Darkling Mine
Series: Vampyr arc
Summary: A much-loved lord keeps a rather interesting but secret companion.
Warnings: Period piece; kings, queens, lords and ladies, and all that. Oh, also bondage and gay sex, vampires and violence.
Statistics: Approx 8k words written in four hours over two office lunch breaks and evenings.

Author Notes: This is a birthday gift fic for maderr on LJ; just reposting it here. NOT beta-proofed! Feeling a little discontent with this story, I think it's missing something but no one's said anything on LJ so here it is. I hope you enjoy, don't forget to leave me some love!

“Leave the Garthings matter be,” Petrok muttered on a low tone as he set a breakfast plate down with a tiny flourish before Lord Bjorn Darisson, Viscount of Pearling.

Bjorn gave no indication Petrok had spoken into his ear, continuing to fuss with his silverware and napkin, the movements perfect for casually turning his face away from the table to murmur secretly under his breath, “Do you know anything about it?”

“Look into the reasons the fops have been getting robbed than in the robberies themselves,” Petrok suggested, gracefully –if this were possible—setting out a little loaf of grain bread on Bjorn’s side plate.

“Later,” Bjorn whispered back, indicating the matter was not over. Raising his voice as Petrok whisked away, “So, my marshals,” he offered his usual people-placating smile, all grace and patience, “Tell me more about these… incidents, if you please.”

“Of course, my lord,” Marshal Vertis smiled widely and openly, still as smarmy as ever in trying to attract Bjorn’s attention. A badly-kept secret it was that the lord of the manor preferred his own gender. “It appears that Barons Clancy, Hildrene and Tarren each have been accosted on the South Highway just into Garthings.” Vertis, at this point, had the discipline to drop the attempts to endear himself and give the current matter of discussion a measure of seriousness, “Their entourage each describe a rapid drop in temperature, cold that made the carriage bells stick and fall silent, their breath to fog. As they began to realise magic might be at work, the horses stopped for some unknown reason. Then the darkness itself appears to flood them, drown out the lights save for the moon, almost as though is… comes alive.”

“Comes alive, you say?” Bjorn commented, finding that perfect pitch between inviting interest and disbelieving doubt.

“Yes, my lord.” Vertis shifted in his seat, glancing across the table to a scowling Marshal Bort –a barrel of a man rarely given to words. “And before you ask, none had indulged in spirits or herbs. They say the darkness seemed to hold them in place and a creature seemingly cut from the dark itself save for its white face, descended upon the carriage door, tore it off, and robbed its occupants.”

Silence descended.

“And afterward?” Bjorn narrowed his eyes.

“The darkness melted away suddenly,” Vertis replied quietly, “Retreated swiftly, leaving only the cold. Save for missing monies and jewels, no one is harmed, all weapons are untouched, and the horses are calm.”

Bjorn gave a small sigh. Leave the Garthings matter be, indeed. He fired off a discreet glare at Petrok, who stood innocently by the buffet with his hands overlaid artlessly before him, his long curly chocolate brown hair tied neatly back, hazel eyes sparkling and not meeting his gaze, uniform pristine. Petrok looked every inch the disguise he wore, a harmless part-time servant at Pearling Manor. Except for those impudent eyes, Bjorn thought and had to resist a snort… why, that little…

“You said ‘occupants’ there, Vertis,” Bjorn said quietly, reaching for his bread and ripping off a piece. “Have you verified it was all the occupants who were robbed or just the Barons themselves?” He reached for the butter.

Vertis traded another look with Bort before replying, “We suspect the others, the friends of the Barons, were not robbed at all. They cottoned on to the opportunity to claim robbery just a breath too late whilst we were interviewing them.”

Bjorn popped the buttered bread piece into his mouth, “Look into their financial backgrounds and find me what they have in common, the Barons with each other and each Baron with his companions in the carriage at the time of the robbery.”

“As you say, sir.” Vertis hesitantly reminded, “And the robberies themselves?”

“Hold off. Explain we are investigating a solution.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Frowning lightly, Bjorn searched out Petrok once more only to find the little scamp had disappeared. No matter, he thought, returning to his breakfast. He’d pin that little miscreant down in more ways than one later. More ways than one, he considered, dreamily contemplating the ruby-red silk ties just arrived this morn.

But at that consideration and the mental images it conjured, his bad mood began to melt away.

“Yes, my lord,” Petrok breathed, arching up into Bjorn’s hand. Not that any movements of his would get him anywhere, tied down by his ankles and wrists with those ruby red silk ties looped through the iron links embedded into the bed side panels.

