| Main Menu |
| Slash Fiction |
| Mary Sue Fiction |
| Original Fiction |
| Family Stuff |
| Humor |
Phrases marked with (t) will have a translation at the end of that section.
Voyeur
Grace's POV
I want to kill him.
No, not Gabriel. At least, not this time.
I want to kill von Glower, that smirking, silver eyed son of a bitch. For what he's done in general. Reading Gabe's notes, cross referencing with my own research, reading between the lines, it's obvious that this man has been dealing in death for a long, long time.
Leiber discovered the charnel pit in the woods. Even a blind man can find something eventually, if he gropes around long enough. They have credited all the bodies... and body parts.... there to Von Zell the madman Gabriel shot, Von Zell. I read the numbers in the paper, and check them against the missing person figures Gabriel located, and know that they don't add up. Even allowing for a wide percentage of 'just up and left' people, the figures are still too high. Someone else was hunting those woods. Someone considerably colder, more controlled, more efficient than that almost pitiful madman. Someone, I think, with silver eyes. Yes, I'd like to kill the Baron for this...
But mostly I want to kill him for what he's done to Gabriel.
He's not too bad during the day. Well, not too bad compared to the nights.
He's lost that casual, easy going air that was so much HIM. Those green eyes used to shine clear, like deep water. Now they are always shadowed, like the heart of the forest. And something wild is prowling back there.
He's kept a leash on it so far, but it keeps trying to slip. We've always snipped at each other, but there was always a smile behind it on his side. Not any more. The sarcastic, stinging remarks have increased, and his eyes don't laugh.
He's always been active, but now he's restless. He can't seem to settle into any one task for more than a few minutes at a time. This is disastrous for him as a writer.
The floor of the room where he works...tries to work... is constantly littered with balled up sheets of paper that seem to have exploded from the overflowing wastepaper basket by his desk. The desk itself is a mess of pages, pens, mugs half full of cold coffee, and empty beer bottles. He's drinking more than I'd like, but I stopped trying to say anything to him after he nearly bit my head off.
I don't think he's written a usable sentence since we returned. He's trying. I've watched him, sitting in front of that old upright Royal. He'll roll in a fresh sheet of paper, curve his hands over the keyboard, and sit there. He sits, for minutes at a time, green eyes fixed on the blinding white emptiness of paper. I can see thoughts chasing each other behind his eyes, and I'm becoming frightened of what they must be.
Finally he'll type. There'll be an almost desperate racket of keystrikes, perhaps two, or even three returns. Then the pause again. The silence will spin out to an unbearable length. Then he savagely rips the paper from the roller, wads it, and adds it to the drift on the floor. He'll sit for a moment, eyes closed, breathing ragged. He gets up and paces, paces, paces. Stalks, really. Moving around the room with so much irritated energy that it seems he'll burst right through the walls. Then he sits down and tries again.
Poor Gerde is taking it even worse than I am. I'm loyal to Gabriel. She is loyal not only to him, but to the Ritter line. She reverences and dedicates herself to the long line of schattenjaegers who've come before, and it's killing her to see the darkness that's fallen over the House of Ritter.
When she tried to help by picking up some of the debris in his study, Gabriel drove her away with his snarls. She was almost in tears. I think she went to the church, to commune with the spirit of Gabriel's uncle. She'd lost the man she loved, the previous schatzenjager, to the dark forces. Now it seemed that she was losing another.
Under the advise of the Smiths, the American demonologist, he's been spending his nights in the village jail. The last thing I do each night before going to bed is visit him there. But I don't enter his cell. I look in through the tiny window set in the massive door. He either huddles on his bunk, cocooned in a blanket and shivering, or stalks. I don't know which worries me more.
He almost throws himself from one side of the tiny room to the other. I'll confess something here. I've seen a lot more of Gabriel since this began than I ever expected to see. It seems that, when the moon is in the sky, the civilizing effect of clothing is too much for him to stand. I found this out the last night, when I came to check on him.
Mister Smith was settled in the hall, on his chair. I went back to the cell and opened the little window. I expected... I hoped he'd be asleep. Gabriel has suffered from nightmares before, he's lost a lot of sleep in his life. So I was careful to be silent, in case he'd managed to doze off. He hadn't, and he was in such a state of agitation that he didn't notice when the little aperture in the door cracked open, and I peeked inside.
