Poison (20 page)

"No, it seems exactly like all the rest," Noire said. "Poor Freddie ... "

Gael's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Noire stepped closer, needing suddenly to touch Gael, and he did not care about the risks. He rested his head against Gael's chest, for just a moment, then lifted it and said, "Freddie and Verenne are like you and I."

"What?" Gael asked, mouth gaping. "How—" He broke off, shook his head. "I'll attend Freddie. Best you go for now, kitten, because I think, on top of everything else, this will lead to a discussion that I have been avoiding. Be careful. I love you."

"I love you, too," Noire said softly and obediently slipped away.

Downstairs, he waited in the great hall for Ivan. He busied himself scooping up papers and piling them back on the desks, though he knew there was little point to it all.

Would anything ever be the same? What would happen to Verde if the ceremony failed? Had all the previous ceremonies been preceded by so much destruction? Question after question buzzed around in his mind until he finally had to shut them all away or risk his mild headache bursting into one much worse.

"Sorry to take so long," Ivan called out, and Noire turned toward him. Ivan's smile faded. "What's wrong?"

"I just found the White Bat," Noire said.

Ivan's mouth tightened. "I see. Three Beasts left and too many days to go. If it is all the same to you, Noire, I am going to stay with Ailill. He has ordered me not to do any such thing, but I cannot focus on my battles when I am so worried."

Noire nodded and waved him off. "Go. You should stay with him. We ... we don't know what these last days will bring. Best to appreciate the time we have."

"Yes," Ivan said and gripped his shoulder, then turned and left.

Noire went outside and stood on the steps, looking out across the drawbridge at the burned and ruined city on the other side. Eleven days left until their chance to restore the Lost Gods finally arrived.

What would they do if the ceremony failed yet again? The country could not endure more death, more destruction. It desperately needed its gods of life, but Noire could not see how the ruin all around him could accomplish what the previous nine hundred years of trying could not.

Turning away from it, he returned to the palace and headed for Gael's rooms, desperate to spend whatever time he could with the lover he was days away from possibly losing forever.

The Sacred Oak had more life to it than the last time Ailill had seen it. It was petrified in places, but very much alive in others. The branches were still bare, but he knew they would stay that way unless the ceremony was successful.

All the countries, all the gods, had temples that were the heart of their contribution to the world, their power and element. The Temple of the Three Storms, the Cathedral of Sacred Fires, the Temple of Solace, and the Sanctuary of the Oak. The Sanctuary was where the gods rejuvenated the world, kept life going. He wondered how much longer the world would last without the gods of life if the ceremony failed yet again.

He was wasting his time checking over his fellows, but he no longer knew what else to do. What he was looking for. If any clues had been in the rooms of the latest victims, they were gone by the time he got to them.

Nine days until the ceremony. It seemed entirely too much time for so many things still to go wrong. How many days did he have left? Why was the assailant poisoning them so slowly? So erratically? Would it not have been easier to take them all at once?

But no, that might have slayed thousands of people outright. So many Beasts lost at once ... Ailill shuddered to think of the devastation. He gave Lyall one last glance, then rose and brushed grass from his clothes.

He headed toward the entrance, but stopped when the doors opened and Freddie walked in—and he had never seen Freddie in such awful condition. She wore only breeches, boots, and a shirt, the laces of which were barely drawn enough to retain modesty. Her hair was disheveled and slightly longer than she normally kept it. There were shadows under her eyes, made all the worse by the paleness of her skin.

Her eyes looked haunted, tormented by thoughts she could not outpace. "White Panther," she greeted tiredly. "Visiting your companions? I do not suppose anything new has come to light?"

"No, your highness, I am sorry. I fear now I am only counting down the hours until I must face the same."

Freddie's face twisted with pain and shame. "The apology is mine, White Panther. I feel the problem is mine—the Triad's—to fix, but I swear I cannot come upon a solution. We were so hopeful that the ceremony would succeed this time, especially with news that the gods have returned in Kundou, Pozhar, and Piedre, but already the Beasts fall ... and I wonder if this is how it happened every time. But never are records kept, or if they are kept, they are lost before we can hide them safely away."

Ailill felt something crawling along the back of his neck. "What do you mean?"

