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Phrases marked with (t) will have a translation at the end of that section.
Changes Jim's POV
There's something wrong with Blair. There's something wrong with my lover, and I don't know what to do to help him, and it's killing me.
We returned to Cascade as soon as I could book a flight. He refused to stay in the hospital any more than overnight, and the doctor released him. That surprised me, considering how bad off he was when we brought him in. I tried to argue, but Blair pointed out that I'm not his daddy. Well, after the doctor left he snuggled on my lap and said I was his daddy, but not in the legal sense, so I should just chill. So I did. I wish now that I'd at least tried to be more insistent. Maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty. Maybe I wouldn't be so afraid.
The most obvious oddity is his healing. I'm happy, dear God, I'm overjoyed. I thought he'd need weeks and weeks to recover. It was a violent incident. His poor, beautiful body was a mass of bruises, cuts, scratches, and scrapes. At first I was afraid to touch him for fear of hurting him more, but after what he'd been through he needed to be touched, with love, so I did. That first time we came together in the hospital shower was the tenderest thing I've ever experienced. I never felt so needed, and so loved. I didn't stop to wonder why he could bear any touch, no matter how gentle and loving, on his ravaged flesh.
When it came time to leave I noticed that the bruises were already fading. I should have been puzzled, I know that now, but I was so happy to see them receding. I was eager for every physical trace of the brutal attack to disappear so we could get on with our lives, but it's been less than two weeks, and all the signs are gone.
He quit taping his ribs almost immediately. I didn't argue. As attuned to him as I am, I'd have been able to tell if it was hurting him, and it doesn't seem to be, but there are other things. The cuts on his back, the abrasions on his knees, they're completely gone, not even a trace to mark where they were. The wound on his shoulder, which should still be a mass of stiff, corrugated scab, is healed to a smooth, shiny deep rose pink, and it's already fading. In a few weeks, if it keeps up at this pace, it may very well be the white of an old injury.
Another sign that should have tipped me off was his quiet. Blair Sandburg, quiet? Now that was unnatural. He'd been a weak version of his vociferous self when I carried him out of the woods, but the words had dwindled away, and they haven't really come back yet. Oh, he'll answer. He'll even venture a little conversation now and then, but it's been days since I heard one of those patented Sandburg rambles where he seizes the most minute subject and manages to give a lecture on how it relates to social anthropology. I never thought I'd say this, but...
I miss it, dammit.
He didn't want to tell anyone about the incident when we got back home. I couldn't blame him, but we had to. A trauma like that can affect everything, including and most especially your work. Once that might not have mattered, but Blair's a police detective now. People's lives and safeties depend on him, Blair didn't even want to finish the last two weeks of our vacation. He wanted to jump right back into work. But I couldn't allow it. I had to tell Simon.
I'll never forget the look on his face when Simon told him that no, he couldn't come back right away. In fact, he couldn't come back till he'd gotten some therapy to help him deal with the incident. He looked bereft: as if something he'd been counting on had been torn away. Then he turned a look of blazing resentment on me that made me cringe inside, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door. Another oddity. Blair slams door, often and loudly, but it's always due to simple exuberance or carelessness. This time it was from anger, and there was no mistaking it.
He gave me the silent treatment on the way home. Once we got to the apartment, though, he thawed out. He said grudgingly that he knew I'd done it because I was concerned for him, but that it would have been better if I'd stayed out of it. He wanted to work. He was too restless not to work, he said.
Restless, God, yes he's restless. Blair's always been a bundle of energy, but now he makes me tired just looking at him. He can't sit still, and when he does manage it, he almost vibrates with the effort, and it's all in silence, that's what's so eerie.
Another thing, his eating habits. He's always been after me to cut back on my red meat. I still remember hurting his feelings when I complained that the lasagna I'd been looking forward to so much had zucchini and eggplant instead of meat. It hadn't tasted bad, but I'm a meat eater, dammit.
Imagine my surprise when, a week after we got back home, I come home on his night to cook and find him in the process of broiling two of the biggest, thickest, juiciest looking slabs of sirloin I've seen in years. He didn't even make a salad to go with them.
I take mine medium rare, and he cooked it to pink perfection. I was a little surprised, as I didn't think he'd had much experience with this sort of cooking. I'd expected him to have his well done. When he sliced into the meat, the red-brown juices flooded the plate, more red than brown.
I watched in amazement as he devoured the dripping meat with ferocious concentration. He sopped up the bloody juices with a chunk of bread, greedily swabbing the plate so as not to miss a single drop. Then he picked up the bone and began to strip away the last scraps of meat with his teeth. When he saw me staring he paused, then looked at the bone in his hands. He put it down slowly, then stood up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, and ran for the bathroom.
He barely made it. As I came after him, I could hear the gagging, retching sounds. I could smell the sour odor of vomit mixed with the coppery tang of the beef blood he'd ingested. He was on his knees in front of the toilet bowl when I got there, desperately clutching the cold porcelain sides. I got a cold rag and urged him into a sitting position. I wiped his mouth and face, rinsed the cloth, and gave it back to him. He slumped against the bathtub and folded it across his forehead. I got him a glass of water and he rinsed his mouth thoroughly, then drank a little. When his heart rate and pulse had slowed, I said quietly, "Do you need a doctor?"
His eyes had been closed, lashes sooty against his pale cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked at me now. There was such aching bewilderment in his gaze. "I'm sorry about that, man. Must've ruined your appetite, having me puke my guts up like this."
"What's wrong, Blair? Are you sick?"
He sighed. "It's gone now. I don't know what got into me." He turned puzzled blue eyes to me. "I was enjoying it, man. I mean really enjoying it. As in it was almost orgasmic. I've never wanted a rare steak in my life, but I wanted to just lap the blood up off that plate. Only thing that kept me from doing it is I figured you'd drop a kitten, tight ass as you are about rules."
