Waylon's Crossing - 5. Chapter 5: Interrogations

Waylon's Crossing
Chapter 5: Interrogations

There was something different about waking this time. He was tired still, but clean, with a blanket over him and a perfumed pillow under his head. He blinked, confused, sitting up abruptly as the bed creaked. Xeran, the Prince of Darkness, sat there, cup in hand, watching him silently. Kynan scrambled up into the corner by the wall, eyeing the demon warily.

Xeran held out the silver goblet, making Kynan's nostrils twitch as he smelled water, flavored with rose petals. The prince smiled, his hand steady as Kynan hesitated, but he was so thirsty! He took the goblet and drank. As he tilted the cup up, he saw a door not too far away, open, beckoning. He brought the cup down quickly, throwing the remainder of the contents at the demon and lunging forward. They crashed together and tumbled down onto the floor. Laughing, Xeran rolled with him, holding Kynan tight against his body.

Eventually, the prince tired of the game and flipped over, still holding Kynan's wrists, staring down with glee at the frustrated snarl on the lips of his captive. He noted with pleasure that there was no remaining sign of the burns or marks from the interrogations on the chest that heaved beneath him, or the rest of his body, for that matter. The halfling himself, though, was still much of a puzzle.

Kynan was not just a servant, he was also one of his sister's Hunters, but she had never taken an interest in any of them the way she did with this one. He had noticed it but had disregarded the rumors until Morticai had added his own observations; and still with the being in front of him, the prince had no answers, only more questions. Damn Morticai! The warlock had turned out to be a horrible waste, most of what he'd sworn to be true was not, and the queen had had a laugh about that, about what that spy supposedly knew.

He frowned as he thought, and felt Kynan shift under him, still seeking to escape. He was a stubborn fellow! And a lot more valuable than he'd originally thought. There was something odd about him, though, beyond those eyes, and the prince could easily see why his sister was so attached to him. Slowly, he lowered his face, watched those blue eyes widen in surprise.

"Wh-what are you -- a-ah," sighed Kynan as the prince lipped at the sensitive skin along his neck. "No!" He thrashed. "Stop!"

The prince's frown pulled his brows together as he considered the possibilities. According to court gossip, Kynan was somebody's unacknowledged bastard, at least part-demon; how much demon blood was debatable, but the eyes left no doubt. Kynan had apparently just shown up in court one day as Hunter Karadur's apprentice, seemingly plucked out of nowhere. Now he was a favorite of the queen and, while everybody seemed to think her choice odd, there were many who envied her, for Kynan was, even for a human, beautiful. Staring down at him, Xeran licked his lips, bending close once again.

Kynan struggled madly and, in an energy-charged heave, managed to dislodge himself and roll away. The prince regarded him with some surprise for a moment and then rose. He walked over and closed the door with a studied, teasing air. Then he sat down at the table, set with food and dishes, and watched his guest while he popped something steaming into his mouth.

Kynan glared and made no attempt to get up.

"Well," remarked the prince lazily, leaning back in his chair, "my sister has worked very hard to feed the rumors that she and you are lovers. Why would that be, do you suppose?"

"She likes her intrigue," Kynan suggested.

The prince's eyebrows rose, as if he had not expected him to speak. "Come," he gestured at the other chair. "Sit. Eat. You could use it."

Kynan flushed under that appraising stare and did not move. He could smell the roast fowl and creamed potatoes and hash and other human foods, they made his mouth water, but he wasn't about to pretend he wasn't a prisoner here. Who knew what was laced into that food? Poisons might not work on demons, but Kynan was only half. His mentor had been sure to expose him to all manner of drugs, to be aware and avoid them if possible, or use them as needed.

"I know you're hungry," said the prince and he leaned over, yanked a drumstick from the bird, and tossed it at Kynan. "Here, if it pleases you."

Kynan glared, lip lifted in a snarl. He didn't touch the meat, he barely allowed himself to mark where it fell. The prince sighed and drank his wine, regarding Kynan thoughtfully.

