Poison (16 page)

"Sorry, Ailill," Noire's soft voice came. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine," Ailill said tightly, and he finally dragged his gaze up—and froze when he saw Noire's black eyes, a scratch on his cheek, and more bruises that his collar and cravat did not quite hide. "Forget about me—what happened to you?"

Noire helped him to his feet, then back into the suite and over to the sofas in one corner. He then went back outside and spoke to someone in the hall—a guard, Ailill assumed.

"I've ordered tea and some light snacks," Noire said and sat down beside him. "We thought you'd been poisoned, at first. But if you were, it wasn't enough to do to you what it did to the others. By the time we found you, the poison itself was gone. Her majesty said you were merely unconscious, not comatose like the others. We were relieved—especially since a few hours after you fell, we found Lord Honore. That makes five now."

Ailill's mouth tightened. "So why were you in a fight?"

"I was running an errand in the city and tried to break up another street fight. Instead of backing down like they normally would, the culprits just ... they just went mad. More people got involved and before I knew the entire street … It was awful," Noire said, voice not quite breaking. "Finally, Lady Seraphin showed up and was barely able to calm everyone. But the Triad has ordered out the army and instilled curfews."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A day and a half, give or take a few hours," Noire said. "The poison did come very close to getting you. We honestly do not know how you managed to escape it."

Ailill frowned, puzzled. But as confused as he was by the poison, as distressed as he was by the rioting, one thought was louder than all the rest in his head. "Where is Vanya?"

"I don't know," Noire said. "I have not seen him—but this is the first time I've been in the palace for any length of time. I have mostly been running messages all over the city since the Beasts are pouring all of their magic into keeping the peace."

Ailill nodded and tried to act casual, but it hurt to hear that Ivan had not once come to see him. Had not wondered where he was, had not even sent a note. Fine. Whatever. It was not as though he needed or wanted to be accountable to anyone; he had depended on himself nearly all his life. He didn't need to depend on anyone else and clearly he was too weak for Ivan to bother with anyway.

But the words rang hollow, and the more he tried to pretend he didn't care, the more they hurt. He wanted Ivan, but he was the one who had driven Ivan away. The worst part was that Ivan had been right:  it wasn't like him to get so angry so quickly. Ailill had no idea why he'd overreacted; he just hoped he would get a chance to apologize.

"So what is going on now?" Ailill finally asked. "I suppose I should examine the room of the latest victim, but I do not know what good it would do. Where was the White Stag found?"

"The garden," Noire replied. "It looks like he was speaking with someone else, exactly like Lord Lyall."

Ailill drummed his fingers on his thigh. "So whoever is poisoning the Beasts, it is someone we know. Someone we trust. Who do we all know whom we would trust and never suspect of poisoning us, even now when we are alert to the threat?"

A thought flitted through his mind, quick and darting. He tried to seize it, hold fast—but then it was gone, and he was left feeling only more frustrated than ever. He rubbed at his aching temples, and wished he was still asleep. "I suppose I had best get to—"

"Sit," Noire said and pushed him back down. "You've been asleep the better part of two days. What you need is food—" He stopped as someone knocked on the door, then smiled. "Good timing."

He went to the door and opened it, ushering in a footman bearing a tea cart. Wheeling the cart over to them, he efficiently arranged everything on the low table, and then left as quietly as he had come. Noire poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and then thrust it at Ailill. "Drink."

"When did you get so bossy?" Ailill asked with a soft chuckle.

"One has to learn it when ordering around recalcitrant nobles," Noire replied. "Too many seem to think that my age makes me easy to push around, instead of seeing that I am the Voice, young or not." He shrugged and poured himself a cup of tea, adding sugar and the 'cream' made from a plant that foreigners absolutely hated.

Ailill laughed quietly and obediently drank his tea—and nearly choked on it when he realized he was a moron. "The jewels—Noire, where are the crown jewels? Ivan brought them to me, and they were with me when I collapsed—"

"And now they're locked up in the treasury," Noire cut in, eyes wide with alarm. "It's all right, Ailill."

