Category Archives: Stories

Innocents, Part 1

This short serial takes place about 500 years before the start of Glamourhai.

Falthro examined the kneeling human the guards had brought before him. He detected no sign of the evil lurking in the man’s soul, but evil always conceals itself well. Two of his victims were missing. Two children whose mutilated bodies hadn’t been found and who might still be alive. Their families had petitioned for Falthro’s help. Another fae could have used his glamour to compel truth. Unfortunately, Falthro had…limitations…most fae didn’t. He would need to resort to other methods.

He seized the man’s chin, forcing his head up. The human was passive in his hands, but fire lurked in his eyes.

“Take him into the play room and prepare him for me.” His collared servants grabbed the prisoner and dragged him away. Falthro turned to the guards. “My page will show you to the kitchen. I will get the information you need as quickly as I can.”

“Yes m’lord.”

Falthro entered the glamourhame a few minutes later. The prisoner had been stripped, and hung from the ceiling by his wrists. His legs shackled to the floor, stretching his body painfully. Left there long enough, his own weight would suffocate him, and even a short stint could cripple him. Falthro wasn’t interested in coddling a child killer.

They would start slowly. “Do you know why you are here?”

“No.” Falthro tasted the lie in the curt answer. His whip flashed out, laying a searing line on the man’s face that stopped a half inch from his eye. Falthro smiled as the man jerked in the restraints and bit back a cry.

“That was one lie. For the next lie I will take your eye.” Falthro’s lip curled and he fought down his desire to spill blood. “Four children disappeared from Elm Grove. The guard found two bodies. You are a dead man for what you have done, but your death will be easier if you tell me where the others are.”

The prisoner said nothing, staring through Falthro as he struggled to breath. The lash this time wrapped itself around his neck. His eyes bulged out of his head as Falthro yanked the whip taut, cutting off his airflow. Falthro allowed him to jerk and struggle until his eyes began to glaze, than pulled the whip off of him. The man gasped and choked, tears streaming down his face. Falthro waited until he was quiet. “Where are they?”

The man sagged in the chains, chin dropping to his chest. To Falthro’s surprise he reeked of hopelessness and despair. The strength of the emotions seared Falthro’s glamour so badly that when the human spoke, Falthro couldn’t understand him. The fae lord placed the handle of his whip under the prisoner’s chin and lifted his head. “Repeat yourself.”

The fire in the prisoner’s eyes was gone, his gaze vacant. “You won’t believe me.”

Falthro stared at him. Something in the man’s emotions, his demeanor, made Falthro’s stomach twist. “Tell me. I will know if you speak the truth.”

“I can’t tell you where the kids are. I didn’t take them. Didn’t even know they were missing until the guards dragged me from my home.”

The strength of the man’s belief was a spike hammered into Falthro’s mind. Long experience allowed Falthro to block out the pain, but nothing could help face the horror filling him. He heard only his own silent scream. For the first time since childhood he came near to cursing Dannu. How had She allowed him to trap himself like this?

The man stared at Falthro. “You believe me?” the hope in his voice nearly broke Falthro.

Releasing the winch and lowing the man to the floor took only a moment. Falthro undid the shackles holding the man’s arms and one ankle, leaving the other ankle chained. “I will be back shortly.” Falthro grabbed a small chest with balms and bandages and shoved it at him. “Care for yourself.”


“You spoke the truth.” The flavor of it still lingered on Falthro’s tongue, taunting him with his own guilt. “You are innocent. I must deal with another matter, and then I will return.”

Nearly out the door Falthro stopped and turned back. “Do you know anything of what happened to those children?”


Falthro nodded and hurried down the hall.

The guards waited in the kitchen. Falthro ignored both the cook and her helper, approaching the guards with an expression schooled to regret. “The prisoner cannot tell us why all the bodies weren’t found together. I will speak with your town council and the presiding judge on this matter. They are to present themselves here as soon as possible.” He had questioned these two earlier—they believed the story they had told him. His answers would be found elsewhere.

He turned to leave and one of the guards said, “M’lord, we have orders to witness the prisoner’s execution.”

Falthro face them, as his expression hardened into a granite mask. “I swore to Dannu I would punish this man for the deaths of those children. You will go and leave the matter in my hands.”

They left.

Falthro allowed himself ten blessed minutes alone. Ten minutes where the emotions and thoughts surrounding him did not burn like fire through his mind, and he could just be. Ten minutes to grieve for the children he had failed. Ten torturous minutes to agonize over what he must now do. “Dannu, show me the way. Will you spare me the burden of more innocent blood? Will you release me of my oath?”

He hands trembled as he raised them to his face. The lack of Dannu’s presence was an empty ache. He gathered himself and left his sanctuary, returning to the glamourhame, and his victim.

When Falthro entered the room the man stood from a crouch. Falthro stopped and searched his memory for the human’s name—Dannel… Dannel’s face gleamed with a thin coating of one of the housekeeper’s creams, something to help the lash heal cleanly. He rattled the remaining ankle shackle, “If you believe I’m innocent, is this necessary?” He tried to sound relaxed, but Falthro tasted both hope and fear.

The fae shook his head, “Perhaps it is not, however I cannot permit you to leave.”

The flavor of fear grew stronger, and Dannel’s hands clenched. Still, the human managed a chuckle. “Well I’m definitely not returning to town any time soon.”

Falthro handed Dannel a loose robe and turned his back while the man shrugged the it on. “I was a fool, and I have done you great wrong. I am unable to make it right, or change what must happen. I can only tell you that I regret it. If it is with in my power both the true guilty party and those who wrongly brought you too this place will be punished.”

Dannel stared at him, wide eyed, “Lord Falthro, I won’t pretend this wasn’t one of the most horrific experiences of my life…expecting to be tortured to death for something I didn’t do…” He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was a harsh whisper, “I was locked in my own mind, screaming in horror while my body carried me to my doom. You believe me.”

Falthro made himself face the plea in the man’s eye. “I am sorry. When the town first asked for my intervention, I swore to Dannu I would punish you for the deaths of those children. She accepted that oath.”

Life itself seemed to flow out of the young man’s face, a death of the spirit that was far worse than death of the body. “You can’t…you can’t, you know I am innocent. You know!”

“Yes.” Falthro forced himself to show no sign of his own pain as the man’s shock and horror ripped through his mind.

Frozen, Dannel stared about the shelves lining the glamourhame, at the many tools Falthro could use to tear him apart slowly. Killing by inches. “What kind of monster are you…”

“Not quite as much of one as you think.” Falthro allowed himself a small sigh. “I have prayed to Dannu to release me of my pledge, but she does not answer. I do no know why. I do not know why she accepted such an oath. I do have some discretion in how I fulfill it.”

“Discretion? Earlier you offered me an ‘easy death’ if I gave you information. Is that your ‘discretion’!”

Falthro took a deep breath. “Dannel, formerly of Elm Grove, falsely accused and falsely condemned. Your punishment may take three forms, I offer you a choice. You may be given an easy death, to fall asleep and not wake up. No pain, no suffering. If you prefer, I can castrate you, brand you and exile you from these lands. You will live, and you will have your freedom.”

“And the third choice?” The question tried to be a challenge, but the anger and despair behind it were all too clear.

“You may choose to become one of my slaves, bound to obey me by sigil. Once a week you will come to this room, and I will torture you to feed my glamour; no permanent harm will be done to you, but you will suffer greatly. The rest of the week you will have duties throughout my manor. Your needs will be supplied, and you will be able to witness what punishment I can craft for those who falsely accused and condemned you.”

Dannel was silent for a long moment, then asked. “And what is your punishment, Lord Falthro? What of my executioner?”

Falthro’s grim smile showed no hint of pain as the strength and rapid shifts in the human’s emotions made stars explode behind his eyes. “If you become my slave, your presence will be my punishment. If you stay, and only if you stay, you will learn why. Suffice to say I do not speak of anything so ephemeral as guilt or shame.”

Dannel looked skeptical, but allowed the question to drop. Taring at his hands, he asked,“Must I choose now?” ***give some emotional context here***

“No.” Falthro pulled a bell rope. “Rest the night. Sleep, as best you can.”

The door opened and one of Falthro’s servants entered. “My lord?”

“Escort Dannel to one of the guest rooms. Bring him anything he wishes.”

“Yes, lord.”

She bent and undid the shackle then gestured for Dannel to precede her from the room.

“I offer no apologies, for they are meaningless. You may speak with any of my people and explore the manor as you wish.” He summoned his glamour, imposing his will on the other’s mind. “You will not leave this building, nor seek to escape.” Dannel rocked on his heels as the force of the order went home. Falthro turned away. When the door closed, the ripping pain of using his glamour added to the agony of enduring Dannel’s emotions brought him to his knees.

Falthro stayed up through the night, praying. Dannu ignored him, responding to neither his pleas for absolution nor demands for an explanation. Finally, as dawn broke the east, he braced himself for the day to come.

Breakfast was an ordeal, but he was used to choking down food—both physical and spiritual—no matter how much he suffered. He was grimly certain that on this morning, Dannel’s suffering was far worse than his.

Almost as if the thought summoned him, Falthro’s personal servant escorted Dannel into the room. Before either could say anything Falthro asked, “Have you eaten?”

“No, Lord Falthro.” Dannel swallowed, hard.

His servant…was this one Beattie? No, Beattie had been the last one. Regardless, she knew his ways. She set a second plate on the table and filled it. Falthro pointed at it. “Eat. No matter how badly you feel, no matter what you face each day, unless you wish to die, you eat. Food is life, and not eating makes it that much more likely you will die.”

Dannel glared at him, but Falthro didn’t notice. The man’s emotions had lit a fire behind his eyes, a fire only partly eased by his servant’s soothing presence. He chose his people for that quality.

One bite at a time he forced himself to finish his pastry. When the last crumb was gone, he shoved his plate away. Across the table, Dannel half swallowed, half choked on, a mouthful of eggs. After a few more bites he set his fork down and met Falthro’s eyes.

“I can say nothing to sway you? No plea, no argument.”

Falthro looked away. “I cannot break my oath to Dannu. Not will not, cannot.” The last of Dannel’s hope died, but the man only nodded. “They say there is a special black stone fae are helpless against.”

Falthro sat back in his chair. The anger and hate pouring of Dannel told him where this was going. Something other emotion flickered behind them but subtleties were lost on the fae. “Starmetal. I have seen none since we came to this land.If you did manage to find any and use it against me, I would call it be justice.”

Dannel’s eyes widen. “Would you?”

“The crime you were accused of is so very heinous, no lesser punishment will fill the terms of my oath. And yet does that not make my crime against you just as heinous?” Falthro shrugged, “Note I do not say I would stand still while you plunged starmetal into my heart or any such dramatics. Only that if you managed to do so, I would call it justice.” Closing his eyes, Falthro saw the coming horror clearly. Dannel had choosen exile and to seek revenge, no matter what it cost him.

The taste of determination overwhelmed that of hate and anger. Determination and…respect? The slither of cloth broke the silence. He opened his eyes. Dannel knelt before him, hands fisted and face strangely calm.

“Lord Falthro, I doubt I will ever forgive what you do, but you have been honest with me. Of the choices you offer me…I will be your slave.”

Falthro gripped the table with trembling hands and whispered a prayer of thanks. The next several decades would be pain filled, but his hands would not bear more innocent blood. “So be it.”

For the first time in his long life, the fae lord bowed to a human.

The Dragon

Nia guides her horse around a twisted track in the mountains. Each step takes her farther from familiar territory and deeper into the lands of the dragons. It is a dangerous journey, but necessary. Coming around another turn, a valley suddenly opens up before her. The valley floor is a canvas of wild flowers, swathes of bright colors that delight the eye. The scent reaches even to the hills that formed the valley’s walls.

But Nia sees none of this. A glint of red in the air blinds her to the beauty spread before her. A dragon dancing through the air at the far end of the valley. The power and beauty bring tears to her eyes, and she releases a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. The last time she saw him, he had been barely able to walk, his scales tinged gray and edging towards black. She had been warned he would never fully recover, had dreaded what she would find. Now…

She allows the tears to spill freely as her horse picks his way down the rocky slope. Without warning, the dance ends. The dragon collapses, plummeting to the ground. A scream fills her throat as she pushes her horse as fast as she dares on the rocky slope.

The falling shape disappears behind a slight fold in the ground, followed immediately by a loud splash. She heaves a great sigh of relief, but doesn’t slow her horse. As she reaches the valley floor, the dragon reappears, climbing up the far side of the valley to a rocky ledge.


On a rise at the far end of the valley, Long is pleasantly exhausted. He had pushed himself that morning, flying high and far. The dive into the hidden lake had taken the last of his strength. Pleased with his recovery, he curls up on a ledge to rest. Just as his head touches the ground, he feels the quiver of approaching hoof beats. He stands, torn between hope and annoyance, and turns towards the sound.

Walking down the valley takes longer than flying, but he has already pushed himself too far today. His patience is hard pressed when he sees the figure riding towards him. He resists the urge to run, holding to a steady walk as she urges her horse to a canter.

When Long finally reaches her, he changes form, shrinking down to a human seeming, with coarse red hair and golden eyes. He goes to one knee and grins up at her.

Nia slides off her horse and grabs Long’s hands, pulling him up into an embrace. “Demons, I’ve missed you!”

He returns the hug and allows himself to rest his head on her shoulder. “Same. I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting for you. I must have lost track of time.”

“Not your fault. I’m early.”

They remain holding each other for long minutes. Finally, Nia steps back and looks Long over. His frame is gaunt, like a bear after long hibernation. New lines etch his face, and there is a weariness to him that is not masked by his joy at her arrival. “Let’s gather your things and hit the trail,” she says, hiding her worry, “There’s several hours of daylight yet, and I passed a good camping spot on my way in.”


To her surprise, he looks away. “I…I can try, Ma’am. I’m afraid I over did it flying. And—I’m still sleeping large parts of the day.”

Nia is disappointed, but understands. Nia makes a camp at the mouth of the cave where Long had made his temporary home. She hides her displeasure as Long makes no effort to help her, instead lying down and taking a short nap. When the camp is set, she watches him sleep; then decides that since they have time, she’s going to take advantage of it. She pulls out a rope and stake from the tent she decided not to bother pitching. With Long still asleep, she binds his wrists together with the rope and uses the stake to pin his arms to the ground above his head.

Long wakes as she pulls open the laces of his breeches and frees his shaft to reach for the sky. He groans and whimpers as her hands caress him. “Please, Ma’am, let me taste you.” She ignores him, using her hands and mouth to bring him right to the edge.

