Flameborn
Mortals & Myths Book Two
CORINNA ROGERS

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Corinna Rogerts 2016

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Corinna Rogers asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780007562213

Version 2016-07-11

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Coming Soon From Corinna Rogers

Corinna Rogers

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Fire lances out of the building, propelled not by physics but by the deft hand of a monster with a plan. Drake moves, but he’s too late for the swift arc of flame, for the way it reaches out for him, lashing in a broad arc, the heat searing his lungs even from this distance.

A hand grabs his arm, yanking him back to safety. Right. I have a partner.

That simple thought spurs Drake into action. He leaps forward, unsheathing the sword from his back and charging towards the burning building. It’s fine to be a little reckless, he tells himself, because there’s someone to watch his back.

The Inferna has taken up residence in a shitty motel, operating out of Room 183. Grumbling that it should at least have the decency to be in Room 666, Drake draws back and slams his foot into the door, splintering the wood as he dives to the side to make sure he doesn’t get hit by the blast.

When no blast follows, he blinks for a second. The door is off its hinges; a fierce wind whips sideways, yanking the fire away from him and saving him from the scorching that would have been a bitch to heal. Not only that, but an Inferna’s flames are never just fire. If any one of those had hit him, he’d be feeling a lot more than a horrendous burning sensation, which means the wind is also magical. He turns his head and catches the barest glimpse of a familiar face, tense in concentration.

“Go!”

Drake nods. They both know what it’s like, fighting for time when there isn’t any. The first step inside the motel is confusing, heat at his front, cold wind at his back, but then the hot air buffets him and he has a hell of a lot more to worry about.

Opening his eyes is always harder inside a burning building, and Drake would give almost anything not to know that so well. They water in less than a second, and the sound of the wind behind him is second only to the creaking, breaking beams of the motel itself. “Cheap plywood and plaster,” he calls over his shoulder, throwing an arm over his mouth before he tries to breathe. The heat of the air sears his lungs, no matter how much of it is whipped away from him by the wind. “It’s going up fast, so look hard!”

“I can’t keep the wind on you and look magically at the same time,” Shane shouts back. “Get out for a second.”

Drake hesitates and a beam falls. He barely rolls to the side in time, reflexively patting himself down to make sure his heavy denim and flannel haven’t caught fire yet. A spark tries to start in his beard and he swats it out, hardly feeling the prickle of pain.

“Go! You’re wasting time!”

Reason tells Drake that he has to leave, has to let Shane do his thing, because he’s the only one who can find the creature fast enough. If they put the fire out, the Inferna will simply disappear, bursting into life at a new location with a new set of lungs to breathe out the flame. Judging by the state of the motel, Drake hazards that they have four, maybe five, minutes until the whole thing comes crumbling down.

Still, instinct makes him hesitate. Shane might be able to find the creature on his own, but dealing with it is a different story. Inferna are strong, and—

Shane whacks him in the head, turning to physically kick him back out the door. The long boots he wears are heavy, even without the force of a grown man’s kick. Drake takes the blow easily, but catches sight of Shane’s exasperated, worried face. “Fine!” he shouts, and ducks out the door.

Time passes much more slowly when he’s not in the thick of the action. It wears on him, pacing back and forth outside the crumbling building, able to do nothing but wait. He tries taking a peek through one window, but even getting that close is dangerous. One of the windows near him shatters, glass exploding outwards, and Drake doesn’t take the chance that the one he’s looking through will do the same thing.

From outside, all he can see is a sphere of white light. It’s difficult to make out in the midst of all the flames, but Drake manages to keep his eyes on it. A slow swirl of magic emanates from it in a way he can feel in his bones, at least when he’s in contact with the sword he holds. Every instinct he has tells him to run inside, to find the culprit, to make sure everything is fine. That’s what he does, after all, and to be stuck on the outside looking in…

It’s anathema.

The light suddenly streaks across the room, cleaving through a wall. Drake runs left, following the light with his eyes. Shane wouldn’t move like that unless he’d found something, he reasons, and breaks the next door open with a full-body slam. He draws the sword, feeling the sweet peace of its blade surround him, and charges into the unrelenting flames.

The world splits.

Part of him is still present, fighting through the flames. Drake feels his body moving, muscles cording under the skin as he dashes in, scanning the burning motel for the Inferna’s presence. Shane had moved, so it has to be close. There—a dark blob, like a sunspot against the orange tongues of flame, darts first to the left, then to the right, evading Shane’s strikes.

The other part of Drake is anything but present.

Every gust of heat takes him farther away, showing him not the motel in front of his eyes, but memories. They don’t make sense, not all at once, but the gasping surges of fire drive him out of reality and into his mind all the same.

He’d stumbled into an Inferna lair once, in his late teens. Even that memory sends him back. Shane had been a few steps behind when Drake had tripped, stumbling into a hole as they searched for their bounty. The Inferna’s cave had exploded into flames, and Drake had found himself on a roller coaster with his mother, laughing at his father and sister, afraid of heights on the ground. Moments later, Shane had pulled him free, slapping his face, and it had taken long days for Drake to recover from the intensity of that memory.

Bright white light gleams suddenly, slicing through the flames as well as any wind could have. Shane’s light is blue and on the other side of the room; the light that deals with the Inferna’s magic comes from the sword in Drake’s hand, sanctified magic protecting him from the worst effects of inhuman magic. The memories still flood him—

“You’re such a dork!” his sister Clara laughs, and moves to sit with her friends on the school bus, even on her first day of school.

—Drake remembers where he is, and he can still move.

