Trial by Fire
Ian Sheldon has come to Whitehaven Hall to undergo the trial that
will initiate him into the brutal world of mage adepts, where
slaughter is the reward for weakness and power alike. Ian knows
the reality of the ranks he seeks to enter—his father was
murdered by another mage.
Aodh Graeme is a surly but sensuously handsome demon with
fiery hair and copper eyes—and a violent need for blood. Aodh is
Ian’s servant and guide for the trials, magically bound to Ian for
the duration of his test. This bond flows their magic between
them, heightening the fierce attraction Ian already feels for the
laconic demon. But, the alternate reality hosting the trials shows
Ian his intimidating guide may not be trustworthy.
As Ian progresses towards the lurid horizon that houses his
ultimate goal, he must decide if he will surrender to Aodh’s
sensual pull—and possibly become the next victim of the mages.
Genre: Alternative (M/M or F/F), Contemporary, Fantasy
Length: 22,981 words
TRIAL BY FIRE
Terra Laurent
EROTIC ROMANCE
MANLOVE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance ManLove
TRIAL BY FIRE
Copyright © 2012 by Terra Laurent
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-832-6
First E-book Publication: July 2012
Cover design by Harris Channing
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be
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PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
To L.A. Without you I would not be here.
TRIAL BY FIRE
TERRA LAURENT
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One:
Whitehaven Seat
Whitehaven Seat had been the subject of speculative talk around
the family table since Ian was able to sit properly in his chair and hold
a fork. He had always known he would come here on the twenty-
second hour of his twenty-second birthday, the truth of it strewn
across the sky as clearly as the stars themselves—well, at least on
nights when the stars were actually visible. Although his purpose was
clear, his resolve felt as murky and shadowed as the pitch clouds
overshadowing the heavens. He pulled at his hat brim in a futile
attempt to divert the icy rivulets from his eyes. His life, studies, even
soul had been trained on achieving this very moment, his admission to
the ultimate proving ground, but how could he do what his family
expected of him with so few years at his back? How could he convey
power in a pair of sodden kakis, a discount store pea coat, and wool
cap? His entire history simultaneously screamed of potential victory
and unquestionable defeat. Oh, yes, he was indeed destined to arrive
this very night and face the horrors that awaited him behind those
massive oak doors. Treading across the saturated driveway with rain
pelting his freshly shorn head and mud filling his common,
uninspiring shoes, Ian found little comfort in the knowledge.
Trial by Fire
9
A dour man in a three-piece black suit swung open one of the
front doors. He gazed down at Ian as one would inspect a rat washed
up from the sewer. Ian tried not to shrink under the man’s scrutiny, as
most sorcerers only hired members of their own kind, and this one
would be certain to tell his master of even the slightest sign of
weakness.
“Mister Sheldon?” the man asked.
“I am Ian Sheldon,” he replied. “I’ve come to see Mr. Taylent.”
“He is expecting you in the drawing room.” The man stepped
back. “Please leave your shoes and personal items here.” He gestured
to the duffle bags slung over each of Ian’s shoulders. “I will place
them in your room.”
Ian slipped out of his shoes, deeply aware of the chilly stone floor
against his damp socks. He wasn’t certain if this humiliation was part
of the ritual, or if Mr. Taylent was simply against having mud
dragged across his fine rugs. The man helped take the bags from his
shoulders and assisted him out of his jacket. His sweater was in better
shape than his socks. Only a swath of the neckline clung like a used
washcloth against his neck. Grateful he had very little hair left to
worry over, he pulled the cap from his head and handed that, too, to
the gentleman. As the man turned, arms full, and carried his things
over to a nearby table Ian fought the urge to call him back. His
possessions, meager as they were, were all he had left of his previous
life—of his parents and younger sister, and all they symbolized—and
standing in the cavernous foyer of the estate caused in him a desperate
desire to cling to any residual connection, no matter how
insignificant. He bit his tongue against his protestation as the servant
laid item on top of item, kept it firm between his teeth until the
manservant returned to face him.
“Thank you,” Ian said. His gratitude sounded more sincere than it
felt. “May I please see Mr. Taylent, now?”
“Follow me,” the man said. Ian waited for an admonishment to
steer clear of the carpeting, or to not touch any of the number of rare
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Terra Laurent
and intriguing items lining the room’s walls, but it never came.
Apparently, he didn’t look as much like a vagrant as he suspected, or
the butler simply had better manners than to rub it in.
He followed the man into a dimly lit room. The expansive walls
were lined with a rich dark paneling. An ornate fireplace occupied
much of the wall to his right, its grate large enough to cradle a small
pony. Along the facade carved angels and demons struggled to fling
one another into the conflagration below. Facing the fire was a
semicircle of thickly cushioned chairs, the centermost one presently
occupied by an elderly man. He was slight in build, with a head of
thick white hair, and a closely groomed mustache. The firelight
flickered across a parched desert floor of wrinkles held in place by a
royal blue tracksuit.
“Mr. Ian Sheldon for you, sir,” the servant announced.
“Thank you, Carl.” His host’s voice was like crinkling paper, as
dry and cracked as his flesh. He turned his head to study Ian with a
piercing look that traveled the length his long, hawk nose. Ian forced
his gaze to lock with Mr. Taylent’s eyes—as stormy gray and
flickering with potential violent energy as the outside night—and was
certain the sorcerer had not only heard Ian’s insulting thought, but
knew of every other one his tissue paper skull had ever housed.
“Sir, I’m Ian Sheldon,” Ian said, mustering the courage to forge
ahead with the formal introductions. He kept his hands at his sides.
Many magicians tried to siphon their competitors’ power under the
guise of a handshake, making what most people saw as a common
courtesy a dangerous insult. “I’ve come for my trial.”
“So you have.” Mr. Taylent smiled, and the fissures in his face
lifted into something slightly more congenial to behold. “You are the
two hundred and twenty-second to come to this house, did you
know?”
“I didn’t.” Ian felt there was a world of revelations to examine in
that statement, but his attention had little room for more than a brief
flash of curiosity before his anxiety burned it away.
Trial by Fire
11
“It’s true. Eleven score young men have passed through these
doors on the twenty-second hour of their twenty-second day. That you
are this number may be consequential, or inconsequential. Either way,
this is indeed interesting.” Mr. Taylent looked up. He took in Ian’s
dampness, the fabric slouching from his toes in soggy defeat. “I
would invite you to sit, but that would be to count you as an equal.
And you are not yet that, are you?”
“No, sir.” Ian refused to let the insult take root. It was all part of
the trial he would have to endure before he was rewarded.
“Tell, me, young Mr. Sheldon, what are your thoughts on Hell on
Earth?”
“Excuse me?” was all Ian could manage in reply. He hadn’t heard
that question in years, and even then it hadn’t been posed in such a
blunt manner.
“It’s a routine question, one a child of half your age could readily
answer in ‘good’ versus ‘evil’ terms. I’m sure you answered it once or
twice during your studies?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, you would know the basic answer is a weathervane of
sorts for teachers to understand their students’ basic inclinations. I’m
sure you chose your path years ago, and that is not for me to judge, or
change—not that I could at this point in your education, am I right?”
Mr. Taylent cleared his throat and continued without waiting for an
answer. “What I want to know is, how does the concept sit with you,
practically speaking? Many mages have desired to bring Hell to Earth,
talked a big game about gloom and doom, all while sitting in houses
far cozier than this one. So, would you like to see Hell on Earth, Mr.
Sheldon? As I said, I’m not here to judge your moral compass, as I
am only a proctor, if you will, for your final testing.”
“Speaking plainly, then.” Ian waited for the slight nod of
permission to continue and said, “I suppose it might seem alluring in a
romantic sense, lording over Earth with a vast hoard of demons at
one’s beck and call, but—”
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Terra Laurent
“So, there is to be a ‘but,’ then?” Mr. Taylent interrupted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have at it.”
“But, it seems to me that demons—even if well controlled
magically—aren’t acclimated to our lifestyle. From what I’ve learned,
most demon dimensions don’t have our social structure and therefore
cannot understand our rules for etiquette, or our love for things like
utensils and indoor plumbing.”
Mr. Taylent stared, his face turning a ghastly red. Ian immediately
regretted his flippant remark. He hadn’t meant to offend, but he often
got punchy when lack of food and sleep combined forces with high
stress situations.
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t like Hell on Earth because there
would be demon shit everywhere?”
Ian could only nod and hope Butler Carl would take pity on him
and call a cab.
“A boy after my own heart,” Mr. Taylent cried, finishing his
exclamation with a wheezy, prolonged laugh. “Keep below the things
that belong below, eh?”
Ian’s stomach churned at the underlying sentiment, but he
remained impassive.
“Well, well,” Mr. Taylent said. He wiped an invisible tear of mirth
from the corner of his eye. “The hour is getting late and your days
here will test you beyond your mortal strength. So, we should get
down to business. Choose a set of curtains.” He waved a hand at Ian’s
left.
On the far wall sat a bank of three large windows—most likely
with stunning views of the legendary abundant gardens and wide river
that edged the manor—covered in heavy green velvet drapes.
Ian tensed. Was it starting already? When he was so cold, wet, and
tired?
Of course it’s starting when you’re cold, wet, and tired, he berated
himself.
Trial by Fire
13
This was a test, a test of mettle, skill, endurance, and wits. It
wasn’t a bed-and-breakfast. He quickly cycled through the spells
housed in his head. He flexed his fingers, felt the magic thrum from
the white light centered in his forehead all the way to their tips. It was
quite possible Mr. Taylent had wanted him to walk up to the curtains
and pull his chosen one aside, but as his proctor hadn’t specified that
in his instructions, Ian decided to stay a safe distance from whatever
danger that might be lurking on the other side. He stared at the
curtains and let his senses relax. He had heard the tales of Whitehaven
Seat—beasts, spirits, night terrors that clunked down the hallway with
razored claws—all of it supposition and urban legends spun decades
before by boys awaiting their turn in the house where Ian now stood.
But, simply because their tales were wild guesses didn’t mean they
couldn’t be true. He searched for an inkling of what rested behind the
thick draperies, but could pick up nothing. He flicked his eyes from
curtain to curtain, letting his aura roll over each one, seeping into the
fabric and behind, touching—
Like a whip his magic lashed out and seized hold of something
behind the far right curtain. He struggled to gulp down his terror as he
felt magic—dark magic—creep along the length of his power,
encircling it like a boa to a goat, squeezing and inching along until it
reached his chest. The invasive presence burned there, hot and
terrifying, like the palm of a molten iron giant.
“You have chosen?”
“Riig—” Ian broke off and then tried again. “The right one.” He
took a defensive stance, certain the owner of the power now
interlinked with his would beeline to him once the curtain snapped
back.
“Very well.” Mr. Taylent drew the curtain from where he sat with
a flick of his hand.
A figure hunched on the window seat, knees drawn to chest,
shoulders bowed. Its head was capped in a mass of candy-apple-red
hair that stuck out at odd angles in every direction.
14
Terra Laurent
“Eh?” Mr. Taylent said. “Could you come over here?”
Ian obediently moved to the front of Mr. Taylent’s chair.
“Yes?” The elderly man looked away from the being hunched on
the sill. “Do you need something?”
“You told me to come here.”
A short bark of derisive laughter from across the room cleared the
confusion from the elderly man’s face.
“A. O. D. H.” The figure on the window seat spelled out with no
lack of venom. “Aodh. It’s my name.”
“Aodh, please be polite. Celtic names can be difficult for those
unused to hearing them,” Mr. Taylent said. “What are you doing?”
“Watching the rain.”
“Could you come here, please? I wish for you to meet someone.”
Ian watched the creature unfurl its long legs from the seat. He
pushed off from the cushion and strode into view. He was over six
feet tall, with lean muscles showing plainly beneath a fitted T-shirt
and tight jeans. His bare feet made no sound against the floor as he
approached.
“Mr. Sheldon, this your selected guide, Aodh Graeme. He will be
your only contact during these next twenty-two days. He will make
sure you stay on the true path, as well as provide for your every need
so that you might face your trial with a clear head.”
Aodh crossed around the back of Mr. Taylent’s chair and stood
opposite him. Ian offered him what he hoped to be his best I’m-an-
average-working-Joe-who’s-on-your-side, open smile. His greeting
was repaid by narrowed eyes that burned amber in the firelight, and
twitching razor slashes of cheekbone framing a full-lipped sneer. Ian
felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks and his grin slid away. He
wanted to say something reassuring, or astute, something that spoke
of the mage he would soon become. Instead, he began to stutter.
“I, uh, Aodh...Tha...Thanks, thanks f–f—”
“Our chamber is in the east wing at the end of the hall. Your
belongings will be there when you arrive. I will draw you a bath
Trial by Fire
15
before I bring your dinner.” Aodh didn’t wait for a reply, but turned
on his heel and stalked out of the room, shoulders flung forward in a
defensive slouch.
Ian watched him go, his deep humiliation waging war with an
unexpected, groin-twisting surge of imaginings of surly red caps and
baths. The rule of his family—and of most magical families—was
love as thou wilt. Same-gender attraction was not an issue. However,
squelching distractions while training was an issue he had long been
forced to endure. If lust was frowned upon while studying, he was
certain it would be downright forbidden while undergoing his trials.
He thought of the shocking red hair, angular face, and almost cruel lift
of Aodh’s mouth, and resigned to settle his libido for nearly two
dozen long days.
“Our interactions will be limited, of course,” Mr. Taylent said,
rousing him from his thoughts. Ian turned his attention back to the
elderly sorcerer, who was regarding him with interest. “If you have
questions about the legitimacy of any test, we may speak. But, be
certain to always go through Aodh. He will record our interactions so
their content may never be questioned. He is your mark of honor, Ian,
the bearer of your emerging good stead in the community, as well as
your only ally in these coming trials. Treat him well, and he will do
the same.”
“I don’t think he likes me,” Ian mused out loud.
“Of course not.” Mr. Taylent laughed. “He doesn’t like anybody.
He’s a red cap.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian said. He had briefly studied red caps a few years
before. A photograph from one website crept up from his memory
before he could suppress it—a chest cavity opened like a piñata, trails
of blood, fiery red footprints dotting the floor as if in dance.
“If that is all, then I will be wishing you good night, and good
luck,” Mr. Taylent said. “I hope and don’t hope we have longer to
catch up in the future.”
“Sir?”
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Terra Laurent
“Compared to average humans, sorcerers are few in this country,
in the world even. I am in a unique position to vet every potential
great wizard on the east coast, Mr. Sheldon. If it hasn’t escaped your
attention you can see I have brought a few of the potential greats to
work for me here.”
“Potential only?”
“Well, the great ones don’t want to be house servants, do they?”
