Feast of Stephen Page 2

  “And then the mist lifted,” Merrick said, “and there was maybe forty bandits standing there with guns.”

  “Oh my God,” Stephen said from Crane’s side.

  “Quite.” Crane smiled mirthlessly. “That was a bad moment.”

  “Nothing good about bandits in that part of the world,” Merrick said. “Vicious bastards, they are, and all the guards, if you could call ’em that, still passed out.”

  “We didn’t stand a chance. They woke the camp, fairly brutally, started dividing us up,” Crane said. “The valuable people who could be ransomed, the awkward characters who would need to be killed, and the ones they could use. It is not a pleasant fate to be a young woman in bandit hands.”

  “Or a young man,” Merrick added, as Saint blanched. He indicated Crane with his glass. “Should have seen him. Pretty as a girl, he was. Course, that was a while ago now.”

  “Whereas you’ve barely changed, except for the effects of alcohol and low living,” Crane returned. “But then, if you start by looking like the southbound end of a northbound horse—”

  “Shut up!” Saint said, to Crane’s satisfaction. “I mean, sorry, my—your lordship, whatever, but I want to know what happened.”

  “Well, they dragged everyone out from the tents. There was a great deal of threatening and waving of weaponry, and Hendricks, the merchant, panicked.”

  Merrick exhaled through his teeth. “Didn’t he just. Went down on his knees and gave it up like he was paid for it. Told them Cha Li-Lin was poor as a church mouse for all his finery so not to bother ransoming him, and Mr Galt would get back every penny they took in skin so they’d be better off killing him now, but that Mrs Galt’s father would give good money to have her back—”

  “It took two bandits to get her off him,” Crane said reminiscently. “I’ve never heard such language.”

  “And then the stupid prick blurts out the one thing we’re all praying he won’t, which is, hey, that bloke over there is Lord Shen, the boss man of the Shanghai secret police. And that chucks the cat among the pigeons and no mistake, because Lord Shen’s put a lot of heads on stakes in his time—”

  “Whoa, whoa, stop,” Stephen said from Crane’s side. “Didn’t you say Lord Shen was your, uh, your—?”

  “Lover. That’s right.”

  Stephen spluttered. “But you were a smuggler!”

  “We was, yeah,” Merrick said. “But what you have to remember, sir is, smuggler or no smuggler, his lordship here is a fucking arsehole and always has been. Lord Shen.” He shook his head despairingly. “Not the stupidest thing you ever did, what with the warlord and all, but not far off it, either.”

  “Lovely eyes,” Crane said soulfully.

  “Lovely way with an execution order,” Merrick returned. “You like ’em dangerous, that’s your trouble. If they ain’t leaving a trail of dead, you ain’t interested. No offence, Mr. Day.”

  “So where we are,” Crane went on, while Stephen was momentarily speechless, “is on a mountainside, days from any law, grossly outnumbered, with one of the most hated officials in the whole province identified as part of our party, the bandit chief enumerating the many and varied tortures he could expect, of which crucifixion would be merely a highlight…and then that shitweasel Hendricks felt it needful to throw in that I was Shen’s foreign devil lover.”

  “Dutch fucker,” Merrick growled.

  “Quite. ‘Start with him, show Shen what will happen,’ the bandit chief said, and a couple of them grabbed me and pulled off the furs and shoved me onto the ground—”

  Stephen was rigid by his side. Saint had her hand to her mouth.

  “Now,” Crane said. “I don’t know if you know, Miss Saint, but I have a fairly sizeable tattoo on my back. A magpie.” Stephen and Saint made noises of strong protest at the digression. Crane grinned. “Merrick and I had both had tattoos, my magpie and his elephant and castle, imposed on us as…it’s a long story. A reward, or apology, or both, from the Dragon Head, or grand master, of one of the larger criminal organisations in China after we accidentally saved his son’s life.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “It’s a very long story. The point is that the tattoos were done by Dragon Head’s personal tattooist, and their origin was unmistakable to anyone who knew of the Three Tiger Claw society. At the time, I just regarded them as an unwanted and extremely painful gift. But in fact, what Dragon Head had done was to mark us with his name. So when the bandits kicked me to the ground with the intention of rapine and murder, what they saw was the brand of a man so powerful and deadly that half a dozen of them actually dropped to their knees there and then, and the bandit chief was left speechless.”

