Lyandros stared into the semi-darkness, awaiting Nyx’s wakeup call. Akito slept nestled in the crook of his arm. Hair tangled, body languid with sleep, his tribute appeared not to have registered the noise or movement that had disturbed Lyandros’s slumber. Movement caught his eye, and he tensed before registering Nyx standing at the end the bed. He hadn’t seen him open the door.
“It’s time,” the fae said.
Sitting up on one elbow, Lyandros glanced to the window. It was still full dark out, but a dimly dancing light said torches had been lit in the garden. Silently, so as not to awake Akito, he slipped from the bed and followed Nyx to the living room as he shouldered into his robe.
“They want you to go to the gardens first,” Isander explained as Lyandros closed the door behind him. “To test the equipment.”
Well, at least the fae followed safety protocol, he noted through his bleary annoyance. “What time is it?”
“Five a.m.,” Nyx answered.
The fae, who had moved to the fire, appeared to plunge his arm in the flames. Rummaging around, he grunted, then stood, something in his right hand. Soot and ash clung to his sleeve, but his outfit and his person appeared otherwise undamaged. The magic spoke of transfiguration, but other than that, Lyandros had no real understanding of its power or meaning.
“Do we have a plan for a distraction?” Lyandros asked. “So that we can reach the bridge?”
Getting out of the room was one barrier surmounted, but Lyandros had no doubt they would be under the watchful eye of many weapons-toting guards.
“You and Akito are not using Lady Morgana’s bridge,” Isander answered, turning at Nyx’s approach.
“All right.” Frowning, Lyandros quizzed his brother. “What about you?”
“I can’t leave. My mother has arrived for the show.” Nyx, palm open, contemplated a sooty piece of metal in his hand before he put it in his pocket. “I can’t hide from her here, so I’ll be your distraction.”
“All right.” Lyandros eyed his brother. “And Isander?”
Eyes of dark blue, so much like Tzadkiel’s own, returned Lyandros’s gaze. “I will take care of our interests here.”
“This is crazy.” Lyandros raked a hand through his hair and let it fall to his side. “We did not gain your freedom only to lose you again. Who will help Tzadkiel defeat the Morgan?”
“You will,” Isander said.
“But I’m—”
The outer doors swung open, and the fae guards who would be his escort appeared, cutting off Lyandros’s dead.
Isander handed Lyandros his leather harness and trousers with a cryptic, “Have faith, brother.”
Regret that he had not taken the time to say the things that pressed upon him now—reflections of their childhood, resolutions to silly arguments, and most of all the love they shared—constricted his chest. Real communication with the guards present was impossible. Aware he and Isander might never see one another again in this life or the next, Lyandros took his clothing from his brother with meaningful handclasp. “I would overrule you if I could.”
“Then it is good that you cannot.” Isander squeezed Lyandros’s hand tightly before letting go.
The journey to the gardens was a blur. The fae made him dress at the center of the garden, where a scaffold had been erected as the king had promised. On top of the scaffold rested a machine with a blade made of starlight. Its sinister sickle hung had been suspended over a St. Andrew’s cross. A reminder of the king’s threat. Stadium seating floated above the hedges, whether by aid of magic or architecture, Lyandros couldn’t tell.
Glancing to the sex swing’s silken fabrics, Lyandros forewent the whip and other implements that had been coiled for him on a nearby table. As the fae court trickled in, Lyandros tested the swing’s strength and range of movement. Warm air had melted the snow, providing comfort for the court. A carpet of flowers—forget-me-nots and buttercups—bobbed in the morning dew.
Flute music heralded the coming of the king, and Lyandros covertly scanned for Nyx and Isander. His brother, he found in the stands closest to the hedge maze. Nyx was nowhere to be seen. The king took his seat high in the stands, and Lyandros bowed in his direction. At the wave of the king’s hand the crowd fell silent.
“It would seem the Justice Giver has good sense, after all,” the fae monarch noted. After a gloating pause, he pounded his crystal staff on the ground. “Send in his tribute!”
A trill of fear—Akito’s—registered in Lyandros’s consciousness. He answered with calm reassurance. Nothing would happen that Akito did not want to happen. They had played out the scene in the wee hours, sans swing, and at the end both he and Akito had been replete with pleasure.
No one, Lyandros reminded him now, has mandated how we do this.
As Akito arrived, dressed in Lyandros’s black silk robe, Lyandros held his gaze. Akito had been instructed to hold his head high and not to look away. A smile ghosted his tribute’s lips, and he blinked once—their prearranged signal that all was well and would go to plan.
