Chapter 23
Mother’s chambers were on the uppermost floor, where the windows allowed her to look out over the neighborhood. I hurried up the stairs, confronted at every turn with a painting from colonial times, or a musket fired by my great-great-great grandfather during the Revolutionary War, or some other artifact testifying to the greatness of our dead ancestors. Living here had not been like growing up in a museum, but rather a mausoleum.
I’d had one refuge within the house, where I might retreat without fear of censure. Thank goodness; I might have gone mad, otherwise.
I knocked on the door at the top of the stairs, and was bid enter by a muffled voice within. I walked in without attempting to conceal my smile.
The room was much as I remembered, although it had been ten months since I’d been there last. Bookcases lined the walls, and spacious windows let in the sun during the day and looked out on the gaslit street at night. A huge fireplace dominated the long wall opposite the doorway; above it hung a beautiful painting of the Lady of Shallott. The Lady’s face had been modeled on the woman who now sat in front of the fire, bundled in layers of blankets, a book in her hand.
“Percival,” she said, and her joyful smile pricked my conscience. It really had been too long. “Your father said you would visit this evening. Come, sit with me.”
I seated myself on the ottoman at her feet and took her hands. Her skin was thin, translucent, and her grip weak. Her glorious hair had gone gray, and wrinkles marked her lovely face. But her eyes were still sharp and fierce, the eyes of a hunting hawk, even if one trammeled in a mew.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Well enough. But what of you? How is your job at the museum? I heard there was a robbery of some sort, but Niles wouldn’t let me see the papers. He worried it would upset me.”
Damn Father, treating her as a child instead of a grown woman. Still, I should have sent word around, telling her I was all right. “There was a robbery, yes.”
I launched into my tale, starting with my first meeting with Griffin and leaving out only the most personal details. I even lit a candle for her using the secret words, and her exclamation of delight warmed me as little about the case had.
It was only fair. She had been the one to introduce me to wonder, after all. She’d shared her love of books, and, when I proved interested, taught me Greek and Latin, in order to read the great works as closely as possible to their original forms, rather than as bloodless translations censored to match the modern idea of morality. We’d spent hours discussing every aspect of the classics, wringing meaning from every line, each word. We’d mused together on the gods, and she’d laughed when as a boy I made little altars to Pan and Bacchus.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, touching her chest when she saw the flame spring into being. “Oh, Percival, this is wonderful! And it’s truly no slight-of-hand?”
“It’s real,” I assured her. I hesitated to speak of the Guardians, because there were things of horror as well as wonder hidden beneath everyday life. But I could not condemn Father for treating her like a child and then do the same myself.
We sat together for a long time after I’d finished. She mulled my words and asked pertinent questions. Eventually, her hand tightened on mine. “I would tell you to be careful, but you already know that.”
“I try,” I assured her.
“I’m glad,” she said with sudden fierceness, and her raptor gaze unexpectedly pierced me. “Even if nothing lurks beneath the surface of the world but madness, I’m glad to know there is something more. That this isn’t everything.”
She’d spent half her life trapped in these chambers, too sick to venture out. No need to wonder why she felt as she did. “It’s why I told you,” I said.
She nodded, then added, “Your Mr. Flaherty seems a clever sort.”
My ears grew hot. Of course I hadn’t spoken of our relationship, but I couldn’t leave Griffin out of the account, either. “He is. And very kind. A good man.”
“I’m glad you’ve found a friend,” she said. “I should like to meet him sometime. Perhaps in the new year, when your father is out of town on business?”
“Yes. I’d love to introduce you.”
There came a polite rap on the door. Mother’s lips thinned, but she called, “Come in.”
Mr. Fenton opened the door. “Dinner is served, Master Percival. Mrs. Whyborne, I believe Emily will be up shortly with your repast.”
I wanted to stay and talk to her, not sit through some horrible meal with Stanford and Father. But I was here at Father’s whim, and although I didn’t care if I ever set foot in these halls again for my sake, I refused to let him cut Mother off entirely from the outside world.
I squeezed her hands. “Shall I visit on Christmas?”
“If you have the time,” she said. “I don’t wish to take you away from your friend’s side.”
I didn’t know how Griffin intended to spend the holiday—assuming we even survived to see it, and Blackbyrne and the Brotherhood didn’t unleash horror on the world before then. “I’ll make time,” I said, and hoped my promise wasn’t in vain.
~ * ~
I followed the butler down to the grand dining hall. The long table looked utterly ludicrous, with my father at the head and a single place set to either side of him, the rest of it bare. But I couldn’t find it in me to laugh; this was how I’d spent most of the dinners of my childhood.