"It's all right," I said. "You just overloaded your system. You couldn't handle all that at once." He mumbled something, his head turned away. "What was that Blair?"
He looked at me again, blue eyes cloudy, but somehow defiant. "I said I ate some of it raw, before I cooked it. Didn't you notice that mine was smaller than yours? When I was preparing them I sliced off a chunk and ate it, raw and dripping, and I liked it. The only thing wrong was it was cold. While I was chewing, I was thinking, this would be better if the hot blood spurted when I bit into it."
He started gagging again, and barely made it back to the toilet. This time he threw up bile, and he wouldn't let me touch him when he was through.
I didn't know what to say to him. Food aberrations aren't that uncommon. Everyone's heard of pregnant women who eat dirt because of some deep rooted mineral craving. Maybe this was something like that. All the more reason for him to see a doctor. But he refused.
And the sex...
It's good, it's better than I ever dreamed. I thought that after his rape he'd be skittish, reluctant. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He can't seem to get enough. Every night we exhaust each other. I'm surprised to find him so active and aggressive. I'm pleased, but I wouldn't have thought it fitted his personality.
He keeps urging me onward, demanding that I be rougher, harder, that I pinch and bite. I think he really wants me to hurt him sometimes. I can't do that. A certain amount of force in loveplay is erotic, but Blair... When I refused to be any rougher last night, he scratched himself, raking long raw stripes on his own belly and thighs before I could stop him This morning they were gone.
I'm beginning to get very afraid.
Snatched From the Jaws
The call comes at around one AM. I'm not asleep, I'm not in bed, I'm not even undressed. I've been pacing my hotel room, forcing myself not to start calling the hospitals again. My German isn't good enough to be really effective, and it's frustrating me to the point of madness. I know it has to be Lieber, or Gabriel. Those are the only two possibilities allowed--either my friend, or news of him. This is all I am going to allow the universe.
His accent is thick and glottal. "Miss Nakimura?"
"You've found him. Is he all right? Is he not all right? Tell me!"
"Please, Miss Nakimura, calm yourself. I've had a report of another wolf attack in the woods nearby. A man was killed." I feel the panic rising, and he must sense it, because he says hastily, "Not your Herr Knight: a local man. It looks as though he was killed when he attacked an American tourist, but it seems that it was Mr. Knight who pulled the trigger."
"Gabriel? With a gun? That's... that's so not like him."
"It was an heroic act, Miss Nakimura. Apparently the maniac had hurt the young man quite badly. I heard a rumor that he had sexually assaulted him in a most brutal manner, along with inflicting other injuries. Your Mr. Knight killed him, but it seems that first he suffered an attack by the wolves who have been at large. It's very puzzling." His tone is as bewildered as it is possible for such a stolid man to sound.
"Which hospital is Gabe in?"
"If you can be ready in ten minutes, I will take you there. I greatly wish to speak to Herr Knight."
"I'll be outside waiting."
Lieber picks me up at the appointed time, and takes me to a large urban hospital. Hospitals smell the same the world over: depressing. He speaks to the woman at the admitions desk, his tone rising in disbelief. "She says he's not here. The records show that the second ambulance to the lodge was canceled. The dolts don't know who cancelled it. I'll be raking them over the coals when I have time."
A large, dark haired man is at the counter, impatiently scratching information on a form. Every now and then he glances back in the direction of the trauma area. His T-shirt is smeared with blood and other dark stains I don't want to think about, but he isn't the injured party here. He has someone back in the cold bowels of the hospital who is in pain, and probably needing him right now.
"But you mean they just left Gabriel out there? How could they do that?"
At the sound of Gabriel's name the dark haired man looks up alertly. He comes over to us and says, "Excuse me, I heard you mention someone called Gabriel. Did you mean Gabriel Knight?"
"Yes! Do you know him?"
"Just his name. I know that I owe him everything in the world. He killed the bastard that hurt my partner, and saved me the trouble." The way he says partner... Gabriel has sometimes used a tone curiously similar to that when he calls me partner. We aren't to each other what these two must be, but we're more than what most think of when they hear the word.
"He isn't here? We took the first ambulance, because of Blair, but there was supposed to be another one just after. You say it was cancelled? That's bad. He was pretty ripped up in the shoulder, he needs to be attended to."
"We've got to go to that place and get him."
"That may not be the best course. I don't think he'll be there any more."
"What do you mean?"
"I think maybe the guy who rented that lodge... I think maybe he helped himself to your friend. There was something really possessive in the way he was touching him, and he smelled like he wanted to..." I must be looking at him like he's crazy, because he stops.
I look at those light blue eyes, the way he's holding himself, and the tiny edge of very white teeth he's unconsciously showing, and I think that he might very well have been able to scent the man's intentions. "Look, I'm a police officer, I'm trained to observe these things. I heard his name. It's von Glower. Baron Freidrich von Glower. I think he lives nearby. Shouldn't be too hard to trace."
As he says that there is a wild scream from the trauma unit. He is running before whoever it is can draw breath for another scream, bellowing, "Blair!" Another scream, and another. Dear God, what must have been done to that poor man? He sounds terrified. Here in the middle of such sterile sanity, he sounds near insane. There is a crash that has to be a door hitting a wall, and a babble of voices in German. A security guard runs past.
I can hear the American's voice raised in furious indignation. "Stupid motherfucker, you know what he's been through! What were you thinking of? It isn't necessary. No, it isn't. I don't give a shit about regulations. The man that did it is dead, he'll never come to trial."
Lieber takes my arm. "Miss Nakimura, we have a name now. Why don't you go back to your hotel? I'll pay a visit to this Baron, and let you know what I find."
Lieber is about to find out what others have learned: that this delicate little flower of the orient can be one pissy bitch when she's crossed. It doesn't take me long to convince him that he's going nowhere without me. He makes a call to the station, someone gets on a computer, and we have an address in just a few minutes.