A sudden burst of wind and light from Shane manages to isolate the Inferna. Drake’s long legs carry him close, and the creature spits out fire—

“Why isn’t your last name Nelson?”

“They’re just foster parents. It’d be Cooper-Walker-Jones-Remmington-Nelson by now.”

—Drake takes the blast full force and hears himself let out a noise like a roar when he breaks through, slamming the sword through the creature’s writhing body, pinning it to the wall. It tries to climb up the blade, but Drake doesn’t let go, lashing out with a foot to slam it back to the wall, ignoring the—

Shane’s touch, his lips ghosting down over Drake’s spine, his voice ragged and needy, begging, hands urgent, teeth sharp—

—Drake yanks the sword free and spins, using his body weight to drive his next slice home.

The Inferna’s head rolls slowly away from its body, now sad and corporeal. It shrivels down to a coal, the inner light dying out and leaving nothing but a wrinkled skin over charred black insides. Drake exhales deeply and sheathes the sword on his back. It’s a quick draw, less than a second from the impulse of danger to the sword being in his hand and ready to use, and keeping his hands free has saved his life more times than wandering around with a drawn sword has. “Clear?” he yells, hoping Shane can hear him.

“All clear,” the call comes back. Shane peels himself away from the wall and drapes over a fallen beam. He coughs, then inhales deeply, magic tingeing the air in front of his nostrils, and breathes out deeply this time, with no trace of a wheeze. “You need an inhaler?”

Drake shakes his head. “Sword protected me. It doesn’t snap back like that.” He does feel his usual aches and pains now, the ones that come with age and a lifetime of being beaten up that are suppressed by the power the sword gives him. He nudges the coal of the Inferna’s body with a toe and it starts crumbling. “They seem like they’re getting stronger to you lately?”

“Maybe you’re just getting slower, old man,” Shane teases, and makes as if to come over and stand next to him. He thinks better of it a second later, heading for the door instead. “You get singed in that first charge, baby?”

“Got worse from the stove.” A glint of light in the center of the coals catches his eye and Drake grimaces. “Hold up, this one might still be alive. Lemme stomp it out.”

“That’s a little cruel. Let it skulk back to its master. Maybe we can follow it.”

Drake kicks the coal a little harder and it fractures into halves, then a dozen pieces when each half hits the ground, the size of a luggage carry-on when it’s split. At the center, a deep orange-red glow pulses and ebbs, startlingly bright in the center of the coals, like concentrated fire made liquid. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he says. “I’ve cracked open a lot of Inferna.”

“Probably not as many as I have.”

Drake raises an eyebrow and Shane shrugs, coming to kneel next to the coals. “I did work for the Fire Queen’s mortal enemy for ten years.”

“I thought they were husband and wife.”

“Pretty sure they’re brother and sister, too. Doesn’t mean they aren’t mortal enemies.”

Drake snorts and prods the Inferna’s corpse with the toe of his boot. The liquid sticks to his boot for a moment, more like gel than anything, and then slowly detaches and slides back into the coal. If it weren’t for the changing play of colors, there’d be no reason to think it’s alive, much less that it’s some part of the Inferna itself. They’re small, but Drake has never had a problem with seeing them as creatures of flesh and blood before they burn away to coal. He sighs and stands up. “Can you freeze it or something? It’s bothering me and I’m not sure stomping will help.”

Shane shrugs and points a finger. A thin stream of water swirls out of the air, soaking the coals, and has no effect on the little pool whatsoever.

“Uh…”

Shane flushes hot, frowns, and points again, more firmly this time. Another jet swirls down, this one freezing as it does, though just enough that a few ice crystals form in the middle of the water. At this, the liquid flinches, glows for a moment, then settles.

“I think your finger is broken.”

“It’s not supposed to do that!” Shane stares down at his own hand, then turns and stalks out of the burned-out motel, cursing to himself and shaking his hand out at the wrist.

“Don’t worry,” Drake calls, a hint of a grin in his voice. “Happens to every guy as you get older.”

“Fucking suck my dick!”

Drake laughs, and in the second he turns his head to watch Shane slam what’s left of the door, the liquid fire moves. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, but not fast enough to get a hand on his sword. His mind misfires, going for a reaction that won’t get him killed, and comes up blank for the first time in years.

They’d had a code, back when they’d first started hunting down the magical creatures that preyed on those less able to defend themselves. They’d sworn it then, in blood and when looking in each others’ eyes. “No matter what, we keep it from getting out into the world if we can help it.”

Drake throws himself sideways as the liquid fire streaks towards the door, and if his size is good for little else it’s at least good when he wants to act like a barrier. Out the door is where Shane is, Drake remembers just in time, and opens his mouth to call.

The fire darts sideways at the last second, neatly zapping itself down his throat, and Drake almost blacks out from the pain. He would scream, if screaming didn’t involve his throat. He throws himself back violently, slamming his back to the wall with the last bit of his conscious effort, trying to dislodge whatever it is in a haze of blinding, searing pain. The fire feels like it looks, which is no consolation; searing fire made liquid feels a hell of a lot like a huge gulp of boiling oil, and Drake can feel his insides roasting more every millisecond. His lungs lock up, unable to function when something tears its way through him. He only has a fleeting second to wonder whether the creature will burn a hole out or be suffocated inside his corpse when warm hands clutch his face.

It would be nice to have his face be the last thing I see, Drake thinks dimly. It’s the only thought that registers through the pain, through the smell of his own melting insides, but forcing his eyes open is a hundred, a thousand, times harder than usual. He can feel every slide of the creature in his throat, every frantic wriggle, and as a vague plan to suffocate it Drake closes his jaw as his last act of defiance.

