The Only Option (6 page)

Swearing, Rochus withdrew, called up several will-o-the-wisps, and cast them out to form a circle around him, made them glow with blinding brilliance. The dead circled him, drawing ever closer, and from somewhere in the back, Rochus could hear a smug little chuckle.

“So you're the mighty Magus Rochus. You don't seem terribly impressive.”

“I'm certainly going to mightily shove my boot up your ass, especially if you hurt my cat,” Rochus retorted, and now he could feel the sharp prickle of holy magic, the purview of priests, healers, and the Queen's Hands—those charged with traveling the land to administer judgment in the far reaches where courts were not available. They also investigated petitions and sometimes helped magi resolve matters, since anything requiring a petition for help usually meant somebody had been breaking laws.

If a Hand was involved in this mess, whatever this mess was, that certainly helped explain why so many petitions had gone astray. It also explained how word had traveled so quickly that Tilo had secured help anyway.

The magi laughed and the sharp tang of holy magic wafted on the air, stirring the wandering dead into a frenzy. Rochus swore, made the wisps glow even brighter though that meant they were too bright for even him to bear. He pulled his dagger and slit his left palm, grimacing at the pain, but there was no help for it—if he was going to survive, there was no time for finesse.

He surged forward, grabbed one of the wandering dead, and dragged it into the circle of wisps. Then he reached into a pocket, cast down several gleaming white stones, and spoke the words to activate the spell.

“That won't hold for long,” the unseen controller of the dead said with a laugh.

Already Rochus could see and feel the ward fraying, unable to withstand the press of so much necromantic power. But hopefully it would hold just long enough.

He knocked the dead he held over, pinned it to the ground, and wrapped his bloody hand around its collar. The holy magic layered upon it burned him, tears of pain streaming down his cheeks, but it was hardly the first time he had been forced to endure the smell of his own burning flesh, so Rochus ignored it.

Instead he poured all his energy into breaking the spell on the collar. But the spell was well-made, had probably taken the efforts of at least two necromancers and the holy magi who'd added the protections afterward.

Just as he was beginning to pass out, he felt the spell break—and all around him the dead rushed in as they finally broke through the ward.

Rochus snarled and took control of them through the broken collar, wresting control from the startled puppet master whose face he still had not seen. The dead went still mere steps from overtaking him. Rochus ordered them back with a sharp gesture, and drove them to their knees. Reaching out through the ether, he found the broken soul used to create the wandering dead and tore it from the bodies, set the soul free.

The bodies collapsed.

Turning toward the source of the only remaining magic, Rochus glared at the shrouded figure walking toward him. “Where's my fucking cat?”

“You're as talented as promised after all,” the figure replied, then drew a sword and rushed him, throwing out blinding holy light that worked far too well at rendering Rochus helpless.

He was saved by Song and Silence, who dove and swooped and pecked at the figure and threw him off balance. A moment later, Fury joined the fray, slamming into the bastard and sending him flying into a tree with a sickening crunch.

Rochus could feel him dying. He stalked over to the Hand and knelt, threw back the hood of the man's cloak to reveal a face he didn't know. “What makes Rothenberg Kill worth all this trouble?”

The man spat blood in his face, tried to speak, died with the words gurgling on his lips. Rochus reached out, captured the faintly glimmering spirit as it tried to depart. He beckoned Fury close, stood and extracted a small wooden box from his saddlebags, and drew out the shimmering black crystal within. He whispered softly and the crystal glowed with dark violet light, casting out tendrils that drew the captured spirit into it, then faded once more to a gentle shimmer.

Rochus dropped to the ground, overtaken by exhaustion and dizziness. He looked at his hand, then looked away again, grateful he was long inured to such grisly sights. Way back when he'd first started out, he'd emptied his stomach several times on every assignment. It had taken him months to adjust.

Fury nuzzled anxiously at him, and Rochus reached up with his good hand to pet him. “I'll be all right. We all know I've endured worse. Come on, help me up.” Fury turned and Rochus was just able to reach up and grab hold of his saddle. He heaved himself up, swayed slightly, and unthinkingly reached out with his left hand to steady himself.

Agonizing pain shot through him, and with a cry, Rochus blacked out.

