Enchanter's Nightshade

Stregoni shivered in the dark cold of the early morning. It was an hour he was truly beginning to hate, and out of doors was not a way to attempt to enjoy it.

His only other option, however, was to go back inside, and he would rather freeze to death than listen to the haunting melodies played by a man who only used and discarded him. Than be lured by the two men whose hot kisses always made him forget that they hid a stone heart.

The cold numbed, and he needed it. He ached inside and out, body thoroughly and almost savagely used, heart shredded all over again. Would he ever learn?

No, and he knew it, so he may as well stop asking himself that same damn question every time he gave in to the need to let Gilles and François use him.

Why did they use him?

No doubt they just liked knowing they had that sort of power. Power was as natural to Gilles as breathing, and the only thing holding François back was being a Pet. Together, the two of them were not to be trifled with. All of society knew it, and those few who did not fear Gilles and his intimidating Pet lusted after them.

Stregoni jumped at the sound of another's feet in the snow, and he spun around—and drew up short.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, trying for curt but not quite managing, still raw and shaken from the most recent tempestuous interlude.

François shrugged. "I could not sleep. I wanted a walk. I did not realize you were out here as well."

They were nearly the most words François had ever spoken to him at once. François was more inclined to speak in looks and gestures, and leave the talking to Gilles. "Where's Gilles?" Though he was not strict the way so many were with their Pets, it was rare to see one without the other.

"Asleep," François said, too-pretty mouth curving. "As you should be, I would think, after the exertions we put you through."

"Watch your tongue," Stregoni said, the words lashing out, even as his face burned with shame and a desire that was never truly banked.

François was beautiful. His hair was the darkest brown, fine and cut short to frame his almost pretty features. Though the moonlight was not enough to see them clearly, his eyes were a breathtaking purple, richer than the finest dyes. He was as perfect as a painting and as dangerous as white poppy.

Next to him, Stregoni felt truly ugly. He could not fathom why Gilles and François bothered with him, when at least half of society fell at their feet, except for the thrill it gave them to have so much power over him.

He'd always envied that François was so close to Gilles, that they hid nothing of their relationship, their intimacy. What would it be like, to be treated that way, instead of as the shameful secret they toyed with in the dead of night when everyone else was asleep?

They knew each other in a way Stregoni never would because even though François was supposedly a slave, it was Stregoni who was helplessly enslaved to them both. Cruel, confounding Gilles with his cold words and searing touches; mercurial François with his public compliance and private dominance.

"Get back inside," Stregoni said curtly. "You shouldn't be wandering around alone, even if Gilles doesn't mind you doing so." Not waiting for a reply, he turned and stalked away, moving closer to the dormant weeping willow opposite the small pond that occupied this side of the house.

He stared at the frozen pond, wondering how thick the ice was, how cold the water—cold enough he would feel it, or would it numb him instantly?

For one fleeting moment, he was tempted to find out. He'd taken a step forward, boots crunching in the snow, when a sudden wash of lethargy struck him. He yawned, nearly dropping to his knees, and slowly stepped back, well away from the pond.

The back of his knees collided with a bench, and he more fell than sat down upon it, heedless of the snow which could not penetrate the handsome, fur-lined cloak which had been a gift from Carmilla last winter.

He looked up as François approached. "Haven't you toyed with me enough tonight?"

For the barest moment, François looked weary and sad, as though exhausted by the weight of something. Before Stregoni could speak to it, however, the expression was gone, replaced by François's usual implacable mien. "I sought only to talk."

Stregoni felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. "Since when do you and I simply talk?"

François sat next to him on the bench, far too close and warm for Stregoni's comfort. "Since now, I suppose."

"What do we have to talk about? I doubt you came out here to praise my cock sucking skills."

"I only came for a walk, initially, then saw you and though I'd try conversing for a chance," François said, and Stregoni must have been tired because François almost sounded amused. "But I can certainly praise your mouth if you like. Certainly you deserve it."

Stregoni flushed hot. "Stop it."

"You brought the matter up," François said, and sidled closer, pressed up against his side. His lips dusted Stregoni's cheek, teased at the corner of his mouth. His hand slipped into the folds of Stregoni's cloak and cupped him where he was growing hard, to his shame and mortification.

Stregoni shivered and pushed the hand away. "Stop it."

To his shock, François obeyed, though he remained close. "How is your face feeling?"

Looking up, surprised by the question, Stregoni lightly touched the fading bruise with one gloved hand. "It's fine. A couple more days and it will be gone."

