say anything.

"What?"
"Stay here, with me. At least for the next little bit. There's

something going on here. I promise you there won't be any
strings."

The pond's heater kicked in, and they both jumped at the

knocking sound. It seemed to wake Cory up. He eyed Luke
warily. "Do you have any blood packs?"

"A couple."

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Cory nodded and looked back up again. The stars were too

bright. The cold night turned the air into a huge crystal, and if
they weren't careful, they'd be caught up in it. "Dibs on your
O negative."

Luke would have given up a lot more than his O negative

stash if it meant them going inside again. "Agreed."

* * * *

Lathe didn't have to search very long to find the city

Corbin had ended up in. The moment he reached Calgary's
city limits and crossed over the first river, the water had
whispered Corbin's location to him. It had woken Brutus, and
Brutus never forgot a scent. Years ago Lathe had promised
his wolf what remained of Cory after he used the young man
to open the vortex and release the energy stored inside it.
Cory's escape had cheated them both.

It had taken him longer to find Calgary's source of power.

Unlike most major cities, especially cities that had bodies of
water and a location so close to the mountains, the land here
was empty and dead. There were hardly any vampires; two,
in fact, if he counted Cory. It didn't surprise him to find that
Cory had got himself turned; he just wondered at the
unfortunate bastard who'd turned him, or how long it had
taken Cory to convince the other to take him. But if Cory
thought that was enough to protect him, he was only delaying
the fate Lathe had in mind for him, not circumventing it at all.

He'd used Cory to harness a small vortex in a northern

town in British Columbia. It had been a school they'd used as
quarantine during a tuberculosis outbreak, and the deaths

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there created a block in the power lines the river brought into
the town. Most of the cities had already been claimed by
established vampire clans; Lathe didn't want to share. Cory
had been so close, and when he'd left, Lathe had tried to
open it himself. But like a tick with its head buried in its
victim, lopping off the body only poisoned the lines. He
needed Cory, damn it. He needed to be able to transfer the
vortex from feeding on the lines to feeding off the host that
Cory would become, and then Lathe would kill the vortex and
Cory at the same time.

And the fact that Calgary should have been rich with power

lines running under the city told him there was another sort of
drain on the lines. Another vortex. He'd been expecting
something big, but nothing prepared him for how strong it
actually was. They were so close to the bedrock here. The
ground beneath his feet remembered what it was like to form
mountains. And the people ... Lathe took his pleasure from
power more than anything, but his cock stirred at the thought
of the slaves he would harvest. All that hot blood and willing
lust would be welcome after his long search.

The restaurant was in the middle of two rivers converging,

and it seemed smaller than its dimensions. It hadn't taken
him much to set the fire inside the kitchen—nothing major,
mind, only enough to gut the kitchen itself—and it took very
little to convince the proprietors to just wait on the
restoration work. There had been a large squawk about it, but
eventually it died down, and the restaurant was his. From
there, it was just a matter for the weather to take a colder
turn, which would set Brutus free.

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A banging came from upstairs. It wasn't Brutus, who was

waiting patiently for true dark by the door and unable to take
physical form quite yet. Lathe stood up, climbing the staircase
to the main level. The building had been a restaurant for so
long, it reeked of humans and their filthy habits, but it hadn't
always had such an innocuous existence. People had died
here, and died violently. Lathe knew of a suicide on the third
floor, a murder/suicide on the second, and an older
convalescing patient who had been tossed down the stairs.
When that hadn't finished the job, a stout branch had. They
were all still there, and the other—Luke, Lathe had learned—
would be able to pick up more from them than he could.

They were all effects, however, and not the cause. Lathe

took the stairs up to the second floor. No tables were set up
here, no banquet space despite the view of the river from the
windows. The only thing in the room was a huge bookcase
against the near wall, with a dollhouse-size model of the
house. He stepped onto the second-floor landing. He had to
go past the public washrooms that had been converted from
other rooms. A woman wept eternally to herself in the
women's toilet. He ignored her.

The window was no longer visible. A blue light came from

just before it and obliterated it completely. It was a sickly
blue, almost purple, like the color of a freshly bloomed bruise,
and it swirled maliciously in its place.

"Hello," Lathe said. The angry blue light reached for him

and tried to pull energy from him, but it was weak, and made
weaker by its lack of victims. The restaurant owners must
have recognized it, if not understood it, for what it was; the

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restaurant closed at three p.m. and didn't open until ten the
next morning. The vortex worked best at night when it could
insinuate itself into dreams.

The light slid off Lathe harmlessly. There was nothing left

inside him to corrupt. The circle pulsed once, sullenly, and
then withdrew from him.

The power lines to the city, the ones that were designed

for Lathe and Lathe's kind, were being consumed by this
thing, like a leech swollen with the blood of its host. It was a
good thing Cory had made himself stronger; he would need
that extra bit of strength to contain it all. "Soon," Lathe told
the vortex. He'd have to encourage it to enter the new host,
but that was easily enough done, and it would know mortal
death.

The vortex pulsed again, furious, but it had no voice to

protest with. There was no malicious thought behind it. It just
was. And like all thoughtless beasts, it would serve Lathe in
whatever way he demanded, resentful or otherwise.

True darkness finally arrived. Lathe was safe in the twilight

once the sun set, but Brutus needed the absolute dark to
become physically present. Lathe went downstairs to free the
beast.

Brutus scrambled across the wooden patio, his claws

leaving half-inch scratches through the paint and into the
treated wood beneath. He was still mostly smoke and
shadow, but his claws and teeth were fully formed.

Lathe let him play, if that was the word for it, for a

moment. When Brutus pounced on a moth he'd been stalking,

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the grass beneath his paws withered and died as he sapped
the meager life from the insect.

"Brutus," Lathe said. The great beast stopped and looked

at him, ears pricked. He was now whole, but his black eyes
were so dark they reflected nothing. "Find him," Lathe
continued. The words had to be said out loud to bind Brutus
to them.

Brutus sat up and howled at the moon. In the distance, a

barking dog yelped like a trapped puppy and was silent. The
entire neighborhood held its breath, Lathe felt, and then
Brutus turned. He sniffed the air, cocked his head, and was
off, leaping from pooled shadow to pooled shadow, appearing
fully formed from each new jump.

Lathe followed. Corbin had nested close to the vortex,

knowingly or otherwise, just on the other side of the second
river and up the hill. Twice he had to call Brutus back. The
cold snap hadn't been long enough to drive the homeless into
shelters, and Brutus had to cross downtown to get to Corbin.
The homeless, those too far gone in their own personal hell to
ever come back, recognized Brutus for what he was. As
Brutus passed their hovels and cardboard castles, Lathe heard
the ones still awake draw back in terror and the sleeping ones
cry out for their mothers or their bottles, whichever they held
dearer.

But Brutus was on a mission and wouldn't be distracted

from it. He leapt ahead, taking massive bounds, and when he
had to wait for Lathe, his entire body shook with resentment.

They had to cross another river. This one was older and

deeper than the one by the vortex. It brought with it the

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scrapings from the mountains. Soon, Lathe would be in
control of the potential energy, and he found himself
quivering as well. Soon.

Brutus led him down a new street, then another and

another. Each one was less lit than the last, until it was dark
enough that Brutus could heel beside him, and the touch of
his breath, the ender of life, was welcomed on the back of
Lathe's thigh.

The garage behind the steepled white and green house

was not used forvehicles, as did the rest of the freestanding
structures in the alley. The owner of the garage had tried to
keep the unwanted visitors away, from an angry yellow "no
trespassing" sign to the hundreds of nails holding two-by-
fours in place over the door and windows. The nails currently
in use still hardware store shiny, but Cory had obviously
burrowed down and under. Lathe would be damned more
than he already was if he did the same thing.

Instead, he put his hand up, pressing it against the wood.

It didn't take much to force the decay already in the wood to
swell and reject the new steel. One by one, the wood pushed
out the nails with a sickening squelch.

"Hey!" Lathe heard behind him. He turned as the sound of

the metal hinges of the gate reached him. It was the owner of
the house. He was taller than most humans, and the hair on
his head was crazy around his face. "You can't just—"

Brutus, lolling by Lathe's feet, perked up. He didn't growl,

not in the presence of prey, but Lathe felt the hunger from
him.

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Whether the human saw the great beast by Lathe's feet

was irrelevant. Some did; some didn't. It was better if they
did see; at least then they understood their role in the
universe. Lathe looked at the human, wanting to see the
dawn of comprehension on his doomed face. "Um, never
mind," the human said, reaching behind him for the gate.
This one was smarter than most of his ilk. "Please."

"We do mind," Lathe said and then nodded. "Take him."

Brutus was up in the next second. The human had been
standing in the shadow of an old, dead tree, and that was
where Brutus erupted from, fully formed. There was no blood,
not even as Brutus's jaws clamped down. Brutus wasn't
actually biting. Everything from the human's silent scream to
his desperate attempt to protect his vulnerable throat was
absorbed through Brutus's cold touch.

The grass in the alley was already shocked from the cold,

but as Brutus fed he bled out the last bit of stored color in it.
The brown shadow spread through the fence to the bushes
that still held the ghost of blooming flowers. Brutus poisoned
the roots. The already hibernating wood died and crumbled. It
even stretched to the climbing ivy running up the walls of the
house. The vines dropped free from their hooks and roots and
fell to the ground in a brown shower of leaves.

There was nothing left of the human by the time Brutus

stepped free from the newly scorched earth. He licked his lips
and whined up at Lathe. Lathe scratched the back of the
beast's ears, feeling the ice-cold skin, and then kicked the
door to the garage the rest of the way open.

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Cory wasn't inside. Lathe didn't know why that was such a

disappointment. The interior wasn't sun proof, but Corbin had
solved that problem by burrowing under the abandoned car
and letting the iron underside protect him from the sun. It
wouldn't have been a perfect nest; he would have had
restless, painful dreams, but he was still young. Long black
feathers lined the pit, with the plume end smelling of Cory's
blood, and Lathe saw Cory pull out his own pin feathers in
order to make the nest homier and to protect himself from
the worst of the dreams. He knew Cory wasn't beyond a little
pain to solve his problems.

"Where did you go, my little bird?" Lathe asked. The silent

garage failed to answer him.

But Brutus would. "Go. Find him."
Brutus howled again and was gone. Lathe couldn't keep

up, not in the time he had left of the night, but Brutus would
lie low in a cold, dark place and let him know the next
evening where he was. He returned to the restaurant to
sleep.

* * * **
Cory found more than blood in the fridge. He pulled out

two beers, opened them over the sink, and poured them into
glasses. The downstairs rec room actually had a wood-
burning fireplace, as opposed to the hermetically sealed gas
fireplace upstairs, and they sat on the floor in front of it. Luke
took the warmed blood pack first. Cory had already fed; that
was obvious from the flushed cheeks.

The plastic gave way to Luke's fangs reluctantly, and once

he breeched the seal, it didn't hold tension like human skin.

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But the harmless chemicals suspending the blood kept it alive
for them to feed from. He drained it, feeling his body
assimilate the blood. He opened his eyes, for that second
hyper alert to everything around him. If this has been the bad
old days, he would have pinned Cory to the table and fucked
him until neither one of them could move, but that item was
off the menu. Cory smiled ruefully, obviously thinking the
same thing, so Luke raised the glass of beer instead. "It
wasn't all that bad," he said.

"It wasn't," Cory agreed. "But it wasn't all my fault,

either."

"No, it wasn't." Luke took another drink, then held the

glass between his fingertips. "Did you find it?"

"Find what?" Cory was curious, not defensive, and it wasn't

a tone Luke was much used to.

"Your greater purpose. The thing you left me for."
"I didn't leave you," Cory said. "You'd all but packed up my

things and threw them out on your sun-drenched lawn."

"You killed someone, Cory."
"I killed a human," Cory said, voice dark. "And he needed

killing."

"It doesn't work that way. Dead humans bring police

officers—"

"Not that one," Cory said. He'd been a worker in a shelter,

a volunteer who brought juice jugs around to all the tables
and brought the younger, prettier men to the storage room.
It had come out in the investigation, and with so many
potential motives for the crime, it stalled out. But it meant
that they probably had Cory's fingerprints on record now.

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"We can't afford the attention."
"And I couldn't let him keep doing it."
"Have you done it since?"
Cory's eyes were blank for half a dozen seconds. Then he

shook his head. "No," he said finally. "It's not safe. So if
you're asking me if I thought my grander purpose was to
become some sort of winged crusader, the answer's no."

He dared Luke to say anything along the lines of I told you

so, so Luke didn't. Cory waited, tense on the edge of his
chair, his body preparing for another argument. Luke put
down the glass and stood up. Cory watched him approach
with narrowed eyes. Luke pushed his shoulders against the
chair, and although Cory's entire body was tense, he didn't
fight. Luke pulled Cory's hips to the edge of the recliner.

Cory's mouth tightenedas Luke knelt down in front of him.

"What are you—" he began, but then Luke undid his jeans,
and Cory didn't finish the rest of the now redundant question.

Luke looked up, meeting Cory's gaze. Cory was

motionless, just for a second, and then relaxed. "Yes, please,"
he said finally.

He was half hard already; he always was when they

fought. Luke pulled the jeans further down Cory's thighs,
thought about keeping them high enough to trap his legs, but
knew that Cory would hate it, so he took the time to take
them all the way off. Cory spread his legs and touched Luke's
shoulder lightly with the tips of two fingers. There was a
thank you in the touch, but it didn't need to be said.

