Phrases marked with (t) will have a translation at the end of that section.

Killing Monsters

Gabriel

One second...

Decisions.

Yeah, your whole damn life is a series of decisions, an' you got a mother of one right now, Gabe ol' son.

He stands in the light of the cold, impassive moon, the moon that has more or less made this decision necessary. The hunting rifle in his hands feels heavy, and deadly, and alarmingly awkward. I'm not a hunter, dammit. I'm not a marksman. But at this distance, could even I miss?

He lifts the rifle, butt against his shoulder in what he assumes is the proper position, and considers his two possible targets: von Glower and the thing that must be Von Zell.

Two Seconds...

The sights zero in on the wolf. Brown fur, perhaps sleek at one time, now matted and rough from it's chase through the woods. Powerful muscles shifting beneath haired hide. Gotta watch him. Fast, strong. If he gets the chance to jump... Eyes like two chunks of heated obsidian. Soulless eyes, but still somehow horrifically human.

A long howl shivers from it's throat, those black pit eyes focused on Gabriel's, and the massive head jerks toward the second possible target. Instinctively Gabriel swings the barrel.

Three seconds...

Baron Frederick von Glower. The tall, elegant German nobleman is shouting at Gabriel. "Kill him! Do it now!" The wolf... the wolf is shaking it's shaggy head. It looks from Gabriel, to the baron, to Gabriel. Shaking it's head.

"Kill him! My God, do you know how many innocents he's slaughtered? End it, Gabriel. Finish it now." Yes, of course. He is after all a monster. There is no doubt of that. But is he the only monster? Because there are vague memories ghosting swiftly through Gabriel's mind, just below the conscious surface.

Four seconds...

That evening at von Glower's estate. Wine... lots of wine, too much. The woman in the tight red dress. Helga? Hilda? Long blonde hair, no English but she spoke the universal language, oh yes. And Frederick saying 'Take her'. A good host, offering an after dinner bonbon. 'A man of your appetites...' Von Glower's silver blue eyes as the woman took him by the belt and led him away. The room, shadowed and sumptuous. The bed... Dress in a crimson silken puddle on the floor, skin a pale silken expanse across the sheets. The old slow dance of hands and tongue, mouth and hips. The opening, the entering, the hot liquid enveloping, the slow joining moving to a swifter finish. The burst of pleasure, and the long slide down, then sliding further down into sleep.

Yes, that much is clear in his mind. A bit kinky, perhaps, the hospitality offered by the baron, but nothing to disconcert or alarm. But the dream that came after was a different story.

The woman is gone, or almost gone. Her weight is absent from the bed, the space where she lay already cooling. There is a rustle of crimson silk replaced, the hiss of a zipper drawn up. Tap tap of heels toward the door. I don't open my eyes. So she's going, we weren't lovers, only pleasure partners for an hour. Why should she stay the night?

A faint glow across closed eyelids. Not quite asleep, not quite awake. I could float back to consciousness easily enough, but why? 'You'll sleep here tonight.' Invitation? Order? No matter, the bed is soft and warm, the wine has warmed and relaxed me, the sex has left me boneless with pleasure. No need to move. A faint glow... the hall light from the open door. Tap tap of heels fading. Then a softer, quieter tread approaching.

Glow disappears, reappears. Something passing through the doorway? Has the woman changed her mind, returned? That would be fine. It's good to just sleep with someone, to have another body warm beside you through the night. There is enough sex in my life, I'm not complaining. But sometimes I miss just being with someone.

A weight presses the mattress at my side. Heavy for such a small woman, heavier than I remembered, but what of that? I can feel the heat of another body sitting on the edge of the mattress, not touching but near. I silently invite my visitor to lie down, stretch out, move in closer, touch, hold. Nice to be held. I don't move or speak. I'm not sure if I'm awake or asleep and dreaming. If I am dreaming, I want it to go on. A touch. A lock of hair is lifted, stroked, drawn slowly between gentle fingers. I feel myself smile a little. Admire my hair, find a way to my heart. I have my vanities, I own them. The soft touch grazes my cheek, my mouth... She was not so tentative before. She moved directly for the clearly mapped erogenous zones the first time, ignoring the less obvious, but sensitive areas

The butterfly touch moves along my jaw, circles my ear, and I shiver. It is withdrawn hastily, and I force myself to go still. I am not awake, I am dreaming, and I want the dream to continue. I will it to continue.

A moment, then the touch is back. This time it spiders over my throat, softly kneading tender skin. The hand settles on my throat, spanning it, engulfing it. Fingers press against the side, and I can feel my own pulse beating against the fingers, and know that they can feel it, to. They can feel that it is becoming stronger, speeding up. And as the hand slips down to my chest, I spare an instant to wonder at it's size. I had thought that the woman had dainty hands, tiny hands.

Speculation about this disappears as fingers teasingly brush my left nipple. I think I moan a little. It feels good. The warm touch moves to the other side, then back again. Then the dry brush is replaced by the warm wetness of a tongue gently lapping the hardened nubs in turn. I arch my back slightly, rising to the delicious touch, and there is a pleased murmur, then the light scrape of teeth, and I groan in earnest.

This is the most realistic wet dream I've ever had. Usually I dream of being outside myself, watching the carnal acts I perform with my fantasy partners. This time I am centered, and all senses but sight are involved. My pleasure is blind, but it soars on all other counts. I hear soft breathing, the hint of an answering moan. I taste the lingering sharpness of the wine I have drunk, and the mellow flavor of the woman I serviced. I smell warm, clean flesh. There is a spicy scent also and I wonder anew, because I remember a smell of lavender from the woman. But I forget, or perhaps ignore, these things under the overwhelming tactile assault I am experiencing.

Soft lips travel down my belly, teeth nipping at the short hairs that trail down from the shallow dip of my navel. I am hard again, I can feel my erection pushing against the cool silk that covers it. My, that wasn't very long, but then I am in the grips of someone very talented. I'm surprised, because the woman hadn't wanted to do this when we were beginning our romp. Like so many in this world today, willing to receive, but not to give. I'm glad there was a change of heart.