I'm silent on the ride over. I feel cold. If Gabriel was injured, why would the man take him to his home and not to the hospital? The American had trailed off. He smelled like he wanted to... Not kill him. He was a policeman, he wouldn't balk at mentioning death. No, I know Gabriel. I know the kind of thoughts he can inspire in all sorts of people, without even trying, and if he's been in charming mode... I urge Lieber to break whatever speed limits they have.
It's a big old country house, the city beginning to creep up around it, but it still speaks of a bygone age when titles were not a rarity. It's dark, except for a light in the hall, and one in a back room. The door is opened by a man in the livery of a domestic servant at Lieber's first knock.
"I'm sorry, mein Herr, Fraulein, but the Baron is not at home, and I was just locking up." Lieber begins some sort of wrangle, but I have looked past the man into the hall, and I've seen something hanging on a hook not far from the door. He might have been able to repel me if he'd been expecting a full frontal assault, but most of the world seems to automatically think that a small oriental woman is going to be timid, peaceful, and passive. They don't have a fucking clue, and I take advantage of that.
Before he can start to push the door shut I just barge right past him into the hall, and go to the brown leather jacket hanging on the wall, taking it down. The man is protesting, making noises about illegal search. Lieber is pointing out smoothly that since I am not with the force it can hardly be considered illegal. While this nonsense goes on, I'm looking at the jacket. "This is Gabriel's. He's here."
The man splutters. "Nein. That belongs to the Herr Baron. Put it down, woman."
"Oh yeah?" I bury my face in the slick, soft leather folds God, he loves this jacket and inhale deeply. Gabe's scent floods me, it's unmistakable. Stupid bastard would insist on wearing leather in New Orleans in July "This is his, and if that isn't proof enough..." I dig in his pockets. "here's his tape recorder, and his wallet. See?"
"Where is Herr Knight, sir?"
I'm not waiting for any explanation, because I've just found the tear in the shoulder. The soft, but strong, leather is slashed and gaping. And there is maroon, still damp blood soaked into the material. "Gabriel!" I cry, dropping it.
I know where he is, where he has to be: in that one lit room at the back. It isn't hard to find. The servant makes as if to follow and stop me, but he's detained by Lieber, and by the backup that has just arrived outside, but I run down the corridor alone and slam open the door.
How do I explain the scene I walk in on? For a moment, I'm embarrassed. It looks as if I've interrupted foreplay. Gabriel is stretched out on the big bed, bare chested. A darkly handsome man is on the bed also, straddling Gabe's supine body. His shirt is open and he's running his hands sensuously over Gabriel's torso, lingering on the flat copper coins of his nipples.
Then the details hit me: the gaping wound, the predatory look in the other man's eyes, and the horror in Gabriel's. The man pauses, but he does not remove his hands from Gabe. The look he gives me is challenging. "You would be Grace Nakimura. As you can see, Grace, Gabriel is quite all right. You've interrupted something. You should leave."
"Not without my friend."
He laughs softly, but there is no humor in it. "Your friend? My lover. Go, Grace." There is so much assurance in his voice and posture that, God help me, for a moment I think he might be right, and I almost turn and leave.
But Gabriel fixes me with those deep green eyes, and I can see the despair. He whispers, "Gracie, please."
"Lieber!"
Immediately there is a ponderous thunder of footsteps--authority on it's way. The baron frowns,and sighs. He looks down at Gabriel, shaking his head. "So, you're going to make me do this the hard way, eh (t)schatze? Very well." He swings off the bed and begins buttoning his shirt. "This can all be easily explained, Grace, and it will be. I've simply been caring for a wounded friend: a rather delirious friend, who can't be sure of what has, and has not happened. Do you understand?"
"I understand. Now get away from him."
As Lieber enters the room, I go to Gabriel and pull the sheet up to his chin, covering him. I hear von Glower begin a smooth explanation, and I know that Lieber will buy it. He may feel that something's not right, but von Glower is rich and powerful, and Gabriel has been found more or less undamaged. All I'm worrying about now is Gabriel.
I smooth back his tangled hair and tell him, "We'll have an ambulance for you soon. This time it won't be canceled."
He clutches at my hand, and his touch is feverish. "I fucked up, Gracie. I fucked up big time," he moans.
I feel a stab of pain. My poor golden knight. Gabriel Knight, fighting the shadows with no help and scarcely a clue, but not giving up. "It's all right, Gabriel. It'll be alright." As I'm saying this, I pray that I'm not lying.
Dangerous Fantasies
Blair's POV
I'm losing it. I've been losing it since I went for a walk in the forest If we meant to harm you my dear child, would we be hiding here by the path in the deepest dark of the woods?, but it's gotten worse.
It started out with the insomnia. At first the meditation helped, but not for long. Now that Jim and I are lovers, there's no chance of hiding it from him. Hell, there would have been scant chance of it before, with his Sentinel senses, but then he might not have been so goddam nosy about it.
No, I don't mean that. He's concerned, that's all. It's just that everything, everything, grates on me these days. It's kind of like having a really bad case of sunburn and wearing wooly clothes-- scratch, scratch, scratch.
I'm beginning to wonder if, spending as much time as I do with Ellison, sharing our bond... if maybe some of that hypersensitivity is rubbing off on me. I mean, I wasn't really all that unobservant before, but now...
It's little things. Like hearing our neighbor come in and walk down the hall, and being able to tell that she's bought a four pack of wine coolers by the faint clinking sound. Or this tendency I've developed to sniff things. I could tell this morning, from across the room, that Jim had borrowed my brand of deodorant. I didn't mind the borrowing, of course, but I found myself irritated because it interferes with the Jim smell. I almost said something, but refrained when I remembered a Neanderthal sophomore I'd known who would scrub any makeup off his girlfriend's face, in public.