“I don’t seem to be able to believe you,” Bjorn murmured, gaze roving hungrily over his bound bed-mate as he settled between Petrok’s thighs… whose pale skin seemed to glow in the flickering candle and fire light, every inch of it sheen with a fine coat of perspiration. Bjorn riveted on the little drips of it in the hollow of Petrok’s hipbone as it gathered then trickled tantalisingly, hypnotically slowly south along smooth, hot skin and into the dark curls between Petrok’s legs. Bjorn growled and chased it with his mouth.

Petrok sighed out a moan, curling his hips upward, seeking more attention. “Bjorn…”

“Shut up a minute,” came the stern admonishment, breath tickling at Petrok’s balls, “I’m busy.” And he closed his lips on one, lightly massaging it with his tongue.

A groan tore from Petrok’s throat, the sound dragging out when Bjorn shifted and paid the same attention to its twin, laving it with the broad of his tongue then sucking gently, rolling it between his lips before licking up between the pair.

“That’s better,” he murmured, admiring the wet results, eyes following up to Petrok’s straining hardness. “But maybe not for you, hm?” A pleased smile pulled at his lips.

“Damn it, Bjorn!” Petrok arched then rolled his hips upward again, a futile thrust, and glared.

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s try this again,” Bjorn suggested cheerfully, folding his arms over the tops of Petrok’s thighs and getting a good grasp on those lovely hipbones. “When you find a problem between the locals and their lords, you will come to me. Even if I am snappish and busy, even if I am dealing with the region’s finances, and even if I threaten to throw you from my bed –because let’s face it, I’ll never honour that threat.”

Petrok glared, “If you did, what would become of me?”

Smile slipping off his face, Bjorn quietly refuted, “I wouldn’t. You have nothing to fear from me. Do you not know this by now?”

Stubbornly, Petrok fell silent.

Leaving it a hopeful moment… though in vain, Bjorn sighed, “You do not trust me.” He frowned as he reached to finger the lovely ties binding Petrok’s left ankle to his bed. “You trust me to hold a sword to your throat because it cannot kill you, as you trust me now to tie you down because you can escape when you please.”

He looked up into Petrok’s eyes, usually a pale hazel but now so filled with blood it appeared almost orange. When Petrok hungered for him, in that way only Petrok would, those eyes would transform all the way into red, irises elongating to like that of a feline.

“But for some reason, of all things you fear is me casting you out,” Bjorn moved again, this time reaching for Petrok’s cheek. “You fear my word should I speak against you yet will not trust I’d honour it if I speak for you.”

When Petrok grit his teeth and remained quiet, Bjorn gave in. He always gave in, he would not risk much with this… with his lover. Slowly bending downward, he licked up along Petrok’s shaft to the head, gently grasping its base with the fingertips of his other hand to slide his lips over the tip and softly suck.

Petrok slammed his head back down into the pillow, body tensing, eyes still meeting Bjorn’s and sharply curved his hips into Bjorn’s hold, tense and eager.

Holding that gaze, hand fallen from Petrok’s cheekbone now stroking over his collarbones, Bjorn ducked. He fitted his lips over the tip of Petrok’s hardness and sucked leisurely, bobbed his head in a lazy dip and pulled firmly on the way up, swirling his tongue along the sensitive ridge then did it all over again, just as painfully slowly.

“Please, Bjorn,” Petrok gasped, thrust made ineffectual with Bjorn’s weight over his thighs.

He knew the words referred not of the current indulgence. “Soon, Petrok. It must be soon.”

“Yes,” the word came on a breathless sigh. Bjorn bent his head again and Petrok’s tone changed, “Yesss... Bjorn…”

His favourite words, Bjorn thought. Now how to get them spoken back to him when he asked a certain other question… well, that was the trouble.

He redoubled his efforts, slicking his fingers in the glass bowl of oil on the bedside table and sliding one into his lover, drawing out a shiver and a groan. Yes. He curled the lone digit upward gently, rubbing lazy circles over where it pleased his lover most, building the moans until he elicited a spine-tingling cry from Petrok’s throat –an inhuman double-voiced exclamation the vampire only ever made when so close to losing control.

“It burns my blood when you speak such, my Pet.”

Petrok gave him a glazed-eyed look and Bjorn couldn’t help but grin. One more finger, more circles …and long minutes later, yet another and Petrok pulled at his bound legs to try to open wider, invite more, voice snarling and growling in a low pitched double-voice.

