Message Bringer - 1. Message Bringer

The Sergeant turned to him and Kingston swore beneath his breath. "Colonel Highbrow wants you." He stared at Kingston. "On the double, Private."

Nothing good ever came from being noticed by an officer. Nothing good.

His section was filled with men, returned from whatever mission they had been sent on. Silent and fearful. Fear of the night, of sleep, and the terrors held within. And of the next day with its even worse terrors.

He walked through, twisting to avoid touching their bodies, for even through their thick heavy coats and layers of uniform, he could feel their blood pumping, knew that soon it would stop, but not by his hand.

"Bastard." Something smashed into his back. Kingston swung around, caught a boy's wrist. The pain in his shoulder nothing more than an annoyance, the great coat hiding his own blood, but the boy's blood pumped beneath his fingers. Anger flowed through the boy; his scent was laced with it. Kingston pried the blade from the child's fist and dropped it into the mud. "Fucking bastard."

He let the child go and turned away.

"He'd be alive but for you!" Kingston heard the boy feel around in the mud, knew he should keep moving, keep going till the trenches ended, but he stopped and turned to look down at the boy. "He'd be alive."

"Not my fault, boy."

The boy was crouched, hand in the mud, but he was no longer searching for the blade. "He was so alive, our Jimmy. Mam will die when she hears. So alive."

Kingston stood there, watched the boy's tears add to the dampness, remembered the laughter that always seemed to follow the man he spoke of. Jimmy. He hadn't known the man's name, just knew the boy was his younger brother.

 

***

 

When Kingston arrived at the open mess door, Highbrow was standing with his back to the door, his voice raised at someone Kingston couldn't see. He could smell him, above the rich aroma of meat stewing. Smell Highbrow's anger and the other male's confidence. Kingston knocked gently.

Highbrow turned, his mouth a grim line. His eyebrows rose a fraction, and the smell he gave off tightened from anger to fear, but Kingston shifted his gaze away. Highbrow was no threat. The unseen person was.

"Private, come in." As Highbrow stepped aside Kingston saw a short man sitting, a general by the pips on his shoulder. He smiled at Kingston and waved him forward. "Highbrow, you may leave. And close the door."

Kingston felt the stiffness in Highbrow's body as he walked past, heard the door slam, but his attention stayed on the general. There was something about the man that belied his stature.

"Kingston, sit."

"Prefer to stand, sir." It was the lack of fear. Even the men in his division feared him, avoided him.

"Understood." The general stood. He barely reached Kingston's shoulder yet he acted like he was taller. Kingston curled his toes into his boots, tried to anchor himself, but couldn't feel the ground through the thick soles and concrete floor. At least the trenches, with the mud that covered the rotten wood, gave him that much.

The general looked down at Kinston's boots and back up, smiling. "The boots. You may take them off."

"Is that an order, Sir?"

He shrugged. "A consideration, if you like."

Kingston didn't move, though he wanted to. Wanted to take off the damn boots, wanted to leave the room, leave this man's presence. This man who smiled at him, made him feel like he balanced on a knife's edge, knowing that one wrong move and the knife would kill him, or worse.

"Kingston, I have a problem. And a solution." The general turned his back to him and walked to the window. "Do you hear the battle?" He leaned with his hands ver the windowsill, his forehead almost pressed against the grimy glass. Kingston stayed where he stood. "This battle can be won."

The general pushed open the window. Battle noises, smells of blood and wet earth assaulted Kingston. He stepped forward before he remembered not to move. He stared back at the general.

"My men are dying out there. I have a way to make this cease." His voice quietened as the cannons roared, and Kingston heard the individual screams, tasted the blood in the air. He closed his eyes. It wasn't this bad in the trenches. It was as if this man had commanded him to sense the blood.

"I need to get a message to the right people. People out there.”

"Why don't you?" Kingston just wanted to leave or shut the window. He opened his eyes. The general was looking at him. "Sir."

