Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

The tavern Myth had chosen was very, very far from respectable. A handful of rats had crossed over Callan’s shadow already, and Callan would have been very surprised if the mattress was free of bugs.

Myth sat on the bed anyway, the history book open across his lap.

“Interesting reading?” Callan asked, emerging from the shadows.

“What’s more interesting is how you managed to drop me and the book off in the middle of a fucking alley only a few blocks away from the library I was being hunted down at, but not to stick around to help me in case things got bad,” Myth said sourly, without looking up from the book.

“Yes, well. It was not my choice.” Callan rubbed his chest, and the feather inside pulsed back at him. It figured that the phoenix feather would pick the most inconvenient time to flare up and weaken him and his control. “Regardless, you appear to have made it here unscathed.”

Myth finally looked up, flashing his teeth at Callan. “Want to come lie down next to me? It’s really comfortable here, in the only place in the fucking city where the guards won’t come looking.”

Callan shrugged and glided over to the bed, sitting down next to Myth. “I’ve seen worse. Although I admit, it’s been a while since I’ve slept on a moth-eaten mattress.”

“At least it’s not mildewed or moldy,” Myth remarked. “And I have a charm against the fleas. Hope you do too, mystical shade, or you’ll be covered with bites before you leave. Isn’t this place charming?”

From the nonchalant way Myth spoke of the room’s many inconveniences, it was clear he was every bit as used to this sort of lifestyle as Callan had once been.

“Most things find it very hard to bite into shadow.” Callan sent a shadow to travel over Myth’s body. “You did an admirable attempt at it the other night, though.”

“Try putting your cock in my mouth next time, and I’ll see just how shadowy it really is,” Myth grumbled. “I’ve been known to bite much harder.”

Callan laughed, far too amused by the pretty thief’s snark. He couldn’t remember the last human who had talked back at him like this. They all simply begged him to fulfill their desires, pushing their hunger on him and cursing him after he was gone.

“I think you wouldn’t be doing any biting at all if your mouth was stuffed with my cock,” Callan said in a husky tone. “Should we try it out now?”

“Not if I have to pay you,” Myth muttered, hurt seeping into his voice. “Actually, hold on. I had a real question for you.”

Callan sat back a little, eyeing Myth. “A real question?”

“Yeah. Because… you’re a shade, and this book goes on and on about demons and darkness and cold and whatever, but you’re kind of warm inside.” Myth placed his hand on Callan’s chest. “Yeah, right there. I was trying to figure out why. Are you not actually a shade?”

For the first time in a very long time, Callan was left speechless. He stared down at Myth’s hand, which was settled directly over where the phoenix feather was.

“I am a shade,” Callan said, changing his body enough that Myth’s hand sank into his chest a little. “But I’m not just a shade. And that isn’t my warmth.”

Myth arched a brow, pulling his hand back and shaking it off a bit like it had left some sort of residue. It hadn’t, though if Callan had pulled that particular trick anywhere else, it might’ve been left with wisps of shadow. “So what is it?” he pressed.

Callan looked down at his hands and played with the ring Athan had given him. “A… souvenir. From somebody who despised me.”

“So they gave you warmth. Light. Weakened you,” Myth guessed, to Callan’s surprise. “And you can’t get rid of it?”

“If I could get rid of it, I would have already.” Callan grinned and pulled the pearl ring off his finger, holding it up. “But I didn’t even let you take this ring, now did I?”

“I could have,” Myth informed him, arrogance dripping from his tone. “It was just… plain. Not every piece of jewelry has a mind of its own, you know.”

“This one certainly does.” Callan put the ring back, then tapped on the onyx one next to it. “And this one. I got it after we met. To replace one of the ones you stole. But I bet you can’t steal this one, either.”

“Why not?” Myth asked, reaching out to take Callan’s hand. “What’s so special about it? Did you perform a blood sacrifice to bind it to you or something? Because that sounds like something a shade constantly confronted with a thief would do.”

“Because,” Callan said, draping his other arm around Myth’s shoulders, “it’s the one that reminds me of you. I’m not ready to let go of it.”

Myth hesitated instead of trying to pull the ring off of Callan’s finger, like he’d clearly intended to do. “Why not?” he asked, and his voice was a touch wary then. “Don’t I owe you… all sorts of things? I don’t know anything about you except that…” He trailed off, his cheeks flushing red.

“Except that?” Callan prompted.

Myth shook his head. “Nothing. I really know nothing about you.” He lifted his head to look Callan directly in the eyes. “Like, when have you slept in a moth-eaten bed? How do you know so much magic? Why do you want this amulet?”

The questions surprised Callan, and he considered simply evading them, but… it had been so long since anybody had asked anything about him. And Myth did truly want to know.

“In my youth, beds such as these weren’t uncommon. I used to marvel at the days when I didn’t wake up with new bug bites. I know so much about magic because I studied it, and now it’s a part of me. As for the amulet…” Callan turned onto his side and smiled. “That’s a personal matter. But I think it doesn’t make a difference to me whether you use it or destroy it. Either way, I win.”

Devour him use him destroy him, his master shouted in protest. Callan ignored the tired, repetitive words.