Luke debated not kissing the insides of Cory's thigh. It

seemed, for the moment, too forward, too familiar, but then

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Cory took his head, pushing him not toward his cock, but
further down, to the start of his inner thigh. Luke smiled and
pressed his tongue against the white skin. He found the
femoral buried deep, and kissed where it branched off. Cory's
sigh caught in his vocal cords in that second, and what came
out was half a strangled groan. Luke tried it again, moving up
a quarter inch and kissing that spot as well, but raked his
nails across the same spot on the other leg. The scratch
remained white for less than a second, then erupted scarlet
against the skin, and Cory's hands tightened in Luke's hair.

Interesting. He slapped the inside of Cory's upper thigh,

and his hand print came to the surface as well, hot and pink.
Cory shuddered, his hands pulling Luke's head up, but Luke
fought the grip, and eventually Cory stopped trying to force
it. Luke slapped the other side, harder, then back to the first
side again, and if he had electrocuted Cory, he didn't think
the response could have been more dramatic. Cory's
eyelashes were damp, but his lips were parted, and as soon
as Luke finished, Cory thrust his hips up and off the chair.

"Again?" Luke asked.
Cory nodded. His shoulders were the only thing that

touched the chair now, the rest of his body stretched like a
bowstring.

"Would you prefer the paddle?" Luke asked, keeping his

voice neutral.

Cory pulled back, but only for a second. It wouldn't hurt as

much as the hand in the long run, but the initial sting would
be so much worse. Or better, if that was what Cory wanted.

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Cory reached behind him, bracing himself against the wall as
well. "That didn't answer the question," Luke said.

"Yes, the paddle," Cory said, and his voice caught.

"Please."

Luke ran his nails along both inner thighs. Cory's cock was

hot against his belly, now achingly hard, even though neither
of them had touched it yet. "Can you keep yourself open like
this for me?"

Cory fought, twisting in ways Luke didn't think the body

was meant to, but he nodded. "I will. Just ... hurry."

"What if I want you to wait?" Luke asked, but stood up.
Cory bucked again, pleading in ways he couldn't let himself

say, but then he settled. "Then I'll wait," he said, voice low.

"Good boy," Luke said and went back to his bedroom. They

hadn't had a lot of toys in their relationship; they hadn't really
needed it. Sex was the one part of them that hadn't needed
work. But Luke had managed to collect a single leather
paddle, smooth on one side, suede on the other; a set of
nipple clamps they'd tried once and hadn't used again; and a
finger vibrator that he thought he'd given to Cory when they'd
broken up. He gathered up the former and the latter, and
took a moment at the door to the storeroom to watch Cory
shift his weight back and forth. But he never once sat down.
His eyes were closed, but his lips were still parted. And he
was beautiful.

He must have heard Luke approach, even as Luke tried to

walk silently, because he relaxed, even managing a smile.
"Did you miss me?" Luke asked.

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Cory didn't answer. Luke brought the paddle down hard,

just above his knee. The skin immediately turned pink, and
Cory reared back, pushing toward Luke, not away from. His
breath, though he didn't truly need to take one, came in a
ragged gasp, and he rode out the pain with a series of bucks.
"You can say it," Luke said.

"Holy fuck," Cory said, the words harsh against his dry

throat. He gasped another lungful of air, but held it because
he could. Luke reversed the paddle, scratching his way up to
Cory's testicles tight against his body, and when he scraped
across the base of his balls, Cory shuddered again. "Another?"
Luke slapped Cory's ass, only getting a few inches of swing,
and it was light enough that it didn't count. "Cory?" he asked,
when Cory didn't answer, but it took another, slightly harder
slap on the other ass cheek to bring Cory back to him.

"Yes," Cory hissed, the word barely escaping his clenched

teeth. "Please."

"Here?" Luke inquired, pressing the smooth end a breath

away from the crux of Cory's thigh. The muscles here were so
tight against the surface it brought the femoral up against the
skin. Cory thrust his hips, silently begging, but whether it was
for the spot or against it, Luke didn't understand. He brought
the paddle lower, moving it at an angle. "Here, then," he
whispered. Cory opened and closed his mouth, but Luke
brought it down on his other leg, hard, and just a quarter inch
away from the first blow. Luke's entire body went rigid. "Let it
out," Luke said. "It's not good to keep things contained."

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"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Cory managed. He was sweating now,

his black hair plastered down and his face reddening, but he
was every bit as beautiful as he'd ever been.

"Is that an invitation?" Luke waited, but Cory didn't

answer. "Have you had enough? All you have to do is sit
down again." He undid his own slacks, took out his hard cock,
and pressed it against the reddened patch of skin he'd made.
"Can you feel how hard I am for you? How much I'd like to
pull you down to the carpet and fuck you? Don't prolong this
for my sake. Just sit down, Cory."

"No," Cory snarled. "Just do it. Higher."
"Higher?" Luke asked. "Are you sure?"
Luke didn't think it was possible, but Cory spread his legs

farther. Luke smiled, though Cory couldn't see him, and he
brought the paddle down, harder yet, on the exact same spot
as the first time. Cory howled, his entire body jerking, but he
remained up. "Are you going to tell me what to do next
time?" Luke kept his voice mild.

"No," Cory gasped. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. Please." He was

fucking the air, but couldn't have gotten any relief from either
his cock or the pain from his thighs. "Whatever you want.
Please."

"Are you sure? Do you want to settle anything else out

through a committee?"

Cory whined, but kept his legs wide open for Luke.

"Whatever you want," he said in a low whisper. "I'm yours."

Luke hesitated, but didn't respond to what Cory had just

said. He'd said a lot more to his master in similar situations,
and talk during sex was never admissible in arguments later

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on. He brought the paddle down, lazily, about three quarters
of the way up Cory's thighs. No pain, not this time, just a low
sting. "Like that?"

A pool of precum had gathered on Cory's belly. "Yes," Cory

hissed, bracing himself for the next blow, but instead Luke
left the paddle casually, deliberately up against Cory's
testicles and dipped his fingers into the precum. "You're
getting off on this," he said. It wasn't a question; the
evidence pretty much spoke for itself. He brought his fingers
up to Cory's mouth. "Open."

Cory parted his lips, sticking his tongue out, but Luke

brought his fingers inside instead. "Suck."

And Cory sucked. Luke kept his hand still, so Cory moved

his head up and down, performing mock fellatio on the long
fingers until there wasn't a trace left of the precum. Luke
withdrew, and Cory made a disappointed sound in the back of
his throat.

"You can sit down," Luke told him. "We can skip all this."
Cory shook his head and locked his thighs.
Luke ran his fingers along the inside of Cory's legs. "I

forgot how stubborn you are."

"I didn't," Cory said. Luke slapped him for it, but gently,

barely making a sound. Cory shuddered and then audibly shut
his mouth.

The next one stung. Cory jerked, but he was ready for it.

He thrust his hips up, slowly. Luke let him find a rhythm, and
he matched it. Sometimes he barely slapped the skin, and
sometimes he brought it down so hard that Cory had to stop
to ride out the sensation. The insides of his thighs were red

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with blood close to the surface, and the sounds coming from
Cory were needy, pathetic things.

"Do you want a count to ten?" Luke asked softly. It would

be ten very hard blows, evenly spaced apart, but then it
would be over, and he wouldn't have asked Cory to give in.
He took Cory's cock in his hand, feeling how close he was to
coming—so close, Luke could feel the spasms under his
fingers.

"Yes," Cory said. He let the word catch, then slide out of

him. "Please."

"Do you want to count?" he asked.
Cory didn't answer, but he shook his head, and that was

enough. His entire body was tired, and he could barely keep
his body open. Perhaps Luke had overdone it, considering
that it was the first time in a while. Ten blows, each one
methodical almost to the point of being mechanical, and each
one jerked Cory up. His breath came in ragged gasps to help
dispel the pain. When Luke reached ten, he dropped the
paddle like a live wire, grabbed onto Cory's hips, and
supported his weight. He took Cory's cock down his throat,
already feeling him starting to come. Cory grabbed the back
of his head, pushing him farther down, and when there was
no more down to go, began fucking his mouth. If Luke
needed to breathe, he probably would have choked, but he
didn't, and Cory used the last of his energy to thrust himself
down Luke's throat while he came.

He collapsed in a boneless heap on the couch, broken and

sweating. There was room for them both in the oversized
couch. Cory was too far gone, but Luke was still hard. It only

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took a second to collect Cory's spilled precum. Cory kept his
legs close together, and Luke slid inside him. He needed
hardly anything, watching Cory give himself over to riding the
pain. He closed his eyes, kissing his way down Cory's neck,
and when he came, gently compared to the rest of the
evening, Cory let him stay inside.

They slept for over an hour, while the moon set above

them. The cold wind shifted. Luke felt it go. He untangled
himself from Cory, who woke during the operation but just
turned on his hip and closed his eyes again. As much as Luke
wanted to tug Cory along behind him and just go back to bed,
he hadn't locked down the house for the day. The back door
was open, leaving just the screen door closed. Luke hesitated,
sure that he had closed it behind them. He opened the screen
door, staring out to the garden, but didn't see anything
different from when he'd gone out with Cory to the pond. It
was late for humans. The bars would have already closed,
and it was a very quiet neighborhood. But something was
different. Something was wrong.

He felt it first. Silent, but like a freight train in all things

besides noise. The ground shook beneath his feet; the air
trembled. For a second it was impossible to move, but he
shook off the physiological response and stepped back into
the house. That wasn't the protection he needed. The
shadows across the porch from the neighbor's poplars swirled
at his feet. He saw teeth and fangs. He felt frozen to the spot,
both from the freezing wind that enveloped him and from the
sudden fear that this was it. Teeth closed in, over this throat,
about to tear out his throat, and the touch of the lolling

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tongue burning too hot as it touched his skin. He tried to turn
his head, to warn Cory to get out even if it was with his last
breath, and then the porch light turned on. Warm, yellow
light spilled out from the single hundred-watt bulb. The
shadow yelped as though in pain and then retreated back to
the fence, to where the porch light couldn't reach. It didn't
disappear completely, but manipulated a fence post here, a
shadow from a tree branch there, an electrical pole inches
from the end of the light. The teeth and claws and black eyes
waited.

"What is that thing?" Luke managed, feeling as though

he'd sucked off a sharkskin dildo.

"It's a wolf," Cory said, staring out the open doorway. The

beast snarled, lunging at the light, but where it struck the line
of yellow, his flesh hissed and turned to an oily smoke, only
to reform later under the fence. "More or less."

His voice was far away, and colder than Luke had ever

heard before, even when their relationship was in its death
throes. "I'm more interested in the more than the less," Luke
said and rubbed his throat. He knew he should have felt teeth
marks in his skin, but it was unbroken. Ice cold to the touch,
but intact.

"Lathe is here," Cory said. "He's found me. You should get

in the shower before the chill spreads."

"I don't—" Luke began, but Cory looked at him with cold

eyes.

"It can't reach us with the ring of light, and Lathe won't

look for us tonight; it's too late. Go have a shower."

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Luke moved his jaw. Sure enough, he felt the chill start to

spread up and down his throat from the bite. "Better make it
a bath," Cory decided and turned away, back to the wolf. He'd
changed back to his own shirt, and the turtleneck formed to
his upper body.

"That's an east-facing window," Luke said before his vocal

cords froze over completely. "Just be careful."

"I will," Cory said. Luke touched his cheek, but then left

him to go upstairs. He ran the water as hot as he could
manage. The chill had entered his bloodstream, making every
move feel awkward and clumsy. He didn't understand
anything, but knew if he had stayed and argued the point a
second longer, he probably couldn't have gotten into the tub
in time. It was a Japanese soaker tub, and even half way full,
he knew it wasn't going to be hot enough. He snapped off
what little cold water there was. When the tub was full, it still
wasn't enough. His body chilled the water, so he just let the
hot water run and let the overflow valve do its work.

A while later—how long, Luke didn't know—the bathroom

door opened. "It's gone," Cory said from the door. The fog in
the room was so thick, Luke couldn't see him, but he felt the
cold air from the opened door. "How are you?"

"I'll live," Luke said, sitting up. "In a manner of speaking.

Are you going to tell me what that thing was?"

"I told you."
"A wolf. Yes, I heard. But a wolf isn't made of shadow and

doesn't just bite with frost."

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"It's Lathe's ... Pet's the wrong word. Servant? Familiar? It

doesn't really matter what you call it. It belongs to Lathe, and
that means Lathe will know by tomorrow where I am."

"Lathe," Luke repeated. He didn't have to look down to

Cory's clenched, scarred fist. Luke knew what he was talking
about. "Did you really think all it would take is to be turned to
put you on equal footing with him?"

"It was a start," Cory said. "It at least put us—"
"On the same playing field? Was that what you were going

to say? Believe me, Cory, anyone that could pull that thing up
from cold and frost is not going to be equal to anything you
can manage in a century. In two centuries, to be perfectly
honest. You have no idea how powerful that thing is."

"My name is Corbin," Cory said, voice cold even as he

cradled his hand to his chest. "And you have no idea what I'm
capable of."

He turned. Luke knew he was going for the front door,

probably before Cory knew. He was up and out of the tub,
running dripping behind him, but Cory had too much of a
head start. He kept his human shape only long enough to
manage the door. The moment the heavy wooden front door
was open, he was up in the sky. It would have been be a
beautiful thing to watch, if Luke hadn't been so horrified. One
moment he was wholly a man; the next, he was a beautiful
black bird, beating its wings as though trying to find purchase
in the wind itself. The feeling of the freight train was back.
Luke threw on the light, and by the time Cory was out of the
protective circle, he was too high for the beast to do anything
more than snap at where he'd once been. Against all Luke's

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self-preservation, he stepped out into the ring of light, just to
call back to Cory, but Cory was already gone. The beast
growled, a low, furious thing, and Luke stepped back inside,
locking the door but leaving every light in the house on before
retiring to the basement.