The sheet moves, and I feel cool air against the heated surface of my arousal, but not for long. I am enveloped in wet, velvety moistness, and I sigh with pleasure. I push up, seeking more, and am obliged with a generosity that melts my bones. A tongue stokes the underside of my cock, finding the sensitive ridge, and making me shudder. They sink lower, till I am half enveloped.

This is where it will stop, this is where it always stops, but I am not displeased. No playmate, lover, or one night partner, has ever been able to take it all. It is a physical limitation I have accepted.

And I find out to my delighted astonishment that this need not be so, not tonight, because the talented mouth keeps descending. An inch, then another. My cock head bumps an obstruction, and I know this is the end. I wait for the gagging reflex that will expel me, resigned.

But there is a hitch, and I am sliding deeper, deeper, till I feel a chin press against my balls and a nose nestle in my pubic hairs. My body goes rigid with the incredible sensation of being completely swallowed for the first time in my life. God, why can't we record our dreams and play them over and over?

Just when I think I will most likely die from pleasure, when I am sure that nothing on earth can wring another spark of lust from my overheated nerves, there is a pulsing vibration. Oh, lord, I've heard about 'humming'. This sounds... feels more like... a growl. Something not quite safe. But, oh God, it is good.

I finally find the strength, the will to move, if not to look. I reach out blindly and my hands find the head that is resting there at my groin. I bury my fingers in soft hair, feeling the hard outline of the skull. I express my wishes by gently tugging upward. There is another sound, another vibration, that might be a form of laughter.

They begin to move, rising and lowering on my straining shaft. Sometimes only the head is captured within the wet furnace, then the entire length will be taken in a smooth swoop. A very gifted tongue drives me to the brink of insanity. I'm moving now, my hips lifting and falling. An old dance, 'hips and lips.' Hands grip my waist and hold me down so that my lover can continue their feast at their leisure.

Yes, this has to be a dream. It's never been so good in real life. I feel heavy with the dream weight, the lust languor, but light with the wine I have consumed. If this is the sort of dreams it brings, I must try to get a few bottles for the Schloss von Ritter wine cellar.

And I notice that the hair I have my hands buried in is curly, ruffling beneath my palms, winding around seeking fingers, but the woman's hair had been long and straight and baby fine. Well, what of that? This is a dream. The dream lover will conform to my secret fantasy, won't she? I am becoming curious as to who that might be. Not Grace. Her hair, too, is board straight. Gerde? Her blonde locks look like they would feel more wiry. These tresses are springy, but sleek. The tactile sensations remind me of something, something I haven't actually touched, but seem to have thought of, considered.

The speculations are wiped away as my orgasm hits, catapulting me into a roaring, flashing darkness that takes me by surprise. And my cock in not released, not rejected. My semen sprays into the accepting hot cavern of my dream lover's mouth, only a few drops trickling out. I collapse on the now sweaty silken sheets, my toes curling, thigh muscles quivering.

The dream is almost over now, and I am reluctant for it to end. Hands smooth over my belly, my thighs. My softening cock slips free of the oral embrace, and I feel an almost chaste kiss on it's sticky head. I am drifting into deeper sleep now, the sleep where dreams are not remembered, if dreams come at all.

But I want one more thing. I want to see the one who has given me such mind numbing pleasure. Perhaps then I can carry the image away with me, to call up another lonely night. Can I open my dream eyes and see the succubus who has invaded my mind?

I am dreaming the room correctly. The faint light spills in from the hall on the other side. I gaze down the length of my body, my eyes slitted, gummed with slumber.

The dim figure sitting on the edge of the bed is too large. She had been a tiny thing. The hair my hands are buried in is dark and curled, disheveled by my passionate rummaging. The face tips up from my crotch, looking toward me.

No oh no oh no! The eyes...They should be icy with that silver blue color, but they are hot. And a slow, knowing smile spreads across those sensual, passion bruised lips, lips that glisten with my come.

It's too much. I fall even farther from reality, into the warmth and safety and, I pray to God, forgetfulness of sleep. And a gentle, mocking whisper follows me down into the depths

Do I hear the voice, or is it only an echo of imagined sound? It is so soft, I cannot tell, and I obey it. "Sleep, my angel. Glaube darren, wenn es dir dann leichter fällt dies hinzunehmen."

Not a succubus, an incubus.

Five seconds...

Von Glower's eyes are wild as his gaze darts between me and the wolf. He can't understand why I hesitate. Neither can I. What am I thinking? The man was my host for one night. I had a dream, that's all.

Yes, dammit, I had a dream! And even if I hadn't...

Who is the monster here?

Those frigid-hot blue eyes, ice and fire, bore into me. They plead, demand, command. His rising voice cracks with authority and power, "Kill him!"

Six seconds...

I lift the rifle again, and fire.

Translations
"Glaube darren, wenn es dir dann leichter fällt dies hinzunehmen". Believe this, if it makes it easier for you to accept.

Aftermath

Blair's POV

I'm going to live. Jim won't let me die, wonderful, selfish bastard that he is. I almost made it, I think. Not so much from what the wolf madman did to me, but what I did to myself after. I gave up, I let go. I didn't want to deal. It hurt too much, on too many levels. It still hurts. I think it will always hurt.

It doesn't hurt too much now: physically, I mean. They've been very gentle with me here. They're good at that in hospitals. They've tried to spare me as much as possible, but in a case like this *they have no idea, there's never been a case like this* certain uncomfortable realities must be dealt with. It's good that Jim was with me through it all, or I would have... left.

I'm lying on my side under cool, crisp, blinding white sheets. Two light blankets are spread over me. Jim commandeered the second one from a linen supply cart when he noticed me shivering. I could hear the frustrated squawks of the housekeeper cart attendant, a babble of German. Jim had answered in the same language, a low growl. I didn't know the words, but I knew the tone. The squawking stopped abruptly, and he returned and tucked the blanket around me firmly, cocooning me.

