Fresh Meat Page 7

  "When did you get such a flashy car?"

  "I bought it months ago. Jackie is like every other magic user—sorcerers travel by magic and by foot, never occurs to him to hop in a car once in a while." Wyatt rolled his eyes. "Since I've settled in the city, seemed like a good thing to have. I'm still working on warding it, but I've got the most basic ones done."

  Deacon laughed. He helped haul in as much as he could and deposited it in the front hall to deal with later. Wyatt firmly held on to a handsome rosewood case stamped with Mordred's crest, but when Deacon cast him a look, he only set his chin and shook his head.

  "Okay." Deacon retrieved his gun and holstered it, then led the way through the house back to the kitchen, where his sandwich had mysteriously gone missing. "Pen! Stop stealing my food!"

  A distant, lazy growl was all the answer he got. Deacon sighed and set to fixing a new sandwich. He half expected Wyatt to offer to help, and relaxed when he only went around poking into things and putting together some monstrosity of a salad.

  "So can I ask a personal question?" Wyatt asked.

  "Sure, long as you don't mind I may not answer it."

  "Yeah, obviously," Wyatt said. "You're Muslim right? Why in the world is a Muslim dude named Deacon."

  Deacon laughed, nearly dropping the mayo he was holding. "It's a nickname that stuck. The man who was basically the clan teacher for all of us preschool and kindergarten age kids, his name was Deacon. He joined Mordred after his wife was killed by a Wendigo, way before my time. He used to be an actual deacon when he was a normal, and it stuck around as his nickname. I had a bad case of hero worship, so my friends used to make fun of me by calling me 'Little Deacon'. Somewhere along the way, the 'little' part got dropped, and when the original Deacon passed away, I inherited the title, I guess." He smiled. "My actual name is Asim—Asim Ghanem."

  "Asim Ghanem. Wyatt Thorne isn't the name I was born with, but I prefer to leave that name behind. Nothing good ever came of it."

  "Yeah, I guess not," Deacon said, and left off his sandwich to pull Wyatt in close and kiss his temple. Letting go after a couple of minutes, he asked, "So can I ask about that knife you used to gut those goblins?"

  Wyatt finished his latest noisy bite of salad, then stepped away from the table to remove the jacket he still wore. Setting it aside, he reached behind him and withdrew the knife from a sheath he must wear at the small of his back. He set the knife on the table.

  Part of Deacon wanted to recoil, recalling all that knife had done. But it was a part of Wyatt, and if this was going to work, a part he needed to get used to—accept. Shoving down all his knee-jerk fears, Deacon looked at the knife like he would any weapon in his own arsenal.

  It really did have elements of both a hunting knife and carving knife, and looked like something that would go for a whole heck of a lot of dollars at an auction or something.

  The hilt, though, was what really caught Deacon's eye, just as it had the first time he'd seen it. "Is that bone?"

  "Yeah. When I was ten, before he ditched me with my aunt and uncle and vanished, my father gave the bone to me. Belonged to my grandfather; his femur. He said I should do something with it, and I'd know what eventually. Not quite 'bones of my grandfather carved by my father' but close enough. There's no magic in my knife, but a demon who saw it once said it had the strength of energies. It's mine, all the way to the ground, as Jackie would say. Only other person who's touched it was the woman who made it for me."

  "It's basically a talisman," Deacon said. "Not magical, but a talisman all the same. That's amazing. No wonder you're so good with it—skill and aura-resonance." He smiled. "Thank you."

  Wyatt nodded and stowed the knife again, and with it went a weight, a shadow, that Deacon hadn't even noticed was there until it was gone.

  Picking up his fork, Wyatt went back to demolishing his ridiculous salad.

  "Did you put the whole kitchen in that thing?" Deacon asked as he finished cutting his sandwich into small triangles that were easy to eat one-handed.

  "I'm hungry," Wyatt said, shoving another quarter of the salad into his mouth.

  Deacon chuckled, and they finished their meal in a comfortable silence. When they were done and the kitchen clean, he said, "Shall we take your bags upstairs and then explore the house? I've wandered around it a bit, but not really looked close at anything. It's a bit… much."

