Authors: K. J. Charles

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #Historical, #Short Story, #Christmas

Feast of Stephen (3 page)

BOOK: Feast of Stephen

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***

Stephen
reclined against Crane’s legs with a satisfied sigh as the clocks
chimed one. Merrick had whisked Saint off to bed at last, and they
sat alone in front of the fire’s embers.

“I am actually
in pain from laughing,” Stephen said. “That was a marvellous night.
Jenny had a wonderful time once you finally got her talking. I
think this is going to work, you know.”

“And then there
were four.” Crane stroked Stephen’s hair. “I’m looking forward to
this. Showing both of you the world outside England. Taking you to
the mountains.”

“As long as we
avoid bandits.”

“You and Miss
Saint can handle all the bandits China can provide. Well, you’ll
have to. The Three Tiger Claw is long gone, and even if it wasn’t,
I’m not stripping down to my tattoo for anyone except you.”

Stephen put up
a hand. Crane caught it, gently tangling their fingers together.
“Since it’s St Stephen’s Day, or rather, since St Stephen’s seems
an appropriate date, I have something for you. Well, for us.” He
tightened his hold on Stephen’s hand to stop him turning round.
“No, stay there a moment.” His fingers felt just a little clumsy
fishing the envelope from his pocket. That might have been the
brandy, or it might not. “We spoke of this earlier, and I, uh…”
He’d wanted to say something meaningful, but the hell with it.
Stephen knew it all by now. “I liked you wearing my ring, my love.
Do it again.”

He turned
Stephen’s palm up and emptied the envelope onto it. Stephen gave an
urgent little gasp.

As he should.
Crane had had to exert a surprising amount of will and spend a lot
of money to have these done in time, and he had been pleased with
the result.

Stephen picked
up the smaller ring to examine it. Gold glittered in the firelight.
Chips of quartz and onyx, cunningly set, formed the shape of a
single magpie in flight, its long tail stretching around the ring.
The larger ring was its mirror image, so that the birds could face
each other.

“I…” He stared.
“They’re… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s what
you said last time I gave you a ring.”

“It is, isn’t
it?” Stephen slipped the smaller ring onto the fourth finger of his
right hand, held it out in admiration. “And then I said, ‘Thank
you, Lucien.’”

“And then, if I
recall, you kissed me.”

Stephen turned,
kneeling on the footstool, and took Crane’s hand. His fingers were
alive with their electric charge, almost painful. “I can’t speak as
you do. You can talk your way out of certain death. And then you do
something like this and I..I don’t have the words.” He hesitated,
looking almost embarrassed, then rushed out, “Look, you, uh, you
know the song?”

“Song?”

“Wenceslas.”
Stephen cleared his throat. His voice was a little husky.

“Sire, the
night is darker now

And the wind
blows stronger

Fails my heart,
I know not how,

I can go no
longer.”

Crane took up
the king’s response in his deeper voice:

“Mark my
footsteps, my good page

Tread thou in
them boldly

Thou shalt find
the winter’s rage

Freeze thy
blood less coldly.”

“That,” Stephen
said. “It struck me when we were singing earlier. That’s what you
do. When I’m with you, I can keep going. I’m braver. The whole
world is warm for me because of you.” His hand trembled as he
threaded the larger ring over Crane’s knuckle, and then he put his
own hand over Crane’s, interlacing the fingers. “Two for joy.” It
sounded like a vow.

“Two for joy,”
Crane repeated softly. “And I am quite sure you owe me a kiss by
now.”

“I don’t think
that will suffice.” Stephen gestured with his free hand at the
door. There was an audible click as the key turned, and Crane
spared a second’s gratitude for whichever past Vaudrey had put
brass fittings on the door rather than iron. Stephen hopped up onto
his lap, straddling his legs. He leaned in to cup Crane’s face with
both hands, the charge of his fingers prickling like snowflakes on
skin, and kissed him. Crane could feel the shift of cloth and
movement of buttons as he responded, Stephen undressing him with
his powers, and he ran his own hands over his lover, down his back,
under his waistband, doing his best to break the little witch’s
concentration.

He failed,
though Stephen grunted protest into his mouth, because Stephen was
putting everything he had into the kiss and it was overwhelming.
Teeth and tongues, open mouths and the rasp of stubble, Stephen
pulling at his hips, dragging at his clothing, caressing his
face—Crane had no idea which were Stephen’s physical hands and
which his magic, didn’t care enough to look. Featherlight touches
were running the whole length of his skin, and Stephen’s breath,
laced with brandy, rasped in his ear.

Stephen slid
down, to his knees, hands resting on Crane’s bare thighs. “Stay
there,” he said. “I want to…”

“Anything.”

