Standard disclaimers:  The Forever Knight universe, with its background, locations and characters, are the property of James Parriott and Sony/Tristar.  No infringement is intended.  This fiction
is for entertainment purposes only.
Permission to archive to: www.fkfanfic.com, JADFE, Inn of Crossed Swords
Comments, and caviar--but no charcoal briquettes!--to stormborn@prodigy.net
This is the sequel to  'One Night in Byzantium' (yeah, I know--finally! <g>)

Byzantium Nights (01/0?)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1998

 . . . subtle heat from the oil lamps flickering in waves over his skin, blending into the elusive scent of orange blossoms drifting through the shutters . . . the aroma of frankincense rising from the insistent movement of the hands upon his body . . . a red-gold haze over his mind blurring his world to bits and pieces: a roof-beam, a fangtip, an ice-blue eye . . . the thrashing of limbs choreographed to the growls and snarls of mating beasts . . .

The man sitting under the cypress trees dropped his head into his hands, pressing his fingers against his temples as if he could drive the images from his memory.  He'd come to this hilltop cemetery
because it was the only quiet place he could find in the heaving, tangled city--but the very quietude allowed his memories free rein.  He groaned.  That wasn't *him*, in the pictures in his mind.  That
hadn't been *him*, making those noises.  No, *he* hadn't coupled with his master with the wantonness of an animal.

LaCroix felt no such qualms, he thought resentfully; no shame in what they did.  He could almost hear that velvet voice chiding him:  "Why not take our pleasure, Nicholas, in whatever way we chose?  Are we not free from the those restrictions which mortals place upon themselves?"

He panicked for a moment, unsure whether the thought was his own or if LaCroix was really in his head--but he didn't feel that strange pressure, like a touch upon his brain, that accompanied the link with his master.  Still, he could find no chinks in this imaginary argument of LaCroix's, save one--an insistent little voice of his own that said, 'it's wrong.'

And yet, it was too hard to resist, that temptation.  The skillful hands that knew just how to touch him, the ravishing mouth, the velvet voice; the aura of strength that his master possessed.  He stood to go, his head no clearer than before, when a movement down the hill caught his eyes.

A funeral procession?  No, not at night, and there was no such formality in the little group on the path.  Two rather burly men--bodyguards, most likely--and a less stalwart looking servant grouped around a slim figure.  They halted; the servant handed a small basket to the small figure, who seemed to be in charge.  That one proceeded up the path while the others stayed behind.  At an impressive but quietly elegant sarcophagus the leader stopped. Nicholas narrowed his eyes:  a woman or a youth, he could not make out at first; then the figure pushed back its head covering.  Shortish
hair and an absence of jewelry--a youth, then.  But in a cemetery after dark?

Moving back into the shadows of the cypresses he watched as the youth knelt, reaching out to touch the carving on the sarcophagus.  After a long moment the youth stirred, reaching into the basket to take out two goblets and a winejar.  Nicholas understood now what he was seeing--the custom of offering to the dead.  Even so, that rarely took place at night.  The youth poured the wine, setting one goblet on the sarcophagus' top as he lifted the other.  Nicholas strained to make out the soft words.

"To you, my master.  Never had I a master like you; never will I have another."  The tone was formal.  Master, thought Nicholas.  But the youth was finely dressed, the servant and bodyguards also spoke of a certain position.  He'd heard that slaves in the Byzantine Empire often acquired status and wealth . . . the youth was a eunuch, then, he thought with a reflex of disgust.  A catamite--somebody's bed toy.

The youth lifted down the other goblet and Nicholas noted the slight tremor in his hand as he poured it on the ground.  "I miss you," he whispered.

Then the ceremony was over, and with a lingering backward glance the eunuch rejoined his servants and the group departed.  The vampire looked after them thoughtfully for a moment, then at the sky.  A lightening imperceptible to the mortal eye was too apparent to his. Time to go home.  Time to go back--to LaCroix.  To *his* master.

<end part one>
 

Byzantium Nights (02/1001)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999

As his steps took him closer to the old house in its hidden court, he felt a tugging sensation that he was slowly becoming used to.  It was an awareness of he whose blood he shared; no, more than an
awareness--it was as if his blood yearned to rejoin its source.  It was yet another way in which his new life was so different from his former one.  His new strength astounded him, as did the ability to
fly.  Then there was the enhancement of his senses, as if never before had he ever really *seen* the world, smelt it, touched it.

And there was the nightly hunger, almost as delicious in its anticipation as in its satisfaction.

He let himself in.  The sound of low voices drew him to the room they used as a hall of sorts.  Janette was sitting on a low stool, her tiny feet stretched out before her, as LaCroix gently kneaded her
shoulders.  She wore a blissful smile; his eyes were lowered, intent on his task.  Nicholas stood and watched for a moment, transfixed by their beauty.  Janette was like a nightblooming flower, slight and
dark next to their master.  And LaCroix--on their way to Constantinople they had gone through Athens, where LaCroix had shown them the Acropolis.  Nicholas remembered how he'd been struck by a sort of terror at those great stone gods and goddesses, as lifelike as if they had just paused for a moment in time.  Their blank eyes had seemed to look straight into his soul.  LaCroix was like that.

