Chapter Four

The rest of the day was intensely tiresome. Crane put Merrick abreast of the situation and sent him off to snout out Rackham's woes among his many Chinese drinking and gambling friends. He contacted his bankers to make sure he had enough cash in hand to bail himself, Stephen and Merrick out of whatever the law might throw at them and get them all urgently out of the country, then he thought about it again and increased the sum so that he could get Leonora out too if need be. It probably wouldn't be necessary, but you never knew with Leo.

He looked over his affairs to ensure that he had covered the most immediate issues if he had to cut and run. He responded curtly to various letters from a cousin several times removed, making demands on him in his unacknowledged and unwanted capacity as head of the house. He had an irritatingly frank discussion with his lawyer as to what to do in the case of arrest on charges of unnatural acts. Mostly, he resisted, with increasing difficulty, the urge to go round to Stephen's rooms, or to send more and more messages. Stephen would reappear when it suited him.

He ate alone at a chop house since Merrick was still out, and he was stretched out on the couch reading the latest number of All the Year Round with limited interest when he heard the door open.

"About bloody time," he called, without looking up, as soft feet approached. "Well?"

There was no reply. But Crane felt a pressure on his waist, and glanced down to see his top button silently undoing itself, slipping through the buttonhole apparently of its own accord.

"Hello, Stephen," he said, without looking round.

"Hello," said Stephen, and dropped to his knees by the couch as the remaining buttons flicked open one by one.

Blood, bone and birdspit, Stephen called it: a deep-rooted, old and strange type of magic that could tap the massive power inherent to Crane's bloodline. The affair in spring had been an attempt by a group of warlocks to claim the Magpie Lord's magic using the abused corpses of the Vaudrey family. Stephen had wrested the power back when he had shared Crane's blood. The third item on the list, birdspit, was a country euphemism, and a much less effective route to the power, but then, power wasn't the point of the exercise.

Stephen's mouth was hot and eager on Crane's cock now, sliding up and down the shaft, tongue flickering round the smooth head. His hands, those magical hands that prickled with power, were on Crane's thighs and hips, stroking the magpie tattoos that adorned him, the tingling of his fingers getting stronger as Stephen's own arousal built, feeding off Crane's unconcealed pleasure. He was apparently intent on bringing Crane off with mouth alone, tongue playing up and down the long vein, lips tightening with wicked force, teeth nipping just to the right side of painful, then pulling his mouth off and down to lavish attention on his balls again. Crane gave a groan of agony at the withdrawal and glanced at Stephen's russet head, catching him shooting a mischievous look up.

Well, that could not stand. Crane took a handful of curly hair and pulled, not gently. "You. Get your mouth back on my cock. Now."

Stephen's hands gave a flare of arousal that stabbed into Crane's hipbones like needles of light as he obediently took Crane back into his mouth and sucked hard, mouth working with a tight clutch.

"Good boy," Crane said. "Now get hold of yourself. I want you coming with my prick down your throat. And don't you dare take your mouth off me."

Stephen whimpered through his mouthful as he slipped a hand to his own groin and began to work himself frantically as he sucked. His other hand gripped Crane's thigh, the power surging through them starting to take on the staccato pulsing beat that Crane knew well.

"Christ, you love that, don't you?" he said roughly. "On your knees with a prick in your mouth and another in your hand. Frig yourself harder. Harder."

Stephen's rhythm stumbled. He pulled slightly back and said indistinctly around Crane's erection, "I'll fuck my hand if you fuck my mouth."

Crane's balls tightened almost painfully at that: dirty talk for Stephen was a matter of desperation, of the best possible kind.

"Witch." He gripped the little man's hair more tightly and pulled him forward. "And don't talk with your mouth full."

He took charge then, rocking his hips, thrusting as deep as he dared. Stephen's hand on his leg was pulsing violently with pleasure at the rough usage as he attempted to keep control of his lips and tongue; then he made an agonised, urgent noise in his throat, his body jerking, the orgasm spangling through his fingers like shards of glass that shot through to Crane's groin; and Crane let go all restraint and thrust without mercy, feeling Stephen's strangled cries vibrating over his cock, and came hard, spilling into the back of his lover's mouth.