He was almost throwing himself from one side of the tiny room to the other, back and forth. He was muttering to himself, words I couldn't catch or interpret. Suddenly he ripped his T-shirt over his head, throwing it against the wall with a growl. He went to stand before the barred window, staring out into the night. He started to touch himself, hands sliding over his arms, his torso, his belly, while he gazed up at the sky, at the moon.
I should have left then, I know. But I didn't. I could tell myself that it was concern, that I wanted to be sure that he wasn't going to hurt himself. But that would be a lie. The fact is...he was just so damn beautiful I couldn't look away. Even though I knew that I might end up disgusted with myself.
Gabriel's skin is a light honey gold, the hair fanning over his broad shoulders a darker red-gold. His hands trace the starburst scar on his shoulder where the wolf savaged him. It is rose pink, as if sustained a year ago, instead of only a few weeks. Then his hands move down, smoothing over the plains of his chest. His fingers settle on the coins of his nipples, and remain, gently stroking. He is bathed in the silver light that falls through the bars, and even at this distance, I can see them rise into small, taut buds. His eyes close, and he pinches himself. A soft growl rumbles from his throat.
Oh, I should go now. But one hand is sliding down his flat belly, playing over the ridges muscle. Then he moves suddenly, jerking open his jeans and sliding them and his underwear down in one smooth motion, kicking free of them. Graceful You'd make a wonderful stripper, Gabe, I think dazedly.
The shoes follow, and he's standing there by the window naked. And his hands travel again. He caresses himself from neck to knees, lingering on thighs and the slant of his ribs.
He's erect, and I can't look away from that, either. I'm no virgin, there have been several men in my life. I'd never admit it to anyone, but there's been a fair number of porno tapes, too, so I'm not ignorant of the male body. And Gabriel's equipment is nothing to be ashamed of. He's built long and thick. Big enough so that I'd be hesitant... But I'm not going to think about that.
Finally his hands settle around the stiff shaft, and he begins to pleasure himself slowly. I should have left a long time ago, but now I can't. I have to see the end.
He leans back against the wall, window up over his shoulder, as if he needs the support. He braces his legs wide, and his hands move more quickly. His head goes back, eyes closed. I can see his teeth, gritted where his lips have pulled back in concentration.
He's fucking into his own grasp, hips pumping strongly. I feel liquid heat in my belly, and know that I'm getting wet. Gabe has been my friend for years. He's come on to me jokingly all that time. Now I'm starting to regret that I didn't take him seriously. Though his personality may drive me half mad sometime, that body could push me completely over the edge.
He's panting quietly, groaning when he squeezes himself. I'm surprised when one hand leaves his weeping cock and slides around to stroke over his ass. I'm shocked when he slides his fingers into the crease, probing.
He's grunting now, hand moving in a near blur. His body is straining, knees trembling, and he bangs his head, eyes closed, back against the wall as he comes with a strangled cry.
It's that last sound that drops the brick wall on me, knocking me nearly senseless. As he slumps, shuddering, with his spunk splattered on the floor by his bare feet, I close the little window, and stumble down the hall. Mr. Smith gives me a hooded look as I pass, and there's no way I can tell whether he has any idea what happened.
I welcome the cold air outside as I walk back to the schloss. I curse the moon hovering above, because it's part of this. I don't speak to Gerde when I return. I go directly to my room and go to bed, but I don't sleep. I stare out the window. I can just see the top of the jail from my window, and I can't stop thinking about Gabriel. About what I've seen, what I'll never forget. I don't expect there to be anything more between us when he's cured. *He will be cured, goddamn it!* It isn't likely that we'll ever make love. There's too much history between us, we're too different. But what I've seen tonight is going to haunt me.
That gorgeous, sensual body writhing with sexual heat. But most of all the final cry, a mixture of speech and the howl of a beast.
"Frederick..."
I want to kill him.
The trip back to the apartment was a queer combination of heaven and hell. Von Glower took the middle position, since I was being dropped off first. He rested an arm casually along the back of the seat, behind my neck. I kept waiting for the arm to drop down across my shoulders, but it never did. It remained a teasing inch away. But occasionally, with the sway of the truck through traffic, a tweed clad knee would bump against my leg, and press there a moment more than necessary.
