Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 13

  “Just being silly,” Thornby said. “And the earth did help. Quite a bit, I think. Being closer helped too. What about you? You look thoughtful.”

  “I’ve been speaking to your father. I thought he might tell me something useful about the curse.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m looking for, you see, and he plays his cards damned close. So, I’m going to come up with as many obsolete charms as I can, in the hope that one of them has some effect on fairy magic. If I find anything that seems useful, I’ll go and see him again, and see if I can unpick anything.”

  “Will that work? It sounds a bit hit or miss.”

  “My materials suggest things, sometimes. I think they know things I don’t. That’s how I got to that other place. I hope they’ll help me now.”

  “Would it help if you tried things out on me? I mean, if something affects me, then presumably it’ll affect the curse.”

  “Experimenting with magic? On you?”

  His horror must have been obvious, because Thornby said quickly, “Bad idea?”

  John opened his mouth, then closed it. The idea was appalling. And yet—would it be better than trying things on a cursed man? No, it was too dangerous. The whole point was to get Thornby away unharmed, not to ruin his life more. John opened his mouth a second time to refuse, then closed it again. How else would he know if he’d found something that worked? Experiment on a hedgehog and get trapped again? He might not get out a second time, even with Thornby’s help.

  “Why don’t you come in while you think about it?” Thornby opened the door to his room.

  The moment John went through it, Thornby closed the door and put his arms around him. “So, in five minutes, can I kiss you?”

  John couldn’t help smiling, even as all the blood in his body was rushing to his cock. “Maybe not five. Wait a minute.”

  He did the calculation he always had to do; time passed minus power expended. The rowan light, drying the clothes and dead leaves, stopping the wind, the wards, the work with the chain. Now it was about nine o’clock. This time he came up with a negative answer. Not worth the risk. He disentangled himself from Thornby, dug out a couple of iron pins and spent power into them.

  Thornby was watching closely, lips parted, pupils dilated. Well, he’d said he liked being made to wait. John put the pins on the floor by the door, where they balanced like two little grey guardsmen. But the magic was impotent, contained harmlessly.

  He took Thornby in his arms.

  This time it was Thornby who said, “Wait.”

  “Are you being funny?” If Thornby was teasing him at a time like this, he’d make him sorry. Oh, how he’d make him pay.

  Thornby rolled his eyes. “The door. There’s no key. Can you do that thing again? Not that I’m expecting anyone, but—”

  “The chimera key? It takes an age. I’m not waiting that long. Hang on.” There was a chair in the study. John got it, on legs of aspic, and jammed it under the door handle.

  “That’s not very impressive, Mr Blake.” Thornby’s smile belied his snooty tone. “I was hoping for magic.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Thornby leaned in, eyes closing. John kissed him—gently, just lips. Thornby angled his head and John felt the flicker of his tongue; it turned his knees to water. But after a moment, John pushed him away. Last time, he had been too overcome for any finesse. This time would be slower; more to his liking.

  “First, some clothes,” John said. He began to undress Thornby. He did it methodically, one button at a time, feeling Thornby tremble at his touch, eyes pleading. Thornby was biting his bottom lip, that beautiful red mouth getting redder from his own teeth. When Thornby tried to touch him, John knocked his hands away.

  “John, can’t I—”

  Thornby was no innocent to need kind words and encouragement; their first encounter had shown that. John held up an admonishing finger. “No. You can wait.”

  Thornby balled his hands into fists, shifting uncomfortably. John finished unbuttoning his old-fashioned black shirt and let it fall to the ground. Shirtless, Thornby was even more desirable: thin, but strong-looking, arms well-knit with sinew and muscle. His chest was nearly hairless, nipples dark against the pallor of his skin, stomach taut. The front of his tight breeches did not leave much to the imagination. A spot of moisture was growing there, darker black on black silk. Not allowed to touch John, it was clear he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands. Ah, the triumph of seeing that elegance confounded; a little awkward, a little unsure.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” John said. “Come on, take off the rest.”