Mr. Taylent shook his head. “No, they go on to do their own things,
carve out their own territories and such. We sorcerers are a
competitive lot, you know.”
“I do, sir.” Ian thought of his own father, the territorial battle, and
the deformity that slowly ate him away...
“Well, as your proctor, I of course want you to do well. If you do
badly, you know as well as I do our world has a way of weeding out
the weaker ones. And that would be a pity.”
The room spun.
A pity.
Bile filled his throat.
His face hadn’t even been his own at the end. His bones like jelly
encased in ribbon candy, cracking and oozing at the gentlest touch.
Ian choked back his rage.
Quite the pity.
“If you do less than expected, but still perform acceptably, I might
find you a place here, and we can get to know one another,” Mr.
Taylent continued.
“You said you ‘hope and don’t hope,’ sir,” Ian prodded.
“Yes, well, I don’t like to see anyone’s potential permanently
limited, but if you do well, you will be out of my protection and off
into the wild world of magic. You would cease to be my charge, and
by the ways of our people could never be my friend. In fact, you
would, just by being skilled enough to excel in my tests, become my
mortal enemy. And I find that sad, Mr. Sheldon.”
Trial by Fire
17
Ian pushed back down the terror that had risen in his stomach. He
gave a formal bow to the man who suddenly looked less like a mean-
spirited octogenarian and more like a velociraptor in blue nylon.
“Good night, sir. And thank you for your hospitality.”
“You are most welcome, Mr. Sheldon,” Mr. Taylent called behind
him. “And, I am dreadfully sorry about murdering your father.”
Ian retreated, his gut churning with sickness. It had been the first
test, and he had passed. He could lament the emotional cost of that
victory, later. For now, he hand other trials to face and conquer. His
family, poor, disgraced, and discredited, needed a new mage to usher
them back into comfort and security, and he was to be that adept, no
matter what. He could not envision his little sister standing there in
that room, facing Mr. Taylent’s venomous truths. He followed Aodh’s
directions up the stairs, glad to be away from the toxic presence in the
drawing room, but dreading the next eight hours in which he would be
locked away with the equally disconcerting creature who was now
magically bound to him, and currently running water in his bath tub.
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Chapter Two:
Day One
“Mr. Sheldon.”
In his dream he was running, frantically following a dying flame
through a dense forest. Around him, the trees formed claws from their
branches, snatching at him as he fled past, calling out his name.
“Mr. Sheldon, sir.”
This time one of the trees caught hold, seizing his upper arm in a
rough grip, shaking him over and over.
“Mr. Sheldon!”
Ian started awake. A lamp had been turned on. A shock of
intensely red hair filtered its brilliance, giving the face belonging to it
a rosy glow, and lending it the only hint of softness Ian suspected it
had ever known.
“Mr. Sheldon, it is day one,” was all Aodh said before releasing
his arm and turning away.
Ian stared at the red cap’s back, once again hunched away from
him. Aodh had indeed run his bath the night before, as well as
unpacked his unessential items and gathered his essential ones in a
practical messenger bag for convenient carrying. He had done each of
these tasks with quiet grace and perfunctory professionalism, but his
every courtesy seemed a transparent veneer overlying seething,
bottomless loathing. He watched as Aodh quickly stripped off his tee
and sweatpants, showing a flash of perfectly sculpted long muscles
marred by countless horizontal scars on his flanks. Ian had a fraction
of a second to wonder if Mr. Taylent was an abusive employer before
Aodh stiffened and cast a malevolent glare over his shoulder.
Trial by Fire
19
“You should be dressing, Mr. Sheldon. This day will not wait for
you.” Aodh pulled on a black T-shirt and a pair of black military style
pants, and then set about stuffing numerous objects into the many
pockets. “If you are not prepared in ten minutes, then it is a sorry day
for you.”
“I’ll be ready.” It was easier to draw in his focus with Aodh fully
dressed. He gave Aodh a conciliatory look of apology, which seemed
to slide off the red cap like oil from Teflon.
Ian grabbed the clothes Aodh had laid out for him the night
before, and for the next seven minutes busied himself in the
bathroom, focusing on the mundane in order to quell the rising panic
in his chest. No adept initiate knew what he would face in his trials.
They were tailored specifically to test each individual, to find the
weaknesses within the adept candidate’s soul and root them out—or
set them festering. Ian stole a glance into the other room at the man—
no, he wasn’t quite that, was he?—folding the blanket he had used as
a bed the night before. He wasn’t certain he trusted the red cap to
watch his back in the darkest trials. Black magic had a way of seeping
into everything around. It could cast the purest snow in ugly shadow.
By his very nature Ian’s guide already possessed a generous helping
of darkness, and Ian was fairly certain the scars adorning his body
proved he had done little to check his innate desires. What would
happen to that tainted soul when the trials took their most sinister
turn? Ian was certain it would not be pleasant, or safe, to witness.
“Two minutes, sir,” Aodh said from the bedroom, not bothering to
turn around to address him.
Ian finished shaving and wiped clean on a towel. He pulled on
loose jeans, a T-shirt, and a thin gray sweater. It wasn’t Aodh’s
military combat gear, but it made him feel comfortable, normal. His
mother had said that was the best way to feel in the trials, normal, as it
would remind him of home and what was at stake for all of them. In
the bedroom he grabbed his hiking boots and laced them on, all the
while acutely aware of Aodh’s laconic impatience. He double-
20
Terra Laurent
checked the contents of his bag, at which Aodh snorted in offended
irritation. It was all there, all that he was permitted to carry—a thin
bedroll, a small amount of dried food, a handwritten notebook
containing a few of the more difficult to replicate mystical spells,
general notes on spell work and demonology. He flipped through the
pages, noting a few lines had been redacted. So, Aodh hadn’t been
simply packing his things for him last night. He had been making sure
he wasn’t entering the tests with an unfair advantage. Ian snapped
shut the book and wrapped it in the waterproof jacket and gloves
lying at the bottom of his bag. It didn’t matter. He had spent the
summer memorizing those pages, and the pages of many more texts
besides. The notebook was merely a symbol of all he had learned,
nothing more than a token, and wholly unnecessary for victory.
He ran his hand over the knife hanging from the canvas tab sewn
in the lining. It hummed at his touch. It was the knife that had once
brought down a gorotha demon, the single act that transformed an
adept candidate into an immediate threat to sorcerers worldwide.
“It is a powerful weapon.” It was the first time Aodh had said
anything conversational. “Your father’s?”
“Once. Now, mine.” Ian adopted Aodh’s reticent manner. He
couldn’t risk saying more without feeling his childhood devastation
fresh in his heart. And there was no room today for personal pain. It
would only be used against him in the trials.
“He died wrongly,” Aodh said.
Ian bit his tongue against the surfacing questions. He had long
wondered at the exact circumstances of his father’s defeat. He
wondered if Aodh had been with Taylent the year he murdered his
father and if the red cap knew what had happened that day. Ian knew
the basics, but the elusive details haunted him daily. Had his father
screamed when the spell was cast? Begged? Had he cast a retaliatory
spell, or crumpled to the ground in defeat? His totem had been
destroyed. Did he do it, as was protocol for broken mages, or had they
pried it from his flesh, stabbed at his protecting fingers until he
Trial by Fire
21
released his grip? He shook off the thoughts. Whether intentional or
not, Aodh was planting discord in his mind when all he needed was
harmony.
“Please, just don’t talk to me unless it relates directly to today’s
mission,” he snapped.
Something akin to surprise flashed across Aodh’s face before his
features settled again into dark surliness.
“It’s time to go,” Ian said, easing the tone of his voice. Did
everyone’s trial start this way? Reluctant guides, conflicted thoughts,
trepidation, and anger? In choosing Aodh’s window last night had he
chosen his only tool, or his own undoing? He wouldn’t put it past Mr.
Taylent to have chosen the worst of companions and worked the spell
of perilous attraction so Ian would select the one guaranteed to be his
undoing.
Not that it mattered, now. Aodh was bound to him. He could still
feel the magical bond between them, flowing like a living thing, even
as it had the night before when Aodh slept like a dog on the floor at
the foot of his bed. It tugged deep inside him, made him aware of his
companion’s every movement. He stole a glance at Aodh, standing
obediently by the door, face turned enough in Ian’s direction to watch
him, but not directly acknowledge his presence. He wondered if he
squirmed inside Aodh as the red cap did inside him. A flush of heat
passed through him at the thought. As he approached, Ian
surreptitiously regarded Aodh in return. His face was sharp, wickedly
so, a face of darkness and danger. Ian stuffed his hands in his pockets
as he passed, lest he do something stupid and trail his fingers along
the red cap’s razored jawline.
“It is to the garden you are directed,” Aodh said, waiting for Ian to
pass into the hall and then stepping out to lead. “Your first trial begins
there in eight minutes.”
Ian nodded, not in response, but more of a silent commitment to
the days to come, the final agreement to complete the task set for him
by his family.
22
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* * * *
November in Maryland was an unpredictable month. Ian recalled
many Thanksgivings spent clad in T-shirts, sweating as the warm air
blowing through the open windows did little to assuage the furnace-
like heat blasting from the kitchen. Some years, however, fall crept in
on icy, damp legs, a dark, dreary beast that clutched at the soul and
promised only more of the chill gloom. Ian pulled the collar of his pea
coat closer to his neck as the wind whipped across the raised patio.
Past the grand limestone steps a labyrinth of low boxwood outlined
bare ground and ragged, pale vegetation for nearly a quarter of an
acre. Gardens of degrading order fanned behind, each side giving way
to plots of wooded landscaping. The pseudo wild gardens at the very
end of the property gave way to the choppy gray Nanticoke River.
The wind stood the whitecaps into foamy tips and drove minuscule
droplets of stinging water into Ian’s eyes.
Ian didn’t have to ask Aodh where the trial was to take place. He
could feel it throbbing through his body, coursing through him, a
connection like the one he shared with Aodh but far stronger. He gave
his red cap a glance and was surprised to find Aodh staring at him, his
copper eyes almost sympathetic. He gave Ian a nod and held out his
hand to the expanse in front of them.
“Good luck, sir.”
Ian nodded again, this time in thanks, and stepped down the six
large slabs of smooth stone to the grass. He adjusted his bag on his
shoulder, keeping in close range the knife secured just under the flap
closure. Mystical energy pulsed like a flare in the center of the
manicured shrubs ahead. It fanned out, like the gardens surrounding
him, fingers pointing in numerous directions. And he knew then that
again he would have to choose. Never would this test be forced upon
him. He would have to accept it, wholly and unreservedly before it
would come.
Trial by Fire
23
He cast a quick glance at his expressionless guide, and began to
walk to the left. The last time he had taken time to choose, he had
been given Aodh, who, aside from having exceptional packing skills
and being potential lifelong masturbatory material, had no discernible
graces. Ian would instead let his instincts guide him quickly to his
goal, and let whatever was to happen, happen.
He moved between the hedgerows, scanning the depleted beds
flanking them. The magical connection to Aodh seemed to strengthen,
giving him almost a visual impression of the red cap trailing him in
cautious silence. He walked towards the woods, the faded grass
crumpling under his feet, too defeated by cold and wet to rise again.
He saw nothing hiding in the pines ahead, sensed no impending
danger, felt nothing of the concentrated thrum of energy put off by
magical objects or beings. Still, he let his hand slip up under the flap
of his messenger bag and grip the knife’s handle, pulling it forward
until it was almost free of its sheath. The grass, so offended at yet
another insult to its attempt at existence, flattened out before him,
shying away from the heavy tread of his foot.
An oppressive terror fell down on Ian. The sky seemed to darken,
as if a massive cloud flung down from the sky to swallow him. His
shoulders sagged with a sense of terrific weight. The grass depressed
into perfect shoe prints. The marks danced back and forth as Ian was
pressed deeper. It felt as if he would be driven into the earth while all
around invisible people celebrated his premature failure.
A hand pressed against his back. Aodh’s presence in him
intensified. The air cleared a bit and the shoe prints righted
themselves, pointed forward like the feet of obedient soldiers, and
marched ahead. Ian shook off the oppression and followed. With an
audible rubber band snap, the scene around him blew out, and then
cracked back into place.
A much different place.
24
Terra Laurent
Chapter Three:
Visions
The heat of Aodh’s hand pressing against his spine through three
layers of fabric should not have been the first thing to catch Ian’s
attention. What most likely would have elicited note from any other
adept candidate was the fact that he was standing in a darkened alley,
surrounded by the stink of rot. What might have triggered attention in
others was that the sky was now clear, and the heavenly formations
were not the familiar constellations hanging over his world. The odd
skitter of too-many-legged creatures may have made other young
mages begin cycling through illumination or protection spells. But,
not Ian. All Ian could feel was Aodh’s hand still firmly planted to his
back, anchoring him in reality, when reality most certainly had gone
flying out the window.
Aodh moved away to stand beside him, and Ian felt a flash of
childish terror.
He’s going to leave me here, was all he could think.
Despite all he had studied about how to be a sorcerer was to be
alone, Ian did not want to be left alone in a strange world. He would
rather have the dubious company of a surly, potentially murderous
demon than to face an entire new world on his own. It quite possibly
spoke to his failure being all but cemented, but he could not imagine
watching that fiery hair fading into the dark. Memories of his
previous night’s dream surfaced. Was it the magic that made him
want to be near someone so dangerous, so unpredictable? He looked
at Aodh, surprised to find the red cap staring at him with equal
sobriety.
Trial by Fire
25
“What now?” he asked.
“It is your choice, sir. Your trial is, to a degree, of your own
making,” Aodh said. He looked towards the skyline. It glowed an
unnatural green against the night sky. “That, however, is the end, your
destination.” Aodh made a noise resembling a sigh. “That never
changes.”
“Well, we shouldn’t keep it waiting, then. I only have twenty-two
days to get there.” A laugh rattled through his chest like a tremble of
fear, exiting his mouth in a shaky bray. He clamped his lips shut.
“This will not be easy,” Aodh said. “But, sir, you have inherited
the skills you need to succeed. All you must do to claim your
birthright is apply them against this scenario.”
“Scenario,” Ian said, his mind turning. “I suspect that will be the
hardest thing, remembering this is all a stage.”
“A perilous one, sir.”
“Well, if we might die together, you should probably call me Ian,”
he said in a ragged attempt at levity.
“My duties don’t extend to keeping you company in the
afterlife”—Aodh smiled, a quick flash of teeth that disappeared
before the expression could fully register in his brain—“Ian.”