When Petrok tensed and groaned, coming apart in his arms, Bjorn quickly untied Petrok’s legs and cleaned off his hand. Gently, he parted those legs and wrapped them about his own hips, leaning up and over to rest on his elbows, hands cradling Petrok’s face in his hands.

How he admired the evidence of driving Petrok to such pleasure, the sight of those eyes now shot almost all the way through in red, incisors halfway out and sharp. Bjorn bent and gave a quick lick at one fang then kissed over a full bottom lip and nipped at Petrok’s chin as he waited for his lover to recover a little.

When the red faded slightly from Petrok’s eyes, Bjorn leaned forward just enough to just breach his lover and stopped.

“Tease,” Petrok accused, a smile curling one corner of his lips. He undulated, thrust back, and accepted an inch more.

“That would be you,” Bjorn whispered, pushing again and nearly half way in now, “Lulling me into a sense of security.”

Petrok’s fangs had run out all the way now, eyes glazed over again. Distractedly, “What?”

Tucking the sadness away and ignoring the query, Bjorn thrust all the way in. Petrok gasped then gave a sustained groan, the sound melting into that double-voice and sending a shiver up Bjorn’s spine.

Nearly an hour and two position changes later, now with one leg slung up over Bjorn’s shoulder and nearly turned on his side, Petrok gave a soft snarl and climaxed. Bjorn had only just held out long enough to guarantee it before letting go himself, and through the fiery rush of release, he felt Petrok lean up and bite, drawing quick and deep, and make a soft happy sound in his throat.

They collapsed together, slick and a little sticky, clinging and wrapped up tightly, Petrok’s fangs still in Bjorn’s throat. A whimper and shudder later, Petrok pulled back and began to tenderly lick the wound.

Bjorn had only enough strength to tug the last ties loose from Petrok’s wrists and pull them both under the covers, before quietly asking, “You promised you would stay with me, did you not?”

“Always,” Petrok replied between his last licks in healing the bite marks away. He raised his head and met Bjorn’s eyes, sincerity in his red gaze, irises tall and wide, fangs still out but not a drop spilled.

Bjorn believed him. Then why could Petrok not believe him in return?

When he woke, it was to a distinctively Woodbine-scented cold. A lone golden blossom lay on the pillow next to him and he reached over, twirled it between his fingers, inhaling the sweet scent.

The cold of the sheets was the clue.

“Dratted blood-sucker,” he muttered. He crushed the blossom in his hand, the sweet scent spiking suddenly then dumped the pieces in the bed as he pounced up to his feet. He drew on his gift of Bright Sight, a minor ability to see in the dark, and swiftly dressed then marched out into his outer room meeting table to wait, sitting rigidly in his chair with his arms crossed.

Not a half hour later, someone knocked. “Enter,” he called.

Marshal Yale poked his head in, a junior marshal only recently passed his tests. Built much more slender than men given to soldiering, he’d been assigned to minor palace work.

Bjorn liked him well enough but this did not factor in on such a morning as this. He glared.

Yale’s eyes widened a bit at that expression and seeing Bjorn ready and waiting. “My lord?”

“Who did he rob this time?” Bjorn asked, waving the marshal in.

“Sir August, my lord.” He quickly entered and shut the door, slipping into one of the seats near Bjorn before the table. “Vertis and Bort are investigating.” He fiddled with the end of one lock of his blond hair, a style left long unlike his Viscount’s brutally short cut.

Bjorn frowned. “What was taken?”

“Monies and jewels, same as the others,” Yale replied instantly. “Sir August had more men with him, in light of the other robberies, but they were of no more use than the Barons’ men.”

“Any news on the Barons’ financial states?” Bjorn scowled now.

“No, my lord.”

The Viscount looked even less pleased with that, “Anything common between the Barons? Anything at all? Maybe a preference for the same sweets?” Frustration and sarcasm coloured his tone.

Yale shot him a look for the bad temper but then hesitated, “Ahhh…”

“Out with it.”

“They… er… shared a business venture nearly three years ago now.” At Bjorn’s encouraging nod, Yale gave a small shrug, “It was a financial pool to build a ship and send it east into Oriental seas. The business is clean; the ship was built and sailed despite some minor schedule set backs. The Lady’s Grace made two trips, brought back hoards of exotic goods and made a lot of money. The investors returned their money into the ship at each voyage but on the third sail, she sank.”

“Evidence?” Bjorn asked shortly.