Something long and cool presses into the palm of his hand, and Drake’s eyes snap open.

The sword in his hand blazes, pressed there by Shane’s hands around his, and the light from the sword envelops his body. Everywhere it touches, it seals, making his flesh stronger, making his body hardier, and Drake almost lets out a sob of relief when the pain starts to fade. He tries to take a breath and his lungs slowly, begrudgingly, start working. The first gulp of air banishes the firespots on his vision, and the second makes him feel like he’s not actually dead, something he considers pretty helpful.

Drake’s fingers close around the sword without Shane’s help, squeezing it tightly for the salvation it is. The creature is still inside him, thrashing around, and Drake doesn’t dare let go.

“—Got to open up for me, baby, let me see the damage. You need to call me before you start doing idiot things like—“

Shane has been talking for a while, Drake realizes, and has to wonder whether he’d passed out after all.

“Swallowed it.” He’d expected his voice to be a raw rasp of a thing, but it sounds as normal as ever to his own ears. “It came at the door. I didn’t know what to do.”

Shane’s laughter borders on the hysterical. “Oh, now your first impulse is to swallow.”

“Shane.”

“Sorry, sorry, but don’t expect that joke to die any time soon. Is it still…”

Drake grimaces. “It’s still in me. Gimme your hand.”

He grabs Shane’s hand with the one not clutching the sword, and brings it to his own belly. Shane lets out a startled curse and yanks his hand away. “It’s—it’s hot!”

“Having any more luck with that ice?”

Shane makes a face at him and helps him off the floor, where he’d apparently fallen without realizing it. “Not sure what’s up. Might have something to do with being so close to a bunch of fire.”

“Never stopped you before. I’ve seen you make fires when you were surrounded by ice.”

“Yeah. It’s probably to do with the Ice King. Maybe he took that away from me. Pretty small revenge for destroying his palace and murdering all of his servants, but maybe he’s also a petty son of a bitch.”

“Wouldn’t you know if he is?” It’s a delicate question. Drake isn’t sure how much Shane really doesn’t remember and how much he’s just repressing because he doesn’t want to remember it. Honestly, knowing even a small fraction of the things Shane had done in the Ice King’s service, he can’t say he blames him.

Shane hesitates, then shakes his head, kicking what’s left of the door off its hinges. “I don’t remember much of that time, you know. Plus, I’m pretty sure we weren’t exactly best friends. Even when I was his number one, I was still scared as hell of him, back when I still had fear. Can you walk?”

“Nothing wrong with me.” At least, nothing feels wrong. The sturdy truck Drake bought second-hand to replace the SUV that had flipped on him is a wide older model, but neither of them blink at it when they hop into the cab. Drake gets in a bit more carefully than Shane, on the passenger’s side, and carefully lays the sword diagonally across his lap.

“Not sure I’m real comfortable with this,” Shane admits. “What if I hit a bump and you impale yourself?”

“What if you don’t drive like an asshole? Besides, I’m a lot less fond of some flaming slug eating its way through my intestines.”

“Yeah, it might damage the upholstery if it gets out. You need to go by the Church?”

Drake chews on his bottom lip for a minute, thinking. “I’d better. The sword is working really well against it, better than most things. I might be able to get something out of Father Aaron there.”

“I bet you will,” Shane mutters.

Drake shuts his mouth, clenching his jaw shut. There’s nothing good he can say to that comment that won’t start a fight, and both of them know it. Shane has never liked Father Aaron, but Drake had always assumed it was some natural aversion to the Church in general. It hasn’t abated since he got his soul back, however, and the idea that he’ll just have to accept this animosity rubs Drake the wrong way.

Shane pulls jerkily out into the street, amid unhelpful tips from Drake about how to handle the stick shift. At least he doesn’t stall at the intersection this time, which Drake decides to consider a small win. “You want me to wait in the car?”

“You don’t like it inside.”

Shane’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is tight when he speaks. “That wasn’t me. You know that. Christ, why are we still even having this conversation?”

Drake gives him a sideways look, then focuses on the road so he doesn’t lose his temper. Shane might not remember all that well, but Drake had lived through that decade and remembers it plenty for the both of them. “You’re saying you want to come in and talk to Father Aaron?”

Shane almost swerves into traffic and Drake grips the sword as tightly as he can. “Is there some way I can avoid going in and avoid you being alone with him?”

“Why don’t you want me alone with him?”

“Nothing against him, I just don’t like you hanging out with guys that want to bone you into next week.”

Drake’s eyebrows shoot straight up and he turns, incredulous, to stare at Shane’s clenched jaw, his fingers tight on the wheel. Whatever reply he’d been about to make fades on his tongue. Shane is a lot of things—irrational, flighty, over-eager, occasionally petty—but he’s not jealous for no reason. At least, he hasn’t been in the past, Drake reminds himself.

Not for the first time, he has to wonder how much of the boy he’d loved is in the man driving the truck.

“He’s a priest,” he says quietly, trying not to dismiss Shane’s feelings just because he thinks (knows) they’re ridiculous. “Even if he had some weird thing for me—which I really don’t think he does—“

“He does.”

“Even if, he’s still got his vows.” Drake carefully transfers the grip of his sword to his right hand and reaches the left over to squeeze Shane’s shoulder. “I’m flattered you think I’m hot enough to turn a priest, but seriously.”

Shane takes his eyes off the road for longer than Drake is entirely comfortable with, then grins. “Because you’re all mine, right?”