He quivers beneath her and she grins,”Don’t you dare cum.” Then immediately takes him in her mouth again, swirling her tongue around his head and playing her fingers up his shaft. “Yes, Ma’am” he bites out.

A few moments later she releases him and kneels over his head. He whimpers and strains to keep still, craving her hands on him but wanting desperately to reach up and claim her with his mouth. She reaches down and uses her fingers to pleasure herself, letting him watch and hunger as she teases her clit and thrusts her fingers deep inside herself.

She comes, long and hard, and collapses on top of him. “Do you still want to taste me?” she whispers in his ear..

“Please, Ma’am.” She allows him to suck on her fingers, slick with her juices. When he finishes, she releases his hands and helps him sit up. They make dinner together, then curl up and fall asleep in each others arms. As Nia falls asleep, his shaft pokes at her stomach, and she wishes that she had dared to use him as fully as she would have before his injury.


The next day they set out, Long walking while Nia rides. At first he keeps up easily, but overtime his energy sags. By noon he can’t push himself anymore. Nia is annoyed that he didn’t say something sooner, and annoyed with herself for not recognizing his weakness. She insists that they make camp early. Long fights depression, angry with himself for failing in something so basic. He feels even worse the next day when Nia puts him up on the horse.

The following week is a difficult one for both of them. Nia ends up doing most of the work of camp, taking care of Long as well as herself. She is very cautious in the things she asks him to do—asks, not orders, a difference he feels very strongly. Even worse is when he needs to tell her he can’t do something.

He is unaccustomed to riding. In its own way it is as tiring as walking, but when he needs to he can fall asleep in the saddle—and does so more than once.

At the first village they come to, Nia purchases a mule. Unlike Nia’s horse, the new beast isn’t used to the scent of a dragon, and doesn’t take well to Long as a rider. For several days their speed is reduced even further as Long needs to fight the best each morning to mount and gain control. It takes nearly a week to settle the beast down. Long tries not to think about the state of their coin purse. They had little money to begin with, and the mule took almost all of it.


A month after leaving the dragon’s valley they have an establish routine. Long wakes early and puts a porridge on the fire for breakfast. After they eat, he rests while Nia packs up the camp, saddles the mounts and gets them ready for the day. They ride out, moving at a slow and easy pace. After traveling half the day, they stop. Long rests again while Nia writes in her journal or carves. If Long is able to, they travel for several more hours after supper, otherwise they make camp and settle in for the night.


Nia is constantly watchful. More than once Long has tried to continue and ended up collapsing in the saddle. She hands down strict rules about what he should and shouldn’t do and just how hard he should push himself. Not wanting to push him herself, she hasn’t brought him to her bed since their first night together.


Long sleeps fitfully. He knows he is lucky to be alive, lucky that Nia was willing to wait for him,but he feels too strongly all he has lost. He can’t help wondering is Nia would be better off without him. She won’t release him—he knows her better than that. But he sees what his illness costs her.


The next day they are passing through a village when a messenger arrives. Bandits raided the next town, and they need help. Nia and Long know they need to respond, but the town is a full day’s ride away.


“You–” Nia starts.

“I’l–” Long cuts himself off.

Once they would needed no words. A glance, a nod, and they’d be off. Now there is a moment of silence.

“Follow as you can,” Nia finally says, “I’ll ride ahead and deal with this. With luck I’ll have it wrapped up by the time you arrive.”

“You shouldn’t face them alone.”

“And what good will you do anyone if you fall on your face getting out of the saddle?”

“I–” There is nothing he can say to that. And the truth burns like dragons-bane.

He says nothing as she gathers her things to ride out.

Nia hates leaving him behind. She isn’t fond of the idea of facing the bandits without him at her side, and she hates knowing she hurt him. But it’s the only answer. There is no way he can keep up in human form and…her thoughts skitter to a halt. Outside of battle, he stays in his human form—an old promise, and old rule, from when she first bound him to her. So long ago neither of them even thought of it any more. She had made an exception for while he healed, but the moment she had collected him, he had taken human form and stayed .

They were fools, idiots.

She turns back and pushes her horse into a trot. He is just leading his mule up to the mounting block when she pulls the reins out of his hands. Rebellion flashes in his eyes. She places a hand against his cheek and smiles. “Fly.”

It amuses her, the way his jaw drops. “Ma’am…Nia….”

“Fly ahead. You’ll have time to rest before I arrive.”

Finally he nods. “If that is what you want me to do.”

His odd response disturbs her, but she needs to hurry. “Yes,” she says, and still leading the mule, pushes her horse into a fast trot out of town.


Long soars above the forest. Nia is right, even a full day’s ride is only a few hours flight. The flight will wear him out, but with time to rest at the end he will be able to fight. Not like riding the same distance. She is, he assures himself, just being practical. But he is used to being restricted to the smaller form, and it feels like a betrayal, to shed his human skin and take to the skies, tracking Nia from above like choice prey. He is supposed to be hers, to serve her and care for her.

Disgusted with his own melancholy, and sure Nia would have some choice words for him is she could hear his thoughts, he puts his attention on flying, and tries to forget his disquiet.


Nia finds Long resting at a bend in the road outside of town. Being able to trade off the horse and mule had allowed her to make better time than she expected. Even knowing what is waiting for them, she is tempted to let him rest longer, but his eyes pop open at her approach, and before she can say anything he leads the mule to a convenient stump to mount.


The bandits are easy to find, and as always break quickly when one of the adventurers hunting them turns out to be a red dragon—even a young one. When the battle is over, Long collapses, leaving Nia to clean up on her own. They will get the traditional adventurer’s 10% of the goods the bandits stole, which to her experienced eye looks to be about what they had spent on the mule. So, no great profit, but at least they will get their reserve back.


She and Long need to have a long talk. They’d avoided discussing the future, the way his illness was impacting their adventuring. They haven’t talked about the way they are being pulled apart, how uncomfortable they both are with the changes in their lives. She sits down next to him, and builds up the fire. ”I should have done that,” he murmurs.


“What else is a crippled dragon good for?” he tries to make it a joke, but the hurt and bitterness and self-pity seep through. He shakes himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t–”

She kisses him. “You shouldn’t, I shouldn’t. We’ve both been under a strain lately. You’ve been so worried about letting me down…”

“You’ve been terrified of pushing me too hard…”

“I think it’s time we remember a few things. Put your hands behind your head.” She pulls out several sets of thongs and ties his hands together. A few moments later she had his fully bound.


“That’s ‘Ma’am’ unless you just want me to gag you…”

He swallows. “Yes Ma’am”

Pleased, she unlaces his pants and rips open his shirt, leaving him fully exposed. Then she pulled a hood over his head before going to prepare a few things.


Long squirms against the ties, and shivers as the wind teases his exposed shaft, reminding him that he is in the open where anyone can see…assuming anyone would walk down this rarely-traveled lane that leads only to a bandit’s hideout. He is tired and already hurting from the long day, and the ties cut into muscles that spasm randomly in the chill. He bites back a moan, and tries to listen for the sound of Ma’am’s footsteps.

He smells it first, a sharp astringent smell makes him whimper in the darkness under the hood. He feels her hand, warm and greasy, caress his shaft , and each touch leaves behind a warmth that quickly grows into the burning sensation he both loves and hates. She reaches further between his legs, and he gasps as she smears a great glob of the liniment about his hole. A few moments later something presses against his hole, entering him, filling him and bringing that hot burning sensation inside of him.

He moans and thrashes in his bonds. She just laughs. After that becomes a blur, Pleasure and pain mixed in ways he will never be able to sort out, her own moans and cries filling his ears as she uses him for her own pleasure, her own fulfillment. Then she was cumming, bucking against him, and he screams as she grinds herself against his abused flesh. She bends down over him and bites him hard on the side of his neck, breaking the skin and drawing blood. Marking him once again as her own.

They both sleep that night, better than they have since his injury.



Hey, I’m excited to announce that my novel-length webserial Glamourhai starts tomorrow at 6pm ET. Stop by and check it out!

ETA: Trigger warnings for transphobia.

Aidohán, formerly Skerrie, was dragged before the new king. He had failed to overcome the young challenger, and lost his throne. Such was the way of the Skul Skerrie. What happened next was not.

The new king–Aidohán never even learned his name–tore Aidohán’s seal skin from him and slashed it to pieces. Trapping him forever in human form. He had expected the king to turn on him next. Instead, the king turned his back, saying, “Leave him for salvage.”

Aidohán screamed then. Screamed and fought with every ounce of strength left to him. But he was old, and injured. The guards were young and hale.

They brought him out of Skul Skerrie and to the human realm. With strong ropes, they tied him to the piling of a pier. As the tide was going out, they left him there. Unless someone salvaged him, when the tide returned, it would cover his head, and he would drown.

Throughout the long day, the tide slowly receded until his feet hung in the air, then crept back in, covering first his feet, then legs, hips, stomach… He listened in silence to the humans walking the pier above his head. He thought of calling for help, shouting loud enough for the humans to hear, and come find him. But he feared being salvage more than he feared death. Or thought he did.

When the sun set, the waves were rolling across his chest. The courage, or foolhardiness, that held him silent through the day ebbed with the light. A clean death, he could have faced unflinchingly. A sword, a shark, a hunter’s harpoon even. But to drown, slowly suffocated by the sea which was Ruler and Mother of them all…He would have called for help then. Begged, pleaded, screamed. But the pier was silent. The humans gone. And what little pride he had left would not allow him to weep. So he closed his eyes and waited.

John stuck to the shadows. Going out at night was a foolish risk, but he needed to get away for a while. Needed to get somewhere he could just relax, be himself. He loved his family, and they tried, they really did. But they didn’t understand. After two damn years, he shouldn’t still be hearing, “Joan—oh, sorry, John, can you— ”

He crossed his arms across his chest, flattening his thankfully-small breasts. Maybe this time the docs would come through for him and he’d be able to start on T. Ya just gotta keep going, he told himself, never give up, cause when you give up the fuckers win. Which didn’t keep him from needing a break sometimes.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the figures standing in the warehouse door until it was too late.

“Hey, Joanie, here for the party?”

“Fuck off, Ned.” He started walking faster.

John’s ex-boyfriend and his friends swung in beside him. “Aw, don’t be like that, hon. I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“I said, fuck off.”

Ned grabbed his arm. John tried to pull away but couldn’t.

“Let go.”

“Make me.”

John rolled his eyes, “What are you, five years old?”

“What you running away from?” Ned spat on the ground. “Real man doesn’t run away. Guess you’re not a real man, hey Joanie?”

John took a deep breath and carefully didn’t think about the knife tucked in his boot. He started carrying it with him after a bad incident last month…

A police car turned down the street, and they all froze. It slowed as it passed the small group. Ned cursed and dropped John’s arm.

“See you next time, Joanie,” he called as he and his buddie headed back to the warehouse. John nodded to the officer—no one he recognized—and hurried down the street. It was only two more blocks to the pier.

The sea was calm. If it hadn’t been, the waves would have been rolling over his face long since. Instead, the swells passed just under his jaw—if he lifted his chin as high as he could. When Aidohán heard the first steps on the pier, he thought he was dreaming.

“Ho!” The cry was torn from his lips. An unusually large wave washed over his head. He sputtered and spat sea water, gulping for air. Pride tried to rear up, but was strangled by survival. “Under the pier! Help!”

Only silence answered him. Silence and the sound of footsteps, walking away.

John enjoyed visiting the pier at night. It was peaceful and quiet. He could watch the stars and forget about the shit he dealt with everyday. Just be for a while.

He hadn’t gotten halfway across the pier when he heard a voice. He cursed. There went some time alone. But looking around, he didn’t see anyone. He heard the voice again. This time it sounded like it came from below. From under the pier. Shaking his head, he walked off the pier and went looking for the stairs down to the beach. Some fool kid might have gotten stuck down there when the tide came in.

It was pitch black under the pier, and there was nothing to hear but the waves slowly rolling in. John nearly decided he had been imagining thing. Then he heard a sputtering cough. Cursing, John plunged into the waves. “Where are you?” he called.

After a moment, “Here.”

John hurried towards the voice, first wading, then swimming. “Keep calling!” he yelled, then had to spit out sea water.

“I’ll try.” A pause. “Over here.” A pause. “The waves are too high.”

It was the calmest sea John had seen in months, but by then he was close enough to see what looked like a head, leaning against a piling. As he watched a wave rolled over it. When the wave passed the voice cried again, “Here!”

Now that he had a target, John was able to reach the person before another wave passed. “I’m here. Just grab hold of me. I’ll get you to shore.”

“I can’t. I’m tied.” Up close, John could see the face more clearly. Long brown hair floating in the water to matched the beard on the chin held above the waves. For a moment, John couldn’t understand. Then his eyes widened in horror.

Taking a deep breath, he ducked below the waves, feeling in the dark water for whatever had the stranger trapped. It took only a moment. He was cocooned in rope from nipples to knees. Pulling his knife, John went to work on the first coil. The rope and the water both fought him, but he managed to get half way through by the time he needed to go up for air.

As he gasped for breath, the stranger watched him with despairing eyes. “Not enough time.”

John ignored him and dove again. It took him a moment to find the cut, but he managed to finish sawing through the first loop. It uncoiled and fell away. More rope remained.

Surfacing, he saw the waves were getting larger. As the trough of a wave passed, the man, or at least, he presents as a man, and isn’t that a stupid thought to have at a time like this, gasped for breath. “Go.” he said. “Don’t…” another wave cut him off, but John knew what he would have said. A whisper in the back of his mind agreed—it was foolish to risk his life for a stranger. If he got himself tangled in the rope, or a wave bashed his head into the piling, they’d both die. Even more foolish to risk his life pointlessly, for a stranger he had little hope of saving. He heard the whisper, and ignored it.

Never give up. Another dive.

Two dives later, he had cleared the ropes to the strangers waist. He was tiring, losing focus. So at first he didn’t realize that the waves had completely covered the man’s head. Cursing, nearly weeping from exhaustion, he took a breath and grabbed the strangers chin. Leaning down into the water, he pressed his lips against the stranger’s and opened his mouth. Air passed between them. The breath of life, John’s mind conjured the phrase from somewhere.

He dove again. The rope that fell away this time freed the stranger’s hands. The stranger grabbed him. John cursed and kicked—if the guy didn’t let go they would both drown. A hand grabbed his wrist. Another tried to wrench the knife away from him. Unable to fight any longer, praying the guy knew what he was doing, John let go. As soon as he released the knife, the stranger grabbed it, letting John swim for the surface and fresh air.