“Part of the sculpture on the ship’s prow,” Yale said. “It was brought back by one of the men aboard; the siren’s face.”

Bjorn growled, “Get every investigator who can be spared and dig it up.” Almost snarling, “Find out who invested in the financial pool and their backgrounds, and how much they lost as well as where they are now.” He got to his feet, still barking orders, “That man who came back with the evidence, find out whose man he is. I want to know how it all started, how it built, why there were delays and I don’t care if it was just a supplier backorder or something ridiculous, compile it all. Research it to date, the outcome and ramification of the entire thing. Search out every possible avenue of sabotage or fraud.”

Wide-eyed, Yale hopped to his feet and bowed, “Yes, my lord.”

“Dismissed!” Bjorn contained his cursing until the poor Marshal had left the room then began spitting foul words left, right and centre as he paced. Dratted vampire, sneaking around again…!

Bjorn would bet his father’s sword Petrok had uncovered a scam and gone, in his usual vigilante way, to see justice done. This would be the third damn time. How many times would he not trust Bjorn to—

“I’m an idiot,” he muttered to himself, sinking back down into his chair and scrubbing at his scalp.

“When you find a problem between the locals and their lords, you will come to me. Even if I am snappish and busy, even if I am dealing with the region’s finances, and even if I threaten to throw you from my bed –because let’s face it, I’ll never honour that threat.”

The first time Petrok had tried to ask for his help, he’d had been busy with Farheithe lawyers, trying to secure passage through the Garthings forest and the Farheithe territory within it for a trade caravan route. He’d been snappish and short-tempered, and had let Petrok be when the vampire backtracked in saying what he’d wanted to talk about wasn’t as important as the caravan route.

Not important? A small town sheriff had been pressuring the local baker into allowing his suit for the baker’s daughter. Two weeks later the sheriff had resigned, the baker got back the business the sheriff had bullied away, and the daughter married a farmer’s son. But Bjorn had only found out at all about this after approving the sheriff’s resignation, recognising the town name from Petrok’s one attempt to bring the matter to his attention.

A messenger brought back the rest of the story. A story about the sheriff unofficially claiming his home was haunted. But he’d decided, despite appearing spooked and wary as well as short of sleep, he would move to be closer to and see to his widowed sister’s welfare… on the other side of the country.

Then late last year, while Bjorn was busy with financial accounting for the Crown, Petrok had asked if he had time to deal with a rogue mage. Bjorn had irritably told him to consult with the Mage Council, that it was their jurisdiction anyway.

Never could it be simple, Bjorn darkly thought, considering the scandal that incident had ended with: given all citizens should divulge any and all magical inclinations, for a Duke’s son to remain unknown and practicing, entrancing his father’s business partners into losing deals, all exposed when a supposed ‘demon’ attacked him at their town banquet… well. That had not ended well. And no one seemed particularly interested in hunting down the supposed darkling which had attacked.

A darkling Bjorn knew instantly by the reports’ descriptions.

Then three months ago –oh, he would never learn—Petrok had asked him how difficult it would be for a commoner to open a criminal inquiry against someone of the nobility.

With another curse, Bjorn noticed the sky lightening outside his window with the approach of dawn. He got up and went to breakfast, feeling as he marched down the halls how he had every intention of snatching up that snooping, reckless, creeping, scheming…

…pure-hearted, championing, tolerant, loving… he sighed.

When someone else served him his breakfast, he was about at the end of his stupidly short patience and demanded, “Where is Petrok Latèrn?”

The poor attendant nearly dropped the plate, “H-he’s not working today, m-my lord.”

“Why not?” thundered Bjorn, eyes narrow and glowering. The dining hall fell into deep silence.

“It’s his, p-pardon me my lord, i-it’s his day off.” The room seemed to collectively hold their breath.

Bjorn slammed a fist down onto the table before he could stop himself.

“My lord,” Marshal Vertis tried again, trotting along to keep pace with Bjorn’s long-legged stride, “Please at least take a pair of guards!”

“No,” Bjorn contradicted, lacing up his arm braces, “And don’t send them after me, they’ll only get in my way.”

“My lord Viscount,” Vertis scolded him now, “I really must insist—”

“Any other time, Vertis,” Bjorn interrupted as they strode out into the courtyard, his horse prancing impatiently and tugging at reins in the stableman’s hands, “I would not argue with you, you know this. But on this occasion, you will have to trust me. I will go alone and you will not argue, nor you will not send anyone after me.” He paused by his horse’s side, Black Star, and the beast near-froze in his eagerness to have his rider. “This is a delicate matter. Now trust me, I will manage.”