* * * *

Lathe frowned as Brutus slunk into the shadows back to

the restaurant with his tail between his legs, metaphorically
speaking. So Cory had gotten away. Lathe hadn't thought
Cory would leave his lover. Or maybe he knew that Lathe had
no interest in the other. From above, he heard the scraping of
the suicide victim's shoes. He was suddenly hungry. Brutus
waited for him down by the back door, dejected. "Go, find me
a meal," he said, and Brutus leapt to obey. The paths lit
around the restaurant were full of stumbling drunks and
people trying to sleep in the hollows of trees; Brutus would
find one for him that would scream.

And Brutus didn't disappoint. The young man he herded

toward the back door was young enough that the alcohol in
his system still dulled the pain inside him, but it hadn't had
enough exposure to do serious damage to his internal organs.
Brutus herded him down the stairs before disappearing in the
first of the sun's rays over the horizon. The human had fallen
to the back of the storeroom, and Lathe smiled, licking his
lips. It had been weeks since the last time he'd had the time
to properly play with his food.

* * * *

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Cory took to the sky. The sun was coming, and there was

no protection against that. But while he flew, it no longer
mattered, just for a little bit. He didn't need to be told that
something horrible had gone down in his nest; the scorched
earth by the gate and the dead yard full of plants was
enough. He could smell Lathe everywhere.

And he was running out of time. He crossed the river

again, going back downtown, and ducked into the deepest
parking garage. He took on human form again when it was
too difficult to fly low among the cars, and then walked the
rest of the way down. B4 was the lowest level, and there was
only one car there. He jumped up, becoming a bird again, and
spent the day roosting up in the rafters.

It wasn't that Lathe had held him down; Cory had wanted

it that way. But Lathe had played him, promising him one
thing, while all the while opening him up for something else.
He felt the changes inside him, and the fact that Lathe hadn't
realized he'd become aware showed just how little regard
Lathe had for him. And that made him burn with anger colder
than the wind, yet perversely kept him warm through the
day.

* * * *

The next evening, Luke pulled up in front of the

restaurant, leaving his car's brights on. He got out of the car
and leaned on the horn until the front door opened. Lathe
stepped out, with the wolf at his feet. "So, you're him," Lathe
said. Brutus padded down the stairs to the grass, growling
loud enough to send the sleeping birds in the trees to flight.

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Luke reached through the open window and clicked on his six-
mile flashlight, the brightest flashlight he could find in the
entire city. Brutus winked out of existence with a puff of
smoke.

He lifted the beam up and straight into Lathe's eyes. Lathe

fell back against the wall, covering his face. "Leave Cory
alone," Luke snapped.

"Cory belongs to me." Lathe crossed his arms over his

chest.

"You want something from this place," Luke said. He kept

the spotlight trained on Lathe, and in the bright white of the
headlights he knew he was perfectly safe from Brutus. He
took the steps up two at a time. "You had better find
someone other than Cory, because I swear I will burn this
place to the ground around you if you even so much as try to
hurt him."

"I made him," Lathe said, but didn't uncover his face.
Luke threw Lathe down the stairs to the hard, cold ground.

He lashed out, one blow catching Lathe in the belly and
another snapping Lathe's head back. "Don't even start," Luke
snarled.

Lathe held up his hands, then used his right one to cradle

his belly. "You're not a killer, Luke. You're barely a
threatener. If you weren't terrified for your precious
placeholder's life, you wouldn't be here at all. So spare me
your tough guy."

"My placeholder?" Luke asked.

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"Come on. You might have turned him, but you didn't want

him. Not really. Not truly." Lathe grinned, wiping the blood
from his mouth.

"You bastard," Luke said softly. Lathe began to bow, but

Luke brought up the flashlight faster than he thought
possible. It whipped Lathe across the face, and when the
metal hit, Luke heard the tinkling of broken teeth. Lathe's
mouth exploded in blood. Luke kicked him again, reaching for
the stake he had under his jacket, but before he could bring it
out, Lathe was back up again, his fist over Luke's hand on the
wooden stake, hard enough to break fingers. Lathe didn't
waste any energy, but threw Luke back to his car and then
pinned him by the throat to the hood. Luke kicked out,
catching Lathe on the knee, and although he hit hard enough
to hear bone crunch, Lathe didn't let him go.

The right side of his face was full of broken teeth, and

flecks of them hit Luke in the mouth as Lathe laughed.
"Pathetic. This is all you got? A Duracell commercial and a
piece of white picket fence? You were going to take me out
with this?" Lathe ripped open Luke's shirt, but Luke didn't feel
the cold on his bare skin, just the smooth-cut end of the
stake. "Beg me not to kill you."

"No," Luke said. Lathe raised the stake high over both

their heads, and Luke couldn't stop himself squeezing his
eyes shut.

"Beg me!"
"Go to hell!"
Lathe reversed the stake and smashed it down into Luke's

shoulder. The pain was muted with the adrenaline in his

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system, but he knew he'd be feeling it later. It still stole the
thought from his head and left him broken. In the trees, a
bird cawed, and for a second it sounded like Cory. Lathe
picked him up by the throat. "I should feed you to Brutus and
laugh as he finishes the job he started last night," he said.
"But maybe I would like to drink from you until there's
nothing left to bleed first."

Something black landed on the grass, and a moment later

Cory stood up. "Leave him alone," he said quietly.

"Oh, Cory. How good of you to join us. I thought you'd at

least wait until after I slit your ex-lover's throat."

"Get out of here," Luke managed, though it hurt to take

the breath necessary to form the words. "What are you
doing?"

"Saving you," Cory said. "Let him go, Lathe."
"You've got to be kidding me. I let him go, you fly away,

and I'll have nothing."

Cory stepped into the light. He picked up the flashlight,

turned it off, and then reached into the car a second later and
killed the headlights. Brutus returned with a snarl and backed
Cory away from where Lathe stood with his nails still digging
into Luke's throat. "Now you hold all the cards. Please. I'm
here. You can do what you want with me. Just let Luke go."

"I could have you both," Lathe said.
"But that was never the plan, now was it?" Cory said with

an easy smile. He was so good at this. He even reached up
and took Lathe's arm, the one that was holding Luke down.
He tugged on his glove with his teeth, putting his marked
hand over Lathe's. "Let him go. Please."

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"You swear on his life that you will not try to escape?"

Lathe snarled, baring his fangs.

"On his life," Cory said, tracing lines down Lathe's arm. "I

swear."

"What are you doing, Cory?" Luke demanded, once Lathe

backed away enough for Luke to breathe. He grabbed Lathe's
wrist, but Lathe was stronger than he was and just used
Luke's grip to pull him up and throw him aside. Brutus was on
him in the next second, his teeth inches from Luke's throat,
and his tissue remembered how cold it had been. He didn't
want to, but his arms came up to protect his throat. "I told
you to let him go," Cory snapped.

"Once you go inside the house," Lathe said. "Step past the

threshold, and I'll let him go."

"Swear on your life," Cory said.
"Cory, don't," Luke called, and Brutus growled more.

"Don't do this. Please." Luke didn't dare move, not with the
great beast over him, so he rested his head on the frozen
ground.

"You should have let me handle it," Cory said, voice flat. "I

have your word?"

"You do," Lathe said with a bow. "After you."
"After me," Cory repeated. The restaurant's front door

glowed a sickly blue, and even from where Luke was lying he
could see the former occupants—the weeping woman, the
suicide victim, the man with the razor blade, all beckoning
Cory inside. "No!" Luke shouted, and cried out as Brutus put
one of his huge paws squarely onto Luke's chest. He felt the
bones bend with the weight.

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"I'm sorry, Luke," Cory repeated. He turned, face hard.

"Those things I said to you this evening, I want you to know
that I meant every single word of them." He stepped
backward into the light. There was another pulse of brilliant
light, and then the front door slammed shut. Brutus growled
again, waiting for permission from his master to tear Luke's
throat out, and Lathe left him flat against his back for a very
long moment.

"Isn't that sweet," Lathe said mockingly. "I should kill you

regardless."

Luke closed his eyes again. In that second, it didn't really

matter anymore, and if Lathe was looking for more of a
reaction, Luke at least took pleasure in that. "If you're going
to do it, do it," he said.

"A century of hiding out, protecting your little 'life,' as it

were, and that's the most self-preservation you have?
Frankly, I am disappointed."

A sliver of drool from Brutus's teeth dripped onto Luke's

skin and ran down the curve of his jaw, burning his flesh with
the cold. He didn't swallow. "And I would be disappointed if
you didn't kill me. Just do it."

"No," Lathe said, as though he'd just come to that

decision. He probably just had. "I won't. You'll survive, and
you can take with you the memory of what your little lover
did for you when you couldn't be half arsed about him."

Luke snorted. It showed what Lathe knew, and he didn't

bother to correct him. Brutus let him go, and when Luke sat
up, things shifted in his chest that never should have been
able to move. He went to his car, the keys still in the ignition,

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and every step he took he still expected to feel Brutus's teeth
on him.

"Just so you know, Luke, if you had staked me the

moment you put the flashlight on me, you would have taken
me out," Lathe said.

"If you hurt him," Luke said, but his words felt flat even to

him.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Lathe said, and smiled for the

first time. "I'm going to kill him. Go now, boy, or you'll be
joining him."

Brutus snarled. "I can't leave him," Luke said, even as

Brutus snapped at his leg. He jerked back.

"Get in the car and drive off. This is your last warning. I go

back inside, Brutus will have his fill. Corbin made his choice
for you. Are you just going to throw it away?"

Luke got into the car, put it into reverse, and drove away.

The car bounced as it drove over the curb He couldn't quite
believe he was driving away, but when he looked up, he saw
Cory staring out the second-story window. He wasn't dead;
surely there wasn't time for that to have already happened.
But his face was stony. Luke stopped the car, staring up, but
Cory shook his head and motioned him to go on. "I can't," he
said, knowing Cory couldn't hear him, but he was shaking his
head again.

You have to.
There was no arguing that. He put the car into drive and

rolled off.

* * * *

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Cory thought that Lathe would have been right behind him

going into the restaurant, but he wasn't. Cory's naked hand,
the glove dropped somewhere along the yard, ached here,
especially now that he was so close to Lathe, but he ignored
it. Part of the main floor had been gutted by a fire, and half
the tables and chairs were missing, but from where he stood
it could have been any restaurant in any converted house.

That was until he heard the crying on the second floor. The

staircase was two flights, and he found himself on the second
floor before he even really thought about it. Something was
up here; he felt that for certain. Luke would have felt it right
away. Luke himself was standing by his car in the lawn,
battered and bruised, but still alive, and Cory willed him to
just get into the car and drive. Luke refused, however, until
Brutus was practically over him again. Then he reluctantly got
into the driver's side. If Cory could have put the car into gear
from where he stood, he would have. It wasn't until Luke had
actually done it and driven off the grass that he looked up to
the window where Cory stood. Their eyes met, Luke telling
him even from where he was that he didn't want to go, but
Cory shook his head. "You have to," he said to the empty
room.

Luke drove away, slowly, and Cory watched his taillights

until they crossed the river. Then Luke pulled over to the side
of the road. Cory touched the window, which should have
been freezing; the upstairs didn't have any heat, and he'd
been cold when he was outside. His bare skin touched the
glass, something he wasn't really used to, but it was hot,
almost too hot to touch. The iron brand on the back of his

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hand flared up, hotter than it had felt with the actual iron,
and he jerked his hand back.

"Your boyfriend is quite something," Lathe said, stepping

up into the room. "He's been out of the game for so long, he
forgets what he is, and yet he would have given it all up for
you. That must have been a disappointment for you."

"Not at all," Cory said, turning around. His hand burned,

and he still felt cold. It wasn't quite fair, but he kept his face
neutral. His father had taught him that, even if he was
breaking inside. And he was. If he'd known ... Stop it, he told
himself. He would have done the same thing. Going back to
Luke's house the night before had been his first mistake.
Staying had been his second. Sleeping with Luke was his
third, and letting Luke play with his body was his fourth. It
would have been a clean separation. He'd been staking out
the house since the fire, having tasted Lathe's influence in the
burning smoke, but when he saw Luke down by the water, he
just couldn't stay away. Cory cleared his throat. "He did what
he was supposed to."

"Spare me," Lathe said. He looked down to Cory's naked

hand, stark white in all the black, and then back up to Cory's
face. His smile was a bloody maw, his broken human teeth
ragged and cutting. Cory saw his throat sliced open on them
and himself bleeding out in this room. But it was Lathe's eyes
he couldn't look away from. He was falling forward, dizzy
suddenly, and Lathe pinned him against the wall to keep him
on the floor.

"Can you hear me?" Lathe asked, but he wasn't speaking

with his mouth of broken teeth. He was inside Cory's head,

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and Cory couldn't push him out. He was so tired all of a
sudden. It would just be so easy to fall forward and let Lathe
take what he needed. But he couldn't. Even the dumbest
mark could see deception if it was present, so Cory kept his
brain perfectly empty.

"You need your glove to turn, don't you? You can't do it if

your hand is exposed. That's how it works, isn't it? That's how
you figured it out?"

"I need black to turn into a raven, yes," Cory said, the

words forced from him. "Won't work, otherwise."

