Fortress
by Becca Abbott
Part 12
It was later than he'd planned. Draco pushed open the door and stepped into the lobby of the residence building. He stood a moment, shaking snow from his boots and waiting for the warmth to banish the bitter chill of the walk from his office.
Lately, it seemed to Draco that he spent more and more time trying to bring the Fortress up to speed than guarding the mongrel or even preparing his bi-weekly lectures for the cadets. If he was smart, he'd simply ignore the old Academy's deplorable condition and do only what he'd been ordered to do. He owed the bastards on the Committee nothing more than that.
But however uncomfortable and isolated it might be, the Fortress had important historical significance to the Templars. More practically, Draco could not imagine how such sloppiness or neglect could stand as good examples to the impressionable young men training to become future Templars. It was little wonder that the institution was beginning to rot. He thought dourly of Jor, now dead at the hand of the man to whom he'd sold his soul. And Mink – how carelessly he held the souls he bought. How easily he discarded them. Draco's stomach knotted.
A sound brought his attention back to the lobby. To his left, an open door led into a small lounge. A light was on it. He heard the sound again. A low groan. Curious, he went to look. Sprawled on a sofa near a heater, pants around his ankles, knees apart, was a cadet. His head was thrown back, mouth open, while between his legs, Asher's snowy head bobbed energetically.
Amused, Draco turned to leave, but made some small noise, perhaps, for the cadet suddenly gasped and looked straight at him. Red-faced, he pushed the pet away and lunged to his feet. Agitated, fumbling madly for his trousers, he promptly lost his balance. Asher dodged adroitly aside, making no effort to break the young fool's fall as the cadet landed on the floor in an undignified sprawl. Draco, having mercy on the unfortunate boy, turned his back and continued on to the elevator.
"How annoying," came a light, amused voice at his back as he stood, waiting for the car to arrive. Draco looked around. Asher leaned against the wall, mouth swollen and wet, eyes half closed. His earrings sparked in the harsh light. "If only he hadn't seen you, you could have had a good show."
"Does Richards know what you do in your spare time?" asked Draco.
"Sure." The boy was all in black tonight, skin-tight leggings and shirt that just barely covered his midriff although it covered everything else as if painted on. Draco pictured Els in it, the slight, sinewy body, the smooth cascade of crimson against all that slithery black.
"Sometimes he invites them up to do me while he watches." Asher wandered over to the elevator. He lay a hand on Draco's arm. His smile was bold. "I was wondering something, sir."
That tight young body was warm as it pressed up against him. There was open invitation in the half-lidded gaze raised to his. "Why aren't Elites supposed to do it?"
Draco gently but firmly peeled the youth off and set him back. "We are in service to Jupiter and to Amoi. We are expected to perform at optimum effectiveness at all times. Sex – and the emotional attachments that all too often arise from it – distract people from their duty. The flood of hormones into the system clouds the mind and makes it difficult, sometimes impossible, to make objective decisions."
Asher's jaw sagged. "Oh," he said. Then, recovering quickly, tried to get close again. "Aren't you even curious?"
"You don't know many Elites, do you?" smiled Draco, again pushing the pet back.
"Is that why you have that pathetic pet?" Asher's eyes flashed and his mouth was sulky and tight. "So you don't get too hot when he does it in front of you?"
The elevator door slid open. Draco turned his back on the angry youth and got inside. Asher took a step toward him. "No," said Draco. The boy stopped dead. The door closed decisively on his chagrined face.
"We're going back to Midnight," said Iason.
It was early, just past dawn. They'd spent the night in a grimy little hostel near a settlement optimistically known as Sunbeach. As far as Iason could tell, Sunbeach consisted of the hostel – which doubled as a rough trading post – and a couple of shacks around a well, all overseen by a burly and none-too-bright man whose claim to authority rested solely on his ownership of the largest gun.
While Katze slept in their dingy hired room, Iason stayed in the taproom downstairs. Katze had objected, of course, but it had been awhile since Iason had been able to sleep. There was no point in wasting the bed. Besides, from the taproom, he could keep an eye on the stairway. In spite of their growing rep, there were still those idiots foolish enough to test him.
Neither of them had mentioned Iason's bizarre behavior of the other night. It lay between them, carefully avoided and had not happened again. The feelings that had driven Iason into that madness waxed and waned, but refused to go away altogether. In fact, in his more dispirited moments, Iason was afraid they were growing worse. In the dark, when there was no one around, he did what he could to ease the discomfort, but masturbation was a poor substitute and his relief was fleeting.
"Why go back there?" asked Katze. He had just come down, not looking very rested, either.
"We've wandered around enough to spread the word that we're here. Now it's time to make ourselves easy to find."
"I still think we get ten or twenty men and go get Riki. This Brand can't be so suicidal that he'd kill him."
Iason said nothing. He had no intention of arguing with his ex-Furniture on the subject of Riki the Dark. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hostel's owner approaching with breakfast. "When you're finished eating," he said, "get our things together. It's snowing again, so it will take us most of the day to get there."
Squalls came off the ocean in short bursts for most of the day, but by nightfall, they had dropped off to a few random, swirling flakes. The two men said little to each other. Iason's groin was a constant source of discomfort, his cock semi-hard and rubbing against his clothing. He found that it required nearly all of his concentration to keep his mind off Katze, off Riki, off sex.