Ian bit back a terrified grin and started forward. Piles of litter,
moldering and slimed with damp lay strewn along the path. Creatures
the size of small dogs with legs of spiders and heads resembling
opossums gnawed at the debris, unconcerned at his heavy-footed
approach. The building facade to his right heaved as if from labored
breathing. Silver-black scales the size of Ian’s palm fanned out at his
passing, then sealed back against the smoothness. Ian quickened his
step. A lump of detritus shifted at his feet, hunching away from the
ground. Ian stumbled back, fumbling for his knife’s hilt under the
bag’s closure. One, two, three forms arched away from the
cobblestones, popping up from beneath the slime directly in front of
him. Ahead, another grouping of trash exploded out of the ground,
manifesting into moving, ominous forms. A heavy squeal filled his
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Terra Laurent
ears. The building shifted. The three forms in front of Ian shuddered,
catching a reflection of moonlight. What he assumed were
independent life forms revealed themselves as talons, car-sized, sharp,
and deadly. At his back more pops told him the oversized feet were
emerging. A talon lifted from the ground not three feet from him. It
curved towards him, as if to poke—or skewer—his torso. Ian’s retreat
lasted only a few seconds. He slammed into the building behind him,
only to slide shoulders and neck into its viscous surface. Brick
patterned ooze slid around his thighs, his arms. In a matter of seconds
it would have hold of his neck, then his face. He bit back a cry for
help. There would be no help for him here. His gaze rocketed around
the courtyard. The building he’d retreated from was still popping
digits from the ground like carrots from the garden. Beyond them, at
the mouth of the alley, Aodh sat perched on a fire hydrant, his toed
shoes splayed across the bolted lip. Light from a nearby streetlamp set
his hair and eyes ablaze. Aodh was watching him be swallowed, his
face a mask of careful apathy. The building tightened its embrace,
pulling Ian back into its folds. Aodh’s head inclined. It could have
been a tic, or a bug in his ear, but Ian imagined it was a nod. Get to it,
then.
Ian, bolstered by this possibly hallucinated show of support from
his red cap, struggled against the sludge, but only succeeded in
binding himself further to the insidious matter. His experience with
magic was academic, not practical. While he had practiced drills with
his sister, they had never set up elaborate traps for one another. His
knowledge was there, in his mind, but panic was shoving it too deep
to access. He took a calming breath and closed his eyes. A slideshow
of potential spells assaulted him. They slid by, too fast to grasp, but
he knew the ones that passed were not the ones he needed. And then,
behind his lids, brighter than a summer afternoon, shone the words he
needed.
“Ilferium Mesicalle,” he called out. The sludge creeping around
his windpipe retreated from the words. He called them again and then
Trial by Fire
27
once more—three times, that was the most powerful use. He was
released, instantly, with a rather agitated shove. Ian stumbled forward,
heading directly towards one of the nearby talons. It shifted at the last
minute, moving out of the way so he landed on his knees, the
cobblestones digging into his scantly protected knees.
The building belonging to the talons buckled and bent, curving its
topmost floor down towards Ian. He knelt in frozen awe as it leveled
its one unshaded window with his face. Latticed and flooded with
light, it came within inches of him. Figures moved inside, male. One
red haired, the other with very little hair to speak of. Ian felt the
window’s scrutiny, and he returned it. Whatever he saw inside would
not be the thing to undo him.
The room inside faded to a dingy tunnel. The shaven man moved
forwards, as if being drawn by an inexplicable force. The red-haired
one stood hunched, in anger or defeat. The other moved, stripping the
coat and shirts from his torso. He closed the distance by reaching out
and pulling the red-haired one to his mouth. He kissed him deeply, his
free hand moving to stroke a sharp cheekbone, and then trail down the
jaw and neck, then more forcibly down the length of his abdomen to
his dick, rubbing the bulge concealed by the loose commando pants.
At the touch on his cock, the red-haired one seemed to give in to his
desires. He reached out and flung the other man against the wall,
pushing him against the dripping brick, pinning him with his pelvis,
rubbing his cock against the other’s.
Ian dared not look away. He watched as the two fed on one
another’s mouths, tugged and pulled at their clothing, ripped them
free of one another until only their bare flesh touched, their hardened
dicks locked together by the pressure of their bare bodies. The red one
fell to his knees, mouth gnawing, licking and kissing its way down his
partner’s rigid cock. He took the organ inside his mouth, desperately,
hungrily, sucking and feeding on it like a starved man. The hairless
one’s head fell back, lolling against a worn scrap of event poster. He
grabbed the red-haired one’s neck, thrust his pelvis towards his
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mouth, stroked the gorgeous cheeks with his thumbs. The red-haired
one sucked at his cock, pulling on it with an almost crazed vigor. His
lover’s mouth opened in ecstasy, his hips pulsed in convulsive jerks.
As the hairless one’s desire reached its peak, the red-haired one
wrapped his arms around himself. With his mouth still working at the
cock, he raked his fingernails along his sides. Bright lines of red burst
forth. Blood began oozing from his sides. The other one took note,
still wracked by climax, and attempted to reach down to stop the flow.
The red-haired one slashed upwards, and the lover’s throat opened
like a blossom, letting loose a torrent of blood. He collapsed to his
knees, life pouring from his body. The red-haired one watched,
enthralled, as a crimson pool formed and grew across the tiles. The
lover toppled back, and the red-haired one fell also, plunging his
gaping wounds into the blood, wriggling back and forth like a horse
rolling in a field. After a few moments, he stood. The foreign blood at
his back sought its way to the open wounds, surging into the red cap’s
body, cleansing him as it went, until all that remained were four
closed red slash marks on his side. The veins in his body bulged,
glowing a fiery red. The redness swelled upward, briefly illuminating
a face filled with vicious joy before it reached the top of his scalp.
The hair there exploded in brilliance, turning redder than the ripest
cherry. It burned Ian’s eyes like fire, but he refused to look away.
The window shade rolled down and back up, a languorous blink.
A puff of smoke snorted from the chimney, and then the building
hefted itself up, carrying from Ian the view of what came next, not
that he needed to see more than he already had. Scaled legs, buried in
concrete, broke free of the pavers, trailing bits of soil and stone. The
spidery rodents scattered, squealing their terror. The filth-encrusted
talons shifted, one passing so close to Ian he felt the heat radiating
from it. Veins of putrescence clung to the underside of the massive
structure—beast?—as it hauled itself out of the shallow trench that
was its foundation—nest? It gave another smoky belch, and lumbered
Trial by Fire
29
off, shaking the ground as it went. A few buildings growled as it
passed, but most remained static.
Ian struggled to comprehend the vision. He had watched himself
seduce Aodh. Had watched Aodh seduce him back, taste the whole of
him, then mercilessly slaughter him. Without turning his head he
flicked his eyes to the figure gargoyle-crouched on the fire hydrant.
Aodh was watching him, clearly interested in what had transpired. Ian
wondered if he should kill Aodh before the red cap had a chance to
kill him. It wouldn’t be difficult. He knew over a dozen death curses,
none of which the guide would suspect he would use against him.
A low hissing dragged his attention back to his immediate
surroundings. Hundreds of the spidery opossum creatures, far larger
than their garbage-rummaging counterparts, surged from the disturbed
foundation, their nocturnal glowing eyes fixed on Ian and Aodh. They
moved slowly, cautiously, but their open mouths and gleaming eyes
conveyed their malicious intent. Ian watched them advance, frozen. It
wasn’t fear that sealed his feet against the pavement and his tongue
against the roof of his mouth, but simple mental overload. A million
questions and scenarios had flooded his mind, paralyzing him against
action.
What if he had been meant to stop the murder in the building? In
effect, stop his own future demise?
What if these creatures were evidence of his premature failure?
What if they weren’t, but he wasn’t supposed to kill them?
What if he was supposed to kill Aodh?
What if the trial was trying to lure him into ridding himself of the
red cap for its own advantage?
What if the questions never stopped?
What if he could never make a decision ever again?
The uncertainty swirled in his mind, each possible action a
potential trap, each choice a pitfall awaiting his careless step. With
every choice in the world, Ian found he could not choose.
The creatures moved faster, spurred by his inaction.
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Terra Laurent
“What do I do?” He did not mean to cry out the thought.
Again the warm hand at his back. Aodh had moved from his
perch, quicker than Ian had ever seen anything move. Despite the fear
his companion’s touch now evoked, Ian’s power curled back to greet
its partner.
“Don’t think.” Aodh’s voice was harsh yet held a note of
reassurance. “Do.”
“Right.” Ian pulled his magic away from Aodh’s with difficulty,
and his attention with even more. “Right.”
The foul creatures were around him now, their backs knocking
against his shins, razored teeth nipping at his shoes. A few dug their
claws into the suddenly accommodating ooze of the neighboring
building, scrabbling up the surface to glare down at them. A
particularly malevolent beast settled four of its eight haunches into the
building, and then sprang. Instead of impeding the creature, the
perilous ooze bulged out, giving extra lift to the creature’s flight. It
flew towards Ian, open mouth revealing several rows of deadly teeth.
“Relicis.” Ian flashed two fingers in the air.
White light surrounded the beast. Its forward momentum halted,
and it fell to the ground, corpse stiffened. The rest of the creatures
squealed at the unexpected brilliance, blinking their lamplight eyes at
the onslaught. Their confidence shaken by the man with the light, they
hunkered down and skittered back. Ian raised his fingers again. The
spell in his mind grew, swelled to encompass all that surrounded him.
It touched each individual, tethering it to the power he was about to
unleash. It touched Aodh, and Ian paused. He sensed Aodh’s tension
beside him. Of course the red cap knew his spell was targeting him.
Their magic was linked. Ian pulled the spell away from Aodh, moved
it to the beast crouched behind him. He let loose the spell. The alley
exploded in light and thudding bodies.
“Did you consider the ramifications of the flare you just sent
skyward?” Aodh asked, his voice a knot of tightly controlled
neutrality.
Trial by Fire
31
Ian looked towards the skyline. The verdant light pulsing there
sent up an answering flash of illumination.
“Not smart?” Ian asked. He turned to Aodh, his expression open.
If Aodh was here to help destroy him, it was better he know now.
“Not smart at all.”
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Terra Laurent
Chapter Four:
Of Fire and God
The sky jaundiced, paled by the sickly glow on the horizon. A
piercing, endless shrieking filled the air. Ian looked past Aodh’s
condemning gaze. High in the air the cornices of the buildings were
taking flight, transforming as they rose into beasts of magnificent—
and terrifying—variety. They flocked against the stars, swarming
towards the verdant glare. Another sallow flash lit the sky, and the
monsters whirled around.
“They’re heading for us,” Ian called above the cacophony.
“Shelter,” Aodh said.
“This way,” Ian said. He sprinted through the alley to the street.
Aodh followed close behind, his magic a reassuring presence in the
pit of Ian’s stomach. The first of the flock arrived overhead, battering
the air with wide, leathery wings. They screamed their findings
through beaks like spears, howling out the foreigners’ location to their
still whirling compatriots. Clusters of flapping bodies returned the sky
to darkness. Ian pushed ahead, ducking along side streets, sprinting
from the meager shelter of streetlamp to road sign. From his periphery
he caught glimpses of buildings furred like prehistoric mammals,
some with gnashing teeth instead of bricks, of doors that led not to
interiors but to landscapes of strange and wondrous formation—
windows showing bizarre creatures clinging to walls and ceilings, and
ominous shadows stalking the perimeter of their indoor confines.
These odd details flashed through Ian’s mind, but little more. He had
a brief moment to wonder if the sights around him were but cast-off
creations from two centuries of adept trails before a handful of the
Trial by Fire
33
winged terrors lunged from the sky. He dived to the side and sent up a
weak deflective charm. A talon grazed his coat, and then disappeared.
Like herons over the water the creatures took turns dipping down,
snatching at their clothing and skin. Drained from the spell he had
worked in the alley, Ian was only able to conjure small shields of
protection around them, never large enough to cover their entire
bodies. He pulled out his father’s knife. He slashed at anything that
dared get close enough, but his random jabs served only as a weak
deterrent to the creatures. The running, stress, and mystical strain
were quickly draining his energy. Panting, Ian gestured Aodh closer
to the buildings. While this shielded them from the worst of the aerial
onslaught, it brought them uncomfortably close to the buildings
themselves. More than once a building heaved in an attempt to knock
them back into the street. Aodh cried out warnings but never extended
a hand to steady or secure him. It was not his place in this trial. The
fact that Aodh did not assist the facades in delivering Ian to the flying
monstrosities as Ian half expected was not reassuring. Nothing about
the enigma that what his guide left his emotions settled.
From the horizon came a thunderous boom. It rattled through the
streets, shaking buildings, growing louder and more disruptive as it
went. Antiquated streetlights toppled, shattering pools of fiery oil onto
the ground. Things moved inside the blazes, hungry and restless. Ian
skirted a flare that reached out to lap at his legs.
“You are progressing well,” Aodh said behind him.
“Am I?” Ian asked as he pressed against a wall to avoid another
diving blitz. The building he cowered under ended four feet from him
at an intersection. He would have to risk going into the open and
crossing the street to find more shelter. Speed and timing mattered
greatly. As soon as he moved, the flying creatures would attack. “It
doesn’t seem like it.”
“Most adept candidates don’t see this much interference until
midtrial.” Aodh replied, casually skirting a beast’s nosedive and
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Terra Laurent
coming to stand beside him. “And here you’ve already awakened the
horizon.”
“That’s what that noise was?”
“Yes.”
“And it doesn’t awaken until a candidate has roused its attention?”
“By excelling.”
“I don’t feel better about that.” The sky momentarily cleared as
the birdlike creatures regrouped. It was now or never. He gestured
Aodh into the street, and they broke into a run towards the next block.
“You shouldn’t,” Aodh replied.
Overhead, the creatures screamed the alarm. Ian pushed forwards,
swinging the blade wildly above his unprotected head. Like sheets
snapping in the wind the birds’ wings beat out their presence at Ian’s
back. He turned to check Aodh’s progress. The rep cap’s head was
turned, tracking the beasts. A large flame from an overturned light
struck out at Aodh, snapping whiplike coils at his legs.
“Watch out,” Ian called.
Without pausing his step, Aodh gave the fire a menacing glare. It
shriveled under his anger, becoming a pale orange film hovering just
above the oil that fueled it. The birds raged closer. Ian gave a yelp as
something sharp and painful grazed his scalp. He dashed for a
recessed entrance, slamming into the door hard enough to rattle the
glass. From inside, something rattled back. Aodh crowded in behind
him, his breathing barely accelerated.
“Nice trick with the fire. I thought red caps only dealt in blood.”
Ian raised an eyebrow at Aodh. He received a withering look in
answer. A beat later, however, Aodh shrugged.
“Names have power,” Aodh said. “My name means fire.”