The last couple of times I've taken a shower, I couldn't stand the roughness of the towels on my skin. I walked around and sort of air dried. That wasn't bad, though, because it led to some incredible sex.
The sex. Ooooooh, yeah.
I'll admit to having had maybe a little more than my share back when I was in 'hetro' mode, and it was never less than good. But now... That time in the hospital, in the shower, I couldn't believe it could be so powerful without my even penetrating anything, or anyone. Granted I was still weak from the attack, but this left me a damn washrag, limp. It was bliss. I guess that's the difference in just doin' it and doin' it with someone you love.
So far, it's been Jim on top. That's been just fine with me--so far. I'm pretty sure he'd enjoy bottoming. I mean, hell, he's so good at taking directions about his Sentinel abilities, and those senses turned to registering all that a bottom goes through during good sex... From my own experience with him, we're talking serious mind blowing capabilities here.
I don't know where this current obsession with fucking Jim, I mean fucking him, not fucking with him came from, thought. Sure, I've dreamed about it. It has held a place of honor in my catalogue of jerk off fantasies, but the scenario has always been very slow, gentle, and tender. You know--lots of coaxing and wheedling. I can be good at that. Now...
In the current one we're arguing about something, almost fighting. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't really important. It's just clear that this has turned into a macho pissing contest, and neither of us is willing to back down. I'm getting hot. Jim is, too, but not sexually. It's really pissing him off that I'm being so unreasonable. I'm feeling anything but reasonable.
Finally he decides to just leave, to give us some time apart to cool down. But that's not what I want, I don't want to cool down. I'll be damned if I'm gonna let him just walk out on me. When he gets his keys, I snatch them out of his hand and toss them all the way up into the loft, where they land on the bed.
He glares, and stomps up the stairs, and I'm right behind him. As he bends over to reach for the keys laying in the middle of the bed, I pull out the cuffs I had tucked behind my back, and give him a hard shove. He's off balance, leaning forward already, and he sprawls on his face. When he starts to brace his arms to lift himself back up, I snap on one cuff. That startles him so much that I manage to wrestle around the other hand, and get it fastened too. This is pretty important to the scene. Yeah, it's fantasy, but me? Overwhelming Jim physically? Please.
Well, as you can probably imagine, Jim is mega pissed. He yells something like, "Sandburg! Get these off me, now!" He tries to roll over so he can sit up, but I push him back down with one hand between his shoulder blades and the other on the small of his back. He can't get any leverage.
"Has it occurred to you that you aren't in any position to be giving orders here, Jim?" I pinch his ass, hard.
He yelps and thrashes, but I swing a leg over and straddle his hips, now bracing both hands on his back, holding him down. He squirms and bucks, but he can't get enough power into the movements to dislodge me, and whoa, buddy, am I getting hard.
At last he stops moving, breathing heavily. "Sandburg, will you stop this childish shit and let me up?"
"Maybe later, if you're reeeeal nice to me." I pull his T-shirt out of his pants, and run my hands up under it, stroking his back. I lay down on top of him, embracing him, sliding my hands down and under.
"What are you doing? Stop it, I'm too mad at you to cuddle." My fingers find his nipples, and I pinch, eliciting a surprised cry.
"Who said I wanted to cuddle?" I dry hump his ass, and he shudders and squirms some more. He's never had this kind of action before, and he doesn't know what to think.
But he's trying to put this in some sort of perspective that makes sense to him. "What do you want, make love, make up? It's a little early for that, but if you uncuff me..."
"No, I don't want to make up, or make love. I want to stay mad and fuck. I think that'll be a lot more fun." I slide my hands down and start jerking at his belt and fly.
"Blair, stop it! This isn't funny."
"It isn't meant to be, Jimbo. I'm pretty fuckin' serious right now." I get his pant open, and jerk them down over the curve of his ass, peeling the underwear with them. Then I can't resist the tight, pale curves, and I have to take a taste right then. I bite, sinking my teeth into the smooth right cheek. I don't draw blood, but I leave a half moon circle of red dents. He's going to have a juicy bruise there in a little while, and the thought pleases me. I've marked him.
His yell is as much of shock as it is of pain. "That hurt!"
"Love hurts, Big Guy," I drag his garments down, working them off his legs and taking the shoes off as I do. "and I am gonna love you so hard." In emphasis, I smack his ass smartly, and start to pry the cheeks apart.
"No, wait! You can't... Blair, we haven't talked about this. I'm not saying I wouldn't ever want you to fuck me, but I'm not ready..."
"I'm past ready. If I wait for you to be ready, I'll need Viagra to get it up. Sorry Ellison, but you know what they say--if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it."
At that point in the fantasy, I realize that this can't really be me doing this, not using that poisonous, hateful old saw. I've always wanted to trash anyone who said that, but whoever it is doing this looks like me, knows Jim's body like I do. He knows just the way to touch him to make him whimper and twist, even though he's afraid of what's happening, of how I'm' acting.
I stand up and strip quickly, sending my clothes flying to the far corners of the room He manages to roll over on his back while I do this, and I see that he's aroused. He might be frightened of how I'm acting, and angry with me, but his dick doesn't care. It's full and hard, angling up along his belly. When I see it, I laugh, and he flushes angrily.
I reach out and caress him, stroking the hard length firmly, smearing the clear drool over the head with my thumb. He curses, and I laugh again, reaching down to squeeze his balls hard enough to make him wince.
I flip him over on his belly again, dragging his waist up till he's on his knees, most of his weight resting on his shoulders since his hands are held behind his back. I make sure his head is turned, so he won't suffocate.
"I'm doing you a kindness, taking you from behind the first time."
That's when it breaks apart, because suddenly I'm in the dark, and the smell of wild woods is all around me. There is the smell of damp loam, dusty leaves, rank sweat and semen and shit and coppery blood and an undefinable feral odor, and another voice, thick with a German accent, is growling the same words.
Lord help me, I understand what he's feeling, and I feel it, too.