Vertis looked over at Bort, and Bjorn, swinging up into Black Star’s saddle, just caught the slight shake of head Bort gave. Giving both Marshals a final nod, he gave a loud whoop and tap of his heels, Black Star called a reply and leapt into a canter, dock and head held high. They swiftly crossed the courtyard and drawbridge heading out into the dusk, making quick pace for the south of the Pearling territory to the Garthings forest and the South Highway.

Two hours later, dark fully descended, Bjorn angled Black Star off the road and into the road-side trees at a quick walk. The full moon overhead gave only a soft glow, not strong enough to reach down through the foliage of the trees. But Bjorn focused, drawing on his gift of Bright Sight and sharing it with his mount, their surroundings as clear as day to their eyes. They circled the stretch of South Highway road by the forest, quiet and thorough, searching out—

There.

Bjorn smiled grimly, assessing his target’s position and the grounds he had just come to recognise a little better. Setting things up in his head, he moved into position, hands drawing Black Star’s reins in at an exact tautness, ready to pounce.

When a small caravan ambled slowly round the bend from the south, Bjorn sensed immediately something was… different. He tensed and strained, reached with his Sight and spotted six out riders. The six moved cautiously, attention focused on both their own surroundings and the wellbeing of the caravan they helped to guard, but there was something about them…

Silver.

They carried swords made from silver. At their hips they carried little bottles, rosaries bound about the bottle neck, of what must be holy water, an impotent ingredient but part of the superstition. The water might not be of any use but the silver would be dangerous –this changed everything.

Quickly, Bjorn re-assessed the situation and changed his plans. Moving from the cover of the trees, he nudged Black Star out of the forest and from the cover of the trees, moving out into the middle of the road. Pulling on his Sight a little more he surreptitiously watched the out riders pause then ready, already moving into their own plan.

“Hold, friends,” Bjorn called out to the front carriage driver when they came within earshot, “Tis the Viscount of Pearling, Bjorn Darisson. I have come personally to join your caravan to your town.”

“Ye bring no escort but claim to be a Viscount?” called the driver’s companion. “Ye be having to prove those words, mi’lord.”

“I bear about my neck the crest of the Pearling family,” Bjorn called back, “And I expect that your lord, Sir Gratren, will recognise me on sight.” Black Star gave a small shift under him, ears pricking to the left, hindquarters moving uneasily away from that direction, and Bjorn tried not to think about the many ways this unplanned encounter could go wrong. “Will anyone come to identify me, establish peace?”

“Bjorn?” the carriage door opened, revealing the lavishly dressed visage of Sir Gratren, a paunchy and mousy-eyed young minor lord. Bjorn did not like him, had heard and received proof of this man’s little ways of making money on the side, but the man had been a legitimate child of the title and had rightfully inherited it upon his father’s passing. “Does these evening truly place you here on this lonely road at this hour?”

“Aye,” Bjorn called back. “A lantern is welcome if you wish to properly identify me.”

“That will not be necessary,” Gratren smiled widely, waving a hand, “This is too perfect.”

Black Star angrily leapt up onto his hindquarters, Bjorn drawing his sword, when the six outriders broke cover to converge on him.

“You’ll make a fine victim of that blasted highwayman,” Gratren was saying, “And the crown will send someone to catch us that bothersome meddler. Poor lonely but much-beloved Viscount murdered and mourned. Then we’ll get that misbegotten son of whore to divulge where he’s put our money away, and get it back!”

Fighting had always come naturally to Bjorn, sword passed from his forbearers in hand, swinging precisely, deadly. He managed to knock two down and slash a third when one got in a lucky shot and drew a red line along Bjorn’s left cheek. He swore, but his voice drowned out in a slithering, double-voiced scream.

Biting cold seemed to suddenly roll in, the night itself deepening and drowning out all surroundings save for the sky and moon, the scent of Woodbine filling his lungs.

Petrok.

“They’re armed with silver!” Bjorn urgently called out, heedless of how it might sound, worried only for Petrok’s safety. He grunted when the merc he’d last crossed swords with, the one who’d gotten that slice in to his cheek, suddenly lunged again. He barely managed to parry. When the merc suddenly moved up and out of his saddle, pushing over toward Bjorn, he nudged Black Star to one side, trying to shift the momentum away from himself and unseat his opponent.