Bitterness curved Freddie's mouth into a sour smile. "What is the point in keeping the secret now? We did it for the good of everyone, but there seems no point in that now. We retain no history of the previous Tragedies, and some say that is because the lack of knowledge is itself part of the Tragedy. But the Triad does know that should the ceremony fail, the Beasts will die as well. We don't know the reason why, save that their part in the ceremony must cost them when it fails. But it's not supposed to be like this, I would vow it ..." She swept her arm to indicate the sleeping Beasts, laid out like the numbers on a clock around the tree.

Only the spaces for eight, ten, and eleven o'clock remained empty. Ailill wondered which was the hour of his fall and thought he knew. "So we were going to die, no matter what, if the ceremony failed. To lose the Triad and the Beasts all at once ... I can understand why you never said anything. I think we had the right to know, but I understand."

Freddie nodded once, slowly, in gratitude, then strode off to where Verenne was laid out at the seventh hour. She knelt and touched Verenne's cheek, brushed back her hair. The vines and flowers twined around Verenne, sustaining and protecting her, reached for Freddie. They twined around her fingers and her hand before Freddie chuckled softly and shook them off.

Ailill left, feeling as though he was intruding, wondering if he had interpreted that little scene correctly, or if his imagination was getting carried away.

He slowly made his way back to his suite. A few weeks ago, if someone had told him he would miss his ridiculous, overabundant townhouse, he would have laughed. Right then, he would have given anything to know he still had a home. The last time he had been out in the city—or what remained of it—his house had been a pile of rubble.

Even if the ceremony succeeded, it would take years to rebuild everything. If the ceremony failed ...

Ailill pushed the depressing thought aside and slipped into his rooms. Ivan looked up from tending his sword and smiled warmly. All the knots in Ailill's gut eased; the problems never went away, but they were easier to face with Ivan. "Going out again?" he asked.

"No, just want to be prepared," Ivan replied and set his sword aside. He stood up and met Ailill halfway, sliding his arms around Ailill's waist and taking his mouth. "How are the others?"

"Still asleep," Ailill said with a sigh. "I wish I could figure out who is behind it. There are so few left now, it seems like the answer should be obvious. At the very least, I should have a list of suspects—but I have nothing." He leaned into Ivan, soaking up his warmth and strength. If he did not know better, he would swear the children of Pozhar simply ran hotter. "I think I am going to be the last to fall," he said quietly.

Ivan tensed. "You're not going to fall."

Ailill drew back enough to look at him and kissed him briefly before saying, "Yes, I am. Only three Beasts remain, and we are no closer to figuring out the culprit. The Beasts fall in order of power, from strongest to weakest. All my years abroad mean my abilities are not as honed as those of my fellows. I am the weakest, and so I will be the last to go."

"I'm not just accepting that," Ivan snapped. "Why are you giving up? Don't you care—"

"Of course I care," Ailill cut in. "I don't want to be poisoned. I don't want to go to sleep with the knowledge that I may never wake up again. I want to live. I want to see the ceremony succeed. I want to see Verde come back to life and all this horror of the past weeks turn into history. I want—"

He wanted to go with Ivan, wanted to stop being a White Beast and just be Ailill. But if the ceremony worked, how could he leave his country behind to rebuild without him? He might not want to be a Beast, but he was and he could not ignore his responsibilities. "I want to live, Vanya. But I also know when to accept something. The poison will get me the same way it's taken the others."

"It still sounds like giving up."

Ailill shrugged. "I do not seeing it as giving up. I am going to fall, that is all there is to it. But I can accept it because I know that you'll catch me and pull me back."

The lines of anger in Ivan's face smoothed away, and he smiled. "I still do not like it, but yes, of course. I will always catch you." Ivan traced Ailill's lips with his thumb and drew him back down into anther kiss. It was slow, easy, almost fragile; Ailill was half-afraid that if he moved too suddenly or spoke, something would break.