  "Rust definitely thought he was the Sun King." Wyatt hefted most of his bags as they returned to the hall, clutching the rosewood case protectively. Deacon grabbed the rest and followed Wyatt upstairs.

  In the hall, though, Wyatt stopped. "Uh. So. Should I, um—" He turned apple red and stared a hole into the floor.

  Deacon frowned for a moment, and then comprehension hit. "It's always a good idea to have your own space, but I was kind of hoping we'd sleep in the same bed, at least eventually."

  At that, Wyatt lit up like an overloaded Christmas tree. "Which room is yours?" Deacon pointed, and Wyatt headed into the room right across the hall. He reappeared before Deacon could reach him, took everything he was holding, and vanished with it.

  Then he was back, practically bouncing in place. "So what should we do first?"

  "Go see Pentacle, who wants to see you but is also a lazy dragon baking in the sun."

  Wyatt laughed. "I swear dragons are just a special breed of cat."

  "I don't know a single knight who would argue with you." Deacon smiled and motioned, and Wyatt fell into step on his right side, smiling shyly before looking away. Deacon nearly pushed him against the railing and kissed him breathless but restrained himself. Time enough for that.

  They wended their way to the back of the house, Wyatt snarking about the décor the whole time, until they reached the pool area. It was a beautiful pool, long and curving, resembling a pond, with green and blue tiles, and piles upon piles of plants that made the whole thing look like a private lagoon. There was even a hot tub at the far end, set above the pool itself and cascading into a waterfall.

  Pentacle was sprawled nearby, thoroughly baked, his black scales gleaming and glinting. Deacon almost needed sunglasses to avoid the glare. Rumbling, Pentacle heaved to his feet and clicked his way over to them—and nearly toppled an inexperienced Wyatt right into the water as he butted and rubbed. Deacon caught him, held him close and acted as a wall while Pentacle express his excitement at finally seeing Wyatt again.

  "He likes to have his eyes ridges rubbed, if you felt like indulging the spoiled brat. He's happy you're here—and that I've finally stopped being stupid. He's tried to tell me for ages that you liked me."

  Wyatt rubbed the eyes ridges, smiling at the way Pentacle promptly started rumbling. "You didn't believe him?"

  Deacon snorted. "Of course not. You're young, smart, and gorgeous. You also seemed to be friends with everyone except me, and always seemed uncomfortable around me. I'm sorry I ever gave the impression I hated you—hey, wait." Deacon turned him around. "You said something once about us having met before."

  "In Oliver's office, years ago."

  "Ah," Deacon said. "That wasn't a good time for me. I was dealing with all sorts of problems for Mordred. I wouldn't have noticed if my mother came back to life, and I was the one who found her body. But I'm sorry."

  "It's okay." Wyatt tipped his head to the side. "What happened to your mom? If it's okay to ask."

  Deacon looked away, staring at the water, seeing his mother's body all over again. "She was murdered. There was a man she'd been hunting, who'd been somehow getting past Mordred's wards and robbing people—breaking into their homes, stealing stuff, occasionally hurting people, eventually killing a few. He managed to get away, and we thought he was gone for good, but… he broke into her office and hid there. Slit her throat before she knew it'd happened."

  "I'm so sorry," Wyatt said. "I know a bit about finding people you know dead—my mother, some people in the neighborhood when I lived with my aunt and uncle… I found my aunt and uncle torturing them. Th
ey'd been abusing me, but I didn't know they were into the torture-and-kill like my grandfather. They had two other people helping them. We monsters are everywhere."

  "Wyatt, you don't have—"

  "I know," Wyatt said. "But you of all people deserve to hear some of what I've come from. There were seven in all, that day. My aunt, uncle, the two helping them, and their current three victims. Combined with father and grandfather, my family has killed somewhere in the hundreds, maybe even thousands. But that day, when I realized they were monsters too, that they didn't fight it like me, I killed them. Sliced them up. Made them suffer. Enjoyed it." He swallowed, looking away. "Then I put their victims out of their misery, because there wasn't really anything left to save in them." He looked back at Deacon, eyes a mix of blue and black, though the blue was steadily winning out. "Did you ever catch the bastard who killed your mom?"