He stirred some time later, seeing only darkness, the vague outline of someone leaning over him. Could smell a fire, hear it crackling. He could also hear someone muttering, “You'll be all right, you'll be all right.”

Rochus tried to ask who the idiot was trying to reassure, but the words wouldn't form. He was tired. Hungry. So fucking hungry. And colder than he could remember being for a long time. What had happened? He couldn't make his mind work.

The desire to even keep trying skittered away as blood filled his mouth. It was warm, sweet… familiar… Rochus tried to turn away, something nagging at the back of his head, but he still felt bereft when it vanished—and relieved and upset all at once when the wrist he'd been sucking from was replaced by a hot mouth. Fingers tightened in his hair, holding him still as that mouth took his, filling it with blood from a torn lip. Rochus whimpered, kissed harder. He lifted his hand—

“Careful,” a voice said gruffly. “Your hand is still in bad shape.”

Rochus dragged his eyes open, stared up into Tilo's face, just visible now in the flickering firelight. “What are you doing here?”

“A couple of birds dragged me here,” Tilo replied, mouth curving into a brief smile. It fell away as he added, “You were in bad shape when I found you, and you're being particularly stubborn about drinking my blood.”

“I don't want it,” Rochus said and tried to turn away. He was
tired.
Not from lack of sleep, just depletion of life. Necromancy was draining on a good day, and the combination of battling wandering dead, holy magic, and then capturing a spirit…

He was cold, so cold he ached. The fire was warm, but not nearly as appealing as the body heat still pressed against him, the dragon blood thrumming through his body.

The last time he'd been this miserable after a fight had been five years ago. He'd managed to make it home, thanks largely to his pets, only to find his lover at the time gone, nothing but a fucking note to mark she'd been there at all.

“Let me help,” Tilo said.

“Go away,” Rochus said, feebly pulling away when Tilo tried to roll him back over. He'd be damned if he let Tilo's guilt and his own weakness persuade him to do something they'd both regret later, no matter how much he ached for it.

Tilo said something rude and colorful enough that ordinarily Rochus would have laughed. “Stop being a stubborn bastard and let me help. I
want
to help.”

“You want to save your home,” Rochus bit out. “That's not even close to—” He was cut off as Tilo finally lost patience and yanked hard, forcing Rochus onto his back.

Tilo straddled him, hands braced on either side of Rochus's head. “I know you have it in your head that I'm sacrificing myself or something, but if you'd stop throwing snits and listen to me, you'd find there's not really any sacrificing going on from my perspective.”

“I don't—” Rochus broke off with a gasp as Tilo rubbed against him like the evil little bastard he was proving to be, “—don't throw snits.”

“Yes, you do,” Tilo said. He leaned down, and fresh blood painted his bottom lip as he hovered just out of reach over Rochus's mouth. “Would you trust me to know my own mind? I didn't get here in time to help you when you could have used it, so let me help now.”

Rochus surrendered. He'd hate himself for it later, but damn it, he couldn't keep refusing when Tilo kept offering.

Seeing victory, Tilo kissed him, and Rochus moaned at the heat and taste of him, the sweet blood that filled his mouth. Tilo's hands curved around his head, fingers sinking into his hair. Rochus lifted his good hand to curl around him, distantly annoyed that his left hand was still useless.

He frowned when Tilo drew back, but before he could voice a protest, he was distracted by the baring of all that lovely skin he hadn't for a moment forgotten, though he'd spent hours trying. Naked, seemingly oblivious to the chilly winter air because dragons were brats that way, Tilo once again straddled Rochus. He kissed Rochus hard, leaving his lips pleasantly sore, then began to work his way down the length of Rochus's bare chest, pushing aside the folds of the cloak that had helped keep him warm.

When he reached Rochus's breeches, Tilo opened them and pulled his cock out. Before the chilly air could make Rochus regret his decision, that hot, evil little mouth dropped over it and sucked with truly impressive skill and enthusiasm.

Rochus groaned, fingers twisting in the fabric of the discarded cloak, left hand twitching with the need to do something, his head thumping against the ground. Tilo sucked hard, took him deeper, and Rochus was helpless to do anything but fuck his mouth, thrusting as hard as he could without causing harm, drunk on the blazing eyes that glanced up at him through long lashes.

