The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil (41 page)

Charles looked around, but there was no one else in the room. “Who?”

“The ghosts,” Timothy said. “The androghenie.”

Charles looked again. “I don’t see anything.” He turned back to Timothy. “Wait—
you
can see them? But you aren’t even from Etsey!”

“He can
hear
them.” Emily came forward and stood behind Timothy, looking around the room just as Timothy had. “And he did something, and now I can too.”

“I did nothing,” Timothy said a little hastily. He looked around the room again, and then his eyes seemed to fix on a single point. He spoke to it, and Charles shut his eyes as a wave of peace and happiness washed over him.

Then Timothy was speaking to Charles again, and he opened his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Timothy said. “They keep referring to you as their lord.” He frowned. “But you can’t see them?”

Charles was getting tired of all this. “I woke up in the Stone Circle, and it’s been nothing but madness since then, to be honest. I was on my way to find Madeline—” He caught himself, remembering the part before that. “After I left you.”

“After you
ran
from me,” Timothy said with censure.

“Smith was waking,” Charles tried to explain, but he still felt guilty. “I didn’t—I was already feeling sick, and with his waking, it was worse. I was breaking the enchantment to leave him, and I knew I had to get out fast. I didn’t want to fail and have him find you.”

The softness in Timothy’s eyes made Charles’s stomach feel like a warm, delightful liquid. “I am not defenseless. I would rather have helped you.”

“You had no charm. He would have destroyed you.” Charles looked around the room again, but he still saw nothing. “At any rate, I managed to get out of town, but I forget everything after that. Madeline must have found me, because I was in the Stone Circle when I woke up, and sort of half healed. But there were these mist creatures too, and they kept asking me what witch I was, and then they touched me and told me I was a lord, and then they turned white and healed me all the way, and then—” His head was beginning to pound, and he shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Goddess bless, this sounds so
mad
.”

“Tell me,” Timothy prompted gently. “Tell me the rest, no matter how mad it sounds.”

Charles hugged his knees to his chest and stared down at Madeline and Jonathan. “I asked where Madeline was, and they said she was in the lake with her consort. I assume they’re talking about Jonathan. They said the beast had her. They said she and I couldn’t be in the Circle at the same time, so I had to say where else to take them, and I had no idea, but then I thought of the abbey and it felt right. The next thing I know I’m whizzing through the Void, and then we go into the water, and I grab their bubble—and now…here. We’re here.”

“But they aren’t awake,” Emily said, looking worriedly at her sister. “Where are the guides that brought you here?”

“I don’t know. They said they couldn’t stay because it would be an insult to the Old Ones.”

Timothy and Emily exchanged a look. Timothy turned again to some point on the other side of the room, but he spoke to Charles. “And yet you can’t see them.”

“No,” Charles said, starting to be irritated. “Which is very inconvenient because apparently they’re supposed to help me lift the rest of the enchantment. Never mind that I have
no idea
how to lift an enchantment.” He looked around anxiously. “Are they still bowing? Because if they are, please tell them to stop. And tell them I’m not a lord. This is all just too strange.” He wiped his hand over his mouth. “I wish I had a dram.”

Timothy spoke again to one of the ghosts, and once again Charles felt himself slide into peace and contentment. This time he saw a garden in his mind, a beautiful, lush garden; he ran through it, searching for something. For
her
. She was there; he could feel her. All longing for drugs fled, replaced by the need for her. If he found her, this time, here, now, he would never be unhappy again…

But then Timothy was swearing in Catalian. He looked frustrated and a little afraid. “It keeps saying they cannot help you until you defeat the intruder. It says the ghosts will watch over Madeline and Jonathan and will guide you to the place where their consciousnesses lie, but you must go and stop the intruder first.”

Charles didn’t like the sound of that. “Who is the intruder?” he asked warily.
Please don’t be my grandfather.

Timothy looked angrily at the ghost. “Smith,” he said to Charles.

“Fuck,” Charles whispered. He went cold.

Timothy stood and spoke sharply to the ghost. This time it sounded like a storm rolling over a mountain and into a valley. He paused, Charles assumed waiting for an answer, then nodded gruffly, apparently somewhat appeased by whatever he heard.