It part-worked, the man went over and down –but not without managing to thrust a small boot dagger into Bjorn’s side. Angry at sustaining injury, Bjorn gave a quick slash at the man’s falling back, killing him. In seconds he had his head back up, sword up and switched to his other hand away from his injured side, curling his arm protectively over the still-embedded blade.

Bright Sight stood no chance against the power of an enraged vampire, his surroundings dark and impenetrable.

“Pet?” Not even his voice travelled, he realised, the darkness encompassing and complete. The cold began to sink into his bones, though, and that would not do well for him or his hurt. “Talk to me, Pet, please!”

With a silent shudder, the darkness shifted and melted back, the scent of Woodbine fading a little with it. Bjorn glanced about him, the moonlight revealing the last three out riders down and on the ground, not moving. The carriage driver and his companion had been thrown off to the carriage’s far side… the side which, in mid air, grasped in a grotesque arm made of darkness emerging from Petrok’s black form, hung Sir Gratren.

Bjorn tapped Black Star’s sides and trotted over to the traitorous noble. He angrily hissed, “You would have me killed for your own ends, Gratren? Daring and stupid.”

“Want him,” slithered Petrok’s eerie double-voice, his starkly white face and black-shadowed body completely unrecognizable from his lovely chocolate-haired and hazel-eyed human form. “Want his blood.”

“Demon!” Gratren accused, wide-eyed and struggling, flailing uselessly. He fumbled and drew a small vial from his pocket, breaking off the cap and tossing its contents on the vampire. Useless holy water. “Lord have mercy!” he exclaimed, fear setting in anew with Petrok irritably hissed at him, trembling and dropping the vial.

“You have none,” Bjorn told him, “Why should another spare you what you cannot give in return?” But Gratren wasn’t listening. Not that it made any difference to the decision Bjorn had already made. “Have him, Pet, I’ll not allow him the chance to call in favours for his release.”

“Vile man,” hissed Petrok, getting a good grip and pulling Gratren’s arm out, “You will harm no one else now.” With that, he snarled and sank his fangs into the noble’s wrist.

Bjorn turned Black Star away, disgusted with Gratren and without any inclination to honour the man’s death as witness. Remaining in the saddle, not wanting to risk a dismount with his injury, he inspected the fallen mercs and determined they were dead, then headed for the carriage to peek inside. Within he found two more dead mercs, a large locked chest tied down by the front facing fur-lined seat which must have been where Gratren sat, and across from there…

“Dear Gods,” Bjorn exclaimed, eyes wide. “My apologies, young one, I mean you no harm.”

The girl shivered and curled in on herself some more, her knees already up and tucked in close, her bound hands in her lap linked with thick rope to a loop anchored into her seat. She was young, no more than seventeen summers, slender and dressed in clean clothes of a simple style. Her long blonde hair had been tied up and back, pale hazel eyes… familiar pale hazel eyes.

Bjorn shifted Black Star sideways as close to the carriage door way as possible. He spoke as gently as possible, “The men who have bound you, including Gratren, are all dead. I offer you protection until your situation is sorted out and we can get you to the safety of your family.”

“Was…” the girl murmured, hesitating.

“Yes?”

“He was my family,” she said softly, eyes wary and wet.

Bjorn paused, recalling what he knew of Gratren; there was no family, “Are you born out of wedlock, then?” he asked gently. She paused then nodded. Smiling encouragingly and still speaking softly, “Then we will help you find another way, whatever way that is.”

Tentatively, she raised her head and a moment later, she tried to smile back.

“Good,” Bjorn smiled a little wider, “That’s better. You’re lovely when you smile, mi’lady. Now let’s see about getting you free. What is your name?”

“Patience, sir.” She smiled a little more surely.

“And my name is Bjorn.” Under him, Black Star gave a slight shift, a welcoming little move, one done in the presence of a friend. Bjorn glanced over his shoulder and spotted Petrok, darkness melting away, form contracting down as he changed back into his human guise. “Good evening, Pet,” he greeted cheerfully, if a trifle sarcastically, “What brings you out here to the middle of no where this evening?”

“Hullo, Bjorn!” Petrok, the scamp, had the audacity to return just as cheerfully, smiling widely as though they often met on deserted roads.

Bjorn scowled at him, “I’m going to tan your hide for this, I will.”

With a saucy wink, Petrok leaned up toward him, “Promise?” Then his nose twitched and a bit of confusion crossed his face before his eyes dropped to Bjorn’s wounded side, obscured by his cape. “Bjorn?”