A single breath and he dove again. The stranger was bent over in the water. Sawing at the remaining ropes. As John came near, he exhaled, a stream of bubbles tickling John’s nose. Desperate, John grabbed him, pressing lip to lip and giving the maniac air. For a moment, they held each other in a desperate embrace. Then John lunged for the surface. Understanding came. He would breathe for both of them, while the stranger cut the last of the ropes.

A few minutes later, the stranger flailed free. For a moment, he just floated in the water. John grabbed his arm, pulling him to the surface. Clinging to eachother, they swam for shore.

Aidohán lay on the sand, desperately dragging air into his abused lungs. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his salvager sputter beside him. By mutual agreement, they had staggered out of the shadow of the pier before collapsing. Under the water, Aidohán would have sworn he felt small breasts press against him, but in the moonlight it was a man who knelt on the sand and wrung water from the hem of a brightly colored shirt. In the end, he ignored the confusion. The stranger had salvaged him from the sea. That was all that mattered.

And he was delaying.

He forced himself onto his knees. If anyone had asked him that morning, he would have said that lowering himself to kneel before another would be the hardest thing possible. It was ironic to find how hard it was to RAISE himself to his knees. But he managed it. Managed it and bowed his head to the stranger before him. “Thank you… Master.”

His salvager shook his head, spraying water across the sand. “What did you say?”

“I said, thank you, Master.” Remembering the feeling of breasts, Aidohán asked, “Should I say Mistress?”

“I am not a woman!”

Aidohán heard the sea’s rumble, and held up a placating hand. “Master, then. I meant no offence.”

John blinked. “You…you don’t care?” Then realized how stupid he sounded. The poor guy was nearly dead, and probably shocky. How could he have any clue that John was trans?

The guy chuckled. “In one day, I have lost my throne, been left for salvage, and rescued by a human even as the sea stole my breath. Whether my rescuer is a man or woman is not exactly a concern at the moment, Master.”

For one moment, the idea of someone who just accepted John as he was shut his brain down. Then the rest of the guy’s words registered.

“Hold on a bloody moment. Master? Throne? What are you talking about, anyway?”

The stranger looked up at him. His eyes seemed to shine green in the light of the full moon. “I was king in Skul Skerrie. Early this morning I lost a challenge. The new king ordered me brought here and left as salvage. You pulled me from the waves. By the law of the sea, I am yours now.” The words were full of bitterness, but the man took a deep breath and said, “I mean my thanks truly, Master.”

“Oo-kay. I think we need to get you to a doctor.” Did near-drowning cause hallucinations? John thought he remembered something about divers hallucinating if they stayed down too long.

The man looked down and rubbed at the raw patches the rope had left on his skin. He moved like something was wrong with his side, too. Definitely needed to get this guy to a doctor. “If that is your wish, Master.”

John took a deep breath. “Don’t call me that. I’m glad I was there to help, and I’m gonna stick around and make sure you land on your feet, but I’m no ones ‘Master.’ You’re no ‘salvage,’ or whatever you call it, of mine.”

Aidohán gaped. In all his nightmares, in all his worst fears and imagings, never had he imaged this. He would have begged, but pride closed his throat. Head bowed, he crouched on the sand and waited for the end. It came quickly. With a roar the sea reached out and grabbed its stolen prize. He didn’t bother trying to fight the wave that dragged him from the beach and pulled him to the Deep. He was cast off, not even worth claiming as salvage. At least, it would be quick.

John had no warning. One moment, the stranger was staring at him like John had just stuck a knife in him, the next a monster wave knocked him head over heels. He caught a single glimpse of the stranger, an arm flailing in the waves. Then he was gone.

Without stopping to think, John dove after him. Two steps in it was like the sand disappeared under him, and he struggled through a malestrom of water far to deep to be a few feet from the beach. Blind in the dark water, he flailed desperately. Seeking air, seeking the stranger, seeking something to grab hold of. But there was nothing.

Aidohán floated in the dark of the Deep, feeling the burn of his lungs and waiting for the end. The sea cradled him one last time, and with utter hopelessness came a kind of peace. A few minutes more and it would be over.

Suddenly, someone else was there in the deep with him. Even in human form, he could hear the vibrations of their flailing. See them in the phospherescent outline of the plankton they disturbed.

He recognized the shape. The human who rescued him and cast back to the sea. Bitter grief nearly had him turning his back on his might-have-been master. But there was no point in that now. The human probably didn’t know what he had done.

There should have been no way for the human to enter the Deep, and there was no way out now that he was here. The sea did not easily release what it had claimed.

With powerful strokes, he approached the half-seen shape and grabbed a flailing arm. They were both dead, but they did not need to die alone. The man stilled, and Aidohán pulled him close. The burning in his chest was unbearable. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He found the human’s lips, and pressed his against them. As he released his last breath, he felt the man’s lips move.

The feel of bearded lips against his pulled John out of his panic. He didn’t know what had happened. Didn’t really need to. He and the stranger were underwater–again. Even as his lungs screamed, his mind and body reacted. “Salvage, then.” The words bubbled from his lips, lost in the water. He didn’t care, he hooked an arm under the other’s shoulder and started swimming. Didn’t matter where. Didn’t matter that it was hopeless. You never gave up. “Salvage us both, I will.”

Aidohán awoke to the feel of sand under his belly and an arm across his back. Stunned, he sat up slowly and looked around. Next to him, the man who had twice pulled him from the sea coughed weakly.

Not knowing what else to do, Aidohán helped him sit up. The man coughed up a pint of sea water, then looked at him with bleerly eyes.

“The laws of the sea, hey?”

“Yes, Master.” Aidohán shuddered.

“Call me John.” John slowly stood up, and offered Aidohán his hand. “Ah…will that be a problem?” He looked nervously over his shoulder at the now-calm sea.

“Not if it is your wish…John.” Thankfully, the sea stayed quiet.

“Ah…I’m thinking it’s best we stick together for a bit. But there is something you should know.”

John pulled up his shirt, and Aidohán could clearly see that he did, indeed, have breasts. What he couldn’t see was why his salvager thought it mattered. He shrugged. Yes, it was strange for a man to have breasts, but it was no concern of his.

John stared at him a moment then stood and offered him a hand. Aidohán took it, and leveraged himself to his feet. “Let’s get you some clothes, and then I think I should hear about these ‘laws of the sea.’

“Hey, what’s your name?”

John found a tatty pair of sweats someone had tossed in a dumpster. It wasn’t much, but it covered things until they could get Aidohán some actual clothes. They’d need to call the police, but somehow he was pretty sure his ‘salvage’ wasn’t going to turn up on any missing persons list.

Distracted (again) he didn’t realize they were taking the same route home until Ned called out to him from a doorway.

“Hey, Joanie. Where’d you find this weirdo?”

John froze. He couldn’t deal with this right now. He couldn’t…

Aidohán strode forward, still favoring his left side. He grabbed Ned by the front of his shirt and lifted the bigger man into the air. “His name is John.” He waited a moment. Ned kicked and flaied in the air, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Aidohán set Ned back on his feet, gentle as anything, and brushed him off. “I think you have somewhere else to be. Now.”

Ned took off.

John started breathing again. “I can usually handle that myself. And you aren’t in any shape to be picking fights.”

Aidohán ducked his head and chuckled. “You pulled us both from the Deep. I believe you could do anything, if you wished. That doesn’t me you should need to.

“And I fought for my throne for 30 years. If I couldn’t intimidate a fool like that while half-dead, I would have been all dead long ago.”

They walked on in silence. Each, in their own way, thinking that they could get used to the strange twist their lives had taken.

And under the pier, a ripped and tatted seal skin floated on the waves. Lost and waiting to be found.

The Blood Mage’s Sacrifice

Sorry for the long delay, folks. Here you go. This beauty comes with trigger warnings for graphic violence, consent violation and object rape.

Marc stared at the brand on his inner arm. The complex spiral of knotwork and teeth hadn’t been there the day before. He was nearly out of time.

Giving up all his hopes of finding a willing sacrifice, the blood mage reached for his black phone book. He had three days to stop the demon from rising, and he needed a sacrifice now.

So he’d take what was available.

Cat was finishing up dinner when the phone rang. She nearly ignored it in favor of the text book she was studying. Going back for her master’s degree had seemed like a good idea… She had to admit the distraction was welcome.

“Hi, Cat? It’s Marc.”

“Hey Marc, what’s up?” She had fond memories of the play dates they’d shared. Marc was one of the few tops in town who was willing to push her limits, but he seemed to like playing the field. They’d been seeing each other every few months for a year or so. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a few weeks yet.”

“Well, I had an idea for something special. Definitely on the extreme side. If you don’t have anything going on, would you like to come to my place this weekend?”

She closed the text book and glanced at the calendar. “I have a test Monday, but nothing this weekend. Just how extreme did you have in mind?”

“Nothing that would give you an excuse to miss your test, but you’d probably want to wear long sleeves. Basically a bit of role play.”

Cat grimaced, “I am NOT playing doctor with you.”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound, “How about virgin sacrifice?”

She blinked. “Tell me more.”

The next evening, Cat pulled up in front of Marc’s house. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with his request for no safeword, but he’d earned enough trust that she was willing to give it a try.

Before she finished unbuckling, Marc was waiting next to the car. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he had the grace to look sheepish. As she climbed out of the car he said, “Any delay and I’m afraid I’ll chicken out. This is… an old dream I’ve never been brave enough to try to make real.”

Well, she could certainly understand that. With a nod, she offered him her arm. He led her, not up the steps to the beautiful Victorian house, but around to the back.

“I probably should have showed you this months ago,” he said, opening the door to the old root cellar, “It’s perfect for a dungeon, if you go for that kind of thing.”

“We do tonight, apparently.” The cellar was cool and dry. Rough cut stone walls and an uneven dirt floor were illuminated by a single flickering oil lamp hanging on one wall. A doorway led deeper underground. She shivered. “For this role play, you’re right. But let’s not make it a regular thing.”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “Not a regular thing.”

The third and last room of the cellar had the floor dug out enough that it was several feet deeper than the others, and required steps. Compared to the rest of the cellar it blazed with four oil lamps. A length of chain and a pair of cuffs hung from the ceiling, and four stakes had been driven into the floor, perfectly spaced for tying someone spread eagle. Otherwise the room was empty.


Cat licked her lips and nodded.

“Then strip down, and we’ll get started.”

Her clothes came off quickly and easily, but she wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Give them here,” Marc said, “I’ll put them somewhere they will stay clean.” Then he led her under the chains.

She had to stand on tiptoe for him to put the cuffs on. When she relaxed her feet, rather than settling to the floor, her weight landed on her wrists and she hung just above the ground. She scrambled to get her feet under her, and after a moment stood again, holding herself up by her toes.

Marc grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. “You have been captured by a proscribed cult known for practicing human sacrifice. You do not know how long you have been here, but you know the next time they come in, it will be to torture you to death.”

She nodded. “Alright. I hope they don’t leave me waiting too long.”

He just grinned. Then he went around the small room, blowing out the lamps.
“Marc? Hey! Damnit,I need to see!”

The last lamp went out, and a voice that sounded nothing like her friend replied, “The only thing you have to do, is die.”

Marc moved as quickly as he could, Cat’s curses echoing in his ears and he left the cellar and grabbed a large black duffle bag from the shrubbery. He would get one chance, and only one chance, to pull this off. He put on the ritual robes, white to show the blood more clearly. Gathered his implements, the tools of the sadist he played, and the sacred implements of the mage he was. His athame was clean and untouched. He would sanctify it tonight.

The brand on his arm burned. The door would open tonight, if he couldn’t stop it.
He took a precious few minutes to meditate, to clear his head. Then he shouldered his bag, and re-entered the profane sanctuary.

Cat nearly sobbed for real when she saw the warmth of the flickering oil lamp again. She had never been in such utter blackness before. She would have sworn there had been something there, something watching her. Something hungry.

Marc’s appearance was not nearly as reassuring as the lamp he carried. He was dressed in some strange white robes and carried a familiar duffle bag. But it was his face. The way he looked her over like she was nothing but a slab of meat.

It’s a game, she reminded herself. You’re SUPPOSED to be scared.

“Please.” She whimpered. “Please, why are you doing this?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t seem to hear her.

“If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I–”

Without warning, he backhanded her across the mouth, stunning her. She tasted blood.
Wide eyed, she watched in silence as he laid out the contents of the bag, many of them familiar to her. Somehow, they were much more sinister here and now, then in the well-lit ‘dungeon’ they normally met at.

She flinched when he finally turned his attention to her. “What are you going to do to me?”

A knife she had never seen before appeared in her hands. It sliced across her breasts. She cried out. It was to fast. To sudden.

“Marc, what the hell!”He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. It unbalanced her, forcing all of her weight onto her wrists.

“If you speak again, I will gag you.”

She whimpered. She hated gags. He knew she hated gags. She was starting to think she had made a mistake agreeing to this. But if she had, it was far to late to back out.He let go of her hair and knelt on the ground. Using the knife, he began drawing in the dirt, sketching some kind of circle all around the small room.

When he was finished he stood and smiled. It made her shudder, that smile.

“Now, we can begin.”

He started with a cane. Warming her up. With the circle scribed to catch the energy of her pain and suffering, he could relax into his role. The slim wood whistled through the air with each swing, landing on her body with a satisfying ‘thwack!’

He took his time. The precision of neat parallel lines marching down her back pleased him. The way she twisted and turned, trying to evade each blow added to the challenge.
It was hard to hold his tongue. Normally he enjoyed speaking to a bottom, using his voice and words to encourage them, elicit new reactions. But Cat knew that about him, so silence was better. More frightening.

He lost track of how long he used the cane, how many blows. Enough that sections of her back and ass were turning a lovely purple. He regretted that he wouldn’t be able to get pictures of these bruises.

With one hand he grabbed her hair to yank her head back again. Then he placed the cane against her throat and pulled, cutting off her air. She went wild thrashing against him, desperately trying to throw him off. To break free.

When her struggles began to weaken he released her. Her body shook with great racking coughs as her lungs grabbed for air. While she was distracted he retrieved a spreader bar from his tools and strapped her feet in. By the time she was aware enough to try to fight him, it was too late.

He took a moment to examine the cut on her chest. It was still bleeding, but not quickly enough to be dangerous. He nodded to himself and let it be, taking up instead a bag of sharp-toothed clips. Her eyes went wide when she saw them, gleaming in the lamp light. But she bit he lip and didn’t say anything.


He bent slightly and suckled on her nipple. Delicately and gently drawing it to a tight and hard peak. She moaned and shivered under his mouth.