"I don't because I can't, Kingston. No man can get through." The general leaned back against the wall, head slightly tilted as if he was listening to the sounds. Gun shots, screams, the voices of the dying, voices of the killers. Kingston even fancied he heard the soft slick sound of a bayonet sliding into the flesh of another, tasted the sweet blood slipping down the blade.

He licked his lips, found his feet moving him towards the open window, to taste the aroma better. His fingers dug into the stone sill. He sucked the air in. So tempting; to leave, to run. To join in the killing.

"You could, Kingston."

He swung to the whisper, a growl stuck in his throat.

"It's true, isn't it, Kingston. You could get close to enemy lines, deliver the message." Kingston stepped back, turned away from the window and the temptation. Forced himself to stand to attention. "You could stop this fighting." Kingston refused to look at the general; his gaze that dug into his brain. Tried to block out his voice, with its command to waken the beast.

The general turned away, looked back over the land. "But maybe you don't want to. Maybe you desire the killing, revel in it."

"No."

The man didn't turn away from the window. "No? I hear that you are not always found when needed. That you disappear for days on end. No doubt to take your share."

Kingston's fists clenched. Of the accusations thrust at him, killing for the sake of killing was not one he could stand. He always fought that.

"Why is it, Kingston, that you have the luck of the devil? Why have you survived when others do not? What of the rumors that you have made a pact with the devil?" The general turned to him. "Have you?"

"May I leave, Sir?"

The man glared, but he nodded. Kingston saluted and turned, his back straight as he marched to the door.

"I could force you, Kingston."

Kingston's hand rested on the door handle. "But you won't, Sir."

"No, I won't." There was a sadness in his voice. "And my men will die for that."

Kingston's hand still on the brass handle, the word 'Yes' flitted through his mind. Instead he turned the handle, opened the door. The air outside was fresher, tainted with mud, not blood. The sounds were those of men preparing to bed down for the night; complaining about the food and the dampness. Of men playing cards, accusing each other of cheating and laughing. And the boy stood staring.

Staring but with no hope in his eyes. Kingston closed the door. Closed his eyes.

"What message?" Kingston didn't feel the need to add 'sir'.

The general didn't sound surprised. "Here."

Kingston turned, took the page and read. He almost laughed. Simple. And men would stop dying.

"What do you need, Kingston?"

"Nothing." He sat on the floor and undid the laces of his boots. He stretched his toes as he pulled the boots and socks off. Freedom to move, to feel. He stood, closed his eyes. It was almost like seeing after being blind.

He opened his eyes, to see the general staring at his feet, looked down and laughed. Trapped for so long, he'd forgotten how it felt to have claws again. Black-tipped, they extended in a slight curve till they touched the floor. He scrunched his toes and felt the vibrations of the rug being ripped.

He opened his hands, spread his fingers wide. Black-tipped claws extended the length of his fingers by an inch.

He flicked a claw against another. So good to feel them again. And in his smile he knew his fangs showed.

"What did you think I was, General?" He looked up at the man, took in a breath of him. Fear had replaced the confidence. "I made no pact." He grinned, revealing fangs. "I am the devil."

He saw the man swallow, straighten his shoulders and pull on a general's coat again. Kingston nodded, acknowledged the strength of the man to do so.

"Kingston. Is it still Kingston?"

"It is a name I am used to."

"Kingston." The persona of a general had almost seeped back into his voice. "I appreciate this ... this act. There will be men who will live long lives because of this ...."

Kingston shook his head. "Save your breath, General. I don't do this for you." He knew he did this for the boy, the boy's whose name he still did not know.

He pulled off the grey coat, the jacket and shirt. Took a beep breath and let the air caress his skin. The blood out there was stale and lifeless. It did nothing. It was the living blood he craved, a craving suppressed for so long. He'd vowed to never take living blood. Not after... He swallowed. Not after the lives lost were his clan's.

"But ...."

