Chapter 8

CHAPTER8

Callan stared down at Myth. He’d moved the pretty thief over to the larger of the two beds, and Myth hadn’t stirred at all.

That had been… satisfying.

Callan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly satisfied by something. He could sate hunger, and he could feed off others, but…

This was his own.

The pearl ring on his finger radiated warmth. “Fuck off,” Callan told the ring. He brushed his knuckles over Myth’s forehead, wiping away some of the sweat.

There wasn’t anything truly special about the thief. He was pretty, and he was interesting, and he was a good fuck.

Callan sighed and leaned back against the wall, still petting Myth. The memory he’d taken from Kiara rolled around in his head.

There had been so many memories he could have taken. Little memories that were insignificant. Larger memories that shaped her. The memories of her gambling victories. The memories of her gambling losses. Either way, she would’ve been driven harder to game, so sure that victory was around the corner.

In the end, he’d taken the memory of kissing Myth’s forehead. It was the only time she’d done it when he was an adult, and Myth had looked so hopeless, unsure of what to do with that rare sign of affection from his mother.

A pointless memory Kiara wouldn’t ever miss.

But when he’d been inside Myth, he’d seen the memory from Myth’s point of view, and he’d felt all the turmoil around it. The way Myth wanted to make his mother proud, yet knowing nothing would ever be enough.

There had been so many years of scrambling for food, of wondering if the landlord would kick them out, of wishing his mother would stop gambling everything away. Then the rush of successfully stealing something, and the way his mother had praised him for it.

Plenty of people had nothing growing up, Callan told himself. It was nothing to get sentimental about.

Callan let his shadows slide over Myth, until he was fully submerged in the darkness. Myth’s brow wrinkled, as if he could sense the small change in light, but he didn’t wake. Callan draped himself all over and dipped into Myth, finding all the small, insignificant, pointless, useless parts of him that formed a whole picture.

For a man who was as… eager to jump into bed as he was, Myth didn’t have a lot of close friends. There was one whom he treasured, a boy he’d grown up with—Lore—but even that memory was tainted with regret and sorrow and fear. Lore didn’t approve of Myth’s ways, no matter that they’d both scrounged and stolen while growing up destitute.

Callan didn’t like Lore, he decided, and he moved to the next memory.

It had started out slowly, Myth’s adventures with men. There were plenty of those memories, from the first bumbling experiences. They blended together in some ways, no sexual encounter truly unique, but Myth had found some sort of strange comfort in them. He’d lost himself for a while, and that seemed to be a common theme among the memories: Myth’s desire to escape.

It was strange seeing himself through Myth’s eyes, the confusion and the need and the rush he got when they were together. Callan had seen memories of himself before, but none of them had been as intense as Myth’s memories of Callan. Unlike the other men who had come before, who existed in one hazy encounter after the next, these were crystal clear.

So, too, was the confusion about how Callan treated Myth, which made Callan smirk slightly.

It was always nice to be memorable.

He continued sorting through the memories, finding the first time Myth had come home to find his mother with a bloodied lip and a black eye—the precursor to him learning to steal, it seemed, out of a desire to protect her. Kiara had talked Myth into doing it instead of taking on a job of her own, relying on her son over and over again. She made pretty promises to the men and women she gambled with, then had to scramble to buy time until Myth returned with another score.

What would she do without Myth to take care of her? Likely die, because she was reckless. Myth didn’t see her that way, though. His memories of her were full of desperate love, the need to be acknowledged and seen.

It was a common note among those memories, for all that Myth prided himself on stealing without being detected.

Callan paged through the memories like a book, curious to see how Myth was put together, how he worked. He stumbled across the memory of Myth confronting King Eoghan, and on that one, he paused instead of continuing to dig.

That had not gone well.

Myth had had Kiara’s token, and he’d demanded gold for his silence. He could’ve asked for anything—land, a noble title, something that could benefit him—but all he’d cared about was getting enough gold to take care of his mother.

How was it that Callan had come across someone selfless?

Though that was changing. Ever since he’d come into contact with that amulet, Myth’s desires had started to come to the surface, and Callan thought he deserved credit for bringing them alive. He—

Myth stirred at long last, blinking up at Callan through long lashes.

Callan pulled back into himself, despite how tempted he was to keep fondling all of Myth. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Myth’s voice was sleepy, and it would be easy enough to cast a little spell and send Myth back into slumber so he could continue to root through his mind. But where would be the fun in that? He still wanted to find out things about Myth from Myth, for all that he enjoyed cheating on some of it. “You’re still here.” He sounded surprised.

“Should I have left?” Callan asked with a note of amusement. “We had so much fun last night.”

“No,” Myth said, and he reached out to Callan. To Callan’s surprise, Myth entwined their fingers together. “But my mother… How long have I been asleep? Did you rest?”

“Your mother returned very late last night, but I encouraged her to sleep in the other room.” Callan looked at their twined hands, one black ring contrasting with a simple silver one. “And your concern is touching. I slept as much as I needed to.”

Myth arched a brow. “And what did you do after that? Lie here and watch me?” He released Callan’s hand and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. “That’s a little creepy even for you, Callan.”