I snap back to whatever I was doing, wherever I was when the fantasy started. I'm flushed and sweaty and hard and very, very angry and afraid.
I'm afraid that the next time Jim does his alpha male bit, I might challenge him--seriously. If I don't back down, what then? Most especially, what if I win?
Contact
Baron von Glower's POV
Gabriel, my Gabriel. Yes, mine. He isn't lost to me, I won't admit that--not yet. When he experiences the change, surely then he will realize where his destiny lies. His little friend, the oriental girl with the name of one of the virtues: Grace. She managed to take him from me, bringing in that lumbering fool, Lieber, but it's only temporary. She doesn't know what she's taken hold of.
If I'm lucky she'll be with him when it happens. I seriously doubt my child will be able to hold the beast, no matter what the woman means to him--not this early in his new, real life. He'll severe his bonds with his old world in a very final, bloody way. If his mind can withstand the guilt, then he'll be mine, because he'll see that I am all he has.
Gabriel, poor confused manchild. Gabriel--my blood, my son, my lover. You will come to me, because I am all you will know. I am the only one who will be able to teach, explain, and comfort. There is always a period of rebellion, isn't there? You have to realize for yourself how much you need me. You have to learn that your friend is not capable of cooling the fever that rises in your blood, stilling the voices that call and goad.
I know where you are, so I know I can leave you for a time. She's taken you back to Rittersburg, no doubt to the same cell that held my father so many, many years ago. There she'll keep you safely locked while she searched for a cure that doesn't exist. While I know that you are safe, I can turn my attention to the other.
I've learned much about him, Gabriel--your little brother, Blair. I saw him for only a few minutes, there at the lodge, huddled with you on the couch. He was so beautiful, even in his pain and distress. He is as beautiful as you, my love, in a different way: smaller, but strong. He is pale beside your golden toned skin. Instead of your brazen hair, his is a deeper, richer brown. There is so much of it, such rich curls. It begs to be touched, held, stroked. Then there is that lovely mouth--masculine, but so perfectly formed. I can imagine the two of you together, my angel. It makes me burn as much as the thought of being with either of you. You're both so perfect. How could I ever choose? I won't choose.
I selected you for myself, Gabriel. Blair is Von Zell's final, parting gift to me. I won't give up either of you. If I am greedy, so be it. I will not deny myself.
Blair Sandburg. It's so easy to get information when you have a bit of money to spread around. The cache of privilege is even more powerful, but I don't know if it will work so well in America. They like to think of themselves as a classless society. So foolish. There are always classes, even if there are not titles.
Hospitals keep admirable records. Blair Sandburg, from Cascade, Washington. What a lovely name for a town, but I get the sense that it is not the peaceful place that the name would indicate. He works for the Cascade Police Department, the Major Crimes Unit. That is a surprise, I never would have imagined him part of such a phlegmatic institution. There are many layers to my new child, it seems. I'm already proud of him.
There is an address in Cascade listed, that will save much time, and phone numbers. Odd--the next of kin is different from the emergency contact: Naomi Sandburg, mother. That's straightforward enough, but the emergency contact is Jim Ellison, and Ellison has the same address and phone number as my Blair.
Ellison. That would be the other man at the lodge: The very large American. I remember him--short, dark hair, eyes almost the color of my own. He moved with a restless, unconscious grace, pacing the floor while he waited for the ambulance. He finally went to Blair to hold him, comfort him. I sense something of the wild in this man, a kinship of sorts. There is something of the wild woods in him, and I think he sees me a little more clearly than the rest of the half blind world, but we were not together long enough to figure each other out, and we were both preoccupied by our injured charges.
Ellison could be a problem. It depends on how deep his bond with Blair is. I may not be able to just take my cub, and I can't help but wonder how the Nakimura woman found her way to my home. None at the lodge would have been stupid enough to mention me. It should have taken days for my name to surface. By then Gabriel would have been settled into his new life, I think. Who else knew my name?
Ellison. Ellison will most likely have to be destroyed, or turned. I find myself favoring the latter, though. He is a desirable man.
Grace took Gabriel two days ago. I left this evening on a plane to Washington. It won't seem too odd for the kindly Baron who offered sanctuary to appear to see how things are going. Odd, but explainable. I am an 'eccentric'. I have the money and time to indulge my whims. If I desire to fly across half the world to call on a man I knew for only a few minutes, then there is no reason why I shouldn't. People may shrug, but that is as far as it will go.
I arrive in Washington in late morning. Unlike my fellow travelers I am rested, energized. Through the centuries I have learned to take my rest almost anywhere, anytime. A hotel room has been reserved, my things are sent there. I go directly to the Cascade Police Department.
The Major Crimes Unit is quiet in the noon hour. There are several men at desks in the office. One of them is Jim Ellison. He is reading a file as I enter, and doesn't look up. The others give me curious glances, but I go directly to his desk. "Mr. Ellison." He looks up, then closes the file and puts it down. "Do you remember me?"
His eyes narrow, he breathes deeply, and recognition gels in his gaze. Utterly amazing. He's scenting me, but he isn't one of my kind, I would know that. He nods. "From the lodge. Baron...?"
"Von Glower." I extend my hand. He takes it in a firm, but not aggressive grip, shaking it. "Frederick."
"Yes. What are you doing here?"
"A little unexpected, yes?"
"You could definitely say that."
"I came to check on your friend. I was going to visit him at the hospital, but you two left abruptly."
"You didn't have to do that, Baron."
"Frederick."
"Frederick. Yeah, we left kind of suddenly."
"I was under the impression that the injuries were fairly serious. May I call you Jim?"
"Sure. They were pretty bad."
"Then why didn't he stay?"
Ellison shifts uncomfortably, glancing at his companions. They have gone back to work, but their postures are attentive. "I'd rather not discuss that here."