Kingston swung to face the man, his claws at his d throat. Kingston let his voice be what it should be; as dark as the caves of his home. "This is not for you." He felt the man tremble. "Do you understand?" A slight nod, and Kingston let him go. "You tell no one of this, or you will feel your blood leave your body." A slight grin came to his lips. The man trembled as Kingston ran his hand over the exposed throat.

"Now, General. Who do I tell?"

 

***

 

The first five posts had been easy to reach. Night covered his movements, and he had reverted easily to silent running. Passing on the message had been simply getting to a commander's tent. And remembering to change back to human form. Once the shock of being woken had worn off, each commander had realised the message's value and acted. In the confusion it had been easy to slip away.

But the sixth and seventh had been closer to the enemy, and Kingston had spilled blood. As silent and quick as he had been, word had spread. Now no one slept. And the fresh blood that stuck to his skin, tasted on his lips, still tempted him.

"Halt! Identify yourself!" Kingston slowed and pulled himself back to human form. It was getting harder to do.

"A friend." Kinston stepped out of the shadows and walked open-armed to the man. The gun didn't worry him, but he stopped anyway. It would hurt, might even be fatal, if the man shot his heart or his head.

"General Quill sent me. I need to talk to ..." Which was this post?

"Halt. Your toes!"

Kingston looked down. On the pale gravel, with firelight dancing the shadows away, black claws showed stark. He tried to retract them, but the beast inside wanted blood. He looked up at the gun aimed at his head. Saw the flame. Heard the noise.

Kingston dropped, rolled towards the fire, came up in a crouch and sprinted. The blaze barely touched him, the hot coals tried to cling to the soles of his feet. The gun fired again. His shoulder burned. The guard called out. His last words.

Blood poured from the guard's neck and Kingston swallowed, drank the freshness. The warmth hit his throat, his stomach, and he shivered. Such sweetness, such vitality.

Such waste.

He dropped the man's body. Blood covered them both. Cries of men filled the air. Fear, anger, hatred gathered like a cloud of insects, and the beast within relished the thought of more blood.

"No!" Kingston turned and ran back to the forest, covering the open ground, waiting for the whistle of bullets. He reached the trees, but his run didn't end there. There were eleven posts. Seven commanders knew. He had failed with this one. If he reached the other three, the plan still would work. Without them, it would fail.

So he ran, avoiding enemy and friend. He could no longer demand the beast remain silent, no longer trust himself to leave life where it belonged. He killed.

The enemy seemed to be out hunting. Maybe the gunshots had called them, maybe it was their own plan. Either way Kingston couldn't take risks. He let the beast take control and man after man fell. Sated the need kept so long hidden.

Kingston breached the ninth post's defences, climbed the walls as a child climbs a tree. Tents lined the grounds in neat rows. He heard men grumbling about the hours before daylight. Within the beast screamed, screamed for blood and a warning of the dawn.

Kingston stood for a moment and inhaled. Insecurity permeated from the tents, all but one where decisions and determination tinged the air. Kingston ran to that tent's back.

Within he could hear the commander, a voice controlled. On the white tent's surface, shadows of men coming and going, one standing and directing.

"Commander Jenkins. A message from General Quill."

There was silence. Then movement.

"Commander, I don't have time." Kingston spoke fast. Explained the plan. Left the instant he'd delivered the message.

Ten, eleven. Both posts proved similar. Five guards had died, countless enemies. The beast dominated.

It was a struggle to go back to the base camp, knowing he had to confine himself, don the human persona again. After the freedom. But he forced himself back to the officer's mess with dawn's light revealing herself.

Quill paced the room. Highbrow slumped in an armchair.

"It's done." Kingston bent to gather up his clothes. He donned the great coat. At least it would hide most of his changed body.

The general nodded.

Kingston ignored him. "I'm tired." He wasn't. His body tingled with life, with the need to move. But he couldn't, not in this form, not during the day.

"Do you need food?"

Kingston snorted. "I won't need food for a month." He stretched out his fingers. The claws were fully black and longer. They would not retract. "A hole would be good." He turned and left.