There’s something about the way he says it—relief, pride, pleasure—that makes Drake’s expression soften. “Yeah. Feels good to say it again.”

“Yeah, well, talk is cheap.” Shane’s hand tightens on his and yanks it down, pressing Drake’s palm between his legs as he drives with one hand.

“Um?” Drake looks from the road to Shane’s hand to his face, searching for something besides cocky good humor and finding nothing. “Jesus, you hedonist, wait until we get home.”

“Don’t wanna. You know fighting always makes me hard.”

“That’s your problem.”

“Always makes you hard, too.”

“That’s my problem. Dammit, concentrate on the road!”

“Road isn’t going anywhere. Come on, baby, your hand feels so good. I love the calluses and how strong you are. Feel how hard I am.”

It’s hard not to. Shane’s cock throbs under Drake’s hand, even through the denim of his jeans. Drake swallows hard, fingers curling in spite of himself. Shane’s not wrong, and that’s a problem. Fighting does usually make him more than eager to fuck, but there’ve been too many years when he wasn’t able to indulge those desires. “I’ve gotten better at holding it in,” he grumbles.

“You’re not exactly pulling away.” One hand on the steering wheel, Shane flicks open his jeans with the other, enough to make it obvious he’s wearing nothing underneath. In spite of himself, Drake swallows hard, mouth gone dry.

Shane lets out a sigh that turns into a groan. “You have about five seconds to stop looking like you’re gonna eat it, or I’m going to pull the truck over and—”

“Pull the truck over.”

Drake barely has enough time to think frantically, I meant at an intersection! before Shane swerves sideways, pulling roughly parallel to the curb and braking hard. The car is still lurching when Shane grabs his face, kissing him fiercely until they’re both flushed, sucking Drake’s bottom lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it and make them both groan.

“Every time,” Drake mutters, fingers flexing on the sword he can’t goddamn put down as he rearranges his position. “You’re so damn needy whenever we get into a good fight.”

“After,” Shane corrects, and pulls himself out of his jeans. He’s obviously achingly hard, and Drake’s own cock gives a twitch in his pants at the sight. “God, you look like you want it. Only takes a near-death experience to make you act like a slut, huh?”

“Shut up.” Drake bends, sliding his lips around the head of Shane’s cock, eyes fluttering closed at the taste. He swipes the flat of his tongue over it, and Shane grips the steering wheel, a hand coming to tangle in his hair, pushing him down without any pretense, without any apology.

Drake doesn’t want pretenses and apologies. He wants the slick, musky scent dragging over his tongue, the soft skin over hard muscle stretching his lips, the sound of Shane panting heavy and quick in his ears.

“You act,” Shane says, and gasps occasionally when Drake scrapes his teeth gently, “like I n-never let you do this, fuck.”

Drake pulls off for a second, letting the swollen head rub against his lips, sticky and slippery with his spit, so hard it quivers against him. “You’re usually too eager to jump on my dick.”

“Uh-uh,” Shane teases. His hand grips Drakes hair tighter, not letting him up again. “You can’t dirty-talk me like I’m the slut when you’re practically inhaling my dick. God, you must be gagging for it.”

Shane is the one that gets off on dirty talk. Usually, Drake is only too happy to oblige him, shoving him over a table and nailing him into next week, and Shane gets off on every second of it, but now…

Now, he’s having a hard time denying just how much he likes having it in his mouth. It’s stupid to try, when his own cock is trying to drill a hole through his jeans just from the taste of Shane’s dripping all over his tongue, making it slippery and forcing sloppy, messy noises out of his mouth with every thrust.

Shane doesn’t move his hips much when he’s getting blowjobs, Drake knows, even if it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s had his mouth around it. Long fingers tighten in his hair, and Drake tries to relax, letting Shane move his head up and down, the thick head pressing at the back of his throat, the taste everywhere in his nose. Even now, there’s the dark urge to grab Shane by the throat, to flip him over and take him rough and hard, to slap him around a little until he comes all over himself.

They’ve always been a little fucked up.

Drake curls his tongue around the length, sucking hard and long, his fingers coming up to knead into Shane’s thigh.

“That’s it, baby,” Shane grunts, letting his legs splay farther apart. “I know you’re dick-hungry as hell right now—yeah, just like that, shit, you’ve got a slutty tongue for such a respectable guy.” His voice is fond, heavy-laden with arousal and that same hunger, and a tenseness that means he’s got to be almost there. He laughs, a hitching breath, and warns, “You better clean it up real good, or you’re gonna be going into your precious church with come in your beard.”

You bastard.

Drake starts to pull off, probably to growl and snap at Shane, but Shane’s hand is strong in this position and holds him down hard. That thick cock bumps the back of his throat one more time, and Shane sucks in a breath, yanking back on his hair, the asshole.

Wet heat floods Drake’s mouth, spilling over his tongue in thick, bitter ropes. Drake tries not to gag, breathing through his nose and grabbing at Shane’s jeans, hand curling into a fist as he tries to choke it down. He manages a couple mouthfuls, then pulls off when Shane’s hand goes limp, coughing and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You fucking asshole,” he croaks, voice hoarse as his hand comes away wet.

Shane shrugs. “Not my fault you’re such a bad gay. I like the taste of yours just fine.”

“Mine tastes better! You eat all that junk food shit, no wonder.”

Shane laughs, then reaches out and grabs Drake’s hand, bringing it up to his own lips. Slowly, holding Drake’s eyes the whole time, he runs his tongue up through the sticky smear on his hand, grinning when he gets to the end of it, and swallows. Drake’s cock makes a valiant attempt to punch its way out of his jeans. “I think I taste just fine.”