“So I’m just lucky your goals happen to align with mine,” Myth said suspiciously. “And what is this going to cost me? Just dinner? What do you usually require from people?”

Callan brushed his knuckles over Myth’s flushed cheeks. “Not much. I take memories, sometimes. Or items of insignificant value. Something that is hard and easy to give. It won’t be missed, until it is.”

Myth scoffed at Callan. “What kind of riddle answer is that?” he asked. He paused, then asked, “Is that what you took from my mother? A memory? A memory of what?”

“A memory of you. She cherished it—but not enough to be unwilling to part with it for some coin.” Callan smiled darkly. “She cares for you, but she doesn’t. What an interesting woman.”

Myth looked away from Callan, but not before Callan caught the look of hurt in the thief’s pretty eyes. He fell silent, and that silence stretched on—interrupted only by the sound of rustling and scurrying of rats in the corner.

“Is she safe, do you think?” he asked eventually.

“Do you want her to be?” Callan asked, moving to stroke Myth’s hair. “If she died, you’d be free of that obligation. You’d be able to breathe. You’d no longer be choking on guilt and duty.”

“What kind of question is that?” Myth asked, his tone sharp. “Of course I want her to be safe. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t want my own mother to be safe?”

“The same kind of person who doesn’t particularly want his own father to be safe,” Callan pointed out.

Myth hissed in a breath, pulling away from Callan at that. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Callan let go of Myth and looked down at his own hands. “I helped a woman murder her own father. I helped a son murder his mother. I helped a brother rape his sister.”

Myth’s head jerked up, and he stared at Callan in open horror, but he said nothing.

Callan twisted the pearl ring on his finger, around and around, until it started to heat. “And once upon a time, I watched a man and a woman get swallowed up by darkness, ignoring their pleas that this time, they really were sorry for everything they’d done.”

Two hundred and fifty years later, and the memory should have faded, but it was one Callan couldn’t get rid of. It was too important; too much of himself was wrapped up in it.

For another long moment, Myth was quiet. He stood, beginning to pace across the room. “How can I be so aware of what a terrible… thing you are, and still be drawn to you?” he asked, almost as though simply voicing his thoughts and not expecting an answer.

“If you weren’t drawn to me at all, I probably wouldn’t be here,” Callan answered, shaking off the remnants of the past. “Your friend told you that, didn’t he? Shades eat hunger. And your hunger calls to me.” He slid off the bed and through the shadows to appear in front of Myth. “I’m simply here to give you what you want.”

“Here to give me what I want, and coincidentally get what you want.” Myth startled as he nearly ran into Callan, and he glanced up at him for only a moment before looking away. “How can you do things like that and not be eaten alive by guilt? Those people have to live with what they’ve done, Callan.”

“Why should I feel guilty? I help people.” Callan smiled to himself. “Is it wrong to help a man reach his ambitions? To free a woman from her abusive father? To allow a man to finally live out his fantasies?” He circled around behind Myth and placed a hand on his neck. “Why should people feel bad for taking what they want?”

Whether they were happier for having taken it was beside the point. Some of them became stronger; others withered in the wake of what they’d done. But every single one of them had made that choice themself.

“Because it hurts other people! Maybe it’s not terrible to help a woman away from someone who’s hurting her, but gods, Callan. Do you hear yourself? The price is murder, rape, so many lives destroyed because one person is getting what they want.” Myth was surprisingly impassioned over this.

Callan tightened his grip on Myth’s neck, enjoying the sudden stutter in Myth’s breath. “Are you better, then? You’ve stolen from so many people. Do you tell yourself it’s all right if they’re rich? What about the guards and servants who get punished for allowing the items to be stolen?” Callan leaned down to lick Myth’s ear. “King Eoghan had one guard’s hand cut off, because you snuck in on his watch.”

Myth shuddered, trying to pull away, but Callan still didn’t release him. “That’s… that’s different,” he said, but the conviction was no longer as strong.

“All actions have consequences. I know the consequences of mine. I don’t pretend to be anything other than I am.” Callan bit down on the shell of Myth’s ear.

Devour him, his master shouted. Take him, unmake him!

Bile rose in Callan’s throat, but he swallowed it down, ignored the pain as the acid coursed through him—until the phoenix feather flared up and drove his master away once more.

Myth reached up, clawing at Callan’s hand at his throat. “The consequences are mine to face. If I get caught stealing, I’ll take my punishment. I—” He didn’t sound very convincing, though.

“The only consequence of submitting to me is that you feel so, so good.” Callan used his hand on Myth to push him toward the bed. “I’ll fill you so completely that you’ll forget about everything else.”

Myth’s breaths were coming more quickly, and while at first he resisted, he soon let himself be taken to the bed. “Stop it, Callan,” he said, his voice shaking—but again, there was no conviction in his words. “I don’t… I don’t want this.”

Callan used his shadows to lift Myth onto the bed, on his stomach. Myth scrambled to his hands and knees, but Callan flowed into the space behind him, preventing him from moving further. “No? Your hunger calls to me. What’s holding you back? Morals? Integrity? Fear?”