 

***

 

The trenches were quiet, men awake but trying to ignore the dawn. As was he. But as they would leave into it, he would be hiding.

As light edged into the mud Kingston found his bed, no more than a hole tucked away behind the supplies. But it was dark. Safe. Kingston curled up on the thin mattress and, beyond the voices of the dead, listened to the growing silence.

He lay, gripping the sides of his cot, as if that would stop the shaking.

Daylight gave way to dusk, and the returning men talked with bravado and bluster of what had come, of things they knew nothing, but they didn't enter his room. Kingston listened, head against the wall. From the sound of their voices, the taste of joy, Quill's plan had worked. Maybe Jimmy's brother could go home now.

Eventually he stepped out of his hole into the pale light. It stung, even through the thick coat. He turned up the collar, dug his hands into his pockets. Only his ankles and feet were exposed, but he walked in the mud, letting the earth splash on his legs, protection.

"Where's Jimmy's brother?"

They turned to him. Mouths open, words half said floating in the air. Fear returned; he tasted it. Realized too late fangs showed, that his eyes were tinged by the blood of others, flushed crimson. He was still too much the beast.

He turned back, to his hole. Sat on the bed and waited. What came now would come.

A man edged around the corner, just one. Highbrow. Kingston smiled. It only took one to kill him.

"Jimmy's brother, Logan?"

Kingston nodded.

"Killed in action. Kingston. He...."

Kingston stood. Hands clenching and unclenching. Blood dripping to the floor. His own blood. "No." He shook his head. "No!"

Highbrow rested his hand on his arm. "He was just another soldier."

Kingston slapped him away, pushed the man so hard he fell.

"He was not just anything! He was Logan, brother to Jimmy."

But in truth that was all he knew of the boy.

 

***

 

The window in the officer's mess was still open. The breeze brought in the dead smells of the battlefield, but silence reigned. Kinston strode over to it and held onto the stone sill. The sun's last rays reached his hands. He felt them burn.

"Kingston?"

He twisted to see the general standing alone in the room. "Yes?"

"What will you do now?"

"Nothing." He shrugged. "What can I do? I can't go back to hiding. The beast is awake. It won't sleep again." He turned back to the silence. Laughed at himself. He'd risked everything, thrown away everything, for a child. A child who had the audacity to die.

"Kingston."

He flung himself around. "What?"

"You could leave the building in one piece." The general held out his hand. Kingston looked down. In his fist was a chunk of stone. He dropped it into Quill's outstretched hand. The man turned and placed the stone on the table and walked to the armchairs. He sat in one, indicated the other. "Now, can we talk?"

 

***

 

The cellar wasn't much: dark, thick stone walls, but the bars on the boarded window were rusted, the lock on the door failed to hold. New chains were attached to the wall, the smithy taking pride in his work. Kingston had to admit the links were strong, the bolts to the wall secure. He wished the man had been more careful with the cuffs. Burrs scratched his wrists, blood seeped, the wounds never healing.

The first few days he had ignored the blood, and the beast's demands, but now he found himself sucking on his own wrists. And each time it was harder to stop.

The door screeched open. Kingston looked up, the taste of blood on his tongue. He breathed in, recognizing the scent of his only visitor. No one else ventured near him.

"Good morning, Quill. Or is it evening?" He grasped the chains, held himself back. He had tested their length days back.

"It is evening." Quill stepped inside, leaving the door open, but he stood at the edge of the chains' reach. "You need not stay here, Kingston."

Kingston laughed. "You would let me loose? Knowing you would die first?" He took a deep breath, closed his eyes against the vision of Quill's neck in his jaws, of Quill's blood dribbling down his chest. He could taste it, longed to taste it. "No. I stay until the beast is silent again."

The beast screamed within.

"I trust you."