  Thornby obeyed, finally standing naked in the cold morning light. Thornby’s cock, pink at the tip, and jutting out in front of him, was already leaking clear fluid. John looked him up and down, trying to steady himself. The white bandage around Thornby’s ankle drew his attention. Thornby’s foot, below the bandage, was mottled, pink and white. An old burn? That must be why he sometimes limped. But it looked a little—odd. John hadn’t noticed it last night in the rowan twig’s unnatural blue light.

  “John?” Half question, half plea. The pulse in Thornby’s throat was beating as fast as a bird’s wings.

  “All right,” John said. “My turn. You can do it.”

  He enjoyed making the better-born ones turn valet. Some of them hated it. But Thornby stepped forward readily enough and removed John’s jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, untied his cravat. John let him struggle with his cufflinks, take off his shirt, unbutton his fly—but when Thornby reached into his drawers and trailed light fingertips up his cock, John grabbed his wrist.

  “You have to wait. Remember?”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  John sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots and socks. Slowly. He stood, removed his trousers, and finally, his drawers. Then he stood there for a moment, letting Thornby look, enjoying the expression on his face. Then John sat again and held out his arms in invitation.

  Thornby came, putting his hands on John’s shoulders. John put his hands on Thornby’s hips and pulled him until Thornby’s cock bobbed close to his mouth. It was a pretty cock; slender, like Thornby, with a graceful curve. John licked his lips and felt Thornby quiver. John looked up. Thornby’s brows were furrowed. He was breathing through his mouth, his eyes huge and black.

  It would be very fine to take Thornby in his mouth and give him what he wanted. But not yet. Ignoring Thornby’s cock, John rested his head against that lovely narrow chest. He used his tongue on a nipple, stroked Thornby’s round buttocks, fondled his balls, and finally ran a wet knuckle down the cleft of his arse, smiling to himself as Thornby made a sound like a sob. He did it several times, finally grinding his knuckle against Thornby’s puckered arsehole. Thornby whimpered, and pushed his hips forward so the tip of his cock grazed John’s chin.

  “Oh, Christ! John—”

  John stood and pushed Thornby down on the bed. Then he lay down himself with his mouth on Thornby’s cock, his own cock pushing at Thornby’s lips. Thornby opened his mouth and took him inside. His mouth was hot and eager. But the twin sensations of sucking and being sucked made it almost impossible to concentrate on either one. Thornby was moaning, his mouth losing suction.

  Thornby pulled away and pushed John onto his back. John considered retaliating, but Thornby gave him a wicked sideways grin, pushed John’s legs apart, knelt between them, and closed his lips over John’s stand. He was tonguing the slit, cupping John’s balls in one hand, then taking the whole thing in his mouth, finding a rhythm—

  John looked down, and the heir to Raskelf glanced up, lips swollen red and stretched. The beautiful, untouchable Lord Thornby, with his mouth full of cock. It was too much. John gave warning with a fervent groan, thrust with his hips, and spent, pleasure thrumming along his nerves like magic down the threads of a brocade hanging. Only when the last shiver had run through him did Thornby take his mouth away. He
gave John that same wicked smile and licked his lips. Thornby’s hair had fallen around his face, patches of colour had spread across his cheeks, and his cock was red against his pale belly. He looked at once a peer of the realm and a tuppenny whore.

  “Say something,” John said.

  Thornby raised an eyebrow, half smiling, a little puzzled too. “Well, how about, ‘From now on, I shall never see the obelisk in the park without thinking of you’?”

  John smiled. Next time, if there was a next time, perhaps he’d get Thornby talking while he fucked him. He’d like to hear that well-educated voice growing ragged and turning into an animal howl.

  He sat up and pushed Thornby down on his back. To suck him off would be fair, and a pleasure, but he hadn’t forgotten what he’d said in that thicket.

  John lay next to him, licked his own hand until it was slick, and wrapped it around Thornby’s cock. He didn’t move it much at first. Just held it there and started kissing him. Thornby was rock hard—he wouldn’t last much longer. Already he was moaning into John’s mouth. John sped his strokes for a while, then slowed down again. Thornby made a noise of protest.