"You make me want to beat you," he said and shifted his wings a little, sitting up straighter with that thought. "Is that what you want? I can take your body apart piece by piece and leave your mind intact until the very end so that you can feel and truly appreciate what is being done. You know I can, so why do you push me?"

Kynan made no reply and glanced away. He rose when the prince did and hitched the demon short-pants he wore higher up on his hips. He edged sideways around the table as Xeran attempted to come closer and the demon stopped after a circuit, eyes half-lidded in irritation. He ruffled his wings, arms crossed over his barrel chest.

He was more than a foot taller than Kynan and twice as broad, half again as heavy, with mottled-black skin and wings of ebony. His horns were larger than his sister's, a male bull's horns rather than her small points, but they had the same eyes, green and slitted like a cat's. Most demons dressed with only the barest regard for what humans would consider modest and the prince was no different. He wore soft, goblin-hide knee-length breeches, white and skin-tight, but that was all. He wasn't even wearing the torques or jewelry he normally did in court. Here there was no one to impress.

The prince ran his hands down his sides, pushing out his chest. "Am I not impressive?" he asked. He cocked his head. "Very few would deny me, even if their lives didn't hang in the balance."

Kynan swallowed, but fear lent him courage. "Keep your fucking hands off me."

Xeran roared and charged across the room without warning, sending the table crashing against a wall. Kynan leaped away, but the prince was too fast. He reeled from the weight against his shoulders and slammed with bruising force into the stone wall of his cell. The prince pinned him there, lifting him the easier to kiss.

"No," said the prince, leaning back, breathing heavily. "Definitely not lovers." He grinned at the bewilderment in his captive, momentarily quiescent, and stroked his face, fingers trailing down his neck. When the wildness returned to those blue demon eyes, he let him go and moved away.

Kynan lay where he'd been dropped, shivering, not looking at anything. There was too much that could be read in his face, confusion, anxiety, hunger -- and not for food. He panted and he felt very hot, but also queasy, as if something inside him was desperately trying to claw its way out. This, more than anything else this demon had done to him, frightened him. He chanced a glance up, saw amusement on the prince's face, and quickly looked away.

The prince sank down on his heels, reaching to stroke Kynan's shoulder but he twitched out of reach.

"So," pressed the demon, deceptively casual. "Where do you sleep when you're with my sister?"

Kynan didn't mean to answer, but his gaze flicked to the door and back quickly, before he'd realized what he'd done. He groaned as the demon looked there himself and back to Kynan, considering.

"Interesting," said the prince thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. He edged a little closer, chasing Kynan a few inches across the floor. "You are a puzzle to me," he murmured. "Loyal, devoted, trusted, and yet you don't even know how to kiss properly. Just what does my sister keep you for, when you're not collecting her bounties?"

He inched forward again and again Kynan retreated, but then he was in a corner and there was nowhere left to go. His breath came faster to him and he tensed, prepared to fight. "Let me go," he said, blushing as he realized he'd said that out loud.

The prince shook his head. "I don't think so. You are too dangerous to me now. Of course, if I knew what I know now, I would have approached this differently. Yes, very differently indeed." He offered a hand to Kynan, sighing as the man gazed back at him without moving.

"I offer you everything you want," pressed the demon. "Why do you not take it?"

Kynan scowled, drawing himself up in a ball, arms crossed over his chest. He looked away and the prince sighed again at his stubbornness. He stared at him for a moment, considering what the cost would be if he forced the situation now. No, he decided, he wanted this one of his own free will. He'd waited more than a century for the perfect time to make his move, a few more days wouldn't make a difference. Kynan would be a powerful ally, if he could re-direct that loyalty to himself. Such spirit should be carefully cultivated and not crushed.

"Interesting," the prince repeated. He studied his captive, musing. Kynan still refused to look at him, but Xeran was minded to be permissive. He wasn't used to being denied, it was a novel experience. He usually had sycophants throwing themselves at him, in the hopes of gaining something by the conquest. His prowess was as legendary as his efforts in the torture chambers. Then again, would anyone dare say the Prince of Darkness was a poor lover?