"More fool you, Quill." He opened his eyes, smiled. "Why don't you come closer? Why stay beyond my reach?" He released the chains, stood to his full height and walked forward. Soft clinks followed him as the length of the chains unravelled. With the chains taut, his arms pulled backwards, Kingston leaned until his face almost reached Quill. He heard the blood pounding, tasted its scent. One taste, just one. After all, this was the man who had released the beast.

And the man who kept him captive. Kingston smiled. No, he did that himself.

He stood upright again, arms still held back. "You should not trust me." He stepped backwards till the damp wall caressed his back.

"But, Kingston, I do trust you."

Kingston snorted. The stones of the ceiling dripped, moisture following the grooves left by the stonemasons. Moss clung to the rough-hewn stones, the only other life. Not even the rats ventured in, not after the first night when he'd caught and sucked dry any that came within reach.

He watched a drop form, building its strength until it lost hold of the rock. He followed its fall to the floor by his feet, watched it splatter, forming tiny droplets that dispersed in a thousand directions.

"I have someone to see you."

"Fool." He found another droplet of water to watch. Watched it fall in escape, only to be destroyed as it reached its destination. How many droplets had he watched over the days?

He ignored the footsteps, but he couldn't ignore the familiar scent. Kingston looked, saw Quill with a youth standing beside him. Red hair tied back in a tangle. Blue eyes that looked at him.

"Is he here?"

Did the youth not see him?

"Yes."

The youth stepped forward, breached the barrier that Quill had never stepped past. Kingston pushed back against the stones, the points digging into his flesh. He grasped the chain where it was bolted to the wall.

"Go." He shook his head. The beast screamed at him, cried out for the blood he hadn't tasted. His knuckles aching from his grip, Kingston willed the youth to stop. But the youth kept coming, one hand reaching forward, fingers outstretched, stopping only when his fingertips brushed against Kingston's skin.

Kingston held his breath, pushed the beast away, closed his eyes to the sight of the youth, so close. But he smelled him, smelled his cleanness, the trust, the blood within his body. And he felt the youth's touch. Fingertips sliding up his chest, reaching his neck. The chains rattled, the bolts groaned.

"Go. Not safe."

The youth's hand stroked his cheek. The other joined, taking his face between them both and bringing Kingston's head lower. Both thumbs caressed his chin, his lips, his fangs, travelled up to his nose, ran over his closed eyes. Thumbs touched his brows.

"You should frown less. It mars your beauty."

Kingston laughed, opened his eyes as the youth let him go. "You are not fearful?" He could smell that he wasn't, but he had to ask.

The youth smiled. "No."

"Yet ...." Those eyes, they stared at him, perfect blue.

"Yet I know what you are. They call you beast. A devil." Again the youth's hands clasped his face, his thumbs stroking the fangs Kingston could not retract. "I don't."

"Why?" Why did the youth leave his hands so close, with his blood so tempting? It would take nothing to bite.

"You saved my brothers."

"You are mistaken. I only kill."

And still the youth's hands were on his face.

"They died on our soil, and their bodies returned home, whole. Mam can bury them. That is safe enough."

"You ask so little." The youth's hands left his face, and Kingston shivered, feeling the coldness of the room with the warmth of the youth's hands gone.

The youth touched the wall beside his chest, moved upwards until Kingston's outstretched arm stopped him. He ran his hand along the wall beneath, moving till he reached the bolts that held the chain. There he wrapped his hand around the cuff. "You ask for more?"

"I ask to be left alone."

The youth felt Kingston's hand, took each finger that clenched the chain and opened it. Kingston let him, for reasons he couldn't explain. Or maybe it was just so he could grasp the youth to kill him.

"We don't always get what we ask for." He lifted Kingston's hand away from the chains, felt his open palm, his fingers. Blood slipped along the grooves of his palm. "You have harmed yourself." The boy pressed his lips to his palm.

Kingston closed his fist, claws scraping the youth's cheek. Blood welled. Blood he wanted to taste. He twisted away, rested his forehead against the cool stone and let the chain fall from his other hand. Hands pressed against the wall, Kingston forced the beast down. "You should leave." His voice shook from the effort.