Stephen choked for a second, gagged slightly, then swallowed, as Crane flopped bonelessly back on the couch, letting the aftershocks of pleasure ebb away before propping himself up on his elbows to take a look at his lover.

The smaller man was sitting on his heels, licking his lips. He had lines of tiredness round his eyes, and there were a couple of nasty scratches on his face. He was scruffier than usual, in that he looked like he'd slept in his cheap suit, or more accurately, like he had failed to sleep in it. But his tawny eyes had the golden glow that fucking and sucking always gave him, the combination of pleasure and borrowed power, and that foxy smile was twitching at the edge of his agile mouth.

Crane reached out and pulled him over for a kiss.

"Apart from that," he said, "have you eaten?"

They sat in the kitchen, at the plain wooden table, while Stephen worked his way through a slab of cold chicken pie and Crane kept him company with a glass of wine and a story he didn't want to tell.

Stephen listened in silence to Rackham's threats. They didn't spoil his appetite, but the sparkle went from his eyes, and Crane looked at the lines of exhaustion on his face and felt loathing of Rackham harden in his gut.

"Interesting," Stephen said at last. "He came to you, not me."

"You don't have any money."

"No, true, but… He's made himself noticed by the justiciary recently. I'd have thought he might have asked me for an easier ride."

"And what would you have done if he attempted to blackmail you into dereliction of duty? He's not a complete idiot, he must know how well you'd take that."

"Whereas you just gave him five thousand pounds?" enquired Stephen.

"No, but I'm ready to give him something. Money and passage home."

"Really?" Stephen put his fork down. "Lucien—"

"We're not alone in this," Crane said. "He's also threatening a friend of mine. And a third man killed himself just last week. He might well have been another victim."

"Was he a friend too?" asked Stephen with quick concern.

"No, a loathsome piece of work, he was no loss. I'm guessing about him, of course, but it seems too much coincidence that another Shanghai man should have chosen this week to kill himself. I was of the opinion that Rackham needed cash urgently to pay someone off—that's where Merrick is, trying to find out who—but if he's on the wrong side of your lot, perhaps he's just gathering funds to make a run for it. Either way, I'm prepared to pay him to leave the country."

Stephen chewed his last mouthful of pie, frowning a little. "He's not in that much trouble with us. So perhaps he's up to something I don't know about yet."

"Talking of trouble," Crane said. "How bad is this for you? Honestly, please."

Stephen propped his elbows on the table and ran the tines of the fork over his thumb. "Well. The justiciary have no obligation to investigate normal, unskilled crimes, as such." He tapped the points of the fork thoughtfully. The metal tines peeled apart, like flower petals. "If Rackham reports me to the Council or the justiciary for vice, it would be quite awful and humiliating, but no more than that. There aren't enough justiciars for them to discard any lightly." He ran a finger along one of the tines and watched it spiral. "But abusing one's powers to cover up one's crimes of any kind is a different matter. If I came to the attention of the police for, you know, what we do—well, I've always intended to deal with that situation by, er…" He waved the fork vaguely.

"Abusing your powers?"

"In a controlled way."

"Naturally," said Crane dryly. "But is there any reason you couldn't do that now? Would Rackham be able to tell, or prove, you'd done that?"

Stephen didn't answer immediately. His attention was apparently fixed on the other three tines of the fork, which were weaving themselves into a plait.

Crane, who hadn't got rich by jumping in to fill silences, waited.

"If I was on a watch list, it would be difficult," Stephen said finally. "That is, if one is suspected of warlockry, or abusing one's powers, one's partner and colleagues can be tasked to keep an eye out, and to come down hard at any sign of impropriety. When you're on a watch list, you're a marked man, and there is no benefit of the doubt. If I was on a watch list, and I had a run-in with the police, I could be in a lot of trouble if I used my powers. And if I didn't use them, I'd be in a lot of trouble too, because I'd be arrested. So, yes, that would be bad."

"And Rackham could get you put on a watch list?"

Stephen wrapped the thin metal handle slowly round his finger, as if it were paper. "No. No, he couldn't do that. Not at all. I've spoiled your fork."

"I have more."

"Rich in forks." Stephen dropped the coiled metal onto the table. "Let's talk about this later, Lucien. I want to go to bed."