“Oh.” Ian moved a few steps from the glass. Something inside
was definitely scratching at it. “I think mine means John.”
“It means, ‘God is gracious.’” It was slight, almost unremarkable
movement, but Aodh’s mouth curved at the corners. “We share Gaelic
names, you and I. And they speak of us, of what we are, what we are
Trial by Fire
35
to become. I believe your father, in naming you, had the foresight to
know you would be the one to bring your family back from the brink.
In giving you—as you are—to them, God was indeed gracious.”
Ian watched the red cap watch the teeming sky. He didn’t know
what to say, if anything, to Aodh’s last comment. Instead he said, “I
know what I intend to become. What about you, Aodh? Fire? What
are you to become?”
“We shall see.” Aodh leveled his copper eyes with Ian’s. “Every
step I take with you determines that end.”
“What happens to you, Aodh, when I am done here? Do you go
back to Whitehaven Seat and wait for the next candidate to do it all
over again?”
“Until my many days are spent.” Aodh’s shoulders took on the
familiar hunch.
“Are you a slave?”
Aodh’s eyes flashed. His hair nearly threw sparks. “And what if I
were?”
Then, I would help you. Ian couldn’t voice the words he wanted to
speak. He still didn’t know if Aodh was to be his pitfall. Already he
felt unsettling things for the surly red cap. Desires and wishes roiled
in his chest each time he gazed at the elegant face of fire and stone.
But, he also recalled the vision in the window—Aodh slitting his
throat and reveling in his blood. He wanted to reach out, make
promises and vows, gather the red cap in his arms and declare him
under his mystical and personal protection. But all he had to do was
look at his surroundings, recognize his current position in the world.
He could no more protect Aodh than he could protect himself, yet.
Once this nightmare was over, though...
“I’m running on empty, Aodh. We should find someplace to
camp—”
A booming blast emanated from the horizon, its destructive
energy spreading across the city like floodwaters. Their surroundings
erupted into chaos. Buildings lurched out of the way of the blast,
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Terra Laurent
some taking full flight on long, agile legs, others prostrating
themselves before the impact reached. The buildings incapable of
movement took the brunt of the raging force. Glass shattered, blowing
into the streets in deadly, human-sized shards. The pools of fire rose
up in confrontation and were snuffed like matches in a hurricane. The
buildings across the street relinquished their hold on their windows.
More deadly shards, each directed by the explosion, flew towards the
two men huddled in the building alcove.
“In!” Ian yelled. He uttered an unblocking spell. The locked door
gave way, and he pulled Aodh inside and let his power slam shut the
door behind them. Glass lances pierced the door like scalpels through
flesh while the wind pounded the windows and bowed the door. Ian
pulled Aodh deeper inside the building to outdistance the debris in
case the windows gave. Only when he had retreated far into the dark
building and the restless scratching resumed did he remember
something else dwelled inside their refuge.
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37
Chapter Five:
In the Darkness
Fragments of stone, glass and other, smaller debris pounded the
windows in a ceaseless torrent. The interior gloom turned pitch from
the onslaught. The floor was thick with a coating of rank muck. Ian
turned slowly, letting his eyes adjust. With each step his foot sank
deep into foulness then loudly squelched free. Dust and many other
far-less pleasant scents filled the air. From the far side of the room
came the familiar skittering sound.
“We are not alone,” Aodh said.
“I know,” Ian replied, straining to see what moved in the shadows
with them.
His power reserves were dangerously low, too low to attempt to
even risk forging a light the size of a firefly’s tail. He dug in his bag
with one hand, fishing for the flashlight he knew wasn’t there. He had
matches, three of them. The scratching approached from the left. He
thumbed the clasp on the small vial holding the fragile sticks. The
noise grew louder, creeping up the nearest wall towards the ceiling.
Aodh shifted uneasily at his back, surely tracking the mysterious
creature as best he could. Despite his inner screaming panic at being
ambushed in the dark, Ian released the container. It was too early to
waste such a valuable tool. He was tired, now, but later, he, and his
magic, would likely be wholly exhausted. And he might yet need one
last push before he left this building. As if to confirm his suspicions, a
puff of warm, damp air sprayed his scalp.
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“Up,” Aodh said. Even as the red cap spoke he took a few steps
away, removing himself from the impending fight—not that Ian had
much of one left in him.
Ian did not cast his gaze to the ceiling, but turned his attention to
the floor. A slimy appendage dipped from above. Tensile fingers like
suction cups seized his shoulder. The tiny mouth-like apertures
worked away at the wool, burrowing into the fabric and the thin layers
beneath it. Ian tried to bat it away with his knife, but more limbs
descended to halt his effort. His exposed skin stung for a brief
moment as the suckers invaded his flesh, and then the new wound
went numb. The blood in his arm retreated from the touch. His fingers
swelled and ached. The knife clattered to the floor. He struggled to
retreat, but the other appendages had him ensnared in their sticky grip.
Some of the attached mouths impatiently pushed aside his collar,
cuffs, and shirt hem to easier find exposed skin. Others tunneled
through his fabric, gnawing away at material until discovering
heartier feasts of living matter. Ian’s blood retreated from the suckers,
pooling into his digits, turning them into fat, nearly bursting sausages.
The rest of his body began to stiffen. He could not force his limbs to
obey, not even as a large tangle of knots descended from the ceiling.
Mouths dotted the glutinous mass in seemingly random fashion. The
mouths snapped and gnashed at his fattened fingers.
Ian cried out, but the noise came from between his lips as a
guttural groan. He felt Aodh shift behind him, felt the red cap’s magic
struggling against its confines to retreat from Ian’s dying body and
return to its virile source. To Ian’s surprise, Aodh shoved back,
pushing his power—and possibly a smidgen more—back into Ian’s
core. The gnarls were looping around, mouths snapping to ward each
other away from the impending feast. Ian forced his attention to his
big toe. It had swollen so large inside his shoe it grazed the seams. He
gave it an experimental wiggle and was glad the creature had stolen
his ability to vocalize, for his agonized scream would have shaken the
building far more than the explosion had. The mouth sucking away at
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39
the nape of his neck burrowed deeper. Ian felt a sharp stab of pain as
it dug down, searching for his spinal column. He couldn’t wait
another moment.
Ian gathered his remaining strength and gave one final magical
heave. He pushed his tattered powers, and Aodh’s—unintentional?—
donation into his foot. It moved. With determination he slowly inched
it back. Blinding pain shot up his leg with each halting movement. He
fought against the pain and the paralysis, creeping his foot behind his
other leg, letting the magic overspill his screaming toe. A glowing
white line appeared where his shoe traced, dividing the filth-slick
tiles. The mystical words in his head were hazy, so he abandoned
them, instead allowing an image to fill his mind. It was rough, novice
magic, but it was sufficient. An unseen hand swatted the tentacle
beast back into the rafters. The room erupted in a burst of light. The
force blew out the toe of his shoe—and Ian suspected something
worse as a wet sensation crept from the void. The blast sheared the
attached tentacles from the creature’s body. Bursts of bilious blood
spattered Ian’s cheeks. The beast beat a squealing, scrabbling, retreat
into the far reaches of the room. The abandoned tentacles fell from
Ian’s body, twitching. The creature let loose an enraged scream. Ian
refused to let his concentration fall. He could hear the thing in the
shadows, skittering, regrouping, deciding its next assault. His body
was still leaden, but without the numbing matter the beast had
injected into him, his wounds and swollen digits had started throbbing
with terrible pain. He looked down at the glowing white line in the
floor and projected his will into it. The recovered beast charged,
flopping and slapping its way towards its intended target. Its many
mouths had merged and grown into one gaping, fanged maw. A spray
of stinging fluid hit his face.
Open! he thought.
The writhing limbs reached.
The mouth gaped wide.
The brilliance parted and the floor beneath Ian vanished. He fell.
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Terra Laurent
A tentacle swiped for him, but he was out of range. The creature
tried to follow, but some force prevented access to his retreat. It
howled in frustration, smacking the tiles with corded limbs. A
moment later, its raging ceased, and its body fell away from the exit.
Ian’s back and shoulders slammed into the hard surface below,
followed by his head and limbs. His burgeoning digits screamed in
agony, his vision faded and blurred. Through the sick headache and
dimming vision, he watched Aodh leap through the rapidly closing
portal, one hand rigidly extended and covered in blood, the other
clutching an equally bloody knife. His father’s knife. Ian tried to
speak, to protest that Aodh had violated the rules of the trial and
ruined everything, but only a bubble of vomit came from his throat.
Aodh landed next to him, dropped the blade, and efficiently rolled
Ian onto his side. Ian puked out his protests, his sorrow at having lost
it all. His fat fingers twitched, trying in vain to form a fist. He wanted
to scream at the red cap, to curse him to death for ruining his plans,
his very future. Instead, he sagged into the strong arms curled around
him and fell into darkness.
Trial by Fire
41
Chapter Six:
Sanctuary
Ian’s awoke to a fiery agony in his hands and feet. While his mind
had obligingly shut down, his blood flow had not. Disconnecting from
the beast had done nothing for the poison already swirling in his body,
driving his blood to pool in his extremities. His digits had already
ballooned to capacity, forcing the blood to collect farther up in his
hands and feet. With each second he could feel another section of
flesh stretch and swell to accommodate the rush of fluid. Ian tried to
sit up, but was overcome with dizziness so violent he retched. His
stomach, however, was already empty of its contents, so he laid there
making awful gagging sounds for a few seconds until the nausea
passed.
“It is not only your head injury,” Aodh said, coming into view.
“Your blood has abandoned your head and heart. You will die soon.”
Ian stared at the red cap. His clothes and skin were unblemished,
untouched by the suckers of the beast he had killed above. He tried to
resurrect his anger at his companion, but an overwhelming fatigue left
him feeling only apathetic.
Dead.
How had he failed his mother and sister so completely?
“The poison has almost run its course, but your blood is
confused,” Aodh said. He knelt beside Ian. “It needs to be re-taught.”
“My blood forgot how to flow?” Ian scoffed. “What about my
heart?”
“Your heart barely beats, right now. All that is keeping you alive
is...” Aodh’s forehead knotted.
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Terra Laurent
“What?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Aodh clapped his hands, looking more
joyful than Ian had yet seen him. It made him nervous. “Shall I
remind your blood of its duties?”
“Are you going to kill me?” Ian asked.
“I already told you, you are dying. Why would I waste my time
hastening your demise when it is imminent?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ian sighed, his mother’s frail face filling his
mind. “If I die my failure will be complete. I will not be a potential
competitor or threat. I will be nothing. My family will be poor, but
safe.”
“What failure?”
“You killed the beast up there.” Ian pointed up, noticing for the
first time the wan, early morning sky overhead, the trees at the fringes
of his vision. “Up—Up in the shop.” He shook off a bout of
vertiginous disorientation. “You stabbed it when I fell through the
hole I opened.”
“So?” Aodh rocked back on his heels, studying Ian’s face as if he
suspected a greater head injury than he had previously assessed.
“So, I should have killed it.”
“During your preparation did you read anything that said, ‘During
your trial you must slaughter everything you meet in order to pass’?”
Ian shook his head—a move he quickly regretted. He swallowed
another dry heave.
“‘An adept candidate must navigate the twenty-two days and
twenty-two hours within the trial,’” Aodh quoted from the papers sent
to Ian’s house a year before. “The adept candidate must show
proficiency in all aspects of mystical studies by using his/her
knowledge to maneuver the course set for him and emerge at the end
of his set time.’ It says nothing about the specific manner in which
you should arrive to the end, only that you should. As you have
already showed a vast array of techniques, I would say that not only
have you not failed, but you are excelling.”
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43
Ian studied the red cap’s face, searching for deception in the
always guarded expression. He could find none.
“However, if you wish to give up now, I will be forced to leave
you to your swelling appendages and delirium.” Aodh gave him a
mocking bow. When Ian didn’t answer, he said, “No? Well, then if
you are to go onward, we have to do something with these water
balloons you call extremities.”
“Maybe...” Ian glanced at his surroundings. They were in a grassy
field surrounded by a thick forest. Herbalism was not his strongest
course of study, but he knew enough medicinal and mystical plants
that he might be able to cobble together a cure for himself. “Maybe
there’s something here we can use.”
“There is definitely something here we can use,” Aodh replied. He
bent down and placed his lips just above Ian’s hand. His breath was
hot, even against the inflammation of his skin. He inhaled deeply,
then, touching his lips to Ian’s hand, began to whisper in a strange,
velvety language.
Almost immediately the pain in Ian’s hand ceased. The pressure in
his fingers abated. The oversized mitt of fingers melted back into
separate, normal digits. Aodh continued his susurration, moving his
mouth along the back of Ian’s hand to his wrist. The blood in his
veins, freed from the congestion, glowed a soft red as it flowed up his
arm. Aodh herded it back towards his heart, slowly inching up the
length of Ian’s arm to his shoulder. A moment later, a flush of warmth
filled Ian’s chest. The sensation bowed his spine.
“Wait!” Without thinking, Ian seized Aodh’s hair and jerked his
head upright. Aodh regarded him with an expression of amused
shock. “You can’t help me like this. I’ll fail for certain. You’re not
supposed to,” he said, waving his now-healed arm, “do anything like
this for me.”
“You worry a good deal about the rules.” Aodh smiled and bent
his head over Ian’s unhealed arm. Ian snatched at his hair again. This
time, Aodh looked less entertained. “You needn’t. Now, if you will
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please release my head, I will get back to making your imminent
corpsehood less likely.”
“But, Taylent will know. He knows now, most likely.” Ian
groaned. “Of course he already knows.”
Aodh ignored him and muttered his way up his arm, stopping only
after another flood of life washed into Ian’s chest.
“We are not in any part of Taylent’s arena,” Aodh said when he
had finished. “Look around. We have not been attacked or bothered or
urged ahead at any point, have we?”
“No,” Ian answered, trying to ignore the hot breath caressing his
neck.
“Because you forged a pocket in this reality, carved a part of it out
as refuge.” Aodh left Ian to process this information. He moved to
Ian’s feet and deftly unlaced his boots. “This will hurt,” he said. He
loosened the laces as far as he could, then tugged away one boot.
Agony raced up his leg. “Well, that’s a pitiful remnant of a toe.”
“It’s gone?” Ian asked weakly.
“It shares a similarity to ground beef at the moment. But, it will
heal just fine, albeit a bit shorter, and possibly without a nail,” Aodh
said in the least reassuring voice Ian had ever heard, and then pulled
off his other boot. Ian forgot about his tiny, mangled toe as a fresh
wave of pain shot up his leg. He could only muster a weak mutter of
protest when Aodh stripped off his pants. Like sandpaper across
sunburn, the fabric burned all the way down. The damp ground eased
some of the pain in his lower legs, but his feet screamed in agony.