"Good," Lathe whispered. And that was spoken. Blood and

spit hit Cory's face, and he couldn't raise his hands to wipe it
off. "Strip down completely."

"It's cold," he protested. But it wasn't, not really, not by

the window. As long as he wasn't touching it with his bad
hand.

Lathe grabbed his tee-shirt with one hand. "Did you hear

me?"

"Yes, sir," Cory whispered. He used his good hand to pull

Lathe's hand free, finger by finger, but kept his bad hand
clenched behind him. He'd had to learn how to do most things
one-handed while the burn was healing, so it didn't take
much to strip his jacket off. He let the clothes stay where
they landed, but Lathe shook his head and collected each
article of clothing as it fell. His shirt was next, then his shoes,
and finally jeans, which took more work. He kicked them free,
too. Lathe picked them up as well, smiling at him.

"If you're trying to humiliate me, you'll have to work

harder," Cory said. He stood, his feet apart, and brought his

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right hand down his throat, to his chest, and then down to his
belly. "For fifty bucks, I'll give you a happy ending first."

Lathe had him up against the wall, again, his groin next to

Cory's. "Do you really want me to try harder?" he demanded
and grabbed Cory's chin. He forced his head up, and try as
Cory might to look away, Lathe dragged it out of him. "Do
you know the things I could make you do?"

And Cory knew he was supposed to look into Lathe's eyes

and see the hell waiting for him. Instead he pressed his bad
hand against the window. He winced, but not because of
Lathe. "Yes," he hissed. The pain lancing up and down his
arm wouldn't let him form any other word. Lathe let him go,
and Cory broke contact from the glass. He felt the cold sweat
on his body, and he took a moment to rest with his hands on
his knees.

"Luke—was that his name?—was a stroke of genius. He

seems the type that rabbits pretty far down into his safe den.
Where did you find him?"

"Around," Cory said. Lathe took a step forward, and Cory

knew Lathe could draw that story from him if he had to. He
lifted his hand, giving up, but asking for a second to find his
ability to breathe first.

Lathe touched his forehead, allowing it. He put his head

down, gathering up his thoughts. "He hadn't completely
rabbited," he said, when he could. "He had his small group of
feeders downtown. I just looked for the throat marks. When I
found them, I staked them out until he found me. Then it was
a simple matter of getting myself chosen."

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"Ingenious," Lathe allowed. "I wouldn't have thought it

possible."

"Thanks," Cory said bitterly. "The best marks are the

marks who think they can't be taken. Luke didn't think he
could be. We were together almost a year before he even told
me what he was, and then it took another year for him to
turn me."

"I suppose it was your bad luck. I could think of a dozen

different vampires who would have been thrilled to turn a
grade-A piece of ass like yourself."

"I know," Cory said, his lips twisting back in a hard smile.

You arrogant fuck, he thought, then quashed the thoughts
before they fully formed. It had taken Luke that long to show
him there were more kinds of relationships out there than
tricks and marks, and like the dumbest of all rubes, Cory
himself had fallen for it. He'd been happy with Luke, even
hidden away from the rest of the world. He saw that now.
He'd been at a pub with Luke downtown the night they'd
stepped out onto the street and he smelled the fire.

And he'd known Lathe was back. Waiting for the first cold,

so that Brutus could form, but in the city and looking for him.
He remembered how helpless he'd felt, how he'd almost
collapsed against the hood of the car over how stupid it was,
how much he'd wanted to believe that his pretend life with
Luke was the real reason he was there. But of course he
couldn't. And didn't. They'd had their first fight that night,
over something he knew Luke would be completely defensive
about, and that was the beginning of the end.

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It had all been so perfectly planned on his part until he

saw Luke by the water.

Lathe smiled, lifting his chin. "And now tell me, my little

bird, did you think that just being turned would save you?
Give you an edge over me that you thought you needed?"

Cory didn't answer that. Lathe wasn't quite finished. "Did

you know being turned would make you predisposed to obey
a stronger vampire? That it would be in your blood now?"

I counted on it. Cory dug his nails into his burn. It didn't

hurt as much as pushing it against the window, but it still cut
through the fog forming in his brain. He'd seen Lathe break
down humans by going into their brains and scooping out
everything individual, like carving a pumpkin into a jack o'
lantern. They'd been grinning corpses for Lathe to play with,
and Cory couldn't let that happen to him. He looked down.

"Don't. Look at me." Cory had to, as much as Lathe's smile

sickened him. "Kneel."

Despite himself, Cory sank to his knees. He placed his

palms against his inner thighs, and the memory of Luke
marking them brought him even more to himself. He did
belong to a stronger vampire, but it wasn't Lathe. He looked
up, as coyly as he could. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now, we wait," Lathe said. "Good night, my little bird.

Don't let the bad dreams disturb you, too much."

Cory wanted to jump to his feet, but there was no way he

could, not until Lathe allowed it. "The window's wide open!"
he called.

"Then you'd better find something to block it with,

shouldn't you?" Lathe called back, and with that, he released

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Cory. The door slammed shut, cutting him off from the
landing, and although he didn't hear the lock turn, Cory knew
that it wouldn't budge. Still, he tried it, and there wasn't even
a quarter inch of give to it. It could have been a part of the
wall with a doorknob sticking out of it for no apparent reason.

It took him the rest of the night to move the bookcase in

front of the window, and even then he had to cram the
smaller of the books on it between the bookcase and the wall.
When morning came, he expected the escaping rays to cut
into him like a paper shredder. The bookcase had a corona
like an eclipse, but the room itself stayed in perpetual
twilight.

* * * *

The garage door was open. Luke remained behind the

wheel in the driveway for much longer than he should have.
The rays of the sun were coming; he felt them tighten the
skin on his face, but he couldn't quite make himself take his
foot off the brake and coast the rest of the way in.

But his foot did come off the brake, and he did apply the

gas, and he closed the garage door behind him. He snapped
off the engine—the first thing he remembered actually
doing—and let himself into the side door just off the kitchen.

Mrs. Reinhart perched on one of the stools around the

island. The steam from her tea brought with it the smell of
chamomile. She was translucent, like she always was, but
there was a hard edge to her he'd never seen before. The
room was cold, despite the furnace kicking in. He watched her
for a second, but for once she didn't just nod and look away.

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The voice was in his head. Her face was expectant. There

were so many ghosts in the house, including his last fight
with Cory. It seemed like ages since last night and their fight.

But Cory had told him to remember what he'd said that

evening. They hadn't argued that evening, they'd only...

They'd only fucked. And Cory had told him that he was his.
It was too late to go back. It was too late to do anything

but go downstairs and wait for the sun to pass.

* * * *

Cory didn't go to sleep, not at first. The room was cold,

and he wasn't convinced that the bookcase would hold. And
when he did close his eyes, he felt whatever it was that
formed blue and purple lights from in front of the bookcase
reach for him. He was predisposed to let it in. Lathe might not
have scooped out the pumpkin seeds inside his head, but he
had done something, and closing his eyes let the light
through him to fill him up.

The light was nothing like Lathe's pressings. There was no

escaping these, no hiding what happened, and what was
going to happen. He hadn't been stupid, even if he was from
a small town. They had the Internet and satellite television.
When Lathe asked him to come, Cory had gone.

Lathe lived in one of the old houses on the outskirts of

town. It had been an old farm house, before the town's
identical houses on similarly named streets reached out to it.
He shouldn't have gone; to say that Lathe stared at him
hungrily was not even half of it.

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Lathe had found him outside of the seven or eight stores

that were a mall in name only. He found out later that his
social worker had sold him out, giving up his name as
someone who wouldn't be missed and was disposable. He
couldn't really blame her, though; he didn't think for a second
that she gave up the information willingly. Lathe had that
ability to pull anything from anyone.

And Cory knew he hadn't made Lathe work very hard. The

lights of the vortex, which was what Lathe had called it, dug
through the cloth he'd thrown over the memories in his brain.
He didn't want to think about them. He hadn't thought about
it, not since the burn on his hand had driven the thoughts
away. He'd purged it from his head when he'd pressed the
iron into his flesh. He dug his nails into the scar, wanting the
sweet pain to fill him and take away all the dirty-bad-wrong,
but the light tossed his feeble attempts to keep himself from
remembering. It wanted to know. Cory felt its curiosity.

"Please," he told it. "I don't want to remember."
The light tickled him, lightly. It wasn't trying to hurt him,

and even as Cory tried to crawl away from the pain, the light
wicked it away. He could watch the memories the vortex
pulled from him without feeling the shame of what he'd done.
He stopped fighting.

The old house had a door that squeaked. Cory had raced

to the broken screen door half a dozen times, mostly during
Halloween pranks when he was too old to trick-or-treat but
too young to stay inside. When he was older, and his aunt
couldn't control him anymore (not that she controlled him any
less), he'd gone with Lathe because ... because...

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Because he'd always thought he was meant for more. And

Lathe promised him something older, something more than
just another small-town rat. Just another brat that had his
eighteenth birthday marked on the local RCMP detachment's
wall. It wasn't important that he really hadn't done most of
the things they thought or caught him doing. It wasn't
important that the first time he'd just been on his bike at the
wrong time and in the wrong neighborhood. He knew Luke
thought that he'd learned how to con with his father and that
he'd embraced it as a lifestyle, but he hadn't. Even as a kid
he saw past the smiles of his father's marks to their
realization of how much they'd been taken.

But when another of the town's pack of young men, Jack

of the grin and the soft blond hair, had asked Cory to keep
watch, Cory couldn't say no. He couldn't say anything much
at all, actually. With the knot in his throat he could only go
along with whatever Jack asked. He'd been weak, as weak as
a mark, and he'd gone in willingly. When Jack got caught,
Cory took the blame, and after his first weekend stay at juvie,
Jack had skipped town. By then, of course, Cory's name was
muddied, and in small towns, sometimes that's all it takes.

So he accepted it. And when Lathe started hunting him, he

let himself be snatched up. It was stupid. If he could have
taken it back, he would have, but that was where he was.
Lathe had kissed him, drinking from him, and it was better
than every single shy fumble in the locker room.

And then, of course, because every mark realizes they've

been taken, sooner or later, Cory had woken up, sticky in the
pants and locked in an upstairs closet. And he wasn't alone.

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The thing in the closet wasn't anything like the vortex. It

was weaker, less focused, and it definitely didn't ... feel, if
that was the right word for it. He felt the it touching him
again, soothing him, removing all the sting of his stupidity.

The presence in the closet had been angrier. It wanted

inside of Cory, and whatever Lathe had done to him made it
impossible for him not to let it. He'd fallen back, and found
the iron with its frayed cord at knee level. There was an old
socket—it hadn't always been a closet. Someone had died in
the back room, and they hadn't been entirely thrilled over it.
Cory felt the rage, felt how whoever it was—it had been a
woman—had clawed at the door with her nails until they were
bloody. And she was furious. They were furious. They would—

Cory got the electrical plug into the wall socket. It was old

and took a long time to heat up. The woman in his head
didn't speak to him in words, but in images. She'd been a
maid in the farm house, and she'd fallen in love with the
husband. He hadn't reciprocated; she was convinced he had.
The wife locked her up after she'd tried to kill them.

And she'd died.
Cory fought to stay awake. It would be so easy to close his

eyes, let her take over, and if Lathe was coming to kill him to
free the power she'd consumed, well, that was all right, too.

The smell of electrical burning was heavy in the air. He

picked up the iron, casually, like he would a book or a can of
Coke, and pressed it against the palm of his hand. The
woman, Beth was her name, screamed with his voice and fled
his body like it was a burning building.

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She'd withdrawn to the rafters and wasn't coming out.

Lathe wasn't awake; it was midday, and without the being in
the closet with him, there was just a lock keeping him in. He
kicked at it, suddenly afraid that the noise would wake Lathe,
but the house was silent.

He kicked it again, but nothing happened. He blacked out,

twice, when the pain was too much, but the closet door was
old, and he'd burst through it. Then it was down the hall,
down the stairs, out the door, and into brilliant sunlight.
Every step closer to the door, he expected the sensation of
Lathe's hand coming down on him, his teeth and nails sharp
and cutting, to match the agony in his hand.

His aunt had been convinced that the damage to Cory's

hand was some sort of gang initiation. She took him to the
hospital, for the first time gentle and caring, but when he
hadn't named names, that hadn't lasted. Cory had felt raw
inside, said some things he shouldn't have, snatched the bus
ticket from her hand, and slammed doors behind him in his
wake. When he woke up on the bus, just outside of
Kamloops, for the first few seconds he tried to figure out how
it had all been a bad dream. But it hadn't. And he knew deep
down inside that Lathe would come looking for him. He was
going to be ready.

Lathe had found him once, when Brutus had him pinned

down. The headlights of an oncoming semi had sent him to
smoke. The plan was simple. He'd find another like Lathe and
level the playing field. And Luke had seemed the perfect
candidate. He didn't carry a torch for his old master; he'd set
fields ablaze and held the fire to his chest willingly. There'd

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seemed like no chance he'd actually grow attached, and for
the first few months, Cory had been absolutely right. He kept
himself at his prickly best, and Luke would look at him and
not entirely see him.

But it hadn't lasted, either. Luke started to see him. He

stopped pushing away.

Then he felt Lathe, and Brutus remembered him. He had

to leave. So he did, and he didn't want Luke to follow. It had
been a bitter, snarling breakup, but Luke had believed it. He
was so tired. The mention of Luke interested the thing inside
Cory. It dug deeper into those thoughts. "No," he told it.
"Please. I don't want to remember."