“It will hold, Pet,” he reassured but even as he spoke, he knew he’d been bleeding steadily and they would need to head back very soon. “Now let’s get the bodies gathered and secured, grab a pair of their horses and head back, hm?”

“Bjorn,” Petrok started, tone warning, eyes flashing as he reached to look the wound over.

“Don’t prod at it, idiot,” Bjorn berated, rather embarrassed to have been injured in the first place, slapping at Petrok’s hands.

“Let me heal it.”

“What?” Bjorn gave him an odd look.

“I can seal it,” Petrok said quietly, “You have seen me heal. Let me do the same for you.”

“Stop it,” Bjorn muttered irritably, “I can heal my own way.”

“It’ll take weeks!”

“I’ve managed many years this way, thank you.”

“You can heal now and not have to endure the ride back in pain, you imbecile,” Petrok snapped, “Why would you refuse relief?”

“Because I don’t want to see you bleed, lover.”

Petrok stilled and blinked. The fight seeped out of him and his tone lowered again, “I would happily spill the few drops it would take to heal this, Bjorn—”

“Tis not your blood I want, anyway,” Bjorn grumbled, trying not to move because all the fussing had set the wound bleeding again and they really needed to get going so he could find a Medic mage. “Now get moving! We need to find a coat for mi’lady in the carriage so we can—”

“Shut up!” Petrok hissed. “You are not riding back in that condition.”

“This pain is far more tolerable than all the ways you—” Bjorn suddenly did as Petrok said and shut up. No, no no! He didn’t want to say that now. No. Wearily, he asked, “Please? Can you secure this so we might be on our way?”

Petrok glared but relented, “Later.” The conversation was not over.

Bjorn sighed and moved Black Star to one side, smiling back at Patience in the most reassuring manner he could muster, thinking that if Petrok insisted, he would certainly need a serving more of the virtue for which she had been named.

Within minutes after arriving at Pearling manor, Vertis and Bort descended upon them.

Vertis fussed over his lord, shouted for their medic mage to be summoned. Bort, in his quiet way, helped Patience off her mount and escorted her inside. Weary and in pain, Bjorn summoned the last of his strength to dismount, gritting his teeth when the blade shifted inside him at his movements.

“Petrok?” he called, patting at Black Star when the animal worriedly nudged him.

“Here,” Petrok slid an arm about him, voice already in his ear.

Half clinging to his lover, half hanging off him, Bjorn let himself be helped up the front steps into the foyer. On a low tone, “Please explain to Vertis? I really don’t want him at my side. Explain then return to me?”

“As you ask,” Petrok said, stepping away to motion for Vertis’ attention.

Bjorn let a pair of his manor guards take over assistance, let them half-carry him up to his room and lay him out on his front room couch. A quartet of maids, clucking and fussing, shooed the men out then stripped Bjorn out of his armour and clothing, cutting around where the knife protruded then sponged him clean.

A knock preceded the door’s opening and the medic mage entered, a gnarly, timeless-looking old woman, “Well, what have you done to yourself now, Borgie?”

Bjorn grinned, “Nothing you can’t patch up with one arm tied behind your back, Wilma.” Behind her stood a pair of worried guards and a quiet, blank-faced— “Petrok?”

“No guests,” Wilma grinned then her voice turned syrupy sweet, “But you can have someone to hold your hand.”

Bjorn ignored her. “Petrok,” he called, reaching out.

A smile bloomed on Petrok’s face and almost inhumanly-fast he darted in and knelt at Bjorn’s side. The four maids tittered with amusement, wide eyed and watchful for the sake of their gossip. The guards in the doorway gave Bjorn and Petrok an odd look before understanding dawned and they backed out of the room, shutting the door.

Wilma, too, looked Petrok over differently, “Well now, so you’re the one making little Borgie smile again, are you?”

Petrok said nothing, gripping Bjorn’s hand with both of his, looking belligerently up at the old medic mage.

“Don’t glare at me like that, little darkling.” Both Bjorn’s and Petrok’s jaws went slack. “I’m only interested in who it is who’s managed to bring some joy back into Borgie’s life.” She gave him a rare kindly smile. “It took the folk ‘round here a while to adjust to his smiles, you see. We haven’t seen those since before his parents died seven years ago.”

Petrok shot him a demanding look but Bjorn only shrugged a shoulder. What were they going to do? Remain silent in her presence?

“So I hear you met out in the Garthings woods three years ago?” Wilma prodded, settling into the little seat by Bjorn’s side and rooting about in her bag for her things.