"I should."

But the youth ran his hands over Kingston's back. Stone fell from under his claws. Hands that were warm rubbed against his skin. He pulled away again, striding until the chains pulled taut. "Go."

The youth said nothing, didn't move, not even to turn to him.

"Who are you?"

"Corey. Logan's and Jim's brother. The middle boy. The useless one." He turned to face Kingston. "The blind one."

Blind? The youth was blind? "Did Quill think your blindness would save you? That I would care?"

"No. He warned me against this."

"Then why?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. He looked up, looked directly at Kingston with blue eyes that couldn't possibly be sightless. "Tell me about your family."

"A devil has family?"

"Everyone has family."

"Not me." Not anymore. Kingston sensed the youth, didn't need the light, having grown from a bloodling without it, hiding in the caves. His senses replacing his eyesight. The youth's odor was closer. The taste of him filled the cell's stale air with life. The beast wanted it.

He flinched when the youth touched his arm, would have grasped him and taken the youth's throat in his mouth but for the chains.

"Why are you chained?"

"You don't know me. Not what I am." He stepped sideways, away from the youth, one arm no longer stretched but the other agonisingly so.

Hands found Kingston again. A soft touch moved down his arm, resting at his wrist. Kingston pulled, and the chain creaked. The bolt groaned as the stone wall refused to give the metal up. The youth's fingertips found the blood at his wrists. His lips kissed. Kingston jerked, the chain gave a little.

"You should stop that."

"Why? Because you will kill me?" He ducked under Kingston's arm. "You could have done that already." With his hand on Kingston's back, the youth held the wrist and brought it to his lips. His tongue explored under the cuff, licking away the blood. His lips kissed the scratches.

Kingston swivelled, pulled himself under his outstretched arm until he faced the youth, locked his arms around the boy's body, the chains twisting, trapping them together. "You should stop that." He bought his mouth to the boy's neck, fangs digging into the flesh. The beast screamed at him to bite, for more than the trickle of blood that ran over his tongue.

He let go, pushed the youth to the ground, stepped over him and stalked till he reached the cold stone wall. His hands on the stone, his forehead resting against the dampness, Kingston breathed in. Deep breaths to ease the panic, the need. But all it did was take in the taste of blood, the youth's fear. His excitement.

Kingston turned, slid down the wall until he crouched, his thumb rubbing where the youth had pressed his lips. Footsteps said the youth came closer, his odor said he was too close. Kingston's fingers dug into his wrist.

The beast made him stand, lay a hand on the youth's shoulder. He felt the slick of blood, the crusting at the edges. The beast ached for more.

Whether the youth slipped from under his grasp or Kingston pushed him away, he didn't know, but the beast screamed as footsteps took the youth to the door. Kingston sank to the floor. The chains clinked as they slacked slightly. Fresh blood dripped from his wrist, and the beast demanded to be fed.

 

***

 

"Kingston?"

Kingston opened his eyes, saw shadows of men dancing under the fires. Maybe the fires would kill the beast. Kingston was too tired to resist. He closed his eyes again.

"Where is he, Sergeant? The stench?"

"Come back, lad... I mean, Sir."

The sound of flesh against flesh reached Kingston. The beast stirred, but even he was weak.

"Kingston."

He felt a tug on the chains, felt the movement as the youth used them as a guide. Hands touched him, felt his skin, his wounds, and jerked away.

"Sergeant, what's wrong with him. What coats him?"

The hands cradled his head, stroked his cheeks, wiped the blood away, but the scrapes kept seeping. Kingston licked his lips, brought a chained hand to his fangs, scraped them across his palm and sucked. Maybe he could gain enough.

The light grew brighter.

"It's blood, Sir. He's covered in blood."

"What?" The youth's hands rubbed over his chest, his arms. Fingertips searched and found the cuts his claws had made.

Kingston hissed in pain. He twisted away, eyes open, fangs bared at the youth. "Mine."