“Then don’t
move.” Stephen’s eyes were luminous in the dark room, glowing gold.
“My lord.”

“My w— What the
fuck
?”

“Me.”

“Of course it
is.” Crane made himself hold steady, controlling his breathing. It
took an effort. Stephen was between his legs, sitting back on his
heels, hands firm on Crane’s thighs, but his power was moving. It
spread from his hands to wash over Crane’s skin, dripping and
sliding, as thick and cool as he imagined mercury might feel. A
quicksilver touch. Gentle pressure spiralled around his cock like a
ribbon, looped around his balls, tightened all over.

“Sweet
Jesus!”

“Good?”

“Fuck.”

“I’ll assume
that’s good,” Stephen murmured. The power pulsed against Crane’s
skin, slid downward, tendrils probing and exploring and,
oh
Christ
, penetrating now. It was impossible to believe there was
nothing there. Sensation along every nerve ending, deep pressure
inside, just right—a long time since he’d felt that—the steady
rhythm round his cock, sharper spangles of sensation going off all
over his body now, at earlobes and nipples and neck. Stephen was
working every part of him at once, and Crane couldn’t move under
the barrage of pleasure. He was swearing in Shanghainese and
English together, thrown back in the chair, hands locked on its
arms, and Stephen was everywhere, all over him, unstoppable.

“
Tsaena
.
Shit. Stephen,
please
.”

“I love you,”
Stephen said softly. “I need you.” The pressure and pace increased
as he spoke, spiralling upwards. Crane’s nails raked the
upholstery. He had never felt less in control of his own body. “And
there’s nobody in the world who can do this to you but me.”

Crane made a
hoarse noise. Stephen bent his head, lips closing warm over Crane’s
cock, sending sensation clenching all over him at once, and he came
so hard that he cried out with something that was almost pain.

He managed to
focus again after a few moments. Stephen was sitting back with an
expression of intense self-satisfaction, eyes glowing gold.

“Good God,”
Crane croaked. “If that’s what a ring gets me, I intend to buy you
a great deal more jewellery. Possibly a tiara.”

“Well, this—”
Stephen raised his hand as he spoke, and broke off, giving the ring
on his finger a sharp look.

“What? Oh, no,
no, no. Don’t tell me the fucking birds are moving. Do
not
.”
Crane sat up and glared at his own ring.

“No, sorry,
it’s fine. It was just a trick of the light,” Stephen said. “I
think.”

“You
think
?”

Stephen sighed.
“You might as well accustom yourself to the inevitable. Magpie
rings, on us? I will wager anything you like, in a hundred years’
time, some distant Vaudrey relation is going to pick one of these
up and think,
Oh, what a lovely heirloom
, and put it on, and
the whole blasted business is going to start again.”

“We may need to
die at sea, then,” Crane said. “And if we fail to do that, it’s
their problem.” He took Stephen’s hand, felt the champagne fizz
against his skin. “Whereas
my
problem, at this moment, is
how to improve on what you just did to me with only natural
ingenuity and twenty years of practice to call upon. So come here,
witch, and let me try.”

***

London, New Year’s
Eve

The snow fell
thickly here. It coated the blackened walls and grimy streets,
brightening the darkness with a façade of purity that, the next
day, would be kicked and filthied and turned into an icy, dangerous
nuisance. For now, in the night, it was beautiful.

Jonah Pastern
sat on the parapet of St Paul’s Cathedral, looking over the city.
Snowflakes flurried around him, melting instantly a few inches from
his body thanks to the layer of warmth he had wrapped around
himself.

New Year’s Eve.
He should have been celebrating it.
They
should have been
celebrating, in bed, ringing the new year in with kisses. He
shouldn’t be up here alone with a flask of gin and a pain that
wouldn’t go away. But he was, and there was not a single thing he
could do about it.

“Happy New
Year, lover. To us. Wherever you are, and wherever I am.” He raised
the flask to the air, drained it, and flung it away, careless of
where it fell. “Happy New Year, and God rot the bastards, every
one.”

The building
under him began to vibrate with the deafening resonance of the
bells. He stood and leapt out, over the parapet, into the cold,
empty air, alone.

It was time to
run again.

###

Books by KJ
Charles

Thanks for
reading!

The Charm of
Magpies series, in chronological order

The Smuggler and the Warlord
(free story)

The
Magpie Lord

Interlude with
Tattoos
(free story)

A Case of Possession
(Winner, Best Gay Fantasy Romance, 2014
Rainbow Awards)

A
Case of Spirits
(free story, available January 2015)

Flight
of Magpies

Feast of
Stephen (free story)