  “Fucking confusing, that was,” Merrick said. “One minute they’re yelling all this stuff they’re going to do to him, then dead silence, then a bunch of ’em start kowtowing, and the boss looks like he’s about to have an apoplexy. He says, where’d you get that tattoo? Vaudrey says it was off Dragon Head of the Three Tiger Claw, and I swear to God one of the bandit blokes starts crying.”

  “I think several of us felt like that,” Crane murmured.

  “They don’t know what to do. Some of ’em are like, what if we just kill everyone and pretend this never happened. Some of ’em are backing away, like, we can’t cross the Three Tiger Claw—”

  “And Tom Hart stepped forward and began to laugh like the Spirit of Christmas Past,” Crane said. “Great jolly booming laugh, echoing off the rocks. And he shouted, ‘Friends! Now we are friends here! Come, share our drink and celebrate our feast!’”

  “…he offered them drink?” Stephen echoed.

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t’ve either,” Merrick said. “But Mr Hart knew his stuff. Their boss didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just take his men and bugger off without losing face, but he knew if he killed magpie-boy here he was probably dead. He was stuck, and Mr Hart was showing him a way out. So, he says all that, Vaudrey picks himself up, arse naked and covered in mud—” Saint spluttered into her brandy “—goes over, pours drinks all ceremonial like it’s the Emperor’s court, and hands the chief a cup.” He shook his head, grinning at Crane. “Give you credit, my lord, you’ve got balls.”

  “Given how cold it was—” Crane began, with feeling. Stephen made a noise of strong objection. Saint cackled.

  “So my lord here and Mr Hart toast the bugger, with sixty people stood there wondering if we’re all going to die,” Merrick went on. “Chief looks at them, looks at the drink, looks around. Total silence. Then he takes a deep breath, and roars out, ‘Welcome to our mountain, friends!’ And then we sit on this bastard stretch of rock all morning, getting blind drunk with a mob of bandits.”

  “They wanted to know what feast it was and how we celebrated, so we taught them Good King Wenceslas,” Crane said. “Sang it till it echoed round the mountain and we were all best friends. We drank everything we had, and then they brought out their own home-distilled plum spirit.”

  “Don’t bloody remind me,” Merrick said. “We drank some shit in our time, but that—”

  “My head still hurts in bad weather.”

  “Merry fucking Christmas. Year after that, we went to the seaside.”

  “Cor. What about the Dutch geezer?” Saint asked. “The one who grassed you up?”

  “We felt obliged to take him out of bandit country. Leo and Lord Shen gave him a kicking in the back of the caravan, and then we dumped him a hundred miles from Shanghai and told him he could walk home.” Crane frowned. “Actually, now I think of it…did he ever come back?”

  Merrick shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Cor.” Saint was curled on the sofa now, leaning into Merrick’s side, eyes bright. “So what was the story about the tattoo, then?”

  “Uh-uh,” Crane said. “Your turn first.”

  “My turn?”

  “Christmastide by the fire. It’s a time for storytelling, and I’m sure you can cap that tale, one way or another.” Crane saluted h
er with his brandy glass and the smile that had got him out of almost as much trouble as it had got him into. “Let’s hear it, Miss Saint.”

  Saint’s chin went up. She glanced at Merrick, then at Stephen. “All right then, your highness. Hey, Mr. D, you remember that business on North Audley Street?”

  Merrick’s evil grin and Stephen’s appalled expression suggested that Saint was bringing out the big guns. Crane settled back in his chair and gestured for the bottle. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

  ***

  Stephen reclined against Crane’s legs with a satisfied sigh as the clocks chimed one. Merrick had whisked Saint off to bed at last, and they sat alone in front of the fire’s embers.

  “I am actually in pain from laughing,” Stephen said. “That was a marvellous night. Jenny had a wonderful time once you finally got her talking. I think this is going to work, you know.”