I see a desk to the side of his. It is a jumbled pile of books, papers, odds and ends. The nameplate says 'SANDBURG'. I go to it, pick up a book. "Myths and Fables of Ancient Cultures". Unusual reading for a policeman."
"Blair was an anthropologist a long time before he became a cop."
"Fascinating." I do a little scenting of my own. Blair's odor clings to the book. Clothing would be better, something worn next to his skin, but he's handled this book a great deal, and his personal smell clings to it.
Ellison says pointedly. "We're keeping his desk pretty much as it was till he comes back to duty."
I replace the book exactly where I took it from. "He isn't working now?" I'm not surprised.
"No. They don't feel it's time for him to come back."
"What a pity. I really would like to see him. There wasn't any chance for us to get acquainted in Germany."
"He should be here any minute now. We're going for lunch." He hesitates, and I look at him expectantly. At last he says grudgingly, "You could join us, if you like,"
"It would be an honor, and a pleasure."
The door to the hallway flies open, smacking the far wall. All heads turn. Blair comes in, shutting the door with a surly, "Sorry." Then he comes over to the desk. His stride is rapid, nervosa. He is boiling with energy, and he doesn't know how to express it. Poor cub. He needs to be out under the moon each night, running and romping, stretching his young muscles and feeling the life pouring through him.
He comes to the desk, and halts abruptly. He is between me and Ellison. His glance flies between us. The gaze he turns on me is curious, questioning. There is a hint of confusion. He thinks he should know me, and is trying to remember. At last he moves to stand close beside Ellison. The gaze he turns on his partner is warm, but troubled. Things are not smooth between these two.
"Chief, Baron von Glower is going to have lunch with us, okay?"
He studies me again. He is bolder now, under the protective aura of his friend. "Sure. I..." his eyes narrow a little. "I know you, don't I?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Hm. Well," his gaze travels over me. I feel warm as he gives me an appraising stare. He doesn't even realize what he's doing, the child. He thinks he's just considering my appearance. "I was going to suggest the usual diner, but with our guest... How about Timescape?"
Jim frowns. "Pretty steep, Chief, and I thought you had to have reservations there."
Blair waves. "A former student is maitre 'de there. He'll fit us in, and give us cut rates, so we can afford it on cop wages."
"I wouldn't hear of it," I break in. "I'm the one who arrived unexpectedly. You two will be my guests. I insist."
Ellison grumbles a little, but Blair tells him to shut up and accept graciously.
Timescape proves to be a medium sized, rather upscale place. Each room is decorated to a different time scheme: Victorian, fifties. The seventies room pulses with disco music and lights. After an affectionate greeting from the maitre 'de, we are escorted to the twenties room. It is quite elegantly decorated in art nouveau style. I always found that period very pleasant. Our waitress wears a bustless, hipless dress, with stockings rolled around her knees.
I order first, to show them that they need not stint. I am pleased to find steak tartar on the menu. It's hard to come by these days. There is a rather ridiculous health warning emblazoned next to it's entry, and the waitress points it out again when I order. Blair enthusiastically orders the same, and Jim opts for a simple hamburger.
I have wine, Blair orders a beer. Jim drinks tea, a concession to the fact that he must soon return to duty.
Our drinks arrive. Blair has insisted on a bottle, not a glass. He tilts it toward me in salute, then drinks. He studies me over the bottle. When he lowers it, he says, "Baron, hum? I must know you from Germany, then. But I can't quite place you."
I sip my wine. "It was not a fortuitous meeting, I'm afraid. You were... you were distressed." His eyes narrow in concentration. He looks toward Ellison questioningly, but his friend looks away. This apparently isn't something that they have discussed.
He pales a little, eyes darkening. I wonder how much he remembers of it. Such trauma can often block out memories. He quickly drinks half the beer, then says, almost in a whisper, "You were there, in the... no, not in the woods. Outside the woods?" I nod. He scowls, and finishes the beer in one long gulp. When the waitress wanders by, he orders another.
Jim murmurs, "Chief? Maybe you should ease up."
He laughs sharply. "Why, Jimbo? It's not like I'm on duty later." He gives me a tense smile. "I'm not fit for duty yet. They want me to see a shrink and 'come to terms'. Isn't that a lovely phrase?"
"Blair..."
"Oh, hell, Jim. You say I should talk about it, don't you? Maybe Frederick here," he gestures at me with the fresh bottle. "He saw some of it. Maybe he can understand a little of it. I don't expect one of those well meaning head shrinkers could, because they've never... never..." He takes another almost frantic swallow.
The food arrives. Jim eyes our plates with ill concealed distaste. The tartar is a dark pink, glistening ball, surrounded by toast points. Blair is watching me. It's apparent that he's never had it before, so I eat first, to give him an example to follow.
I scoop some of the chunky paste onto a toast point and munch. It's quite good, an excellent grade of sirloin. They didn't drain the blood too thoroughly, which would have made it dry. It isn't as good, of course, as it would be ripped hot and dripping from a living beast, but it isn't all that much the worse for the 'civilizing' influence.
Blair digs in with enthusiasm, piling his bits of bread high before snapping them down. He'd be happy to just eat it with a spoon, I can tell. Or better yet, with his hands, or with his face pushed into the plate, smearing that delectable mouth with blood and grease. What an image. It takes hunger to a different level.
His appetites are so raw and close to the surface. Dear boy, he doesn't understand it at all, doesn't know what is happening to him. I want to simply take him in my arms, kiss him, and tell him it's all right. He isn't going mad. This is simply a change. He will learn to live with it, and enjoy it.
When he orders the third beer Ellison murmurs something to him. He snaps, "Look, I'm not a kid, okay? You can drop me off at the apartment, what's the big deal if I have a few beers? So I catch a little buzz, so what? Frederick doesn't mind, do you?" He turns those dark blue eyes on me.
"Of course not, and perhaps it will help relax you, yes? You seem tense."