I'm lying on my side because it hurts too much to lie on my back, even with the drug cocktail they've given me. It's dulled some of the physical pain. There's still a hot ache deep in my bowels. I'm probably gonna shit blood for a week, but the doctor said that I didn't need stitches. Probably just a stool softener for awhile. I hate to think he's seen enough of this sort of thing to have devised a routine treatment. Muscle relaxant, sedative, antibiotic... God knows what else. Maybe some Thorazine, the way I'm feeling now. Disconnected.

I had tried to leave during the rape. My years of meditation might have made it possible if I could have just concentrated a little. I could have overcome the burning, buffeting pain of his lunges into my virgin ass, I think, but he kept talking to me. And I even started to go past that, but then he'd mentioned Jim.

I'm lying on my side, because this way I can see Jim. He's slumped in a chair at my bedside, long legs propped on another chair in front. They dangle awkwardly, and I think that he's going to have a cramp when he wakes up. His head is back, and a low, rumbling snore ghosts from his slack mouth. It's one of the most comforting sounds I've ever heard. He's sleeping, but he still looks tired. I put you through a lot this time, didn't I, Big Guy?

He was the one I called for when I began to realize just how bad the situation was. I had crouched in the dark, breathless and terrified, heard someone approaching the hiding place, and realized that they walked upright and not on all fours. I'd called for him, because it had to be him. Jim? Ellison, that you, man? And with those words I'd given him to the thing stalking me. Now he had a name, a weapon. And I'd just handed it over. You haf relatives in ze old country, yes?

I curl into myself, drawing up my knees. I feel a slight sting, and reposition my arm so that the IV line is not strained. I hate it, the damn tether, but they insist. Probably don't even really need it, but it's standard policy. Like the rape exam.

Respiration, blood pressure, temperature, blah blah, light in eyes, light in ears. Lacerations and bruises catalogued and photographed. An immediate tetanus shot when they saw the wound on my shoulder. Didn't even attempt to stitch it up: too ragged. Standing cold and weary in the inadequate hospital gown, breezes ghosting over my ravaged ass millions on medical research, and they can't come up with a dignified hospital gown. Jim called from the room for a moment. He'd been with me the entire time, a silent, strong anchor. But he was needed for some sort of paperwork before I could be admitted. He left with some warning in German to the doctor and nurse.

We waited silently for a minute or two, then the doctor looked at his watch and made a comment to the nurse who shrugged, glancing at the door Jim had exited through.

The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder, and I try not to flinch away. He speaks quietly to me (t)"Wir mössen nachprüfen die kie Schwänsdung, Herr Sandburg." I stare at him blankly. What does he want now? He is pulling on a pair of latex gloves as he speaks. When he sees my incomprehension, he sighes. He turns me to face the exam table. Taking my hands, he places them on the stirrups at the foot. (t)"Umbeigen." I just looked at him.

He sighs again. With one hand he presses down on the small of my back, with the other he tugs my hips back. (t)"Umbeigen, so." Sometimes, even when you have no knowledge of a language, the meaning of a word or a phrase will jump out at you with startling clarity. I know what he is saying. "Bend over, like this."

Up on your hands and knees, pup. I'm doing you a kindness, boy, taking you from behind the first time.

The next thing I know I'm in a corner, screaming, and Jim comes through the door like God's own avenging angel. The only reason the doctor doesn't end up as a patient in his own trauma unit and Jim doesn't end up doing time is that Jim is too busy calming me down. I cling to him like a limpet, squeezing myself between him and the wall, putting his rock solid presence between me and the rest of the world.

'Stupid motherfucker, you know what he's been through! What were you thinking of?' Hesitant, conciliatory words in German. 'It isn't necessary. No, it isn't. I don't give a shit about regulations. The man that did it is dead, he'll never come to trial. We don't have to put him through that.'

Dead? Yes, he'd said that before, at the lodge. He'd carried me there first, kicking on the thick plank door till someone had come and opened it. He'd deposited me on a couch, and kept one hand on me, soothing my shudders, as he dialed the phone and notified police? hospital? the authorities.

While we waited, two more men had arrived. A tall, dark haired man was helping a near unconscious man who looked vaguely familiar. He didn't seem too surprised to see us. After placing his companion beside me, he spoke with Jim. I caught hints of their conversation. '...so sorry. Saw the boy earlier... Garr Von Zell... mad, completely insane... attacked Gabriel... shot... dead...'

I looked at the man beside me. Pale, bloodied. What a pair we made. He was still conscious, but only barely. I leaned closer and whispered. "You killed it?"

Cloudy green eyes turned to me. I saw recognition, and knew where I'd seen him. I'd been cradled in Jim's arms when he'd first summoned me back, and this man had passed near, barely hesitating before going in pursuit of Von Zell the thing. He nodded. I touched his face lightly. I wanted to kiss him in gratitude, but there were too many people there, and Jim. 'Thank you.'

There was a hint of a cocky smile. What must he be like under normal circumstances? 'My pleasure, bo.' It was no more than a mumble, then he passed out.

Jim let the flow of words wash over him, then said simply, 'He's dead?' A nod. 'Good. I want to see the body, so be sure to let me know where he ends up. I can't leave Blair now.'

When the ambulance comes, he hovers around the paramedics, staying barely out of the way, hawk-like in his observance. When he is told he must ride separately, he climbs into the ambulance with me and silently dares the paramedics to remove him.

I feel a fullness in my bladder, and consider ringing for a bed pan. No catheter, I'd threatened to crawl out of the trauma unit, if necessary. It was agreed that as long as Jim was staying with me it would be all right. My IV is on a mobile pole. I watch Jim sleep and wonder if I'll be able to go to the bathroom without waking him up. I'd insisted that he dial his senses way down. 'You're jangled, Big Guy. If you start to zone, what kind of help can I be to you in this shape?' He'd finally agreed.

I roll over carefully, being sure not to trap my line. I drop one leg off the side of the mattress, and my foot finds the cool tile of the floor. I ease weight onto it, then push with my arms till I rise to a sitting position. I wince as the pain in my gut increases. I didn't even get stitches, I wasn't relative to what? torn up all that badly, so they'd said. I suppose that depends on which side of the rips you're situated.

