Chapter One

Ce sont des gosiers et des sons de voix de Rossignol; ce sont des haleines à faire perdre terre, et àvous ôter presque la respiration...

—Abbé Francois Raguenet (1660?-1722),

writing of the Italian castrati

They are the throats and voices of the nightingale; it is to make one breathless and losing a sense of the earth [to hear them sing]...

PERHAPS IT WAS THE black, predatory intentness of his eyes that first peaked Carne’s interest. Or it might have been a sense of the man’s authoritative demeanor, although it may have been his uncommon height, or a combination of all that aroused the baser core of Carne’s male libido. A contrast of light and dark—the allure of agate black eyes seemed such a vivid contradiction to the blinding white silk costume that enveloped all that massive, commanding strength. A barbarian prince. The way he stared at Carne, the sexual intensity of that look, spoke volumes without uttering a word, without truly exposing his features, without moving a muscle. Just the eyes and carriage alone quickened Carne’s passion. His every primitive instinct surged to the surface urging him to stalk his way across the glittering ballroom. To strip him, spread him, to fuck him—no, to be fucked by him. An untamed beast lurked behind that albino mask. God, yes, he wanted to be that man’s prey. He felt the primeval energy gathering momentum, an instinctive mating call, rumbling to the surface. He dropped his head forward, his lips stretched back, and narrowed his focus. The strains of the first notes of one of his compositions erupted from the orchestra. It was a nod to his talents as composer of the opera performed earlier in the evening. Voices and music ebbed and flowed like the rolling roar of a stormy sea around him.

In his mind was a measure of angry notes to the opening array of a new score yet to be written, clashing cymbals, a crescendoed timpani of thundering beats, instruments mastered by the sweating naked muscles of a drummer of exceptional skill and rugged beauty. A rhythm infused by fucking, buttock muscles clenched tight, squeezing his cock as he pumped deeply between flanks of molten gold.

An African jungle rhythm beating inside him. Different from anything he’d known before. It was ancient and ravening.

He studied his quarry closely, seeking signs of weakness, discerning none that were obvious. The sleek expressionless white mask concealed his features, the shimmering albino silk and obviously expensive glittering jewels that decorated the imported Venetian lace spoke of a sophisticated, yet supernatural elegance that trapped Carne most thoroughly beneath that focused riveting stare.

The breadth of the Parisian ballroom stretched between them, and yet Carne felt as though he was tied to the stranger as thoroughly as if he were trapped within his embrace. He could almost feel the man’s hardness pushing against him, forcing his surrender, breaking his will. He could sense the measure of hard cock thrusting against his own rigid erection.

“Monsieur Geraint, may I say how much I enjoyed your composition this evening at the theater. The opera was magnifique, monsieur.” The elegantly masked woman sighed with apparent orgasmic delight.

“Merci, countess,” Carne responded with an uncharacteristic abruptness, virtually ignoring her effusive compliment, barely glancing at her—his total focus upon the mesmerizing broad-shouldered man across the room. Stepping away from the cloying perfumed and powdered countess, he cut her with little thought for repercussion of such a rude etiquette. No one existed in this cluttered, flamboyant assemblage but the man dressed in white, bearing a mask of blank expression, eyes burning with an inner core of barbarian fire, an undeniable challenge thrown out to Carne.

More effusive congratulations barely touched him as Carne pushed a path through the crush of perfumed bodies, forcing his way across the room to the man of breathtaking height and presence. A man whose hauteur spoke of confidence and expectancy, as though no less than having Carne on his knees before him would satisfy him. It was as Carne reached the center of the room, masked dancers swirling around him, the man vanished and Carne’s exhilarated anticipation was swallowed by absolute terror.

A flash of white from the corner of his eye drew his attention to the open doors leading to the garden. Carne changed direction and, moving with the swiftness of a gazelle, wove a path expertly through the throng of people, and made his way to those same open doors. Again, a measure of movement from the corner of his eye. He sprinted down the marble steps and again halted. He caught the clang of an iron gate to the left and swung toward it. With no idea where it led, Carne only knew that he couldn’t let the man go, he had to know who the masked stranger was. Carne opened the gate and stepped out into a narrow cobbled street, shiny and slick with recent rains. Hearing the echo of departing footsteps, he raced down the street, no thought for his safety, that he could be accosted by footpads, no concern for anything other than the intriguing man dressed in full white masked regalia. It felt as though his very life depended on finding him.