At the apartment, my legs are shaky when I slide out of the truck, but I hold on to the door while they steady. Jim says that he has a stakeout tonight, that he won't be back till late, so I don't have to cook. I growl, "When were you planning on telling me, Jim? Or should I just be grateful that you thought to mention it at all?"
"I intended to mention it at lunch. I...we were just distracted." He glances at Frederick.
"Fine. No problem. Don't worry about me. Maybe... maybe I'll go out to a movie--or something."
"Are you sure? You haven't been out at night alone since..."
"Fuck, no, I'm not sure," I spit. "but I can't stay cooped up inside the rest of my life, waiting for you to come home, can I?" I regret it the moment it's out, seeing the pain in his eyes, but I don't apologize. I say goodbye to Frederick and Jim with a curt nod, and go into the apartment.
My head is buzzing by the time I make it to the apartment. The beer and exhaustion gang up on me, and I don't try to make it up to the loft. I don't even go in my old room, where the narrow bed still sits, stripped but serviceable. Instead I flop full length on the couch, face down, an arm and a leg hanging half off. And, miracle of miracles, I drop off to sleep.
Oh, it isn't a good sleep. It's by turns alcohol heavy and twitchy-dozey, full of half awakenings. But it's sleep, and I need it. It would just be so much better if I didn't dream...
It's a weird one. I'm not in one of the more common voids. I've done my share of wandering through white, grey, and yes, even pink, fogs. And it's always been a fairly peaceful sensation. This is anything but peaceful.
I don't seem to be in any one place, there are elements of at least two... no, make that three settings. There is the apartment. That should be comforting in it's solid normality, but there is a shifting, fading, surreal quality, because elements of the other locations keep melting in and out.
The second location is a bedroom. It is handsomely decorated, but there is something sterile about it, as if there has been no personal time lavished on it. It looks somehow generic.
The third setting is most distressing of all, because there is no mistaking it for anything but what it must be--a cell, and not a cell in one of America's enlightened penal systems, either. There is the sense of cold, damp stone.
There are others in the dream, as well. My dream self lies on the couch in the apartment, twisting restlessly. A handsome man with strawberry blonde hair rises from a rough cot in the cell and paces his prison restlessly. His eyes glitter green.
Somewhere in the middle ground between us, is another, in the midst of that anonymous bedroom, and I feel that this one is what connects us all. Something flows through we three, but the man in the middle is the source. He is reaching out to us.
Slow fire fills my veins as the prisoner strips, his movements almost violent. The dream master, the shadowed figure, ghosts his hands through the air, reaching toward the prisoner. The other man's hands follow the motions, caressing his own body. He leans against a rough stone wall and begins to pleasure himself. I recognize him now. He is the man who killed the beast that attacked me, raped me. I only saw him that once, in the lodge, when we were both hurt and dirty and ragged. I had no idea he was so magnificent.
It's one of the most erotic images I've ever seen. I see my dream self reacting. My ass starts to rise and fall as I hump against the sofa cushions, but this seems like so much more than just a normal wet dream.
And oh god, now the dark figure has turned his attention to me. His hands curve, extend, and I watch my dream self, still asleep reach back and slide a hand under his my? waistband. The hand gropes, hips shift, and there is a long groan. My dream avatar has thrust a finger deep into his back passage, and is shoving it in roughly, hips moving to drill the hard cock into the soft cushions.
I hear a whisper. At first it's just noise, then it forms into words.
"...so good, my children. Do you see? It can be so fine with us of all together. You need me, my precious ones. And I need you. Come to me, Gabriel. Come to me, Blair. Come to your father, your master, your lover. Let me hold you, love you, take you. You are mine. My golden angel and my wolf cub."
The prisoner howls a name as he finds his release. And I awake with one finger buried deep in my clenching ass, spraying the sofa with a torrent of hot spunk, and Jim is going to kill me for that, but I'm gasping the same name.
I know now what I have to do. I have to go see him, talk to him. He may not have the answers I'm seeking, but he knows something.
I don't go right away. I take a shower and try to clear my head. I'm marginally successful, but when dusk falls, I dig the crumpled sheet of paper out of my discarded pants, and examine it.
Frederick 555-6066 Cascade Rialto Room 812
I don't call. I wouldn't be able to speak coherently. Blair Sandburg, motor mouth extraordinare, speechless. There's an image.