Another touch, still as calming as before. It could take

away the agony of his hand, but couldn't touch the anguish of
what he'd said, what he'd done. "It's not fair."

The memories shifted in his head, away from how bad it

now was, to how good it had been. They'd hunted together,
and oh, how'd they fucked. He'd never imagined it could be
that equal, no take, no give, just willing mouths and fingers
and cocks...

These memories he could live with. He touched his lips

with his bad hand and remembered how it felt to kiss Luke.
And then in that second Luke was there. Not really—he was
still in an empty room, and Cory knew he was flat on his back
on the cold, wooden floor—but he felt Luke with him. Cory
parted his lips, letting Luke inside. He tasted of blood and of
wine, and despite the chill in the air, the memory was vivid of
the long August nights when it had been so hot that even in
the basement it was enough just to feel Luke spoon up behind

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him, put his hands on Cory's hip, and slide inside him with
such slow, painstaking gentleness it reduced Cory's entire
world to fucking in general and just being fucked in specific.

And Luke spoke to him, always. Telling him when he would

kiss him, and where. Whether it would be a light touch of the
lips, barely grazing Cory's skin, or if there would be teeth
involved. And then if there was, and there almost always was,
Luke let him guess whether or not it was going to be hard
enough to draw Cory's blood or a bare scrape of human teeth
against his artery.

"I'm going to come," became, "Please, Luke, let me come,"

and Luke, smiling though there was no way Cory could see it,
would kiss the back of his neck or run his tongue on the soft
spot behind Cory's ear.

You can hold out a bit longer he would say, and did say, in

Cory's head. And Cory would insist that he couldn't, but oh,
fuck, he could, and the stings and promises would continue
until Cory couldn't even think straight and his entire body
would feel the orgasm slide out of him, lasting forever and all
but lifting him off the bed or couch or floor he was on.

"I love you," Cory would say, in that brief second, when

everything in his entire world was right, including the words
that escaped him, and Luke would kiss his shoulder and
pretend he didn't hear.

The smell of his semen filled the dusty, dry room. The

vortex slid the rest of the way inside him, and if Lathe had
any idea how much stronger this one was compared to the
girl in the closet, he wouldn't have gotten involved.

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"But he's involved now," Cory said to the empty room. He

held out his hand, willing himself to do it. He had to
remember how to move his muscle groups again, and then
realized with a shock that it wasn't his command that had
moved his arm. He looked up to the window, but the corona
was gone; it was nightfall, or close enough to it that the world
was coming back alive. He heard Brutus starting to pace, still
mostly formless so that it was just the sound of smoke
drifting across the wooden floors, but he heard it. He heard
Lathe wake from his slumber, felt him stand over the corpse
he'd fed on and then take the stairs two at a time.

Cory pushed to his feet. Moving the bookcase took no

more effort than drawing in a breath to speak, and even
though the window had been painted shut for years, he had
no problem pulling the window open, either.

He was sitting on the ledge as Lathe appeared, the vicious

knife in his hand sharp enough to shave with. In his other
hand was a wooden stake, round and sharp. "You've come to
kill me," Cory said, voice only slightly mocking.

Lathe nodded. "That is the plan."
Cory stood up, feeling the rush of power in his body. He

was still himself, barely, and soon he'd be swallowed up
completely by the other, but for right now, he could enjoy
this.

"Do you really think I would let that happen?" he asked.

He let a hint of the power that had collected here, where the
two rivers joined over millennia, fill him, and Lathe stepped
back. Cory smiled again. "You have freed me, and for that, I
will not kill you tonight."

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"I have mastery over you!" Lathe snarled.
Cory walked to Lathe. Lathe's hands were suddenly too

heavy for him to be able to lift either weapon, and they both
clattered to the floor. "But I will kill you," Cory whispered and
kissed Lathe on the cheek. "This body is magnificent," he
said, and that line was wholly the other. "I really must thank
you."

"Come back," Lathe said, but oh so weakly. "Please."
Cory felt himself change. Not to the raven—he couldn't,

not nude as he was—but to a snowy owl, beautiful as he was
deadly. He took to the sky, wings barely making it through
the window, and he was off and up. Away.

And no longer himself at all.

* * * *

Luke had just made the coffee when he heard something

strike the window. It didn't have the weight of a bird breaking
its neck, but he heard the nail-on-a-chalkboard sound of
talons striking the glass. "Cory?" he called, going to the door,
but flicked on the floodlights before opening it.

It wasn't Cory. At least, it wasn't a raven. The snowy owl

in the tree cocked its head to the side, its round yellow eyes
frankly observing, and then it was Cory himself, naked,
sprawled over the branch. He threw his leg over the branch
and slid down. He landed lightly on the grass and padded
toward Luke.

"How did you—" Luke began. It was still cold out; the snap

had lengthened into a spell. But even though Cory looked

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paler than usual from lack of blood, he seemed unaffected by
it. "Cory, you must be freezing."

"Fuck me," Cory said.
"We're back to this?" Luke asked and rubbed his face. Just

when he thought he'd broken through with Cory, it was like
he was always trying to push. "Look, I'm thrilled you're back,
but I don't—"

Cory kissed him, taking Luke's head in his hands. "Fuck

me, Luke. Please. Here on the grass if you want. Would you
prefer me on my knees?"

Luke wished he could say no. He took Cory by the shoulder

and pulled him inside. "You said you loved me," Luke said.
"That you were mine."

"I did," Cory said, voice joyous. "Do you want to fuck on

the couch or go downstairs?"

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"Later. I need you. Now, please."
There was something wrong, and Luke knew it, but he

wasn't a saint, either. He took Cory to the couch. It was
obvious that Cory couldn't wait. Already naked and hard, he
squirmed away when Luke tried to kiss him. "Suck my cock,"
he said, trying to push Luke's head down. "Go on. Suck it. I
want to feel your lips on my skin."

Something was definitely wrong. He took hold of Cory's

wrists and was actually quite shocked at how easily Cory
broke his hold. "What—" Luke began, but Cory wouldn't let
him speak. They kissed again, more for Cory to shut him up
than out of affection or love, and Luke broke away. "What are
you?"

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"What do you mean, what am I? I'm your Cory. You need

to fuck me."

"You're not my Cory," Luke said, as sure of that as he was

about his distrust of sunlight. "I don't know what you are, but
you are not my Cory."

Cory's face changed, instantly. Gone were the smiles, and

he was as still as though he'd been suddenly chiseled out of
stone. "He is in here."

"Unless he's in the driver's seat, we're not taking the car

out of the driveway," Luke said. He broke free, having to get
away because his body truly wasn't minding the lack of Cory
inside Cory's body. "What are you?"

Cory—or Cory's body, at least—leaned back, sprawling the

exact way Cory had a thousand times before. "These must be
principles," he said. "I cannot say that I like them at all. You
liked it when Cory begged for you. Would that change
anything?" He ran his hand down his belly and touched his
erection. "I could beg on my knees, if you think it will help."

"Let me speak with Cory," Luke said.
"I told you. He's in here. He's just a little busy." Cory stood

up, going to Luke, but Luke held him away at arm's length,
and Cory, for once, respected that. "I could just take you."

Luke held out his hands. "That is not going to happen," he

said. "I believe you don't mean Cory any harm. Just let me
speak with him."

Cory stood up, practically stalking Luke across the living

room. "What I want, I take. Isn't that how you humans are?
Do you think you can stop me?"

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Luke closed his eyes. Cory was so close and smelled so

familiar, Luke could barely push him away, but push him
away he did. He opened his mouth, but couldn't form the
words the first time.

"What did you say?" Cory demanded.
"I said, I revoke my invitation." Luke formed each word

carefully. Cory screeched in pain, Luke bolted for the door
and swung it open, and Cory turned back into the bird. Wings
beat against Luke's face, talons dug into his cheek, and then
the white owl was away. He watched as Cory flew up into the
night, but he didn't call him back. He couldn't; it would have
invited whatever that thing was back into his house again,
and the thought of being alone with it, when he was
completely defenseless, was more frightening than it should
have been.

"I'm sorry," he told the night sky, when the bird was

completely out of sight. It was Brutus who answered, miles
away but crystal clear on the cold, chilly wind.

* * * *

Lathe let Brutus out at true dark. The wolf bolted past him,

into the garden and behind the house, where the forested
edge of the river met the parking lot. Lathe let him run and
opened himself up to Brutus's feeling of freedom. He felt
caged in, himself; the vortex was gone, the restaurant was
empty but for the ghosts, and he needed time to think about
how he was going to trap it again.

The world was too bright for him to concentrate, so he

went back down to the basement. The corpse was dried out,

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but he kicked it nonetheless before settling down into his
nest. He could still feel Brutus running through the trees,
tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and that, at least,
was calming. Soon he would find something to kill, and they
would both feed for the night.

He'd created Brutus out of ice and need and hunger and

just a little bit of himself. They were linked. He opened
himself a little more, letting him be the wolf and enjoy the
hunt. He'd found something, something wholly alive and full
of blood. He bounded further down the trail, silent as death,
and his body responded to its panicked biorhythms with
absolute hunger.

When death came, though, it didn't come from teeth and

claws, but talons and beak. The owl descended silently from
the sky, digging its claws into the back of Brutus's neck. Its
beak came down, and Lathe felt the sharp pain as though it
were happening to the back of his own neck as the owl
severed Brutus's spinal column. It wasn't a line of nerves, but
the core of what tied Brutus together. When it was severed,
Brutus collapsed.

Lathe sat up, completely alone in the basement. Alone for

just a second, of course, as the flurry of wings stirred the air
around him. The owl struck his face, the power of its wings
beyond what any owl should have had. And then it was just
Cory, naked and sitting cross-legged at the end of his nest.
"You didn't have to kill it," Lathe said.

Cory wiped off his mouth. There was no blood; Brutus

didn't have any in him. But it wasn't done entirely for the
dramatic gesture. There was something on his lips, even if it

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wasn't blood, and it smelled of Brutus. Lathe could only watch
as Cory licked his fingers clean. "Sweet," he decided. "That's
what I'm going to call it."

"You belong to me," Lathe said, voice harsh. "I demand

that you—"

Cory backhanded him with his free hand; he wasn't quite

finished taking in Brutus's essence with the other. Lathe fell
back, head striking one of the numerous support poles
holding up the main floor, and he had to shake his head to
clear the ringing from it.

"Would you like to rephrase that? I believe I'm going to

call this feeling I have here as taking offense to your tone."

"I freed you," Lathe said, changing tactics, though it stuck

in his throat to do so. This Cory was stronger than anything
he'd ever felt before. The power radiated from his skin in the
same sickening blue light, and his eyes shone with it. He had
an erection, and occasionally his hand would drop down and
stroke it a couple times, but his eyes never left Lathe. Lathe
stopped talking before he accidentally added a you owe me
part to the sentence.

"You did," Cory said. He sat up so that he was kneeling in

the nest, but there was no submission in the position. He just
couldn't be arsed to stand yet. Lathe swallowed, and the first
sliver of fear slid down his spine. "But I came here because I
wanted something from you."

Lathe didn't ask what. If Cory didn't have the energy or

the strength to kill him where he stood, Lathe would have
found the look of strain on Cory's face to be almost comical.

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But there was absolutely nothing funny about it now. "Oh,
yes. I remember. I believe this body is hungry."

"I'll fetch you something," Lathe said and moved to stand.
"No," Cory said simply. "It wants to feed from you."
"But I'm—" Lathe began, and then silenced. He was still

full from the man Brutus had herded toward him. There was
so much blood in a human if you took it all at once; it was a
much more efficient use of his time rather than the sippy-cup
method that most of the modern vampires had taken. He was
bursting with blood; he felt that now, and it would be
amazingly stupid if he did anything rash. "I'm here for you."

"Of course you are," Cory said, lips twisting. "Your kind

always is. Manipulate my penis while I drink."

"It's called jerking off," Lathe said.
"I don't care what it's called. I just want it done right."

Cory moved to him, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him,
ankles on the ground, back to the wall. "This body remembers
where to bite," he continued. "It's like your skin sings to be
punctured. Put your hand on my penis."

It had been centuries since Lathe had been submissive to

another vampire. He told himself he didn't recall how it was
done, but up against the wall his body remembered.
Submissive was not what or who he was, but under someone
much stronger his body couldn't help but respond as such. He
licked his palm, which obviously confused Cory slightly, and
then he wrapped his fingers around Cory's cock.

"Much better," Cory announced. He tried an experimental

thrust, but obviously didn't care for it. "You do it."

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Lathe did. Cory's cock was leaking enough precum that he

was able to gather it up and use it. Even with it, though, it
was drier than Lathe personally liked it. But it wasn't his call.
He kept his hand loose, despite enjoying the way Cory's cock
felt. When Cory bit him, teeth deep into his neck, that at least
was familiar.

"Do it," Lathe whispered. There was something primal in

the blood taking and giving, something better than the taste
of blood. Lathe closed his eyes, letting Cory just take him. His
other hand moved up, taking Cory in both hands, and
together they rode it out. Cory drank more and more, pulling
enough to narrow Lathe's vision to black bands.

"Consider it done," Cory said, breaking free. "You're

nowhere near as good as he was."

Lathe collapsed to his knees, no longer able to stand, and

Cory left him like that. Cory tripped up the stairs, two at a
time, and it was all Lathe could do to crawl on his hands and
knees up and out. He found an old man sleeping it off in the
valley. The drunk tasted like the sewer. Lathe didn't let the
human wake up again.

* * * *

Luke remembered sitting down on the couch, but after that

was a blur. Someone knocked at the door, and when Luke
ignored it, the noise became a pounding.