“Shane.” Drake’s voice is hoarse and needy, and Shane just rolls his eyes. “Of course, baby.”

Half a second later Drake has to wonder if Shane used magic to get his cock out that quickly. His mouth is searingly hot, tongue lashing against his length, and Drake’s head tips back against the car’s seat. “Now who’s the one with a slutty tongue?”

Shane pulls off, delicately tracing the slit at the end of Drake’s cock. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s always me. Fuck my face, I want you to shoot it down my throat.”

“I just bet you do.” The sentence turns into a groan when Shane dives down, taking him all in, swallowing around the thick length of Drake’s cock, making his balls ache from being so ready. “Jesus, just—you fucking whore, I’m going to throw you onto every surface you’ve ever seen later—“

Shane looks up at him, eyes dilated, lips stretched wide, shiny and wet from the drool and precum coating his face, and Drake loses it. He humps up frantically into Shane’s mouth, holding him down with one hand, thrusting deep into his throat over and over again, bruising those pretty lips. All so Shane can feel how hard he is, how much he wants.

The sudden impulse to pull out and come all over Shane’s face is so strong, Drake almost gives in. Only the thought that they’re going into the church in a second gives him pause and he lets out a frustrated noise, slamming his cock so deep down Shane’s throat that he can hear Shane choke for the first time. Then everything goes white, bursting behind his eyelids, pleasure exploding through his body when he comes long and hard down Shane’s throat.

For a long time, Drake isn’t aware he’s breathing. The only sounds in the cabin are Shane’s breaths, ragged and labored and a little panicky towards the end, until he slaps Drake’s wrist. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”

Shane pulls off with a gasp as soon as Drake removes his hand, wiping his streaming eyes with his thumbs, coughing a little. “Rude.”

“You like it.”

Shane punches him in the arm, not exactly gentle. “Still rude. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what’s in your beard.”

Drake pulls the mirror down from above the passenger’s side window, scrutinizing his face closely.

“Kidding.”

Drake gives him a glare, noting the marked lack of blotchy redness in Shane’s face. He’s used to seeing Shane use magic for big things—he’d seen him re-grow an entire hand once, though that had been when his powers had been augmented by the Ice King—but the tiny casual displays are the ones that make him nervous. Of course, those are the things that Shane had concealed from him before, for exactly that reason. Flashy Mages don’t live as long, he’d said years ago, but seems to have dropped that concern.

Drake shrugs off the uncomfortable thought, twisting to open the door with his left hand, right still firmly gripping the sword’s hilt. If it weren’t for the boost of endurance and power the sword lends him, he’d probably be feeling his fingers cramping by now.

“How long are you gonna hold it?” Shane asks, mind obviously running along the same lines as they climb the stone steps.

“Until I figure out how to get the damn thing out of me.”

“That’s gonna be awkward if we want to go out to dinner.”

“With what money?”

Shane makes a face at that, but doesn’t argue. “Your fingers are gonna freeze that way. At least they’ll be stuck in a shape that’s easy to—“

“Not in church, Shane.”

That earns him an eyeroll as Shane tosses back his hair, letting it shimmer into blue-green waves, hanging just past his shoulders in the back, rippling with magic as it changes color. “Not that guy anymore, Drake. Quit forgetting.”

It isn’t easy to forget when a little slip-up could mean losing everything he’s finally regained, but Drake tries to remember. He reaches for the door, but Shane is there first, eyes fixed on the high vaulted ceilings.

The church is anything but ostentatious, for a big stone building. All mentions of saints, kings, and angels have been removed, leaving empty recesses in the stone where statuary used to reside. Only two pews remain, kept near the back for the disabled and anyone who can’t physically stand for more than an hour at a time. The windows aren’t made of the glass they look like, but crystalline, and reinforced with plexiglass. Drake isn’t entirely sure what denomination the building used to belong to, not that it matters much.

Shane breathes in deeply through his nose, exhaling with a long sigh. “I can’t believe I hated this place,” he says, eyes half-lidded, fingers twitching. “The air in here is fantastic.”

“Seriously? You used to say you couldn’t breathe in here.”

Shane blinks. “Really? Huh. Must be… hmm.” He flicks his tongue out a couple times, rubs the pads of his fingertips together, and frowns. “Yeah, there’s magic in here. Like, not just in use, but in the air itself. You can feel it, right?”

“The only kind of magic I can feel is when the sword wants me to kill it. Don’t forget I’m just an ordinary human.”

“That’s an awful and untrue thing to say about yourself! You’ve seen wonders and horrors humans never have, you’ve fought false gods and kings and monsters.”

“You think that makes me less human?”

Shane gives him a thoughtful look, then deliberately shrugs. “I think it makes you more something else.”

Drake shifts uncomfortably, looking around for any trace of Father Aaron or one of his junior priests, anyone that could put a stop to this conversation. Shane had never said things like that before his ordeal, before they’d been separated. “I’m just as human as I ever was. I just have a fancy sword and a magic boyfriend.”

It sets off an old worry in him to hear Shane talking like that. He’d wondered a hundred times, before, if Shane would ever get sick of his pet human and find someone better, someone stronger, more powerful. It’s possible that just a human isn’t enough for Shane anymore, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s been.

The Church only has one bell, a mournful, serious brass bell that Drake knows all too well. It rings now, one deep, penetrating note that always sets Drake’s teeth on edge. He looks around just in time to see a junior priest, Father Thomas, he thinks, scurrying for the door before it’s thrown open by Father Aaron.