The youth brought Kingston's hands to his face, sniffed. And licked.

"Mine!" Kingston lunged, grabbed the youth's hand, bought it to his own mouth. He licked the blood. A gun sounded, pain spread through his shoulder. The beast snarled. He looked down. Fresh blood seeped from the hole. He dropped his grasp of the youth's hand and scooped the blood away into the palm of his hand. It smelled fresh. He licked his palm.

Another shot, more pain, more blood. The beast grinned.

"No!"

Arms wrapped themselves around him, a voice whispered against his skin. "No, Kingston." A hand held his and pulled it from his wounds, from the fresh blood. And Kingston let him.

"Move away, Sir."

"No, Sergeant. He's injured."

A light flickered around him, flashed past the youth's face. Eyes shone blue. Kingston remembered those eyes, sightless eyes. "Corey?"

"Yes."

Kingston closed his eyes. "I'm tired, Corey. So tired."

"Sergeant, get Quill." Corey pulled Kingston's head forward to his shoulder, stroked Kingston's cheek. "Forgive me? I wanted you for myself. I thought I could tame you."

Kingston relaxed into Corey's shoulder, smiled. The beast would never be tamed, never hidden, except by death.

"You're dying, aren't you? I've killed you."

"Best this way."

"No."

Kingston felt the youth shift. He smelled fresh blood, but felt no pain. But he was too tired to think. Too tired to resist when he felt the youth's arm pressed against his lips.

The beast woke, sucked. Took the blood. But Kingston held onto the beast, controlled it. Only let it draw blood until he felt the youth sag.

Lights flashed into the cell. "Corey? Sergeant, go in and find the boy."

"He's here, Quill." Kingston scooped the youth into his arms, let Corey's head rest upon his arm. He stood and carried the youth as far as the chains would allow. He ignored the Sergeant with his gun trained on him, ignored Quill's disgusted look. "He's alive." He placed the youth on the ground, brushed the hair from his face, regretted that he couldn't see those blue eyes again.

Then he walked back to the wall, the chains snaking behind him. He didn't watch as they took Corey away.

Blackness filled the cell once more. He smiled. The beast was there, within, quiet. For a while at least.

 

***

 

Kingston knelt, fingers woven together behind his back. Eyes shut tight against the temptation to feed on his own blood. He whispered a litany: "It will pass. It will pass." Knowing that the beast would never leave.

He didn't know the youth had entered until he felt a touch on his shoulder. He stiffened, fingers clenched, the chains rattling in time to his trembling. He kept his mouth closed, even though fangs tore at his lips and blood trickled down his chin. Silent, the litany remained.

Fingertips drew the blood away. Lips touched him. Touched his chin, touched his own lips, distorted by fangs. The litany disappeared as Corey kissed him. Hands caressing his neck, chest, nipples. He forgot to breathe, focused on holding the beast at bay. But the beast won, and his fingers untwined and reached for the youth, and held him.

The beast opened his mouth, let fangs graze the lips so soft. His tongue tasted his own blood, and the taste that belonged to Corey. But only tasted. The beast left the blood of the youth alone.

Corey pulled away.

"Stand, beast."

Kingston stood.

"Hands behind your back."

Kingston obeyed, eyes closed, his breath as irregular as his heart.

Fingertips and lips touched him, and he shivered. The cellar echoed with the sound of chains and his breaths. When he remembered to breathe. Corey kissed and stroked his neck, his chest. Tormented nipples with blunt teeth, but it hurt all the same. Caressed Kingston's skin, pressing against ribs, following the lines of his muscles.

When the youth's hands reached the buttons of his trousers, Kingston cried a sound that could have been the beast's delight. Or his own distress and need. The youth's fingers explored beneath the cloth, pushing it aside, his teeth marking a trail down the center of Kingston's chest. Both hands and lips moving lower, until Kingston's trousers lay crumpled at his feet.

