Close Quarter Read online

  And he was with Rhys, walking every piece of land Rhys had ever trod. Around him rose the smell of salt grass and seawater from the dunes of a barrier island, then the crush of fall leaves and the last blooming of goldenrod. The taste of mulberries in the height of summer. The familiar scent of the Alpine foothills as Rhys climbed up a path to a castle. Countless moments filled with the tang of cut grass, the sudden expanse of green surrounded by concrete.

  Amid the jumble of Rhys’s life, Silas spied glimpses of other fae that never—quite—touched Rhys. Water. Field. Mountain. Air. Energy from those fae brushed against Rhys, but no one with Rhys’s element ever lingered long enough to awaken what lay in Rhys.

  Exquisite agony as twenty-eight years of collected life slammed through Silas’s body.

  Then he was there, in Rhys’s memory, throwing a towel at a chair and turning away. Rhys ran after those thin traces of element, and caught him by the arm.

  Here and now, Silas moaned and buried his face in Rhys’s shoulder and came hard, thrusting his cock against Rhys’s stomach.

  Rhys cried out and drove into him, mercilessly hard as he came. When Rhys’s thrusts slowed, he gasped for air, trembled against Silas. His low groan turned to a sob, and his nails bit into Silas’s arms, hard enough to draw blood.

  This—this was Silas’s fault. He’d been alive a very long time, far longer than Rhys, and had walked the length and breadth of the Earth. There were more than just a few glimpses of fae in his past. Lovers, enemies, a precious few friends.

  He prayed that was all Rhys saw—all Rhys felt in the long tale of his life. He held on to Rhys and sang snatches of old songs into his ear.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  After a time, Rhys stopped shaking, though his breathing, rough and ragged, rattled next to Silas’s ear. Then words came. “What the hell was that?”

  “Me,” Silas said. “My life.”

  Rhys was silent. He shifted, slipping his cock from Silas. He rested his head on Silas’s chest. “Well, shit.”

  “If I hurt you—”

  “No, it wasn’t painful, not really…” He looked at the hand he was about to shove into his hair. “You’re bleeding?”

  “It’s nothing.” It took only a moment to heal the scrapes.

  Rhys sat up, examined Silas’s arms, and touched the drying blood on them. “I hope that doesn’t happen next time.”

  Next time. Silas rolled those two words about in his head for a while and decided he liked the sound of them. What was that English phrase? In for a penny, in for a pound? “I should think not. Though it wasn’t bad for me.” Silas wiped away the moisture at the corner of Rhys’s right eye. “I am sorry.”

  “It didn’t hurt. It was just…very intense.” He peered down at Silas. “Exactly how old are you, anyway?”

  He should’ve expected that question and knew better than to attempt a lie. “Two thousand four hundred thirty-six.”

  He watched as Rhys struggled against the truth. He sagged when the truth won. “Fuck me.”

  “Later,” Silas murmured. He pulled Rhys into a tight embrace. “Later.”

  That produced a croak of laughter from Rhys and he stilled. “No more running?”

  That choice was long gone for Silas. “No. You have me.” He paused and added, “If you want me.”

  “Of course I do.” Rhys spoke into Silas’s chest. “I’d give my life for you.”

  That froze Silas’s blood, chased every warm thought from his head. In the corner of the room, the lemur—the shade—of a long-dead fae lurked. “Please don’t. Don’t ever.”

  Rhys lifted his head, confusion written in the lines of his expression.

  “I don’t want to live through that again.”

  Rhys searched Silas’s face, then sat up fully. Terror hid behind that soft expression, those low tones. What happened to you? A memory—not his own—stirred. He sucked in air and exhaled. “Tell me about the soulless.”

  Silas’s lips twitched, and for a moment Rhys thought he might refuse, but he wilted into the mattress and looked away. “I was young, by fae standards, when I fell in love.” There was a distance to his voice Rhys had heard before, in his own voice when he’d recounted the tale of his father—tales of Derrick.

  “He broke your heart?”