“Champion!”

Father Aaron is a trim man in his forties, with a shock of thick black hair and a deep- bronze complexion. At least, Drake is fairly certain he’s in his forties, since he looks almost the same as he had ten years ago. He felt younger then, though, even though there are still no wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he doesn’t move any more slowly. His back is straight, perfectly so, and long-fingered hands lace together in front of the stark black of his robes. “We ring the bell in joyous celebration, that our Champion has returned.” Despite the severity of his demeanor, there’s a warmth in his dark eyes that Drake finds comforting.

“I’ll just bet you do.”

“Shane.”

Father Aaron’s eyes flick over to Shane, and now lines do appear at the corners of his mouth. He wrestles with himself for a moment, obviously trying to decide whether to avoid conflict or seek it out, and then swallows hard around the impulse and just ignores him instead. “Have you been victorious in your battle, my Champion?”

“He’s not your anything—“

“I have, Father. We slew the Inferna before it could claim further lives.”

Father Aaron finally turns fully away from Shane and frowns, eyes searching as he steps forward. He lays a hand on Drake’s head, though he has to reach significantly upwards to do it, and Drake pretends he can’t hear Shane grinding his teeth. “Why so much energy?” Father Aaron wonders aloud. “Why do you hold the sword even now? Surely you aren’t expecting an attack from those you keep safe.”

“I was… injured, Father. This is the only thing that stopped the creature from consuming me whole.”

Dismay spreads over the priest’s features, and the hand on Drake’s hair gets stronger, more possessive. “I have heard,” he says carefully, “that the partner you chose once more in life despite all wishes of the Church—“

“Who is standing right here. Geez, you people wonder why no one wants to join you.“

“—has some skill in healing.” Father Aaron’s voice is cool and humorless. “Is he unwilling to save your life?”

“I, uh, don’t think he can.”

“Ah, so he is merely incompetent rather than cruel. I am relieved to hear that he is at your side in these difficult battles.”

Drake’s expression hardens. “I’m finding precious little of the Church’s blessed forgiveness in you, Father. You and yours want me to be your guardian against the night. That’s fine, but that doesn’t give you any right to govern my choices.”

“No, sadly.” Father Aaron gives him a small, sad smile and withdraws his hand. “I just personally think you have abominable taste.”

“Which I’m pretty sure is none of your concern,” Drake responds evenly. “Can you help me out with the fire slug in my gut, or what?”

Shane nudges his arm, not-so-subtly. “Ask him if we’re getting paid,” he stage-whispers.

“The position of Champion of the Church is a vaunted, highly-respected, volunteer position,” Father Aaron snaps, “and occasionally, some of our flock choose to generously contribute in a monetary sense to the care and upkeep of the Champion’s generous—“

“So we’re not getting paid.”

“You aren’t getting anything,” Father Aaron says firmly. “You are not affiliated with us, and we do not beg for you. Our Champion, however—“

“What’s his is mine, and what’s mine is his.” Shane starts to step forward, challenging with every flash of his eyes and every movement of his shoulders, and Drake flings out a hand to push him back. He falls back easily, which almost makes Drake angrier. Shane knows this is wrong, and he still does it, still pushes those buttons, as if he has no other choice.

“I will make you wait outside again,” he warns, and Shane settles slightly. He isn’t exactly mollified, but Drake is willing to settle for a lack of current intent to harm. “Father, I do hate to ask, but it’s been a rough month for me, financially.”

Father Aaron’s face softens. “Of course, Champion. I’ll pass the basket for you at tomorrow’s service. Stick around after we’re finished.”

Drake isn’t especially fond of Father Aaron’s sermons, but the idea of being able to pay rent on time is an attractive one. “I’ll be grateful, Father. Uh, any idea if there’s anything the Church can do about the thing eating me whole? Besides talk about how my boyfriend should be able to fix me?” Against his better judgment, he does sort of enjoy the way Father Aaron flinches whenever he says “boyfriend.”

The priest’s lips thin. “It’s stopped by the sword, which is good. Will you allow me to pray over you?”

Drake hesitates, then nods. “I hope this is one of those prayers with extra juice.”

“Nothing less for our Champion.”

Drake settles down onto his knees, and Shane abruptly turns and walks away, pacing against one wall in obviously uncomfortable strides. Drake takes a deep breath, finding that peace he usually only sees when he’s practicing martial arts, and closes his eyes.

Father Aaron’s hand on his head isn’t exactly a surprise, but the feeling it brings is. Instead of gentle pressure, there’s a soft crackling of power, tamed lightning in every tiny brush of his fingers against Drake’s hair. “All-Seeing God,” the priest says, bowing his head, “bless your Champion, defender of the flock, he who believes not and fights still. The warrior of your peace has cast his cloak over your undeserving servants. Remove his obstacles, heal his wounds, staunch the flow of his life’s blood. Make him whole and well again that he may sacrifice himself in your name, for your pitiful devoted.”

Drake winces at the language, but keeps his head bowed. The hand on his head trembles, and white-hot power spills into him, purifying and scouring him from the top down. His stomach turns, and even with the sword in his hand, he can feel the frantic thrashing of the little Inferna creature, thudding against his intestines as the holy fire makes its way down. For a second, he thinks he’s imagining the dying screech, but a sharp intake of breath from Father Aaron tells him that it isn’t in his head. Drake keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and after a moment, the power scorches through his legs and feet, leaving him shaken, empty, and alive. “Did it work?”

Father Aaron sighs, and withdraws his hand, leaving a tingling, cooling patch on Drake’s head. “You truly are still a nonbeliever, aren’t you?”