“Yes,” Myth whimpered, not specifying which it was—or maybe it was all of it, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to admit it. “But Callan, I’m… I’m saying no. I don’t…” But he moaned when Callan’s hand found his already-hard cock through his pants.

“Maybe you want me to gag you,” Callan whispered, allowing shadowy tendrils to slip into Myth’s mouth. “Now you can’t protest at all. All you can do is take it while I make you mine.”

More shadows undid the laces on Myth’s pants, and Callan pulled them down far enough to expose Myth’s ass.

Myth whimpered around the tendrils in his mouth, and Callan could feel him trying to bite down—for all the good it did to bite down on something intangible, yet so very, very real.

“If you really, truly, want me to stop, I will,” Callan murmured, nuzzling Myth’s jaw. “But all I can feel right now is your hard, pulsing desire, the desperate need to have me completely dominate you.”

That was what made these encounters so very, very satisfying. The conflict inside of Myth, and how that desire, spiced by all those emotions, sated and filled Callan in turn. Sex with humans was usually so very boring.

Callan grinded against Myth’s ass. Myth struggled, but they were the struggles of somebody who wanted to be held firmly. Callan obliged him by wrapping even more shadows around him, until the only thing Myth could do was moan and writhe uselessly.

Myth tilted his head back as some of those shadows coiled around his throat, neatly pressing in all the right places to make him lose his breath. But that wasn’t enough, not when Myth struggled so pointlessly, not when he wanted to really feel it. He wrapped one hand around Myth’s neck, squeezing and stealing his breath, and with the other, he undid the fastenings of his own trousers.

His cock was hard, equally as ready as Myth’s, but he didn’t push inside immediately. Instead, Callan gathered more of those shadowy tendrils and used them to part Myth’s ass cheeks, to slide into his hole and stretch him.

Myth had stopped pretending to fight, instead trembling and whimpering in sheer desire as it flowed over and through him. He sucked on the shadows in his mouth instead of attempting to bite them, almost making Callan wish his cock was in Myth’s mouth.

But no. Callan wanted to claim Myth’s ass, both with his physical cock and the one of shadows, and he used both to stretch Myth wide open so he could plunge inside.

Myth cried out at the sudden penetration, but he didn’t fight back. His sucking on Callan’s shadows got stronger, and he used the small bit of leeway Callan gave him to meet Callan’s thrusts.

The pleasure, the want, surged through Callan. He drank down all of Myth’s desperate emotions and took them into himself, luxuriating in the arousal.

Callan allowed himself to be carried on the emotions, ignoring the way the feather in his chest warmed in response, and began to brutally fuck Myth.

For somebody who had denied wanting it at all, Myth was extremely enthusiastic now. His moans filled the small room, and the bed creaked from their exertions.

Callan wrapped a shadowy appendage around Myth’s cock and stroked it in time with their thrusts.

Myth let out a strangled, garbled sound around the shadows in his mouth, something wrought of pleasure and pain alike, and he bucked. The thrusting of his hips, which had been meeting Callan’s with regularity, became more erratic.

Somewhere in the background, someone pounded on the thin wall and screamed at them to be quiet.

“Come for me, pet,” Callan murmured against his ear. “Give me everything.”

Myth’s whimpering was coming faster and faster, his body jerking with pleasure. Even though Callan could feel some tiny shreds of resistance when he said that terrible, beautiful word Myth loved and hated so much, it didn’t ward off Myth’s climax. Myth cried out again as Callan’s fingers and shadow alike tightened around his throat and Callan ordered him to come, and Myth spilled all over the bed.

Callan continued to thrust hard into him, lengthening his cock with shadow so it reached so deep inside of Myth that the thief shook even harder beneath him. “Pet,” he whispered again, just to feel Myth’s conflicting emotions, before he was filling Myth’s ass so completely with cock and cum alike.

Callan wanted it all, he realized. He wanted to know everything about Myth. He wanted to feel every single inch of him, the exposed parts, the hidden parts, the ones so small that even Myth didn’t know they existed.

Callan wanted to draw him into his shadows and keep him forever.

The feather inside him suddenly flared up, hotter than it had before.

Callan quickly pulled out of Myth, let go of all the shadows, and collapsed onto the bed next to him.

Myth stayed there on his hands and knees, as though still puppeted by Callan’s shadows, breathing hard. He didn’t look at Callan, didn’t speak, didn’t react. The evidence of his climax was on the dirty sheets in front of him, and he rolled over—away from Callan. “You need to leave,” Myth said, his voice ragged.

And, shockingly, he truly did want Callan gone.

Callan rubbed his chest, where the warmth was fading away, and nodded. “As you wish. Don’t worry, I won’t go too far. You do, after all, still have something I want.”

Callan sank through the bed, into the shadows.

Don’t ignore me, his master shouted, clawing through Callan’s head.

Callan found himself a dark corner and waited as his master destroyed him all over again.

He kept himself occupied with thoughts of Myth while the pain ravaged through him.

Soon he’d be free of this.

And then…

Well, Myth probably wouldn’t survive.

But it would be nice if he did.