François grasped his chin and tilted his face to get a look at it, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You should have punched the bastard right back."

"And been arrested for my trouble." Stregoni snorted. "I'm not much of a fighter, anyway. You know that better than me, I'd wager."

"No, you're not a fighter," François said softly. His thumb brushed over Stregoni's lips, eyes oddly intent as he said, "You're a protector, and to be protected at all costs—any cost."

Stregoni's breath hitched. "What?"

In reply, François kissed him—firmly, but with surprising tenderness, like Stregoni was something precious rather than a toy to be used and discarded.

Tears stung his eyes as they drew apart. "François…"

"Carrot…" It was too dark to see the vibrant purple of those eyes, but Stregoni could feel their intensity. And François had never called him that before. For once, the stupid epithet didn't sound like an insult.

"What?"

François hesitated, then his lips brushed Stregoni's again, as soft as the snow falling around them, but hot enough to burn Stregoni to the bone. "Carrot, you should know—"

Whatever he might have said next was drowned out by terrible growls. They jerked apart and turned, freezing at the sight of the wolves that had crept out of the woods.

Stregoni started to stand, but was jerked back down by François. "Don't move," he hissed.

"What are they doing here? They never leave the woods," Stregoni said, but the answer was obvious: the wolves were far leaner than they should have been that time of year. Hunting had clearly been poor, though Stregoni hadn't heard anything about it in town. "What should we do?"

François looked grim, the expression so bald that Stregoni was left momentarily poleaxed. "When I say go, run for the house."

"We'll never make—" Stregoni broke off as realization struck him. "No! Absolutely not. There is no way I'm going to abandon you!"

"Don't argue with me!" François snarled.

The wolves growled and drew closer, fanning out to surround them.

"Stand slowly," François said. "Very slowly."

"I'm not—"

François kissed him hard enough Stregoni's lip split. "Don't pick now to show your spine—this isn't the time. Didn't I just say you're to be protected?"

"François—"

They both froze as the softly growling wolves abruptly went silent. They hunched, whined, then drew back and fled into the woods.

François stood and whipped around. Stregoni twisted on the bench, following his gaze…but nothing was there.

What had scared the wolves away?

He looked at François, who shared his bewilderment. "Perhaps we should head inside now?"

"Perhaps," François said, but the usual bite he'd clearly been going for failed miserably.

Stregoni startled when François took his hand, but held fast, savoring the unfamiliar, strangely affectionate touch.

Inside, he threw off his cloak and gloves and raked hands through his hair in an effort to still their trembling. "What just happened?"

François shook his head. "I don't know." He pressed fingers to his temples. "Something was there. I felt a presence push the wolves away. I saw it, I know I did, but now I can't remember what I saw, exactly, and my head is killing me."

"I'll get you a tonic." Treating Pets was a tricky business, but there were a few things that could help them.

"Don't bother. It's already easing," François said. "Anyway, it's long past time we both found our beds."

Stregoni slumped. Fool him for thinking that strange interlude outside could last. "What—what were you about to say out there? Before the wolves interrupted."

"Nothing," François replied, the earlier warmth of his voice slipping away to be replaced by a more familiar chill. Stregoni would rather return to the bitter cold outside, where François had been warm, than stand here in a warm house with a frigid man who may as well be a stranger. "Go to bed." He turned sharply away and vanished up the servant stairs at the back of the kitchen.

Fighting tears, hating himself for being so weak, Stregoni fled the kitchen and took the main stairs in the front of the house. At the top, he all but bolted for his room.

Stripping, he bundled into his night robe and slumped into a chair by the fire that only required a moment's work to bring fully back to life.

Thoughts and questions whirled in his mind, but he was too exhausted suddenly to deal with them all. Shoving the thoughts away, he stood and stumbled his way to bed. He tossed his robe aside before burrowing beneath the blankets, and was asleep almost before he hit the pillow.

The sound of someone pounding on his door jerked him awake, and a glance at the clock on the wall showed he hadn't been asleep more than a matter of minutes. "Come in," he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again.

He'd barely gotten the words out when the door was thrown open and a frantic-looking Aubrey stumbled in. He was barely dressed, hair a tangled mess, eyes wide with fear "Stregoni—it's Ruthven."

"Ruthven?" Stregoni echoed, struggling to wake up. "What's wrong?" He threw back the covers and retrieved his robe from the floor.