I make it into a standing position, clutching the pole for balance, and make the few steps to the bathroom. I don't turn on the overhead light, relying on the soft glow from the headboard lamp I've left on lowest setting. I lift the seat Naomi taught me well in that respect and pee, holding myself gingerly. Then I lower the lid, and sit. I don't want to go back into that room just yet.

I grip the pole with both hands, and lean my forehead against it, staring down at the shadowed patterns of the tile floor. I rotate my head, and look at the large open shower to my left. Unbidden, images of earlier this night come to me.

I couldn't just crawl into bed in the filthy state I was in. I refused a sponge bath and in truth, it wouldn't have been enough. They decided that I could wash myself, as long as Jim was close-by

to help me if it got to be too much. He'd placed all the things I'd need on the inner shelf: soap, shampoo, cloths. He'd adjusted the water to steamy but not scalding. Then he'd removed that laughable hospital robe and urged me under the pulsing stream, drawing the privacy curtain.

I stood there, and let the water wash over me. I closed my eyes, and closed my mind. I could do it here, I thought. I could leave. I couldn't before, but now that I knew the thing was dead, and Jim was safe...

I didn't dare go before. Von Zell wanted me awake and aware through the whole thing, and if I wasn't, he would hunt down my lover partner. I was learning what he was capable of, I didn't dare risk him taking Jim unawares. So I endured the hot stabbing that felt like it was going to split me in two, the muttered obscenities and endearments. But then he wanted...

I wasn't even to be allowed the dignity of passive endurance. He wanted me to participate, to enjoy my violation. When his hands on my reluctant cock didn't do it, he threatened Jim again. Get hard, or Jim would suffer. Come under my rapist's ministrations, or Jim would be hunted, and killed. What choice did I have? No choice. Your lover's life for a few moments of pleasure, and a few drops of sperm.

God help me, I'd done it. But I'd been forced to use Jim. I had to call up all the fond memories, the longed for fantasies. I had to imagine the man I loved touching me and loving me so that I could whore myself for my rapist. And when I came I spurted over Von Zell's hands, but I screamed Jim's name.

I close my eyes. How long did I stand there, starting the gradual process of slipping away again? Five minutes? Ten? At last Jim pulled back the curtain. 'Chief, you okay in there?'

'I'm fine.' I wasn't too far away to answer, I hoped it would be enough. But he knows me too well. 'Let me help you.' He stripped quickly. I didn't realize what he was doing till he stepped under the spray with me.

'Jim, you don't have to. I can...'

'Shut up, Chief. Let me take care of you.' He took a wide toothed comb and gently worked all the burrs and twigs and filth out of my long wet hair. Then he poured shampoo in his hands, nudged me till I faced away, and began to wash my hair. His touch was as gentle and sure as the most skilled professional I've ever gone to. It can be a very sensual experience, having someone you care for wash your hair. I was starting to relax as he turned my head this way and that, rinsing away the lather.

When I reached for the washcloth, he pushed my hand away. 'I said let me take care of you. All you have to do is stand still. I know that's hard for you, Chief, but try.' He worked the pale bar of soap into the wet cloth till it was slathered with lather. Then he began to wash me, starting at my throat. I closed my eyes and surrender to his ministrations. Surrendered, not submitted.

I feel the slick cloth pass over me, gentle but thorough, washing away the crusted sweat and dirt on my shoulders, arms, and chest. I am turned, and the same tender care is given to my back, cleaning cuts caused when I was dragged out of my hiding place. He washes my legs, gingerly because of the raw patches at my knees. His movements slow as he moves up, and I know what is giving him pause.

I'm filthy down there. The inside of my legs and my ass are caked with my own blood and shit, and Von Zell's rank, congealed semin. I don't blame him for not wanting to touch me. But then he begins again. He cleans me as tenderly as a father might clean his newborn son after changing a diaper. I can't help but tremble and wince as the soapy cloth wipes over the stinging skin of my crack.

When that's done, he pushes my shoulder, directing me to turn around again. I don't want to look at him, now that he's seen the extent of my shame. I think I can't be any more humiliated, then his bare hand presses my stomach, sliding in the sticky remains of my own come. I choke on a sob, because he'll know now. He'll know that I had an orgasm while that animal raped me.

'Blair.' His voice is quiet. 'Look at me.'

'No, Jim, how can I ever look you in the face again, after this?'

His fingers capture my chin, tilting it up. I close my eyes, but he is insistent. 'Look at me, Blair. Don't shut me out.'

I open my eyes and stare into fathomless blue. And I have to tell him, because he'll know anyway, won't he? He's my Sentinel, I can't lie to him, not about anything real. 'I... didn't want to. He made me. I know that sounds like an excuse, but... but he knew your name. Oh, God, Jim. I said your name, and he knew. He said if I didn't... if I didn't come for him, he'd kill you.'

I see the flare of pain in his eyes, and curse myself. What was I thinking of, telling him this? I know my Jim. Now he'll feel bad, responsible somehow. I wish I could take back the words, but I can't. I keep babbling, not knowing if I am making things worse, or better. I just can't stop the words.

'You saved my life, you know? Because I couldn't at first. He kept touching me, but I couldn't. And he would have killed me when he was done, and then you, if I didn't. So I had to...' My voice falls away, and I confess to one instance of something that has happened many times before. 'I thought about you. I made myself believe that it was your hands touching me, and I could. But it wasn't. I'm sorry. I... couldn't stand it without you. I'm sorry. Don't hate me.'

'Hate you? God, Blair, you trusted me to get you through that, can't you trust me to understand?'

Jim pulls me into his arms I rest against him, stunned. It's happening. How many times have I dreamed about this? About feeling the hard length of his body pressed against mine, nothing between us. He is murmuring in my ear. 'I'm the one who's sorry. I never should have left you alone when I knew you were upset and blue. I'd give the next twenty years of my life if only I could make it go away, but I can't. All I can do right now is wash away his traces, and help you heal.'

