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He had always found hope harder to deal with than despair. Despair didn’t get disappointed. And if you hoped, you were always a suppliant, begging for crumbs,
Crane paused for a second. Then, moving deliberately, he undid his cufflinks and tossed them onto a side table, so that the gold clinked. He unbuttoned his shirt, taking his time, and shrugged it off in one fluent movement.
Black, white and blue, three magpies perched and cawed and flew over Crane’s torso, the colours magnificently vibrant. Another bird stretched its wings on his left shoulder. He turned, and Stephen gave a tiny gasp as he saw the huge single magpie that brooded on his back, claws clutching a branch that was made of an old, jagged scar.
“Good Lord. What’s that, five of them?” “Seven.” Stephen peered round him, frowning slightly. “I only see five.” “The other two are lower down,” said Crane. “Two for joy.”
Father shot himself.” “Where?” “In the head.” Stephen made an exasperated noise, and Crane gave a twitch of a smile. “Piper. In the library.”
“I can’t apologise,” said Crane at last. “It wouldn’t mean anything. Your father was a brave man who tried to do what was right, and mine was a callous, deluded fool who cared about nothing but that repulsive madman Hector.”
And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your father.” “Thank you.” Stephen managed a half smile. “I’m sorry about yours.” Crane tipped his glass in salute. “Yes. Aren’t we all.”
In any case, they’re people who lived in the same house as Hector when there are perfectly good ditches to die in, which tells you as much as you need to know.
“And if the old bastard goes round telling everyone that the shaman’s here to warm my bed?” “That’s the shaman’s problem.” Merrick slammed a drawer shut. “He’s here to keep you safe. If he doesn’t like it...” “If the blood-covered sorcerer who can bend metal by looking at it doesn’t like it,” Crane said, “then what, exactly?”
“You know,” he added, “there are a number of recommended methods of dealing with ghosts—salt and iron, harmonic resonance, some people swear by exorcism, and not just priests—but that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone try a left hook.”
Stephen shut his eyes. “Briefly.” Crane lowered his head so his mouth was right on Stephen’s ear, voice vibrating, teeth and tongue touching the sensitive flesh. “When I fuck you, Mr. Day, it will not be briefly. It will be long and hard and extremely thorough. I’m going to take pains with you.”
At last he pulled away and rubbed Stephen’s swollen lower lip with a light thumb. “When I have you, sweet boy, it will be because you want me to. Not against your better judgement, not in spite of my surname, and definitely not to annoy your aunt.” Stephen went red, but his voice was defiant. “Well, what was that, then?” Crane shrugged. “You seemed tense.”
“Surely there should be filial love—forgiveness—especially in a noble family—” “No,” said Crane.
“Oh. Well, I thought I’d rather not be noticed.” “You’re good at that,” Crane said. “You’re a very unobtrusive, nondescript little man.” “Er—” “Except for those eyes of yours,” Crane went on musingly. “And those incredible hands. And that foxy smile. You don’t let it out much, do you? Everything under cover. And then you stop hiding yourself for a moment, and your whole face lights up, and suddenly I can see just how you’ll look when I fuck you.”
“I came to a conclusion,” Crane went on conversationally. “I want a great deal more of you and I intend to have it. I suggest we get away from this hole and start afresh. As it happens I own a hunting box in Northamptonshire—no live-in staff, simple, isolated. A few days a very long way from here, you show me what those hands can do, and I’ll show you how we do things in Shanghai.” Stephen swallowed. “How is that?” “Slowly,” Crane said.
You’ll need a great deal of patience, or you might find yourself begging. I think you will, in fact. I’d like to hear you beg.” “Make me,” said Stephen hoarsely,
“We’re not finished,” Crane said softly. “And I want to feel those hands of yours all over my skin when I have you, feel what they do when I make you come. Christ, you’re incredible.”
“Will you come to bed with me?” Stephen took a deep breath. “Not in Piper.” “Northamptonshire, then?” “Yes. Or London.” He looked at Crane, gave up the last shreds of control, and went on, “Or on the train down to London, or up against a wall in the nearest alley to the station, or anywhere else you like. Just not in Lychdale.
“You’re feeling more yourself, then,” said Merrick, when Crane reached an impressively foul climax. “No, I am not. What the fuck, what the fucking, bloody devil-shit, what in the name of Satan’s swollen cock was that?” “Do you speak in the House of Lords with that mouth?”
Bruton roughed me up a bit. I annoyed his lady.” “How?” “I told the whey-faced bitch what she and her repulsive cohorts could do with their offer of servitude. And then I stopped being polite.”
“So it came down to blood, bone and birdspit in the end?” “Indeed.” “Does that mean, if you’d just come to bed last night—” “Probably.” Stephen pushed through the roses. “Shut up.” “I didn’t say a word,” said Crane, grinning.
It was also, without question, the dark thrill of fucking a very dangerous man. That particular penchant of Crane’s had driven Merrick to despair and profanity many times over the years; even for his history, Stephen was something special.
Crane ran his tongue up Stephen’s neck, nipped his ear. “Tell me what you want. Exactly what you want. Let me give you the fucking you deserve.” Stephen took a shallow breath and looked into Crane’s eyes, direct and naked. “Take me. Right now. Make me beg.”
Crane let Stephen flop back onto the desk and slumped over him. Their rasping, gasping breath mingled for a moment of silence. “God,” Crane said finally. “For a quiet man, you fuck like a mink.”
Is this going to happen every time we fuck?” “Only when it’s as good as that.” Stephen’s lopsided grin was particularly foxy. “Honestly, I’ve no idea. We could find out empirically.” “Which means...?” “Do it a lot more and see what happens.”
“I mean, he likes blokes and he’s sodding dangerous. Right up your alley, that is. In a manner of speaking.” “If you’re going to be insolent, at least pour me coffee.”
Crane gave in first. “All right, spit it out. You’ve a problem with the shaman?” “Not to say problem.” Merrick raised his hands. “Look, he’s a good bloke, I ain’t saying he’s not. Got a lot more sense than some people I could mention. Useful to have around. Short-arsed, and dresses from the rag and bone cart, but that ain’t up to me. And—what else was it? Oh yeah, he brought down a bloody mad bird storm on us by magic and killed a load of people, and one of them, all he did was look at her and she died. She fucking died because he looked at her. Jesus Christ.”
“Like, he can kill you by looking at you.” “We can all kill people. I could have put a pillow over your face while you slept at any time in the last twenty years, and I’m struggling to recall why I haven’t.”
God’s sake, we’ll be going back to China in a few months anyway, he knows that. And since you’ve already got a respectable widow on the go—“ “Who says?” demanded Merrick. “You always have a respectable widow. You’re irresistible to respectable widows. Try not to let this one stab you.” “Oh, fuck off.”
“You’ve been griping for years about Boghda putting a tattoo on me,” Crane pointed out. “You can’t now bitch because Stephen removed one.”