It should have been a loving night, especially with the frustration of separation burned off. Crane felt a vulnerability in Stephen that filled his own body with a strange pain, and he made love accordingly, carefully and cherishingly. Stephen burrowed into him and he stroked the nape of the smaller man's neck as he kissed his ear, lavishing attention on the sensitive lobe till Stephen's breath was ragged. He kissed and stroked and licked his way along Stephen's body, holding him tight, then moved down to gently take his balls into his mouth, rolling them lightly with his tongue till his lover moaned, sliding an oiled finger into Stephen's arse and pressing with care, to arouse and not to tantalise. Stephen was warm and yielding and pliant tonight, and Crane felt a rush of tenderness as he watched the other man's face, eyes shut, head tilted back.

"It's all right, sweet boy, sweetheart," murmured Crane, moving to kneel between his legs. "I'll take care of you."

Stephen's eyes opened, and he met Crane's look with a wide amber gaze for a second. His expression was unreadable; it looked almost bleak. Then he shook his head, drew up his legs and rolled over to a kneeling position, facing away.

"Stephen?"

"Like this," Stephen said, his voice a little muffled.

"I can't kiss you like that." There was no position on earth that would let them kiss when they fucked. Crane didn't want to say that he wouldn't see distress on Stephen's face, or read his pleasure, or the lack of it, through the prickling of his hands. "Stephen, are you sure—"

"This, Lucien. Hard. I need this. Please."

Crane opened his mouth to protest, and stopped himself. Stephen had a taste for submission, of course, but on occasion he also used his body to quiet his mind, letting intense physical sensation block out sensitivities to things Crane couldn't see and memories Crane was glad not to share. At those times he had a craving for rough treatment that Crane found slightly alarming, mostly because he was so much larger and stronger that he feared causing real hurt, and just a little because he was manhandling someone who could kill with a thought.

But Stephen knew what he wanted. Crane was disappointed, even irrationally angry, that his lover's needs were so unusually out of kilter with his own desires. But it was obvious that the last few days had taken their toll, Stephen had made himself clear, and mostly, Crane couldn't make him take loving if he needed fucking.

"You want it like this?"

" Yes ," said Stephen through his teeth.

"You asked for it."

He grabbed the smaller man, and pushed into his body, slowly but without stopping, making Stephen take his entire length in one long stroke. Stephen cried out with desperation and relief, and Crane fucked him punishingly hard, ruthlessly imposing his size and strength with every stroke till Stephen wailed aloud. He could hear the heavy gold ring Stephen wore on a chain round his neck thumping against his chest as it swung with each impact. Crane held him down throughout, gripping his narrow shoulders and pushing them into the bed, and soon enough the younger man came, in shivering spurts and with a sound like a sob, as the magpie tattoo fluttered frantically on his back.

Afterwards Stephen lay facing away. Crane curled an arm over his shoulder, brushing a finger softly over his sparse chest hair, and they lay body to body for a while in silence, as the tension drained out of Stephen and his knotted muscles relaxed.

Finally Crane said, "Will you tell me?"

A few moments passed before Stephen answered. "You asked if Rackham could get me on a watch list."

"And you said he couldn't. I take it that wasn't true."

"He doesn't have to. I'm already on one."

Crane's hand stilled. "A watch list names suspected warlocks. You are suspected."

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"A few weeks. I found out two days ago."

" Why ?"

Stephen shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does! You, a warlock? I've never heard such bollocks. You! Are they bloody mad?"

Stephen reached for Crane's hand. The electric prickle of his touch wrapped warmly round Crane's slender fingers. "Thank you, Lucien. It's nice to have a defender."

"What about your partner? Why isn't she defending you?"

Stephen's fingers twitched. "Because she's watching me."

"The bitch!"

"It's not her fault," Stephen snapped. "She wasn't even supposed to tell me. She's had orders, she can't ignore it."

"Ignore what ? Why would anyone think that?"

"It's stupid," Stephen said. "It's mostly a misunderstanding, really. It's you."

"Me?"

Stephen sighed. "Lucien, every time we, you know, do anything, it leaves me flying. You, in me, the Magpie Lord, the power. I can't hide it. People notice . I've got a source of external power and nobody knows what it is and…"

He tailed off. Crane waited, unsure of his meaning, and then abruptly realized what he didn't want to say.