They reached Midnight shortly after dark to find it up and bustling in spite of the cold. Iason went straight to the hotel where they'd stayed on their first pass through. They were greeted enthusiastically by the host who didn't blink at Iason's request for two rooms, promptly ejecting the current occupants to accommodate him.
"Has there been anyone asking after us since we left?" Katze asked.
The landlord scratched his bearded jaw and frowned. "Yeah, come to think of it. Quite a few. Ain't hardly nothin' to wonder at, considerin' who ya are. Was there anyone in particular you had in mind?"
"Raoul Am," said Iason before Katze could reply.
The man twitched a bit, but shrugged. "Hard to say, sir. Could have been anybody if that's the case."
Their rooms were adjoining with a door that could be locked. The landlord, after some digging, produced the key. Iason handed it to Katze. "Find me a whore."
Katze's jaw sagged, then he nodded tightly, taking the key and shoving it into his coat pocket. "Any – any requirements?"
"Sturdy," said Iason. "Sturdy and desperate. Beyond that, no."
Lean shoulders tightened, then Katze shook his head. He lifted brown eyes to the Blondie. They were utterly sincere. "Iason. If it's that bad, I would..."
"No!" It came out louder and harsher than he'd meant it to. "No," he said again, quieter. "Just do as I say. "
The look on Katze's face lingered in Iason's mind long after Katze had left. He moved around the room, setting up the little heater, unrolling the sleeping bag on the vermin-infested mattress, barely heeding what he did. Pausing at the boarded-up window, he peered through the cracks at the busy street outside, but saw nothing.
Finally, going to the bed, Iason stretched out on it and stared up at the cracked, moisture-stained ceiling. Three weeks it had been since he'd held Riki, since they'd kissed and he'd buried himself in his mongrel's willing body. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell him. Just thinking about that soft, golden skin, the look of dazed adoration in those dark eyes was enough to make Iason groan aloud. What the hell was wrong? He'd never experienced anything like this before. Surely this was what it was like to go mad!
The sound of the key turning in the lock sat him up to face the door. Katze came in. Behind him came a young man, broad-shouldered and long-limbed. In spite of the cold, he wore only a pair of skin-tight jeans and short-sleeved shirt, a scarf around his neck. Long, honey-brown hair was wind-tossed. None too clean, but not bad looking. He had a small bag slung over his shoulder and he greeted Iason with a bold smile.
"Have you completed the transaction?" Iason asked, body tingling.
Katze nodded. Iason crossed the small space to them. The whore's eyes were bright with curiosity and trepidation. He was not as tall as Riki. Iason twitched off the scarf. A line of tiny, square bruises followed the line of his jugular. A qith addict. Good choice.
The whore had tensed under Iason's discovery, but when nothing happened, he relaxed a bit and edged over to gawk at Iason's bike. Iason said thickly, "Thank you, Katze. Go to your room."
"Iason..."
"I'll try not to disturb you."
Katze, looking uneasy, nodded and went into his room, closing the door quietly behind him. After a moment, Iason heard the lock snick. He turned back to the whore.
"I never did a Blondie before," said the man.
"Did he tell you what I wanted?"
The man's eyes were brown with flecks of gold, irises almost normal-sized. He was on the downward curve of the drug's effect and would be hurting soon. "Yeah." Taking in the height and breadth of Iason again, the whore looked a little less confident. "He - he said you liked to play rough."
Iason almost laughed. Instead he pulled off the man's threadbare shirt and threw it aside. He was not gentle. The whore flinched but didn't protest. "There are toys in my bag," he told Iason. "If you want, sir."
Iason opened the bag. Straps and cuffs and a whip. Katze, Katze. Always looking out for him. Iason took out a long leather strap.
"Just remember – it's double if you break the skin." The man's voice wobbled just a bit.
"Strip."
Quickly, the whore took off his boots and pants. He was thin, hip-bones sharp beneath the pale skin, with bruises here and there from the enthusiasm of other clients.
"Give me your hands," said Iason. There was lava flowing through his veins, hot and thick. His erection pushed against his pants. Already the images were tumbling through his mind, their cruel violence both horrifying and seductive.
The whore extended his wrists without hesitation. "Too tight!" he protested when Iason bound them. A savage backhand sent him reeling into the wall. He gasped, touching his bleeding mouth. Iason seized him and dragged him back to the bed, throwing him down on it. Another leather strap secured the whore to the bed-frame. The sight of the man, naked and helpless, only added to the chaos of his thoughts. Inside, something held desperately in check snapped.
He was, for a time, completely mad. A part of his soul seemed to pull away from his body and watch, detached, as he climbed on top of the whore and, ignoring the man's pleas to prepare himself, plunged into the well-used hole. He could not get enough. Each thrust set off explosions of delight. The man's screams seemed only to fan the flames and the desperate thrashing of his body could not have been more pleasurable. No matter how hard or fast he impaled the whore, no matter how explosive his orgasm, moments later Iason was hard again, the need as inexorable and overwhelming as before.
"Iason! IASON! STOP!"
There were hands on him, pulling at him, ripping him away from the sweet heat and warmth. He snarled, striking at them. Through a red mist, he saw Katze's face. Again he struck out and felt his knuckles graze flesh. Katze vanished. Iason forgot about him almost at once, turning back to the whore. The creature was making a strange, thin, keening sound. Then there was pain, brilliant and blinding, at the back of Iason's head. After that, he knew nothing at all.