“It says I am free to go with you, which is amusing, as I should like to see them try and stop me.” He looked down at Jonathan and Madeline in frustrated helplessness. “But there is nothing they can do, it says, for Madeline and Jonathan until Smith is stopped.”

Timothy and Emily looked up sharply again—the ghost was speaking, Charles guessed—then turned to the window in alarm.

“The fog,” Emily whispered. “It’s coming closer.”

Charles stood and looked out the window too. The fog was rolling in like black smoke through the trees, rising up as high as the abbey, swallowing everything as it came. He could feel it too, dark and terrible and smothering.

“Smith is bringing it,” Timothy said. “Smith is calling it to the abbey. The ghosts say they cannot stop the fog because of Smith.” Timothy took Charles’s hand and led him to the door. “We must go quickly.”

“You still have no charm!” Emily fished into the bodice of her dress and produced a small sachet on a silken cord and tried to thrust it at Timothy.

He pushed it firmly back to her. “No. I will not take your protection.”

“But Smith!” she cried.

“
No
,” Timothy said very firmly. “Miss Emily, you must stay here, and you must keep your protection in case we fail. You are Jonathan and Madeline’s last defense.” He squeezed Charles’s hand gently, then opened the door. “Now we go.”

Charles followed Timothy down the narrow, twisting stone stairs, heart pounding in his ears, clinging desperately to Timothy’s hand. He made it all the way to the first landing before he cried out and stumbled. He fell against the wall, shaking.

“I can’t!” he whispered. Icy terror ran through his veins, freezing him into place. “I can’t, Timothy. I don’t know what this is, what I’m doing, how—
I can’t
!”

Timothy took Charles’s face firmly in his hands. “You brought Jonathan and Madeline here out of thin air. I had the tower locked, and it was locked when we came up the stairs, and the androghenie locked it behind us.”

“That was the guides! The things! The white things!” Charles was practically shrieking. “I didn’t—”

Timothy kissed him hard and fast on the mouth. Charles felt the terror slide out of him like water, and he shut his eyes and reached up to touch Timothy’s face. But just as soon as it began, it ended, and Timothy pulled back again.

“I saw the androghenie bow to you. I have seen them do incredible things, but they bowed to
you
, Charles. We have you, and we have my sword. We can do this.”

“You can’t face Smith with a sword,” Charles said, wanting to sob. “Not unless you want to end up as broken as I am.”

“You aren’t broken, quiera.” Timothy reached out and stroked Charles cheek, then paused. His eyes darkened in a way that made Charles’s blood hum. “Your charm is gone.” He shivered when Timothy let his caress wander languidly down Charles’s neck before pulling his hand away with visible regret. “Shir’da.”

But Charles put his hand on Timothy’s hip and drew him firmly back. He felt himself stir as he placed his hand against the small of Timothy’s back and pressed their bodies more firmly together. Timothy’s eyes went darker still, and he slid one hand inside Charles’s shirt and the other to his bare neck.

“The fog, quiera,” he said, but he was staring at Charles’s mouth. “Smith.”

“I feel stronger when you kiss me,” Charles said and nuzzled his nose against the side of Timothy’s face. “A fire starts inside me, and I feel stronger.” He brushed his lips against Timothy’s, shuddering as he felt the hum start inside him again. “What does
quiera
mean?” he whispered.

“Heart of my heart,” Timothy whispered back, then drew gently on Charles’s bottom lip. “It is very sacred. Very rare. Few seek their quiera because the journey is often fraught with misery and pain.” He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to Charles’s own. “I—We do not use the term lightly. And it is said when it tumbles out, as it did from me to you, it is called
da mati quiera
. The kiss from heaven.”

The hum was audible in Charles’s ears now. He gripped Timothy’s hips, held them tightly against him, then shifted his hand to slowly trace up and down his spine.

“This feels like magic,” he whispered. He caught Timothy’s mouth briefly, deeply. “Please, I need magic, Timothy. I need you. I want you. I need your strength. Lend me yours—quiera.”

Timothy groaned, a soft sound of surrender, then used his hand on Charles’s neck to angle his head to meet his kiss.