Surrendering to instinct, he turned right, his footsteps echoing loudly on the slick stone beneath his feet. Drawing to a standstill at the entrance to an alley, he listened for any sound. A white-clad arm shot out and powerfully yanked him into the alley, thrusting him against the building’s brick façade.

“Who are you?” Carne asked breathlessly, excited by this dangerously delicious commanding presence. First he asked in English, then repeated it in French. Perhaps he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Blood boiling, his arousal at such a peak of anticipation, Carne could barely contain his excitement. If he was going to die, God yes, let it be with this man’s cock stretching his ass. To die in the arms of a man like this would be...uncommon rapture.

The man pressed a gloved finger against Carne’s lips. “No questions. Tonight you may call me...Maître,” he whispered.

Maître. Master. This was going to be a night to remember. Barely a moment passed for the words to register before Maître grabbed Carne’s arm and pulled him deeper into the narrow alleyway. Farther and farther away from the main thoroughfare, and then he stopped in front of a doorway at the end of the alley. Throwing it open, he shoved Carne into the room. Carne stumbled, then quickly righted himself, taking a moment to get his bearings. He was mildly shocked at the elegance and sensuality of the intimately appointed sitting room. It was almost as though they were expected.

A small white and gold pianoforte set to one side of the fireplace. Silver candelabras were arranged on either end of the pianoforte. The floor was covered in a thick carpet. He turned to the man who seemed to dwarf this room. Maître tossed his cape onto the Grecian styled couch and then moved to the pianoforte. A silver tray sitting atop the instrument bore two crystal goblets, a cut glass bowl of sugar cubes, a carafe of water, and a bottle of absinthe. He prepared two glasses of the emerald liquid, lifted one, and proffered it to Carne.

Carne shook his head. Not even for this beautiful stranger would he break his vow of abstinence. “I do not imbibe, monsieur—I mean Maître. The cause of my father’s death, so I am told, was too much drink. Thus I choose not to imbibe in an effort to circumvent my early demise.” Why was he explaining himself to this man? For whatever reason, Carne was struck by the need to offer only truth in the presence of such a powerful figure. Carne had never felt the need to bare himself so completely to another human being and it left him feeling vulnerable and defenseless.

“As you wish,” Maître said in a low voice. He returned the glass to the tray. “Play for me Geraint. Play for me alone.” He stepped aside so that Carne might seat himself at the pianoforte.

Carne went to the instrument, no thought of denying this man anything he wanted. Once his fingers touched the keys he was immediately transported, consumed by the music. It seemed hours later, perhaps it was only moments, that finally the driving passion to pour his soul into the music drained away, leaving him weak and trembling in its wake. Maître moved toward Carne. He stroked the side of Carne’s face. Carne turned and kissed his palm, tasting leather and aroused heat. He gripped the stranger’s hand, licked from heel to fingertip, then sucked his index finger into his mouth, slowly drawing it deeper and deeper. He heard a harshly-drawn breath.

Maître allowed him to suckle the finger. He flexed it, brushed across Carne’s teeth, sweeping along the roof of his mouth. Maître added a second finger, and then a third. Carne’s lips stretched to take him, all of him, the taste of him filling Carne’s senses. He groaned with need. His fingers curled into the man’s thick sheathed wrist, trying to draw him deeper and deeper, to consume him completely.

He looked up into Maître’s eyes. With his other arm, Maître drew Carne close. As Carne reached to cup him through the silk of his costume, he stepped out of reach, emptying Carne of his carnal presence. The loss of that intimate connection almost had Carne crying out at the abruptness of the withdrawal. Instead he drew in a long, steadying breath. His eyes went to the man’s hand, the white leather now shiny and wet. His gaze moved up and up. Maître towered over Carne, making him feel small and insignificant, almost delicate in the presence of the stunning masked man.

“Beautiful, just as I knew you would be. Your interpretation of the movement is quite as I expected. Mozart’s Gran Partita. Tonight, a perfect choice. But I wonder what you could do with his Requiem? Yes, I would like to see your treatment of the Hostias.”

“Perhaps it is you who inspire me...Maître.” Carne turned to look up at him. Maître brushed a thumb across his lower lip.