He tilted his head back to laugh at the thought, rewarded by a sideways look from Kynan, the halfling obviously wondering where he factored into that merriment. The prince grinned at him and Kynan flinched even closer to the wall he leaned into. Now the prince's smile flopped into a frustrated frown. Kynan was as fractious and skittish as a -- no. No. Impossible.

He rose and started to pace. He called for his gaolmaster and for servants to come clean up the mess, while he kept an eye on Kynan. The prince thought to take a visit to the Borderlands, see what kind of scandalous information his spies could give him. Unfortunately, as much as he'd care to, he couldn't spend all day with his intriguing houseguest. But, as he didn't trust the Hunter not to attempt an escape, he needed appropriate fetters. He smiled faintly. He'd respect the halfling less if he didn't at least try, but actual escape? No, that wouldn't do at all.

Predictably, Kynan fought when the gaoler came. The prince had to call for his guard to help restrain him so they could get the shackles on. When he was satisfied that all was secure, Xeran left the room, the anticipation of breaking this one making him smile.

Kynan nursed a black eye and worried at the heavy iron ring around his ankle until the skin was red and raw. There was no use, he wouldn't be able to get it off by himself and he sighed. It had been a long shot anyway. He had no talent for picking locks. The chain was long enough that he could comfortably move in most of the room and he looked around for a defensible position. A replacement table and chairs had been brought in, pushed up against a wall, with a plate of something Kynan would rather not identify, a glass, and an earthenware jug of water.

After a moment's consideration, he slid under the huge, demon-sized bed, gathering the chain to him. This way he could not be taken unawares. After a bit of fumbling and scraping, Kynan wedged himself in tight and settled in to rest. There, in relative safety, he clapped a hand over his mouth and let shock shake his body with reaction. A demon's cat-like eyes were not equipped for tears, but Kynan was only half demon. He could cry, and he fought them back now, fought the hopeless wails just waiting for a weak moment.

Daylight! Get me out of here! Alan. Alan, help me!

The terror and despair that tightened in his chest eased a little as he thought of the little black werewolf. Alan was smart, super-smart, even if he was only a kid. Vampires were despised even more than random half-breeds like Kynan, and werewolves were considered as nothing more than relatively intelligent dogs, but Kynan found them fascinating. And Alan, with that wolf-like grin, was immensely valuable as an inventor. None of the other Hunters had weapons like Kynan did -- or had -- and they were all wildly jealous, but they would never think to look for a werewolf blacksmith. That would be beneath them.

Alan would know what to do. Kynan had to take this opportunity he had to rest, and hopefully sleep a little before he chanced the dreamscape again.

Steady, he told himself. One day, one thing at a time.

*          *          *

Bryce looked up as the door to his interrogation room opened. The man who entered wore the long robes of a justiciar, with a subtle but identifiable extra flourish woven into the embroidery along the trim. The vampire's eyebrows rose. Not just a justiciar, then, but a magistrate. Whom had Bryce pissed off?

Waylon's Crossing had been founded a millennia past as a religious retreat. At the time, the peaceful lives of the monks had required fortifications and guards to protect the inhabitants. The monks worked side-by-side with the soldiers, with their duties often interwoven. As the years passed, warrior-monks went out into the wilderness to bring their teachings to the scattered peoples. They brought anyone interested back to the city, and they took upon themselves the unwanted: the lame, the sick, and the Tainted, as they were known then. No one wanted to acknowledge the presence of other creatures in the world, but some folks were 'seduced' by unknown evils, and sometimes bore young. Either to protect the babes for love or to get rid of them out of fear, mothers would thrust their children at the monks. Rarely, the parent would accompany the child. Most of the time, if the mother was known to be 'tainted,' she would be exiled, pregnant or not. The monks rescued many exiles, frightened and alone, struggling against starvation and exposure.

From those early days, the city grew into a bastion of the Light. The people were many and varied, and the monks taught tolerance in addition to their religious leanings. All were welcomed within the walls. They raised children communally, because there were far more children than adults to care for them at first, and by then the tradition was too well set. When grown, the adopted youth had many choices: the path of warrior or monk; the path of an apprentice, from those who had taken over support of the monastery, farming and crafts; the path of the scholar, for even then Waylon's Crossing was at the forefront of education; or the path of the wanderer.