When she was ready he stood up and placed the first clip on the nipple. A thin trickle of blood oozed out from under the gripping teeth.

She jerked and yelled. Then froze, panting, as his mouth reached for the other nipple.
Two lines down her body, the clips went, converging on her mound. She gasped when he knelt down between her legs. He knees tried to squeeze together, but the spreader bar gave him the access he needed. Slipping a finger along her cleft, he gently teased her inner labia, already swollen and wet.

She tried to jerk her body away.

“I suggest you hold very still,” he said, “You do not want me to slip.”

She shivered under his hand. He bit his lip and savored the fear. He waited, eager tension building in his middle as she began to pant, little hiccupy-sounds. He looked up at her and smiled when he saw she was facing forwards with her eyes scrunched closed. He reached behind him and grabbed a special toy. A thin dildo covered with narrow spikes, each 1/4 inch long. Glancing up to be sure she still had her eyes closed, bracing herself for what she thought was coming, he slammed the dildo up into her cunt.

Her eyes popped open and she screamed. She kicked her feet, pulled, writhed… and with every movement caused herself more pain, as the spikes scraped and tore at her insides.

“Marc! What the fuck is wrong with you! Let me down! Let me down now!”

He sighed and stood. He’d hoped she’d last longer. Grabbing her hair he yanked her head back again.

“We had a deal. No safewords.”

He went to his bag, ignoring her curses and demands. He grabbed up two lengths of fabric. Yanking her head back yet again, he stuffed one in her mouth, not being particularly gentle. The other, wrapped around her head, secured the first in place.
“Now be silent.”

She screamed against the gag, but it was muffled and no words escaped. Satisfied, he knelt down again and checked for blood. There was none. Relieved–he didn’t actually want to mutilate her–he set the final clip on her labia, trapping the dildo inside.
After that she did her best to remain still. He felt the tightness of her muscles under his hand as he threaded a string through all the clips. Obviously she was trying to prevent the dildo from moving with in her. But if she thought that would help, she was very wrong. The brand on his arm burned, reminding him that her pain was the only thing that could save them both. Them, and every member of his line.

He tugged and twisted the clips. Forcing her to jump. She growled and (presumably) cursed at him through the gag.

After a time he left the clips alone and took out a flogger. A special toy that ended in hard knotted leather. He used it to make her dance.

She was beautiful. Writhing and pulling. Twisted about in her manacles and throwing her head back and forth. Her own cries created the music that she danced to. The leather cut into her, and blood ran down her body in an intricate tapestry of rivulets. And with his inner eye, he saw the ward, gathering up her pain, finally begin to glow.

Every once in a while the strands of the flogger would tangle in the string threading the clips. Then one of the clips would rip off, and with it a bit of skin and blood, to fly across the room.

He worked his way around her until every inch of her body below her neck was red. Until the muffled screams and curses had turned to whimpers and tears trickled in a steady stream down her cheeks.

Now that she was properly warmed up it was time to get serious.

Cat had never been so terrified in her life. She had hurt worse, on occasion. But this time was different. This time someone she trusted had gone much to far. She wept against the gag and prayed that this really was just a game. That Marc didn’t really intend to kill her.

Finally, finally, he put he whip down. She allowed herself to hope it was over. To hope he was done, and he would let her down and they would both have a laugh about how he had managed to scare her. But he didn’t.

She watched as he attached a chain to the spreader bar at her feet, and then got a step ladder to thread it through the ring her chains hung from.

She screamed as he yanked on the chain, pulling her legs out from under her once again. He kept pulling, lifting her legs in the air until her weight hung from her ankles and wrists equally.

He used a carabiner to latch the chain to another ring, set low on the wall. The room seemed to spin and she swallowed back vomit. Terrified of what was to come.

The dirt floor was soaked with blood when he lowered her to the ground nearly an hour later and tied her spread-eagle to the pegs set around the buried altar. Marc ignored the glowing lines that had slowly grown on the far wall. Ignored the laughing voice and its whispered promises of death and destruction. He still had time. He could still pull this off.

Cat was conscious. Her eyes widened as he knelt next to her, athame held high. He removed the gag. She tried to speak, but only a hoarse choke emerged.

He set the point of the knife against her chest and allowed an ancient chant to fill his mind. The outline on the wall was complete–a door leading into a demon’s personal hell.

Marc closed his eyes and slammed the knife down into Cat’s chest. Piercing her heart, and a good bit else besides.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t dare stop to look, to listen, as she choked and gasped behind him. He pulled out the athame and ritually broke the ward, gathering all its stored power to him.

Then he went to stand before the glowing door. Working quickly, gestures practiced for more than half a lifetime traced power through the air. He poured her pain into the ancient ward. Renewing it, rebuilding it. The door began to open even as he set the final seal.

With an other-worldly scream the door slammed shut. The backlash blasted him across the room and tore the athame from his hands. He scrambled to his feet and saw that he had succeeded. The door was sealed for another generation.

But he wasn’t done.

Grabbing the athame he went back to Cat. She had stopped breathing. Seven minutes, the old health classes said. Seven minutes from loss of breath to brain damage.

He used some of her own blood, plentifully available, to scribe the ancient symbols. Six minutes.

Her pain and his terror powered the spell. Five minutes.

And he watched as her body slowly restored itself. Four minutes.

But only her body, magic couldn’t give life. Marc was praying science could.
Three minutes. EMT certification meant he knew exactly how to use the defibrillator he’d hidden in the next room. He raced through the set up, cutting corners with desperate disregard. Two minutes.

She jumped as he pressed the paddles to her chest, electricity coursing through her. A quick check. No pulse. One minute. He tried again, and nearly cried when he felt the pulse under his fingers, saw her chest rise with breath.

Before she woke up, he cast a final spell. To ease her memory of the night. No demons, no magic, no memories of cuts and floggings that left no scars. After wrestling with himself, he left her the memory of violation. Of boundaries crossed and safety ignored. Taking away the memories wouldn’t take away the trauma. Better for her, far better to remember why she felt traumatized.

He wished, as he picked her up and carried her into the house, that he’d been brave enough to have been honest. That six months ago he might have shown her some taste of his power, so that tonight he could have asked her honestly to help him. Her or any one of the dozen women he had scened with. But he hadn’t. And he was honest enough to know that she was the one who paid the price for his cowardice.

When she woke up, she fled his home, cursing him. He hoped that she would find a friend to confide in, to lean on. He wished there was someway, anyway, he could make it right.

Marc expected the next play party to be a kind of hell. He nearly didn’t go, but knew he would have to face the music sooner or later. So he dressed up in his usual and headed out. He left the bag at home, though. It would be a long time before he was ready to play again. If ever.

He pulled his car into one of the last parking slots, adjusted his jacket, and headed into the low, out of the way building that was the local dungeon.

Just inside the door a group of the local community leaders were waiting for him. He winced, but braced himself to take what was coming.

“Marc, hey,” Dave smiled, “We wanted to catch you before you went in. Cat’s said some pretty nasty things about you the past month. I’m not sure if she’s just out for attention or has some kind of grudge, but we’ve got your back.”

Marc’s jaw dropped. He knew that there were a few assholes who tended to push boundaries, and yeah, he’d heard rumors of accusations against a few people being swept under the rug, but were they really just going to…

“I mean seriously,” Dave continued, with the rest nodding around him like puppets, “Even if the shit she’s spewing is true, she agreed to go into a scene with out safewords, it’s her own stupid fault if she got hurt.”

Marc couldn’t stand to listen any more. He pushed through the small crowd and into the main building. After several minutes searching he found Cat curled up in a corner, obviously being shunned by almost everyone.

He lost it then. All his careful control, built up over decades and honed to a diamond’s point, fled, as his self-hatred finally found another target.

“You stupid idiots!” His voice echoed off the concrete walls, and everyone in the room turned to stare at him. “What is wrong with all of you. I violated her boundaries, ignored her requests to stop, and fucking hurt her, and you have my back! Since when is no safeword an excuse to do shit like that?”

Looking around the room, he mostly saw incomprehension. “Damn it, I came here tonight expecting to get waled on.” A deep breath. “I figured I owed her that at least. To look her in the eye, admit how much of a bastard I was and give her a chance to get her own back. And I thought all of you would be helping her.”

Lights came on in a few eyes. A few. A few people started moving, hesitantly, to stand by Cat.

“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re too stupid to kick me out on my ass, but what happened to consent? What happened to SSC and RACK and all that shit we talk about?”

Finally he saw traces of some actual embarrassment. And he turned to Cat. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t make it right, doesn’t make it better. But I don’t know what else to do.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I won’t be back for a while, if ever. I need time to get my head on straight. And I think maybe I’m not the only one.” He let his eyes pin a few guys rumors circled about, pretty damn sure at the moment they weren’t rumors. And David. David damn sure needed to figure some shit out, if this was the way he thought a ‘leader’ handled stuff like this.

He didn’t waste his time saying anything else. Didn’t actually expect anything he said to make a difference. But just because he’d done the wrong thing before, didn’t mean he couldn’t do the right thing now.

As he was unlocking his car he heard someone calling his name. Cat was running across the parking lot, dragging someone with her. She pulled up, well outside of grabbing distance. “I don’t want to be alone with you, ever again. I’m not sure I want to ever see you again.” Her turn for a deep breath. “But thank you for that. In there. It doesn’t make it better, but it means something.”

He nodded, but couldn’t meet her gaze again. Looking up at the moon he said, “You realize, they’ll probably just blame you for driving me out.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I guess. I think I’m done with this shit scene anyway. There’s got to be a better way to get beat than putting up with them.”

He opened the door of his car and climbed in. “Try rugby? Or I hear lacrosse is pretty brutal.”

She grinned. It was a small thing, but it was something. It faded quickly. “Don’t ever call me again, Marc.”

“I won’t.” He closed the door and drove home.


Author’s thoughts on The Blood Mage’s Sacrifice

Novel Excerpt

Hey all, a few folks know I’ve got a femdom themed fantasy novel I’ve been working on. I’m currently in edits and hope to be releasing the book in late October/early November. Because I’ve been buried in edits I’ve fallen behind on my short stories. So since the novel kept me from finishing a story this month, I thought I’d share the first 3000 odd words of the novel. I hope you enjoy.

Mattin filled the trader’s tankard before taking the empty plate back to the kitchen. His steps echoed in the inn’s near-empty common room. The dozen traders who would usually be breaking their fast of a summer morning had made themselves scarce the past few weeks.

His father glared at him as he started scrubbing the plate. “That’s Marta’s job.”

“Ah, let her be, Pop.” Three month’s ago Count Oeloff had claimed Losel, the blacksmith’s apprentice who’d been courting Marta. Losel was one of Oeloff’s slaves now – if he was still alive.

“Work is a better cure than idleness.” Bren had worked himself like a dog the past year, trying to forget the wife Oeloff had taken from him 20 years ago. Mattin had a few vague memories of his mother, Marta didn’t remember her at all. Bren took a swig from the bottle that he kept close at hand these days. “It’ll be over soon. One more time, he’ll come. One more woman he’ll claim. Then the tribute year will be over. Business will return to normal and we can forget for another ten years.”

Whatever Mattin might have said was forgotten as the sound of a horn rang through the inn. Father and son dropped what they were doing and ran to the front of the inn.

Mattin felt his heart plummet as he peered out the inn door. The coach filling the small in yard was drawn by a matched set of four, heads high and tails plumed, were just slowing to a halt. The coach they pulled was not painted black, the wood itself was darker than Mattin’s hair. It was decorated with gold filigree and sparkling gems. Emblazoned on the side was the sigil of Count Oeloff, lord of South Tarn.

Perched on top of the coach was a battered, one-eyed man wearing a leather and bronze collar. Mattin didn’t recognize him at first. Losel had been whole and hale when the Lord had claimed him a season ago. Now he was covered with scars. His single eye was dull and despairing.

Heart in his throat, Mattin backed away from the door. There was only one reason the fae lord would come to a tradesman’s inn. He had to warn Marta.

Turning, he ran for the back door of the inn.

The Maresday market in Trader Square was quieter than the full seven day market held every Sunsday, but White Oak was a large enough town (almost a city) that none of its markets were ever quiet. Even so, the usual boisterous noise of trading and gossip was subdued. No one met Mattin’s eyes as he pushed through the crowd. No one knew why he had come, and they didn’t want to know. Better to pretend that everybody one passed was about their normal errands. Better not ask questions when you might not like the answers. Mattin understood how they felt. He didn’t ask anyone if they’d seen Marta. Didn’t want anyone asking why he was looking. Didn’t want anyone to… He found her trading gossip and haggling at the chandler’s with Mistress Pors. As always, she was surrounded by a little coterie of friends and admirers. Mattin pushed through the crowd. “Marta! Marta!”

She smiled when she saw him. “Mattin! I’m sorry I left you to do the dishes today. Father wasn’t too angry, was he?”

The older she grew, the more she reminded Mattin of their mother. Especially when she smiled. His tongue froze. As long he didn’t say it, it wasn’t real, right? Just a dream.

“Mattin?” Marta put a hand on his shoulder as around them her friends began to pull back, as if they already knew what he would say.

“Marta…” He took a breath and just blurted it out. “Marta, the lord’s at the Inn.”

She froze. Before she could say anything Ared, who’d been hoping to take Losel’s place, pushed himself between the siblings. “He’s probably come for you, Mattin. Best get home and leave Marta out of this.” Marta gave Ared a little shove, but he didn’t budge. Mistress Pors, who everyone had been ignoring, shoved a package into Mattin’s hands. “Give that to Bren, boy,” the old woman said, “and tell him we’ll get drunk together later.” She blinked away the wetness in her eyes and turned to the rest of the little crowd. “One thing about Lord Oeloff, he’s predictable. He claimed a man three months ago. This time he’ll be claiming a woman. And Marta is the only woman at the inn since he claimed Polla, may she ride easy.” She shook herself and looked at Marta. “If he’s at Bren’s inn, girl, best be preparing yourself.”

Mattin nodded, “You need to run. We need to get you out of here. Maybe if we hurry…”

Marta laughed “Oh don’t be silly, Mattin. A Lord, looking for me! Of course I can’t run. And Mistress Pors, don’t worry! I’ve been ready for this for years. Oh, if only I had worn my blue dress this morning.”

“Marta!” Mattin begged.

“Please Mattin,” she patted his cheek, “I’ve never met a male yet I couldn’t twist around my little finger. Fae or no fae, Lord Oeloff won’t be any different. This time tomorrow I’ll be wearing silks and eating venison off of gold plates!”