Another bark of laughter. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it."
He slumps back in the booth, drinking the beer and watching me finish my meal. He gulped his food, and finished long before his partner, or I. I enjoy him watching me. I finish my meal slowly, relishing each bite, letting him see my pleasure. He shifts, legs stretched out beneath the table. I detect a faint, delicious odor. His partner sits up a bit straighter, looking at him, and I realize that he, too, has detected the hint of pheromones. Blair is becoming sexually excited.
Jim also notices where his attention is directed. He follows Blair's gaze, to me. He frowns.
I finish my wine. "I'm going to go pay the bill, then visit the men's room. Shall I meet you back at the truck?"
They agree. I go to the counter and present my credit card, being sure to add a generous tip. They head outside. I follow them out of the corner of my eye. I may be wrong about what will happen next, but I don't think I am.
I go to the men's room. The lunch rush is over, and most of the patron's have left. It's empty. I go to one of the urinals, unzip, urinate, and wait. In a moment I hear the door open behind me. Blair steps up to the next urinal and undoes his fly. "All that beer," he explains. "I never woulda made it home."
"No, I suppose not." He pees copiously. "One never owns alcohol. One merely holds it for a bit, then returns it to the cycle."
"Yeah." He's done, but he just stands there for a moment. His eyes flick toward my face, then away, and he blushes.
"You're very confused, aren't you, Blair?"
He hesitates, not really wanting to answer, but curious. "How much do you know about what happened in the woods?"
"About the actual events, some. About why it happened, quite a bit, and about why you now feel the way you do, everything."
He looks me full in the face now, and whispers, "No one can understand that."
"I can." I put a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses, but he doesn't pull away, and he doesn't protest. This is significant. I have no doubt that perhaps a month ago, if a strange man touched him in a public restroom, his reaction would have been quite different, but then, I'm not really a stranger to him.
"There's so much I need to tell you, Blair, but not here. Not with Jim." I slide my hand to the back of his neck, up under the feathery fall of hair. Again he doesn't move away, but I feel him coiling for a move.
I stare into his eyes, calling on the blood tie, letting the power flow, and touch his consciousness. He trembles. I bend down and kiss him gently, not demanding. After a moment, his lips part tentatively. I slip my tongue into his mouth shallowly, lightly teasing. Now is not the time to plunder and conquer. Now is the time to seduce.
I reach down and find his cock, stroking. It is half hard already. But I only pet him a few times, then tuck it back in his shorts, and zip him up. He looks at me, even more confused now. I take a notebook from my pocket and scribble on it. Ripping the sheet out, I give it to him. "My number, and my hotel room. If you really want to understand, you can talk to me later. But now you need to go out to your Jim." I smile. "Before he gets ideas. I'll be out in a moment."
He leaves, his step a little unsteady from the beer, and unresolved lust. I think about Blair--his mouth, his taste--and I give myself a few good, hard squeezes, enough to leave me aching just a bit. All the better to think of him this afternoon. Then I make myself decent and go out to the truck, to sit beside the mouth watering young man on the trip to his apartment. To know that he is thinking of me, feeling my warmth beside him, knowing that he will be thinking of me when he is alone. Knowing that I will go back to my own room, and think of him. Knowing that the bond is strong, and it will help me reach out to him just as intimately as I might have in that men's room.
The Other Side of Contact
Blair's POV
Well, Fuck.
Just when I've decided things couldn't possibly get any weirder, something new is added to the mix. I guess I shouldn't say 'something'. It's someone, actually. Hoo, boy, is it someone.
Baron (baron, no less) Frederick von Glower. Over six foot by a good stretch, dark curly hair, eyes almost the same silvery blue of Jim's. (Jim. Yeah, gotta think about Jim).
I went to the station to meet Jim for lunch. I was in a foul mood. Nothing unusual there. Everything pisses me off these days. I sort of stalked into the office, ready for some kind of action, any kind. Maybe a perp would try to escape, and I could catch him and do a little judicial butt kicking?
Jim was at his desk, speaking to someone, when I came in. I came over, perfectly ready to interrupt, and pulled up short about half way between them. Even before he speaks I know he's not American. Probably not English, either. He lacks that certain aloofness I've come to associate with them. He's interesting, but I go to stand beside Jim. We're having problems settling into the new aspects of our relationship, but that is where I belong. Isn't it?
Jim introduces him. Baron von Glower. Somehow, some part of my mind supplies Frederick. Jim says that he's going to lunch with us. I don't mind. Really, I don't.
He looks familiar somehow, and I have to ask. "I know you, don't I?"
"In a manner of speaking."
Lord, he has an accent--aGerman accent. Well, we can't take a German aristocrat to the usual greasy spoon, can we? I give him a good look, to judge what sort of place he might be used to. Those are some fine tweeds he's wearing (I know lit professors who would kill for rags like that), and they're covering the sort of body I don't associate with decadent European nobility. This guy may look elegant, but there's some serious substantiality under those old money threads. The face may be close to beautiful, in it's own way, but the body looks ready to kick butt and take names. I suddenly realize what he reminds me of: the hero in one of those Harlequin Romance novels some of the freshman students are so fond of.
I suggest Timescape, and almost wince when I realize what I've done. Am I trying to be polite, or trying to impress him? Jim quite rightly makes noises about expenses, and I try to fob it off. I'm pretty sure Jackie can do something for us, get us in, at least. As for the price--I guess I can ease up on the herbal tea and books for awhile. He insists that the meal will be his treat. I get Jim to shut up about accepting the freebie. How often does anyone offer to pay our way? It would be an insult to refuse.
We get in easy enough. God bless grateful students. I almost swallow my tongue when I get a look at the prices, but Frederick doesn't bat an eye. He orders one of the more expensive things on the menu--steak tartar. I can feel myself starting to drool. I've heard of steak tartar before, of course, but I've never had it. Hell, I never even remotely desired it. Now it sounds like one of the most heavenly things on the face of the earth. Jim gives me a very funny look when I order it.