Slowly, Lyandros began undoing his own harness. The leather creaked and a breeze played with his leg hairs as he shucked his trousers. The court made appreciative sounds, but he ignored them, his attention on Akito and Akito alone.
Naked, he stood before his tribute, who still wore the robe. “Ready?”
Nodding, Akito licked his lips. “Ready.”
Pleasure trilled over Lyandros’s skin, tingling his tailbone and pooling in his sex. There was nothing more sensual or beautiful than the act in which he was about to engage with a man he cared for. This was a balancing of the scales between them, and Lyandros relished the moment, wrapping it around himself so that it created a hushed cocoon in which only he and Akito resided.
The swing creaked as Akito brought it forward. Lyandros settled himself into the fabric, and the crowd murmured, their confusion evident in the increased hum. Feet in the stirrups, Lyandros relaxed his weight backward and gripped the silken ropes to either side of his head. The chilled seat warmed quickly under his buttocks.
Akito stood between Lyandros’s legs, and reached into one robe pocket. He produced a bottle of oil and made a show of unstoppering it. Slick drops pattered to Lyandros’s skin. He hissed through his teeth at the first contact, and then groaned when Akito fisted him. The swing rocked, creaking with the lift of Lyandros’s hips.
Holding his gaze, Akito stroked. Wet sounds echoed upward to the viewing stands, filling the verdant gardens with a different kind of lushness. Lyandros’s harsh breathing joined the sensual symphony, eddying around him until he ceased to hear the crowd. Tension mounted in his abs, rippling the skin so sweat trickled into his navel. His toes curled and he arched, gripping the swing ropes in a spasmodic jerk.
Akito released him and Lyandros fell back onto the swing, panting. Akito grinned and poured oil into the palm of his already-glistening hand. While Lyandros appreciated his extra care, he could have done with a little more speed. Wordlessly, he let his eyes beg for him. Heated fingers pressed at Lyandros’s entrance. His thighs fell to the side and his buttocks spread to give Akito easier access.
Akito eyed him appreciatively. “Very nice.”
Lyandros groaned and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. His fangs throbbed, extending as they were pushed outward by the engorging sockets. He bit his wrist and heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage, tasting his own salt and tang before lifting his wrist to Akito’s lips. The blood smeared prettily across Akito’s mouth as he turned his head to suckle the offering. Tongue darting, he lapped at the wound suggestively and inserted three fingers into Lyandros’s entrance where he curled them with an insistent pressure.
Lyandros arched, his orgasm taking him by surprise. Light and sound rushed past him in a cataclysmic surge. The dawn pink sky greeted him as he blinked open his eyes, and realized that Akito had replaced his fingers with the head of his cock. Slowly, rocking forward, Akito entered him, splitting Lyandros’s world apart once again as he found the angle that would pleasure his Justice Giver most.
Though he opened himself to Akito, Lyandros felt submission in Akito’s every deep penetration. Each thrust was about Lyandros’s pleasure. Through their bond, he understood that Akito gave him this gift of his own free will. Not because Lyandros deserved to be worshiped as Justice Giver, but because it pleasured Akito to do so.
Akito panted, his rhythm faltering. “Going…to…”
Palming the back of his tribute’s neck, Lyandros drew him close, holding him. Akito, likewise, clutched at Lyandros’s middle, his rocking strokes setting the swing into a creaking rhythm that Lyandros swore made the tree roots themselves groan.
“Come for me, tribute,” Lyandros coaxed in Akito’s ear.
Akito shuddered in response. Three hard jerks and a moment of frozen bliss followed. Pleasure lighted Akito’s face, painting his features with sublime beauty. Lyandros watched, wishing he could put that expression there again, and always. Akito fell forward with a satisfied whimper. Lyandros stroked his tribute’s back and floated with him on afterglow’s all-too-brief cloud.
Drumbeats were the first indication Lyandros had of the king’s displeasure. Nudging Akito, he separated them, and righted himself. Trousers, he drew on without thinking. His harness, he bunched in one hand.
The fae king, flanked by guards, grotesquely beautiful robes flowing, approached, face livid. “That was no show of your command over your tribute.”
Lyandros bowed and Akito knelt by his side. “On the contrary, majesty. I never give anyone but my tributes access to my body.”
Mottled purple bloomed across the king’s papery skin. “Take them to the scaffold.”
Guards had moved behind Lyandros and were already grabbing his arms when an arrow, bright and golden, blossomed out of the king’s chest. The fae jerked once, surprise widening his eyes. He looked down, understanding and horror dawning, as red spread across white.