If Aubrey was bothered by the lack of modesty, he gave no sign of it. "He won't wake up. It's like he's dead, but he's still breathing. I don't know what's wrong—he didn't—he went—"

Alarmed by the panic overtaking his normally calm friend, Stregoni grabbed his shoulders and shook Aubrey firmly. "Brey! Calm down. Take me to him." Stregoni made certain his robe was well-fastened, then snatched up his medic bag and followed Aubrey to his bedroom.

In Aubrey's bed, Ruthven looked fast asleep. He was stretched out on his back, head on a pillow. He could see where Aubrey had frantically thrown back the blankets in his haste.

Setting his bag down on the bed, Stregoni frowned thoughtfully as he examined Ruthven.

First he tried simply to wake him—gently at first, then more firmly, with a hard slap to his face.

Nothing. Not even a groan or twitch or altered breath.

"Hmm," he murmured, then went systematically about checking his pulse, his breathing, for any sign of injury. "Did you do anything unusual last night?"

Aubrey was silent a moment. "We were up late, exploring the house a bit. We couldn't sleep. Then we went down to the kitchen to get some food and…" He fell silent.

Stregoni turned to see why.

"I don't remember," Aubrey said, his brow furrowed. "I…we went for food…then I woke up in bed. I don't remember anything else." He placed his fingers to his temples. "Ruthven…Ruthven said something, or saw something. I don't remember! I can't even tell you what we had to eat."

He moved to the bed himself, reaching out to lightly touch Ruthven's cheek. "I was mad at him most of the night, I remember that much," he said quietly.

"Brey, this isn't your fault," Stregoni said, sliding fully into doctor mode. He hadn't thought Aubrey spared more than a passing thought for Ruthven, but he was exhibiting the guilt loved ones always displayed for the family or lover or friend who was ill. "You'll have to tell me in more detail everything you did last night. You said exploring? Where? What did you do? Touch?"

Aubrey was silent, staring hard at Ruthven, obviously lost in thought.

Stregoni grasped his shoulder. "Brey."

"We—" Aubrey finally dragged his eyes away from the sleeping Ruthven. "You can't tell anyone, Stregoni."

"Of course not," Stregoni said, baffled and a little stung, words coming out a bit sharper than he intended. "I'm your friend, and a doctor knows how to be discreet better than anyone."

Aubrey flinched. "I know, I'm sorry. We—I caught him breaking into my mother's room. He never would say why he did it. We poked around…" He looked guiltily away. "Looked through her things. I had no idea—" He drew a sharp breath and shook his head. "Anyway, we touched some papers, that was all. Well, and I looked at a bottle of perfume. Then we left, went down to the kitchen. After that, I don't remember anything." He frowned again, rubbing at his temples. "I went to bed alone, I think. Ruthven joined me a few minutes later."

He turned back to Ruthven, and for the first time, Stregoni noticed the bruise on Aubrey's throat. He reached out reflexively to touch it, pulling back when Aubrey jerked. "What happened, Brey?"

Aubrey turned a bright red, his own hand going up to touch the bruise. "Feeding," he said tersely. "Ruthven fed deep, or got carried away, or something."

Stregoni quirked a brow, wondering what wasn't being said that'd cause him to turn that particular shade, but did not press it. "Well, I guess that answers the question of whether or not you've been feeding him thoroughly."

"I wouldn't starve my Pet," Aubrey snapped, glaring at him—then he turned away, voice calmer when he spoke again. "Sorry."

Shrugging it off, Stregoni returned to examining his patient, but finally drew back with a shake of his head. "I think he's just sleeping, Brey. There's nothing wrong with him. Heart, breathing, everything seems normal. It's like he's just gone into a deep sleep." He smiled reassuringly. "We'll give him a day or so, see how he fairs. I know it's hard, Brey, but I don't think you have anything to worry about. It's peculiar, for certain, but I don't see anything actually wrong with him. No fever, he's not too hot or cold, his heart beat is true, breathing seems normal, he's healthy looking—just asleep."

Aubrey nodded, obviously wanting to argue but holding back.

"Keep an eye on him, and I'll linger here a few days more. I'm not in a hurry to fight my way through this snow, anyway." He stepped closed enough to embrace Aubrey briefly. "Do not worry upon it. Everything will be all right."

He only received another nod in reply, but Aubrey also relaxed the slightest bit. "Thank you, Stregoni."

"It's what I'm for," Stregoni replied, and retrieved his bag before leaving them alone.

There was many a question he would like to ask, but his curiosity would have to be appeased later.