I call a cab and leave the apartment. I'm just going to talk to him. I'm just going to find out what he knows about what happened, what might BE happening. That's all.
That's what I tell myself.
And Jim will be late coming home tonight.
Exhibition
Gabriel's POV
Oh, god, am I ever gonna have a moment's peaceful sleep again?
It's beginnin' to seem unlikely. I lie down. I try to rest. I even close my eyes. It doesn't work. I sleep, but it's anythin' but restful, because that's when the sleepin' dreams come. They're better'n the wakin' dreams, though. I can tell myself that the sleepin' dreams are normal, but when you dream with your eyes wide open you're mad, aren't you?
I agreed to this captivity. I agreed that it would be better, safer for everyone if I stayed in the cell when the moon rose. I didn't realize when I agreed how bad it was goin' to get. Every night now...
The moon rises, and it starts. That low hum that's been runnin' through my blood picks up, gets stronger. It's like there's an electric current passin' through me, and it's lookin' for a way out. I finally get up, because there's no point in lyin' there. And I would need straps to keep me still. Maybe I'm not awake. That would explain what happens. But I'm up, I'm movin'. I might as well be awake, because I'm aware.
I have to move, I can't keep still. I go from one side to the other, back and forth, faster and faster. If I had more space I'd get up such a head of steam that I'd likely run right up the damn wall. It's worse than ever tonight. Tonight I can hear him.
I know it's him, and I know deep inside that I'm not goin' crazy. Not in any way psychiatry could understand, anyway. Grace told me about his letter, about how he was goin' to America. He must be there now. I don't care what she says--that fucker's almost close enough to touch tonight. Almost.
I haven't told Gracie about it. She's worried enough as it is, bless 'er. When she was by to say good night a little while ago, I made an extra effort to fight the peevishness and irritation that's been makin' me snap at everyone close to me. She doesn't deserve it, I know that. But the concern is startin' to feel smotherin'. I think if I could just go out, stretch my legs, run... under the moon.
My head is buzzin' with white noise. I know that the wakin' dream has started, and I'm glad Gracie is gone. I'm not sure I would've been able to act normal enough to keep her from realizin' what was goin' on. She might have given up and dropped me in the booby hatch, for my own good, of course.
I know I'm dreamin', because the cell is larger now, much larger. And it's not the cell anymore. Or not just the cell. The wall opposite the window is gone, faded away, mist curling the edges. Somehow I know that anyone who looked in here would see only the solid, damp stones. This is only for me. Me, and that figure that's appearin' through the fog, on the far side.
That's what I see first, the far side. The middle ground is somehow obscured at first. But in the distance I see what looks like the livin' room of a pleasant, modern apartment. There are stairs barely visible at one side, leadin' up to another level. I could make out details, if I tried, I think. But my attention is caught by the figure on the couch.
I recognize him immediately. It's the young man from the forest, but he looks so different now. He isn't the huddled, shiverin', hurtin' creature I saw before. Now I can see the grace and strength of his compact body. He sprawls on the sofa on his belly. The wonderful spill of brown curls half hides his face. He looks a little older. Not quite so innocent. He's passed through pain and trouble, is passing through it still.
I didn't think about men before I came to Germany. Oh, I wasn't homophobic. I could look at a man, and openly admit that he was a handsome devil. I recognized sexy in other males. I never had the urge to act on it, though. The thought didn't disgust me, probably because it had never been given any real consideration. There were plenty of opportunities. New Orleans is, after all The Big Easy. But I've always loved the ladies, in their infinite variety. I still love them. But now... That kid sure does have a sweet lookin' ass. And I find that, wakin' or sleepin', I keep rememberin'...
I finally admitted to myself that the night at the Baron's house, after the blonde left... Yes, she did leave, an' she didn't come back. That wasn't a dream, no matter how much I wish it was, or tell myself it could have been. No, Frederick von Glower came to my room and gave me the most toes curlin' oral sex I've ever had, and I let him. Hell, I encouraged him. I like to think that if I'd opened my eyes earlier it would have been different. I like to think that I'd have yelled, hit, anythin'. But if I'm honest with myself I think now that it probably would have ended the same way, with me limp with satisfaction, and my come on Frederick's lips. Von Zell delivered me into Frederick's hands, but I can't say I wasn't headed there already.