  “And then there were four.” Crane stroked Stephen’s hair. “I’m looking forward to this. Showing both of you the world outside England. Taking you to the mountains.”

  “As long as we avoid bandits.”

  “You and Miss Saint can handle all the bandits China can provide. Well, you’ll have to. The Three Tiger Claw is long gone, and even if it wasn’t, I’m not stripping down to my tattoo for anyone except you.”

  Stephen put up a hand. Crane caught it, gently tangling their fingers together. “Since it’s St Stephen’s Day, or rather, since St Stephen’s seems an appropriate date, I have something for you. Well, for us.” He tightened his hold on Stephen’s hand to stop him turning round. “No, stay there a moment.” His fingers felt just a little clumsy fishing the envelope from his pocket. That might have been the brandy, or it might not. “We spoke of this earlier, and I, uh…” He’d wanted to say something meaningful, but the hell with it. Stephen knew it all by now. “I liked you wearing my ring, my love. Do it again.”

  He turned Stephen’s palm up and emptied the envelope onto it. Stephen gave an urgent little gasp.

  As he should. Crane had had to exert a surprising amount of will and spend a lot of money to have these done in time, and he had been pleased with the result.

  Stephen picked up the smaller ring to examine it. Gold glittered in the firelight. Chips of quartz and onyx, cunningly set, formed the shape of a single magpie in flight, its long tail stretching around the ring. The larger ring was its mirror image, so that the birds could face each other.

  “I…” He stared. “They’re… I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s what you said last time I gave you a ring.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Stephen slipped the smaller ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand, held it out in admiration. “And then I said, ‘Thank you, Lucien.’”

  “And then, if I recall, you kissed me.”

  Stephen turned, kneeling on the footstool, and took Crane’s hand. His fingers were alive with their electric charge, almost painful. “I can’t speak as you do. You can talk your way out of certain death. And then you do something like this and I..I don’t have the words.” He hesitated, looking almost embarrassed, then rushed out, “Look, you, uh, you know the song?”

  “Song?”

  “Wenceslas.” Stephen cleared his throat. His voice was a little husky.

  “Sire, the night is darker now

  And the wind blows stronger

  Fails my heart, I know not how,

  I can go no longer.”

  Crane took up the king’s response in his deeper voice:

  “Mark my footsteps, my good page

  Tread thou in them boldly

  Thou shalt find the winter’s rage

  Freeze thy blood less coldly.”

  “That,” Stephen said. “It struck me when we were singing earlier. That’s what you do. When I’m with you, I can keep going. I’m braver. The whole world is warm for me because of you.” His hand trembled as he threaded the larger ring over Crane’s knuckle, and then he put his own hand over Crane’s, interlacing the fingers. “Two for joy.” It sounded like a vow.

  “Two for joy,” Crane repeated softly. “And I am quite sure you owe me a kiss by now.”

  “I don’t think that will suffice.” Stephen gestured with his free hand at the door. There was an audible click as the key turned, and Crane spared a second’s gratitude for whichever past Vaudrey had put brass fittings on the door rather than iron. Stephen hopped up onto his lap, straddling his legs. He leaned in to cup Crane’s face with both hands, the charge of his fingers prickling like snowflakes on skin, and kissed him. Crane could feel the shift of cloth and movement of buttons as he responded, Stephen undressing him with his powers, and he ran his own hands over his lover, down his back, under his waistband, doing his best to break the little witch’s concentration.

  He failed, though Stephen grunted protest into his mouth, because Stephen was putting everything he had into the kiss and it was overwhelming. Teeth and tongues, open mouths and the rasp of stubble, Stephen pulling at his hips, dragging at his clothing, caressing his face—Crane had no idea which were Stephen’s physical hands and which his magic, didn’t care enough to look. Featherlight touches were running the whole length of his skin, and Stephen’s breath, laced with brandy, rasped in his ear.

  Stephen slid down, to his knees, hands resting on Crane’s bare thighs. “Stay there,” he said. “I want to…”

  “Anything.”