Her beaus, one by one, slipped away. Mistress Pors sighed, “Wouldn’t do any good to run, anyway. It’s been tried before. But, girl, you aren’t the first to think so… I pray for you.”

Marta hurried through the cobblestone streets, Mattin following behind. When they reach the inn, the ebony coach was still sitting in the yard. Mattin watched as Marta stopped and fixed her hair, dusted off her skirt. “I knew I should have worn my blue dress today!”

“Marta, please!” He knew Mistress Pors was right. Running wouldn’t help. But what else could they do? “Don’t do this!”

She winked at him over her shoulder, “Mattin, you have never understood me. Wish me luck!” With that, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Mattin took a last shuddering glance at Losel, still perched on the coachman’s bench. Then followed her.

Inside, he saw what had to be Lord Oeloff seated on a sturdy chair by the fire. He had features that Mattin knew women would call handsome, with long brown hair the pulled back to reveal pointed ears. He wore leather polished to a high shine, and a tunic with an expensive, glossy look. Mattin’s father stood beside him, holding a flagon of what Mattin was certain was the inn’s finest ale. From the look on the Lord’s face it suited his palate about as well as horse piss.

Just ahead of Mattin, Marta swept toward the lord, dropping into a surprisingly graceful curtsy. “Greetings, Lord. I am Marta, Brensdaughter.”

The lord’s eyebrows rose on his brow, “Your father told me he did not expect you back for some hours.” The simple sentence was threaded with menace.

Marta looked up at the lord and smiled. “That is true Lord, but my brother saw you arrive and came to get me.”

“Clever boy.” Mattin froze under the piercing gaze and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Under the circumstances, I’ll forgive you leaving my horses to stand in the courtyard.”

For a moment Mattin couldn’t say anything, torn between relief and disgust at his own cowardice. He spoke, forcing words through gritted teeth, “Thank you, Lord.”

“Come here, girl.”

Still keeping his eyes on the floor, Mattin heard Marta’s footsteps approach the lord’s seat. He lets his eyes trace the grain of the oak floorboards, swept every morning and mopped weekly.

“You are not afraid.” Mattin shuddered at the hunger in the lord’s voice.

Marta cooed, “I am flattered at your interest, lord.”

Wood creaked as the lord stood. “Come, girl.” Mattin forced himself to look up, to see the tall fae stride towards the door. Mattin stayed where he was, half blocking the doorway. He saw his father’s frantic signal for him to move aside.

The lord was two steps away and glaring. Mattin spread his hands wide and was careful not to look in the lord’s eyes. “Please Lord, don’t—”

Terror gripped him. He shook like a leaf, unable to speak. The lord grew, filling his vision. The inn, his father, Marta, all fade into the background. There is only Lord Oeloff, and the terror the lord invoked.

“Kneel boy.” Mattin sank to his knees, unable to resist the crushing weight of the lord’s will. “Be silent.”

Suddenly, Bren was between him and the lord, kneeling, pleading, “Forgive my son, lord. He… he is a foolish boy and doesn’t understand the… the honor you do his sister. I beg you, lord.”

The lord was silent for a long moment. Mattin could only wait, fear freezing his breath. “Your taxes for the year are doubled, innkeep. See that your boy learns his place.” Then he swept out the door. Marta trailed behind, whispering a quiet goodbye.

Mattin watched her as long as he could, tears blurring her small form as she walked away.

Over an hour passed before Mattin was able to regain control of his body. The force of the lord’s command held him fast. After the lord left, the inn filled. Friends, patrons, family, stepping around him – and sometimes on him. He listened to his father explain, over and over again, what happened. Many expressed sympathy, concern or grief.

And they all spoke as if Marta were already dead.

When he was able to move again, he stood, legs still shaking, and approached his father.

Bren slapped the back of his son’s head, but smiled with teary eyes. “Damn fool boy. Nearly got yourself killed, and then where would I be?”

Mattin couldn’t help smiling in response, “Pop, what about Marta? What can we do?”

The inn fell silent. The constant small noises of eating, creaking benches, clinking cups, stopped. Mattin could feel everyone staring at him.

His father frowned and shook his head, “Nothing. You felt the lord’s power. Best accept it now. Your sister is dead. Mourn her and move on.”

Mattin stepped back, banging into one of the long tables. “No! We can’t just abandon her.”

The older man turned away and began wiping down the counter. “Only one of the fae can fight a fae.”

“You know what he’ll do to her!” Mattin found tears tracing their way down his cheeks. “You know…”

Bren stopped, both hands braced on the tables. His head hung low and his shoulders shook. “Go tend the stables, Mattin.”



A few hands reached out to touch his shoulder or pat his back as he walked past and out the door.

Marta couldn’t stop shaking her head as the inn door closed behind her. Trust Mattin to make a fool of himself. He was such a GOOD brother.

But her new life was upon her and she had no time for fools, even brotherly ones. She slipped her hand under her sash and palmed the star-metal knife fate had brought to her hands when she was a child. As she climbed into the coach behind Oeloff she brought it forward. When he sat, she squeezed herself in beside him and pressed the blade to his throat.

He chuckled, “Put the knife down, girl.”

The force of his command rolled past her like a ruffling wind. Inside, she exulted – the stories were true! “No.”

He stiffened under the blade and glared at her. “Drop the knife.” For a moment, she could see the glamour behind his words. A brightness that shined along his skin, making him the center of the world. But though she could see the power, it didn’t touch her.

She twitched the knife, his skin parted beneath the blade, “I hold starmetal, my lord.” She watched in delight as the blood drained from his face. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything she placed a finger across his lips. “Why don’t you signal your slave to drive on. Then we can talk.”

For a moment he did nothing. Then, he reached up and rapped on the top of the coach. The battered fool up top responded, and the carriage moved beneath them. “What do you want?”

Marta smiled, “A bargain.”

He sneered, “I don’t bargain with humans.”

Marta shrugged, “I doubt your household would object to finding your dead body. If you won’t bargain with me, i have no reason not to cut.” He tried to glare at her, it was rather amusing. The all powerful fae, reduced to blustering. The coach went over a pothole and the jarring bump threw her into Oeloff. The knife dug in and blood began to trickle down his throat. “I will skin him alive and make him sleep on salt!” Oeloff exclaimed. His hands moved to the cut, but froze when the knife shifted.

“An interesting idea. But have you considered sandpaper made with salt?”

Oeloff turned to her, and for the first time looked at her. “That is… a novel idea. You might almost be fae, girl.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, my bargain?”

She was surprised to see he looked excited as he leaned back against the seat. “Put that toy away, girl, and tell me what you have in mind.”

Mattin sat in the hay loft, trying to come up with a plan. His father could crumple and give up, but he wouldn’t. He would get Marta back, free her from the fae lord. If he could just figure out how.

He pushed aside visions of climbing over the walls of the lord’s manor – staging a daring raid on the heart of the tyrant’s home. In his imagination he slipped through the dark night, snuck into the depths of the lord’s horror-filled dungeon, and used a previously undiscovered skill at picking locks to free her and escape from the lord’s clutches. In reality, he knew if he tried any such thing he’d only get caught.

Confronting the lord directly wasn’t an option. His hands shook at the thought. The memory of the lord’s power, of being overcome and controlled like a puppet, terrified him. Even for Marta, he couldn’t face that again.

And even if he could, what good would it do?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps from below. “Boy! I need my mules.”

Mattin clambered down the ladder, the old trader was standing in the doorway.

“Right away, sir.” Mattin led the mules out of their stalls and went to fetch their harness.

When he came back, the trader was just finished inspecting them. The man grunted, “Not bad, boy. You took care of your sister as well?”

Mattin growled and kicked the floor, “Not that it matters now.”

“Aye, your father has the right of it. No way to fight a fae straight up. Only another fae can do that.” Mattin turned on his heel and went back into the stable, fetching out the man’s cart.

They worked together in silence, hitching the mules. The strong animal scent was calming, an old friend from years of working in the stables. Mattin let the familiar aroma calm him and asked, “So I should just give up? Let my sister be tortured and killed?”

The old man snorted, “I wouldn’t be surprised if your sister manages to turn the tables on the lord. She wouldn’t be the first.”

“But you said—”

“I said a human couldn’t take a fae straight up. There’s more than one way of fighting back, boy.”

Mattin didn’t reply, just buckled the last straps of the harness in place and stepped back.

“If you are serious about saving your sister, head west to County Erida and strike a bargain with the lady Jahlene.” The trader swung up onto the cart’s bench, “She and Oeloff have hated each other for years.”

Startled, Mattin trotted alongside the cart as it pulled out of the courtyard, “But… I don’t have anything I can bargain with!”

The cart turned down the main thoroughfare and was soon lost in the crowd. Just before it disappeared from sight, the man called back, “You have yourself, don’t you?”

At first, Mattin didn’t understand the trader’s meaning. When he did his heart started to pound. Tapping his fingers against the side of his leg, he force himself to confront the idea. He could buy his sister’s life and safety, by selling his own. He had an answer – if he was brave enough to take it.

The stench of fear filled his nostrils – his own fear, not for Marta now, but for himself. If he followed the trader’s advise – if he offered himself as a slave to Countess n’Erida – then going by what happened to Lord Oeloff’s slaves, he’d be lucky if he died quickly. He had heard, from other traders, that not all fae were as bad as Oeloff. That many preferred to keep their slaves alive and healthy – if only so they didn’t need to keep training new ones.

And even if n’Erida was like Oeloff, could he just abandon Marta? He had been her protector since their mother died, was he to just abandon her now?

No. He took a bracing breath and turned towards the inn. Bren wouldn’t like it. It was a moment’s work to climb the old oak tree and shimmy though the window into the attic where he slept. He would be gone before his father knew what he planned. Hopefully, after she was free, Bren and Marta would be able to comfort each other.

In a short time, he had a change of clothes and his small store of coins bundled for the road. He’d wait until late, and then slip out once his father was in bed. It was best that way.

A Hole in the Pack

The pack gathered together at the end of a successful hunt. Flopping down to rest in a clearing, their bellies matched the curve of the full moon overhead.

It had been a good hunt, a good night, a good month. They should have been relaxed and playful until the sun sent them on their way. But they weren’t.

One of their number was missing. The hole in the pack was an ache that pulled at them. Instinctively a space had been left where he should be. At the kill, those below him in rank milled about uncertainly when it should have been his turn to eat. Those near him in rank snarled and snapped, seeking to establish precedence around the hole his absence left. He was one of them, but not one of them, and the pack was broken.

Sitting apart from the others, the pack leaders surveyed the world, ever alert for possible threat. But the greatest threat came from within. A quick glance, a flick of an ear, and a decision was made. It was time.

David breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled his old Jetta in between an equally battered pick up truck and an immaculate Miata. Two weeks away from his adopted not-quite family was too damn long. But the full moon was for family only, and when it fell over a weekend… well, that’s the way it went.

Depending on who carpooled, there’d be a half dozen or more cars parked on the flat spot in front of the old hunting lodge before the night was over. Stepping out of his car, David stretched out fully, allowing the silence of the Appalachian forest to sooth city-tight nerves.

“David!” Raul called from the door, “Got your skinny white ass in here, chico. We’ve missed you.”

Later that evening, David was relaxing in a corner of the couch and staring into the fire, trying to ignore the tension in the family around him. His friend John sat on an ottoman next to him and Melissa sprawled on the floor between them, trying not to draw attention to herself. The rest of the family had spread across the room, however they were comfortable. Dinner had been a tense affair, and only the respect everyone had for Raul and Olivia kept it from spilling into open fighting. In the two years since John had introduced him to the family, David had never seen anything like it.

Just as the charged undercurrent was beginning to get to him, an arm wound itself around his neck. Jules whispered in his ear, “Would you be willing to share my bed, David?”

Butterflies began twining in his stomach. If he went with her, he was putting himself fully in her hands. Somehow over the past year the family had determined where he fitted within their hierarchy – and Jules outranked him. She would have full control from the moment he agreed until the moment she was done with him.

Nervous as he was, he didn’t need to think about it. He nodded, and stood. “As the lady wishes.”

“Don’t be long, Jules,” Raul said, “Olivia and I still have a few announcements to make this evening.”

“Yes, sir.” Jules winked and led David from the room.

“Undress me.” Jules closed to door to one of the many bedrooms in the lodge and turned to face David.

He carefully unbuttoned her shirt, sliding it over her shoulders and off her arms. The light camisole she wore in place of a bra went next. She hummed every time his hands brushed her skin, making him flush like a school boy.

Away from the rest of the family, the tension wasn’t as obvious, but it remained. A shivery feeling that added to his growing arousal.

Jules pants had no fly and slipped easily over her hips and down to the floor, as did her white cotton underwear. Like the rest of the family, she wore no shoes or socks indoors – or any other time she could do without them.

“Now yourself.”

David felt her eyes on him as he pulled off his shirt and scrambled out of his jeans. Freed of the tough fabric, his erection became instantly noticeable, and Jules’ grin just made him blush more.


In spite of his embarrassment – or rather, because of it – he managed a flourishing bow saying, “What you see is yours, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Is it now?” She walked over to the bed and yanked the cover off, revealing leather cuffs attached to each bedpost.

He nearly swallowed his tongue, but had to admit a part of him found the idea exciting. He started to lie down on the bed, but she stopped him.

Lying down herself, she said, “Strap me in.”

He was so surprised it took him a few moments to understand what she wanted. Feeling a bit as if he was in a dream, he buckled the cuffs around her wrists and ankles. When he was finished, she stretched and writhed, pulled against the restraints, but they held fast.

“There’s a blindfold by the bed.” Her voice, low and velvety, caused desire to knot inside of him. “Put it on me.”

Hands trembling, he obeyed. Then stepped back from the bed and stared fixedly at the wall. He had never wanted anything so much as he wanted to jump on top of her and take from the temptation she deliberately spread before him.

“Now, David, what are you going to do?”

“Wh-whatever you want me to.”

She laughed. “Oh, you truly are one of us, aren’t you?” She rattled the chains attaching the cuffs to the bed. “Consider this an order then: do what you want.”

He was on her almost before she finished speaking.

Weeks ago, when Raul and Olivia had made it clear they approved, he had asked Melissa to share his bed. Knowing he could do whatever he wished with her, he had still taken his time, made sure that she had her pleasure before he took his. Now he wasted no time on restraint. He straddled Jules and thrust himself within her, gasping as her warmth enveloped him. She cried out, writhing under him, her hips thrusting in time with his.

He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back and exposing her throat. Without fully understanding why, he thrust himself deep into her, then bent forward and took her throat between his teeth. She froze, panting and whining faintly.