"Are you telling me your colleagues think you're stripping people?" Crane had seen firsthand the effects of that practice, when warlocks used other people as sources of power and drained the life from them in the process. Stephen had told him that particular exploitation was what defined a warlock. "But for God's sake, Stephen, you wouldn't do that. Surely they know you wouldn't."

Stephen winced. "There's nothing else obvious to explain the power. I don't have an explanation. What are they supposed to think?"

"Can't you just tell them the truth?" Crane thought about that for two seconds and added, "Your partner, at least. Without going into detail."

"I could tell Esther what happens when you take me to bed, yes," Stephen said. "I really don't want to. Or I could simply explain that you are an immense source of power and hope she doesn't ask how I get at it, although of course she would. But yes, either way, I could tell her you're the source, and then she could take it back to the Council to explain why I shouldn't be on a watch list."

"Right. And you're not doing this because…?"

Stephen twisted round to face him. "Have you forgotten what happened the last time practitioners knew about the power in your blood?"

"They were warlocks."

"They were practitioners. Lucien, you're a human source like none other. And you know how desperate we can get. You've seen it. The hunger for power makes the drive for money or sex look like a, a hobby , and you're a walking fountain of it. Don't you see? It would be like telling a pack of hungry dogs about a particularly juicy bone." He gave a half-laugh. "For God's sake. If word got round about what happens when we go to bed, there'd be a queue all down the street for your services. You'd have half the Council ready to bend over for you."

"How good-looking are your Council?"

"Not."

"Damn."

"It's the least of your worries," Stephen said. "Because the other half would already be thinking of how to get their hands on your blood, without consideration of your preferences."

"This is your Council you're talking about. They must be reputable people, surely?"

"Oh, it would all be reputable. There would be a ‘need for study'. A ‘consideration of the Magpie Lord's legacy'. An ‘assessment of the greater good'. But it would mean they'd get their hands on you and not let go. Maybe they might let me see you—"

" Let? "

"I do not trust my colleagues in this matter." Stephen's voice was thin. "That's the size of it, Lucien. I think that too many people would want a piece of you, for what they can do through you, and I couldn't protect you from the best of them, let alone the worst."

Crane ran his fingers through Stephen's hair. "But would this bloody magpie business have to get out? Couldn't your partner explain for you without discussing the specifics?"

"Perhaps. I don't know. It would be a lot to put on her. It would be her duty to pass it on the Council, of course, but she makes her own judgements. She might cover for me if I told her everything. It's just…" A long pause. "I don't want to do that."

"I thought you trusted her."

"I do," Stephen said. "We trust each other with our lives. Literally. If I were to tell anyone, it would be her. But she still has me on a watch list, because she has to accept that I might turn. And I still don't want to tell her, because it's safer if nobody knows but me." His lips curved into something the same shape as a smile. "One can't be sentimental about practitioners, you see. Anyone can fall."

Crane shut his eyes against the misery in Stephen's face. "I don't want you sacrificing yourself to protect me. I'm not subject to your bloody Council."

"Let's keep it that way. And I'm not sacrificing myself. I'm not abusing my powers, I'm not a warlock, and I won't be caught, because I'm not doing anything wrong. This watch-list business is a stupid misunderstanding, nothing more. It's just that it limits my options if I should run into trouble. That's all I'm worried about."

It clearly wasn't all. Crane sighed. "I can't stop you from being arrested, I suppose, but if you are, you do know that I will apply the entire resources of my wealth to dealing with it. Including the services of a firm of lawyers who are more like moray eels than human beings."

"Yes."

Crane frowned at the flat tone. "Stephen, I mean it. I won't let you go to trial, let alone prison. I can prevent that and I will."

"I know." Stephen wasn't looking at him.

"I'll give my lawyers your name," Crane went on. "They're entirely discreet. Then you can use them at will, without going through me."

"Though still dependent on you."

"Welcome to life for everyone else," Crane snapped, somewhat offended by Stephen's unappreciative response. "At least I've got money. There are plenty of people with neither money nor power who have to deal with this shit, so—"

"I know. Sorry. Thank you."

"I don't want your thanks. Just stop trying to stand alone when you don't have to. Accept some damned help, now and again. The rest of us do."

Stephen smiled tiredly at him and curled up under his arm, into his chest, but he didn't reply, and within a few moments, he was asleep.