“Because you know me so well.” Callan sat up as well, trailing a hand along Myth’s naked arm as he did. Myth shivered at his touch. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Myth shrugged. “I don’t really have any plans. I’ll leave enough gold for Mother to get through a week, at least, so I should get a break.” He didn’t look like he believed those words, though. He looked a little despondent, in fact. “How much would you pay for this amulet, anyway? If I could give it to you? If I wanted you to have it?”

Callan was rather certain Myth hadn’t meant to say the last bit aloud.

Take it take it take it, his master’s voice shouted, reverberating inside Callan.

“I’d pay you whatever you wanted,” Callan answered truthfully, smiling through the pain. “I could make you King of Phassis, if it was your desire.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Would you want that? It would solve a lot of your problems.”

Myth blinked at him, but his eyes darkened. “I don’t want to be a noble. And I don’t want my mother having free rein of an entire treasury. I just… I just want her to be comfortable.”

There was that self-sacrificing bit again, which was a little irritating, truth be told. Myth wanted more than to keep his mother safe. He just needed to admit it to himself.

“I didn’t ask what your mother wants. I asked what you want.” Callan draped an arm over Myth’s shoulder, letting his shadow extend across Myth’s torso. “If you could have anything at all in the world, what would it be… Raz?”

Myth froze at that then scowled at Callan. “Don’t call me that. Only my mother calls me that.”

“It’s an interesting name. I think it meant light, once, in a language long forgotten.” Callan used his other hand to tap Myth’s lips. “But you aren’t much for the light. You truly are more of a myth than a beacon. A mystery to others and to yourself, never allowing anybody to know the full truth.”

Myth’s tongue darted out, licking Callan’s fingertips briefly. Instead of responding verbally, he took Callan’s wrist in his hand and sucked on those fingers, taking them deeper into his mouth in clear innuendo.

“If all you want is sex, I could give you that,” Callan murmured. “I’d be the one whoring myself out, then. But I don’t think that’s worth the price of the amulet for you.”

“You’d really whore yourself out for a piece of jewelry?” Myth asked, but there was no real surprise in his voice. They both knew the amulet was worth far more than an assortment of metal and gems shaped into a pleasing form. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the sudden feminine shriek caught his attention.

Myth’s eyes went wide, and he lunged off the bed, barely pausing to grab his trousers. He hopped into them as he ran for the door.

Callan sighed and followed at a much more leisurely pace, sticking to the shadows as he made his way out of the boarding house. Myth had left all the doors wide open in his haste.

Just outside, Kiara was still screaming. Several men armed with swords had surrounded her.

“Get away from her!” Myth shouted, but he wasn’t particularly menacing wearing only his trousers and nothing else.

One of the men turned his sword to Myth. “She’s a suspect in a crime. We’re taking her in for questioning.”

“She hasn’t committed any crimes,” Myth said, narrowing his eyes at the man. Despite the sword leveled at him, he didn’t look afraid. He was either brave or stupid, or a combination of both. “Especially crimes that would justify you surrounding her with swords like she’s a dangerous fugitive!”

“We’ve heard all about her gambling,” the man wearing a crest on his chest said. “She’s coming in with us.”

Callan sighed and rubbed his temple. “Gentlemen, if you could please lower your weapons. There’s no need to cause a scene this early in the morning. Unless you’re all afraid of a simple, middle-aged woman.”

“Hey!” Kiara shouted. “I’m not middle-aged. I’m in the prime of my life.”

“Kiara,” Myth said sharply. “That isn’t helping.” He looked back at the men. “Gambling isn’t illegal, last I checked, and I know for a fact she paid her debts yesterday.”

Out of Myth’s line of sight, Kiara winced, and Callan had to hide a smile of his own. Maybe she hadn’t put all that gold to good use. Callan hadn’t expected her to, not really, but sometimes people did surprise you.

Still, this situation was a bother. Callan got closer to the man with the crest, stepping into his shadow, and let part of himself slither into him.

Ah.

As suspected, the men here had been tasked by the king’s guard with bringing in Kiara—and her son—by any means necessary. The city guard was more than happy to comply with the king’s orders, and they didn’t particularly care why Kiara was wanted.

This was probably Callan’s fault for having reminded Eoghan about Kiara’s existence at all. Eoghan had been content to chase after Myth, forgetting that sometimes, there were more roundabout ways to find a person.

“Sir Percival,” Callan started.

The guard captain hissed. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Who I am is unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. As to the other question… I would be remiss not to know the captain of the guard.” Callan looked over at Myth and winked. “Surely we can come to some arrangement that is less violent.”

Myth looked grim, casting helpless looks at Kiara. Though she was pale, she didn’t seem afraid.

Instead, she was stupid, and she slammed a fist into one of the men’s arms. Though the man dropped his sword, the other guards immediately shouted and moved forward.

“Stop!” Myth shouted. “Don’t hurt her! It’s not her you want! It’s—”

Before he even finished his sentence, Myth lunged forward, grappling with the man who had lost his sword. They both stumbled into another one of the other guards, who startled with a loud yelp. Myth grabbed the dropped sword, and picked up a rock to fling it at another guard.