Sighing in relief, Ailill tried drinking his tea again. "Sorry. After so many years of locating the bloody things, and now with the Beasts falling and the ceremony at risk ... "

Noire smiled reassuringly. "Well, you need not worry about the jewels. I was the one to find you, and I immediately took charge of them until I could hand them over to Gael—I mean, to his highness."

Ailill nodded and finished his tea, not arguing when Noire promptly refilled it. "The ceremony is less than two months away now. I am starting to truly wonder if we are going to survive that long."

"We don't have a choice," Noire said, running his finger around the rim of his teacup. "If the ceremony fails ... " Silence fell because there was really nothing to say to that.

Setting his tea aside, Ailill picked up a small cucumber melon sandwich. When his stomach did not rebel, he finished the sandwich and picked up another stuffed with grilled peppers and mushrooms.

Where was Ivan? Had ... had he gone home? No, as upset as Ailill was, he knew Ivan would not leave without saying he was leaving. Ivan did not cower from unpleasantness of any sort.

So where was he? Worry began to nag at him because the more he thought about it, the more out of character he knew it to be. Ivan would have wondered where he was after a couple of days, especially with the way the Beasts were being poisoned.

Ailill ate a last sandwich, then finished his tea and stood. If Ivan wasn't going to come to him, he would find Ivan—and apologize. It wasn't as though he could deny being weak. Sighing, he fussed with his clothes and then smiled at Noire. "I am going to see if I can find Vanya; then I'll return to carry on with the investigation."

"I'll walk with you a ways; I should be checking in with G-his highness, anyway."

Chuckling at the way Noire kept accidentally slipping into informality when normally he was so stubbornly formal, Ailill opened the door and slipped out into the hall. They were halfway down the hall when Noire froze, and Ailill recognized the signs of silent communication. From the look on Noire's face, it wasn't good, and he had a feeling he knew what was wrong. "The White Ram has fallen," Noire finally said. "Come on."

Ailill followed him through the halls, all but running until they finally reached the library. Noire threw the doors open and raced across the main floor to a set of spiral stairs, pounding up and then down a row of bookshelves to a small work area—where Lord Lioc Giles, the White Ram, was slumped over in his seat, his face in the book he had been reading.

No sooner had they reached the area than dizziness struck Ailill like a fist. He grabbed at a bookshelf, but only succeeded in pulling a book free, sending several others tumbling down on top of him as he once more collapsed, chased into darkness by a cloyingly sweet smell.

When he woke again, he was once more assaulted by a head and stomach bent on rebellion. Ailill groaned and turned over in bed. What in the Oak was wrong with him?

"I hear that you are beginning to make this a habit," said a gruff, familiar voice.

Ailill jerked up, heart going from normal to in danger of bursting in a moment. "Vanya. You look terrible." He frowned as he really looked at Ivan. "You look like ... you."

Ivan laughed softly, scratching at his ragged goatee; it was clear he had not been able to trim it for a few days. To judge by the scuffs and tears and singe marks on his leather armor, the sword that rested at his hip as though it had never ceased to be there, he had been entirely too busy. "Indeed. I like to think I always look like me, but I know what you mean."

"What's happened now? I collapsed when we found the White Ram."

"Yesterday, the White Bear became a victim. You've been asleep almost three days this time. They think that you were still recovering from the first time—" Ivan broke off and abruptly surged forward, dragging Ailill close and wrapping his arms tightly around him, face buried in Ailill's hair. "I'm sorry. I should have stayed."

Ailill just held him, breathing in the familiar scents of smoke and metal and leather, the scents of the mercenary he had first begun to care about. "You shouldn't apologize. I was the one who got angry for no reason."

Ivan drew back, kissing him so hard Ailill's lips throbbed. "I was not explaining myself very well, but his highness also theorized that the anger could be a side effect of all the chaos in the city. With now six beasts fallen, everything is getting increasingly out of control. You could not have known that while we were in that bedroom, a fight had already broken out in the city. Gael thinks you are not as used to the controlling elements of being a Beast as the others and the emotions got the better of you, at least a little."

"Wonderful," Ailill said frustrated. "I'm weak to poison and to my own people. I cannot even seem to figure out or stop the attacks on my peers. I'm beginning to think that I am no longer good for much of anything."