A moment later, the torment in his right foot lessened then
disappeared. With both arms freely working, Ian propped himself up
on his elbows to watch the red cap work. Only a small dizziness came
with the movement. He watched the cherry-red hair creep closer as its
owner moved his mouth against his toes, ankle, calf. He watched the
smoldering blood invade his capillaries, setting his whole leg glowing
softly.
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45
Although the swelling had not reached his thighs, Aodh kept
moving upwards, urging his blood back into his torso. His lips
brushed the soft hairs on his thighs, occasionally caressing the skin
itself. Ian tried to switch his thoughts to the tentacle monster in the
shop, the horrible vision he’d seen in the building, the murderous face
of Mr. Taylent, baseball, physics... Anything to keep his eyes and
mind from tracking the sensual path on which Aodh had placed
himself. The red cap’s hair brushed his groin, and Ian bit his lip to
keep back a moan. Aodh whispered the blood past his waist—
although a considerable amount now seemed determined to hover just
below it—and up to his heart. Again the wash of joyous discomfort,
and then Aodh was gone again, this time ministering to his left foot.
Aodh repeated his path. Ian lay perfectly still, hoping that the red
cap was focused enough not to witness the raging erection he had
grown. When Aodh neared his cock, Ian felt a wild urge to grab his
head and hold it there. Another thought, directly on the heels of the
first, curbed his desire with almost violent force.
Have others forced him to do what I want him to? Attend to their
Every Need as Mr. Taylent said? He looked down at the red hair
inching closer to his heart. Was he a slave in all ways? Disgust at his
actions filled his chest, cemented there by the rush of blood the slave
had ushered there.
Aodh pushed himself up so that he rested on his palms, his face
inches away from Ian’s. His copper eyes glowed with satisfied pride.
“Why are you helping me?” Ian hadn’t meant to blurt it like that,
but he suddenly had to know.
The look of triumph faded from Aodh’s expression. The familiar
mask fell over it.
“Why, indeed?” the red cap snapped, pulling away.
“No.” Ian caught his arm. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that,
if you are being forced to do this, any of this, I’d rather leave you here
to find your way back. I don’t want...” he trailed off, suddenly,
painfully self-conscious.
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“You have no need for me?”
“Are you kidding?” Ian laughed. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. The
more help you can give me, the better chance I have of... Of achieving
my goal.”
“Then why release me?” Aodh remained half turned away. What
Ian could see of his face was carefully controlled, expressionless.
“Because if you’re Taylent’s slave, I don’t want you serving me.
I’d rather you stay here, find a way to free yourself.”
It was Aodh’s turn to laugh. It was a mirthless sound. “This entire
place belongs to Taylent. If I were his, how do you think I would fare
in here on my own? He controls all of it. I would either return to him,
or become one of his artifacts, doomed to play bogey man to the next
round of initiates.”
“You’re right.” Ian nodded, thinking. “But, he can’t see us here.
Here, you’re free. Right?”
“In a sense.” A small muscle twitched in Aodh’s jaw.
“Here, you can make your own decisions?”
Aodh nodded.
Ian finally allowed his hand to do what it had longed for. He
reached out, cupped the sharp jaw in his palm, turned Aodh’s head,
and lunged forward, crushing his mouth against his own. Aodh made
a small noise. Ian wasn’t sure if it was protest or pleasure. Too
terrified that it might be the former, he pressed harder, desperately,
against Aodh’s mouth, parting his lips with his tongue. He was
determined—now that he had irrevocably altered things—to get as
much out of it before Aodh pulled away. He cupped Aodh’s face in
his hands and thrust his tongue into his mouth, running it along the
red cap’s tongue, moving it deeply and slowly, savoring the warm,
spiced flavor it carried. A moment later, he pulled back. Aodh
clutched at the air, as if trying to catch a vapor. Ian caught his hand
and gazed at the red cap. Aodh returned his regard for a moment,
then, as if shaking off the previous minute, shuddered and stood.
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47
The red cap paced the grass in front of him, back and forth, hands
knotting and unknotting. A light breeze played at the grass around his
climbing shoes. Ian followed their caress as they lapped gently at the
toed leather, let his eyes drift up the long legs to the lean torso, at last
coming to rest on that noble face.
“I’m not using you.” He hadn’t realized he was going to say the
words until they came from his mouth.
Aodh stopped moving to look at him.
“I’m not. I’m attracted to you.”
Aodh gave a half-lurching step towards him.
“But,” Ian quickly added. “But, I’m not here to pass my test.” He
didn’t know why he was saying this. Every trained bone in his body
told him not to share his endgame with anyone, no matter how much
of an erection the mere sight of that person gave him. But, his mouth
kept moving, blithely unencumbered by his brain’s dire warnings.
“I’m here to kill Taylent.”
Twenty-two years of bright summer days, fiery sunrises, and
blinding sunsets could not have prepared Ian for the breathtaking
sight of Aodh’s true smile. The curve of his lips erased the dour
sharpness of his features, and lit his eyes until they blazed. As Ian sat
mesmerized by the beauty of the creature before him, Aodh gave a
loud, hearty laugh.
“You are a surprising human, Ian Sheldon.”
“And you are...?” Ian raised an eyebrow. “Okay with it?”
“Okay?” Like a window being shut on the world, Aodh’s face fell
into menacing shadows. “I’m going to help you kill the bastard. Do
you trust me to do so?”
“I hope so.” Ian gave him a long, serious look. “I hope I can trust
you.” It wasn’t the best answer, but it was honest.
Aodh nodded. “I feel the same.” Then, to himself, as if Ian could
no longer hear, he muttered, “He is going to die this time. Finally and
forever.” He paced a few frantic, buoyant steps, turning back and
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forth so fast Ian could barely track his feet. A moment later he
whirled around to face Ian, and then lunged.
* * * *
Aodh covered his body in one swift motion, the force of his
impact driving Ian’s torso back onto the ground. He lay sprawled
beneath Aodh, too stunned to muster even the slightest defense. And
then Aodh leaned in closer, pressing hard against him. Ian felt the
rigidity of his dick through the layers of fabric between them, and
then he understood. Like a silly teenager with a crush he grinned up at
the red cap. All foolish, awkward, and full of teeth, he smiled. Aodh’s
expression was all seriousness, the cruel set of his mouth conveying
intimidation and a warrior’s grim victory over an enemy. But his eyes,
those impossible new-penny eyes, sparked with joy—and desire.
Aodh pressed his mouth to Ian’s, covering it with a hungry desire.
How long had it been for him? Had he ever had any lovers of his own
choosing? Any at all? As Aodh moved his mouth to his neck to take
tantalizing, nibbling bites, and slid his hand down Ian’s stomach and
under the elastic of his underwear, Ian had to concede that either the
red cap had, or he was an intuitive learner. Ian turned his head to
return the caresses, sliding his lips along the muscles in Aodh’s neck.
He gathered the red hair in his hands, gripping the coarse strands
between his fingers, clutching at them like a child afraid of losing a
favorite toy. He kissed and licked up to his ear, gently sucking the
lobe before drifting back down, leaving tiny wet trails along Aodh’s
skin that seemed to smolder away.
Aodh dipped lower and pulled at the hem of Ian’s tee. Ian bolted
up to assist, but a wave of dizziness almost sent him crashing back to
the ground. Aodh’s hand was there, steadying him, cradling the nape
of his neck with his warm hand.
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49
“Easy,” he whispered. With his other hand Aodh pulled Ian’s shirt
from his torso. Then, he gently laid him back onto the ground. He
leaned over Ian, concern in his eyes. “Okay?”
“Better than.” Ian smiled.
“You’re still weak.” Aodh struggled to keep his expression stern.
“You’ll be careful.”
Aodh covered his mouth again. Ian lifted his chin to meet him,
letting Aodh feed on his mouth and tongue. A brief image of the
window-Aodh slicing his throat flooded his mind, but Ian drove it
away, determined. Taylent’s sick labyrinth of pain and confusion
would not ruin this. As if to prove a point, he drove his hands
downward, unbuckling Aodh’s belt and snapping open his fly with
savage efficiency. Aodh lifted his hips and let him drive the fabric as
far down as his boots would allow, then returned to blanketing him.
Aodh’s cock burned like fire against his own erection. Ian’s hips gave
a few involuntary thrusts. He felt Aodh’s smile flicker across his
mouth, and then the red cap plunged his hand into Ian’s underwear.
He seized his cock with simmering fingers, stroking it against his
palm in a soft, slow rhythm. Ian moaned against Aodh’s mouth and
reached down to his exposed cock. Aodh again lifted his hips to
accommodate his urgency. It simmered against his damp hand, hot
and ready. Ian wanted to take the fiery thing into his mouth, to
explore the thick shaft and tease the enlarged head. His weakened
body, however—along with Aodh’s insistent pressure against him—
would not allow it. He licked his palm and returned it to Aodh’s cock,
stroking and squeezing until Aodh gave the barest moan. That sound,
as brief as it was, nearly drove Ian wild. He pulled Aodh against him
and feverishly kissed him. Their tongues entwined in an urgent,
desperate dance, tasting and exploring each other. Aodh’s mouth grew
slick and hot, the intensity building with each pass of his tongue. The
sensation was warm, alluring, and almost bordering on pain. Ian
couldn’t get enough. He almost let out a protesting cry when Aodh
suddenly pulled back. A moment later, Aodh had one of his nipples in
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his mouth, gently biting, licking and sucking. Ian moaned and
clutched at Aodh’s chest. His fingers found Aodh’s own nipples and
squeezed each between a thumb and forefinger. Aodh pulled against
the pressure of his hands, stretching his nipples out, moaning with the
pleasurable pain. Ian, forgetting his condition, bolted up to put one in
his mouth.
“No, no,” Aodh chided him like a child and pushed him back
down. He then moved his ministrations, trailing his lips and tongue
along the fine, downy line at Ian’s midsection. Ian kept Aodh’s cock
in his hand as long as he could, but the red cap soon pulled his hips
gently away from his grasp. He took the head of Ian’s dick into his
mouth and fire erupted there. Ian cried out. Aodh started to pull away,
but Ian pressed his head back down. Aodh slid more of his shaft into
his mouth, sending a blaze of pleasure along his skin and into his
core. As Aodh sucked and worked his tongue along Ian’s shaft the
searing heat built. Ian writhed beneath Aodh’s mouth, not letting him
release his cock. The pain was terrible. The pleasure was even greater.
Never had he felt such completeness of sensation. Aodh’s mouth
traveled from his cock to his abdomen, to his chest, filling him with
pulsing heat and bliss.
Aodh’s mouth moved from his cock to his balls, first taking one,
then both inside, rolling them gently around, suckling and pulling at
them. His fingers rubbed the taut skin just behind, then moved to
tease the opening with his fingers. Ian stiffened. Aodh immediately
drew back, tense.
“I’ve never...” Ian began, blushing furiously.
“You are a virgin?” Aodh asked, his voice mercifully free of
incredulity.
“Not exactly. I’ve had sex. I’ve done... I’ve had...” he stammered,
feeling foolish. “I’ve always been the one to...”
“I see,” Aodh said. “Then this will be a pleasant change for both
of us.”
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51
Ian lifted his head to look down at Aodh, who knelt like a god
between his knees. The heat of their passion had ignited the blood in
the red cap. It smoldered orange beneath his skin. He smiled,
awestruck. Aodh dipped his head, uncomfortable at his unabashed
admiration.
“You’re beautiful,” Ian said.
He caught a flash of gleaming copper eyes, and then Aodh dove
back down, taking Ian’s dick in his mouth and sucking vigorously. He
licked the shaft, one long swipe up to the tip, and then plunged down.
He spread Ian’s cheeks with his hands, teased his ass with his burning
tongue. Ian moaned and lifted his hips. Aodh licked at his hole, his
tongue prodding and circling the opening. He took two moist, slick
fingers, and gently pushed them, one after the other, inside. He
returned his mouth to Ian’s dick, sucking in time to the rhythm of his
finger’s thrusts. Incredible pressure built into Ian’s dick as the heat
seemed to burn it through.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. “You gotta stop a sec.”
Aodh chuckled in his throat and pulled back. With his eyes fixed
on Ian’s he swiped his tongue up his palm. The silken droplets of spit
glowed like little sparks of flame.
“It is rare for my people to share this gift,” Aodh said, spreading
the spit onto his rigid cock, massaging it onto the shaft and up around
the tip. “There are powerful forces in our bodies.”
“I believe it,” Ian said. He felt like a foolish kid, but Aodh’s gaze
was anything but condescending.
“And that’s why I have no reservations sharing this with you.”
The red cap bent down and covered his mouth once again. Kissing
him deeply, he positioned his dick against Ian’s ass. He gathered Ian’s
cock in his damp fingers and began to stroke. When Ian’s eyes had
rolled back in ecstasy, he pushed. The skin protested, stinging
sharply. Ian bit back a cry. Aodh paused, kissed him some more,
stroked his cock until it jumped with urgency in his hand. When he
had Ian’s passion peaked again, he advanced. This time his engorged
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head slipped past the tight ring and slid inside. Pain and pleasure
warred with one another as his ass accommodated Aodh’s blazing
cock. After a few moments of gentle advance and retreat, Aodh gave
an aggressive push. Ian curled his legs up to cradle Aodh’s flanks.
Aodh responded with a powerful thrust. Ian cried out, this time in
pleasure. Aodh grinned, and then fucked him hard. His ass, rock hard,
pumped against Ian’s cupping hands. His dick slid in and out,
kindling a fire that threatened to burn Ian inside out. He welcomed it.
As he lifted his hips to better accommodate all of Aodh, the red cap
pulled back to kneeling, and began working Ian’s cock with studious
urgency.
Ian groaned under the attention, his head already dripping tiny
droplets and throbbing with insistence. Aodh pumped harder, his head
thrown back to the pale, cloudy sky. A small noise escaped his throat,
and then his furious pumping reached a crescendo. He gave a few
powerful thrusts, his cock brutalizing Ian’s insides, and then he cried
out, a full-throated sound of joy. His cock shuddered inside Ian. Fiery
liquid shot into him and Ian felt as if he would burn clean through.
Fireworks danced behind his eyes as his body absorbed the liquid. He
glanced down. His abdomen was glowing softly. Aodh pushed once,
twice, three times more, and then retreated. The light smoldered in his
belly for a minute more, and then dispersed. Aodh regarded him with
solemnity for a moment. Ian opened his mouth to say something, but
Aodh disappeared between his thighs.