"Come, Nicholas, join us."  He flung off his cloak and entered the room, sinking into his own chair.  For some little while they sat, talking idly of their night's adventures and of where they might want
to go next.  Beneath their conversation, though, ran another, subtler exchange.

LaCroix watched his two most precious children with deceptively lazy eyes.  Nicholas, he knew, could feel the sensuality in the room, and was wondering whose bed he would share today.  Janette was the most alluring to him, and yet the pull he felt toward LaCroix was stronger, if more puzzling.  His daughter was too content to really care: she'd be happy with either of them, and if she lay alone while they lay together--well, she'd just listen in, LaCroix thought with amusement.  He knew she fancied the idea of a menage a trois, and perhaps that day would come.  But not yet.  They were both still too hungry for this golden child to share him without endangering him.

The matter settled to his own satisfaction he let the sounds of the awakening city into his awareness, and with them the sweet contentment of this moment.  Here, now--the warm of this small room with its little luxuries, the savor of the wine-blended blood in his glass, the beauty of his children--their darkness and light.

He finished his drink and rose.  "Time to retire, I should think."  The little flurry of temporary good-byes, then Janette gracefully departed and he strode down the hall, turning into Nicholas' room.

Nicholas followed his master, hesitantly, cursing his own rising arousal.  In the little room he leaned back against the door as LaCroix stopped by the bed and turned towards him.  LaCroix didn't
speak, he simply waited.  That alone was enough to make him swallow hard and close his eyes.  A light step, then the backs of LaCroix's cool fingers stroking his cheek.  "Nicholas."  His name spoken as a caress, the light whisper a tantalizing contrast to the power that emanated from his master.  He opened his eyes, searching the paler ones.  Slowly, he stepped forward.

The strong arms closed around him as the sensual mouth met his in a firm kiss.  His own lips parted, seeking, exploring.  LaCroix's hand cradled his head as he took confident possession of Nick's mouth.  Then somehow he was moving towards the bed, losing his clothes on the way; they wound up on the floor mingled with LaCroix's.  Naked, his body humming against the cool roughness of the sheets, yearning toward the cooler smoothness of the flesh a breath away from his own.  Naked,
and hungry, not just for the blood but for the long and intricate descent into the blood's oblivion.

He shivered as LaCroix's hands began their work.  The lightest brush across his chest turning firmer as it moved down along his ribs to his belly.  A startlingly erotic circling of his navel, then the hand
moved up again.  One finger traced a spiral around his nipple until it was working the hard bud with a deliberate rhythm.  A moan came from him, involuntary, and then his own hands were kneading LaCroix's shoulders.  LaCroix's head dipped; the nipple was sucked into a delicious wetness as the other nipple was teased in its turn.

The room was dark, even to vampire eyes--Nicholas felt as if he were drowning in darkness and he gasped, "LaCroix . . . light!"

A shift in the body above him, then a flame budding into life from the oil lamp.  "Enough?  Or do you want me to light the rest?"

"No," he whispered, feeling suddenly exposed.  "No, that's enough."

The long pale body lay down again; he lowered his eyes so as not to have to meet that appraising gaze.  A strong palm splayed against his chest, rubbing lightly, then moved to stroke his thigh.  Sweet Mary, help me, he thought, not sure if he prayed to the Virgin or the Whore.  I don't know what to do . . . it must have been the Whore who answered, for he found himself turning into that cool hardness, his open mouth against the shieldlike chest.  Abandon filled him and as LaCroix gathered him in, running his hands down Nicholas' back, he wrapped his arms around his master.  He could feel LaCroix's erection and he pushed his own hard cock against the other.

"Shhh . . . take it easy, now."  But he didn't want to take it easy, he wanted . . .he wanted . . . He was gasping for air that he didn't really need, clutching at LaCroix as the other rolled him onto his
back and leaned over him.  His head thrashed on the pillow in response to his body's unbearable tension.

His master kissed him, trailing sweetly lingering kisses down his cheek, across his jaw.  The most teasing of tongue flicks down his throat, then slower and more thorough along his collarbone . . . his
nipples again, just for a moment . . . a tongue probed the hollow of his navel . . .

Were those his groans that seemed to echo from the ceiling beams?  Was that his voice, rasping and harsh?  His hands scrabbled against flesh, then the weight of that marble body came down on him.  His cock pressed into LaCroix's belly as the elder nestled into the curve of his neck and shoulder and an uncontrollable urge made him turn his head, offering his throat.  LaCroix's tongue scraped along the length of his artery.  He was sobbing.  Small kisses at first; gentle sucking growing fiercer, more intense. With the first pinprick of fangs he melted, wanting nothing more for his master to drink from him.