“Undress for me. Or it is over before we have begun.” His voice held the promise of an unending night of carnal delight, an element of mysticism and the clandestine. His dark eyes like priceless black diamonds, rimmed with the thickest, longest lashes Carne had ever seen, glittered from behind the mask.

Those eyes, black pupils rimmed in a stunningly luminescent ring of silvery gray. Perhaps it was that strange combination that endowed the man with such mesmerizing appeal, a look that brooked no argument. Slanted and wholly feline. Fully the predator, exciting Carne to the point he trembled uncontrollably with lust. There was no doubt in Carne’s mind that he would never see Maître again if Carne failed to comply. He’d die if he didn’t have this man tonight. He would spend the rest of his life yearning for the touch of Maître alone.

“The mask as well,” Maître demanded. “I want you completely bare, fully at my mercy. No flaw hidden.”

“And what about you? Will you unmask for me?” Carne asked, his voice raspy with undiluted desire.

Carne removed the mask and tossed it toward Maître, who deftly caught it, caressed it, and then gently set it aside. Carne stood poised in the firelight, completely vulnerable, his cock thick with arousal, the sheen of pre-come glazing the tip, his balls heavy.

Maître walked to Carne. He circled slowly, minutely inspecting Carne. Carne’s nerves stretched taut as his desire mounted. Would he find Carne lacking? Maître completed his inspection and returned to face Carne. With his gloved hand he cupped Carne’s testicles, weighing them, stroking them. “Lovely,” he murmured. He slid his hand up Carne’s erect shaft, brushed over the engorged knob of his prick. “Precious. A set of manly jewels to be prized by any lover. I wonder, have you the fortitude of a well-hung young stallion as well?” The hue of Carne’s cock deepened, the flesh stretched and hardened, his balls already drawing up close to his body at Maître’s handling and obvious appreciation. With his fingers curled around Carne’s erection, Maître drew him forward. Carne could feel the unyielding presence of the mask against his cheek.

“You like being ordered, don’t you? You like men.” His voice was a steamy intimate whisper against Carne’s ear. “My touching you is arousing. How many men have you been with, Geraint? And women? Have you a patron among them?”

There would be no prevarication. This man, in some supernatural way, would peel Carne’s secrets from his soul. And Carne couldn’t stop it from happening, he could do none other than yield himself. “I-I think you know my preference, Maître. I think you know it well enough.”

His mother had thought it was the music tutor who had ruined him. She blamed herself for Carne’s eccentricities. But Carne had known from an early age, when he’d secretly watched the actors changing backstage, when it had been the men who he fantasized about, not the women. He had understood his predilection for men before his mother’s latest lover had seduced him. But he never told her the truth before she died of consumption in the poor house. He never absolved her of her false guilt.

“But the women give you fine jewels, don’t they? Little gifts because you please them so very much. They yearn for you to spend time in their bed, they are eager for you to sleep with them, to show them even more of your secret magic. To ply your command of...instrument in a much more personal and intimate fashion.”

“Yes, but I don’t give them what they want. I’ll sire no bastards. Ever.” He was never going to subject a child to what he had suffered. And since he had no plans to marry, nor a desire to lie with women, he offered them no encouragement to pursue him. “So maybe they want me more because of it. But the men. They can be even more generous than the women.” Perhaps so generous because they sought to assuage their guilt for wanting him instead of the beautiful actresses for whom he composed his arias to make their voices shine.

Carne didn’t respond right away. It was that, but there was more as well. “Not all of them are brutal,” Carne finally responded. “Some of them are quite...feminine in their desires.”

Maître released Carne. He stepped away and folded his long limbs into an upholstered gold-and-black embroidered wing-backed chair. He crossed his legs and studied Carne. “Tell me,” he encouraged in his intriguing smoothly alluring voice. “Tell me about the feminine ones. Stroke your cock while you tell me your stories.” He skimmed his long index finger along the globe of the glass containing the absinthe. Carne remembered the taste of that finger inside his mouth.

Carne’s fingers curled around the breadth of his prick, stroked up and down. He’d spent enough time in the company of men to instinctively know what they wanted. How many “patrons” of his technique and talents had there been over the years? They all paled into significance next to this man.

With Maître there was something different. Carne couldn’t read him as he could do with most men. There was no expression to hint at his thoughts, his responses. And no growing bulge at his crotch to establish his interest, the voluminous costume hiding any obvious reaction to Carne. Carne felt off center, unable to decipher Maître’s intentions. He honestly didn’t know what this man wanted. So, he simply relayed his story.