After a long moment, he released her. Then he began thrusting again, hard and fast. He didn’t try to hold back, didn’t try to restrain his pleasure. He came, exploding into her, emptying himself, then collapsed on top of her, spent.

She lay under him, quivering. He forced himself to sit up, knowing if he didn’t move quickly she would say something, and he wasn’t done yet. He slid down between her legs, and parted her delightfully furry lips with his hands. “David…” Whatever she had been about to say trailed off in a moan as he began licking. It was harder than he expected it to be – the taste gave him a new appreciation for why women didn’t like to give blow jobs. But he ignored it as best he could and focused on the feel of her under his mouth, the sound of her pleasure. He found her pearl easily and gave it special attention, licking and sucking until his tongue was going numb.

In spite of the taste, and the occasional hair in his mouth, he was rather enjoying himself. He found if he paced himself properly he could bring her right to the edge of cumming over and over again, without ever taking her over. Her moans alternated with curses and pleading.
A knock at the door finally interrupted him. “Jules, I can tell you’re putting the boy to good use in there, but Raul says you’ve had long enough.”

David cursed under his breath and sat up. Jules was not nearly so restrained. “God damn you Ben, next time I get my hands on you I will chew your tail off and use it for a belt! You go tell Raul he’s a selfish, sadistic, ornery, coyote-spawned sack of shit and I will be out when I am damned good and ready!”

“Uh huh, it’s your skin honey.”

He said nothing further and after a moment Jules turned towards David and hissed, “We have 30 seconds before Raul breaks down that door and if you do not finish what you started I will make sure I have your mangy hide for a rug if it’s the last thing I do!”

David didn’t wait for her to finish her threat. He dove back between her legs, and quickly brought her to the edge. Her moans grew in intensity and she exploded under him just as someone began hammering on the door.

David scrambled off the bed and began unbuckling the restraints. Jules was struggling to catch her breath but finally choked out, “We’re coming.” Then, as the second wrist cuff fell away, she hissed at David, “Open the door.”

He jumped off the bed and grabbed up his clothes on the way. He knew better than to take the time to get dressed, but damned if he wasn’t going to have something to cover himself with!
Raul stood in the doorway, glowering like a pissed off demigod. He didn’t even need to say anything. Jules whipped off the blindfold and hopped off the bed to kneel in front of him.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. “I know Ben must have misunderstood you, Julie. Surely you did not ignore an order and refer to my sainted mother as a damned coyote.”

“No sir,” Jules chirped, “I was referring to your father.”

David managed, barely, to turn laughter into a sudden burst of coughing.

“I see,” Raul crooned, “that does make a difference. Get out to the main room and don’t bother with your clothes. I’ll come up with a proper punishment later.”

He released her hair and she scooted out of the room – but David saw her turn and stick her tongue out at Raul’s back before heading down the hallway.

David now bore the full brunt of Raul’s glare. He was a still guest, not yet a full member of the family, but keeping his feet was one of the harder things he’d ever done. After a moment, though, he detected a faint twinkle in the leader’s eyes. “You can get your clothes on first. Don’t be slow about it.” He turned to leave the room, but looked back over his shoulder, “I would advise you to be careful what reputation you create. The ladies, they can be demanding.”

And then he was gone.

David couldn’t remember ever dressing faster in his life.

When he got back to the main room, Jules was sprawled out across the couch (and several laps). Wolf whistles greeted his return. He felt himself flush, and wanted to disappear, but he’d never let embarrassment stop him yet, so he dropped into the bobbing bow of a stand up comedian, “Thank you, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be here the rest of tonight, and tomorrow night as well.”

He kicked his heels together as the room burst into laughter and Olivia gave him a very pointed look. “Be careful what you promise, David. I have… uses for an energetic young man.”
“At your convenience, ma’am.” He dropped onto the ottoman next to John and breathed a quiet prayer that something else would catch everyone’s attention. Soon.

He half got his wish.

After the laughter died down, Raul and Olivia both got up and stood in front of the fire. No one moved. It was suddenly quiet enough David could hear himself breathing. “Now that the night’s entertainment is over,” Olivia said, “we have a few serious matters to discuss. In particular, a few months ago we received a petition from someone wishing to join our family.” David swallowed. Every eye in the room was on him. Somehow, he was reminded of a deer surrounded by hungry wolves.

Raul scanned the room and took over from his partner, “On the last full moon, we found our answer. Does anyone wish to dispute it?”

The room was silent. David fought to keep from hyperventilating.

“Very well then. David, come here.” David got to his feet and joined the two before the fire. “This is your last chance to back out, my friend. You know there are things we keep secret even from you. If you truly wish this, you may find yourself in over your head and eaten alive.”

“Or eating us alive!” Jules called out, to general laughter.

“Ben,” Olivia sighed, “Please find something to gag her with until we are done here.”

David did his best to ignore the byplay, and the way the tips of his ear burned. “I understand, sir.” He took a deep breath, “and I’m not backing out.”

Olivia nodded, “Alright then, we’ll… Ben, that is not what I had in mind!”

David glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Ben had ‘gagged’ Jules but unzipping his pants and stuffing his cock in her mouth.

“You just said ‘something’! And it was convenient!”

Olivia muttered under her breath, “Are we sure we want a third brat?”

“No,” Raul replied, “but think of the entertainment on the winter nights.” Slightly louder he asked David, “We can do this formally, or we can make it official tonight.”

Pulling his eyes away from Ben and Jules, David shrugged, “Tonight is fine. And… are we really capable of ‘formal’?”

Raul chuckled, “One day you will see. But not, I think, tonight.” He looked over the room. “John, you stood as sponsor, would you allow Jules to do the honors? Seeing how she is dressed for it.”

David tried to hide his surprise while John nodded his agreement. David knew there was some initiation into the family, but had no idea what to expect.

Olivia whispered into his ear, “You may keep your clothes on if you want, but it’s better to take them off. Less mess.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Raul silenced him. “No questions. You will know soon enough.”

David swallowed, and after a moment of thought began undressing. He could afford embarrassment more than new clothes. He was grateful when no one made any comments, and a few people even seemed to be deliberately looking away.

When he was done, John came up and took the clothes; giving him an encouraging pat on the back at the same time.

Raul took his arm and turned him to face the room squarely. Olivia took his other arm. For some reason they were holding so tight he was sure he would have bruises. Then he saw Jules.

She was advancing towards him on all fours. But it wasn’t her anymore. She was changing, her hair sweeping out to spread over her body in a tawny pelt. Her bones shifting, muscles twisting… When she finally stood before him, she was a wolf.

Before he could wrap his mind around it, before he could think to scream or do anything rational, she leaped at him. Olivia and Raul held him fast, he couldn’t get away. Her teeth latched onto his shoulder and ripped downward. He screamed. His chest muscles peeled away, revealing white bone. His legs went out from under him, and Raul and Olivia lowered him to the floor.

Olivia sat down with him and got his head settled in her lap just a moment before he went into convulsions. And then the world went black.

David woke to music. Song invaded his dreams, danced with him and drew him back to the real world. When he opened his eyes, he was in bed. Raul sat in a chair next to him, picking a simple melody out on an old guitar.

“Good. You are back with us.”

David shook his head, trying to sort out dream from memory and not having much luck. Before he could find words, a tawny wolf crept up besides Raul and laid her head by his thigh.

He bolted upright – or tried to. Under the blanket he was tied spread eagle to the bed.

Raul chuckled, “Do not worry. Those kept you safe during the change, nothing more. Normally we would have removed them before you woke up.”

David’s mind latched onto that as something relatively sane to worry about. “Normally?”

Jules-the-wolf dropped her jaw to grin at him. “I am afraid,” Raul said, “that you made a foolish promise last night. You told Olivia you would be available to her ‘at her convenience.’ She has decided it would be ‘convenient’ when you awoke.”

David gaped at him, his brain trying to come up with some coherent memory that would make sense of Raul’s words. “Oh my god.”

Raul chuckled again, “I believe her thought is in part that a… distraction is often good when a new cub awakes. She will be here soon.”

David tried to swallow with a throat gone dry. “Tell me this is a dream?”

“That I cannot.” Raul pressed a cup to his mouth and David drank, grateful for the cool water. “This is reality, and we are not just leather, but wolf pack. A pack you are now part of.”

David tried to muster up some humor, some smart comment to gloss over his shock and fear, but found nothing.

“Later, when you’ve had a chance to calm down – and when Olivia is done with you – we will explain everything and answer your questions. Until then, try to relax and enjoy yourself.”

The door opened. Olivia entered and shooed Raul and Jules out.

David never did managed to relax, but he did enjoy himself.

The next full moon, the pack’s song rang with a new voice. Whole and sound once more, they ran the mountains. And if their newest brother stumbled from time to time, there was always a shoulder to help him gain his feet.

I Vant to Suck Your…

Marcus woke unexpectedly, groggy and disoriented. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he had woken early. Even buried in the basement, he felt the sun’s weight, sapping his strength. A huge man with ebony skin was standing over him, holding a stake to his chest. Apparently, the ancient vampire mused, there were still things in the world he hadn’t seen.

The man met Marcus’ eyes and froze. Marcus would have laughed if he could have moved that much. “Go on, hunter.” Speaking against the weight of the mid-day sun was like rolling boulders up hill, but then nothing came easy. “I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. And I am not sure I do.”

For a long moment, the hunter just stared at him. Then the sun won, sending Marcus back into darkness.


Halogen lights broke the darkness outside the trail-cum-headquarters. Marcus paced the central room muttering under his breath and listening for approaching footsteps. A precise half step from the wall he turned a crisp about-face, and returned the way he had come. Five years earlier, rather than killing him, the vampire hunter he knew only as Chuck had taken him prisoner. He never knew why – maybe the hunter thought killing was too good for a vampire who wanted to die. Either way, Marcus woke up that evening in a tiny room, wearing a home-made electric collar that could take down an elephant. Chuck had used the collar to compel Marcus to obey and assist him.

What Chuck didn’t know, was that Marcus was old enough he could shrug off a lightning bolt. He’d played along for the amusement factor. At first. Totally unexpectedly, the ancient soldier had found a commander who earned his loyalty.

And now that commander had gone missing.

That morning, just before the sun had forced Marcus into his daily slumber, Chuck had set out after a new target. This time, a five hundred year old vampire that was terrorizing co-eds. Cliched, but effective. Marcus didn’t like seeing Chuck go out after the target alone – going by day there shouldn’t have been any danger, Chuck had hunted vampires for nearly a decade in the military before going private. He knew what he was doing. But this lamia was rumored to be sorcerer. Marcus tried to warn the human, but Chuck went out regardless.

When Marcus woke, Chuck hadn’t yet returned. Attempts to reach him by phone went straight to voice mail. Something had gone wrong. If the target had some way of functioning during the day, chances were Chuck was already dead.

After 2000 years of ‘chances were’, Marcus knew the unlikely happened. And he refused to believe the hunter would have gone down easy. Now he had a decision to make. He ran a finger along the collar, feeling how fragile the contraption was. How easy it would be to crush between his fingers.

No, he realized, there was no decision. The collar shattered. In an instant, all its stored power directly into his carotid. If he’d still be alive it would turned his brain to ashes. If he’d been even a century or two younger, it might have seriously injured him. As it was, the jolt knocked him to the floor, locking his muscles and driving a scream of agony from his lips.

As he lay, shivering, on the floor he smiled at his own arrogance. Humans, it seemed, built better lightning bolts than Jupiter these days.

It took a few minutes to dig up Chuck’s plans for the prior day. Then ten minutes cursing the Internet connection when Google maps refused to load. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out into the wider world.

The world was alive with scents and sounds he hadn’t heard in far too long. Most of the past five years had been spent in the trailer, and the scent of fresh blood on the wind tried to seduce him. Old habits let him file the sensation away, to enjoy later, and focus on the task at hand. Stretching his legs for the first time in years, he took off towards Chuck’s target.

Under the circumstances, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find the old Victorian house (another cliches?) engulfed in flames and surrounded by cops and firemen. Obviously neither the target nor the hunter had gone down easily. Flames could be seen flickering through the windows, but most of the walls were still intact.

Strong and near indestructible he might be, one thing Marcus couldn’t do was turn invisible. Luckily, the chaos provided an invisibility of its own, and he was practically walking up the front steps before anyone took notice of him.

Inside the building was an inferno. The floor plan Chuck had hacked included an old cellar. If the hunter still survived he’d be down there, away from the smoke. One more reason to be grateful he didn’t need to breath.

Seeing through the smoke and flames was nearly impossible, and Marcus was badly burned before he found the basement stairs and dropped down to safer territory. While the fire was starting to spread below, it wasn’t as all consuming as the flames above ground. And out of the roar of the inferno, he was able to hear a familiar, pounding heart-beat.

Following the sound led him through ancient furniture and stacks of antiques, around a corner to a tiny hallway that hadn’t been in the plans. As he crept towards the hallway, he was nearly deafened by the roar of a magnum.

“Your gun is almost empty, my friend, and this game grows old.” Smooth, unctuous, seductive, Marcus nearly groaned aloud at the strange voice. Someone had watched too many Dracula movies.

Close enough now to see the speaker. The vampire was a near-twin to Count Orlock. He was flitting back and forth across a doorway, and laughed another gunshot emerged from the room he guarded.

Marcus rolled his eyes, “I’ve a game for you, bastard.” Pitching his voice to carry, Marcus launched himself at the Orlock-look alike. The other vampire whirled to face the unexpected threat, then staggered as Chuck took advantage of that distraction to shoot him in the back. With the target off balance and in pain, Marcus slammed him into the wall and speared a hand into the ribcage.

The other’s eyes widened in shock and horror, his mouth gaped open but nothing came out. Marcus’ hand found the heart and he ripped it out.

The enemy collapsed at his feet, and he froze as he felt the hot muzzle of a gun press against his temple. “Move and I will blow your brains.”

Marcus froze. “Finally ready to be rid of me, Chuck?” The pressure wavered for an instant and Marcus turned, knocking the gun from the hunter’s hand.

Even in the flicking light of the growing flames, Chuck was a mess. Marcus had trouble believing he could still stand.

Chuck blinked at him, then shook his head. “Marcus? What… what the hell are you doing here?”

“Survival first. We need to get out of here without being seen by the officials outside.” Chuck staggered and Marcus managed to grab him before he fell.

“Cellar has a back door,” Chuck said. Marcus followed Chuck’s directions, half supporting the other man. Once there, he carefully cracked the door and peeked out. While not completely unobserved, the back door wasn’t surrounded the way they front was.