There's someone in the middle distance. He seems to be sittin' on the side of a bed, a bed that has no place in either my here or the young man's Blair there. His words come to me out of the swirl of noise that has filled my mind. And instead of bein' angry, or frightened, I'm grateful, because they're somethin' I can hold onto.
"Show yourself to me, Gabriel. Show yourself to your brother. Let us see how wonderful you are, how strong." I obey the whispered words, almost rippin' my shirt as I remove it. I turn from them, and stare out the window at the moon, accusin' it. Lovin' it.
"Touch yourself, Gabriel. Let your hands be my hands. Feel me touch you." I do as he commands, caressin' myself, imaginin' that it is not my own square hands, but his: longer, more elegant ones. Together we draw pleasure from my body, strokin' and pinchin' my nipples to achin' erectness. I feel my already over heated blood rise even more, pumpin' to my cock.
The jeans and underwear go. I stand nude in the chilled air, and keep touchin' myself. Belly, thighs, chest, anywhere my shadow lover craves. I turn back to face him and the other, leanin' against the wall behind me for support because I know that my legs will become weak with what I'm about to do. He wants my cock, so I take it in my hands... his hands. I am hard, engorged. Silvery precome oozes, and I use it for lubrication, to make the slide of my flesh against my palms easier.
As I work myself,the dream master turns his attention to the manboy lying on the couch, and begins his whispered seduction. "Blair, do you see? See how perfect he is. You can have him, Blair. You can have each other. It's so easy, if you just come to me. Let me love you."
The hands... the hands move again now, stretched out toward the boy, who stirs uneasily. I watch as Blair moves, his arm crooked back, his hand seekin' beneath his shorts. When he moans, I speed up, because I seem to feel it, too. Dear lord, I'm feelin' so much. It's as if I can feel it all, my hands on him, in him. But feelin' what he feels also.
The specter hands move, push. He thrusts his finger deep, pumpin' hard, whimperin' in pain and pleasure. His hips move rapidly as he rubs the hard mound of his prick against the sofa. And through it all, his eyes remain shut. I think, perhaps, that I am sharin' this nightmare with him, wherever he is.
It can't last long. I come, and have a passin' question of how often some poor, lonely prisoner has spilled his seed on this cold floor, relievin' terror or boredom for a few brief seconds with the rush of release. When I come, I scream his name. The name of the bastard who did this to me, who is still doin' this to me.
Then it's over, and I'm alone. The wall opposite is sanely, prosaically solid, has never been anythin' but solid. And I smell Grace, standin' outside the door. Well, Gracie, people who snoop seldom find out anythin' that really pleases them, do they? I get dressed again, because it's cold, and I lie back down, pullin' up the blanket. After a moment, I hear her leave. That gave you somethin' to think about, didn't it, Grace? Gave me somethin' to think about, too.
I have to go to him. I'll leave tomorrow--the next day, at the latest. I know where I'm goin', it's in the letter. Cascade, Washington. He won't be hard to find, once I'm there.
I'll smell him.
Dangerous Liason
Baron von Glower's POV
I think that this has done it. It was not easy, reaching my two beloveds at once, letting them see each other. It was draining, but I have no doubt it was effective. How could it not be? Bless them, they are vulnerable when they sleep. No matter how guarded they may be in their conscious life, the barriers come down when Morpheus gives his gift. They lower, at least a little, and I was able to reach over, and touch.
Gabriel...
Blair...
You will come to me, I am certain of it. You may not yet be ready to surrender yourself, but you cannot resist the call. You are both blood of my blood, you belong to me, and I will have what is mine. You only hurt yourselves when you struggle against what must be. It is so much sweeter to give in.
Who will be first? Though I have shared Gabriel's passion, he still tries to deny the need. I think he finally admitted to himself what he secretly knew to be the truth about that night in Hamburg. He tried so hard to believe that it was a dream, but now he knows that it was my hands on his body, my mouth on his rigid cock. It was I who brought him to completion, and he did not fight, he did not even protest. He merely accepted, by not accepting.
My physical tie may be a bit stronger with my angel, but I believe it will be my cub who comes to me first, if for no other reason than his proximity. But his spirit is closer to mine, also. He already had a bit of the wolf in him before Von Zell took his innocense and gave him my gift. He was more ready to realize what could be, he already desired one of his own kind. His friend, Jim, had awakened him to the possibilities.