But the mouth withdrew.  A strong hand grasped his cock, working him.  He could feel the pull of that gaze; his eyelids fluttered, trying to resist, but he could not and he looked up to meet the glowing eyes of his demon lover.  "God--" he gasped.  A wicked smile curved LaCroix's lips.  Inching down on the bed he pushed Nicholas' thighs apart roughly.  Never stopping his hand on his son's cock, his other hand kneaded one strong thigh while that ravishing tongue traced the femoral artery on the other.

Demon.  Devil.  Father, master.  "Please--" was that him begging?  Then the fiendish mouth closed on his cock, taking him hard.  He was bucking wildly on the bed.  The hunger for his master's blood raked him like a beast's talons and just when he must have it or go mad it was in his reach.  He seized the proffered wrist and tore into it roughly just as he felt LaCroix's fangs in his thigh.

Sweet relief, this; the balm to soothe his shattered nerves.  Calming, strong and steady--the essence of his master filling his void.

He fell back, exhausted.  He felt the mattress yield as LaCroix stretched out beside him and without thought he turned, curling into the comforting arms.  A gentle hand smoothed back his sweat-soaked
hair.  Too much, he thought brokenly--but even then his hand was opening against LaCroix's rib.  Even then he felt the stirrings of desire rising to drag him under the depths again.

<end part two>
 
 

Byzantium Nights (03/1001)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999

Nicholas looked at his hand lying on LaCroix's ribcage, a little darker, a little softer than his master's skin.  He marveled at LaCroix's body.  The skin was smooth and without blemish, the flesh was nearly as hard as stone--yet he could see the play and ripple of the muscles within.  How was that possible?  He felt, rather than heard, the low rumble, and looked up.  LaCroix was watching him from under hooded lids.  He looked down again.  LaCroix's--cock--was erect. Waiting.  He swallowed hard.

The room seemed very still.  Outside the clamor of the streets seemed far away.  He didn't want to do what honor demanded of him.  And yet, he did want to . . .

So smooth, the skin underneath his hand.  He watched intently as it seemed to move under its own volition up LaCroix's chest, tracing the swell of the pectorals.  The lamplight gleamed off the round of his shoulder; he cupped it briefly, kneaded the bicep--

And his master lay there, waiting.  Patient.  Something shook him, deep inside, and he wrapped his arms suddenly around the other's neck, pulling him over on top of him.  He went for LaCroix's mouth, needing to taste it, to feel its ripeness against his own.  Moans rose from deep within his chest, he was sucking on LaCroix's tongue, grateful for the strong hands cradling his head.  Take me, a voice inside him was begging, please take me . . .

Maybe LaCroix could hear it?  He panicked, and would have flinched away, but he was gathered firmly in his father's arms and held against that shield of a chest.  He clung, panting, while the other murmured in his ear.  "Shhh, it's all right, now.  I'm here, you're safe."

"Hold me . . ."

"Yes, mon fils, yes.  Calm yourself."

He opened his eyes, searching the glowing ones of the other. Tentatively, he reached down to graze his hand against LaCroix's cock. The caress was permitted, but no move was made to encourage more. "When you're ready."

Unable to speak, he pushed his head against the other's cropped one. A low chuckle, then the statue came to life, moving between his thighs like an albino panther.  The head of his cock rested against Nicholas' opening as he kissed him softly, then drew back to stare into his son's eyes.  Holding that gaze, he thrust into him.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly.  Nicholas wrapped his legs around him, trying to pull him in.  He closed his eyes.  "No, Nicholas.  Look at me."  But he couldn't, couldn't bear that gaze . . .

LaCroix paused in his penetration.  "Look at me, Nicholas."

The moment he met that luminous stare his eyes wanted to shy away, but he forced himself.  LaCroix's voice was just the merest exhalation of breath:  "Open yourself to me . . . Nicholas . . ."

He sobbed and the tightness in him loosened, he was shoving his hips up toward LaCroix.  LaCroix's face softened slightly and the hard length of him filled Nicholas' ass--he felt it all the way up his
spine, and his entire body spasmed as his fangs dropped and he roared. Beyond pleasure, this--this was something somehow *necessary* to him . . .

Filling him.  Filling him, yet not enough.  He drove them both onward, hot and hungry, his legs and hands clutching at his lover.  "Demon!" he snarled, not in anger but in a terrible awe.  Body and soul yearned toward his master even as his mind shrieked in terror.  He turned his head, offering his neck; his hand tugged at LaCroix's head.  Take me. Consume me.  Devour me.  Demon . . .