  Silas chuckled, a bitter and hollow sound. “Oh no. He loved me back. Passionately. We were of an age when we didn’t know any better. He was…” Silas furrowed his brow. “I’ve never told anyone this story before.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Silas sat up. “No, it’s important. You were right. This”—he waved his hand to encompass the room—“is about me, at least in part.” Silas found his robe, pulled it on, and wrapped it closed.

  “Most fae live in courts—groups of families led by one fae. A king or a queen.”

  “The summer court and the winter court,” Rhys said. “That’s in the fairy tales.”

  “Those are Scottish. I was born in Campania—south of Rome.”

  “What was his name?”

  The question carved Silas’s mouth into a deep frown. He shook his head once and then spoke. “Vel Calavius Isatis.”

  It hurt to hear the pain in Silas’s voice. How long had it been since he’d said that name? “Go on,” Rhys said.

  Silas rubbed his brow. “Life was idyllic. Blissful. Until Phyrrhus of Epirus waged war on the Romans in the region. It shouldn’t have been an issue. Wars washed over us like heavy rain. We held on, dug in deep, then cleaned up the mess once the humans were through with killing each other.”

  “But not that time.”

  “No. Phyrrhus brought more than just humans with him from Greece, though I doubt he knew it. The soulless are always looking for an opportunity to take life, and what better place than in war?” Silas pulled his legs in and rested his chin on his knees. “Fae are more appealing to the soulless than humans. Full of the energy they crave. Humans die easily. We don’t.”

  Rhys touched his neck. Just how attractive was he to the vampires? A battery—transformer—whatever the hell he was? He shook that thought away. “What happened?”

  “A soulless found Isatis and me one night while we lay in a field together. We were far from the battles, but it must have felt the court, scented us out. It surprised us and dragged me away. Isatis attempted to rescue me but failed.”

  “Died?”

  “He was slaughtered. Eaten in front of me.” Silas ground his mouth closed and shook his head. “I…went mad. Tore the soulless to pieces with my bare hands.” He frowned. “I don’t know how I managed that, except it must have been very young. They’re not easy to destroy.”

  Rhys wiped a hand over his mouth. One glimpse of the feral side of Silas was enough. “After that?”

  “I went home. We mourned. That should’ve been the end of it. Except the one I killed was one from a pack ruled by an ancient soulless named Anaxandros.”

  He’d heard that name before. Dread dripped down Rhys. “Ancient when you were young?”

  “Yes.” Silence filled the room. Long minutes passed until Silas spoke again. “Anaxandros hunted me down, found me, and then slaughtered everyone I knew before my eyes. My parents. My sister. Cousins. Our king.”

  Rhys’s tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. No wonder he hunted them. Hated them.

  “Then he kept me as a toy for him and his. A never-ending snack, never quite doing enough damage to kill me.”

  Rhys fought to keep the bile in, swallowing against its rising. Those moments with the vampires feasting on him had been the worst pain of his life. When he could speak again, he asked the question. “How long?”

  The corners of Silas’s eyes twitched. Otherwise he was carved from stone. “One hundred eighty-seven years. Five months. Twenty-seven days.” Silas turned his head and focused on Rhys. “And seven hours. Give or take.”

  Oh fuck. Rhys stumbled off the bed and ran for the bathroom. Without grace, he heaved the contents
of his stomach into the toilet, legs and knees hitting cold tile as he clutched porcelain. That long in the hands of a vampire? The pain, the madness? Another of Silas’s memories surfaced for a moment—a flash of immeasurable agony as flesh peeled from bone—and he vomited again.

  Bare feet slapped against the bathroom floor. Then Silas sat down on the edge of the tub next to Rhys, a glass of water in his hand.

  Rhys brushed moisture from his eyes. “Anaxandros. He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Silas held the glass out to him. “Yes.”

  Rhys gripped the tumbler and took a swig to clean out his mouth. He spit and then flushed. “How did you survive? I mean—” Rhys stumbled over his words. “Last night. I wanted to die when they had me.”

  Silas nodded. “It’s always like that. They eat life. Consume it.” He stretched out his legs. “I survived because I didn’t have a choice. Anaxandros set his pack up deep in the woods, in a cave where it was nearly always night. They feasted. I healed. Too much element around me not to.”