Dinner with Leander and Uncle Addy had been different. We’d eaten in a smaller room, full of light and warmth, laughing together. God, no wonder I’d fallen in love with Leander. He was an Apollo to my Hades: a being of golden light and life, while I was something growing among the shadows of the dead.
Niles Foster Whyborne sat at the head of the table, regarding me silently as I approached. His dark hair had gone iron gray, along with his neatly-trimmed beard, and there were more wrinkles on his face. But his straight bearing and trim form were not much altered from my youth.
“Sir,” I mumbled in the direction of my feet.
“Percival.” My name was short, clipped, and held the edge of disappointment inextricably associated with it. “Sit down.”
I sat across from Stanford, careful not to look directly at him. I might as well have been eight again, or ten. Or eighteen, explaining to my plate that no, I was not going to attend Father’s alma mater, or go into business, or any of the things he wanted me to do. And, yes sir, I understood a real man wouldn’t study comparative philology, except perhaps in his declining years after he’d made his mark in business and could no longer do anything useful.
The three of us sat in uncomfortable silence while the servants laid out our dinner. Once they had withdrawn to stand along the wall, Father said, “Stanford, how are things in New York?”
Stanford launched into a long tale discussing the various cutthroat deals he’d made, seguing into his ideas of the proper way to handle striking workers—shooting the lot of them in cold blood seemed to sum it up. Father nodded, putting in his own advice on occasion. I half-hoped neither would speak to me, and I would escape unscathed. Unfortunately, just before the dessert course was served, Father turned to me.
“I hear there was some excitement at the museum gala,” he said. For him to even acknowledge the museum existed was a rare thing, unless he was making a point about how I was wasting my life on womanish frivolity.
Dessert. Served, I cut my slice of chocolate cake into squares, using the motion to give me somewhere to direct my gaze, even as it bought me time to think. “Yes,” I said at last, seeing no way to avoid it. I did not volunteer anything further.
“Addison said you were injured.”
Why was he bringing it up? Not because he cared. “A scratch, only.”
Stanford let out an ugly laugh. “What happened—fall down while you were running away?”
My fingers tightened on my fork and knife. I carved the cake into increasingly smaller squares, trying to disguise the shaking of my hands. “I was struck by a bullet.”
“While trying to apprehend the thieves, Addison tells me,” Father said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him give Stanford a quelling look. As for myself, I kept my gaze fixed on the plate and cut. And cut.
“I was performing my duty to the museum,” I said. My throat tightened around the words, and I had to push them out.
“Such a duty belongs to the guards, not you.” Ah, now we came to it. He believed I’d brought shame on the family, acting like a common watchman.
“The guards were confused,” I said carefully. Cut. Cut. “I saw the miscreants and acted. Isn’t that what you want, Father? For me to be a man of action?”
“Not if the result is your death,” he said, sounding annoyed. No doubt my demise in such a fashion would be a horrible embarrassment, especially if it made the front page of the paper. What a disappointment I was, unable even to die correctly. “I don’t want you behaving in such a reckless fashion again.”
“Yes, Father,” I said, not because I meant it, but because it would prevent an argument over the dinner table.
He nodded, pleased, and turned back to Stanford to talk business again. I stared down at my plate. Surely I should feel some shred of guilt for lying to him. He was my father; I owed him some respect, didn’t I?
But I lied all the time. My life had been nothing but a fable, told to keep society happy, or at least keep it from noticing me. I’d lied about my feelings for Leander, I’d hidden away any spark or sign of passion after coming to manhood, and now I pretended Griffin was merely a good friend. What did one more lie matter?
When we were done, the servants came and removed our plates. My cake had been reduced to a pile of tiny crumbs, but I hadn’t eaten a single bite.
~ * ~
Griffin answered my knock on the door.
He was in his shirtsleeves, and the warm gaslight shining out from behind him revealed his expression of surprise. “Whyborne? I thought you were going back to your apartment.” He stepped back and motioned me inside. “Come in, my dear, out of the cold. Is everything all right?”
I couldn’t summon the words. They were lost somewhere behind me, buried in shadows or mired in the dust of Whyborne House. I stepped forward, shut the door behind me, and kissed him: deep and raw and needy, my tongue pushing impatiently past his teeth to explore his mouth. He tasted like whiskey and tea. His fingers gripped my lapels, his skin almost painfully warm against my cold hands when I buried my fingers in his hair.
God, he smelled good: of male skin and sandalwood. He was alive, real, bright, utterly unlike anyone I’d ever known, a streak of color in a world of drab browns and grays.