"Daimon," his son was calling him--he knew it meant something other to these Christians than it had in the days of his mortality.  Then, it had been a guiding spirit; now it seemed to have a more fearsome
meaning.  And Nicholas was afraid, that he knew, though he had not yet discerned why.  It was distracting him from his pleasure; his thrusts became more ruthless, more demanding.  Then Nicholas was pulling him towards his throat . . . he heard the echoes in his mind, whispering, take me . . . Unable to resist any longer he let his tightly-controlled beast loose and struck.

Oh, sweet, yes! this liquid fire.  So fine, this shining essence.  He pulled Nicholas' face against his own throat and sighed as the circle was made complete.

He was riding the whirlpool of their blood. He could almost see them, circling about each other in a haze of passion and time.  There were dark eddies underneath, but his master's strength held them back, holding him safe . . .promising . . .all the corners of the wide world, all the secrets made known, all the time in the world in which to know them . . .

Forever.  And never alone again, for LaCroix would never leave him.

And the next evening Nicholas could hardly bear to look at him.  The pull of LaCroix's presence was heavy as a stone.  Even as he separated from the other two to hunt on his own, he could still feel him,
somehow, within him.  He found a Kolkhetian girl from the Caucasus--a whore, of course, who else was out that late at night?--and smiled into her dark eyes.  She was fine and wild; her blood spoke of gold and wine, horses and mountains.  But afterwards he was restless, and wandered the streets in a daze.

A beautiful city.  Somehow he knew that he would now be able to find beauty anywhere--even the ragged beggars sleeping in the alleyways held a sort of poetry for him.  The world was alive in more ways than he could ever have imagined before.  Then what do you fear, he asked himself.  Why do you feel so alone, when you have companions for eternity?

He looked at the faces of the innkeepers and their patrons, of the performers and hucksters on the streets, the grave figures of the passing clergy and thought:  I am not like you.  And when he returned
home and looked at the two pale ghosts he shared his life with now, he thought: and I am not like you either.

<end part 3>
 

Byzantium Nights (04/1001)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999

It was not in Lucien LaCroix's nature to ask directly, when he might find out by other means.  So his newest child was quite unaware that his master knew of his increasingly frequent visits to the cemetery on the hill.  He was also aware of Nicholas' turmoil; although since Nicholas did not know the cause of it, neither did he.

The shadows under the cypresses were a peculiar shade of blue; the winding paths and implacable tombs bleached ghostly white by the full moon.  He was alone in this peaceful place, alone to ponder his dilemma.  It was LaCroix that made him feel the way he did when they were in bed together, he thought.  Whether it was a conscious manipulation of his emotions, the other's skill and technique, or the sheer force of his master's presence he did not know.  But it had to be LaCroix.  To entertain any other possibility was unbearable.

Someone entered the gate and he looked up from his minute inspection of the grasses under his feet to see the eunuch and his servants coming up the path.  Once again he sat silently while the eunuch made his offering to his dead master, and wondered at it.  Enslaved and castrated before puberty, forced to service the bed of someone who had *bought* him--how could he mourn like this?  Why did he act as if he were not freed from a master, but bereft of a lover?

When the party left the cemetery, a shadow traveled in their wake.

The house to which he followed them was small but elegant, in a neighborhood of lesser courtiers and the lower echelons of the vast Byzantine bureaucracy.  A discrete little house, with its vines trailing over the high walls and it's firm but unostentatious gate. Nicholas ignored the gate.  Silently he vaulted the wall into a service area running the length of the house and listened.  Two heartbeats near the gate; that would be the bodyguards.  Two more near the back, one already slumbering--and snoring--a cook, perhaps, and the other servant.  And in a room near the middle, a lighter, lone
heartbeat . . . He crept toward the window.

One shutter was open to let in a little air.  Inside, the room was dark; richly but simply furnished, it was clearly the main bedchamber.  He could see a fresco on one wall, of gazelles and lions, and in the bed, a slight figure.  He felt disappointed, though he didn't know why.  He looked into the room for another moment, then left.

And another shadow followed him home.  LaCroix was curious and a little amused.  Had his attentions made his protégé interested in exploring the caresses of another?  A eunuch, he mused; perhaps, having discovered the pleasures of male flesh, Nicholas wished to assert his 'manhood' with a boy.  Odd, but not unheard of . . . he rather enjoyed the fact that his son was providing him with such an entertaining intrigue so early in their friendship.

He did not follow Nicholas again.

But Nicholas followed the eunuch; the next month when, as reliable as the moon, he paid his respects to his dead master.  But this time as he prepared to jump the wall of the house, a soft voice spoke behind him.  "Who are you?" it demanded.  "And what do you want with me?"

Shocked, he turned to face the youth, whose voice held neither anger nor fear, but an edge of steel.  How careless had he been, that a mortal could steal up on him unawares.

They stood for a long time staring at each other.  The eunuch was as slender and graceful as a willow; soft dark curls framed a perfectly sculpted olive face.  At last Nicholas found his voice.  "You come to the cemetery.  Every month--I was curious.  I--maybe I wanted to know why you mourned so deeply for a master."