  Day in, day out. Bile rose again. Rhys took a sip of water and pressed the cool glass to his forehead. “How’d you escape?”

  The smile that touched Silas’s lips was full of malice and blood. “I broke a clay cup—they had to keep me drinking and eating—dropped it against a rock. Kept a sliver of it with me. When Anaxandros came to exact his punishment, I shoved it into his throat. Then I ran. For a very long time.”

  Rhys took another sip of water. “He didn’t die?”

  Something of the man Rhys first met emerged from under that cold, detached expression. Incredulity gave Silas’s face warmth, a touch of color. “You can’t kill something that’s already dead.”

  “Then how—” Silas held a sword last night, bright silver in the moonlight.

  As if reading his mind, Silas reached into the air, and a shimmering sword slid into existence. He appraised the blade, then offered it to Rhys. “Don’t touch the edge. It’ll cut through you.”

  Rhys hesitated, but a raised eyebrow from Silas—as if to call him a coward—set his will. He took the sword. He knew metal well enough to know the blade was far lighter than it should’ve been. The edge glittered like a million gems. “A magic sword?”

  Silas shrugged. “It’s made from silver and diamond. Forged in the fire of a phoenix. Other than destroying soulless, it’s not particularly magical.” He paused. “It can cut the Fallen. Not deeply, though.”

  “Fallen.” Rhys turned the sword in his hand, felt the balance, the texture of the grip in his palm. “Daemons?”

  Silas nodded.

  “You hunt daemons?”

  “No. Just soulless.”

  Well, good. He didn’t want to meet a daemon. Rhys shook his head. What the hell? He offered the blade back to Silas. “My life just became really fucking strange, didn’t it?”

  A chuckle from Silas. He took the sword. “Welcome to Fairyland.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m in this for more than seven years?”

  “That’s really up to you.”

  Was it? He mused on that while Silas sheathed the sword, slid it into nothing until it vanished.

  “How do you do that—pull it from air?”

  “Aether,” Silas said. “The sword was made for me—given to me by the Messengers. I know how it fits in my hand. I simply recall that feeling when I need it.”

  When he needed it. A flash of memory surfaced—Silas turning that same sword on himself last night. Rhys drank the rest of the water and set the glass down on the floor. “Promise me something.”

  Silas raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t ever think of killing yourself again.”

  Silas’s expression remained cool and relaxed. The tension in his arms, his clawlike grip on the tub edge told another story. “I’d not thought you awake for that.”

  “I guess I was.” Rhys struggled to his feet, then perched himself on the counter by the sink. “Why? I mean, why over me?”

  A faint smile full of darkness touched Silas’s lips. “When the Messengers found me, when they asked if I would hunt the soulless for them, do you know why I said yes?”

  “Revenge?”

  The laugh that came from Silas raised the hair on the back of Rhys’s neck. “I thought if I destroyed them all, then perhaps I’d stop hearing Isatis screaming.” He shook his head. “It hasn’t worked.”

  Rhys slid off the counter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  The hard edge to Silas’s jaw softened. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

  Silas didn’t move, not when Rhys sat next to him, not when he covered Silas’s rigid hand with his own.

  “Figures.” Silas might not be human, and Rhys sure as hell didn’t understand him—he wasn’t sure he understood himself half the time—but he knew pain. Loss. Comfort. He stroked his fingers across Silas’s knuckles. “I’ve noticed you have this thing for not listening.”

  This time Silas’s huff of laughter was light. His arms unknotted. “You’re so damn young. Beautiful. Like a spring morning.”

  “What, cold, foggy, and damp?”

  Silas shifted on the tub’s edge, turned his hand to capture Rhys’s fingers. “Warm and occasionally dense. But full of promise.”

  Rhys took a breath. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Through the silence that spread out in the bathroom, the click and whirl of the minifridge in the other room seemed all the louder.

  Finally Silas spoke. “There are times when I get tired, Rhys. Soul tired. Seeing what had happened to you because I hadn’t been thinking…” He looked up. “Perhaps it might be better if you were free of me.”