The baron has wine, I get a bottle of beer. No glass this time. That would be too nice, and I'm not feeling nice. I start on my first one (because I know I'm going to have more. Maybe if I pour enough on whatever's burning up my guts these days, it will help), and I get down to the serious task of figuring out who the hell von Glower is, because he's fascinating. I venture that I must know him from Germany oh, Sherlock, you're so brilliant, but I can't quite place him.
"You were distressed."
I feel a flash of pain behind my eyes. Oh, crap. After Von Zell. Was this man at the hospital? One of the doctors? I look toward Jim, but he doesn't respond. He wants me to talk to the head doctors about what happened, but he doesn't bring up the subject for personal discussion, and I can't.
"You were there in the woods? No, outside the woods?" He nods. I finish the beer quickly, and order another one. I need something, and alcohol will have to do for now. When Jim makes a mild comment about it, I almost snap his head off. I shouldn't, I know. He's just worried about me, but I can't help it.
The food arrives. The funny thing is that I know a couple of months ago this would have disgusted me. I would have told them to take it back and return it after it'd had a good, long encounter with a sizzling frying pan. Now it looks delectable, but how the hell does one eat it?
I watch Frederick take his first bite. Oh, so you put it on the toast. Fair enough. I load the scrap of bread with the glistening, dark red paste, and take my first bite.
Oh. Oh, damn. I've been trying to avoid meat since the steak incident, and now I wonder why I've been such a fool. I know I'm acting like a pig, but I can't stop. The condiments and spices can't overwhelm the rich tang of blood, and I shovel it down with unbecoming greed. I know my manners, but oh, it's so good.
I finish before either of them, and get another beer. Jim tries to say something to me again, and again I snap at him. I'm being a real bastard lately, but I look to Frederick for confirmation that there's no good reason why I shouldn't get plastered.
He agrees serenely, and I have my third beer. Jim and Frederick are still working on their food, so this hog just stretches out and watches. There's a certain amount of pleasure in watching someone else enjoy food, as long as you yourself are not hungry. Being replete, I can enjoy, and I've seen Jim eat, so I watch Frederick. He doesn't seem to mind. He isn't self conscious at all.
He eats slowly, obviously savoring every mouthful. The man enjoys satisfying his appetite. It's kind of fascinating. The flash of those very white teeth as he bites into the laden toast. The slow flex of his jaws as he chews. He doesn't entirely follow Emily Post. When his fingers become grease smeared, he licks them clean before using the napkin to dry them. I find myself following the path of that red tongue. When he sucks on one of his fingers, studiously removing a smear, I start to get hard.
Oh, damn. What the hell is this? I'm sitting next to my lover in a public place, and I'm getting a hard-on, looking at a man I don't know. I shift a little, glad I wore baggies today. Jim's giving me a look. Crap, I thought he had his senses dialed down. I can only hope he doesn't realize that it's not himcausing the stir in my pants.
Von Glower finishes his wine, running his tongue over his lips to catch the final drop. I watch the swipe over those firm lips, and more blood pumps to my groin. Jesus, what's going on? I never used to get so hot and bothered looking at other guys. I mean, I'd admire, but...
They're finished, and it's time to pay the bill. Frederick goes to the counter while Jim and I head outside. Jim wants to say something, I can tell. Out on the sidewalk, before he can open his mouth, I say, "I better go walk the dog, or I might not make it home. Be right back."
I duck back into the dimmer interior and make a bee line for the men's room. Oh, and what a surprise. Frederick is there at one of the urinals. Just Frederick. The place is empty and echoing.
I could take one of the end urinals, a space away from him, but that would seem unnecessarily standoffish, wouldn't it? I mean, it's not like I'm nervosa, or afraid.
So I stand next to him and pee, and make some stupid comment about the beer, and he replies with easy, innocuous agreement. I just stand there when I'm done.
He says, "You're very confused, aren't you Blair?"
I flinch. He can tell. How much does he know about... everything? I don't realize I've said anything till he answers.
"About the actual events, some. About why it happened, quite a bit. And about why you now feel the way you do, everything." I tell him plainly what I believe in my heart. No one can understand, but he insists, and he touches me.
It isn't much, only a hand on the shoulder. Nothing overtly sexual, but you don't touch other guys in the men's room. I should be pulling back, maybe making some sort of joke to defuse things, but I don't. Why don't I move?
"There's so much I need to tell you, Blair. But not here. Not with Jim." The hand slides to the back of my neck, and it's no longer just light, just there. Now it's heavier, holding. Caressing. I should move. I should move now.
He looks into my eyes, and they're like Jim's eyes. Not like, but so like. There's something there that's telling me things. I start to shake. Then he kisses me, so there's no pretending that this is something else anymore. Instead of pulling away, instead of running, I open my mouth and let him in. His tongue moves gently, slowly. No demands, only offerings.
I feel his hand close around my cock, stroking just as gently as his tongue, and I'm way past resisting now. Whatever he wants to do, I'm going to let him. And I don't have any excuses, because I know that Jim is waiting for me out in the truck, probably looking at his watch by now, but I can't leave.
Until he stops, puts me away, and zips me up. I'm a little stunned with the sudden cessation, and with the beer that's still buzzing around my head. He's writing on a notebook, and he hands me the sheet. A phone number, an address, a room number. He invites me to 'talk' later, and reminds me that Jim is waiting outside.
I stumble out into the restaurant, shoving the paper into my pocket. I think of that last smile he gave me while I was leaving, and the look in those light blue eyes. I realize that he doesn't look like a Harlequin Romance hero at all. No, he'd fit perfectly into one of the popular historical romance novels known as 'bodice rippers': where the hero is a step up from the villain, and perfectly willing to ravage the protagonist into trembling, panting, submission.