  “Didn’t I say I’d make you beg?” John said into his ear.

  “Fuck.” Thornby said, between gritted teeth.

  “Manners, my lord! Try ‘please’.” He gave Thornby’s balls a squeeze, making him gasp, then kissed him again.

  Thornby muttered something.

  “I beg your pardon?” John was moving his hand again. Slowly, then a little faster.

  Thornby was writhing, he couldn’t kiss any more—he’d lost control of himself.

  “Shall I stop?” John murmured into his ear. “Or will you say ‘please’?”

  “No, no. Please, please!”

  With that, John slid down the bed and took Thornby’s swollen, leaking cock into his mouth. Thornby convulsed under him, hips bucking, breath sobbing. John waited until Thornby had gone limp beneath him, then gave his cock one last kiss and lay down beside him. Thornby had his eyes shut and his mouth open; his breath was steaming in the air.

  “All right?” John said.

  “My God. Quite dictatorial, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think you minded.”

  “Minded? I think you turned my balls inside out.”

  John pulled the covers over them. The fire was burning low. He should get dressed and go and make it up, but Thornby had flung an arm across his chest and was holding onto him. John wouldn’t have dislodged that gentle grip for anything.

  Thornby took a few more deep breaths, then said, “So, making me wait in the spare room, and those big iron nails of yours this time, it’s to do with magic?”

  “Yes. If I haven’t used much magic, I need to get rid of some before I have sex. Otherwise, when I spend, I lose control, and magic comes out. It’s involuntary. So, I have to work it out beforehand. And if there’s too much magic, I get rid of some, into those pins. I’m sorry for yesterday. All I could think of was doing the calculation as quickly as possible and grabbing you.”

  “But what happens if the magic does come out?”

  “Oh, melted windows, nails popping out of walls, that kind of thing. Very messy. Inconvenient too.”

  “You melted a window? By spending?”

  “Twenty windows, actually, all down the north side of the Institute. I was sixteen.” John smiled ruefully. “I got such a beating, and lines for weeks. Wasn’t all bad, though. No glass, you see, so at least he got away nice and easy.”

  He looked for traces of alarm or fear in Thornby’s face, but on the contrary, Thornby was gazing at him with such an expression of fascination that John felt his cheeks grow warm.

  “Who was he? Another magician?” Thornby asked.

  “No, an actor. He did a routine as a drunken lord at the local inn, and I used to sneak out to watch him. I never usually broke the rules, but I did for him. And he stank of gin and had filthy nails, but he sounded a lot like quality when he put on the voice. Good diction.”

  “You fucked him for his diction?” Thornby was laughing into his shoulder.

  John grinned. “I hadn’t realised there was plenty of the real thing to be had if I just went a bit further west.”

  “The real thing?” Thornby gave him a sharp look. “You mean, like me?”

  “Like you,” John agreed lightly, but the conversation was getting onto what felt like dangerous ground. He cast around for something to change the subject and remembered Thornby’s suspicious-looking scarred foot. “Now I want to know something; what happened to your foot? Not your ankle, but that old burn—may I look at it?”

  “What? No, you may not!” Thornby stiffened in his arms.

  “But what happened? Did you step in a bonfire?”

  “Will you forget it? It’s hideous, and I’d rather not think about it.”

  “It isn’t hideous at all,” John said mildly. “Come, tell me.”

  “I was nine. It was a case of spontaneous combustion. Luckily some quick-thinking nursemaid got my boot off and threw a jug of milk over it.”

  “Spontaneous combustion?” John frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “How else could it have happened? I was minding my own business, looking for conkers, I think, and suddenly this terrible pain, and smoke and flames, and—well, you’ve seen it. Horrible.”

  “Were you at Raskelf?”

  “No, it was—I don’t know. Some other house. I don’t remember.”

  To John’s horror, Thornby got out of bed and began dressing.

  “Soren.”