Aodh worked his cock with his mouth, holding it tight with his
lips while lapping from base to tip and back down again. He pulled
against his shaft, using his hand to squeeze the base so the tip grew
larger and more sensitive. Each time Aodh’s lips brushed the
engorged terminus Ian felt a shudder of hot pleasure shoot all the way
through his body, from dick to skull. The fire of Aodh’s spit engulfed
his cock in rapturous pain. Aodh cradled his balls and squeezed his
shaft, while his mouth never left his dick. Ian’s nerves cried out,
screaming for release. Pressure built up his shaft. A moment later he
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53
cried out as his groin spasmed and hot cum exploded into Aodh’s
waiting throat. His hips thrust helplessly against the still sucking
mouth as wave after wave of shuddering fervor passed through him.
As his orgasm died out, Aodh gently extracted himself and came to
rest over top of him. He looked down into Ian’s eyes with an
inscrutable intensity. He bent down and placed a gentle, burning kiss
on Ian’s lips. Ian pulled him down so his head rested on his chest.
Aodh curled into Ian’s side, the spikes of his hair tickling Ian’s chin.
Ian stroked the coarse mass. Aodh’s breathing became heavier, his
body relaxed. Ian meant to take the time alone to think more on his
decision, and his plan of action, but the breeze picked up, running soft
fingers across his tired eyes until he was forced to close them—just
for a minute.
A wild rustling awakened Ian. It took a moment for him to
remember why the blindingly blue sky above him was not the pale
gray one he’d fallen asleep to, and yet another to recall why a fairly
tall, wild-looking naked man was weighing him down. He relaxed
back into the ground, feeling better—surprisingly well, in fact—than
he expected he might after his ordeal. Judging by the sun’s position
they had slept through the morning and the better part of the
afternoon, but he was not entirely certain his recovery came only from
rest. He glanced down at the red cap gently snoring against his
stomach and wondered how much his sex magic had to do with it all.
Ian brushed a stray crimson hair from Aodh’s face and marveled at
the beauty of his companion.
Without the downturned set his general disposition granted it,
Aodh’s mouth was sensual, almost sweet. Ian studied the long,
straight slope of his nose, the exotic upturn of the closed eyes fringed
with fiery lashes. His forehead was smooth and wrinkle-free. Ian
found he couldn’t begin to guess at Aodh’s actual age, although his
education suggested Aodh was probably far older than Ian would
have assumed.
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A small leaf flew down and landed on a ginger eyebrow. Ian
brushed it away. A moment later a powerful gust coated them both in
bits of foliage.
A broken branch whipped through the air, landing across Aodh’s
shoulders, slapping Ian across the face with whip-like sucker shoots.
Aodh, instantly awake, bolted to his feet. Clouds rushed across the
blue sky, drowning the sun in a haze of ominous gray. The tops of the
nearby trees swayed violently. Branches creaked, tree trunks groaned.
“Get up! Get dressed!” Aodh shouted.
Ian was already pawing the ground for his discarded shirt. He
dressed quickly, sparing only a cursory glance at his reformed toe—
which had healed exactly as Aodh promised. In the span of a few
seconds the harsh wind had become tornadic. Trees popped from the
ground like weeds, hurtling towards the clearing in which the pair was
hurriedly gathering their belongings. A small sapling careened over
their heads. A moment later, a mature oak barreled across the field
towards them.
“Silfitico!” Ian cried. The tree halted, and then wavered in the air,
struggling against his spell. A burst of light followed his magic,
pulsing through his core as it passed. The tree became a conflagration.
He had little time to consider the seeming myriad facets of Aodh’s
skill. The burning tree was spinning in the air, gaining lethal
momentum in its attempt to churn through the mystical barrier
holding it in place. One slip in his concentration, and he and Aodh
both would be flattened cinders.
“Ashes,” Ian said, abandoning the mysterious magical utterances
for a more practical approach. The rotating leviathan exploded into a
black cloud. The whipping wind drove away the harmless flecks.
“Humans did that, you know,” Aodh said. He shouldered Ian’s
messenger bag, grabbed his arm and pulled him across the field.
“Did what?” Ian asked. Bitter creosote coated his nostrils and
tongue, and he spat to rid himself of the taste. The vortical wind
whipped it back into his face.
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55
“Gave idiotic names to magic. They tried to claim it for
themselves, conceal its wild nature, make it as tame and orderly as
they hoped it to be.” Aodh moved his fingers from Ian’s arm to his
hand. Ian clasped them tight. Aodh gave him an indecipherable look.
“I am glad you are learning this quickly about those whose ranks you
seek to join by destroying Taylent.
“This way,” Aodh yelled against another onslaught of wind,
tugging Ian along like a recalcitrant child.
“Is that what you think?” Ian shouted above the noise. Trees
groaned as they pulled from the soil. The ground itself roiled and
bucked, as if trying to throw them off its back. “I don’t want power! I
want to kill Taylent, go home, and live a normal, maybe somewhat-
magical, life.”
Aodh stopped so suddenly Ian slammed into his shoulder. He
turned to Ian, seemingly uncaring of the mayhem around them.
“And you think the other mages will let you escape so easily?”
“We don’t have time for this discussion,” Ian said. The land was
cracking apart. The wind was gathering shoebox-sized chunks of
ground and carrying them off, leaving behind patches of nothingness.
“Taylent knows we’re hiding here and he’s tearing it down, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Aodh curved his body over Ian’s, covering his head with
his arm. A huge branch shot over them like a missile. Aodh righted.
Once he was sure Ian was unharmed, he continued, “But, we have a
few seconds and you need to understand what I am telling you.”
“I’m not in danger from them,” Ian protested. “The wizards didn’t
retaliate against Taylent when he killed my father. It’s their way. You
know that.”
“Your father,” Aodh said, batting another airborne branch from its
trajectory, “was an established mage. An official target. Taylent’s
challenge of him was legitimate—mandatory even—in the eyes of
wizard law. You, in stark contrast, are a student about to murder his
preceptor during your trial. Taylent is lord of the entire East Coast.
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You don’t simply slaughter him in his own house and then go home
and pretend you haven’t opened Hell at your feet.”
“Then I’ll slaughter them all,” Ian said, yanking his arm away
from Aodh.
“You’re a fool to speak that even in jest.”
“Who says I’m joking?” Ian yelled. “These fuckers have been
controlling me and everyone else with even a drop of magical blood
in their bodies forever. They have no right to establish their
meritocracy, putting to death all of those they feel don’t meet—or too
far exceed—their obscure standards. I’m tired of hearing about how
this mage was slaughtered, how that one was pressed into the service
of some proctor, how kids everywhere wet the bed at night trying to
figure out how they can be just the right amount of exceptional to
save themselves and their families from death. It’s a dirty, cruel
system and I am done being a part of it.” He turned away.
“Here,” he said a moment later. He could feel Aodh’s gaze locked
on his back, could feel his desire to say more. Ian didn’t want to hear
it. He cast his fury, frustration and attention on a patch of sky five feet
from where they stood. He could sense the power burbling above it.
He imagined the detritus-choked sky peeling back—much as the turf
around them was still doing—and imagined a means of exit. Aodh
was at least right about the words of power. They were part of an old
system, one that was already dead to him. If he was forging a new
way for himself, then he would make new magic to go with it.
An eight-foot square section of the heavens melted away. A rail-
thin apple ladder descended. With each rung another layer of the
world above appeared—dark, rocky earth teeming with creatures;
lighter soil dotted with ancient roots and midden; and then the wholly
human layers of gravel, aged pavement, and asphalt overlay. Above
his rabbit hole loomed the city skyline—an all too familiar sight for
Ian considering how short his time within its confines had been.
Around them, their haven collapsed in on itself. The forest line
shot up like darts from a gun, disappearing into the particle-grayed
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57
air. The remaining soil heaved and rippled. A tsunami of grass and
loam barreled towards them, growing with each inch of land it
greedily ate up, leaving nothing behind but empty black.
“You are determined to do this?” Aodh called as he pushed Ian
ahead of him up the ladder.
“Yes!” Ian shouted back.
Ian scurried up the rungs and flung himself onto the street. A
thick, cold rain pelted him, soaking him through in seconds. He thrust
his hand down the hole to assist Aodh, but the red cap only stuffed his
messenger bag into his hand.
“You must not show any change in feeling for me. I am your
sullen and reluctant guide, nothing more.”
Ian yanked his bag out of Aodh’s hand and stood, putting it
around his shoulders in what he hoped was a convincing show of
irritation.
The ground below Aodh disappeared. The ladder lurched
downward. Aodh sprang up, grabbing the edges of the aperture. He
dangled for a moment, legs flailing against the nothingness that tried
to suck him back in his clutches. Ian’s heart lurched in terror, but he
held his ground. Aodh pulled himself up, rolled onto the pavement,
and onto his feet. The portal closed.
“We don’t have all day,” Ian snapped. “What the hell was that? I
thought you knew this place.”
“This is not one of your Hollywood home tours,” Aodh retorted,
his aggravated tone much more convincing than Ian’s. “Things
change here, and they will keep changing every second you persist.”
Ian caught the flash in Aodh’s eyes, the telltale sparkle of
excitement.
“Well, then we shouldn’t be dangling from holes all day, should
we?” Ian intoned in his best imperious mage voice, turning away to
face the verdant horizon.
The city’s fringe glowed maliciously against the eggplant sky. It
thrummed with an almost audible beat, one that threatened to clog his
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ears and spin his head. Up there, somewhere beyond whatever pitfalls
lay in wait, was the key to freeing his family and avenging his father’s
death. And if taking down Taylent set off a chain reaction that
aroused the malice of every single fat-assed, self-righteous wizard in
the world?
Then, anarchy it would be.
Ian bit back a smile and started through the pouring rain. Aodh
trudged sourly behind, his magic touching Ian’s insides in a perpetual
caress.
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Chapter Seven:
Repercussions
Even Aodh’s regimented pace was slowing. It had been hours, if
not a full day, and they had grown no closer to the end of the tunnel.
The buildings now bent so low over their heads that they barely
cleared them. Entire side streets compressed into perilous offshoots
that housed innumerable creatures waiting to tear them apart. Ian had
been turning over the situation in his head as he walked, forcing his
mind to concentrate on something besides the cramping ache in his
calves and the burning of his feet. He had to get to Taylent, but it was
clear Taylent was running the show on his own timetable. Almost
unconsciously, Ian sent a spell careening into a fanged, slavering
beast blocking the road ahead.
Taylent was blocking him.
What if he didn’t want Ian to pass?
The thought brought him to a stop. Aodh sidestepped him to avoid
a collision, and turned to him, face blank, eyes questioning.
If he and Taylent were both gunning for each other, then the game
was far more dangerous than Ian previously believed. If not, he still
was faced with an insulted mage with a hard-on for proving who was
boss in this scenario. If only he could change the rules somehow, take
control...Aodh’s magic thrummed through him, prodding him to give
some sign of what he was thinking. It gave him an idea.
Ian cleared his mind, let his awareness drift down to his
midsection to where the red cap’s magic bound to his. He closed his
eyes, sent his power searching the boundaries of their union. He
followed along the mystical umbilical cord, letting his magic travel
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into the depths of the red cap’s body. Aodh’s eyes widened a fraction,
but real panic rested there.
Trust me. Trust me. Trust me. He projected the thought with his
magic but had no idea if his lover heard. Aodh continued to watch
him like a caged animal. And then, with a surge of regret, he issued
the next command.
Stop breathing.
Aodh’s eyes bulged. His throat constricted. His nostrils flared, but
no hiss of air intake followed. He stood rigid as a statue, the only sign
of his sudden suffocating the blue developing at the edges of his full
lips.
Breathe. Breathe. I’msosorrybreathe.
Aodh’s mouth opened and air rushed in. He watched Ian, never
taking his eyes from him. Terrible guilt welled inside Ian, but he did
not break eye contact.
Do you hear me? he asked silently.
Yes.
I’m so sorry.
Don’t be. I’ve been thinking of similar scenarios these past few
hours. The rules have to change. I, however, was not clever enough to
figure out a way. Aodh’s lips twitched. You have.
I’m going to summon Taylent.
Spells leave traces, Aodh warned. If you summon him without
going through me he will be suspicious. Even inside his head Aodh’s
voice rang with bitterness. If he is suspicious he will examine me.
That’s why you are going to assault me. Then I’ll have a reason to
call him. He won’t suspect, as we clearly don’t get along.
Clearly. Aodh’s mild chuckle rolled through his mind. He might
even appear even without being called if I do break my contract so
grievously.
That would be ideal, but I hope he doesn’t show up too quickly.
Why?
Because you’re going to assault me in a way we’ll both enjoy.
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A wave of desire rolled through Aodh’s mind and invaded Ian’s
chest. It nearly buckled his knees.
Ready? Then, out loud, “Stop staring at me and walk,” Ian
ordered. “I’d like to get this trial over with sometime this century.”
“You think you are better than me, human,” Aodh spat.
“I’m not?” Ian replied with a cocky tilt of his head. “That’s the
first I heard. I have a house. You live in the draperies, if I recall.”
“You wizards feel you are superior to us in every way, leashing us
to you like dogs and dragging us around for guidance and protection.”
Aodh stepped closer, his expression menacing. Ian felt a delicious
chill pass through him. “I am tired of you treating me like your
inferior.”
“Too bad you work for me.”
“We shall see who is in control here.”
The red cap’s magic inside Ian flared. A fist of power knotted
around his insides. It yanked him forward. Aodh’s eyes blazed, fiery
and bright. Ian watched him for a moment, and then the fist inside
him tugged again. Desire overwhelmed him, and he wasn’t sure if it
was Aodh’s magic, or his own attraction. He didn’t care. He fell on
Aodh, covering his mouth with his own, driving him against the brick
wall. He plunged his hand down to Aodh’s cock, stroking the
hardening bulge beneath his pants. He pulled back, confused. This
scene was too familiar, it was—
Aodh grabbed his lapels and flipped Ian around so his back
pressed against the wall. He kissed him furiously, cruelly. Ian’s hands
knotted at his sides as his desire waged war with the broken memory
his mind refused to let surface. Aodh ran his hands over his head,
pushing the knitted cap off of his skull, running his hands over the
stubble on his scalp. He fed on his mouth, tongue working against
Ian’s, then dipped down to cover his neck in hot, open-mouthed
kisses, his tongue burning against Ian’s pulse. He returned to brutally
kiss him once more, his mouth crushing Ian’s lips. A flash of copper
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filled his mouth as his lip grated against a tooth, but Aodh’s skilled
tongue licked it away, leaving a pulsing burn in its place.
Aodh pulled back to strip off his shirt, exposing that beautifully
sculpted torso, its sides marred by countless scars. It was the sight of
those marks that brought the memory rushing back. Ian opened his
mouth to protest, but another rush of power flooded him, pinned him
to the wall, helpless. Aodh knelt in front of him, opened his zipper.