  "Yeah, I did," Deacon said. "Put a sword through his heart and threw his head on a pyre with some of my mother's belongings so she'd know she was avenged." He grimaced. "Not something I'm sure I could do these days. It was hard enough back then—that was when my hair started going gray. By the end of that year, it was all gray."

  Wyatt only looked more forlorn than ever. "I don't understand what you'd see in me, now you know I'm worse than everything else that's ever tormented you. Worse than the goblins that took your arm."

  "Leaving aside that I could never hate you for saving my life, you're worlds different from them. They torment and murder and pretend they have good reasons for doing so. You might like those same things, but you admit it—and control it." Brushing a soft kiss across his mouth, Deacon continued, "The first time I kissed someone, it was Pentacle. The second time was you." Wyatt's eyes widened, cheeks going pink. "Maybe I didn't know everything about you then, but I knew enough. However scared and uncertain I was when I first woke up after the attack, and the few days after, I'm not anymore. Even if you were a monster, which you're not, I'll take a monster of honesty and integrity over a human of cowardness and treachery. Okay?"

  "Okay," Wyatt whispered, looking near to tears, his blue eyes full of fear and hope.

  Deacon kissed him, because obviously it wasn't okay yet, but he had faith they'd get there. "Shall we continue with the tour?"

  "Uh." Wyatt stared blankly, and Deacon grinned. Wyatt scowled. "Yes, let's continue with the tour."

  Snickering, Deacon asked, "You coming or staying, lazy bones?" Pentacle flopped back down on the tiles, and Deacon rolled his eyes. "Come on, I'll show you the ballroom."

  "Ballroom? All the way out here? Somehow I doubt the Rust Syndicate did much waltzing." Wyatt snorted. "Probably can't even do the chicken dance."

  Deacon chuckled. "No, probably not. But we'll be able to convert it to something infinitely more useful. Gym. Meeting hall. Something like that." He pushed open the doors to the ballroom and stood back.

  "Oh, my god," Wyatt said, gawking as he stepped inside. "It looks like a cupcake. Or a brothel. What the hell does Rust's bedroom look like?"

  "I haven't been brave enough to find out," Deacon replied. He flicked a hidden switch on the wall, and the crystal chandeliers burst to life, adding a glittery, rainbow effect to a room that really didn't need further assistance with looking gaudy. Wyatt burst into cackling delight, and Deacon smiled. He vastly preferred this happy, laughing Wyatt to the one who looked terrified that he was about to be cast out.

  "There's music!" Wyatt fiddled with some electronics Deacon hadn't noticed in his cursory lookover before and practically fell over in a fit of giggles as hip-hop filled the room, the pounding bass making the chandeliers shake.

  Deacon lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm going to guess Rust didn't know his ballroom got commandeered at one point. I just can't see him allowing anything but the most boring classical music on earth."

  Wyatt grinned as he killed the music. "What's next?"

  "Take your pick. I think Rust's office is nearby. I didn't look at it earlier; I was afraid I'd walk into a hunting lodge or something."

  Making a face, Wyatt turned off the lights and led the way back to the hallway. Deacon indicated the room that was Rust's office, according to the papers he'd brought, and Wyatt took the keys on Deacon's belt to unlock it. He slipped in first and reappeared after a moment. "No hunting lodge."

  "Thank you," Deacon said, feeling silly he needed someone to look for such things for him, but mostly just relieved he didn't have to walk unprepared into a room full of mounted heads.

  He expected more Versailles, since hunting lodge had been ruled out, but the room he walked into was nothing like either.

  In fact, it was a surprisingly handsome room, warm and inviting. The entire east wall was a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, which Deacon had always loved best about Amr's penthouse. Everything was made from rich brown leather, warm, dark-gold wood, and shades of deep cranberry and honey.

  There was a massive desk to one side, the kind that formed a corner, both sides of equal length, with a chair that looked wickedly comfortable. Behind it were empty bookshelves aching to be filled. Beautiful fancy lamps with stained-glass shades sat in two corners, and the third was taken up by a bronze statue of a supine dragon.

  The front half of the room had a sofa and chairs, a coffee table with flowers and books, all framing a handsome fireplace that sported a soft-looking, shaggy rug that Pentacle would never leave once he found it.