He seems like an intelligent man, this Ellison. How is it that he allowed himself to be blinded to the attractions of his companion for so long? If they had joined before the boy felt the fang, it would be more difficult to woo him away. But the bond is still new, still unsettled. I believe it can be uprooted. I will try. I will succeed. I must.
I am a little tired. It was not easy, influencing them across the miles. It took all my will, all my strength to orchestrate. But it was worth it. Men go their whole lives and never in all that time see sights to match the eroticism of what I witnessed, and experienced.
The golden angel, the slim, pale youth... writhing in the grip of lust, pleasureing themselves and, in so doing, pleasuring each other... and me. The tremble of the strong muscles in Gabriel's naked thighs...The hard thrust of Blair's hand as he worked his finger in his own tight back passage... Good, so good... But not nearly enough. Not nearly.
Darkness has fallen. Perhaps I should nap now--a bit of rest before I plan my next move... There is a knock at the door. I go to it and stand for a moment, hand on the knob. There are only two people I could reasonably expect to come here, since Gabriel is still in Germany. Unless it is someone from the hotel with business of some sort.
The knock comes again, louder and more impatient. I lean closer, and sniff the scent that drifts through the cracks around the door. Herbs and beer. Soap, but beneath that, sleep sweat and come. I smile, trying not to let the wolf show through too clearly, and open the door.
Blair's POV
I stand in front of the door for almost two minutes before I finally have the nerve to lift my hand and knock. There is no answer, and I almost turn and hurry away before there can be. Instead I knock again, knuckles rapping on the polished wood in an impatient staccato burst. Again I think of going, fleeing back to the elevator. But the door opens, and there he is.
The Baron no longer wears his conservative, rough tweeds. He is wearing simple dark trousers and a casual shirt of soft white silk, open at the throat down to where I can see the divide of his pectorals. He smiles at me, and I know that he is not surprised. That he has been expecting me. "Blair." It is both a greeting, and an invitation, and I step past him into the room.
He shuts the door and turns to me, and I say, "I'm here to talk. That's all." He smiles, and nods. His eyes say that if I want to believe this, it is nothing to him. He is willing to indulge my self deception.
He ushers me to a chair and offers me a drink. I decline, but he calls room service anyway and orders wine, in case I change my mind, he says. He pulls a chair close to mine and sits, his knee nearly touching my own. "What do you want to know, Blair? Ask me anything, I will answer, I will not evade. And I will tell you the truth."
"How much do you know about what happened to me in Germany? In... in the woods that night."
He sits back, hands resting easily on the arms of the chair, watching me. "I know you were there with your friend--your good friend. I saw you that afternoon, together. There was some sort of trouble between you, I think, and later you came to the woods alone. I saw you, from the lodge. You seemed forlorn. I worried about you, because I knew there was danger."
He told me of how his own friend Gabriel had discovered the horror in the cave. How he had learned of the madness and savagery of his other friend, Von Zell, and knew that he had to end it. How he and Gabriel had hunted the madman through the night forest. Gabriel was attacked, and forced to kill the lunatic to save himself and Frederick.
"I know what he did to you. He chased you, hunted you down as prey. And when he caught you he beat you. He savaged you." He reaches, and lightly touches my shoulder, just where the starburst scar lies. His pale blue eyes look directly into mine. "He raped you." I shudder. "He would not have been able to resist you, Blair. Not even had he been in his more civilized state." I am horrified by what he says next. "And he made you enjoy it, didn't he?"
Dear lord, how could he know that? No one, no one but Jim and myself knew that sad and sordid fact. When they asked me for the official statement, I lied. Even though I can see that he knows the truth, I still shake my head. His smile is sad, but implacable. "I don't believe you, Blair. I know how it was with him. He was my lover, you see. He was very skilled, and very determined. Hateful in many ways, but he could fuck magnificently."
I feel a jolt of heat in my crotch. Hearing this urbane, smooth man speak in such a raunchy manner with that almost gentle, cultivated tone is unexpectedly erotic. "I didn't want to."