When they finally drew apart, Ailill tried to speak and found he couldn't. Instead, he just leaned in for another kiss, harder and more desperate than the first, searching for something more—something baser, but still just as necessary. Ivan loosed his arms around Ailill's waist to smooth them along his body, pushing up beneath his jacket and shirt to slide across smooth skin. Ailill made a soft noise of approval as he ate at Ivan's mouth, nipping at his teeth, sucking at his tongue, hungry to touch, to be touched—

Eager to be so lost in the want and the heat that he could forget it might be the last time he ever touched Ivan so. He pulled away gasping, licking the taste of Ivan from his lips, and began to remove clothes, tossing them carelessly aside. It took Ivan far less time, as he had not put on more than breeches, stockings, and shirt. Naked, he dragged Ailill close again and resumed where they had left off, nails scraping skin as his mouth bruised Ailill's lips.

"Bedroom," Ailill got out between biting kisses. Ivan grunted, but obeyed, holding fast to his hand as they hastened into the bedroom. Ailill climbed onto the bed and dragged Ivan down on top of him, groaning at the feel, loving all the hard muscle beneath Ivan's sun-darkened skin. His fingers sought out the familiar scars:  wounds from knives, arrows, a sword, burns bad enough the patches were still perfectly smooth, making the rest of his skin almost rough in contrast.

Ailill knew them all, every tale behind them, knew Ivan's body as well as he knew his own. His mind was still occasionally a mystery, but Ailill had no issue with that. He pulled Ivan into another hungry kiss, spreading his legs to cradle Ivan between his thighs, and sliding his hands down Ivan's body, lingering on his well-formed ass.

Breaking the kiss, Ivan trailed hot lips along Ailill's jaw, down to drag his tongue along Ailill's throat. "Your skin is always so soft, cat. Except your hands. You have the body of a noble, but the hands of a mercenary. I always liked that."

"I liked your voice," Ailill said, closing his eyes and shivering, hands falling away as Ivan shifted that hot, hungry mouth to his chest, working Ailill's nipples ruthlessly before trailing down to tease teeth and tongue over an old dagger scar on Ailill's ribs. "You also did not care that I was nobility—foreign nobility."

Ivan looked up through his lashes, mouth curving in a smirk. "I had no interest in titles. You were good money, pretty, and willing. Direct, too. Nobles always simper and talk sideways. I do not think you could mince your words if you tried."

Ailill huffed out a ragged laugh as Ivan gave his cock the barest tease before leaving off to kiss and touch him elsewhere instead. "I much prefer direct, like:  stop being a scorching tease."

"No," Ivan replied.

"We'll just see," Ailill muttered and shoved hard, sending Ivan toppling back so that his head fell just short of hanging over the edge of the bed. Ailill grabbed his legs and hauled him a bit closer, then fisted Ivan's cock as he bent to take another kiss. He slid his other hand randomly across Ivan's body—until a hand collided with his. He took it, tangled their fingers together, and pushed it down into the bedding.

Drawing back, he let go of Ivan's cock and captured his other hand the same way he had the first, pinning them on either side of Ivan's head. "Now, how many people in Pozhar would pay a king's ransom to have you captured exactly this way?"

"I do not think most people want me captured this way," Ivan said, laughing. "Most of the people who wanted me, cat, wanted me dead, not ready for fucking. But they cannot have me because I am much too busy with other duties."

Ailill snorted and bent to drag his tongue across Ivan's lips, mouth along the still-healing scratch on one cheek, breathing in Ivan's smoky scent, closing his eyes briefly just to relish it, engrave it. He hoped he held onto it when he slipped into a poisoned sleep. "Yes, you are much too busy being a duke and helping Verde."

Ivan's teeth grazed his jaw. "That too, but I was mostly thinking of you."

"I suppose there is that," Ailill said, opening his eyes and smiling, freeing one hand to touch Ivan's cheek lightly. He stared, stolen away by Ivan's eyes—

And bellowed in surprise when he abruptly found their positions reversed once more. He drew breath to say something, but the words were lost in Ivan's mouth, and he was not at all surprised to find it was his wrists pinned to the bed. "I feel you are trying to prove a point."

"Only that capture goes both ways," Ivan said, not looking at him as he said it.

Ailill swallowed. "Yes, it does."

Ivan finally looked up and smiled in a way that sucked all the air from Ailill's lungs. Releasing his wrists, Ivan moved away long enough to fetch the oil, sliding easily back between Ailill's thighs when he returned. Spreading his legs wider, Ailill urged Ivan down for another kiss as a slick finger pushed inside him. He moaned against Ivan's mouth, wanting more, wanting it immediately, but wanting more than anything for it to last.