"And are you yourself a masterless man?"

"No," he said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good; for there is no one more to be pitied."  The eunuch seemed to have made a decision for he turned and held open the gate.  "Come.  It is not seemly to be speaking on the street after nightfall."

The bodyguards appeared, wide-eyed and aghast; their master waved them away.  The old servant was given orders to bring wine, as the eunuch led Nicholas into the reception room.  "My name is Nicodemos Chrysostomos--Niko, they call me."

He found himself grinning.  "Nicholas.  Nicholas de Brabant."

The eunuch smiled in response.  "Then we have the same name!  Now tell me, Nicholas, why does a young and handsome Frank loiter in cemeteries in this, the greatest city in the world?"

Nicholas' smile faded; he looked down, toying with his wineglass. "It's quiet," he said.  "I go there to think, where I can be alone."

"Away from your master?"  He looked up; deep brown eyes met his. "Come; you wonder why I mourn my master, when any other would think it only right and proper.  You seek out a place most men avoid, so that you can be alone.  So--you have a master, and you are not fond of him."

Fond of him?  Nicholas frowned, turning it over in his mind.  He respected LaCroix--his station, his wisdom and his power--he was grateful to him, both for the gift of immortality and for his patient
teaching.  Fond of him?  No, not exactly! He laughed a little ruefully.  "I am in terror and awe of him."  More seriously he added, "He is . . . larger than life.  Larger than death, even."

"He has not been your master long, then?"

"Almost two years."

"No, not long then.  You are still learning him; his ways, what he likes and what he doesn't."

Almost bitterly, Nicholas found himself saying, "He is an enigma to me.  I will never know him.  But enough of my master.  Tell me why you mourn yours so deeply."

The beautiful face turned, the eyes lowered in memory or deep thought.  "He raised me from nothing, and gave me all I had," he said softly, as if quoting from a treasured book.  He looked at Nicholas.  "I loved him, and he me.  Perhaps you understand, that is rare, in my world."

His world . . . Tentatively, Nicholas posed questions; Niko answered them frankly and without taking offense.  Their conversation seemed to last only moments--until some inner sense brought Nicholas to himself with a start.  "I must go," he said abruptly, already on his feet.  Gracefully the eunuch also rose.

"Nicholas de Brabant, I am glad we met, even if under such strange circumstances.  You are welcome in my home; I hope you will come again."

He did visit the eunuch again, soon and often.  One learned much, he found, when one was essentially invisible.  Niko could speak of politics and philosophy, religion and poetry and the foibles of man, all with the same thoughtful wit.  It was often nearly dawn that he parted from the eunuch, and then with reluctance.

Nearly a month since that first meeting; LaCroix's attentions had lessened of late, though he could not fathom the reason and he could not bring himself to ask Janette what she thought of it.  Still he felt the pull of his master, as inevitable and irresistible as the tides . . .

One predawn, by the glow of the oil lamps, with the scent of orange blossoms heavy in the air, LaCroix looked closely at his son.  Ah, this one could have posed for Adonis, he thought, trailing his fingers along the glowing flesh.  The vibrant nerves quivered under his touch and the boy drew in a sharp breath.  "Beautiful," he breathed, and bent to kiss him.

Nicholas turned his head away.

In the sharp silence that followed he regretted it. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for his punishment.  When it came it was as subtle as the serpent's bite.  His master only stood up, pulled on his chemise, and left.

My God, he whispered to himself; what have I done?

<end part four>
 

Byzantium Nights (05/1001)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999

Never had he felt so much the claustrophobia of vampirism; he was trapped in the house--with *him*--until nightfall.  He kept to his room, trembling, until he fell into an exhausted sleep.  When he awoke he waited, listening to the low voices until he heard them leave the house.

Then he ran, pushing his way through the crowded streets as clumsily as a mortal, to Niko's house.  Frantically he hammered on the closed gate; when the startled porter opened it he brushed past the man and charged into the house.

The eunuch was dining alone. He looked up with surprise at the arrival of his friend, wild-eyed and panting.  "Nicholas, what is it?"

He was in such a turmoil that he couldn't find the words right away.  Niko gestured to a chair.  "I am still at dinner, as you see.  Will you join me?"

The simple courtesy brought him back to himself a little.  He shook his head.  "No, thank you.  Niko, I am in trouble.  My master . . ." The words trailed off and the eunuch waited a moment before saying gently, "What has happened?  What have you done?"

Even in front of this youth, who knew only too well what could take place between a master and servant, he felt the hot rush of shame.  He glued his eyes to the inlaid floor and the fine carpet upon it.  "He came to me," he whispered.  "And I turned away."

A sharp intake of breath from the other; Nicholas closed his eyes.  There was a long silence, then Niko asked, "Do you need shelter?  Help getting away?"  It puzzled him for a moment, then he saw that because he had avoided speaking of LaCroix in their conversations, Niko misunderstood the situation.