  Rhys crushed Silas’s hand in his own. “I don’t want to be free of you.” If he lost Silas, what would he have? A pile of sycophants in New York, hounding tabloid reporters, and a pack of vampires wanting to eat him. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “As am I,” Silas said, his voice low. “I may be a wretched excuse for a protector, monstrous in my own way, but I’m better than leaving you with nothing at all.”

  “You’re not a monster. You’re not…draining me of life. It’s nothing like that at all.”

  Silas attempted to pull his hand away, but Rhys held on tighter.

  “I don’t want to use you, even if the results are pleasurable for both of us, it’s still”—Silas paused, as if searching for a word—“unconscionable.”

  Large word. Rhys had a few as well. “I think you’ve misconstrued the nature of our relationship. You didn’t use me back there.” He nodded toward the bedroom. “Other way around, I think.”

  That produced a faint smile. “Well, there is that.”

  Rhys relaxed his grip, and they sat for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. If only they could stay like this, together. Quiet. Just enjoying each other. “They’re going to come back for me, aren’t they? The vampires?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Silas said. “Anaxandros knows I’m here, and I’m sure he knows you are here as well.” He rose and pulled Rhys up. “We should shower, then have dinner. We both need food.”

  “Then what?” Rhys strode to the shower, turned on the water, and set the temperature. He heard cloth fall behind him—Silas’s robe.

  “I do what I was sent here to do. Destroy the soulless.” Silas placed his hands on Rhys’s hips and pushed him into the shower.

  That brief touch, the press of Silas from behind when he closed the shower door, coupled with the warm water sliding down his skin, sent heat to his stomach and thickened his dick. He tried to steady his breath, rein in the desire. He was half-surprised he could even get it up after fucking Silas earlier. But then again, Silas was a walking wet dream—his wet dream. Rhys turned.

  Water slid down Silas’s body and dampened his dark hair into curls that framed his long face. Lips quirked into a half smile beneath a well-healed nose. Silas spoke. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

  “Wrong question,” Rhys said. He pushed Silas ag
ainst the back of the shower, kissed him until he moaned, then slid—very much like the water—down Silas’s body. “You should ask what I’m going to do to you.” He took Silas’s cock into his mouth.

  Hands tightened in Rhys’s hair. He let Silas control the rhythm, the depth, opening his throat as much as he could. It was enough to hear Silas’s groan, those rough bits of Latin that sounded gloriously perverse, even though he didn’t understand any of it. It still tightened his balls. Water cascaded down Rhys’s back and tickled his ass and his dick bobbed in time with Silas’s fucking.

  Too soon, Silas pulled him away. “This is exactly why I can’t concentrate. Your damn mouth. Your hands. Your body.” He cupped Rhys’s chin and stared down at him. “I should’ve fucked you on the dinner table last night, just to get it out of my system.”

  Rhys stroked Silas’s thighs. “Wouldn’t have worked.”

  “No?” Silas pulled him up and spun him around. In seconds, Rhys found himself against the shower wall, his hands the only things keeping his forehead from bumping against the tile. Silas spoke hot words into his ear. “Shall we see if it works tonight?”

  Rhys heard Silas spit. About damn time.

  Silas slid his fingers down Rhys’s crack and teased his hole, working a finger inside. God, how he wanted to feel Silas’s cock inside him. Rhys couldn’t help but push back. “I hope you fuck as good as you talk.”

  Silas ground out a curse Rhys didn’t catch. Fingers spread Rhys’s ass cheeks. More spit made makeshift lube. Then the thick head of Silas’s cock pressed against his hole. Silas grabbed his hips and thrust forward, entering him and filling him deep in one stroke. Silas stretched him wide and hit exactly the right spot inside. Heat raced through Rhys, his hands slipped on the shower wall, and his cry of pleasure echoed off the tiles.

  Each time Silas moved forward, he drove deeper into Rhys, hitting places inside no other lover had. Hot light filled Rhys’s veins and set his bones tingling. The hard slap of Silas’s body against the cheeks of his ass sent heat into his balls. He arched and pushed back, demanding more.

  And Silas gave it to him. Somehow Silas understood what Rhys wanted. Unrelenting, masterful, possessive fucking. To be open to Silas and one with him. A sweet curl of tension filled Rhys and wound tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe.