Chapter 17

CHAPTER17

Lying to yourself is a very bad habit.

Even now, hours after Callan had vanished in the middle of their… disagreement, Myth heard those words echoing in his mind, and he couldn’t stop thinking about them. Was he lying to himself? He didn’t think so. He didn’t steal because he felt he deserved something more than another person. He’d skipped thefts when he’d noticed other people had their eyes on those marks, even. If he really thought he was that entitled, why would he do that?

“Fuck you, Callan,” Myth muttered under his breath as he continued to walk. It was getting close to sunset now, and even though he was annoyed at the shade, he had to admit that the journey was terribly lonely without him.

He kept walking, hoping to hit another small town, but eventually, he had to concede defeat. It was probably better this way anyway, because he wouldn’t have to dodge guards if he was camping a short distance from the road, but a bed would’ve been nice.

Departing from the road, Myth followed a little trail into an open clearing that had probably been used by travelers like himself over the years. He set down his pack and the heavy saddlebags with a sigh of relief, then busied himself with gathering sticks for a fire.

He piled them up, using a small spell he knew to make a spark light the sticks and leaves on fire. Once the campfire was going, he turned to the saddlebags. He should’ve looked through them sooner instead of carrying the heavy things, but he’d been nervous about being discovered anywhere near the body.

There was food, thankfully, in the form of several hand pies. Wine skins, too, and he opted for one of those instead of the water in his own pack, taking several gulps before continuing to rummage around in the saddlebags.

Nothing else was useful—a few changes of clothing that would be too large for him, combs and brushes for the horses, and a leather repair kit. Well, at least he’d ended up with food and wine. With the fire, it was practically like being at an inn.

Myth sighed and held one of the pies close to the fire to warm it, only to almost drop the food when he saw Callan sitting across from him on the other side of the fire.

“Gods! Do you have to do that?” Myth hissed. “I almost lost my dinner.”

Callan stared at him intensely, the fire not even reflecting off his eyes. “I do enjoy the shadows a fire creates. Long and flickering, and everybody thinks the light of the flame protects them from all the nasty things in the dark.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t protect me from you,” Myth said a bit unkindly, pulling the pie back and taking a bite. Not quite warm, but it was better than it had been before.

Callan didn’t say anything for a while. Myth watched him, noticing that Callan’s hands on the ground flickered and lost their shape, almost sinking into the darkness.

When he pulled his hands back up, Callan was holding a deck of cards. “Do you play any card games?” Callan asked. He flipped through the cards nonchalantly. “Hmm. The deck appears to be missing a few cards.”

“I don’t gamble,” Myth said, watching Callan with the cards. “And maybe you shouldn’t have stolen them from someone, if you wanted a full deck.”

He was being petty, he knew, but the idea of playing the very same games that left his mother starving and nearly homeless didn’t make him feel any more forgiving of Callan. He’d resented being left alone even more than he’d realized, apparently.

“You don’t have to bet anything important.” Callan pulled out a card—the King of Coins—and twirled it around on one finger. “You could play for stories instead.”

“What kind of stories?” Myth asked, curious despite himself.

“Of kings and princes, phoenixes and dragons, or…” Callan suddenly threw all the cards into the fire. They sparked with magic as they went up in flames, and the fire burned brighter than it should have. “Card games are boring, anyway. I always know what cards the other person is holding.”

Myth eyed Callan, who was acting even more strangely than normal. “Someone’s feeling cranky,” he remarked. “You can still tell stories even without a bet to force you, you know. I’d love to hear stories of a human mage, personally, one who grew obsessed with shades until he became one.”

“That’s a boring story,” Callan said, but his lips twitched into a smile. “It’s fairly standard. A boy from a terrible family—and you know from experience, so many people have terrible families—who wanted a bit more. He wanted a life that was better. Not an uncommon desire. Uncommon was, perhaps, that he had a not insignificant amount of magic.” Callan waved his hand dismissively. “A very long story short, I researched ways to become stronger. I met a phoenix. I met a demon. And then I was a demon.”

“Did your parents promise to do better when they knew how powerful you’d become?” Myth asked quietly, remembering how Callan had talked about a man and a woman who hadn’t been sorry until the darkness had swallowed them up. Callan’s parents, maybe? Now that he knew more, it didn’t seem improbable.

“Oh, them. No, I murdered them.” Callan laughed, his voice echoing out across the field. “It was quite the sight. Very satisfying too. I hadn’t seen them in over a decade by that point, but their screams were worth it.”

Myth shuddered. Was Callan really that callous, or had they really been that terrible? Myth would never be able to hurt his own mother. Of course, he wasn’t a demon, not like Callan was, and demons reveled in the pain and suffering of others.

“What did they do to you?” Myth asked, watching Callan’s expression through the flames.

Callan met his eyes and smiled. “Maybe my story isn’t so common. Do you want to pity me?” He made a gesture with his fingers, and the fire flickered strangely, as if contorting around the dark. “My father had a belt he wore every day, and the ends of it had a very stylish reddish tint, to match the copper tone of the belt buckle. The color would deepen on some days—coincidentally, the same days he was angry at me. My mother would, on those same days, tell me I’d brought it upon myself.”

The words made Myth feel a little bit sick. For all that Kiara had never been a perfect parent, she’d never raised a hand to him. A few of the men she’d bedded had thought to dole out a slap or two, but she’d quickly shown them the door.

He’d never thought of himself as particularly lucky before, but perhaps he had been.

“I’m sorry,” Myth said quietly. “You… You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” But he wanted to know more, needed to know more. He needed to understand Callan, and that would only happen if the shade opened up to him a little more.

“I seem to be in a mood.” Callan stroked his beard, as if he were simply lost in thought. “They didn’t like the magic. I was the only one in the village with any kind of power at all. Except for the woman whose house had burned down before I’d been born. I could talk endlessly of small minded men and women, but it was very common back then. There was no sorceress queen who’d saved the land yet. But I’d heard of places where one could study to get stronger, and I suppose to a young, feeble mind such as mine, it held some appeal.”

“I doubt your mind was ever feeble,” Myth remarked, but he kept the words quiet, deferential, not wanting to spoil whatever mood Callan was in. “So you found a place to study, and grow stronger.”

“Indeed. A place where I was… appreciated. A collective of sorcerers. We each had a specialization, and I ended up devoting my time to transformational magics. That’s what had me seek out a phoenix.” Callan’s gaze went to the fire. “Ultimately, he was no help. I found somebody else to assist me in my goals. Athan never understood who I truly was.”

“Athan? The phoenix?” Myth touched the pearl ring on his finger, which felt warmer than it had. “Here,” he said abruptly, taking off the pearl ring and offering it out to Callan. “This is yours. It doesn’t like me. You need it more than I do, anyway.”

Callan seemed genuinely shocked by the offer. “What? No. I don’t want it.”

It was Myth’s turn to smirk. “Who’s the liar now? You’re the one who said you didn’t want me to steal it.”

There was something vulnerable about Callan when he finally took the ring and placed it back on his hand, on the same finger that had the dark onyx ring. It had glowed only faintly for Myth, but the ring now seemed to brighten.

Callan stared down at it. “I never knew why he gave it to me.” He shook his head. “No, I know why. He thought to steer me off-course. He wanted me to bask in the light. But it was far too intimate a gesture for what we had.”

“What did you have?” Myth asked, his voice still barely audible over the crackle of the flames. He was leery of breaking this strange spell that had Callan speaking. He’d never seen him so… unguarded before.

“A disaster.” Callan chuckled again and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I sacrificed him to become what I am.”

“What wouldn’t you sacrifice for power?” Myth asked, surprised by his own desire to hear Callan say “you.” But that didn’t make sense. There wasn’t anything between them, not really, even if Myth wanted more for reasons he couldn’t even understand.

“Myself.”

Disappointment stabbed Myth in the chest. Of course Callan would only think of himself.

Callan’s shape flickered and vanished, only to reappear right next to Myth. “Not what you wanted to hear? It’s true. I’ve clung to my core, to my memories, despite all the ways my body has changed. I take people’s hungers and desires, and they mean nothing to me. They don’t affect me. They don’t change me.”

“Because you’re above that,” Myth said, staring at the ring on Callan’s finger. “You don’t have mortal needs any longer. But I think you have sacrificed yourself, Callan. I don’t think you have as much of yourself left as you think you do.”

“No? I was a mass of hunger before, and I’m a mass of hunger now.” Callan trailed his fingers along Myth’s cheek. “What could I possibly have lost?”

Myth reached up, grabbing Callan’s hand and touching the pearl ring. “You sacrificed the phoenix, but you wear his ring. You loved him.”

Callan’s hand slipped through Myth’s entirely, leaving Myth grasping nothing but air. Callan’s entire shape became dark and smoky, and when he next spoke, his voice rumbled. “No. I…”

“Well, I’m glad he’s no longer in the picture,” Myth added, afraid he’d lose Callan entirely if he didn’t change the subject. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten your much, much nicer ring.” He held his hand out to the fire, showing off the ring he’d kept. “Pearls aren’t my style.”

“And yet you say you don’t want me.” Callan chuckled and turned solid again. “That almost sounded like a confession.”

Myth sputtered. “A confession of what? My superior taste in rings?”

“Shouldn’t that be my superior taste in rings?” Callan teased. “They were mine, first.” He draped one arm over Myth’s shoulder. “Admit it, you’re jealous. You’re seething with envy, imagining my darkness entwining with a beautiful, ephemeral flame.”

“You said he was a lousy lay, which isn’t something that can be said about me,” Myth informed him loftily, trying to hide the fact that he was a little jealous. A little more than jealous, maybe, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“He is absolutely terrible in bed. For one, he is not one for submission. Everything is his way or not at all.” Callan tilted Myth’s head up and brought their lips closer. “Not like you. You prefer it if I force you to enjoy it, don’t you?”

Myth shuddered, all too aware that he’d brought this upon himself but needing it. This was what he hungered for—not kingdoms, not to change Callan, not to turn into some vigilante.

He just wanted Callan to dominate him.

How simple of him.

Myth took in a deep, shaky breath, but instead of responding, he leaned in just that little bit and brought their lips together.

Callan immediately plunged into Myth, cold entering Myth’s mouth and racing through his body. Myth fell backwards onto the ground with a muffled gasp, something catching his head and keeping it from slamming into the dirt. He grasped at Callan’s body, but every time he tried to push, his hands simply sank into him. It was only when Myth relaxed, when he accepted, that Callan was solid.

His touches ghosted all over Myth, from his scalp down to his fingers and toes and all the way inside him.

Gods.

How could he want this so badly? Callan was a murderer—and wouldn’t you know, since you watched him kill someone at your bidding—and worse. He was a fucking demon. Of course he was tempting.

But that didn’t seem to matter, not when Callan was touching him everywhere at once. “Please,” he whimpered, thrusting his hips up and trying to find something to rub against.

Callan slowly, meticulously, pulled Myth’s clothes off him. Boots, trousers, shirt, until Myth was lying completely naked, writhing and whimpering.

“Hold still,” Callan growled as he nipped Myth’s jaw. “Or I might hurt you.”

Myth shuddered again. “What if I want to be hurt?” he whispered, feeling bold, far bolder than he ever had in his life. All of the things he’d wanted when Val had had him tied down were bubbling to the surface now, and he wanted so badly to experience all of those things with someone who didn’t ask for permission or even forgiveness.

Something sharp raked down Myth’s chest, and the resulting pain made Myth gasp and strain even more. It hurt, but it sent shivers down Myth’s spine too. His cock pulsed with desire.

“Like that?” Callan murmured against his lips. “You like playing with fire, little thief.”

Myth wanted to say something witty, or counter that he wasn’t the only one who liked playing with fire, but the reality was that his brain wasn’t functioning and that he was about as dangerous as a puppy—only dangerous when it got underfoot and tripped someone by accident. “I like playing with you,” Myth ended up saying, his cheeks flushing red.

“Don’t you mean you like me playing with you?” Callan asked, voice rich with amusement.

Myth bit his bottom lip, trying to keep himself from crying out as that sharp… thing ran down his chest again. He didn’t feel blood, but that didn’t mean anything. “Do you like playing with me?” he asked, suddenly feeling uncertain—which was foolish, because why would Callan do these things if he didn’t?

Callan paused for a moment, his black eyes staring straight down at Myth. “I do,” he answered, and he sounded raw. “You always hold back, but you want so strongly. Let yourself have it—no, let yourself take it.”

Whimpering, Myth shook his head, heedless of the way his hair only picked up more dirt when he did. He was going to be filthy, but he couldn’t have cared less. “I don’t know how,” he said. “I tried, with… with that prostitute. I tried to take what I wanted, to tell him what I wanted, but he didn’t…” His mouth felt dry all of a sudden, and he couldn’t say what was on the tip of his tongue.

He wasn’t you.

Callan kissed him then, saving Myth from having to speak at all. Myth’s eyes fluttered closed, and he gave himself over to Callan, sinking into the sensations. The way Callan’s nails or claws or whatever the fuck it was raked across his skin, leaving behind hot trails of sharp pain. The way his shadowy tendrils held Myth down, preventing him from putting a stop to this. The way Myth could sense Callan all around him, inside him.

And how a cool hand wrapped around Myth’s cock, squeezing and stroking, adding pleasure to the pain.

Callan broke the kiss, but Myth still couldn’t catch his breath. There were so many things happening to him at once that it was hard to concentrate on any single one. It was overwhelming.

It was freeing.

Myth moaned and bucked his hips uselessly. “More,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

“Even more than this? How greedy.” Callan’s hand on his cock stroked harder, and a blunt nail dug into flesh.

Something sharp scratched the sensitive skin.

Myth couldn’t make sense of it all, but he didn’t care. He only knew how arousing it was, and while he would’ve sworn before this that such painful attention to his cock would’ve had his erection withering, it only had him harder.

His fingers curled into fists, and he breathed heavily as that sharp touch seemed to travel down the base of his cock even as Callan’s duller nail continued to dig into his flesh.

“You’ve… spoiled me for anyone else,” Myth panted, unsure of why he was saying the words that were a confession of far more than he’d ever wanted to say.

“I haven’t enjoyed myself with anyone like this in hundreds of years,” Callan whispered back. He bit down on Myth’s lower lip.

Those words felt like more than a simple confession, too, and Myth cried out against Callan’s mouth as his entire body shook from those sensations. Sharp edges, dull fingernails, hands squeezing and tendrils wrapping around him and keeping him held down… it was all more than he could put into words.

Little tendrils of shadow snaked around his balls, slithering around them and tightening, pinching in places and squeezing in others. Myth shook beneath the assault.

“Hundreds, huh?” Myth finally managed to pant. “I must really be good.” He had to laugh at himself, the sound breathless and a little unhinged. “Or maybe you just like the way I submit the best.”

Because he did submit. Over and over, even as he fought against Callan, he surrendered in the end.

“Yes,” Callan said, nipping Myth’s jaw. “The way you submit. The way you desire. The way you hunger. The…”

But Callan didn’t finish the sentence. He plunged his tongue into Myth’s mouth, and Myth welcomed him, opened up to allow Callan to fill him in all possible ways.

His mind was too fuzzy with pleasure to be concerned about what it all meant. He had a shade stroking every last inch of his skin, touching him from the inside out, and his only thought was more.

He’d never hungered like this before. Lore had had dreams; his mother had had addictions. But Myth? He’d been content with his life, for the most part… until Callan had come along and Myth had realized just how empty his life really was.

“Fuck me,” he whispered. “I don’t care what you call me, I don’t care what you do, just fuck me.”

“No? I think you do care.” Callan’s shadowy tendrils gripped Myth’s thighs and forced them up and apart, exposing Myth completely. Callan’s pinches and scratches turned to gentle strokes along Myth’s cock. “Tell me what you want me to say, and I might say it.”

Callan pressed his fingers against Myth’s hole, teasing at penetration, and Myth wasn’t quite sure where Callan’s clothes had gone.

Myth moaned, his head falling back as he lost himself in sensation. His cheeks were already flushed, and they reddened more as he thought about what he wanted Callan to say to him. “I… I can’t,” he whimpered. “Just fuck me, Callan, fuck me hard.”

“Not until you tell me.” Callan smirked at him cruelly. The light of the fire flickered across his face, creating deep shadows. “I so dearly want to give you what you truly want, after all.”

“I don’t want to have to tell you,” Myth said, sulking. Then it would be just like it had been with the prostitute. He didn’t want to guide Callan. He wanted to have it all happen, to overwhelm him.

Callan barked out a laugh. “That’s exactly why I want you to say it. Come on. Let me hear the words you want whispered sweetly into your ear. Let me feel how ashamed you are to want it. Give everything to me.”

Myth whimpered. In that moment, he loathed Callan, and he wanted to tell the shade to get the fuck off of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Say the words,” he choked out, only barely. “Say what I am to you.”

“How prideful of you,” Callan’s touches turned even lighter. “Do you want something gentle? My darling, my sweetheart, my bright shining star?”