Not seeing any other options, especially when Chuck collapsed against him entirely, Marcus picked up the hunter and burst through, running at literally inhuman speed. It drew the attention of far too many people, but none of them had a hope in hell of keeping up with him and none had cameras. And with the fire, all had bigger problems then two strange men who weren’t supposed to be there.

If there was any pursuit, he lost it quickly and returned to the trailer.

Chuck came to at the first aid station in the trailer. Memory took a few minutes to return. When it did, he bolted upright.

Marcus was next to him, preparing bandages. “By Vediovis grace, none of those burns need debriding,” the old vampire said.

Chuck stared, trying to think through the pain. The vamp was collar-less. That certainly checked with his memories. But the vamp was acting like this was no different from any night after a hunt. Why the hell was the monster bandaging him up rather than tearing his throat out? Why the hell that he saved Chuck?!

Well, the vamp was almost acting no different. Chuck had yet to get a good look at the other’s face. When the vampire turned back to the table for more bandages, Chuck finally caught a glimpse, and saw the lengthened incisors. Reflexively he said, “Go get a drink, before you take one out of me.”

Then stared in shock as Marcus grimaced, but obeyed.

Feeling light-headed, Chuck reached up and checked his face. Yup, oxygen mask. Probably necessary after all the smoke inhalation. Plus pain meds. As Marcus finished devouring the bagged blood, Chuck tried to convince himself he was hallucinating. But he was never good at lying to himself.

And sure sure as hell wasn’t hallucinating the burns he saw peaking through Marcus’ clothing. “Sit down.” Chuck pointed at a chair next to the aid station.


“Shut up.” If the vamp wanted to pretend everything was normal, then damned it Chuck was going to take any backtalk. “You could have gotten yourself killed saving my ass, you sit the fuck down and let me see those burns.”

And damned if Marcus didn’t obey.

One of the blessings in Chuck’s line of work was that vampires didn’t actually heal all that fast. But Chuck figured out pretty damn quick that seeing the burns was all he’d be able to do. He had to let Marcus bandage himself, because Chuck was going to be good for fuck all for the next several weeks.

He didn’t say anything else until Marcus had gotten himself wrapped up, but damned if he wasn’t going to get some answers. “Now, not that I’m ungrateful, but what the fuck?”

Marcus stood and faced him. There was something about the way he was standing… “When you didn’t come back and didn’t answer your phone, I knew you were in trouble. I wasn’t going to sit back while got yourself killed, so I removed the collar and came after you.”

The cadence of the response, and the ever-so-respectful tone that still managed to convey “You fricking idiot” was as familiar as an old set of fatigues, and Chuck’s reply was damned near Pavlovian.

“That is by god the lamest ass debrief I have ever received. If you make me drag the answers out of you I will frag your ass and use your ashes for war paint!” Chuck was used to insane situations. Every vet was. Of course, this situation was a bit more insane than most.

Marcus barked his reply like an old sweat, “Your collar was worse shit than Pluto’s nail parings. I could have removed it anytime since you brought me here. When I determined you were out of contact I took steps to extract you. Cracking your computer gave me the address of your target. During the extraction the target was eliminated and we both sustained the injuries you are aware of.”

Chucked leaned back and crossed his arms. It suddenly occurred to him that he literally knew nothing of Marcus’ life from before he’d captured the vamp. But obviously, he’d been a solider long enough for the habits to stick with him.

“At ease. If you could have left anytime, why did you stay? Fuck, why didn’t you kill me?”

Marcus grimaced, seeming to search for words. “At first, I stay because it was something different.” The haunted look in his eyes reminded Chuck of the talking corpse that didn’t give a damn if Chuck staked him. Then the vampire shook himself, and the eyes meeting Chuck’s were fiery. “But even after a thousand years alone, I know a centurio worth following when I meet one. Why by the two-faced god should I walk away from that? To go back to the hell I was stuck in when you found me? As for killing you – or saving your meat-head tonight – if I’m lucky you’ll live another 40 years. I’m not so eager to be alone again that I’d stand back and let you get yourself killed off early!”

Chuck’s glare was a thing of beauty – he’d had years to perfect it. But he couldn’t quite make himself meet the vamp’s eyes as he pointed out, “I kill your kind.”

Marcus winced. “The last person I cared for was killed by ‘my kind’ nearly 1,000 years ago, and they nearly killed me as well. I have no kind.”

Chuck blinked, fighting through the growing pain-killer induced fog. That didn’t match anything he knew of vamp behavior. “Why?”

Now it was Marcus who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Chuck growled. “I asked you a question.”

Marcus chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Chuck barely heard his whisper, “Centurio indeed.” Then the vamp took a deep (and damned unnecessary) breath, and said, “Vampires share the hatred of the society they spring from, and medieval Europe hated many things.”

Chuck was really getting loopy. The way Marcus was trying to avoid giving a straight answer flashed him back to standing before the company commander, facing the question that was going to strip him of everything that mattered. What the fuck was so scary a frigging vampire didn’t want to talk about? He nearly told the vamp to forget it, but he had to know. “And?”

“I am a sodomite.”

The bitten off words didn’t make sense. Chuck nearly fell out of the chair as meaning penetrated the drug fog and then he started giggling. The world didn’t fucking change, did it?

The glimpses he got of Marcus’ face between convulsions suggested that he didn’t appreciate the joke, but Chuck couldn’t get control of himself. He managed to choke out, “Did I… Did I ever tell you why I left the army?”

After a moment, Marcus shook his head; confusion replacing anger in his face.

“Twenty years. Twenty goddamn years of service, and it meant nothing to them when I was outed. Marcus, I got kicked under DADT.”

Marcus grabbed a chair and collapsed into it. Apparently the ancient fiend wasn’t blind to modern politics. Or irony. After a few moments, he started chuckling too.

Eventually, the laughter died down. Looking over at Marcus, Chuck admitted to himself that he wouldn’t have kept the vamp around all these years if he didn’t like and trust him. And he wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. “So what now?”

Marcus spread his hands, “If you are willing to trust me, nothing need change. Unless you want it too.” A moments pause. “I wouldn’t object to a fresh meal once in a while.”

Chcuk couldn’t tell if Marcus was being humorous or not. Did he honestly think Chuck was going to sit back and let him- a yawn that nearly split his head open interrupted the thought.

Marcus chuckled, “And if I can make a suggestion, you can decide what to do with me tomorrow. Right now, I’m taking you to bed.”

Chuck jerked away, “Now hold on, just cause I like your company enough to put up with you the past few years doesn’t mean…”

Marcus picked him up, ignoring his protests, and carried Chuck and his oxygen tank towards the bunkroom. “I like my bed partners willing – and awake.”

“And just who’s in command around here?”

“Then consider yourself on medical leave until sunset.”

Chuck settled into bed, still protesting. As the room went dark he swore he’d get back at his erstwhile subordinate – as soon as he could keep his eyes open.


The baron, my husband, is dead. I am fighting to secure these lands and title in my own right as his widow. If you still feel as you once did, come to me now. I have need of you and your sword both.
With all my love,
Myrtle, Baroness Fireridge

Eryk folded up the well-worn letter and tucked it away in his jerkin. Six months ago Baron Balmont of Cliffside had invited him to swear fealty and become one of Balmont’s knights. For the bastard son of the hated Black Baron it was a chance to belong and a dream come true. He accepted the lord’s invitation without a moment’s hesitation. Three weeks later, Myrtle’s letter had reached him.

Three weeks.

From the tower, a bell rang the time. He stood and stretched, forcing his thoughts to more productive trails. He had a patrol to run. The border with the Cirisian Empire might be quiet, but it still needed watching.

A short time later, he and his detachment of men at arms rode out from the castle. One of several fortifications on the Baron’s lands, High Range Castle overlooked one of the few roads to cut through the mountains between the Westerlands and the Empire. The mountains were the main protection for the warring minor lords of the Westerlands against the ever-expanding Empire. The mountains -and the Empire’s knowledge that if attacked those feuding lords would band together until the intruder was driven out.

The trade caravan Eryk saw passing by as they exited the gates was the most common traffic on the road. Still they guarded, just in case.

The patrol was simple routine. When they stopped halfway through their circuit to water the horses, Eryk set sentries more by habit than need. Or so he thought.

Eryk was checking his saddle’s girth when he heard the first of several strange “thuds”. He whirled around, to see the men of his detachment falling off their horses without a sound. He had barely taken a step toward them when exhaustion swept over him, and the world went black.

Eryk woke to the movement of a horse under him. He came awake in an instant. His hands were tied to the saddle in front of him and there was a blindfold over his eyes. Straining his ears, he heard the quiet clomping of horses walking a forest trail. Too few horses. “Where are my men?” His voice was hoarse with disuse.

There was a long moment of silence, then, “Told you he’d beent alright. Long sleep never hurt none.” The voice was rough with the accent of a mountain peasant and full of good cheer. Eryk growled and pulled at the rope binding his hands. “No need to get excited. We left your men sleeping like babes. Even tethered the horses so theys wouldn’t get stepped on.”

Eryk started to ask how knew he was being told the truth, but stopped himself. Even if they were lying, there was nothing he could do until he was able to escape.

They rode through the afternoon and made camp in the evening. His guards were careful, and never gave him opportunity to get free. Nor did they answer any questions.

For three days and two long nights, he endured. By the middle of the first full day, he knew they had to have left Balmont’s land behind, but he no clue where they were. The long ride gave him plenty of time to think.

Magic was rare – very rare. He had only even heard of three mages in the Westerlands, but the way he and his men had collapsed had to be a spell. Someone very powerful or very rich had sent these men to capture him. There was no way this was an attack o the Baron. He didn’t know enough of the Baron’s secrets to be worth interrogating.

Years ago, the Black Baron had terrorized the northern Baronies. Even though he had been killed over two decades ago, there were still people who hated, and feared him. Eryk had spent a life time fighting to be accepted as himself and not the Black Baron’s child. Might someone have decided that with the father dead, they would have to take their revenge on the son?

It was not a comforting thought.

The third night they didn’t stop, but pushed on. Eyrk couldn’t tell exactly the sun set, but shortly after the frogs started singing, the horses moved onto a cobblestone road. A few hours later they passed through a guarded check point.
Soon after, the horse under him stopped, and his captors pulled him from the saddle. They led him into a building, and a tired voice told them to bring him upstairs.

Climbing those stairs, blind and with his hands bound, was slow and nasty. But they allowed him to move as best he could, rather than dragging him or carrying him. He was grateful for the small dignity.

A hand on his elbow guided him through the second floor until they stopped in a carpeted room that smelled of wood polish.

“You hain’t caused us trouble yet, sir. That change if I untie you?”

Unarmed against three men with swords, and god only knew how many guards stationed about this place, “I don’t think I’m ready to commit suicide today,” Eryk replied. He felt a tug at his wrists, and then the ropes fell to the floor.
“I’m told the lady’s spelled the room to keep you here. She don’t throw around magery much, but when she does it usually works.”

There was nothing to say to that so Eryk didn’t reply. A few moments later he heard a door close behind him.

He reached up and pulled the blindfold off. The room was faintly lit by a single candle, yet even that was painful to eyes that had been blind for days. Gently chafing wrists that had been rubbed raw, he tried to get a feel for where he was.

A wooden bed with a sturdy post at each corner dominated the room. It was covered with thick blankets, and larger than some wagons. The only other furniture was a small table and single chair. There was carpet underfoot, and while only one candle was lit, he could see two oil lamps hanging on the walls. All in all it was a room that wouldn’t have been unsuitable for a minor lord.

It was a ridiculous place to stick a captive, and made his revenge theory seem even more ludicrous than it was to begin with.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He had to get out of here and back to Baron Balmont. Unsurprisingly, the door was the only way in or out. A few minutes careful listening left him confident that no guard had been left on the door. Apparently they trusted their mage.

He turned the handle, and it moved easily under his hand. The door swung open, and could clearly see the empty hallways beyond. Either the men who brought him here were idiots – in which case he should have been able to escape days ago – or their mage was good enough might as well give up now.

Well, no one ever called him smart. He reached a hand through the door way, prepared to pull back at the first sign of danger.

His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the floor. Sound asleep.

He woke on the bed, with his hands and feet bound to the bed posts. This was starting to turn into a habit. One he didn’t like.

Standing at the foot of the bed was… Shock turned his blood cold in his veins. “Baroness Fireridge.”

“Eryk.” The passing years had only made her more beautiful. The lithesome girl he knew had turned into a full figured woman. Her hair had darkened to a deep sable that didn’t yet show any white.

He pulled against the ropes, but it was clear they weren’t coming loose anytime soon. A thousand questions flooded his mind, but he said nothing.

“I’m sorry the ropes are needed.” She shrugged. “Even if I knew you still loved me… well, I couldn’t risk pitting love against honor. Your honor would always win.”

In what world, he wondered, would he ever not love her? “Is this your notion of love?”

She shrugged and came to sit on the bed next to him. Looming over him.

“Balmont will be dead within the season. Five months ago he accepted an overture from the Cirisians. He would give them access to the Westerlands and help them conquer us and they would make him their puppet king.”

“What!” Surprise jerked him upright – or tried to. He wrenched his shoulder and collapsed back with a groan.

Myrtle murmured something and ran her hand along his arm. The pain faded, but he barely noticed. “If I thought your sword would have made one lick of difference in Balmont’s survival, I would have left you there. But the other lord’s are mobilizing now. And my own forces, of course, will join them.”

The Cirisian Empire had outlawed magery centuries ago. Myrtle’s life – and why didn’t he think of her when he realized a mage had helped capture him? – would be worth less than rock in the mountains if they conquered the Westerlands.

And the life of the bastard son of the Black Baron, who had taken service with Balmont mere weeks before he accepted the Empire’s overtures? That, Myrtle knew, would be worth even less. Her fellow lords would never believe he wasn’t the instigator of Balmont’s treachery.

She watched as he worked through the same logic. The same distrust he had faced throughout his life would be the ultimate cause of his death, even if he survived Baltron’s downfall. The old pain flickered across his features before he relaxed against the bed.

“Better dead than forsworn, Baroness.”

“Perhaps. But you aren’t forsworn.” She couldn’t help grinning. “You’re a captive. My captive. And anything that happens to Balmont while you are my prisoner is no reflection on your oath.”

She gave in to her desires, and allowed her hands to wander over his body. By the mulish expression on his face he wanted to argue with her. But he wouldn’t waste words, he’d just do everything he could to escape.

That was fine with her.

His eyes widened as her fingers unlaced his shirt and pulled it up. Of course, with his hands tied to the bed, it couldn’t come off. But it was out of her way.