Those whom the city called Touched often desired to find the source of their mixed blood, and so they would take to the wilderness in search. If they came back at all, they returned changed in some way. Physically they were older, but they brought with them a certain something to the eye, that spoke of mystery and wonder. They came back in many states, sometimes on the brink of death, sometimes richer than kings, with tales of their journeys. Some found what they searched for, and some didn't; some found that what they'd been searching for wasn't what they'd thought they wanted. Some spoke of others who remained missing. Some traveled the far reaches of the world, and some barely left the valleys and hills around the city.

But long before a child was ready to leave, they left childhood behind to take up the mantle of an acolyte. A child was indulged in anything not destructive to other people, property, or themselves. An acolyte was a choice each individual made and the time of that decision varied. When they were ready, acolytes began to experience the lives of adults within the city. They were taught to read and write and do sums, and were exposed to everything life in the city had to offer. On a rotating basis, acolytes tended the monks and learned more of the Guardian of Light, learned to fight and bear arms, to defend the city and its people, learned and experienced farming and cooking and smithing and myriads of other activities, and also they studied to further their education.

Acolytes were allowed to spend as much time in any one area as they wished. Most got around to everything over time, though some rotated between their favorite interests, and some followed a singular path.

To govern the city, the monks chose to form a counsel. They pulled from each of the craftsmen, the warriors, the scholars, the tradesmen, and themselves. As the needs of the city grew, this initial counsel formed an additional two branches. The first became the City Watch, a new path the citizens could explore, those who would seek out troublemakers and bring them before the Justiciars, the second branch. Justiciars passed judgment upon those accused of law-breaking or evil-doing and saw that justice was dealt. The counsel became the law makers, developing and expanding policies and procedures for the citizens to abide by. The members became known as Magistrates.

Tradition decreed that each profession of the city be granted a single seat on the counsel. How that person was chosen depended on the sub-counsels supported by each individual profession. A magistrate's duties were in addition to their daily work, and so they sported the symbols of their occupation alongside the fancy spirals and knots of their elected position.

This magistrate wore the night-blue robes of a justiciar. As such, he had a right to speak to any prisoner, though, normally, each case was assigned a justiciar at random. That justiciar would review the circumstances of the arrest and determine what punishment was merited, or if the person needed to be brought before a panel of justiciars for trial. At such time, the Watch would speak, citing examples and evidence, the accused would speak, and the original justiciar would add anything he or she felt additionally relevant, such as any circumstances the accused might be too proud or too ashamed to mention. If the justiciars could not decide, the case would be brought before the magistrates.

The man in the cell with Bryce was not tall, but he was very thin, which gave him an illusion of height. The vampire and human would stand equally together, but, taken apart, the magistrate appeared taller. He kept his tight, black curls trimmed close against his scalp and wore wire spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His right hand worried at the left, indicating to Bryce's thievery skills the recent loss of some bauble or gem. There were dark circles under the man's eyes, but he held Bryce's gaze with equal intensity.

Bryce sniffed, too stunned by the sudden generation of saliva to hide his shock. A tingling sensation filled his mouth, like the bubble of champagne, sweet and yet spicy. He clenched his hands against the edge of the table, turning his head and breathing deeply to fight the urge to leap over the barrier and sink his teeth into the magister's neck. Fuck! A magistrate! And one whose Touched blood was far enough back to be safe to drink. He trembled, grinding his teeth, but that only made him breathe through his nose, exciting his body further. Shit! If he attacked a magistrate, that was it, he was dead.

Duncan was used to his presence discomfiting his clients, but had never experienced this extreme a reaction before. He frowned in concern, setting his satchel on the table. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

Bryce blinked his eyes open, staring back, incredulous. Could it be? Did this man not know what he was? What Bryce was?