“I’d let you know if that changed.” It’s not so hard to flash a bit of magic and call a man a god. Drake has seen Shane do more miracles than he’s seen from the being behind the Church.

“Have I ever let you down before?”

Drake looks up, meeting his eyes, and says levelly, “Yes.”

That at least causes something of a twinge. “Test it yourself. Let go the sword.”

I hate faith magic, Drake thinks vehemently. Any time the choice is to trust and possibly die or to stay safe and distrustful, he rarely finds himself on the side of the faithful. He lays the sword on the ground, then carefully, slowly removes his hand.

Nothing sears or flops. His stomach doesn’t twist. The usual surge of fatigue hits him, reminding him that his body has human limits even if he can ignore them while he’s holding the sword, and old aches so familiar that he rarely feels them make themselves known. Drake exhales deeply, and nods his head. “Thank you, Father.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank God.”

Drake gives a pro forma nod to the ceiling. He’s never yet been struck down for not believing, despite being a theoretically important Church person. “Anyway, I’ll be back for service tomorrow,” he says, rising to his feet with a grimace as he sheathes the sword on his back.

“Before you go…” Father Aaron reaches out a hand, gently grasping Drake’s sleeve. “Could we speak in private for a moment?”

“No.” Drake raises an eyebrow, and Shane strides over, less repelled by the obvious faith magic. “We’re going.”

Father Aaron lets out a breath that’s closer to a huff, and gives him a truly annoyed glare, which Drake returns placidly. It’s a lot easier for the Church to find new priests than new Champions, and unfortunately for Father Aaron, Drake knows it. “You cannot let these fires continue. More and more of us are dying every day.”

“If you know where to start looking for her, I’m more than willing to listen.” He doesn’t have to say who he’s talking about. With the Ice King gone from the city, the fires have been closer and closer together, Inferna multiplying, and it’s all Drake and Shane can do to keep up.

“I hear the Fire Queen is difficult to find.”

“We could have told you that. In fact, we did.”

“But she is drawn to those…” Brown eyes flick over to Shane, who takes a half-step back. “Those of her kind.”

“Why is it literally always my fault?” Shane doesn’t sound terribly perturbed. If anything, his voice is amused. “I’m pretty sure she’s not a Mage. Last time I checked I didn’t have anywhere near close to the kind of juice she likes throwing around, and I’m the most powerful Mage we’ve ever met.”

“Humility is a virtue—“

“Not one I’m entirely fond of,” Shane admits cheerfully. “Not when it’s false modesty. I’m the most powerful Mage you’ll ever meet, that’s for sure.”

Father Aaron’s jaw clenches, and he draws himself up to his full height, which is still a few inches shy of even Shane’s. “You have no concept of what I’ve seen or who I’ve met. A child like you could never comprehend—“

“I’m older than I look, promise. And better than you seem to think.”

“Unless you can tell us where she’s hiding,” Drake interrupts, stepping none-too-subtly between the two men, “We’re going to go find her ourselves. We’ll make one of the Inferna talk before dying, eventually.”

Father Aaron looks between the two of them, then finally nods, face drawn and less than pleased. “If you ever need to find her, open him up. See what’s inside.”

Shane grabs the priest by a handful of black fabric, hauling him nearly off the ground. “You little piece of shit, I’m trying to be civil,” he snarls. “What if I open you up and she shows, huh?”

Father Aaron just blinks at him, unmoved by the words or the display of violence. “Then you’d know that you and I are one and the same. Is that a risk you want to take, Shane Connell?”

“I hate the way you say my name, you goddamned—“

“And we’re going.” Drake’s hand isn’t gentle on Shane’s shoulder, but it is effective, hauling both of them out of the Church as fast as long legs can carry him, Shane nearly keeping up and having to trot the last few steps.

He doesn’t speak for long moments, not until he slides into the driver’s seat, sword unbuckled and in the back. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he breathes out heavily through his nose, staring straight ahead without seeing much as Shane settles himself into the passenger’s seat.

“Well, that was—“

“Not now.”

The drive home is silent, save for the occasional clicking of a turn signal and the revving of the motor. Drake pulls up in front of an apartment building that’s reasonably shabby for the money (a sign in the window says “Magic and Pet’s Allowed!”), but doesn’t unbuckle his seatbelt.

Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not even coming in? What, just because I grabbed him?”

“You know this is what I’m doing with my life.” Drake rubs at the back of his neck, short hairs bristling under his hand. “I’ll be home in a few hours. Got a class to teach.”

There’s something tense and unhappy in Shane’s body language as he slides out of the truck. He looks for all the world like he wants to say something, but Drake drives off before he can turn around.

Through the entire drive to the karate studio, Drake feels three things: the dull ache of heat in his lungs, the tingling print of Father Aaron’s palm on his head, and the taste of Shane lingering on his lips.

~

Chapter Two

~

Smashing something isn’t nearly as much fun when Shane knows he’s the one who’ll have to pay for it in the long run—or worse, that Drake will have to take late-night classes to pay for it, and that drastically cuts into the time he usually considers “fun.” He’d like to put his fist through a wall, annoyed at himself, annoyed at priests who don’t seem nearly as free from worldly desires as Shane is pretty sure they’re supposed to, annoyed at creatures that don’t play by the rules when it comes to dying when they’re supposed to.

Being a destructive asshole was a lot more fun when he didn’t give a shit about the consequences.