Ian now knew what was happening, was fully aware of what would
occur once Aodh finished with his cock. His throat agonized in
ghostly anticipation. Aodh was going to suck him off, kill him, and
roll in his blood. That knowledge did nothing to quell his raging hard-
on. In fact—gods help him—it made him harder.
Aodh seized his cock and closed his mouth around it. He worked
his lips along the shaft, sucking and pulling at it, his fiery mouth
washing it in exquisite agony. Ian could do nothing but watch the
magnificent crimson head rock back and forth, taking his dick all the
way in and then all the way out to tease the tip. The alley behind
Aodh wavered, catching Ian’s attention.
“Aodh,” Ian said.
Aodh took his words for pleasure, and increased his suction. He
cradled Ian’s balls, rolling them in his fingers as he worked Ian’s
cock. Ian stole a glance down as Aodh moved his hand up his shaft,
working it with tightened fingers as his lips kissed and suckled at the
burgeoning head. Ian gasped at the heat radiating from Aodh’s saliva,
felt it work its way deep into his shaft with a burning insistence. Aodh
raked his teeth along Ian’s head and set it burning terribly, then
suckled away the pain. Again and again he did this, until Ian was
moaning and rolling his head back and forth across the bricks.
His cock spasmed.
The wavering in the alley returned, this time more pronounced.
“Aodh! Ao—!” Ian broke off, rocked by an orgasm that shuddered
through him and bowed his spine. His cum shot into Aodh’s mouth
and the red cap swallowed greedily. He flicked his gaze up to Ian as
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63
he pulled back on his cock one last time. Aodh wrapped his arms
around himself. As his mouth released Ian’s still-shuddering cock, he
raked his fingernails across his scarred sides. Blood spurted from
thick, open wounds. Ian watched in horror as the red cap stood.
It can’t be true. It can’t.
The blur at the end of the alley coalesced, solidified. Aodh
watched his eyes for a moment longer, his expression open—as if
waiting for judgment—and then whirled around. The blur had become
a human form. Ian had no time register the details of the face, but it
was male, of that he was sure. And then Aodh was blocking Ian’s
view, bolting forward, arm lashing out. A spray of blood spattered the
alley wall. The figure in the alley crumpled, fruitlessly clutching for
Aodh’s legs as it went. Aodh followed the twitching body to the
ground. He knelt over it for a moment, watching the blood puddle on
the asphalt. He looked back at Ian and flashed him a grim smile.
“A boy’s gotta eat sometime,” he said.
He pushed the body out of the way and lay down in the puddle of
blood so that his wounds were bathed as he rolled side to side in the
viscous fluid. A wash of brilliance suffused the slashes, feeding
through the wounds to light Aodh’s insides from foot to head. His
body radiated, his hair blazed, transforming him into a golden torch.
The corpse rested beside him, still leaking vital fluids. It did not
twitch any longer.
“What did you do?” Ian gasped. “Why did you do that?” Released
from Aodh’s magic, Ian staggered forward, taking a moment to shove
his dick back into his pants. The vision he’d seen in the window
hadn’t been right. Aodh didn’t kill him. He killed his vengeance. Ian
wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“Because I could.” In Ian’s mind, Aodh’s voice was much softer,
I’m sorry for this. I needed the energy to face Taylent. Odds are he’ll
kill me anyway.
Ian glanced from Aodh to the body in the street in confusion.
Above the wet, leaking tear of his slashed throat, the mouth of Carl,
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the middling wizard manservant, gaped open in shock. It wasn’t
Taylent. The mage still lived. He gazed at Aodh who was looking at
him as if to say, Of course it’s not Taylent. His fate belongs to you.
Aodh was taking Ian’s plan and building on it. Feeding off of the
butler would definitely warrant Taylent’s interference.
Wouldn’t it?
“What kind of operation is Taylent running?” Ian recovered his
wits enough to go along with Aodh’s plot, although a gnawing terror
had risen in his stomach. They had just treaded off the edge of a cliff
together. There would be repercussions, and they would be aimed at
Aodh. Even with this realization, he continued the ruse, “He gives me
a sociopathic, pervert guide and then doesn’t even stop him himself?”
Ian feigned indignation. “He sends his clearly ineffectual butler?”
“You get what you pay for. Isn’t that the saying?” Aodh said,
rubbing the last traces of blood into his nearly healed wounds.
I suspect he sensed an opportunity to err on the side of caution. It
is how he has survived this long, Aodh sent the last thought into Ian’s
mind as he sat up. A moment later a violent tremor racked his body.
He gasped in pain.
Ian stared, frozen in place by his fears made suddenly, horribly
real.
Don’t react. Don’t be scared, Aodh said. His body shuddered
again.
A searing pain shot through Ian’s middle, like a knife cutting him
clean through. The knot of magic tethering him to Aodh dissolved,
replaced by a horrible emptiness.
Don’t worry about me, just get him. No matter what, get him.
Aodh disappeared.
Ian bit back a shout. He scanned the alley, searching, but there
was nothing. No ashes, to trace of remains besides that of the dead
mage.
Aodh was gone. Just like that.
He meant for this to happen.
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65
Aodh had known Taylent wouldn’t enter the arena after Ian had
opened that portal. The wizard couldn’t know what passed between
Aodh and Ian there. From the mage’s view it could have been a
creative, off-book escape from the tentacle beast, or it could have
been a much more devious act. He wouldn’t risk making a personal
appearance without knowing which for certain. So, he sent his
expendable servant to feel out the situation. And then Aodh killed
him, drank his blood—he said so he could be strong enough to face
Taylent’s wrath—but there was something more.
To protect you, idiot. He acted like a crazed sexual predator so
you wouldn’t look guilty of any conspiracy. After all, who would think
a belligerent red cap would sacrifice himself to save another wannabe
wizard who would undoubtedly graduate and join the ranks keeping
his kind in eternal servitude?
Ian pushed away the thought of Aodh sacrificing himself. The
thought of Aodh dying—dying for him—made Ian want to curl up on
the sidewalk and become the second corpse the pavement had seen
that day. And he couldn’t toss aside Aodh’s gift like that. Besides,
Aodh could still be alive, and that meant he needed Ian. And the only
way Ian was going to help Aodh was to get out of the arena—with
Taylent’s mystical head on a platter.
“Since this whole test has gone wrong over and over, can we just
skip to the end?” Ian called out. When there was no immediate
reaction to his question he added, “It seems only fair, doesn’t it? I lost
my guide two days into this thing. The rules say I have to have him
with me for the sake of the test’s opacity right up until the final event.
He’s gone, and,” Ian gestured to the corpse on the ground, “you seem
to be shorter staffed than you’d like, so, why don’t we just cut to the
end, Mr. Taylent, sir? I think I’ve proven the breadth of my mystical
knowledge. I am ready to face whatever it is you have in store for
me.”
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Ian waited. After several minutes, the body on the ground faded
and disappeared. The buildings pulled back, exposing a sky choked
with stars.
Night again. He couldn’t keep track of time in this place.
The blocks retreated from one another, widening and lengthening
the street, pushing away from Ian almost courteously. At the end of
the next block the horizon undulated, a blinding green profusion of
pulsating light. Ian moved into it, his magic flaring inside him, ready
to be unleashed.
The second block, bathed in the verdant light, was comprised of
one massive storefront on each side. Behind the enormous panes of
glass stood countless clothing racks, placed one in front of the other,
stretching far back into the store where the light originated.
This is the horizon.
The baneful illumination highlighted rows upon rows of odd
garments dangling from the hangers, their elongated shapes
confusing. Ian slowed his step, walked closer to a window. Like
deflated sex toys the hollow human remains hung, hair mussed,
mouths open, eye sockets empty. Ian took a staggering step back. A
form in the display window flopped a hand at him. Its drooping head
rolled up, wavered and then flopped back, exposing a fresh gash in
the neck.
Hundreds, maybe a thousand human remains hung like thrift shop
finds in these stores. Who were they? Magicians, former servants of
Taylent sent in to resolve situations such as this one? Adept
candidates too weak or strong to be permitted to even navigate the
entire trial before being eliminated? Enemies? Probably all three. And
Ian was certain he was meant to join them.
The skin in the window lifted its rubbery arm. The head flopped
forward to rest against the glass. The hollow eye sockets bored into
him. The mouth stretched in a cartoon grin. The arm beat on the glass,
once, twice, slapping at the surface with a squelching sound. It hit
harder, hammering against the glass, its boneless fist no larger than a
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67
mound of child’s clay. The glass jounced in time to the beat, sending
the impact reverberating out farther with each impact.
The skins on the rest of the racks began to move, lifting
languorous hands to release themselves from their hangers. They
puddled on the floor, flopping and dragging themselves over one
another, legs catching and entwining, arms knotting together. They
inchwormed forward, picking up more skins as they went, pulling
them in and adding them to the creeping mass of hair, empty faces
and extremities. The closer the thing came the more it transformed
into a unified form, a knotted-together patchwork of desecrated
bodies.
Ian had a moment to wonder at the amount of wasted magical
power represented by the creeping mass—where had that much magic
gone?—and then the blinding, noxious green light filled the street,
and the window blew out.
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Chapter Eight:
Vengeance
The half-formed humanoid shape struggled through the jagged
opening. With the slight lump above its shoulders thrust forward, it
walk-crawled across the narrow street to the opposite window, using a
misshapen arm to support itself as its uneven stump legs pushed its
mishmash body across the pavement. Behind the glass more skins
swarmed. They pressed up against the glass, an endless school of
remoras sucking and slavering. As the salmagundi approached they
increased their clamor, anxious for their liberation. Obligingly, the
thing lifted its massive single arm, a helix of bodies coming together
to form a single appendage. With piebald knuckles haired by
individual heads, the creature smashed through the glass.
Bodies rushed through the opening to the beast, slithering and
twisting, molding themselves into extra body parts—completed legs,
another arm, and a defined head. It grew in height and girth,
stretching well above twelve feet, and half as broad. Empty faces
stared out at Ian from every angle. The beast turned. Looking into the
thing made faceless by a dozen melded visages, he knew without a
doubt he was facing his father’s murderer at long last.
Ian flared his magic, letting his entire arsenal open like a book
inside of him. No words. Aodh had warned him of that. There would
be no warning of a verbal spell. Just natural, wild magic to honor the
natural, wild man who had gifted him with everything he had never
known he had been missing.
The beast lunged. A splayed palm swiped towards Ian. He caught
sight of an oddly stretched mouth and set of eyes, and then the hand
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69
slammed into him. He flew backwards, careening into lamp post. The
fire inside did a malicious dance. As the creature rocketed towards
him, Ian scrabbled away from the pole to avoid the impact. The beast,
still unsteady on its patchwork legs, slammed into it, and the pole
toppled over with a crash. Freed from its confines the fire followed
the puddle of oil, leaping along the trail and setting window frame
shards alight in merry destruction.
Recovering, the thing spun around and rushed Ian again. Ian
retaliated with a whiplash of energy that coiled around the beast’s legs
and yanked. With a sound of a hundred gagged mouths crying out, the
thing toppled backwards directly into the fire. A terrible stench filled
the air as hair burned clean to the scalp, and skin blistered and peeled.
Howling in that wretched, muffled voice, the thing thrashed and
kicked.
Ian approached, his magic thrumming at his fingertips. He readied
his magic and propelled it into the core of the beast. It bellowed again.
Ian transferred his energy to the building beside them. The bricks
rattled in their mortar as he funneled his command into them. A few
bricks shuddered, one popped free and tumbled to the cement, but the
building did not come down. Instead, it began blowing windows out,
one by one, sending splinters of glass down to Ian.
Ian covered himself with a defensive spell. The glass bounced
harmlessly away. The beast had taken the respite to regain its feet and
was again heading towards Ian, hands spread as if to gather him in a
crushing embrace. Ian transferred the defensive shield to his front.
The creature brought his hands together in a thunderclap. The force of
it blew through his defenses and hit Ian squarely in the chest. For the
second time in a minute he was flying backwards, this time along the
street, nothing impeding his hurtling flight.
He managed to turn himself enough so he landed with his
shoulder and not his skull. Pain exploded through his arm and ribs.
His upper back screamed in agony as it raked along the asphalt. Fiery
pain seared through his chest with each shallow breath he managed.
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The creature came closer, hands poised again to strike. Ian lay on his
side, too injured to do anything but watch his approaching demise.
There was no way he could fight Taylent. The wizard was too
strong. He had connected these skins together, forged them into
something far greater than they once were. And then it hit him—
Taylent forged mystical connections. That was his specialty. He had
bound Aodh to Ian, just as he had bound countless other adept
candidates to their guides. Ian’s mind churned, forging connections of
its own. Taylent had been alive a very long time. No doubt he had
grown bored with his role as proctor and begun to wonder what other
links he might be able to join. The shells now bound in death to
destroy him, they were once magical beings. It was possible—no, Ian
was certain—Taylent had bound these poor souls to him, taken their
magic for his own and stored the empty casings in this arena where no
one but another doomed to their fate would find them.
Taylent had the power of hundreds of magicians stored inside of
him. All of his life Ian had heard the community’s whisperings that
his father was simply a weakling, but he wasn’t. He was a good man
and a great wizard, destroyed by a vile thief.
All of these thoughts bloomed and festered in Ian’s mind in the
eight seconds it took for the beast to reach him. He rolled out of the
way as a huge hand smashed down. A wave of acidic air hit his nose.
The asphalt beneath the thing’s fist sizzled and melted away. Ian
pushed to his feet, ignoring the screaming pain in his right side,
searching for a means to end Taylent’s beast. The fire would be a
great asset. He tried in vain to understand how Aodh had controlled
the oil fire earlier, but no matter which way he envisioned it, the fire
remained fixed on its own schedule of destruction, chewing its way
up the building facade.
A slow muttering noise emanated from the skin beast. The words
were soft, but soon they began to pick up volume. One by one the
slack mouths on its body began to move, each forming the words of
the same spell.
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The spell that had killed his father.
“So we both know who the other is,” Ian called. “I’m glad. I want
you to know exactly who I am before you die.”
Half of the mouths abandoned their litany to screech with derisive
laughter. A moment later it became a shriek. The green glow faltered.
A warm feeling flooded his stomach. It was so familiar Ian
thought he might cry with relief. The sensation persistently knotted
and unknotted, urging him to remember.
And he did.