“They like to dress as women, masking their masculinity beneath their silk skirts and petticoats. They want me to kiss them, to play with their little breasts through the bone of their tight corsets, to kiss their necks, their lips. Then I reach beneath the skirts and petticoats to play with their cocks. They like the feel of fine silk and satin and lace. They like to be made to feel first vulnerable, then masterful. They love it when I fuck them.”

“They like me on my knees. They love my mouth, the way I suck them, stroke them, tease them. And my ass—they like to spank me, to beat me, to show me who’s the man. They like to leave bruises where no one can see them. Secret places that arouse them when we meet in public, knowing they put them there. A subtle squeeze of my ass in a salon filled with nobility, reminding me—and him—of the bruises I have been marked by with his hand.”

“Sometimes. If it is a man who is...experienced in savage technique. But either way, soft or hard, feminine or brutal, they always gift me generously.” Carne smiled, even as his hand jerked up and down his prick. “Their expensive gifts I name contrition gifts.”

“Don’t come,” Maître said. He rose to his feet. “Leave off your masturbation.”

Carne did as he asked although he was so close. Was Maître aroused by Carne’s tale? Did he like his fucking soft or hard, would he be brutal or kind? Carne studied him from beneath half-mast eyelids. A barbarian prince and Carne knew he wanted to experience a savage taking from this man. He also wanted to know what lay beneath that fine white costume. He yearned to see the face of this would-be lover. God, how he ached for wanting him.

Carne twisted around until he faced the fireplace, feeling the heat of those flames lick over his aroused flesh.

Carne stepped slightly away from the fireplace and leaned forward, still close enough to feel the fire’s warmth on his face. Sweat dripped down his temples. He reached back and spread his cheeks, feeling utterly exposed. After all, the man hadn’t even touched him yet, nor had he undressed. Carne trembled when he felt a leather-gloved finger explore his furrow, circle over the opening of his anus, then palpate the globes of his ass. Carne remembered the shape and length of that finger as the stranger stroked the crystal goblet of absinthe. How deeply it explored his mouth, brushing against the back of his throat.

The heavy weight of Carne’s cock bore down as arousal steadily built. But it was that finger poking and prodding at his hole that claimed most of his attention. He considered the stretch of more than one finger opening his up.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Carne? Shall I beat you first? Will that make it better for you?”

He knew how to answer. He’d been with enough men who liked dominance to give this man what he wanted. “Whatever pleases you, Maître.”

“Exactement,” was the approving response. He fastened his hands to Carne’s hips and directed him toward the sofa and then down onto his knees in front of it. He shoved him forward. “Keep your hands right where they are. Hold yourself open to me.”

Carne climbed onto the sofa with some difficulty, leaned forward, and then held himself steady and opened.

Carne hissed loudly as a gloved finger roughly pressed into his anus, driving deep. Ragged and sweet, biting in a way that lit a fire in his gut. He wanted the man’s cock, so badly. He wanted the pain, the fire of being taken forcefully. This man could make him beg, and grovel oh-so-completely. Carne would give him tears, give him whimpers, and beseech him for more.

“Is this what you want? All that you want from me?” Maître pressed his long, gloved finger deeply into Carne’s cavity, curled and stroked his finger inside his channel. Carne shuddered as the intermingling sensation shot through him deliciously. “What will you give me in return?” he whispered into Carne’s ear.

“Whatever you want,” Carne said. Yearning for the man to fuck him and not wanting to think about anything else but the feel of this man inside him. “Anything.”

“Soon enough.” A hand came beneath Carne’s jaw, firmly pressing, drawing him back. Another finger from the hand on his ass joined the first, stretching him wider, pleasure sharp, skewering him wide.

Carne flexed his hips, drove himself back, impaling himself upon those long, thick fingers. The primal desire had him spearing onto the cone of sheathed digits again and again. Whimpers of desire erupted from his throat as he fucked with the wild abandon of a rutting stallion.

At the point of his climax, Carne’s eyes widened and he gasped as Maître mouth fastened onto his exposed neck. Sharp teeth broke skin. He came, he screamed, as two thick sharp needles pierced his flesh. Caught in the throes of sensations that crept so deep, he was paralyzed by the grip, and he was claimed by a dark rapture that splintered him. “No, no.” And then he was falling, tumbling over and over into a black void. “Yes, oh my God, yes!”

