He tore around the marketplace, panicked mind cataloging the impossibilities. Odd flames flickered behind glass enclosures atop iron poles. A fountain, the sort Garek had spoken of seeing in Lutetia, burbled in the center, and paved roads framed the square. Gone were the ground-floor cottages, replaced by half-timber, multi-story homes, each of them grand enough to rival the burgermeister’s mansion, now dwarfed by a brick building and a sweeping church.
Hooves crashed like thunder against cobbles, driving Tomasz from the square. He followed old familiar paths, unable to slow his run when new walls and buildings obstructed the way. All he knew was terror and burning rage at the unfairness of his death. How easily he was forgotten and left to rot, trapped on the threshold and unable to move on.
How many nights had Garek come for a drink? A bite? A few hours of respite and pleasure before heading back out into the cold? Twenty? Thirty?
How long could Tomasz run from the truth of what those visits were? Of what Garek truly was?
Salt upon the threshold and sweep the frame with ash. Set out a bowl of milk, and let the wild hunt ride past.
He burst from the rear of the village, running through a low hedge that had not been there before. The woods rose to meet him, low-reaching branches ghosting through his arms and legs.
The crash of hooves thudded against earth and grass, drawing closer, yet still he ran until his dead lungs ached and the legs he could not feel gave out.
He fell to his knees in a clearing, catching himself on hands he could not feel and panting breaths he did not take as a sob welled within him.
Dead.
Dead and gone a score of years and more, with none to remember him but a huntsman.
The collision of hooves to earth vanished, replaced by the rustle of boots walking through the undergrowth. A cold wind preceded Garek’s approach, drawing Tomasz upright on his knees. It lifted his chin, holding him tight in its ghastly embrace.
“I told you not to run.” Garek’s voice, that lovely baritone, had hardened into an unrecognizable steel. “I begged you not to run.”
He loomed over Tomasz as he had that first night. A tall, massive figure in black furs and riding leather, lingering on the threshold of life and death. The snow-dusted cowl covered his head, and though his face was masked in shadow, the weight of Garek’s gaze was inevitable. Final, and fixed on Tomasz.
“Please,” he breathed. “Help me.”
“I cannot.” Garek, for all the terror he instilled, sounded weary and resigned. “It is my curse.” A dry wind sighed from his lips, lightly crashing against Tomasz’s cheek like a kiss. He removed a worn glove from one hand and reached for him. “Forgive me,kochanie.”
Kochanie. An old word in his mother’s tongue.My love.
A sob cracked out of Tomasz as Garek gently cupped his cheek. Calluses scraped his wind-burnt skin, warmth bleeding through the dead winter chill, and time stilled.
The winds ceased their howl. The moon halted its course across the sky.
Garek sucked in a sharp breath and collapsed to his knees. Snow drifted up around them, and he tore his second glove off, tossing it aside and clapping his hand to Tomasz’s cheek. Silver eyes burned bright beneath the cowl, and Tomasz tore the garment free, if only to look upon his lover one last time.
“I can touch you,” Garek rasped.
“What?”
“I can touch you. Gods above and below, I amtouching you.” Tears turned silver by the moonlight limned Garek’s eyes.
Tomasz searched his face, seeking the meaning behind his bewilderment. “You are.”
“And you are stillhere.” He hauled Tomasz forward, crashing their mouths together. Teeth struck teeth, lips locked and sealed and split as Garek pulled away, peppering Tomasz’s face between utterances of, “Here, still here. You’re here.”
“I am dead,” he answered, numb to the truth of the words.
“But not gone.” Garek held Tomasz tight against him, cradling his head against his shoulder. “The quarries I chase, they do not linger. My hand sweeps through them like a fog, and they vanish into death, but you are solid, and smooth andhere.”
Cold, or the memory of cold, bit Tomasz’s shoulder when Garek lay him in the snow, the hard press of his body driving him into the icy bank. His riding coat fell over them as a blanket, and any protest Tomasz had, any fright or hesitation vanished at the heat and weight of him.
His scent accosted Tomasz. Sweat and exertion. Crisp winter wind and gorza and woodfire. Garlic and salted butter. Horse hair, leather, andlife.
And in that, the time between their nights stretched into years. The hollow days between visits blooming like a dollop of ink in water until Tomasz felt every one of them weigh down upon the body he did not own.
And yet, he felt every sweep of Garek’s tongue. The press of his knee working his thighs apart. The grind of his cock and there, faint, butthere, the beating of a heart.