He said simply, "I am not a slave."

The eunuch leaned back in his chair, considering.  When he spoke, he startled Nicholas by asking, "What manner of man is he, your master?"

What manner of man--?  Nicholas turned it over in his mind.  How to describe LaCroix, to one who did not know him, did not know of their kind?  "I told you once: he is larger than life.  Powerful.  Strong."  He permitted himself a sharp little laugh.  "And certainly not happy when he is crossed."

"And you have never crossed his will before in this matter?  He expects your presence in his bed, and you have thus far obeyed?"

Obeyed.  No, that wasn't right; that wasn't how things were . . . He shook his head.  "He doesn't order me to make love with him.  It isn't like that."

An eyebrow graceful as a gull's wing arched over a deep brown eye.  "How is it, then?"

A memory, not so distant, of that first time: of infinite patience leading him down the paths of pleasure, of that sharp moment when he had panicked and a velvet-soft voice had soothed him.  Take your time, Nicholas, yes, that's it . . . open to me . . . let me in.  He moaned a little in desperation.  No, LaCroix had never ordered him.  The demon in his bed had given as much, if not more, than he had taken. "He--seduces me."

With a small sound Niko returned his attention to his dinner, breaking off a piece of bread and delicately wiping the sauce from his plate. "Then go back to him and make amends."

"What?!"  He hadn't expected this; not from this one!  Surely he understood!  "I cannot!"

Those eyes looked up at him, piercing.  "Do you wish to leave this man, or to stay with him?"

Nicholas held the gaze a moment, then turned, wandering over to the window.  Leave LaCroix?  He could do that.  He could survive.  But Janette would not leave with him, he knew; he would be alone. No Janette, with her richly exultant laughter; no LaCroix to teach him. All alone in the wide world.  Still . . .make amends!  He wasn't a eunuch slave boy, he was a man.  "You don't understand," he said brusquely.

Quick and fierce as a cat the eunuch rounded the table to face him.  One slender hand swept aside his dalmatic; the other seized the hem of his robe.  Nicholas' eyes went exactly where they were supposed to before he could stop himself.

It was not ugly in itself.  It was the sheer brutality of the mutilation that hit him like a blow and nauseated him.  He tore his glance away and stared with stricken eyes at this youth, his friend.
Niko hissed at him in a viciously quiet voice, "Never tell me that I do not understand."

The robe was dropped; the moment was over.  "I loved my dead master, Nicholas.  But I had other masters before him."  He returned to the table and his meal.  Without looking up he said, "Go back, and make amends."

He killed on his way home, a drunken lout whose very coarseness made Nicholas relish the taking of him.  It was still early; the others were out, which suited him.

The house was quiet.  LaCroix's room was much like his own, save the fabrics were darker and there were more books.  His rebec stood in its case in the corner; there was a box that seemed to be very old laying on the small table.  He touched nothing, but sat very still in the only chair, waiting.  Make amends, he thought--but how?  He knew nothing of these things.  Then the thought he'd had earlier this evening rose again: LaCroix had given more than he had ever taken . . . Nicholas could think of one thing his master had given him, that he had never offered in return.  He swallowed hard.  Could he?  Make amends, Niko had told him, and his own heart added: or be alone forever.

He felt his master's awareness of him even before he heard them come in.  Janette's voice, subdued--he could have heard her words if he tried, but he did not.  They were saying goodnights, he knew.

The chamber door swung open.  He needed no light to see that stony figure, terrifying as any Greek god.  His heart rose into his throat. "Nicholas."  Just his name, spoken quietly into the dark room.

Feeling almost unbearably awkward, he got to his feet.  Those few steps across the floor seemed like leagues.  "I . . . regret . . .what happened, yesterday."  Not enough, he could feel it, and he sank to
his knees, his voice dropping to a whisper.  "Forgive me."

LaCroix stood in silence for a moment.  "There is nothing to forgive,  Nicholas.  You made your feelings clear.  Now go to bed."  He started to move away.  In that instant Nicholas saw too clearly what he was losing: the surety he had had that LaCroix alone, of any he had ever known, would not leave him.  Alone--he would be alone.  He grasped at his master, arms clinging to the slender hips.  "No!  Please!"

Scrabbling at LaCroix's robe, pushing the heavy silk bliaud out of the way, frantic--he tore the man's braies open.  He seized it in his mouth.  He didn't know how to pleasure LaCroix in this manner; he
didn't care.  The cock in his mouth started to harden immediately. Too much.  He choked, and drew back a little, then took it in again, sucking automatically at the long shaft.  "Nicholas.  Nicholas, wait."
Firm hands were on his head, pulling him away.  He tried to shake them off.  "No, Nicholas, wait."