And he lifts aside my hair, like he did in my fantasy. And he kisses the back of my neck. I hold on to him, beginning to shake, but not from dread this time. His hand moves up between us to graze my nipples, which are suddenly, acheingly hard. How does he know? How does he know just what I thought, just what I need?

'Is it too soon for you, Blair? that... thing... hurt you. I guess I should ask if it's too late.'

I drop my head back and gaze up at him, happy for the water that hides my tears. 'I wanted... I've wanted for so long...

'And so have I, and neither one of us said anything, and we're supposed to be pretty sharp guys. Got everyone fooled, don't we?' He kisses me, and it is beautiful: soft, warm, almost chaste.

I whisper against his lips, 'I wanted to be a virgin for you.'

He pulls back enough to rest his forehead against mine. 'You are a virgin. He didn't touch you.'

'But...'

'No, he didn't touch you. Not the real you, not my Blair. This will be the first time that you're really loved, and that makes it the first time. If you want me.'

I pull back a little, and give him my 'Stupid statement, Ellison' look. And he laughs a little.

'But not much, because you're still hurting right now. You just relax, and I'll finish taking care of you.'

'But you...'

He puts a gentle hand over my mouth. 'Shut your pretty mouth, baby boy.' I quiet. 'Lean against the wall and take hold of the safety bar.' I do as he directs, and he takes the bottle of shampoo again, squeezing some into his palm. He works the slippery fluid over his hands, then reaches down and takes hold of my semi erect cock.

He begins to stroke me, slowly and gently. The shampoo is an excellent lubricant, and his hands slide easily. The lather begins to foam. He uses one hand to spread it over my abdomen and down my thighs while he keeps up a steady rhythm with the other. He knows what he's doing. I guess now I can be sure of why he's spent so much time in the shower. He wasn't just soothing his aching back muscles. He's an expert at jerking off, and I'm benefitting from his experience. Very quickly I'm fully erect, straining the compass of his grip.

He keeps stroking me with his right hand, and begins fondling himself with his left. I've never had a good look at him before, and now I stare unashamedly, drinking in the sight of his cock as it firms under his touch. It lengthens and swells, till it sways proudly when his grip slips off for a second.

Both of us are thickly soaped from navel to mid thigh by now. He says gruffly, 'Hang on to that bar, Blair. Don't let go.' and he moves up against me. I whimper in delight when the hard length of his cock slides against my belly. He bends his knees a little, positioning himself, and my whimper becomes a moan as his dick slides against mine. He moves against me slowly.

The friction is exquisite. He begins to hump against me, each thrust carrying his engorged cock against my own. A slip, and I feel my own hot, swollen flesh prod the ridged plane of his abdomen. Another slip and I'm back in contact with velvet sheathed steel. Again and again, varying rhythm and pressure. At one point he stands perfectly still, our rampant staffs pressed tight between our bellies, as he sucks a hickey on my neck.

I'm gasping, pleading. 'Please, Jim. Please.' I push, arching my pelvis against his.

He grips my hips, firmly but gently. He doesn't want to mark hurt me. His voice is dark and thick. 'Hang on, baby boy. Hang on tight.' And he moves, hard and fast, rocking me.

I come, feeling my semen jet between us, spurts that are hotter than the water that is cooling around us. For the last time this night, I call out his name. But this time it isn't a scream. It is a soft wail of joy and pleasure and fulfillment. And I feel his orgasm wrack him. It travels all through his body, exploding across my belly in smooth, scalding bursts.

He puts his hands on the tile on either side of me and rests against me for a moment. Not his entire weight, he still has enough sensibility to know that I couldn't support us both. I run my hands over his heaving back, and marvel that I could have done this to such a strong man. Then he pulls away a little, and kisses me again. It is long, deep, and almost thoughtful. He kisses me while the water finishes washing away the traces of our sex. Then he leads me from the shower, dries me, and puts me first into the gown, then into bed.

When the nurse comes a few minutes later, he is fully dressed, sitting beside my bed. I silently endure the bandaging of cuts, the round of injections and blood taking, the insertion of the IV. I endure, because I am under his watchful eye, and he won't let anyone hurt me.

I think I slept a little while. He's sleeping in the chair when I wake up and decide that I need to go to the bathroom. Now I sit here on the closed toilet, in the dark, thinking.

Was it too soon? Am I a whore, like Von Zell said? How could I do that so soon after I was raped? How could I enjoy it so much? What if he was just trying to soothe me? He must have known how close to the edge I was. What if it was just his way of keeping me anchored to this world, till I had time to get over my experience.

What if it was a mercy fuck? I think maybe I'd die, if that were the case.

My palms are itching. So is my back. I scratch at the thick gauze that is wrapped around my hands, but it isn't enough. I try wiggling a finger under the bandages. Better, but still not enough. I'm going to catch hell from the nurses for this... To hell with them, I'm going to catch hell from Jim. But I know for a fact that it's possible to be mentally unbalanced by itching, so I'm determined to take care of it. And it keeps my mind off other, more painful things.

They've bound the gauze intricately, using lots of medical tape. It doesn't want to come loose. Frustrated, I begin to pick at the knots with my teeth, They loosen slightly, and a trickle of air seems to aggravate the itch. With a growl of impatience, I bite, and jerk my head. The gauze rips, and I quickly unwind it and scratch vigorously. Better.

But something doesn't feel... look right. I stand up and turn on the light, turning toward the mirror over the sink, where the illumination is brightest. I look at my palm.

This isn't possible. It had been more or less flayed. Almost the entire top layer of skin had been scratched and scoured away as I grabbed at the gritty soil in the clearing, as I was pushed and pulled and pummeled on my hands and knees. It should look like hamburger.

But the skin is clean, and unbroken. It looks fragile, yes. Thin and pink, almost transparent, like the skin of a newborn. But whole. Scrapes don't heal that fast. Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

I know what I should look like, I saw the Polaroids they took in trauma. My face should be a mass of red and purple blotches. Von Zell had really marked me up, hitting me in the face time and again when I wouldn't obey.