Charles spun them around and pressed Timothy hard against the wall as their mouths fought with one another, probing, seeking, taking, giving. He felt Timothy’s hands tighten against his spine, dancing strange dances of rhythm and touch, waking new feelings inside him: feelings of power and peace and love and strength. He moaned into Timothy’s mouth, suckling his tongue, his lip, his chin, his neck, his chin again. Then he dove deep, deep inside him, putting his hands on Timothy’s hips again to draw his legs up from the ground, holding him by his thighs now as he rocked his sex gently against the juncture there, his hardness mingling with Timothy’s own.

Fire. Fire surged and beat inside him, fanned by an unseen wind. He felt power. He didn’t understand it, but he felt it rising slowly, surely inside him. He saw the White Charles appear in his mind’s eye, tall and radiant and filled with magic. That is me, Charles thought. The White Charles is me. I have his power. He is me.

He felt the fog creeping up the sides of the abbey, felt it as surely as if it were crawling against his own skin.
It is time
. He lowered Timothy to the floor and gently, reluctantly broke the kiss, taking a moment to nuzzle his cheek and place one last kiss there.

“It is time,” he whispered.
I’m frightened
, he added to himself, but he still felt the fire inside him.

Timothy took his hand wordlessly and led him the rest of the way down the stairs. He put his hand on the latch that held the door closed, turned, and placed one last lingering kiss on Charles’s lips. Then opened the door.

The hallway beyond was filled with black smoke that curled like snakes’ tails, and in the center stood Smith. He looked as if his skin had been stretched too far, and his eyes glowed a devil’s red.

“Hello, pet,” he said and grinned at Charles as he extended his hand to him. “Time to come out and play.”

Chapter Ten

parron

sword

The sword is the symbol of air, for air is the realm of logic and intelligence.

A sword can metaphorically or literally cut through very difficult problems.

Swords are almost always associated with pain.

Charles lost a great deal of his courage just by taking in the sight of Smith. But then he felt Timothy touch him in the small of his back, and he felt some of the fire return.

Smith swung his red eyes to Timothy. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice echoing as if it were far away. “So glad you are here, pretentious fool. You come before me with nothing, no protection of any kind, thinking my pet will be your champion.” Smith grinned, but it was as if Charles could see his teeth through the skin of his lips. “Yes, this will be exquisite. A Catalian pleasure slave, stunned by my spell.
Helpless
.” He looked back at Charles, his eyes rolling inside his head. “Oh, pet. This will be exquisite.”

“Smith—” Charles couldn’t help drawing back. “What have you done to yourself?”

“You left. You broke my spell. And that bitch stabbed me with my own knife.” Smith sneered at Timothy. “And
you
maimed me! No one would take it out! They told me to go to the witch.” He turned his shoulder, and Charles cried out as he saw the small, blood-coated knife buried there in the center. Smith rolled his eyes back into place and straightened again. “I could not risk losing you, pet. I had to broker a deal with the demon in the lake. But all is well, for I control it now.” He beamed, looking proud of himself. Charles couldn’t tell, but it looked like some of his face was sliding away.

“It cost me. But I will repair myself once I have defeated you. I will eat you, Charles, and feed your dregs to the beast.” Smith smiled a hideous, lipless smile at Timothy. One of his eyeballs was jiggling in its socket, looking ready to fall. “Then I will fuck your pleasure slave to his death and feed him to the beast too.”

Smith reached out his hand. Three fingers fell away, but he kept on reaching, his arm growing and growing, all the way across the hall toward Timothy. Charles fought his churning stomach and tried to push Timothy away from the grotesque reach, but he found Timothy had become immobile beside him. Smith had enchanted him again.

Charles cried out and stepped in front of his lover. “No!” He flinched as he watched Smith’s eyeball shake free at last, and then he screamed in horror as Smith opened his mouth and his tongue lagged out, too long, like a dog’s.

“Come to me, pet.”

It wasn’t Smith’s voice any longer. Charles reached back and closed his hands tightly over Timothy’s rigid arms as fear consumed him. This wasn’t Smith at all. This
was
the demon—the beast from the lake. It was going to eat him whole.

The demon pushed Smith’s body forward, making it catch up with his overstretched arms.
“Come to me, my child. Mine. You are my gift. Made for me. Come. Come to me.”