Myth tried to grasp for Callan, but his fingers went through his form.

A shadow. He was a shadow in truth, and Myth didn’t understand how the intangible form could feel so damn real.

“No,” he whispered. “No. You know what I want to hear. I could find a whore to tell me those things. You’re different because you know. I don’t want… I don’t want to say it.”

Callan shrugged, and his fingers pulled away from Myth’s hole entirely. “But I want to hear it. And I’m the one in charge here. So tell me, Myth, what you are to me.”

Myth protested with a whine, and he managed to get out, albeit hoarsely, “Degrade me. Call me your… your pet. Your toy, your dog, your good boy, I don’t know, I don’t care. Tell me what I am to you, and mean it.”

His entire body was flushed with humiliation for having admitted it. He didn’t want to want it. It was easier when Callan just said the words. What kind of a person was he, that he enjoyed being treated like this?

“What a good boy. Nice and obedient for me,” Callan said, and the degrading praise only had Myth’s entire body jolting with arousal. “My pretty little pet, to toy with as I please.” His thumb circled Myth’s hole once more, much more insistently than before. “I’ll fuck you, since you begged so nicely. And I’ll hold you gently, and give you soft kisses—”

“No!” Myth whined, shaking his head. Tears threatened to rise up in his eyes. “Don’t…! Do it right, just…”

Callan laughed again, just as something thick and cold thrust inside Myth.

Myth cried out, and as quickly as he could blink, Callan was directly above him, cradling his face.

“No gentleness for my pet,” Callan murmured. “Don’t worry. I’ll scratch you up so badly, you’ll have red marks for days. You won’t be able to look at your body without thinking of me.”

Myth already couldn’t look at himself without thinking of Callan, but he chose not to say that aloud. Instead, he let his eyes flutter closed, his hips lifting with the help of those shadows, and he met that thick, cold thing inside of him with quick jerks of his hips in turn. He wanted to ask if Callan could possibly feel pleasure when his body was intangible, but Callan had said he hadn’t enjoyed himself like this in years. Maybe Myth just wanted to hear him say as much again.

“P-please,” he choked out.

A nail raked down his chest again, rougher than before, and caught on his nipple. Callan scratched the sensitive nub, each pleasurable thrust accompanied by sharp pain on Myth’s chest.

It was so much. Myth couldn’t keep track of where Callan was. Tendrils bound Myth’s arms and legs, one slithering over his neck, darkness creeping over his eyes, and every swallow accompanied by a rushing, bitter darkness.

All Myth could do was feel, and give himself over to the pleasure and the pain and to Callan.

“Good pet,” Callan whispered directly into his ear.

Myth came undone, unraveling, every piece of him feeling like it was being frostbitten and swallowed up by darkness—but he embraced it, giving himself over to it, and he cried out as he came harder than he ever had, all over his stomach and Callan’s ephemeral form.

For a few moments, the entire world was plunged into darkness, not a single sound to be heard.

Myth lay there, exhausted, unconcerned by the complete lack of the world. He was safe here. There was nothing in the dark that could touch him.

Then he blinked, and something lay shining just out of reach.

A feather.

Myth frowned at it. That wasn’t supposed to be here. He reached out to take it—

And landed in Callan’s arms.

“What… what just happened?” Myth asked, confused. He had the fire on one side of him, and Callan on his other, and the stars shining above them.

Callan stroked his hair. “We had very good sex.”

“But I was… I was inside of you,” Myth said, trying to figure out how that had happened. “And there was… There was a feather, a bright and shining feather, and it was so out of place—”

Callan made an annoyed sound. He took Myth’s hand into his free one and twined their fingers, their rings clacking against each other. “Another souvenir. But I don’t particularly want to talk about him anymore, not when I much prefer to enjoy myself with you.”

The words reached a part of Myth that was very much wounded and uncertain, that had spent years and years withering away until it was almost nothing—the part of him, he was sure, that Callan said hungered. Some of the pain was soothed away, but strangely, it wasn’t warmth he associated with the relief. It was a soft, cool breeze, a slight chill on a fall morning as a promise of a new season.

It was a shadow obscuring the painfully bright, blistering hot sun.

Myth had always shied away from the light.

“Okay,” Myth said quietly, burying his face against Callan’s bare chest. “I… enjoy myself with you too.”

Callan kept stroking Myth’s hair while the fire slowly died down and Myth drifted off to sleep.