Now there are traces of the abuse, but they are fading. They look old. They are lavender and yellow and green instead of wine dark. I pull the neckline of my gown down, afraid of what I will see.

The wound in my shoulder is scabbed over, stiff. It should still be moist and raw. It looks like it has been healing for more than a week. Already, at the edges, is a thin rim of new, healthy skin.

I stare at myself, horrified, and I whisper, "What did you do to me, you sick fuck? What the hell did you do to me?"

Translation:

"Wir mössen.nachprüfen die kie Schwänsdung." Approximately, "We must have proof of the rape." "Umbeigen." Bend over.

The Gift

Frederick von Glower's POV

I keep glancing over at the pair on the couch. They huddle together: two beautiful, wounded creatures. It is enough to make me wish that I could have disciplined Garr before Gabriel pulled the trigger. As long as my hands were not responsible for the final wound, I would have escaped the consequences, and it would have given me great satisfaction to have crushed a few bones, torn away a mouthful or two of flesh before he was dispatched to hell.

Gabriel almost went into shock after shooting Von Zell. Poor thing, he really isn't a hunter. Not yet, anyway. I managed to get him back to the lodge, and found it ablaze with light, the club members milling restlessly. The boy I had seen go into the woods was on the couch, wrapped toes to chin in a blanket. His large companion was calling medical assistance. I deposited Gabriel beside the boy, and went to speak to the big, angry American. Explanation had to be offered, a story had to be agreed upon before the authorities arrived.

As I tell the tale of a friend gone mad, I watch the two who were so lately prey. The boy Blair speaks to Gabriel quietly, questioningly. He reaches to touch the older man's face, and the blanket falls away for a moment. I see the ragged tear in his shoulder, and I know.

Two. I have two more children now Why hadn't Von Zell finished the boy? I knew his blood lust was high. I look more closely, and think perhaps his other lusts were stronger still. While I have generally been attracted to the 'bad boys', I can see why Von Zell would have wanted him. And it occurs to me that my lost child would have realized this. The more I think of it, the more I am sure that Von Zell has left me a final gift. I have lost Von Zell, but now there are two.

I feel inordinately proud, as I expect most fathers presented with twin boys would. Proud, but worried. These next days and weeks will be difficult for my newborns. They will go through changes that will be both painful and wrenching. I want to be there for them, to guide them and teach them and soothe them. But I don't see how I can.

It was much easier for Von Zell. He had some idea of what he was going into. I was able to bestow my gift with a minimum of pain and damage. I was with him all through the confusion and agony of his first turning. I was able to show him the power and pleasure of our state from the very beginning. His human nature faded quickly, and he embraced the wolf. Sadly, he wasn't strong enough to contain the power, the energy, and it drove him mad. Not my two new little ones, not these cubs. I won't have it.

I watch Blair's companion Jim as he tends to him. Silent strength, gentleness, sorrow. I do not become jealous when he touches my cub, soothing and comforting him. I cannot hate what is so obviously genuine love. It makes me sad to think of how he will feel when he realizes that the beautiful boy is no longer his. The pain will be soul killing. Perhaps it would be kinder to kill him. I watch the lean flex of his haunches as he moves restlessly about the room, and think perhaps it would be better if my other two had an older brother.

They will be leaving for the United States as soon as the young one is released from the hospital, I am sure. This doesn't bother me. Honest people, open people are so easy to track in this new electronic age. There will be no trouble tracking them down. I feel the need to stay here in Germany for the time being, watching over Gabriel. From his rambling on the way back to the lodge, it seems that there are people here in Germany who might interfer with our bonding: Grace and Gerde. Nothing can severe the blood tie, but it can be strained, and I need to attend this. The little cub has his foster father to care for him, he'll be alright.

I go to sit beside Gabriel. He is unconscious, and I smooth his red-gold, sweat matted hair. I look up, and catch Jim's eyes. He is holding one of Blair's cold hands in both of his, rubbing it gently. A look of perfect understanding passes between us, and he looks quickly away. I shrug. He hasn't yet become comfortable with his feelings, it seems. We sit and wait for the ambulance, both of us tending to the men that we love.

Worry

Grace's POV

I think I'll kill him myself, if he isn't already dead. Of course, it's not like it's the first time I've had that thought. For some reason, Gabriel Knight just has that effect on me. I can't imagine what my life would be like without him in it, but sometimes I'd damn sure like to try. He's just so damned determined to do it all on his own. Oh, he's willing to accept help with research and organizing the details of his business. And, with my background in history, I'm imminently suited to research. What galls is that I know damn good and well that, no matter that he doesn't admit it even to himself, he considers this to be the scut work.

Every time I try to take a more active part, he balks like a Missouri mule. If it was up to him I'd still be back in the French Quarter, setting up sale displays in the St. George Bookstore while he's rocketing around Europe, getting his bubble butt in trouble hunting the dark forces. If I'd waited for him to ask for me to come, I'd probably grow grey hair, so I came to Germany.

When I got here, he was nowhere to be found. He'd gone off on another quest, investigating the murder of a young girl. The parents and the people of Rittersburg seemed to think that it was the work of a werewolf. Well, that would be right up a schatztenjaeger's alley. I know Gabe, he might have been reluctant, but he wouldn't let these people down, not when they look to him for protection. Talk about your reluctant heros.

I wanted to help, but Gerde, that Teutonic twat, wouldn't tell me where he was. Neither would the innkeeper, who'd brought the distraught parents to Gabe in the first place. Despite Gerde's attempts to block me, I managed to come up with some very pertinent information by checking the schattenjaeger reference library, and digging into old village records. It looks like the recent mutilation murders have ties going back to the mid seventeen hundreds, involving Gabriel's bloodline. If he finds this werewolf, it may very well be a descendent of the one his ancestor brought to death. And that worries me. I have a feeling that supernatural beings do not forgive easily.