He waited, in shame and despair on the floor as LaCroix shrugged off the encumbering garments.  Then a cool hand reached down to him.  He seized it in both of his and pressed his face against it:  he had no words, only the pleading in his own mind.  He was raised to his feet, and his master's cool gaze bored into him.  LaCroix seemed on the verge of asking him something, but changed his mind.

He stumbled across the darkness of the room, guided only by that strong hand and the awareness of his master's presence.  Soft lips brushed his cheek.  "Do you truly wish this, Nicholas?"  Mute, he
could only nod.  Those hands undressed him as dispassionately as if he were a small child.  He was laid on the bed, LaCroix laying down beside him.  "Then here," LaCroix said, "like this."

His head was guided to the waiting cock.  Easy, his master spoke in his mind.  Just like the other: take a little at a time.  His tongue explored this strangeness, that should have been so familiar . . . the
skin on the head so delicately silky he was afraid he would bruise it, the shaft amazingly, wondrously hard.  His passion grew, driving him on to some elusive knowledge.  More.  He wanted more of it.  He drove his mouth down on it.  More, more . . . and LaCroix had not laid a hand on him.

The realization shattered him. It was him.  It was he who wanted this, who wanted LaCroix's touch and LaCroix's mouth and, God help him, LaCroix's cock.  He wanted the power and strength of his master and the exquisite tenderness, too.  Sobbing, he opened his throat, his lips finally brushing against the curls of the other's pubic hair. His hand found his own cock and fisted it even as his rectum throbbed.  Give it to me.  Please, please.

LaCroix closed his eyes.  The boy was clumsy and awkward; that was hardly the point, though, was it?  The wantonness of his son's passion moved LaCroix, and the knowledge of what Nicholas had conquered to find it.  He reached to grasp Nicholas' free hand, to bring his wrist to his mouth, then checked himself.  "Nicholas," he said, trying to get his son's attention, but the boy only moaned.  "You're hungry?"

"Yes," he sobbed.  "God, yes!"

"Then listen to me.  Take it from my thigh.  Can you sense the artery there?  Good."  He seized the wrist.  "Now, Nicholas!"

Together.  They thrashed together on the narrow bed, they tore as one into the aching veins, and as one rose on the sharp red edge of climax.  LaCroix's come struck the side of Nicholas' face but he
hardly noticed as his father's blood sang in him.  Ancient songs, and grand ones, filling his horizons.

And LaCroix, he knew, would teach him to sing them also.

<end part five>
 
 

Byzantium Nights (06/06)
By Molly Schneider
Copyright 1999

He lay very still, his hands folded lightly across his belly, his awareness touching the corners of the room and the wooden beams above his head. He could feel their texture as acutely as he could the
threads of the linen sheet he lay upon.  Outside the stars sang with the voices of crickets.  Gradually he noticed something: usually he would be laying against LaCroix's side, not alone on his back like
this.  It seemed to take an eternity for him to roll his head on the pillow, to see LaCroix lying on his side, turned away from him.

Gently he reached a hand to the supple back.  What was meant to be a questioning gesture turned into a caress, as his attention was captured by the supple muscles underneath his fingers.  Fascinated, he rolled on his own side, exploring the interplay of muscle and bone and skin.  How many times had he clutched at this back as it bent over him?  His fingers weren't sensitive enough; he opened his mouth to draw his lips across that flesh.  There was a sound from his master that might have been a gasp, but LaCroix did not turn.  Nicholas drew his tongue down the perfect groove of the spine.  His hands kneaded the broad muscles, then slid upward to tug insistently at LaCroix's shoulders.

Reluctantly the other let his son turn him.  Oblivious to the carefully shuttered face Nicholas rolled half on top of him, rubbing his cheek against LaCroix's chest.  Like a shield that chest, strong and smooth . . . his mouth found a small pink nipple and closed on it, sucking gently.  Nicholas' eyes closed in bliss.  He tugged a little at the erect bud as his hand trailed luxuriously down the sweep of his
master's ribs. Curiously his fingers probed the tracery of bone.  An essential contradiction: this architecture so strong and yet so fragile.  Awestruck, he surged upward, seizing that sensuous mouth.

LaCroix gave in, opening his mouth to the demanding kiss.  Gingerly he placed a hand on the other's back.  He had delighted in his son's responsiveness, in stoking the fiery sensuality, but this was
something new.  He tried to analyze it, but Nicholas was proving . . . most distracting . . .

An urgent cock was grinding against his hip.  He seized his protégé's hand and placed it firmly on his own erection.  A moan rising from Nicholas' throat vibrated through their kiss and long legs entwined
with his own, that heated body covering him . . .

He tore his mouth from the kiss, his breath rasping as his lips curled back from his descended fangs.  His eyes met the other's and found them gazing at him in wonder.  "Wait."

"No.  No, I want you now."

LaCroix shook his head and disentangled himself, sitting up against the headboard.  His gaze moved slowly over the other, trying to penetrate this new mystery.  Here was beauty.  Skin pale yet warm,
with its own inner glow.  A face lit like a torch--that mobile mouth, those eyes that drank in the world.  Sweet.  His.  And yet not fully his; there was much in Nicholas he did not comprehend.