He pulled back, his broad chest heaving. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
I captured his lower lip with my teeth, worrying at it until he moaned and plunged his tongue into my mouth. I sucked at it, hard, rhythmically, even as I pressed my erection into his hip.
When we broke apart again, I leaned into him, sliding my hands into the gap between his trousers and his shirt to cup his buttocks. “I need you.” The skin of his neck was warm, just above the collar, and he shivered when my breath touched it. “You make me feel alive. Everything else is just a role, but this is real.”
“Let me lock up,” he said huskily. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
I hurried to the study on the second floor. A stack of notes and folders sat beside one chair, along with a half-empty tumbler of whiskey. He must have been going over the particulars of the case, looking for some hint, and perhaps I should have been responsible and offered to help. But I didn’t want to be responsible, not right now.
The room was warm and cheery thanks to the fire. I took off my coat and hat, and had unfastened my vest by the time he joined me. Thankfully, he didn’t ask me again what vexed me. Perhaps he already understood from my words, from knowing where I’d been, even though I’d never spoken in detail about my family to him. He crossed the room and caught me to him, kissing me with bruising passion. The rough stubble on his jaw scraped my skin, wonderfully masculine. He shoved his thigh between mine, and I pushed against him, desperate for more, for the feel of skin on skin.
I pulled back and resumed unbuttoning my clothing as fast as I could. He did the same, his fingers clumsy with desire. The warm light of the fire dusted his skin in gold and found unexpected highlights of red in his hair. I traced the lines of muscle revealed by the soft light with my tongue, working my way down until I was on my knees.
There was no finesse to what I did, only animal need, wrapping my lips around his cock and sliding my mouth down until I reached the root, my nose pressed into the curling hair at the base.
“God!” he exclaimed, surprised by my tactics. His fingers clenched in my hair, and the muscles in his thighs shook as he fought not to thrust into my mouth. I clutched his taut buttocks, hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, pulling my mouth back almost to the tip, then sucking him back in again and again and again.
With a sharp gasp, he pushed me back. “Stop, stop,” he said, voice shaking.
I let out a whimper at being denied. The taste of him filled my mouth, and I hungered for more, for the tang and salt of his release. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. “Tell me and I’ll do better, I swear.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.” He knelt in front of me to put us on a level, cradling my face in his hands, his fingers tracing my swollen lips. “I just didn’t want it to end yet.” His smile turned sultry. “I like seeing this side of you.”
Our lengths slid together when he pulled me to him, and I moaned and thrust against him. His hands shaped my back, then slid to my shoulders as I kissed and nibbled and bit my way from the base of his throat across his chest. I licked first one nipple and then the other, trailing my lips back up his neck to find his mouth again. I longed to rub against him like a cat, to spread his scent all over me.
“Ival,” he whispered, his lips against my ear, sending shivers of delight across my skin. Hearing the lover’s name made me feel like someone different, someone new: not Percival or Whyborne or any of the other masks I’d constructed to protect myself. Here, I could just be me.
“Tell me what you want,” I begged.
He kissed my cheek, then nipped at my lips. “Lie down on your side.”
He lay down as well, only opposite, placing our cocks on the level of each other’s mouths. I eagerly caught hold of his length and pointed it at my lips. He was hard and red and leaking, as if my desire had enflamed him, and—
And his tongue licked down my length, from slit to base: warm and wet and very, very good. “I won’t last,” I warned him.
“Then don’t,” he said, his breath cool against my heated skin. He took me into his mouth, lips sucking on the head, before sliding down to the root.
I did the same for him. The sensation of his length in my mouth was heavenly, much better than any of the furtive, pale longings I’d had in my youth. I took as much of him as I could, swallowing so my throat worked around him. His legs were spread for access; I took his sack in one hand, tugging and rolling his balls until his thighs started to tremble.
He could hardly warn me with his mouth full of my organ, but the tension in his body and the way his hips twitched with the need to ram into me were warning enough. I moaned in greedy anticipation, and an instant later, his rod swelled and spasmed, spilling the hot, salty, bitter cream into my mouth.
His cries were muffled by my cock. Letting his length slip from my lips, I closed my eyes and clung to his thighs, pressing my face against them as I jerked and thrust into the hot wetness of his mouth. The tremors started in my own legs, and I arched my back and started to groan even as my balls tightened. At the last instant, he suddenly shoved a saliva-slick finger into my passage—and that was it, white lights exploding behind my eyes, my cock swelling, my body clenching hard around the intruding finger, and dear lord it kept on cresting and rising until I had no air left in my lungs, until I was completely and thoroughly and utterly spent.