I've learned a lot about the lycanthropes, and especially what I believe to be the history of this particular one. I finally forced the innkeeper to tell me where Gabriel is staying. But now that I'm at the little farmhouse outside of Hamburg, he's not here. There are clues scattered around the little house, I have some ideas where to go to look for him.

There's his lawyer. Gabe is sure to have checked in on him. He'll be able to give me some information about where he's been in the city. Gabe is sure to have asked him pertinent questions that should direct me toward who he's been investigating, and I have a name or two to investigate myself. Then there's the police inspector in charge of the murders, Lieber. Gabe wouldn't have missed talking to him.

I'm really getting worried. He left the schattenjaeger dagger behind at the farmhouse. Will the talisman be enough to protect him? And it wouldn't be any use against a non supernatural attack.

I've started checking hospitals. I'm going to see the inspector this evening, and I won't leave him alone till I ring a promise to look for Gabe, or at least to notify me if the tiniest thing happens with the case, anything that might involve my errant boss, and friend.

I'm really worried about Gabe. And no one's going to kill him. Except maybe me. Infuriating man. I hope he's safe...

Tender Mercies

They took the boy away, the two men in the blue uniforms with the red crosses on their sleeves. Good, they're taking him to a hospital. His friend, stony faced but anxious eyed, went with them. But before he left, he paused, squatting to speak to Gabriel. "They're taking Blair first, he's going into shock. Another will be here shortly for you. Alright?" Gabriel nodded weakly The man Jim Ellison gripped his arm, staring at him intently. "Thank you, man. From the bottom of my heart, thank you." Then he was gone.

Gabriel closed his eyes again. Someone had packed a towel against his wound. The terrycloth was now soppy with blood, but the flow had slowed, if not stopped. He probably wouldn't bleed to death. He heard footsteps, voices. The other hunt club members were huddled near the bar, drinking and talking nervously.

He heard the rasp of a phone being dialed. After a moment, a voice said, (t)"Dringlichkeit? Beenden Sie den für dieses addness. Nein, benötigen wir es nicht. Es gab einen Fehler. Danke." Well, he recognized Krankenwagen, anyway. That was 'ambulance', it had been in his phrase book. Relieved, he let his attention drift away.

Pryce went to Baron Frederick von Glower as he hung up the phone. "Freidrich, what are you playing at?" he hissed. "The man needs to go to hospital."

"Too many questions there. I can tend him at my home. If he gets worse, I'll have my private physician see to him."

"Damn it Freidrich, you can't..." Pryce ground to a stop as the baron turned chilly blue eyes on him.

His voice was soft and dangerous. "Do you presume to tell me what I may and may not do, Herr Pryce?" Pryce shook his head. "Good. Now, he'll need something for the pain. You usually carry an interesting selection of recreational substances."

"Freidrich, I can't, dammit. I..." He trailed off again, seeing the stony look on the baron's face. "Alright," he sighed. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small, flat case. He opened it to reveal perhaps two dozen assorted pills and capsules. "How do you want him."

"Quiet. Pain-free. But not unconscious, if you can avoid it."

Pryce grunted, stirring the contents with a fingertip thoughtfully. Finally he extracted two small blue capsules. "Mix these with a little alcohol. He'll be like a sleepy child."

Von Glower took the medicine. "Perfect. I'll remember this, Pryce." He smiled, and stroked one fingertip lightly across Pryce's bearded chin. "I may someday do you a favor in return." As von Glower went to the bar, Pryce shivered a bit, not at all sure why.

"Gabriel." Gabriel opened his eyes to find von Glower beside him.

"Ambulance here yet? That bite it hurtin' like a bitch."

"Soon. This should ease it. Let me help." He held a small glass of brandy to Gabriel's lips, tilting it so he could drink. Gabriel swallowed almost greedily, eager for anything that might ease the fierce pain in his shoulder. Almost immediately it dulled, going from tearing agony to throbbing ache.

"Good, my friend. Now, can you walk, if Pryce and I assist you? Not far, my car is just outside."

"Guess so. Car? What about the ambulance?"

They helped him to his feet, drawing his arms over their shoulders. "They're busy tonight, Gabriel. No telling how long the wait will be. It will be much quicker this way."

Gabriel was carried more than he walked. He was a large, sturdy man, but so were Pryce and von Glower, and they managed. They seated him in the passenger side of von Glower's small, elegant sports car. The baron got behind the wheel, and Pryce arranged Gabriel as comfortably as possible on the seat. Gabriel was turned with his legs drawn up, reclined so that his head rested against von Glower's leg.

The trip was surreal. Neither of the men spoke. It was silent except for the rumble of the engine, the hiss of tires on pavement, the grind of an occasional passing car. When he heard the last, lights would sweep across the car's ceiling briefly. Gabriel was reminded of trips with Grandma Knight, returning home late at night with his head in her lap as she drove. She had been soft, and smelled of roses and talc. Now his cheek was pressed against a hard thigh, clad in rough tweed, and the scent was of the forest, somehow feral.

After awhile the car stopped, and the solid warmth he'd pressed his face against was gone. Then strong hands pulled him up, and he whined at the fresh pain in his torn shoulder. There were soothing words as he stumbled/was carried. Someone stripped off his leather jacket, and he protested at the loss of warmth, but was ignored.

Soon he was maneuvered onto a soft surface, which he sank into gratefully. An arm lifted his spinning head, and cool glass was pressed to his lips. He sipped the comforting sting of brandy, and the pain receded again to a tolerable level. Someone was removing his boots. He thought about offering to do it, but it was too much trouble.

Gabriel shifted slightly as his socks were removed, curling his toes against smooth sheets. Very smooth. And this bed was pretty damn soft for an emergency room exam table. There also wasn't the bright, cold feel he'd come to associate with hospitals. What was going on?

He opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a shadowed ceiling. His gaze wandered, confused. Rich paneling instead of flat institutional paint, the only light from a flickering fire in an elegant fieldstone fireplace, and what streamed from the door beside the bed, which was probably a bathroom.