The mouths were abandoning their chant in favor of frenzied cries
of pain. Ian silently thanked Aodh for the distraction, and
concentrated on the magic swelling inside him. He could feel it, like a
cord with a barbed hook at the end. He lashed it out and it found its
mark, embedding deep inside the patchwork beast. He imagined the
power holding the creature together coming undone, he picked at it
with mystical fingers, unknotting that which never should have been
tied together. The creature gave a confused lurch as several pieces of
its leg peeled away. It howled in rage. The light returned and the
mouths once again picked up the spell.
Ian placed a wall around himself, but he could feel the wasting
spell wearing it down, chewing through his defenses the way it had
his father’s bones. He tightened his focus, kept it trained on the
monster. It lurched in his direction, hands ready to tear, melt, shatter.
Ian sent the last of his power out, called to the shells themselves, told
them to resist their desecration. As if waiting for this permission, the
bodies fell away, unwrapping themselves from their fleshy prison,
toppling to the earth to lay still.
Layer after layer unfurled until all that remained was the ghostly
form of a furious-looking old man in a blue tracksuit.
“You have ruined my work,” Taylent spat, raising his spectral
hands to cast.
“Soon enough,” Ian replied. He glanced down. “Have a look.”
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The hook of energy that had been embedded in the monster was
now firmly implanted inside Taylent. He stared into the eyes of his
father’s killer. The look he received in return was the incredulity of
one so convinced of his omnipotence that even looming defeat would
not shatter his pride. It was just as well. Ian gave Taylent a bitter
smirk and then yanked. Taylent’s mouth opened, but no sound came
out. His body wavered and disappeared. The foul green light went
with him. A moment later the buildings heaved and toppled over. The
pavement under Ian’s feet gave way, and he fell.
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Chapter Nine:
Return to Whitehaven Seat
Vertigo washed over Ian as the ground rushed up around him. A
moment later, he was standing in the garden at Whitehaven Seat, the
river gently sloshing in the distance.
“Aodh!” Ian bolted through the gardens towards the house. He
leapt over low hedges and stampeded across overwintering plants. He
flung his messenger bag from his body and leapt up the patio wall,
pulling himself over the railing and onto the flagstones. He burst into
the house, calling Aodh’s name.
There was no answer.
He raced to the sitting room where he had confronted Taylent two
days—two days? Had such a short time really passed?—before.
Taylent sat slumped in his chair, sightless eyes staring straight ahead,
his foot resting on the neck of a prone form. Ian let out a strangled cry
and rushed over.
The fire had crept out of the hearth, forming a protective ring
around the prostate red cap. Taylent’s leg smoldered above the
flames.
“Aodh!” Ian cried. He reached out to the red cap, but the fire rose
up to drive him back. “I’m not trying to hurt him,” he protested. The
fire, not cognizant of matters such as intent, continued to bite at his
hands. “Aodh, please, don’t...”
He directed his thoughts back to the fire. He grasped Aodh’s
lingering magic inside him, gathered it and forced it out towards the
fire. He imagined the fire shrinking away, returning to the grate. He
then projected to it another image, a promise. The fire wavered, and
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then retreated. It crawled across the rug, leaving smoking black trails,
and inched back into the hearth.
With Aodh free, Ian hovered over him, inspecting him for
physical damage. There was none. Whatever Taylent had done to him
was purely mystical. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow. His
eyes flickered weakly behind his closed eyes.
What do I do for you? Ian wracked his brain, but mystical healing
was not part of what he had been taught. He was beginning to
understand why. Injured wizards were easier to finish off than healed
ones. He thought back to the gardens, wondering if any of the
withered plants he had trampled were of the mystical variety. He
couldn’t recall. Aodh’s chest shuddered beneath his hands. His
breathing was becoming labored. He looked around the room for a
desk that might contain a letter opener, but saw nothing. He had
abandoned his bag—and knife—outside. There was no time to search
for the kitchen. He bent back over Aodh and searched the many
pockets in his pants. Innumerable objects toppled out. Many of them
were beyond description. But none of them held the slightest edge.
“As militant as you are why don’t you carry a knife?” He growled
in frustration. And then he knew. Aodh did not need a knife.
Ian tugged Aodh’s shirt up to his chest. He stripped off his own
coat and layers of shirts. He grabbed Aodh’s hand and held out his
index finger. The nail was short, only a quarter of an inch long, but
thin as a razor blade and just as sharp. He used it to slice open one
side of Aodh’s chest, and then used the opposite hand to slice the
other. With Aodh’s finger still extended he brought it up to his wrist.
He held the nail to his wrist and sliced quickly up towards his elbow.
It took a few seconds before the searing ache to set in. Ignoring the
pain and the shock of the instant rush of blood, he sliced the other
side. With both forearms gushing, he leaned over Aodh and pressed
his arms to his open sides.
Aodh’s face remained waxen. Ian pressed harder and put his lips
to Aodh’s.
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“Please wake up,” he whispered against Aodh’s mouth. “Please.”
He didn’t realize how tired he was. He let his legs collapse and
put the weight of his chest on Aodh’s. He pressed his arms tighter to
Aodh as his head drooped onto the red cap’s chest. His eyelids grew
heavy, his body light. A brilliant golden light surrounded him and he
curled into it.
* * * *
“On a scale of one to ten, how stupid are you, again?”
Ian pried open his heavy eyelids. Aodh was scowling down at
him. Relief and joy washed through him. He reached up, noting the
neat white bandage covering his arm, and dragged Aodh down to his
mouth.
Aodh’s scowl did not lessen, but he returned Ian’s kiss with
enthusiasm. After a moment, though, he gently disengaged and placed
Ian’s hand back down.
“Are you going to answer me?” Aodh asked.
“Twelve, at least.” Ian grinned. “You sorry to love a dumb man?”
“Who said anything about love?” Aodh said, his tone one of
dismissal. His eyes, however, lit with copper fire.
“I did.” Ian stroked Aodh’s hand, which still hovered beside his
own.
Aodh watched him for a moment, studying his face with an
expression Ian imagined mirrored his own. Happiness threatened to
make him giggle like a fool. Taylent was dead. His family was safe,
for now. And Aodh loved him. As far as trials went, this one hadn’t
been too awful.
“You did not need to slit both of your wrists from palm to elbow,
you know,” Aodh finally said.
“No?”
“The more blood I have, the quicker I heal, but that’s only
necessary in combat situations. Otherwise, I am happy for a shot glass
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full and a human’s healing time. That way I don’t have to wake up
and save your life straight off.”
“Sorry. It was an emergency. I panicked. I didn’t want you to
die.”
“Well enough,” Aodh said. “However, I feel I have to add that
you should never use my hand to open your veins. My nails have an
anticoagulating compound in them. It helps me bleed my prey more
efficiently. I was able to whisper your blood back to your heart, but
you had already lost a good deal. I’m afraid you will be weak for a
while. We should probably get you to a hospital for a transfusion.”
“I’m fine.” Ian waved it off. A lot of witches worked in hospitals,
and they knew wizards by sight. He wasn’t ready to deal with any
more magical types than he already had. “We can pick me up a couple
of nice steaks. You like steak?”
“Rare is nice.”
“It is.”
“Are you asking me to have dinner with you?”
“You have better plans?” Ian waved at the oppressive room.
“I have no plans.”
“Good.” Ian smiled. “Now you do.”
After another short nap Ian felt well enough to leave. Aodh had
retrieved his messenger bag while he was gone. His burgeoning duffel
bag sat next to it.
“You packed for me?”
“Isn’t that what I do?” Aodh asked with mock acidity.
“Not anymore.” Ian’s voice held more force than he expected. His
passion made Aodh smile.
“I added a few of my own possessions to it, if you don’t mind.”
“I was all right with our magic and souls binding together, but
now our clothes? Next you’ll want to borrow my toothbrush. This
might be moving too fast for me,” Ian teased. He pulled on his coat
and shouldered his bag. The effort made the room sway. Aodh
reached out and took the bag from his shoulder. Ian flashed him a
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sheepish smile. “Seriously, you’re not my servant. You know that,
right?”
“I suspect I am your partner. And partners help one another,
correct?”
“Yeah. That’s what we do.”
Aodh nodded and took Ian’s elbow. He helped him out of the
room, down the hallway and out the wide front doors. They moved
down the driveway in silence. Once they were a good distance from
the house, Ian stopped.
“You have everything you need from inside?” he asked Aodh.
“Everything I care to carry.” Aodh shrugged the bag on his
shoulder. “Why?”
Ian smiled. He turned his attention to the house. He pictured the
fireplace, the tiny licks of flame waiting patiently inside.
Be my guest.
In his mind’s eye the fire blasted out of the grate with a joyous
whoosh, hungrily engulfing the overstuffed chair and the body
sagging against it.
A few moments later the conflagration broke out the first of the
windows. They stood together next to one another and watched the
mansion of their enemy burn. Aodh gripped Ian’s shoulder almost
painfully, his copper eyes reflecting the fire’s unbridled joy.
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Epilogue:
In Hiding
Ian pulled back, taking one last gentle nibble at the tip of Aodh’s
cock. Outside a chorus of birds, insects, and squirrels filled the air
with energy. Since Aodh had changed their bond, deepened it, Ian
could feel his connection to all living things in a complex, almost
primal way. They had sought out the one-room forest vacation cottage
not only so they could find a moment of peace, but also to further
explore the heightened powers this connection had given them. It
seemed, however, their exploration was determined to take place in
one exclusive aspect of connecting, as their new awareness not only
gave them greater understanding of their powers, it made them both
very, very intuitive with all things sexual.
Ian wiped his mouth. Aodh’s cum tingled on his lips and in his
throat, the heat warming him all the way down to his stomach. His
cock throbbed.
“Is it my turn now?” Aodh asked, reaching up to cup the nape of
Ian’s neck.
Ian let Aodh pull him in and roll him onto his back, kissing him
deeply as he did so. He bit at Ian’s throat, suckling at the skin, grazing
it gently with his teeth. His hand slid down Ian’s bare chest to his
abdomen. He cradled the softly glowing spot for a moment, and then
continued down, running his fingers over Ian’s cock in a feather light
touch. Aodh followed his hand’s path, trailing his tongue down Ian’s
chest, diverting to nip at first one nipple and then the next, then
continuing down, teasing the thin line of hair with his breath. He ran
his hands along either side of Ian’s cock as his mouth closed around
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79
his balls. He rolled them in his mouth, letting the fire of his saliva set
them burning. Ian writhed.
Aodh moved to his cock, running his mouth up the shaft to the
head where he teased the tip with his tongue. He massaged the downy
mound just above his dick, the tip of his tongue the only contact with
his head. He licked lightly, slowly, tracing the rim. Ian moaned in
exquisite pleasure.
Aodh suddenly took Ian’s cock deep into his throat. Fiery desire
engulfed Ian. He wanted more. He wanted all of Aodh.
“I want to fuck you,” he gasped.
Aodh sucked at his head for a few seconds more, slicking it with
his saliva. He looked into Ian’s eyes, gauging his desire, smiled,
climbed off of him, and turned around. The sight of the red cap on his
hands and knees at the end of the bed was all he needed to see. Ian fell
on him, kissing the back of his neck, his shoulders, grabbing a fistful
of hair to yank his head back so he could better kiss his throat. His
cock burned against Aodh’s ass. He pushed. The slickness of Aodh’s
spit allowed it to slide in easily. Aodh made a throaty sound. Ian
grabbed his hips and thrust. Aodh arched his back and reared into
him. Ian began a slow pumping rhythm. Aodh matched it, pushing his
ass into his cock over and over. The heat inside him was nearly
unbearable. His cock throbbed with painful pleasure. Aodh opened
the connection between them and suddenly Ian wasn’t just feeling his
dick sliding in and out, but was also feeling Aodh’s insides, the
tautness, the pleasure his own cock brought as he rocked it in and out.
The sensation brought him to the edge immediately. Aodh cried out
with him, not just feeling his cum burst through his ass, but also
sharing in Ian’s shuddering climax as if it were his own. For a long
moment both of their bodies wracked with unified spasms of delight
and they cried out in wholly shared ecstasy.
Ian collapsed across Aodh’s back as Aodh collapsed onto the bed.
They laughed. Ian extracted himself. He felt a flash of loss as their
physical connection severed and the mystical one receded. Aodh
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turned over, his new-penny eyes shining, and Ian instantly forgot the
sensation. He leaned over and kissed Aodh. Aodh kissed him back,
running his hands along his sides. He paused at the elongated lump
protruding just below Ian’s ribs, fingers tenderly exploring.
“Does it still hurt?” Aodh asked.
Ian twisted to show the mass of scar tissue, no longer angry red,
sealed around the small blade embedded there. It rested alongside his
ribs like an extra little piece of protection—which it was.
“That was a skilled piece of magic you used to reduce your
father’s knife.” Aodh traced the outline of the blade.
“The better part was dulling the blade so it didn’t saw through my
skin every time I moved,” Ian said, grinning.
“A good idea.” Aodh grew serious. “It is fitting your totem is your
father’s knife. Because of what Taylent did to him, what you did to
Taylent… The blade alone was a powerful object. With this magic
attached to it, you will be safer.” His eyes darkened and he brushed
his fingers across Ian’s forehead.
“I’m safe, my family is safe, because of you. Because of us.” Ian
leaned in and kissed Aodh again.
“You miss them.”
“Of course. But that gorgeous piece of magic you and I worked
keeps them hidden. Until we’ve finished what we started, my distance
and their concealment will keep them out of harm’s way. It’s the best
I can do for them right now.”
“And when it is done there will be holidays and weekend dinners
and eventually tiny nieces and nephews who will grow to be as
powerful and free as their uncle?”
“As their uncles.” Ian trailed his fingers down Aodh’s cheek.
“Now, are we going to have rare steak again for breakfast, or do we
need to go find you something… Fresher?”
Outside the birds stilled.
“I don’t think we need to go out for food,” Aodh said.
They both turned to the door.
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“Get up. Get dressed!” Aodh’s command had lost none of its edge
since the trial six months earlier, or the four times he had spoken it
since.
Ian was already up, tugging on his discarded clothes.
“Which one do you think this is?” Aodh asked, focusing his
attention on the building mystical energy in the room.
The door jounced on its hinges.
“We turned the world upside down. There’s a host of pissed-off
and terrified wizards looking for the boy who took down the lord of
the East Coast. Your guess is as good as mine which one has grown
balls enough to face us this time.”
Aodh flashed him a smile.
Wood cracked and buckled. The door sailed off of its hinges and
out into the open field.
Ian returned the expression.
Power ebbed and flowed between them. Neither needed to look at
the other as they bolted into the fray.
THE END
WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/TERRALAURENTAUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terra Laurent lives in Maryland. Writing stories with fantastical,
dark elements is her passion. This is her second erotic novel.
Also by Terra Laurent
Siren Allure ManLove: Possession
Available at
BOOKSTRAND.COM
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com