But he had eternity to find out.  Starting now.

He cupped that face in his hands and drank deeply from his beloved's mouth.  Nicholas' arms went around his neck as he pressed closer.  The prick of fangs on tender flesh, and they drew apart, glowing eyes fixed on each other.  A wanton grin slanted across Nicholas' face.  "How do you want me?" he asked.

LaCroix's mouth curved; deceptively lazy, he drawled, "I think it's your decision tonight, mon fils."

Nicholas' gaze flicked up and down the long pale body.  Suddenly, with a lithe movement, he was straddling LaCroix's groin, drawing a startled hiss of lust from the elder.  Reaching underneath him,
Nicholas seized the erect cock roughly and seated the head against his opening.  LaCroix smiled wickedly. "There's oil in that drawer, Nicholas.  If you're going to do that, you'll need it."

His son snarled at the interruption but complied, scrabbling in the nightstand drawer for the little vial.  Impatiently he smeared it on his master's cock.  A moment's pause, while their eyes locked.  Then
he impaled himself.

A bolt of white-hot desire shot through them both at once.  LaCroix hissed again, eyes avid as he watched Nicholas' head snap back and roll.  His son's tightness spasmed around him almost painfully.

God.  He could feel LaCroix's cock filling not only his ass, but seemingly invading all of him.  He could feel it the length of his spine, in the back of his throat, against his nipples.  A bone deep
groan rolled out of him as melted around it.  Greedily he worked it, rolling his hips as he milked that implacable phallus.

LaCroix drank in the sight of his son, as Nicholas reveled unashamedly in the pleasure of their coupling.  A faint sheen of bloodsweat washed the golden body; one hand pulled at his erection as his hips ground voluptuously.  It was unbearably good, but he knew from experience what Nicholas was just now realizing--that neither one of them would be able to come from this.  Nicholas had neither the experience nor the control required.

As a flicker of trepidation crossed his son's face he grasped his hip firmly and cupped Nicholas' neck with his other hand.  "This is lovely, mon desir, but I think we need a little different stimulation, no?"

"What am I doing wrong?" the other gasped.

"Nothing.  We can continue like this for as long as you like.  Or are you ready to come now?"

A vigorous nod showered droplets of bloodsweat on him.

"Hold to me, then.  Tight."  His hand gained a firmer purchase on a tautly muscled thigh and he carefully turned them both.  Nicholas cried out as he felt the pressure in his rectum shift slightly, but it
was a cry of pleasure rather than pain.  LaCroix smiled with satisfaction as he leaned over his favorite; he'd managed to move them without dislodging himself and now he wrapped those thighs around his waist, where they clamped against him.  He wrapped his hand around his son's cock and whispered to him, his breath caressing the enraptured face as intimately as a kiss.  "Are you mine, Nicholas?  My beautiful child, my beloved son . . .Do you give yourself to me?"

"Yes!  Please--take me, take me!"

It was all he needed.  He slammed deep into the eager body, thrusting hard and fast.

Nicholas could feel himself crying out.  This; yes, he wanted this.  Wanted to join with this one, to worship him and feel worshipped in return.  His eyes fixed on one point: the fangs gleaming in his
master's mouth.  He wanted *that*, too.  He turned his head, pressing it into the pillow as he arched his throat. Fiercely LaCroix struck; equally fierce was the savage joy in him as his master drank from him.  A bare moment later and his own mouth was filling.

To drown in this!  More, to *live* in this, to let it sweep him far beyond the bounds of human experience.  Life and death, world and time. . . Centuries swept into him, and leagues . . . Deeper: here was the bitter-dry taste of a dusty road and a quiet betrayal, there the mossy awe of unknown forests. A boy's prattle and a man's voice answering it, vicious--that had the sharp tang of steel.  A woman's pleas against a cold heart, aching; . . . and through it all the continuity of sheer life.  Deeper still: the essence of his master, beyond any words.

He fell away, gasping.

This time the afterglow held not the sharp sensory awareness he'd become used to; he was aware only of the contentment glowing in his flesh, in his bones.  Sighing, he sank into sleep.

Lucien LaCroix held his son against his side with a protective arm.  Wide open, his ice-blue eyes stared into the future.  He regretted that foreknowledge was not one of the attributes of vampirism, but he could see this much clearly, that this child was destined to lead him a merry chase over the centuries.  Glancing down at the golden head pillowed against his chest he smiled at himself. It would be worth it, he thought, and slept.

<FIN>

Molly/StormBorn
UF/FKPagan/Cousin/Inn-mate/NA/Ravenette/Seducer/Dark Trinity
stormborn@prodigy.net
http://members.tripod.com/~StormBorn/index.htm
Uncle knows best.  Uncle *always* knows best.