"Do you want me to?" Fingers traced the hairless skin at the base of his penis, Corey's lips so close the words blew warmth on the tip.

"Yes." And Kingston wondered where the begging had come from. The beast or himself?

He had thought the torment of untouchable blood harsh, the need demanding. He had felt the pain of teeth pulling at his nipples, and the anguish as fingers teased. They were nothing to when Corey placed his lips around the tip of his penis. Nothing to when his tongue caressed and his hands stroked.

Like a fire burning in his belly, hotter than when he sated the beast, though the beast was never truly sated.

The beast groaned with pleasure.

He could not keep his hands behind him, and even though the chains were cold against his legs and they made noise that abused his ears, he brought his hands forward and held the youth's head. Opened his eyes and watched blackened claws comb red hair. Sightless blue eyes looked up at him.

Then he died.

It had to be death, for the world collapsed, and though Kingston screamed, the beast fell silent. And remained silent as his knees crumpled and Corey caught him in arms stronger than his own.

"Corey, you killed me."

The youth laughed. Place a kiss on his lips. "No, my beast." He pulled Kingston down to lie with him, curled himself within Kingston's arms. Kingston felt the youth's smile on his chest and heard his breathing relax. But Kingston was blind to the call of the blood.

"It will pass. The beast will awake." His whisper to the sleeping youth might have been a promise. But there might have been a forlorn hope that the beast would stay gone.

 

***

 

The door was open when Kingston woke, Corey gone. But for his nakedness he would have thought he had dreamed, though his dreams of past had been filled with blood and death. The silence within thrilled and scared him.

He looked at his hands, claws still extended black. He tried retracting them. They disappeared, his hands appearing human. He smiled, let them extend for he was what he was and no longer felt the need to hide.

He felt a need that hurt when he thought of Corey's blue eyes, of the youth's laughter and touch. So he stood and took the chains in his grasp. The smithy was good, the chains strong, but they cracked and fell when he wanted them to.

Clothed in trousers and great coat, he gathered the links in his arms and walked through the door.

 

***

 

Highbrow turned with a gasp when Kingston entered the officer's mess, but he ignored the man, made his way to kneel in front of the armchair. There he laid the broken chains at Corey's feet.

The youth faced him as the noise settled and reached to touch. Kingston leaned forward, held the outstretched hand to his cheek. Kissed the wrist.

"You escaped?"

"I exchanged their chains for yours."

"Then you are tame, beast?"

For a reply Kingston kissed the youth. Long, hard, wanting more. Never wanting to stop.

"Sodomites!"

The shout came with the feel of steel in his side. Kingston turned. The beast rose, and he did nothing to hold it back. The sound of a gun echoed, but the beast didn't care, didn't feel anymore. It sought blood. Sweet blood.

Kingston felt pain and kisses and caresses. Felt tears. Heard his name whispered and screamed. Slowly the beast heard the same.

Kingston stumbled away, blind but for the blood. But he saw the blue eyes as hands pulled him to look. Watched tears slide down Corey's cheeks. He sighed. "Corey?"

But it was Quill's voice that spoke his name. Kingston turned to the man standing in the doorway, gun in hand. He pushed Corey away.

Quill kept his gaze and the gun trained on Kingston. "Corey, tell us if Highbrow lives."

The youth crawled, his hands stopping at the blood-slicked body. "No."

Quill sighed and holstered the gun. He walked to Highbrow, pulled Corey to stand. The youth still in his arms, he brushed a smear of blood from his cheek. Kingston growled. Quill turned to Kingston, led the youth to him and pressed Corey into his arms. "Corey, take your beast and run." Quill turned his back and knelt at the colonel's side.

"Why?"

The general snorted. "Because one life pays for the many you saved." The general twisted to look at Kingston. "Because I could never tame you."

Corey tugged at Kingston's hand. He shook him off, strode to Quill, squatted and pressed his lips to the man's forehead.

"Go."

Kingston stood, turned, and, picking Corey up in his grasp, ran.