“Kill them both!” the guard captain shouted.

Myth swung at the nearest person while Kiara picked up the small stool next to the boarding house’s entrance.

Between the two of them, they probably could fight off one or two men. Myth was nimble, even without his shoes, and he dodged expertly even if he was a bit too hesitant with the blade.

Maybe the smartest course of action would be to allow the men to kill Myth. Without Myth, the amulet would need to find somebody else to latch onto, and it was doubtful any of these guards had royal blood in them.

“Fuck,” Myth hissed as one of the guards slashed across his arm. Blood welled up from the wound.

Without any conscious thought at all, one of Callan’s shadows whipped across the cobblestone and wrapped itself around the man’s body, slamming him down to the ground with enough force to split his skull.

“What the fuck?” somebody shouted.

Two seconds ago, the street had been warmed by the morning sun, but now a very dark cloud blocked out that light. Callan raced through the darkness, driving his shadowy tendrils down one of the men’s throats and chuckling as he felt the man choke around him.

Somebody else attempted to stab him, but what sword could ever affect a shadow? Callan’s body parted for the blade before reforming as it was before.

The man stared at him with wide, fear-filled eyes. “Wh-what? Demon! It’s a demon!”

Callan twisted his body and wrapped around the man. “I suppose that’s true.” He licked the man’s jaw, reveling in how he trembled. “I did try to settle this peacefully. But now I think you deserve a trip through the dark.”

“No!” The man struggled, but he was nowhere near strong enough to cast off Callan’s darkness. Callan dragged him down, down, down, into the never-ending deep, smiling at the screams that echoed back at him.

Myth was shouting somewhere in the background, and the sound of racing footsteps could be heard in the distance. At least one of them was running away, but he couldn’t have them reporting Kiara’s whereabouts back to Eoghan.

He raced through the darkness to grab the man’s ankles.

“Oh. Sir Percival,” Callan greeted him as he raised the man up into the air. Percival attempted to slash Callan, apparently not having realized that his sword was useless.

Callan grabbed the blade and tossed it aside, leaving Percival struggling upside down.

“P-please! Let me go!” he shouted, a few tears glimmering in his eyes.

“I’m afraid that option is off the table.” Callan tapped the side of Percival’s head. “You aren’t even interesting. All you hunger for is a bit of gold and your wife’s cunt.”

On the next tap, he drove his finger directly into Percival’s head, piercing it with a lance of dark and cold. Percival screamed, but it ended quickly as he died, dangling like a gutted bird.

Callan dropped the body on the street and made his way back to Myth, smiling cheerfully.

Myth, however, was not smiling. His eyes were wide with horror and fear, and he took a step back. His trembling hands still held the sword, and he leveled it at Callan. “Don’t come any closer, demon,” he said, his voice shaking as much as his body was. Blood was trailing down his arm, down his chest, from where he’d been slashed and grazed by a sword in turn.

Kiara, of course, had vanished.

Callan looked around them. Of the six men who’d threatened Kiara originally, only three remained. Well, their bodies. Callan stepped around the corpses and stopped in front of Myth, in full sunlight.

“Oops. I came closer.” Callan held up his—human-shaped—hands in a show of surrender. “Now what will you do?”

Myth only stared at him, disbelief in his expression. “I’ll… I’ll…” he stammered. The sword shook in his hands, his obviously untrained arms straining to hold the weight of it up.

Callan chuckled and wrapped his hands around Myth’s, forcing him to lower the blade. “That won’t harm me at all, as you saw. You’ll have to find some other way to deter me. If that’s what you truly want.”

Myth’s eyes were full of indecision and fear, but he let Callan’s cool hands force the blade down. It clattered out of his hands, too, falling to the ground where the tip smeared blood against the dirt. “What are you?” he whispered. “Why… Why did you help me?”

“I am what you saw.” Callan leaned down to brush his lips against Myth’s. Myth shuddered, jerking back. “A powerful force. A demon, a mage, a man who is very good at tying you up. I am all those things. I can be what you want me to be. And in exchange… well, you already know the price.”

“I will never give it to you,” Myth said hoarsely. “Kill me and try to take it if you must, but I will never, ever give it to you.” He took several steps backward.

Callan sighed loudly. “If I wanted to—if I could—kill you and take it from you, don’t you think I would have already?”

Take it take him destroy them, his master demanded sharply, but even that threat of acid didn’t make Callan waver.

The amulet wouldn’t allow Callan to touch it, after all. He needed a human to carry it to the right place. The guards would have been easier to manipulate, if they’d taken the amulet, but…

Myth was so much more interesting.

But Myth, of course, wasn’t an easy target. He turned and ran, and while he might not have known how to use a sword, he was fast—faster than any human had any right to be, likely thanks to the thief’s meager magic.

Callan debated using the shadows to chase him, but he’d used so much of himself already, and the damn feather was pulsing harder now, sending little waves of light and warmth through him.

“Until next time, I suppose,” Callan said to Myth’s vanishing form.

He stepped over the bodies and started making his way down the street, looking up at the sun and wondering why, in that very moment, he didn’t even mind the feel of the feather inside him.