"Bloody hell," Luke snarled, getting to his feet. He almost

tore the heavy wooden door off its hinges.

It wasn't Cory. Luke didn't expect it to be, and yet still he

was disappointed. Lathe stood in front of the glass storm

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door. Out of habit, Luke flicked on the porch light, but Lathe
was alone and ... Luke studied his face. Deflated, Luke
supposed, if he had to put a name to it.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. "Where's

the pooch?" Luke asked finally.

"Dead," Lathe said. "As dead as anything could be, made

of what Brutus was made of."

"You didn't kill him," Luke said.
Lathe shook his head. "Not me."
"That thing inside Cory did it," Luke finished.
A nod. Luke was a little frightened to see actual pain from

Lathe. "May I come in?" Lathe asked, after a long pause.

"Not a chance," Luke said easily.
"Then come out and join me."
"Not a chance of that, either, I'm afraid."
Lathe exhaled sharply. He obviously wasn't accustomed to

being denied. Luke took pleasure in it. "Cory took care of
himself, didn't he? Your brilliant plan was ruined, and now
you're stuck with the consequences."

"But not alone. That thing out there, it fed from me tonight

to gather its strength, but it's only a matter of time before it
gets hungry again. What do you think is going to happen to
this city once people start dropping?"

"Spare me your false concern. I'm sure your heart bleeds

as passively as it can for the potential loss of human life."

"If not for the loss of life, then at least for the loss of

incognito. Our kind are not the sort to embrace a paranoid
night population."

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Luke's lip curled at the thought. They were long past the

angry villagers and pitchfork stage, but angry mobs of
whatever sort always armed themselves.

Not that he was entirely convinced, and Lathe saw it, too.

"You have my word. With your assistance I may not have to
kill him to get that thing out of him."

"Bullshit," Luke snarled. "If you could have killed him, you

wouldn't have offered him a snack while you jerked him off."

Lathe had the good grace to look embarrassed. "You could

smell that?" he asked, touching the barely closed marks at his
throat.

Luke nodded.
"I need your help. You need your little bird back, and when

we get it out of him, I promise you our paths won't cross
again."

That, if for no other reason, was enough for Luke. He

rubbed his neck. "What are you suggesting?"

"Join me."
"Help," Luke corrected. "The word you are looking for is

help."

"Help. Help me get that thing out of your boy. I will pull

out my power from him; you'll get the shell back. It's win-win
situation for us both."

"And then?"
"Like I said. You'll never see me again."
Luke nodded, suddenly exhausted, though a good two to

three hours remained of the night. "Tomorrow. I'll meet you
at the restaurant."

"That's not good enough."

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"It's going to have to be," Luke said and began to close the

door. Lathe reached out, about to push it open, but his hand
was brought up short just inside the interior door frame. He
slammed his fists against it, but it still barred him. "Not the
way to win friends," Luke said. He'd seen wild dogs up north,
all but wild, taking food from their "masters." They'd had the
same look that Lathe did at that moment. He'd be safe for as
long as Lathe needed something from him, but he didn't have
to be told the promise of safety afterward was useless.
"Tomorrow," he said.

Lathe grinned at him, hunger and fury so close to the

surface that if Luke scratched him, they would escape before
the blood would. Lathe bowed his head once and then backed
away. He got into his car, and Luke watched him go until the
taillights were no longer visible.

He closed down the upstairs and went back to his

storeroom for the night. He slept through sunrise and was
well into the morning when he heard something in the main
room. He opened his eyes, moving before he was fully awake.
It was only Cory, sitting in the overstuffed chair by his
computer. He looked tired, with dark circles below his eyes,
and he was dressed in all black, including his gloves.

It was the gloves that tipped him off that Cory wasn't

entirely with him. Whatever was inside Cory wouldn't have
bothered with the gloves. It couldn't have been whatever
Cory was now; the lack of invitation would have stopped it.
Cory himself, however, would always be more than welcome.
"Can you speak?" Luke asked.

"I'm not dead," Cory said.

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Luke felt less relief than the words should have given him.

"Then how are you here?"

"I don't know. It lets me sleep, and when I sleep, I come

here."

Luke came around him. His fingers felt real in Luke's, even

though he was just touching the glove. "But I can touch you."

"You're asleep," Cory told him.
"I am?" Luke asked.
Cory stood. "You are."
"You love me," Luke said. "I think you've always loved

me."

"I've always loved you," Cory said.
"And that was what you were hiding from me, all this

time."

"I knew Lathe would find me. I didn't think he'd take that

long, but he did. And when he found me ... I couldn't risk it. I
couldn't risk you."

"You should have told me. I could have—"
"What? Protected me? You had no idea how strong he was.

Is. How strong he still is. If he hadn't tapped the vortex,
thinking he could have controlled it, I'd be dead by now. And
you? You'd still be alive," Cory said. He sounded tired, tired
enough that the unintentional bite was back in his voice."Do
we have to fight over this? Wouldn't you rather..." Luke didn't
finish, and Cory didn't answer.

Cory looked away first. "We don't have fight. Not

anymore."

Luke waited, but that was all that was coming. "I want to

kiss you."

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"I want you to kiss me."
"And I don't want to argue anymore."
Cory looked up again. He smiled. "Me neither. Except ...

maybe..."

Luke sighed. "What?"
"Maybe we could do more than just kiss."
Luke took his hands, pulling him up. If this was a dream,

things felt real enough.

"And isn't that enough?" Cory asked.
"For now," Luke said.
Cory smiled. Luke dropped to his knees and took Cory's

hand. "What are you—" Cory began, then shut his mouth.
Luke began to tug the glove off with his teeth, but Cory tried
to pull his hand back. "Don't."

"Gotcha," Luke said. He parted Cory's fingers by rubbing

the palm of his hand and took the middle finger, glove and
all, down his throat. Cory put two fingers together, sliding
them into Luke's mouth, and Luke held his wrist still, being
very careful about his teeth.

"Luke," Cory whispered, his voice breaking over the single

syllable. "I can't ... I mean..."

"You're not going to say it?" Luke smiled, pulling his head

back.

"I'd rather you suck on my cock. Please. I'll take it out and

everything."

"Will you, now?" Luke asked and leaned back on his heels.

"Why don't you go ahead and do that, then?"

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Cory bowed his head for a second in thanks and undid his

jeans. He pulled them down to his thighs. "Tell me what to
do."

Luke looked up. He'd be just as happy fucking, but there

was a needy look to Cory's face. "Do you really want it that
way?"

"Yes, please."
"Then ... put your hands behind your neck. You can lock

your fingers together, if you think it would be easier."

Cory chewed on his bottom lip. He hesitated, but then

latched his fingers behind him. "Better?" Luke asked.

"Much."
"Good. Stay that way."
Cory nodded. Luke ran his fingers down Cory's hips. His

hard cock was tight against his belly. He kissed Cory's hip
bone. Cory couldn't stop his hips from trying to thrust, so
Luke held him still before he took him into his mouth.

"Yes," Cory hissed.
Luke thought, briefly, of letting go and just letting Cory

fuck the back of his throat, but that wasn't what Cory wanted.
Instead, he forced Cory's legs even farther apart, his jeans
pulled tight around his thighs about the best method of
containment, and Cory relaxed completely. No pain; Cory
didn't need that. He shivered. Luke had to sit up to get all of
Cory's cock down his throat.

And then, in dream logic that made perfect sense at the

time, Cory was in his bed. His wrists were manacled together,
the blindfold firmly in place, and his hips were over a pile of
pillows that put him at the perfect angle. Luke was admiring

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the arrangement in one second, and then inside Cory the
next, and they found a rhythm that worked, though there was
still a glassed-in feeling, like at least a part of Luke was just
watching the sex and not completely a participant.

Cory flexed his hands. "It's enough," he said. "Please. Let

it be enough."

But it wasn't. The aware part began buzzing in his head

like a wasp. He grabbed onto Cory's hip, willing himself to
stay, but he couldn't. His body was waking, and the dream
broke around him. He was alone, in his bed, hot and hard,
and Cory's blindfold was beside him.

He lay back, panting, though he really didn't need to. It

was dark out again; the dream had taken all day. It was time.
He got up, considered whacking off, but decided he'd rather
keep the energy.

He dressed stiffly and drove to the restaurant. Lathe

waited for him, arms crossed over his chest. Luke reluctantly
shut off his lights and got out of the car, expecting to feel
Brutus's ice-cold teeth sinking into his ankle. It never came.
Brutus was really gone.

Lathe looked more himself. He'd fed after Cory. His color

was back, but his core strength, the ability he had to push his
thoughts into Luke, was muzzled. As Luke walked up he felt
Lathe trying, but the attempts were leaden and easily
avoidable. "What happened to you?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lathe said.
"How do we find him?" Luke asked.
"Feel."
"Feel what?" Luke snapped, not liking being toyed with.

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"Just feel, Luke. You have to trust me."
Luke snorted, but bowed his head for a second. Then he

felt it. Cory, or whatever it was inside Cory, was pulling
energy from the rivers and the people. It was a yellow light,
shining across the bridge from the downtown area. "So that's
one concern. What do we do when we find him?"

"Hold him down, drive the vortex from him."
Lathe kicked the door behind him open. The chains coiled

up on the inside were wrong; even where he stood he could
feel the burning from them. "What are they?"

"Iron," Lathe said.
"That's not just iron." It wasn't. Luke could feel the pain in

it. He didn't want it anywhere near him. "What is it?"

"It's melted-down iron. Iron from a dozen different

abandoned places of worship. Temples, churches, mosques. It
took me years to gather them." Lathe smiled. It was an ugly
thing. "They'll keep anything chained down."

"How do we get it down to begin with?" Luke asked.
"Well, that's up to you."
"Me?"
"It has a hard-on for you, Luke, my boy. And let's just

hope it has a bit of your little bird's proclivities necessary for
it to submit to you."

"And then?" Luke asked.
Lathe took out a hypodermic needle, wicked sharp and

murky.

"What is that?"

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"A tranquilizer. Enough to knock out a horse. When the

little bird is on his knees, stick him, and he'll wake up in
chains. After that, you leave it to me."

"You're barking mad, aren't you?" Luke asked. Lathe

ignored him completely.

"Your gloves are inside. Help me carry it to your car."
Luke stepped over the chains just inside the door. The old

man on the staircase stared at him hollowly. He was fraying
along the edges, dispersing right in front of Luke. The woman
crying in the bathroom was reduced to soft sobs, and there
was nothing from the attic. Their power source had been
taken, and they were losing their grip. "I'm sorry," he told
them, then slipped on the common pair of gardening gloves.
Even through the suede, he felt the chains burn. The dead
were angry, even with their loss, and Luke was glad he hadn't
spent more than a couple moments in the house.

"I'll drive," Luke said, once the chain was in the trunk of

the car. Lathe held his hands up. "Wouldn't have it any other
way."

Luke nodded. He found Cory's gloves by the driver's door.

He scooped them up, got in, and waited for Lathe to get in
behind him before slamming his door shut and driving away.
This close, and in the enclosed space, Luke could smell the
insanity that tinged Lathe's skin. "Why are you doing this?"
Luke asked, staring at the road.

"Doing what?"
"Trying to channel something that shouldn't be channeled.

What did you hope at best would happen?"

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"You have no idea what that thing is, do you?" Lathe

asked. Even in the dead of night, there was still traffic, and
Luke pulled up to a red light. "You think there's nothing to
this life but eating and fornicating."

"There's more?" Luke asked.
"Oh, for all that is unholy, you poor, pathetic fool. You've

never tasted real power, have you?" He put his hand out,
touching Luke's knee. Luke pushed it off like it stung him.

"I don't know what you mean."
"Your ghosts, you don't think that's unusual? What about

your Cory's feathered act? You have your talents, and the
lines, what little there is here in Calgary, fuel them. It's the
reason there is no one else here other than you. No one else
could use what little power had escaped the vortex, and the
fact that you'd made such a powerful vampire is quite
remarkable."

"Leave us alone. We were good here."
"You were sitting on a geyser of power, stopped up by a

single entity. It is our right to use that power, not that thing.
You've never known the power, but you will."

"We're getting Cory back," Luke said. "And you're getting

the hell out of Dodge. That's about as far as I want to plan
with you right now."

"You're a fool," Lathe snarled.
Luke hit the gas a little harder than he meant to.
They found Cory on the top of the Centennial Parking

Garage. He was naked, as usual, and sprawled spread-eagle
on one of the cars abandoned overnight. He was hungry,
without even knowing it, but having that thing in him was

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probably taking more strength than it thought. The thing sat
up when they reached the row it was in, and slid off the car
onto Cory's feet. There was nothing more of Cory inside him,
Luke saw, even from where he was sitting behind the wheel.
If Cory wasn't asleep, he was far, far down.

The garage was newish, less than a couple years old, but it

was still old enough to have caused its own share of deaths. A
homeless man, found frozen where he slept on the coldest
night of the year, a hit-and-run victim who'd died before
paramedics arrived. There was even a businessman who had
been found clutching his chest behind the wheel of something
black and sleek. They'd gathered around Cory, leaning into
the power that he was, but Cory didn't seem to notice them.

Luke didn't get out of the car. He didn't have to to know

that it was all a very bad idea. Cory stared at him through the
glass, and Luke knew Cory knew exactly what they were
planning.

"This is not going to work," he told Lathe.
"Have some faith," Lathe said, using the word as though it

only had four letters.

"He knows why we're here."
"Of course he does. But he doesn't know what you have in

your pocket. You don't know how far a sexual obsession can
go."