"Of course not. But the body sometimes overides the will. He had you on your hands and knees, yes? I remember how badly they were scraped. Rather foolish of him. I would think it would be better to have you on your back." The heat is moving through my body. "The penetration is deeper, more intense. And then I would be able to kiss you, to see your face."
I. He said I, not he. Oh, God. My mouth is dry, but I manage to speak. I have to turn the conversation out of this path. "In the hospital... My wounds... they healed so fast."
Again he nods. There is a knock at the door. "Just a moment, Blair." He goes to the door, then to the mini bar, and returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I don't protest this time when he offers me the brimming glass. I take it gratefully. The red wine is at once strong and smooth, the mellow tang quieting my nerves a bit. He sips his own, and waits for me to speak.
"The place where he bit me, it should only be half healed by now, but it looks old."
"Yes. We heal quickly."
"We?"
"Our kind. What do you know of lycanthropy, Blair? You are an anthropologist. You must have run across references to it many times."
"Almost every culture has it's shapechanger myths."
"Wouldn't their pervasiveness lead you to think that there might be something more concrete behind them? Something that universal must have a basis."
"There are documented cases that seem to suggest..." I trail off.
He says softly. "Proof of the truth sits before you, Blair. It runs in your veins. It sleeps in a prison cell in Germany." And he begins to tell me about The Black Wolf, and Schattenjaegers, a not quite man tied to a stake and howling in flames, a flight to South America by a frightened little boy and his distraught mother, a long exile, and a return.
He tells me about Ludwig of Bavaria, and how he could not accept the gift of the blood, but chose madness and suicide. He tells me about the long years of loneliness, the companions sought, then lost to madness, the developement of 'The Beast's Philosophy', and his hope that it would produce men strong enough to join him, and share his life. Of his hope and delight when he found Von Zell, and his sorrow when the man failed him, and had to be 'released'. Of Gabriel Knight, who would soon realize where his destiny lay. "And you, Blair."
My glass is empty, and he fills it again. I realize vaguely that this is not the first time he has done this: the bottle is near empty. When did I drink it? His glass is still half full. "That isn't possible." My voice is thick. I'm not sure if it's the wine, or my confusion and disbelief. I won't believe him. I can't.
Again he smiles, and I feel a touch. I look down to find his hand on my knee. His fingers spread, flex, squeeze. "You're thinking too much, little cub. There's nothing rational about this, nothing civilized." I look at the hand. I should move it. I should stand up and leave, before this goes any further.
But then von Glower takes my hand, and draws me to my feet. "I know of a place where it might be easier for you to see things as they are."
He tugs me out into the corridore, and to the elevator. I let him lead me, even though I know this is dangerous, on many levels. The man must be mad himself, given the tale he has told me. He believes himself to be a werewolf, hundreds of years old. He believes he has killed countless people, and this is a terrifyingly real possibility. He could very well have been a part of Von Zell's madness. And he wants me, and I have to think of Jim.
In the elevator, I back into a corner. He is not aggressive, not insistant, but he touches me lightly, softly: my hand, my hair, my shoulder. I don't flinch, I don't try to avoid his hands.
On the top floor he leads me down a hall. The door is marked 'Roof Garden'. He has a key. As he unlocks it, he explains, "An expensive privilige, but well worth it." We step through, and we are out on the roof. I look around, stunned, as he relocks the door. I didn't know this place existed.
It is, indeed, a garden. They have laid sod, and it looks like nothing more than a section of park land. The only difference is that the small trees and bushes occupy tubs instead of sprouting straight from the ground. They are even arranged so that there are natural seeming clumps and tangles. It isn't all pretty and formal. At the far side there is a glint of water. They even have a sunken body of water, an artificial pond. It is a bit of the outdoors transported here, high above the city. Here we are above the exhaust fumes, the urban stink. A cool breeze blows, lifting my hair. The stars are thickly sprinkled, and the moon...
The moon...the moon...
It's been so long since I viewed it save from behind a barrier of glass, and here it is now. Great, bright, and somehow closer, intimate. I can feel the beams washing over me, batheing me, caressing me...
I tip back my head and drink it all in. It fills me. That odd feeling, that huge buzz of energy is rising, threatening to burst me. I hear von Glower. "Go, child. Go to meet the night. Find yourself."
I walk out onto the grass with no set destination, no purpose. Something is waiting for me here. Some discovery, some revelation that is incredibly old. Isn't this what my whole life has been about, seeking the ancient truths?