  Beyond the windows was a small garden, complete with pond, waterfall, and all kinds of furniture—even a hammock. On nice days, the windows could all be opened, a flower-scented breeze flowing through the room…

  "This doesn't seem like Rust," Deacon said, bitter that such a scumbag as that had owned such a beautiful, inviting office, a place to connect with his people. It was the kind of space he'd always dreamed of having, the kind of thing only people like Amr got. Deacon was a glorified soldier, and soldiers didn't need fancy offices.

  "Pretty sure it's not," Wyatt said, and lifted an envelope from the desk blotter. "This has your name."

  "Odd." Deacon crossed the room and took it, frowning at Amr's personal crest sealing it shut. Breaking it, he pulled out the small rectangle of cardstock inside. "The rest of the place will be yours to design, but we did this for you, well before the goblins tried to ruin everything. Congratulations, Master of Dragons." Deacon dropped the card and envelope on the desk, eyes stinging, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Master of Dragons…"

  "What is that?" Wyatt asked, tucking the card back into the envelope and returning it to the blotter.

  "It's an old title, one Mordred hasn't had in generations because, well, no dragons." Deacon wiped his face. "It's essentially the master trainer for the clan, of knights and dragons. A step up from Captain of the Guard—technically they would report to me. I don't know who that will be now. Probably Heather. I can't…"

  He couldn't believe such an important position had just been given to him. It had never occurred to him Amr would reinstate it, especially since between him, Ken, and Heather, they had all the duties associated with the Master of Dragons covered. "It's the kind of title people used to fight for the honor of having bestowed. I had no idea Amr would bring it back, let alone simply give it to me."

  Wyatt scoffed. "Please. If anyone was bound to get that kind of title, it was you."

  "What do you mean?"

  That got him more disbelieving noises, and an incredulous look. "The way you hold court at Heaven, the way everyone turns to you for help, advice, how dragons, knights, former syndicate—everyone—respects you. I'm pretty sure everyone already considers you the Master of Dragons." Wyatt smiled sheepishly. "Why do you think I assumed you'd never notice me? I'm half your age, everybody admires you, and at least half of them want you. They'd all have way more to offer, and none of them are a bitchy psychopath who enjoys killing."

  "Shows how smart you are. How does it feel to be wrong for once, oh mighty alchemist?"

  "I've never claimed to be right all th
e time, just to be exceptionally smart and better at alchemy than everyone else."

  Deacon chuckled and leaned in to kiss him, long and slow and sweet, going easily when Wyatt leaned against the desk and dragged him in closer. He braced himself on his hand and feasted leisurely at that perfect mouth, enjoying the hand in his hair, the other one looped lightly around him.

  Pulling away slowly, Wyatt met his gaze, eyes so blue a man could drown in them, and said, "Wanna break your office in, Master of Dragons?" He touched his tongue to his top lip, and he was even prettier when he was well-kissed and aroused. Deacon needed to see him when he came. "Lots of options in here."

  "My office seems a little crude and selfish for our first time."

  "And what, all those bedrooms that belonged to syndicate goons are better? Forget it. This is your space. Now pick a spot before I shove you down on this desk and ride you."

  Deacon groaned at that image but managed to ditch his gun and drag Wyatt over to the sofa. He dropped down on it and pulled Wyatt into his lap, wishing only that he had two arms to grip those trim hips and pull them flush together. But Wyatt seemed to read his mind, twining his arms around Deacon's neck and grinding against him.

  "You are ridiculously beautiful," he managed before fisting his hand in Wyatt's hair and dragging him into a hungry kiss, determined to claim this gorgeous, enthralling man nobody else had ever had the sense to hold on to.

  Wyatt met him full-on, feasting on his mouth, tongue pushing in to taste and explore, pressed against him like it would cost something to be torn away. "Am I seriously the only lover you've had besides your dragon?"

  "Yes," Deacon said. "It's one of the few things I'm traditionalist about." He shrugged, tamping down on nerves and embarrassment he was way too old to be feeling. "That bad?"

  Wyatt looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "You've got to be kidding me. No. Just I almost feel sorry that no one else will know how much fun you are."

  "Almost," Deacon echoed.

  Wyatt grinned, and then they were back to doing their level best to kiss each other senseless.