Then something cool and dry curled around his leg, slithering under his trousers, and Bryce gave a swift, mental thank you to dead gods that he could no longer blush. He pressed his lips even more firmly together against the groan he wanted to voice. Aure!

Another teasing pass, up both legs this time, and the thief was almost undone. His legs spread automatically, back rigid as invisible fingers danced up his thighs.

"Are you well?" asked Duncan, cocking his head. For a vampire, the thief was remarkably tanned.

Bryce dipped his head in a courtly nod, falling back on old manners, his mind awhirl with too many sensations and desires to be entirely coherent.

"We will need a moment alone," said a deep but lyrical voice. Aure's smoky presence uncoiled from the baseboards, though invisible tendrils still caressed the vampire's quivering flesh. He smirked at Bryce knowingly.

The magistrate gave the elemental a dubious look but then nodded. "Very well."

"Are you stalking me again?" Bryce demanded of Aure, though his eyes remained locked on the door behind which the succulent feast had just vanished. He panted hoarsely, torn between blood lust and sexual lust.

Aure's form stabilized further. "I have never 'stalked' you," he replied imperiously.

"You only search me out when you want sex," snapped Bryce, wiggling uncomfortably as he suffered through another grope.

"You don't seem to be complaining." To all outward appearances, the elemental stood as still as a statue. He'd known immediately what caused his old lover to react to the magistrate; he'd felt the same tingle from the human, and done the first thing that occurred to him that would immediately distract the vampire. He held back another smirk. He wasn't exactly complaining either.

Scowling as his body released blood lust to focus solely on the elemental, Bryce groaned. "Must you tease me to distraction?"

This time Aure did smirk, leaning forward to press palms against the table, whispering, "Perhaps I just like to flirt with Death."

Bryce rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop the fond smile which pulled up the corner of his mouth. "Shmuck." That was such a worn line, but, somehow, it never got old.

Aure flowed over and through the table like the air he was, enveloping the thief, wrapping him in his presence. Clothes were no barrier to the elemental, a fact he knew Bryce to both love and hate with equal measure. He'd first made love to this human vampire upon seeing him stretched out asleep in a mountain clearing, surrounded by the blooms of late spring, half-hidden by the tall grasses and shady trees. He'd been so beautiful, so enticing, that Aure hadn't resisted the desire to touch. Then, like now, he'd pressed himself against Bryce like a second skin. He was no longer surprised by the lack of body heat, but, then, he'd brushed against the sleeping man in wonder. Aure could surround Bryce fully, penetrate him and give the impression of penetration at the same time.

It had all been beautifully perfect, until Bryce had awoken. Seeing the evidence of the unknowing tryst had only made him more fearful and Aure had sneaked away in guilt. Still, he'd followed the vampire for days, Bryce going near mad with anxiety over the invisible fingers he kept imagining all over his body. He'd finally put one of his knives to his throat, demanding that whomever it was show himself.

Not having yet realized that Bryce was a vampire, that such a threat was an empty one, Aure had appeared. He'd started to apologize, but Bryce, with a relieved curse, only threw himself at Aure and they'd shortly been too busy for accusations or apologies.

An elemental was neither male nor female by birth; Aure chose a male form and address simply for convenience. There were times that Aure would mold himself into either man or woman for Bryce's pleasure, but, more often than not, they preferred to enjoy every nuance of the elemental's true form. Air lifted the hairs along arms and legs, kissed where it willed and in many places at once, and held Bryce in a blanket-like cocoon, heedless of clothing.

The vampire undid his britches quickly, leaning back into Aure's embrace. He didn't feel the chair beneath him, and supposed that he was now suspended in mid-air. He wrapped his arms around where a lover's back would be, knowing that Aure would give him something to cling to. Bryce had often sought multiple partners between Aure's 'visits,' trying to recreate the elemental's ability to kiss him, suck his cock, fuck him, and pleasure him head to toes, all at once.

"Oh!" he groaned. "Oh, oh, yes!" Every time Aure came back to him, Bryce questioned his sanity for ever letting him leave. He wanted to lock up the elemental somewhere and have sex all day and night for eternity.