  It was the first time John had dared to use his Christian name. He’d imagined saying it a number of times, but not quite managed it. Now he heard his own voice and could hardly believe he’d said it. The syllables in his mouth felt more intimate than a kiss. He’d called an earl by his first name, and despite everything, he half-expected Thornby to throw him out for presuming to address him thus. In the hazel thicket Thornby had said ‘I don’t think you should call me Soren.’ Of course, he’d been joking, but perhaps, deep-down, he’d meant it.

  Thornby stopped, breeches on, bare-chested. He gave John a long look, and something flitted across his face. It was that recognition that sometimes passed between men engaged in difficult and mutual toil; a look that said, So you will not let me down. It was almost respect. Then Thornby folded his arms and looked away.

  “I don’t like talking about it. A friend at school used to say it made me like Byron, to make me feel better about it. But I’ve always hated it. I hate how it happened. I used to think it was a punishment from God for being wicked. Mysterious things are always happening to me, aren’t they—oh!” He stared at John. “You think it’s related, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of burns in the foundries. They don’t look quite like that. Please may I look?” He reached for Thornby’s hand and pulled gently. “How about this? You let me look, and I’ll kiss you anywhere you like.”

  Thornby gave him a flustered smile, but he allowed John to push him onto his back on the bed. John kissed his mouth, chest, stomach, thigh, knee and shin. Only then did he take Thornby’s scarred foot in his hands.

  The fire had left both the usual signs—the shiny patches, the mottled pink and white colouring, the two smallest toes fused together—and something unusual. There was a hatched pattern, as though someone had drawn a multitude of fine lines across Thornby’s foot. That was a clue too obvious to miss. John glanced up to see Thornby watching him anxiously, almost wincing.

  “Isn’t it hideous?” Thornby said. “It makes me feel like a gargoyle. Is it any sort of clue?”

  “It’s not hideous. Can you remember any more about how it happened?” John kissed the instep, where the skin was pink and shiny. Thornby jerked away.

  “John, please stop. At least let me hide it under the covers. I’ll tell you if you let me hide it.”

  “All right, then I’ll give you that kiss. If you can’t decide where you want it, I have some ideas.”<
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  Thornby smiled, almost shyly. John put an arm around him. Thornby could be so prickly, and then so sweet. If only John could keep him in bed forever.

  “All right—well—it was the school holidays. We went to the seaside. North of here. It might have been Scotland. Father took me. Mother had died, of course, and he—do we have to talk about this?”

  John stroked his hair. “Shall I tell you why I want to know? I think someone tried to burn something belonging to you. Not an ordinary thing, but a token. Something that is you, in a way. And when they burned that, they burned you as well. It’s witchcraft; it’s not uncommon. People do it with mommets usually, little dolls made in a person’s likeness. That’s why I want to talk about it.”

  “Oh,” Thornby said faintly. “On the whole, I prefer the spontaneous combustion theory. Not always the most reassuring of companions, are you?”

  “It might be important. What I don’t understand is why someone would do it to a child. Unless they were blackmailing your father.”

  “Huh! Father didn’t care. He told me not to be such a sissy. He made me dip it in the sea to harden it.” Thornby shivered. “God, I hated it. Every night we’d go down to the shore and he’d make me put my foot in the water. It hurt like hell and it was bloody terrifying. It was pitch black and I kept thinking something would grab my foot and pull me under. We never did go to the sands in the daytime; I suppose it was because of my foot being so horrible. And Father—God, I was excited when I heard he was taking me to the seaside. I thought he was going to be decent to me again, like he was when Mother was alive. He used to be, you know—I’d be brought down to see them and he’d show me his watch and let me pet his dogs. It’s hard to imagine isn’t it? But when Mother died, he changed. At the seaside he scared me so much I started wetting the bed. So, I got thrashed for that too.”

  Thornby put a hand up to his face. John could see it trembling.

  “Soren, I’m sorry.” He pulled Thornby closer.

  “It’s Father who’s the bastard, not you. You’re—well, I like you very much, Mr Blake.”

  “Even though I bullied you onto Howarth’s moorland and went through your things?”