Underneath the anger, there’s a sulking resentment that it’s Friday night and literally no one he knows will want to go out. They’d been that couple for a while in their twenties, the ones who rarely went out except with each other, but he had friends. He had people to call up and go clubbing with. Now, with his new “freedom” from the Ice King and ten years down the drain, everyone he knew is either far too involved in their children and work, or have died from a slew of the unnatural causes that normal people like to pretend don’t exist.

The ringing of the phone jars him out of his anger, but the sullen, prickling feeling stays. He knows without picking up the phone that it isn’t Drake, and grabs the ancient thing off the wall mount. “Yeah?”

“This is a recording. Do not attempt to answer. Your utility bill for this month is past due. Please pay the amount of… One. Hundred. Seventy. Seven. Dollars. And. Fifteen. Cents. By the shut-off date, or your service will be discont—“

He slams the phone down on the stilted voice, then stalks over to the empty coffee can above the fridge, pulling down the change bucket and poking at it with one long finger. The leftovers from Father Aaron’s last “payment” glare dully back at him, dirty coins in a lump that fills up half the coffee can and probably isn’t anywhere close to being a hundred and seventy-seven bucks.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d gone a month or two without light and heat, and his magic does tend to make that kind of thing a lot more bearable. It’s a strain, though, and depletes the power he has available for vaguely important things like fighting bad guys.

And there’s rent, and food, and the phone service, and gas for the car…

Shane braces himself, decides that it could be worse, and rifles through the mail to get to a publication he usually throws in the trash, sitting down with a red pen to circle carefully coded jobs that make him feel vaguely greasy to take.

The “MHW,” or Magic Help Wanted section of the weekly periodical is never exactly full of winners, but actually flipping through and looking for work makes Shane sort of want to punch himself in the face. The first twenty in a row are all about love potions, something that he’s pretty sure doesn’t actually exist even if the collective public has decided that if there are Mages now, there have to be love potions. He skims the Want Ads, finally landing on a few that aren’t about love potions or strange sexual fetishes, and are varying degrees of suspicious.

MHW

STOLEN and LOST MERCHANDISE FIND IT and U GET A CUT

MHW

Emotions, NO LP!!!

MHW

Snakes?!

MHW

I Have Ants, If U Cn Do it Cheaper Than Xterminator! Contact PHILB.

MHW

Find a Man 4 Me NO LP

MHW

How Many Cats Can U Groom At ONCE???

MHW

You have the JUICE I have the IDEAS

MHW

Make the angry ghost in my apt go away cash reward $$$

With all the gravity of a man scraping mold off his last piece of bread before begrudgingly eating it, Shane calls one of the numbers. He’s never gotten rid of ants before, but the creepy little assholes can’t be much worse than Inferna, and will probably be less likely to retaliate.

Public transportation in Sunrise City is less than adequate at the best of times. When it’s unseasonably hot and half of the city’s bus lines are shut down due to the “mysterious fires” of the past several days, using it is pretty much hell on earth, or as close to it as Shane ever wants to get. Counting nickels into the bus conductor’s box earns him a few dirty looks from fellow passengers, though he’s never sure if it might be because of the tight pants, or possibly his hair that changes color every so often when he isn’t paying too much attention to it.

He arrives at the address he’d jotted down and a man answers the door in a pair of boxers, apparently unconcerned by the fact that it’s just going on four in the afternoon. “You the wizard?”

“Sure. You the guy with ants?”

The guy scratches his belly, then nods. “In the kitchen.”

One step inside reminds Shane just how much he likes his apartment. It’s clean, if a little shabby, and full of nothing but books and their few major appliances, courtesy of all his own belongings being frozen in blasted-apart ice somewhere. More importantly, it smells good, unlike the apartment he currently stands in. He also feels uncomfortably tall, shoving his hands into his pockets and unconsciously hunching, as if worried he’ll smack his head on a door frame when he’s just over six feet himself. Maybe everything just feels slouched in the apartment, he reasons.

It doesn’t take long to spot the ants, mostly because there are probably thousands, maybe millions, of them swarming over every conceivable surface of the kitchen. “Wow. You weren’t kidding, Philb.”

“What’d you call me?”

Shane hands over the newspaper bit. “Philb?”

“They messed it up. It’s Phil B. Exterminator wanted seven hundred to do the whole place.”

“Maybe he wanted you to pay per ant,” Shane suggests, fighting the urge to start scratching and slapping at his arms, even as his brain insists that the ants are definitely all over him.

“What’ll you do it for? Gimme your estimate.”

Shane squats down near one of the outlying areas of infestation, and prods a trail with just a hint of magic. If there is such a thing as extermination magic, he’s never heard of it, but maybe simple energy will work just as well. He invests it with a hint of force, and that’s the easy part. Briefly, he remembers how easy something like this would have been back when he’d had a boost from the Ice King. He’d remade his own hand, once, and hardly blinked at the power it had taken.

The trail of ants recoils slightly from his prod, and Shane takes that as a good sign. “Uh…” Mentally, he tallies up the utility bill and a few bucks for food. “Two hundred.” He’ll just hope Father Aaron doesn’t skim off the collection plate or they won’t make rent.

“Do I have to move out for a week?”

“You can stay on the couch for all I care.”

That seems to satisfy the man, and he flops immediately down onto the couch, turning his attention back to the TV. “Go for it.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna pay me first, Philb.”

The man looks like he’s about to argue, but Shane’s hand is already tingling with power and that usually goes a long way towards convincing people to do as he says. Knowing he’s got the cash for the bill in hand is a nice motivation, and it takes an hour, maybe two, before the kitchen is, if not spotless, at least ant-free.

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