Nyx, bow in hand, stepped from the assembled crowd, Isander behind him, and the king crumpled to the ground. For a moment, no one said a word. Then, pandemonium reigned as Lady Morgana shrieked in recognition of her son.
In their bid to capture Nyx, the guards let Lyandros and Akito go.
“Come.” Lyandros dragged Akito to his feet.
They made for a hidden niche with a lily pad strewn koi pond. Before they rounded the bend in the path, a liveried fae attendant appeared before them, Lyandros’s boots and a disc-like object in his hands. The bronze circle glinted in the rising sun, and Lyandros blinked at it. It had been so long since he’d seen his shield—his seal of office—he wasn’t sure his eyes hadn’t betrayed him.
“The prince sends his and his apologies,” the attendant said, handing Lyandros his seal.
Lyandros glanced back to see that Nyx, sword high, had engaged with the guards. The king’s dead body lay in a heap on the ground.
“Shit,” Akito said, and started to run back to Nyx.
Lyandros grabbed him by the arm. “We have to go.”
“I’m not leaving Nyx.”
“You have no choice. Come. Now.” Taking his shield and boots, Lyandros dragged Akito with him and ran toward the mouth of the maze.
Akito stumbled along with him, throwing curses. “You can’t leave them here.”
“They know what they are doing,” Lyandros reassured, though he had his own doubts on the matter.
They reached the koi pond without pursuit, but he didn’t expect their advantage to last long. Setting the shield into the circle on his harness, he put his arms through the straps. As he buckled the leather, the shield hummed to life. His boots, he shoved onto his feet before straightening.
A golden glow began to light the water. Sunlight poured up from fissures in the lily pads. Grabbing Akito’s hand, Lyandros tugged him toward the pond’s stone lip, and withdrew from his pocket the object Nyx had given him earlier. A small hunk of metal that had once formed half of Nyx’s transfiguration cuff. The other half of that bracelet, Lyandros now wore—his seal of office. Nyx had used both objects long ago, their magic the key ingredient in a transfiguration spell, but they were no longer of any use to anyone but their owners.
Lyandros touched the water, stirring it with his fingers, and his shield sparked. Magic arced, impacting with the sunlight gilding the pond. In the murky water, a reflection bloomed. The jagged monuments of Boston’s Granary Burying Ground. Jerking Akito with him, Lyandros jumped into the center of the mirage-like scene. Rather than falling and twisting through time and space as they had before, Lyandros landed, crouched on uneven turf. Standing in Boston’s oldest graveyard, the dew-laden grass under his feet, he turned, and tossed the metal into the disappearing sun portal as he, Nyx, and Isander had discussed.
As hoped, the artifact acted as a magnet that drew magic to it. The vortex flashed once with a low, bass sound, and then sucked inward. Trees bowed, a result of the vacuum as Boston’s remaining magic hurtled toward Faerie. The door closed, and whether it would open for anyone, ever again, they could not guess. Everything, so far, had gone to plan. Too good to be true. He laughed, wary relief lightening his mood. Wind continued to tug his hair as more and more magic was displaced and scattered like ash in a firestorm.
“Did you see that?” Lyandros asked, looking around for Akito.
A woman who walked past a monument with her daughter gave him wide berth, and hurriedly moved on. He frowned, looking down at himself. Rather than a ghostly form, his body was solid. No light passed through his chest, and his seal hummed against his skin, warming it against an unseasonable chill. He held his hands up to the sky, fingers spread, and gaped in wonder.
He was alive?
Lyandros stepped to the side, off the path, and paused, looking around. No dark head with a waterfall of shimmering hair presented itself within his view. And yet, he felt Akito’s nearness, though the buzz of their connection was indistinct. Scanning the winding walkway and lawn with its tombs and hillocks, he moved toward Tremont Street and the exit. As he traveled, the connection remained the same, neither growing nor lessening in intensity, as if Akito walked near him. He frowned. The connection should have lessened or increased in intensity if he moved farther or closer to the warrior. He searched the park over without any change, realization gradually nibbling at his awareness until understanding dawned.
Moonlight and magic had fashioned a body for him while they were in Faerie. That body had traveled with him back to Boston. Akito, however, whose body still existed on life support in a hospital less than a half a mile away, could not command two forms in the same realm. The magic that had sustained Akito’s form in Faerie had disappeared upon his return. On the heels of that realization came another. Though Lyandros knew life—felt it in the rush of the air on his skin and the sweet scent of the earth’s loamy depths in his nostrils—he had never, in twenty years, known death…until now.