“What are you doing?”

“My captive, Eryk.” She bent down and bit his exposed nipple. Hard. “When Balmont is dead you will be free of your oath. If you swear fealty to me, the other lords won’t be able to touch you. If you don’t, I’ll just keep you here. Either way.” She sat back and began unlacing her own dress, “You’re mine to do with as I wish.”

Eryk didn’t know if he was in heaven or hell. He watched, helpless as Myrtle slowly stripped off her gown, then her under garments. He knew that body better than his own, or he had 10 years ago. But still it captivated him. He pulled against the ropes, and tried to ignore his growing erection.

When she was finished, she began unlacing his hose. He kicked and squirmed under her hands, wondering why he fought so hard against something he desperately wanted. But not like this, the thought ghosted through his head, not when my life is sworn to another.

She straddled him then, setting his hard length against her cleft.

“Tell me you don’t want this, Eryk.” She leaned forward and her hair became a curtain cutting them both off from the world. “Here, where it’s just the two of us. Where you have no choice, because I’ve taken them all away. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

He opened his mouth to tell her exactly that. But he couldn’t. Could lie to himself. Couldn’t lie to her. “I want this. And damn your eyes, Myrtle you know it.”

Her eyes gleamed and she seemed to sag against him. “I hoped, Eryk. I hoped.”

She sat back and pushed her against his length. But instead of taking him inside her, as he expected, she began to rub herself against him. Pleasuring herself while denying him.

He fought against the ropes binding him, and he truly didn’t know if he fought to escape or to take her for himself. And it didn’t matter.

She moaned deep in her throat, the soft sound driving him crazy. Her warm wetness caressed him without surrounding him, a sweet torment he’d never imagined.

She moved faster, eyes wide and face rapt. He wanted to beg, to plead. He bit his lip, refusing to make a sound.

He began to move his hips against her, trying to throw off his rhythm, to shift enough that-

His length slid inside her. She stilled. Her warmth engulfed him, but pleasure was in abeyance as she sat unmoving across his hips. “Naughty, Eryk. I wasn’t done yet.”

She squeezed and he gasped as pleasure shot through him. “Next time you interrupt me I’ll stop and leave you like this for the maid to clean up.”

“Damn you, Baroness!” he snarled.

She laughed, then, slowly, started moving. Instinct and desire overwhelmed him, and he moved with her, reveling in the feel of being inside her once again. Pleasure built filling them both. He couldn’t hold back and didn’t even try. He came, the shock and ecstasy ripping through him. She peaked a moment later and cried out, digging her hands into his chest.
They remained still for a long moment, each catching their breath.

Eryk wanted, desperately to reach out to her and take her in his arms. But he couldn’t. And if he could, if he was free… he didn’t want to think about it. Was grateful that he couldn’t make that choice.

As if she saw into his thoughts, she leaned close to whisper in his ear. “There is one question you needn’t torment yourself with, beloved. Killing me won’t undo the spell at the door. It will fade on it’s own if I don’t remove it. In five months or so.” He shuddered. The thought hadn’t occurred to him – yet.

After a moment, she lay down beside him. Curling up with her head on his shoulder, she was asleep almost instantly. After a few minutes he allowed himself to relax – what other choice did he have after all – and enjoy the feel of her beside him.
When he woke in the morning, the ropes binding him were gone. And so was she.

“The lady be asking if you’d like her to visit this evening.” Eryk looked up from his exercising to see Pawl leaning in the doorway. The old warrior had been the one who led Eryk’s capture. Since then, Pawl was always present whenever the maids came in to clean the room or bring Eryk food. Myrtle wasn’t taking any chances with Eryk getting his hands on a hostage.

“If you think I’m going to sit quietly and let you tie me up, you are crazier than the Baroness.”

Pawl chuckled, “Well, you could always try and stick your head out the door again. Beent a week since your last try. Starting to think you’re getting cozy in there.”

For two weeks Eryk had tried any number of desperate things to trick the mage ward into letting him through. He hadn’t been surprised when things like throwing a blanket over himself hadn’t worked. But he had to try. About half the time, he had woken up tied to the bed with Myrtle waiting – or on one memorable occasion not waiting – for him to awaken. Eventually, he ran out stupid ideas.

For the past week he’d been slowly chipping away at a section of the wall where it was hidden by the shadow of the bed. God only knew how long it would take to scratch his way through to the next room, but be damned if he wouldn’t try.

When he didn’t say anything further, Pawl closed the door, leaving him alone.

He’d had far to much time alone the past few weeks, and next to nothing to do. Most of the time he hadn’t been unconscious had been spent thinking.

He’d doubt his own honor before he doubted Myrtle’s honesty. But even if Balmont was selling out to Cirisia, that didn’t change his fealty. Yet there was nothing he could do. No way he could even send his lord a message of warning. He was literate – barely – but had nothing to write with or on. And even if he could convince a maid to carry a message, Pawl was always right there.

With nothing else to do, he lost himself in the effort of exercise. At the very least, whenever he managed to get out of this room he would be fit enough to do something with the opportunity!

He woke up and found he was sitting. Tied, this time, to a chair. He didn’t remember going to sleep, and he damn well hadn’t put an eyelash across that damn door.

At least, if he was in a chair, he could be reasonably certain Myrtle would be leaving his clothing alone this time. That was a good thing. Right, just keep trying to convince yourself, m’lad.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to find himself sitting at the table in the corner of his room. A second chair had been added and Myrtle sat with him. The table held plates of rather finer fare then he’d been receiving the past weeks, not that it did him any good with his hands tied behind his back.

“Baroness. So good of you to invite yourself.”

She just grinned at him. “You told Pawl you wouldn’t sit still for him to tie you. Not that you didn’t want me to come.”
It was so typically Myrtle he couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Her grin stretched wider.

Then she sobered. “No games tonight Eryk. I have news for you, if you wish it.” She speared a vegetable on her knife and offered it to him.

He leaned forward to take it.

“Balmont’s lands are overrun. He’s retreated into his central keep and the other lords have him under siege.” She took a bite herself while he struggled to swallow with a mouth suddenly gone dry. “I’ll being joining them tomorrow. I expect to see Balmont’s head off his shoulders by the end of the week.”

The vicious delight she obviously took in the prospect twisted his stomach. But he was honest enough to admit he would have felt the same way about any other lord who had cut a deal with the Cirisians. Damn it had Baron Balmont been that greedy? Or just that stupid?

He managed to swallow and cleared his throat.

“Baron Balmont is known for his siege-craft. You’ll need more than a week.” And if the Cirisian Empire found out, they might send troops through the mountains to help their erstwhile ally. Might.

“Your forget.” Myrtle offered him meat this time. He bit into it savagely. “Balmont won’t be fighting just warriors. And he won’t last long once I dry up his water source.”

Eryk felt himself blanch. Mages were so rare, and so valuable, that their skills were almost never used in warfare. What mage would risk themself in battle when they could command a king’s ransom making sure the crops prospered?

He swallowed the meat with difficulty. “I don’t suppose you have a drink you care to share with me? Or are all the baron’s loyal men going dry?”

She picked up a tankard and raised it in salute before taking a long drink. He closed his eyes and forced back rage and grief and something very like hate.

Gentle hands took his chin and tipped his head back. Soft lips pressed into his and for a moment he wondered what the hell she thought she was doing. Then she parted her lips, and ale flowed into his mouth. He took the liquid, letting it wash away the dryness of his mouth and throat, and his rage as well.

She released him but didn’t move, staring into his eyes for a long moment. “Why, Baroness?”

“I will share everything I have with you, if you will let me.”

“But I am to sit back and accept your part in destroying my lord, in slaughtering the men I served with and commanded?”
She sat down and applied herself to her food. She offered him nothing further, but then, he wasn’t sure if he would have accepted it.

So he watched her eat in silence. Damn it he knew, he KNEW she had no choice. But then, what choice did she think he had? He had given fealty.

She ate slowly and neatly, and didn’t look at him again. Once, he thought he saw a glitter of tears in her eyes, before she blinked them away.

“The castle you patrolled from was overrun with few casualties. Sleep spells, you may have noticed, are useful things. Though crafting them large enough to affect entire arrisons is hard enough I could only prepare a few.”

And the castle that guarded the invasion route of the Empire was important enough to spend one on. So most of the men he knew would have survived.

“Those who were captured and knew nothing of Balmont’s treachery will be released to seek new service. If you can tell me which ones are worth their salt, I might invite them to enter my service. After Balmont is dead, of course.” She met his gaze, her own eyes seemed to plead with him.

He looked away. “I can’t answer you, Baroness. And I’m not going to stop trying to escape, however futile it may be.”

“I know.” When he looked up, she held out another piece of meat for him. He leaned forward and took it gently between his lips. “And I’m not going relax the safeguards I’ve set on you. Hopefully… hopefully soon you will be able to answer me.”

The grin came back, like the sun shining on water. “What I’m going to do now is forget about this mess for a while, and enjoy a meal with an old friend. Care to join me?”

After a moment he nodded, “But you’d better not hog the turnips.”

The next time he asked for a drink, he was vaguely disappointed when she gave it to him from the tankard.

The next several days were spent in thought. Not, this time, of escape, but of the future. He had, he realized, accepted Baron Balmont’s death as inevitable. There was nothing he could do, with the whole might of the Westerlands, and the first mage to go to battle in three generations, arrayed against him.

At first he worried over his honor. There was no question of if he wanted to be free to offer his fealty to Myrtle. His fealty and, he knew, a great deal more. More which he fully expected she would accept. It wasn’t like she’d been at all shy in her affections over the past several weeks.

The mind boggled at putting Myrtle, Baroness Fireridge and “shy” in the same sentence.

But could he offer that fealty, in all honor, when she had prevented him from defending Baron Balmont, ripped him away from his duty?

On the third day he realized he was being ridiculous. He would have no such doubts if he were taken captive in battle, so why was he tormenting himself with them now?

Then, he began to plan.

When Pawl mentioned in passing that the Baroness had returned, five days after her departure. Eryk knew what he would do. He stuck his hand directly through the door, and caught a glimpse of Pawl’s smile before his eyes rolled back in his head.

He was a bit surprised to wake up in the chair rather then the bed. But Pawl clearly hadn’t shorted on the rope. Myrtle sat across from him, holding a goblet of something that smelled like sweet wine. He’d seen dead men that looked healthier. Whatever magic she had used to reach Balmont Keep, dry their wells and return in under a week hadn’t been without cost.
“Tell me.”

Myrtle smiled. It was a bitter thing. “It’s done. Balmont was killed when the walls were breached. I am hailed as hero by my fellow lords for ending the siege so quickly and offered Balmont’s lands in addition to my own.” She drank from the goblet and set it aside, “I told them to go to hell and left them to squabble over the scraps.”

Eryk couldn’t help grinning at her obvious distaste. Maybe there was more than one reason mages didn’t go to war.

She licked her lips, then spread her hands on the table between them. “I assume you wouldn’t have sent for me unless you had an answer?” Her eyes skittered about the room, looking everywhere but at him.

“Yes, Baroness. I will offer you my fealty. If-” her eyes snapped to him but the spreading grin froze at his pause, “if you swear that you will never again use magery on me unless I ask you too.”

Myrtle didn’t hesitate even a moment, “Never. My magic will never touch you again unless you wish it too.”

Now it was his turn to grin and leaned back against the chair, “Then will you please untie these damned ropes?”

She laughed and moved to stand behind him, using her belt knife to cut through the knots rather than picking them out. A waste of good rope, but he wasn’t complaining.

He stood, shaking out his arms. For the first time since he arrived here, he was able to look down on her. He’s forgotten how small she was, barely reaching his chin.

She looked up at him but before she could say anything, he sank a hand into her thick hair and yanked her head back. She stumbled against him and his other hand caught her wrists easily. “Eryk! What are you–” He silenced her with a deep kiss.

“I will give you my fealty, Baroness, but before I give you power over me again,” he released her hair, and let his free hand grab a breast that had dangled just out of his reach for far to long, “I am going to repay you for some of the torment you put me through these past weeks.

“As I believe you once said to me, Myrtle, if you want me to stop, say so now. Otherwise, I will do with you what I choose.”

She gave a breathless laugh, “I should have known better than to let my guard down before you were fully mine.”

“I am yours.” He picked her up and tossed her on the bed. Before she could move he climbed on top of her, pinning her with his weight and hands both. “But you are also mine.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Yes or no, beloved.”

She laughed again, reaching to pull him down for a long kiss. “You need to ask?”

Author notes for Fealty

Fealty, Preview

You’re early! Thanks for dropping by, but we’re still getting sorted out around here. First story will be up June 1st.

Here’s a quick (and unedited!) preview:

The baron, my husband, is dead. I am fighting to secure these lands and title in my own right as his widow. If you still feel as you once did, come to me now. I have need of you and your sword both.
With all my love,
Myrtle, Baroness Fireridge

Eryk folded up the well-worn letter and tucked it away in his jerken. For the hundredth time since he had received it six months earlier, he thought of burning the letter. Anyone who found it on him would, with reason, question his loyalty to Baron Balmont. His fingers absently rubbed the place where it rested. The last piece of Myrtle he would ever have.

Three weeks. If Myrtle’s letter had reached him three weeks earlier, he would have ridden for her as if his life depended on it.

But Baron Balmont of Cliffside had invited him to swear fealty and become one of Balmont’s knights. For the bastard son of the hated Black Baron it was a chance to belong and a dream come true. He accepted the lord’s invitation without a moment’s hesitation. Three weeks later, Myrtle’s letter had finally reached him.

He stood and stretched, forcing his thoughts to the future. His patrol would start soon, he needed to take the time to check his equipment. The border with the Cirisian Empire might be quiet, but it still needed watching.

A few hours later, he and his detachment of men at arms road out from the castle. One of several fortifications on the Baron’s lands, this castle overlooked one of the few roads to cut through the mountains between the Westerlands and the Empire. The constantly warring minor lords of the Westerlands didn’t worry about the Empire engulfing them, because the mountains blocked any large invasion – and because the Empire knew if attacked those feuding lords would band together until the intruder was driven out.

So the trade caravan Eryk saw passing by as they exited the gates was the most common traffic on the road. Still they guarded, just in case.

The patrol was simple routine. When they stopped halfway through their circuit to water the horses, Eryk set sentries more by habit than need. Or so he thought.

Eryk was checking his girth when he heard the first of several strange “thuds”. He whirled around, to see the men of his detachment falling off their horses without a sound. He had barely taken a step when exhaustion swept over him, and the world went black.