  “Then don’t move.” Stephen’s eyes were luminous in the dark room, glowing gold. “My lord.”

  “My w— What the fuck?”

  “Me.”

  “Of course it is.” Crane made himself hold steady, controlling his breathing. It took an effort. Stephen was between his legs, sitting back on his heels, hands firm on Crane’s thighs, but his power was moving. It spread from his hands to wash over Crane’s skin, dripping and sliding, as thick and cool as he imagined mercury might feel. A quicksilver touch. Gentle pressure spiralled around his cock like a ribbon, looped around his balls, tightened all over.

  “Sweet Jesus!”

  “Good?”

  “Fuck.”

  “I’ll assume that’s good,” Stephen murmured. The power pulsed against Crane’s skin, slid downward, tendrils probing and exploring and, oh Christ, penetrating now. It was impossible to believe there was nothing there. Sensation along every nerve ending, deep pressure inside, just right—a long time since he’d felt that—the steady rhythm round his cock, sharper spangles of sensation going off all over his body now, at earlobes and nipples and neck. Stephen was working every part of him at once, and Crane couldn’t move under the barrage of pleasure. He was swearing in Shanghainese and English together, thrown back in the chair, hands locked on its arms, and Stephen was everywhere, all over him, unstoppable.

  “Tsaena. Shit. Stephen, please.”

  “I love you,” Stephen said softly. “I need you.” The pressure and pace increased as he spoke, spiralling upwards. Crane’s nails raked the upholstery. He had never felt less in control of his own body. “And there’s nobody in the world who can do this to you but me.”

  Crane made a hoarse noise. Stephen bent his head, lips closing warm over Crane’s cock, sending sensation clenching all over him at once, and he came so hard that he cried out with something that was almost pain.

  He managed to focus again after a few moments. Stephen was sitting back with an expression of intense self-satisfaction, eyes glowing gold.

  “Good God,” Crane croaked. “If that’s what a ring gets me, I intend to buy you a great deal more jewellery. Possibly a tiara.”

  “Well, this—” Stephen raised his hand as he spoke, and broke off, giving the ring on his finger a sharp look.

  “What? Oh, no, no, no. Don’t tell me the fucking birds are moving. Do not.” Crane sat up and glared at his own ring.

  “No, sorry, it’s fine. It was just a trick of the light,” Stephen said. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  Stephen sighed. “You might a
s well accustom yourself to the inevitable. Magpie rings, on us? I will wager anything you like, in a hundred years’ time, some distant Vaudrey relation is going to pick one of these up and think, Oh, what a lovely heirloom, and put it on, and the whole blasted business is going to start again.”

  “We may need to die at sea, then,” Crane said. “And if we fail to do that, it’s their problem.” He took Stephen’s hand, felt the champagne fizz against his skin. “Whereas my problem, at this moment, is how to improve on what you just did to me with only natural ingenuity and twenty years of practice to call upon. So come here, witch, and let me try.”

  ***

  London, New Year’s Eve

  The snow fell thickly here. It coated the blackened walls and grimy streets, brightening the darkness with a façade of purity that, the next day, would be kicked and filthied and turned into an icy, dangerous nuisance. For now, in the night, it was beautiful.

  Jonah Pastern sat on the parapet of St Paul’s Cathedral, looking over the city. Snowflakes flurried around him, melting instantly a few inches from his body thanks to the layer of warmth he had wrapped around himself.

  New Year’s Eve. He should have been celebrating it. They should have been celebrating, in bed, ringing the new year in with kisses. He shouldn’t be up here alone with a flask of gin and a pain that wouldn’t go away. But he was, and there was not a single thing he could do about it.

  “Happy New Year, lover. To us. Wherever you are, and wherever I am.” He raised the flask to the air, drained it, and flung it away, careless of where it fell. “Happy New Year, and God rot the bastards, every one.”

  The building under him began to vibrate with the deafening resonance of the bells. He stood and leapt out, over the parapet, into the cold, empty air, alone.

  It was time to run again.

  ###

  Books by KJ Charles

  Thanks for reading!

  The Charm of Magpies series, in chronological order