I move out under the moonlight, and open myself to whatever I will find.
The Lonely Watchman
Jim's POV
I shouldn't have left him alone. I should have found some way to beg off this assignment, maybe claim I was sick. Lord knows I have enough sick leave accumulated. But I shouldn't have left him alone. The last time I did that when he was feeling bad was...
I sigh heavily. Megan, on the other side of the front seat, looks over at me questioningly, and I just shake my head. My relationship with Blair is accepted without being talked about in Major Crimes. They know we've been having problems. Neither of us ever says anything, but I guess you don't need Sentinel senses to see the signs.
The not talking is part of the problem. He needs to talk about what happened, what he's feeling, and I can't help him with that. I'm better, since I've been with him. Given time, I may be able to learn to open up. But I don't think I could handle it, hearing his pain. I'd crawl across broken glass for him, but I don't think I could bear hearing what that son of a bitch did to him. It was bad enough seeing the results. I guess I'm a selfish bastard, but I just can't give him that right now.
I keep urging him to talk to one of the doctors. Christ, all those years he spent in therapy, you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult for him. What the fuck do I know? I remember my reaction the few times it's been suggested I might benefit from some time with the brain probers. I can't blame him, but it doesn't change the fact that they won't let him come back to work till he gets councelling.
He doesn't need any reminders of Germany, and who should show up in the office, big as life, but the baron. Brick wall on top of the head time. I suppose there's someone who's more likely not to have shown up, but I can't think of them offhand. Who flys halfway around the world to check on the well being of a stranger they knew for all of, say, an hour? That goes past eccentric into suspicious.
I don't like the guy. I was grateful to him when he provided shelter and a means to get help for Blair. He seemed to have had some hand in killing the fucker who hurt my partner, so that was in his favor. But there's something not right about him. I was too distracted to get a firm fix on it in Germany.
Maybe it was the way he acted toward Gabriel, the man who'd actually shot Von Zell, and been wounded in the process.. Not that he was cold, hostile, or indifferent to the suffering man. On the contrary. He was... Care is one thing, he was acting possessive. Oh, yeah, like I wasn't like that with Blair. But I didn't sense an attitude from Gabriel that would have warranted that. He didn't look to von Glower for comfort or reassurance, like Blair did with me. The intimacy didn't flow both ways.
I think that's what made me suspicious when I heard that Knight hadn't been brought in to the hospital, that someone had cancelled the ambulance. All I could think was, "Well, the baron found a way to get his hands on him." I had to speak up. But before I could follow through on it, those stupid fuckers tried to give Blair the rape check, and he understandably freaked. I couldn't hang around. I had asses to kick and names to take. Still, remembering the acid cold determination in the pretty little oriental's eyes, I thought that Gabriel had a good chance of having his butt hauled out of whatever fire it had fallen into.
It looks like I must have been mistaken, since von Glower is still running around loose. Even if he wasn't actually in jail, surely he wouldn't be allowed to leave the country if he was under suspicion of anything. I should have asked him about Knight at lunch. He probably hasn't left town yet. Maybe I'll get a chance to ask him later.
No, I hope he hopped an afternoon plane back to Germany, out of my life. Out of Blair's life.
Yeah, be honest with yourself, Ellison. That's what's really bugging you. He's good looking, he's smooth, he's rich, and he's interested in Blair. Not even all that subtle about it. It comes off him in fucking waves.
Shit. I'm jealous. It doesn't help that Blair seems to be giving the interest back. That hurts. I can tell myself that it doesn't mean anything. He's young, he hasn't been interested in guys long, it's natural for him to look. But it still hurts.
God, I hope I'm not reading too much into this. And what the hell do I mean by 'this'? Blair and von Glower? Yeah, I don't want it to mean as much as I'm afraid it does.
Me and Blair? Have I assumed too much about our relationship? I've just been taking it for granted that it was forever. What if that isn't what he wants? He says it's love. I know it is for me. But there's something tearing him up inside right now, and I don't seem to be able to help him. Shouldn't you be able to help the one you love? Take care of them?
What if I'm the first, but only the first? What if he leaves me?
No. That's not gonna happen. I can't even let myself consider that. He couldn't leave me, he wouldn't.
Please, God.