"He can do a bit more to us than just boil a rabbit," Luke

said, but Lathe looked at him hard, so he get out of the car,
too tired argue anymore. Cory hadn't moved from where he
leaned against the fender of his car.

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"I revoke my invitation," he said in Cory's flat voice. His

arms were crossed, his face cold, but still his entire body
leaned toward Luke out of need.

"I think that only works in private dwellings," Luke told

him.

"Really?" Cory asked. "You sure?"
"Fairly," Luke said. "Sorry."
"So many rules to this body. How did you learn them all?"
"One at a time." Luke was close now; he hadn't been

aware that he'd kept moving. He remembered planting his
feet a good four or five yards from Cory. Now he was close
enough to feel Cory's breath on his neck, if either of them
breathed. It helped that he no longer smelled of Cory, but of
something completely other.

"I suppose I'll learn them as well. There are others coming

like you. Soon this place will be swarming with them. And you
and I will feed."

"But you're hungry now," Luke said calmly.
"Starved," Cory agreed. "I can feel your blood moving, and

I want it. Also, I want to put you over this hood and fuck you,
or at least this body does. Is that normal?"

"For that body it is." Luke couldn't kill the grin on his face.

He wanted it as much as Cory did, and it took a lot of
strength to pull back from the need. More strength than he
had, and he was on borrowed time as it was, but he needed
to understand.

"The others that are coming here. Did you know they're all

stronger than the one thinking about the chain in the trunk
right now? Are those for me?"

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Luke looked over his shoulder. "Supposedly," he said,

though he had no real way of confirming what Lathe was
thinking.

"Does he think I'm just going to fall for that hypodermic

needle in your pocket? That I'd just let you, what did he say,
'stick' me? Does he really think I'm that stupid?"

"I believe he believes you'd be overcome with lust."
"Overcome with lust?" Cory repeated. "Over you?"
There was no lying to Cory, not when that thing was inside

him. He pulled the truth from Luke like a handkerchief from a
pocket. "I told him it wouldn't work," Luke said.

"Tell him I said you were right." Cory looked back to him.

"You make the one inside me happy. I like that feeling. Come
with me. Serve me. I'll make you happy, too."

"I can't do that," Luke said, though it hurt him, physically,

to deny Cory.

"Yes, you can. Isn't giving in one of the easiest thing you

can do? Just let me in."

"The one inside you is dying. I want him back. I need him

back."

"I'm a hundred thousand times more powerful than he is."
"That doesn't mean anything to me."
"It does to the other one," Cory said, motioning to Lathe in

disgust. "He'd grovel at my feet for an ounce of what I'm
offering you. Why won't you take it?"

"You can take that up with him. I just want my Cory back."
Cory pushed away from the car. "Do you think I couldn't

just take it from you? You said it yourself—revoking your
invitation doesn't work out here, and that's the only line of

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defense you have. I can show you parts of yourself you've
never had access to before. I can make you like a god."

"Not interested," Luke said, and Cory just looked at him.

Suddenly the cold night air was impossible to breathe, even
as a pretense. Words failed him.

"That's better," Cory said. Its eyes were no longer Cory's.

They were the same green, but the pupils almost completely
swallowed up the iris. "No words, no more useless
objections."

Luke took out the hypo. "And what are you going to do

with that?" Cory snarled. "I already told you it would have no
effect on me."

It's not for you, Luke thought, and Cory's eyes widened as

though he'd spoken aloud. Luke jammed the needle into his
own thigh. It worked as well as Lathe said it would. One
moment he saw the growing anger across Cory's face at being
denied that which he wanted; the next he was in darkness.
He felt his head hitting something, and then he just floated
away. He didn't see Cory, the real Cory, in his hazy dream,
but he felt him getting weaker with every sunrise.

Luke woke up in the basement of the Deane House, mouth

dry and his head pounding. He didn't open his eyes until he
could locate Lathe. The dizziness passed for the most part,
and he could hear Lathe pacing back and forth in the narrow
space.

"You're awake. I heard you swallow," Lathe growled.
Luke sat up, touching his forehead. His fingers came away

covered in drying blood. "I'm awake," he agreed.

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"How could you fuck that up? Walk up to him, let him suck

you off, and stick him. What part of that did you mess up
on?"

"He knew the needle was there. He knew you had the

chain, and he knew the drug would have no effect on him."
Luke touched his forehead again. He had a lump. It was
healing, but he would need to feed before it healed entirely.

"You didn't know that for sure."
"I did, actually. I only went along with your stupid plan so

that I could talk to him without being taken completely over."

"And you couldn't have told me?"
"If I'd fully formed the thought to put it into words, I'm

sure he would have been able to read that part as well.
However strong you think it is, believe me, Lathe, you've
underestimated it. It's stronger than that."

"Impossible."
"The only reason why you're not groveling on your knees

right now is because he doesn't particularly want you there. If
you think you can contain this thing, you're fooling yourself."

"You're just saying that because you want all that power to

yourself."

"What?" Luke demanded. "Are you hearing me, or am I

just wasting my breath, such as it is? He will destroy anything
in his way, and he's already calling more vampires to serve
him."

"And what do you suggest we do otherwise?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just stating the

situation."

"And what are you, personally, going to do about it?"

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Luke exhaled and touched the lump again. "I'm going to

get Cory back."

"And failing that?" Lathe asked.
"I don't know," Luke said. But he did know. It would only

sting to bow down once.

It was dark out. Luke went upstairs to the second floor. He

wasn't alone. The woman had stopped crying, but she was
still there. The man in the attic, the murderer, the patient on
the stair—and there were more people in the house. He saw
indigents, not only the man Lathe had killed in the basement
but dozens more from the winding paths.

One of the dead wore a World War II uniform. Several

were dripping wet, filling the room with the smell of river
water and decayed leaves. Women, children, some so old and
so faint they wore buckskins. The room wasn't quite twenty
feet by thirty, but the dead were layered. They all needed the
vortex back.

"I'm sorry," he told them. He went outside, under the cold

stars. There were more dead under the ground. The vortex
had chosen this land centuries and centuries ago, and it had
cost dozens and dozens of lives. Human lives, which were frail
enough to begin with. And now that thing was in Cory, and if
Cory remembered any bit of it...

Luke pressed his hands against his face.
The first vampire walked down the old bridge in the middle

of the road. The road was cold, coated with the ice fog that
had crept up from the river, and a traffic light's reflection
turned green, yellow, red, and then green again. The vampire
walked right past Luke and knelt down in the grass in front of

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the house. He was older than Luke; that much Luke did get
from him. But he was empty inside. There was no evidence of
ability, nothing like what Luke could do, or what Cory could
do. When Luke closed his eyes, he felt Cory like a burning
torch, and this vampire in front of him was a bare spark.
There were others, coming closer, and Luke didn't know why
he didn't like that at all.

He called up one of his old feeders, Jose, and paid for the

cab to wait outside. They didn't speak. Luke didn't feel like it,
but fresh blood was so much better than any blood pack.
When it was over, and Luke wiped up the young man's
semen, he got dressed a bit slower than usual.

"You never call anymore. Did you find someone else?"
"I fed from my partner," Luke said. "He liked hunting."
"Don't lose my number again, please. I like you."
Luke kissed his cheek and gave him money for the fare

back. "I won't. I like you, too."

Jose closed the door behind him. Luke locked the door and

lay down on the couch. He felt the blood work into his
system, better than any alcohol, and while he didn't sleep, he
sank down into the gray inside him.

The knock on the door was more of a rap, like how a cane

would sound against glass. Luke pulled himself up from his
sleep and stumbled to the door. Still half asleep from the
sluggish blood in his system, he pulled open the wooden door.

And stopped. The desire to touch his throat—or better yet,

to kneel—was instantaneous and all but uncontrollable. His
master, Marcus, stood on the porch, the black car behind him
gleaming in the moonlight. Marcus was the night. His dark

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eyes met Luke's with disdain he was trying hard not to show.
He brought a lit cigarette up to his lips, the horrible smell of
smoke curling around his mouth. He wasn't alone; a young
pet stood behind him. It wasn't the same one Marcus had left
him for. This one seemed even greener—and frightened.

"Master," Luke said, the word cutting his throat. "What are

you—"

"Are you going to invite me in?" Marcus demanded.
No, Luke wanted to say. Bugger off would have worked as

well, but he stepped back. "Please," he said.

"Please what, Luke? That's not specific enough."
Luke closed his eyes. He took a deep breath to tell him to

go away, but all he wanted to do was invite his master in.
Luke remained motionless by the door, unable to speak.

Marcus stubbed out his cigarette, smile wide on his face.

"Luke. I asked you a question."

"Now isn't a good time, Master," he said finally.
Marcus reacted as though Luke had slapped him. Luke

supposed he had. "What did you just say?" Marcus
demanded.

Luke rubbed his face. He hadn't touched that part of him

that still wanted Marcus's return in a long time, which was
odd for him. The ashes had been cold to the touch, but just
being near him made them spark up again. If he hadn't just
been so close to Cory, however, he might have missed the
very subtle pull he felt. He cleared his throat. "I suppose you
can come in. If you want."

"Is that all you have to say?"

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"It's all I want to, yes," Luke said. He stepped back and

made Marcus open the storm door himself. "What brings you
here?" He already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it,
regardless.

Marcus stepped into the house, but the pet was brought up

short. "The boy, too."

"The boy can wait outside," Luke said and moved to the

sitting room. "You won't be staying long."

"I agree. This is hardly a suitable abode. What happened

to the house I left you?"

"An upswing to downtown property value. I believe it's a

condo now," Luke said. "You're not staying here."

Marcus didn't appear to hear him. "There is power here,

Luke. Enough for all of us. You'll be coming back to my
family. Maybe not as my pet, but I will have need of your
services. We must move now. Staking out territory happens
quickly.

"I'm not going with you," Luke said. He stirred the ashes

inside himself. Examined them. But now that he had identified
the pull, there was nothing at all. Marcus's dark looks would
always be classically beautiful. The eyes could still pierce. His
jaw line was still regal. But he paled in comparison to Cory. "I
think I'm really over you."

"Funny," Marcus said. "I made you. You belong to me."
"You set me free," Luke said. "I felt it when you released

me. Did you think I'd stay there, pining for you?" It was
ridiculous to hear it, especially since up to—had it only been a
week? Less?—a few days ago, it would have been true. "You
made your choice. I made mine."

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"Luke—"
Luke held out his hand. "Take your pet and go," he said.
Marcus grabbed Luke by the throat, trying to pin him

against the wall, but Luke had no problem peeling back
Marcus's hand. Marcus was still strong; Luke felt that in his
wrist. It was just ... Luke was stronger. Whatever Cory had
done to him made him stronger. Marcus's eyes were wide,
but he didn't protest as Luke showed him to the door.

Marcus tried grabbing his wrist again. "Better to be with

me than against. I would offer you more than other family
could possibly."

Luke shook his head and turned away. "It's not going to

come to that."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."
Luke saw him reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. He

smelled the scent of the black cigarettes and was about to tell
him not to light up in his house when he felt the pin prick in
his neck. "You've always been too trusting."

"Fuck yourself on a cactus," Luke managed, and was

falling again.

Luke woke, wrapped in the chains that Lathe had made, on

the floor in the backseat of Marcus's black car. They didn't
touch his bare skin, but he still felt the burning sensation. It
wasn't enough to make him black out again, but if he'd been
thrust into a bathtub full of razor blades he would have been
in less pain. The pet in the passenger seat smelled more of
Lathe than Marcus did, but only because the smell of tobacco
had covered the original scent up. It had been a setup from
the very start.

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"The vortex isn't looking for partners," Luke called. "He

only wants slaves to serve and feast on."

"That's not going to happen," Marcus said. "It's fooling

itself if it thinks we're going to allow it to remain free."

"How are you going to stop it?" Luke demanded. "It's

stronger than you are. It's stronger than any of us, and it has
no weaknesses."

"It has one," Marcus said. Luke waited and then realized

Marcus meant him.

Luke closed his eyes and waited.
Marcus drove to the Deane House. Of course he did. Luke

knew it would be a waste of breath to argue the point, how
summoning the vortex and trapping it were two different
things. They chained him out on the floor of the second-story
room, right in front of a window, and the dead were so thick
around him that when Luke looked into Lathe's face he saw a
dozen dead men and women first. "You're making a mistake,"
he said.

"I don't think so. If there was one thing I had

miscalculated before, it was the bond the two of you actually
had."

"It doesn't think like that. It doesn't think at all, hardly. If

you think it is somehow magically attuned to me in danger—"

"You would be absolutely correct," Cory said from behind

Lathe. He'd changed. There was so very little of Cory left,
Luke knew by sunrise there would be nothing of him at all.
Luke shook his head, wanting to warn Cory off, but by then
he already had Lathe up by his throat and dangling several

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feet off the floor. Marcus appeared frozen, and his pet was
motionless beside him.

"Take those chains off him," Cory said.
The pet was the only one able to comply. Luke stared at

him, feeling Marcus through him entirely, and he wondered if
he'd been that pathetic when they were together. The hold
had seemed absolute, and when Marcus had freed him, he
hadn't taken all his chains off. With Cory in the room, Luke
felt that he had been kept in that state of complete need for
decades, and Marcus had enjoyed it.

The chains fell free, and Luke jumped to his feet. In any

other situation he would have taken off all his clothes to
completely shed the burning, but he didn't consider it to be
very wise right now.

Cory shook Lathe, and he jerked in the air like a rag doll.