“Get back here,” he snarled when Tilo abruptly pulled off. He finally sat up, but in the next breath forgot what he'd intended to do, ensnared by the sight of Tilo fucking himself on his own fingers, his other hand wrapped around his own cock, eyes making the campfire look dull by comparison as he watched Rochus. He gave a husky laugh, mouth curving in a little smirk. “Brat,” Rochus muttered, and pulled away the hand on Tilo's cock to replace it with his own.

He would never admit how much he liked the way Tilo leaned in to him, rested against him as he fought between the pleasure of Rochus's hand and that of his own fingers as he worked his hole open. Eventually Rochus took that over as well, spreading Tilo out on the ground, admiring how decadent and debauched he looked spread on their rumpled cloaks, firelight bathing his sweat-gleaming skin.

When he could take no more of the teasing, Rochus spread Tilo's legs wide and settled between them, lined up his cock, and thrust inside with no warning. He groaned at the tight heat that surrounded him, bracing himself on his good hand, pausing to gather breath. Hot, slender fingers clung to his shoulders, and Tilo's legs wrapped around his hips. “Get to it, magus, or are you so old you've forgotten how it's done?”

“You're not this cocky outside of fucking,” Rochus said, but he didn't give Tilo a chance to reply, just did as he was told and got to the fucking.

If there was anything sweeter than fucking Tilo, with the way he clung and begged with those blazing eyes, whispered filthy promises between moans and pants, Rochus didn't want to know about it. He stubbornly ignored every guilty thought nagging at him, that he was just repeating the mistake that had gotten him into this mess to begin with, and pounded into Tilo until he was breathless and sore and couldn't hold back a second more.

He clamped his mouth over Tilo's as he came, shifted enough to get his hand around Tilo's cock to stroke him off, loving the way his body clamped down on Rochus's cock and wrung the last of his orgasm from him.

Rochus collapsed on top of Tilo in a melted, sated heap, breathing heavily, and black spots smearing his vision. He tried to say something, though he wasn't exactly sure what, but before the words could form, exhaustion washed over him and dragged him under.

When he woke again, it was to sunlight and snowfall, though none of it was on him because Tilo had apparently built some sort of shelter for them from branches, leaves, and somebody's cloak.

An annoyed mew drew his attention, and Rochus smiled with happy relief as Memory came limping over to him. He examined her bandaged leg, then whispered a soft spell, lending some of his own strength to speed the healing. “Thank you, beautiful. I'm sorry you were hurt helping me.”

She licked his hand and nuzzled his face, then with a flounce of her massively fluffy tail, strutted off to go back to playing with Song and Silence. Fury was nearby under the shelter of an enormous tree, and whinnied softly at him in greeting.

Of a certain dragon, however, there was no sign, though his bags were there, so Rochus assumed Tilo hadn't wandered off too far.

Guilt churned in his gut as the night came back to him, hazy and dull at the edges, but just enough clarity he couldn't avoid just how damned stupid and weak and pathetic he'd been. He couldn't even place a single shred of blame on Tilo this time. It was all him.

Rochus sighed and raked his hair from his face, found his spectacles where they'd been set nearby, then stared down at his poor left hand. Tilo had bandaged it with the same meticulous care he'd bandaged Memory's leg… and how interesting that Memory had allowed it when normally she never let strangers touch her. Rochus looked up and sought out Memory, who stared back at him with her softly glowing eyes and gave a soft, burring mew.

Apparently Tilo possessed a talent for charming dead, spoiled brat cats.

Rochus tried not to think about Tilo's other talents, but he apparently possessed an alarming weakness for young, cocky dragons who seemed eager to fuck him.

Seemed
being the important bit, of course, and that withered the good mood he'd almost achieved.

Biting back another sigh, Rochus shoved away the blankets still covering him and hunted out his clothes. By the time he was dressed, he could hear Tilo returning—or someone else approaching the camp, he supposed, but given his pets hadn't so much as stirred, he assumed it was Tilo.

A moment later Tilo appeared, arms full of firewood, cheeks flushed with exertion, eyes as bright and beautiful as ever. Rochus wanted to kiss him, drag him back to their makeshift bed, and see what Tilo looked like when he was fucking Rochus into the ground. But he also wanted to never see the vexing, infuriating bastard ever again, didn't want to desire somebody who only fucked him from necessity and guilt.