"Well you certainly will not be if you keep feeling sorry for yourself," Ivan said gently and then kissed him before he could reply. "I know I could have used your help the past few days. I am sorry I was not here. I went to take a walk to calm down, and see if I could better figure out how to explain myself, and walked right into a street brawl. They were attacking foreigners, mostly, and I could not abide that. By the time that riot finally stopped, another broke out somewhere else. An entire district of the city is burned and broken nearly beyond repair. I went home and you were not there; I figured you were still working and decided I was of more use back on the streets. I changed and went back out, found the royal soldiers who had helped finally stop the first riot. Only this morning did I run into Noire, who told me what happened to you. I came as quickly as I could."

Ailill drew him in, kissed him hard, and tried to draw Ivan onto the bed with him. Ivan broke away laughing, and Ailill glared at him—until Ivan began to remove his sword and armor, throwing it all on a nearby chair. "I called for a bath. Let me have that, cat, and then I am all yours."

"By all means," Ailill replied, watching appreciatively as Ivan stripped completely, then walked off into the bathing chamber, eyes lingering on Ivan's well-shaped ass. He stripped off his own clothes, tempted to clean up himself, but not trusting that he wouldn't further humiliate himself with another bout of fainting.

Falling back on the bed, he closed his eyes and drifted off. He should have been doing other things, but opening his eyes, getting up, and doing them seemed entirely too difficult. He couldn't be selfish forever, but he could be selfish for another hour or two, surely.

He jerked awake when a warm, heavy arm fell over him from behind, a hot mouth trailed along his shoulder to his throat. "You always look so peaceful when you're asleep; I almost hate to wake you," Ivan murmured.

"It's much more difficult to have fun when I'm asleep, Vanya," Ailill replied and rolled over—only to be pushed down into the bedding while Ivan climbed on top of time, bent to kiss him.

Ailill held him close and kissed back ravenously. "I've missed you, Vanya."

Ivan snorted in amusement as he shifted to begin teasing his way down Ailill's body. "You've been unconscious for nearly five days straight, cat."

"I still missed you. I'm sorry I got so angry with you."

Pausing in his efforts to suck up a mark on Ailill's chest, Ivan leaned back up to kiss his mouth softly. "You nearly died once. I do not want to see you die again, and as you have proven susceptible to the poison—if you get a full dose, I fear you will die rather than slip into a coma."

"I won't die, Vanya," Ailill said, combing fingers through his thick, damp hair and then tracing the lines of his face. "There's no way I would permit that and certainly you will not. Stop fretting."

Ivan snorted again, but kissed his fingers, then his mouth, before returning to where he had left off. Ailill kept one hand loosely in Ivan's hair, alternately stroking and grabbing it as Ivan alternated kissing, licking, and biting.

He felt entirely too hot and vaguely dizzy, but Ailill really did not care about anything right then except the way Ivan was infuriatingly not putting his mouth where they both wanted it to be. "Now, fire child. I know you know how to suck a cock so stop being a brat and do it."

Ivan laughed—and ignored him, biting at the soft skin of Ailill's inner thigh instead, teasing and sucking at it until Ailill knew he would have a mark there for days. His thighs ached and trembled from strain, from want, and he finally gave Ivan's hair a good yank.

That earned him another husky laugh, but also a hot tongue licking the length of his cock, teasing over the head, before Ivan's mouth finally closed around him and began to suck him quick and dirty and fast.

Ailill sucked in ragged breaths, thrust his hips to get more, go deeper, taking all that Ivan could give, groaning as he felt Ivan's throat around his cock, the way his tongue teased and tormented. His vision began to go black in spots, sweat stinging his eyes, skin so hot he half-feared he was going to catch on fire—

And perhaps they really should have waited just a little longer to play, he thought, as he came down Ivan's throat and the world went black all around him.

When he woke a third time, he was curled up with Ivan in bed. The room was dark save for the fireplace and a small candle still lit on the table. Ailill shifted, groaned, and tried to sit up.

"Lay still, cat," Ivan commanded. "It's the dead of night."