"You've been a constant source of annoyance," Cory said,
face completely blank. "Did you think I would let you harm
him?"

"Cory—" Luke began, but it was too late. Blue flames, as

cold as ice, ran up Cory's arm, and while they should have
burned him, they didn't. Cory wasn't completely a vampire
anymore, Luke supposed. Lathe, unfortunately, still was, and
when the flames touched his face, curling around his ears and
throughout his hair, he began to melt.

Vampires are hard to kill, but not impossible. Luke jerked

back, his revulsion at watching Lathe come apart instinctive.
Cory continued to hold him, even as the fingers of flame slid
up inside Lathe's nostrils, into his ears, and down his throat
when he opened his mouth to scream. Once the flames

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became internal, Lathe burned away from the inside.
Eventually Cory opened his hand, and that which remained of
Lathe, the waxy remnants that turned to dust the moment
they hit the floor, left a sooty black stain where they fell. Cory
wiped his hand off on his shirt in disgust.

"You have no part in this. You may go," Cory told Marcus's

pet. The pet's eyes showed white all around, like a frightened
horse, and Luke felt Cory casually break the lines that held
him to Marcus. With their breaking, the pet bolted. Luke
hesitated, watching Cory watch him go, and there was
compassion in Cory's face. Maybe there was more of Cory
remaining than he thought.

"That was my property," Marcus snarled. His fangs were

out. A whole lot of good that would do him, but he stood
ready to fight as though Cory were just another vampire.
Cory turned to him once the outside door had slammed shut,
and he snapped his fingers. Another cold flame appeared just
over his fingers, and he pointed casually at Marcus's feet.

The flame leapt across the distance, making Marcus jump

back, and Cory smiled, obviously enjoying this new game. He
snapped his fingers again, but this time Luke stood between
him and Marcus.

"Stop it," he said.
"Stop what?" Cory asked. The dead in the room leaned

toward Cory like a starving man to a piece of roasted meat.
The thing inside Cory had grown fat and powerful off their
spirits, if that was the right word for it, and the vortex itself
had trapped them to this location. The closer the dead were

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to him, the firmer they looked, and they reached out to grab
him with hands that shook.

"Give me back Cory, and I'll let you live," Luke said.
Cory laughed. "How about I keep Cory, and I'll let you

serve me. If this is a negotiation, you have to understand
what your bargaining position is."

The dead around Cory looked at Luke, begging in their

silent fashion to be allowed to take back what had been stolen
from them. "It's not me you have to bargain with," Luke said.

"Luke, do not challenge me," Cory said, his voice flat. Luke

took a step closer, so that they were chest to chest, and
kissed him first on the lips, then on the cheek, then on the
forehead.

"I'm sorry if this hurts," Luke said.
"What are you doing?" Cory demanded. "Stop this

nonsense, right this instant."

"Okay," Luke said. He looked away. It was the dead man

wearing the World War II uniform he saw first. They were
hungry as well, as hungry as the vortex was, but inherently
timid. They leaned towards Cory, desperately, and looked at
Luke with dead, pleading eyes.

Luke shook his head. There was nothing he could give

them. Nothing except ... permission. He opened his mouth,
the words failing him, but then found his voice. "Take back
what's yours," he said.

The soldier nodded. He was the first one to reach inside

Cory and pull out something blue and purple. He held it in his
fist, going solid for just a second, and then vanished with a
flash of light.

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Cory reeled back, but Luke held him. A native man was

next, taking a larger piece, then the homeless man Lathe had
fed on. One by one, the dead took back what was taken from
them, and if Cory could have pushed him aside before, he had
lost the ability. He clung to Luke now, and Luke supported
them both. Luke became afraid that there would be too much
taken, that they would start taking pieces of the real Cory
with them, but when the last of the dead left them, the vortex
was still inside Cory.

But it was weakened. Cory blinked and then grabbed Luke

by the shoulders. For a moment they both stood there. When
Luke looked into Cory's eyes, he saw only Cory. They kissed,
lips soft. Luke held still for just a second, questioning more
than anything, but it was Cory. It smelled like him, tasted like
him, even felt like him. It was Cory. It was all Luke could do
to stop himself from pushing Cory down.

"It's still in him," Marcus snarled. From his cane he pulled

a blade.

Cory wasn't facing him, and Luke couldn't stop him in

time. He tried to push Cory to the side, at least get him out
the way, but he knew even as he started to push that it
wouldn't be fast enough. The blade was coming down, and it
would have separated Cory's head from his body faster than
slicing through a piece of paper.

Cory stopped; his back went rigid. He turned, even with

the blade still slicing, and though it should have been faster
than Luke's eye could follow, Cory raised his hand and froze
Marcus.

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He cocked his head, something Luke had seen the vortex

do, and it chilled him. "This one belongs to you," he said, and
it wasn't Cory's voice, not entirely. But when he looked at
Luke, his eyes were the same green Luke had always known.
"Should I spare him?"

Marcus's eyes widened. It was the only part of his body

that could move. He was trying to shake his head. Luke put
his hand on Cory's arm. "Let him go," he said.

Cory snapped his head, and Marcus dropped to his knees.

Cory stepped back and nodded. "You're lucky," he said softly
and turned to go.

Luke followed him out. Three vampires had gathered just

on the outside of the yard; they stood like deer in headlights.
Luke stopped, though, just on the porch and shrugged off his
jacket. Cory turned to look at him.

"You're naked," Luke said.
Cory looked down. "Oh."
Luke gave his jacket over, and Cory shivered as though

he'd just become aware of the chill in the air. "You're not
entirely yourself."

Cory hesitated, jacket half on, and for a second he looked

silly. He looked to where Luke was standing. "What?"

"You're not entirely yourself," Luke repeated. "Are you?"
Cory shrugged the jacket all the way on and snapped his

fingers. The blue flame was back, hovering just over his
fingers. "No," he said. "But I think I'm mostly me. I mean, I
am me, but not like before."

"But the vortex is still inside."

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"It is." Cory crossed his arms. "And I feel the power from

it."

Luke stepped off the porch. "And you're still ... you still

love me."

"I saw you," Cory said. "When it was in control. Luke, I

know how you feel. I felt you, too. You did everything to save
me. I felt that inside you. All you can do is believe me when I
say I've always loved you. I'm sorry that you'll never know as
concretely as I do how I feel about you."

"Okay."
"Okay?" Cory demanded. "That's all you have to say?"
Luke smiled, for the first time since all of this had

happened. "I thought I didn't have to say much more than
that."

Cory relaxed. "I suppose you don't." He motioned to the

vampires. "Things are changing here, Luke. The lines are
open. It's going to attract more and more vampires to it, and
you'll have to build your own family."

"You're the one who has all the power," Luke said.
Cory touched his throat. "But I belong to you, so it's

entirely your power. You have to believe that, too."

"You're asking me to take a lot on faith."
Cory kissed him. His chilly skin took Luke's warmth, and

Luke led him the way to Marcus's car. He took the keys from
Marcus's pet and told him to go find his master inside. The
pet hesitated, still in the door way and Luke put Cory into the
front seat before someone in one of the occasional passing
cars called the cops about the naked man standing on the
lawn in front of a historic restaurant.

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Cory cranked up the heat and closed his eyes for the entire

drive back. He put his head on Luke's shoulder, and Luke
stroked his cheek. Once they were home he turned off the
engine, closed the door behind him, and came around the car
to help Cory out. "We're home," Luke said.

Luke tried to step in, but was brought up short with Cory's

arm over his shoulder. He'd forgotten that he'd revoked the
invitation. Cory looked at him, pain on his face obvious, but
only for a second. "You'll be welcome here for as long as you
choose to stay."

"That sounds irrevocable," Cory said softly.
"I intended it to be."
Cory swallowed. "You don't really intend to stay in the

suburbs with all that's happening, do you?"

"It's a great house, Cory." The argument was old and as

comfortable as a good pair of boots. "And I need my fish
pond."

Cory stepped inside. Luke peeled his jacket from Cory's

shoulders and went into the sitting room. The fire was gas,
something he'd always meant to change. It was worth it,
though, at that moment to be able to turn it all the way on.
Cory had disappeared, but only to go downstairs and bring up
Luke's down comforter. He spread it out on the hardwood and
then sprawled naked beside it. He let his legs fall open and
put his hands out on his thighs.

Luke stripped off his clothes. Cory sat up on his elbows. He

was so warm, but the blood was sluggish in his system. "I'm
hungry. Luke, will you let me drink?"

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"Of course," Luke said. He began to kneel, but Cory

stopped him with his hand.

"Let me," Cory whispered.
Luke nodded, awkward on his feet in front of Cory, but

Cory drew himself up on his knees. He put the palm of his
hand on Luke's upper thigh. Luke felt the rush of blood, and it
left him dizzy. "Would you like me to bite you here?" Cory
asked.

Luke nodded. Cory sat up, bringing his lips to the spot

where the femoral artery was closest to the skin. Luke's cock
woke up, and so close to Cory's ear that Luke could feel the
slight warmth Cory still had. Cory was completely ignoring it.
"Cory, please."

Cory's lips were full, and they pulled back into a smile. He

curled his tongue around his fang. "You don't want me to suck
you off right now."

"I assure you, I do," Luke said, and even tried to take

Cory's head. But Cory darted away, sitting back on his heels.

Cory sucked on his fingers. He nudged Luke's legs further

apart and ran his wet fingers up behind his testicles. Luke
threw his head back, riding out the whole body tremble. "Can
you feel it?" Cory asked.

"Oh, I feel it," Luke managed.
Cory bit him, sharply, but pinched the skin rather than

drawing blood. "That's not what I meant." He sat up, off his
heels, and took Luke's hands. He put them on his shoulders.
"Feel."

For a moment, Luke couldn't move his concentration from

how desperate his cock was. But Cory kept holding him,

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letting him relax. He didn't have to breathe, but he found
himself inhaling. With every breath, he felt the power
emerging from the ground. It crept up the ground water,
through the hard clay, to the soil. The asphalt numbed it and
the concrete of all of the basements and sidewalks blocked
the energy for now, but he still felt it slowly permeate
through. It would be stronger tomorrow, stronger the next
week, stronger yet after a year.

"It's growing," Luke said.
"Yes," Cory said. "But it's yours now."
"Only because you're giving it to me," Luke said.
"You don't need the reason why," Cory said and kissed his

inner thigh again. This time his teeth did push into Luke's
flesh, slowly letting the pain compound and build. Luke
hissed, equally slowly. He felt his blood well up, felt Cory's
tongue lapping up the drop, and felt Cory go back and tear
the wound open.

He bled freely. Cory was there, drinking up what spilled. It

pulled him closer to the energy, closer to Cory, and what was
inside of Cory. But he was close enough to see that Cory was
completely in control.

"Cory, please," Luke said.
Cory bit higher. A sting followed by release. The heat off

Cory's cheek was now from Luke's own body. "I want you to
wait for it," Cory whispered.

"Compromise here with me, will you?" Luke asked, voice

strained.

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Cory laughed softly and ran his cheek along Luke's cock.

"I'll fuck you," Cory said, his eyes bright. "Would you like
that?"

Luke could only nod. The room was hot now, hotter than

should ever have been comfortable, even for them, but the
heat to Cory's body still felt warmer than the air. Luke moved
to the couch, because that was where Cory guided him, and it
was the most natural thing in the world to let his legs fall
open. Lube materialized from under the couch; Luke had
forgotten that that's where Cory stashed it after one too
many fumbling episodes. Cory slipped one finger inside Luke,
then two, and fucked him with just the two fingers for so long
Luke thought he was going to die right there and never come
again.

"Tell me you're ready," Cory said.
"Fuck, am I ready," Luke managed.
"And that you want this."
"Are you insane? Why wouldn't I want this?"
Cory looked at him, lifting an eyebrow to do so, and Luke

put his head down. "I want this," he said.

"Good," Cory said and sat up again. The couch was at a

perfect angle. Cory pulled Luke half off the seat and up onto
his shoulders. It restricted the blood flow to Luke's head, but
at that particular moment Luke didn't feel the need to think.

Cory slid inside him. It burned, but tuned him into the ebb

of the earth as well. Just before dawn, as it was, the power of
the lines feeding the earth were at their strongest, and if Luke
opened himself up for more than just Cory's cock, he could
feel everything, from the beating wings of some nocturnal

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bird to the slumbering roots of the trees out back, already
waiting for spring. It had never been like this. There had
never been more. And now that the world was opened to him,
he couldn't imagine not having Cory there. "Fuck me," he
whispered.

"If you insist," Cory said.
Cory fucked him hard, pulling his body up to meet his

thrusts, and when that wasn't enough he manhandled Luke's
body down to the comforter. On his hands and knees, digging
his fingers into the blanket, was better, and Luke put his head
down to the floor, letting Cory's thrusts work him. When his
fingernails weren't digging into Luke's hips, giving him a kiss
of pain to remind him what they were celebrating, he dragged
them down, over Luke's back. A slap on his ass, a kiss that
drew blood on his shoulder, and then the perfect stroke
catching his prostate was the last bit of stimulation Luke
needed. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his body ride the
orgasm until he was empty inside.

He didn't lock down the house during the day, something

he'd never done before. Cory had fallen asleep along with
him, and when he woke with the sun already heavy in the
western sky, Luke just rolled over and dragged a bit more of
the comforter over them both rather than getting up to lock
all the doors.

"Safe neighborhoods make for safe homes," he told Cory.
Cory didn't wake, but pushed his fingers into Luke's mouth

instead. He couldn't have said, "I love you, now shut up"
more clearly if he tried.

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