As his blood drained, he weakened and grew dizzy. If this was death, he welcomed it, wanted it, submitted to it. He felt the bite of Maître’s fingers boring into his stretched orifice. There was beauty and magnificence to the sensations. But there was something more, some coupling that wedded Carne to the stranger with an unbreakable bond. He saw light, blinding violet light, and he heard a choir of angelic voices raised in unearthly beauty. He felt the music as though it was a living thing, the strains wending through his body, and even as his blood drained, the music—my God, the music!—filled him with a power and rapture of immense pleasure.

“Oh, God, it’s so beautiful. Take more. Take all of it. Just let me have this music.” Some piece of his soul was separated from him. He heard Maître cry out. Or was it Carne who uttered that sound? And the beautiful light slowly dwindled away. “No, don’t go. Don’t leave me.” The tears came, so much loss, a terrible severing, then there was only a yawning black void looming before him. “I am lost.” The small pain in his neck as Maître withdrew was little compared to the sheer agony of the loss of those voices, of that beautiful light.

Maître stroked a hand over his, “There, there, ma beauté. My beautiful boy,” that whispering voice soothed him in a way nothing else might have at that moment. His neck throbbed with a myriad of sensations that went straight to Carne’s heart. “I take you into our protection. You shall have everything you require to create your music. Everything to make it perfect and worthy.” Maître fingers slowly withdrew and he was emptied—a vessel hollowed and drained of all life.

Eyelids weighted by satiation and exhaustion fluttered downward. Maître lifted him like a child and placed Carne on the carpeted floor. Cool lips pressed against his body, a mouth claiming his lips, a kiss so deep, a tongue probing inside his mouth, tasting of...blood. He wanted to see Maître, but his eyelids seemed glued shut by some unknown force. He sucked hungrily at Maître’s tongue, drawing from him, memorizing his taste. Frankincense, lemon, and something spicy. Some part of him realized the blood had to be his own, but those lips kissing him, hands touching him, were driving him mad with desire.

He screamed as he climaxed, writhing upon the floor as a white hot fire arrowed straight through him.

“I will summon you to me when the time is right. Until then, work the magic of your music. Make it worthy of angels.” And then Carne knew nothing more than an ecstasy that singed his soul.

CARNE AWOKE TO THE scent of moist decay. Slowly memory of the night before bloomed, but it seemed more a dream than reality. Looking around, Carne realized he was lying on the carpet, the fireplace held a scattering of ashes and cobwebs. Centuries dead. Sunlight streamed in through the window. His neck throbbed, and he remembered it all. He stroked his fingers across the source of the pain and they came away sticky. He stared at them and saw the blood, unbelieving of what he remembered. Then he realized he wore a heavy gold-linked necklace that wasn’t his. The medallion was stamped with the image of a bird. The words emblazoned across it—“Gios Nightingale.” Carefully, he lifted onto his knees and stared around the room, trying to make some sense of what had happened.

He sucked in a hiss of sound as he surveyed the room. The pianoforte lay in pieces, mold and vines creeping from its discarded pieces. He took in the cracked façade of the fireplace, the threadbare carpet littered with debris and rodent droppings. This could not have been the room he was in the previous night. As quickly as possible he dressed, hands shaking. His neck aching, he was light-headed and disoriented. If he was a drinking man, he could have put the whole episode down to drunkenness. But he wasn’t. And then there was the necklace. Where had it come from? He wanted to throw it off, but when he reached to do just that, found it was impossible to remove it. Some sort of dread descended on him as he lifted the chain, a certainty of impending doom. Some knowledge that if he did manage to remove it, he would be torn asunder in the most painful way conceivable. He left it.

And then he spied the discarded mask, white and blank lying on the floor next to the broken pianoforte. Carne picked it up and studied it closely, noting the strange markings covering the inside of the mask. Unlike the rest of the room it was pristine and perfect. Just as the man had been the night before.

But he hadn’t been a true man, had he? Carne stroked the twin wounds on his neck. No, the man had to have been something not of this world. Something supernatural, just as Carne had surmised when he’d first seen him. He fingered the medallion and the action seemed to soothe him, giving him a sense of unexpected security. Why was Carne still alive?

Some instinct told him this was not the end of it. His fingers tightened around mask he held against his breast. They would meet again.