Someone an orderly? came out of the bathroom carrying a basin, cloths draped over their arm. He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, and they said sharply, "Gabriel, don't! You'll tear it open again, and it's just stopped bleeding." He hadn't really needed to warn Gabriel about trying to sit up, the renewed pain would have been enough, never mind the fact that he just didn't seem to have the co-ordination to accomplish that task.

The basin and cloths were deposited on the night table. "Do you want to sit up a little more? I'll help." A strong arm slid behind his back, lifting his torso slightly, and a couple of pillows were adjusted so that, when he reclined again, he was raised at a shallow angle. "Better?"

"Yeah, thanks." Gabe concentrated, and finally made out the man's features in the dim, pulsing light. "Freidrich? Where... this isn't the hospital."

"No. I couldn't take you there, Gabriel. Too many questions we don't have answers for yet. There'll be time to speak to the authorities later, when we have our stories straight, but for now I have brought you to my home. You'll be safe here. I'll take care of you."

"Your home?"

His voice was very quiet. "And yours too, if you wish it."

"This isn't where I was before."

"No, not the room you shared with Helga. This is my room. I'll need to be close to you to care for you. I need to clean your wound now." Gabe obligingly grasped the hem of his shirt, preparing to pull it over his head. But von Glower grabbed his wrists, pushing his hands back to his sides. "Not like that. My God, you really would mess yourself up if you did it that way. I'm afraid you have to lose the shirt." Freidrich took the collar in both big hands and jerked, twisting. There was a hissing rip, and the thin fabric parted almost to Gabriel's navel. Gabriel couldn't hold back a gasp of surprise, and von Glower was immediately solicitous. "Did I hurt you, my friend?"

"No, just scared me, I guess."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to scare you." He finished ripping the shirt through the hem, then eased it off Gabriel; first one side, then the other. "Quite ruined, but you won't need one for awhile. Now, let me see that bite."

Freidrich soaked a cloth in hot water, then packed it against the torn flesh. Gabriel hisses at the heat against the ripped nerves, but the baron held it firmly, "Steady, my friend, steady. This will help in a moment." As the cloth cooled, he replaced it. The water in the basin turned pink, then red. Finally the wound was clean.

"Nasty, but not mortal. You'll recover without any loss of mobility, I think. But you'll have a rather impressive scar. You're bleeding again. I can stop it for you, if you like."

Gabriel was puzzled. "Sure, why are you askin'?"

"The method is a little unorthodox. But it's proven infallible among my people."

"Then do it. I don't want to bleed out."

"Close your eyes, then. And relax."

Gabriel obeyed. It was easier that way, things didn't swim around quite so much. He felt a thick drop of blood ooze over the edge of the wound and trickle down his chest, followed closely by another. Freidrich's hands settled on his arms, and Gabriel felt a small touch at the edge of his wound. It was not quite as hot as the water had been at first, not as cool as it had become. It was damp and resilient, smaller than the cloth. sponge?

The gentle touch moved slowly over his ravaged flesh. In its trail, the blood stopped seeping. He could feel it. Every tiny, ragged bit was touched, wet, soothed, smoothed. The pain was still there, but it had been joined by an almost sensuous sensation. It was very close to pleasure.

"That's some strong medicine, Freidrich," he murmured blearily.

"Yes, my friend. Very strong."

A hint of uneasiness tickled Gabriel's mind. The voice had been so close, the tone oddly intimate. And he suddenly realized that von Glower was holding both his arms against the bed. If both his hands were occupied, then how...? He opened his eyes...

The baron was bent low over him, intent on what he was doing. As Gabriel watched, he finished gently licking the last raw edge of the wound. There was a crimson smear at the corner of his mouth. Gabriel's breath hitched, and the baron looked up at him, then smiled ruefully. "I told you it was unorthodox. But it worked. The bleeding is stopped."

"Thanks."

"But you still need a little cleaning up."

Freidrich's head dipped again, and Gabriel felt the now familiar wet swipe as he licked away the two blood streaks that had last escaped. His tongue passed over Gabriel's left nipple.

Gabriel told himself desperately that it was a misjudged gesture. But then the tongue flicked the nipple again, and he felt it stiffen a little. He stared down, numb, as von Glower closed his lips around the tiny point, his hands massaging Gabriel's limp arms.

"Sweet Jesus," Gabriel breathed. Von Glower released his right arm, and his hand moved to Gabriel's chest, stroking the firm pectorals before finding and gently pinching the right nipple. In only a second or two it was as hard and straining as the one he was sucking.

The temptation was just to lie there and accept the soft, intimate caresses. While Gabriel's pain and drug hazed mind was in a screaming panic, his body was welcoming the tender attentions eagerly.

Finally Gabriel managed to speak. His voice sounded choked, clogged. "Freidrich, stop it. Dammit, let me alone."

"Why? It isn't as if you aren't enjoying it, Gabriel." He pulled back a little, and brushed the flat of his palms lightly in circles over Gabe's chest, barely grazing the straining buds. Gabriel stifled a groan at the sensation, feeling them pull even tighter. Von Glower laughed, pleased. "You're so sensitive. It's going to be such a pleasure to fuck you when you're fully awake and aware."

"No," He should have been roaring, cursing, damning von Glower to the deepest pits of hell, threatening him with mutilation. Why did he sound so...pleading? "I'm not like that."

Von Glower moved suddenly, climbing up on the bed. straddling Gabe's hips. He looked down at the younger man who was so confused, so vulnerable right now, despite his impressive body. "My poor, dear, golden angel. Everyone is like that, if they only find the right person. Now hush."

He laid one fingertip against Gabriel's lips to halt incipient protests. Smiling down at him, with the other hand he began to unbutton his own shirt. "This first time shouldn't be so difficult for you. The drugs have already gotten you nicely relaxed."

German Translation:

"Dringlichkeit? Beenden Sie den Krankenwagen für dieses addness. Nein, benötigen wir es nicht. Es gab einen Fehler. Danke."
Emergency? Cancel the ambulance for this address. No, we won't need it. There was a mistake. Thank you.