“Aye,” Bjorn smiled, glancing fondly over at his lover. “Found him snarling and clawing at a deer in what he called preparing it for cooking.” Petrok frowned at him and he ignored it. “Forgot to bleed the damn thing. Most unhealthy.”

“Oh, yes,” Wilma conspired, putting on a disapproving face and clucking her tongue at Petrok. “Most unhealthy indeed. All game should be bled before curing or cooking.”

Petrok gave Bjorn’s hand a warning squeeze. “Well, so then,” Bjorn moved the story along, “He seemed rather surprised I wasn’t more fearful of his darker form, changed into this lovely guise you see here and asked me, and I quote, who the hell are you and what are you staring at?”

Wilma cackled as she prodded carefully around the knife. “You probably told him off for hunting on your lands.”

Bjorn raised a brow at Petrok, see? “I most certainly did.”

The vampire only scoffed.

“And then you took him home.” She smiled as she measured out an anaesthetic.

“Not yet,” Bjorn said, grinning, “I had to help him skin, clean and gut his dear, wrap it up and prepare it for moving. And then I asked him to come back with me.”

“How did that go over?” Wilma asked, handing him the little cup.

“Not very well at all,” admitted Bjorn and even Petrok stifled a smile. “I had to explain that I would keep him close, personally make certain he would be safe.” He tossed back the medication. “I assured him he would be free to come and go, though I expressed I prefer he stay. He made ridiculous demands and I allowed everything reasonable. I even…” Bjorn began to feel drowsy and realised it wasn’t just an anaesthetic but a powerful relaxant, “I even… let him ride my horse. Black Star didn’t want a stranger on his back but I handled things, had Black Star… accept him and… and had to walk to lead the horse back…”

“And we lived happily ever after,” Petrok interrupted suddenly, a touch sarcastically, a hand stroking over his short hair. “Rest, Borgie.”

The drug had taken full effect, “Still working on the happily ever after part,” Bjorn slurred, eyelids excruciatingly heavy. “He…” his tongue had gone heavy, too, “He doesn’t trust me enough yet…”

“Trust you enough for what?” Wilma asked gently, voice sounding as though coming from across the room than right beside him.

Bjorn made a disgruntled sound, “Trust me enough… to love me back,” and fell asleep.

The curtains had been drawn, warm sunlight shining brightly in through his bedroom window when Bjorn woke, flat on his back in his huge bed. He felt a little groggy and thick but no amount of that would keep him from noticing the half-clothed and rumpled bed mate he found sleeping peacefully curled up next to him.

Reaching up, he could fold his arm just enough to stroke the backs of his fingertips over Petrok’s jaw, the light touch like an electric current because Petrok’s eyes popped open.

“Hello, my Pet,” Bjorn whispered, a small smile blooming on his lips.

“Good morning, Borgie,” Petrok murmured back, smiling softly, hair tumbled everywhere about his face and shoulders. He reached and stroked a hand over Bjorn’s neck and chest, fingertips idly drifting a moment before curling over his far shoulder. “Are you feeling better? No stiffness or soreness?”

Bjorn grinned, “A certain stiffness, yes.”

Petrok rolled his eyes. “And soreness?”

The smile slid a bit off Bjorn’s face, “Just my heart.”

Returning the more sombre gaze, Petrok sighed. “Do you remember what you said as you were falling asleep last night?”

Bjorn blinked, startled to hear Petrok bringing it up. Petrok never brought things like this up. He’d been certain Petrok would just fall silent after his reference of soreness to his heart; his lover avoided conversations such as that like the plague.

“Borgie?”

“I remember.” Bjorn tried not to sound hopeful, not to feel hopeful. “I’m just surprised you do.”

“Well,” Petrok reasoned, “I feel comfortable discussing it now.”

“Any reason why?” He wanted to know why. This could help in the future.

Making a face, Petrok admitted, “Your witch berated me for keeping you hanging.”

“She only said that,” Bjorn kidded, “Because she doesn’t know how you hang people.”

“Why are you making jokes?”

Bjorn rolled his eyes, “Because I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Allowing small slips about how I feel about you these last two years had been alright because I don’t push. I just let you know how I feel. I just don’t want you to feel too pressured now to—”

“Hush,” Petrok instructed, fingers covering Bjorn’s mouth. “Let me talk now.” Bjorn kissed those fingers and wisely remained quiet. “I am sorry, Bjorn.”

And there that intention went right out the window, “What for?”

“For not trusting you.” Petrok’s eyes had turned a shade of soft caramel, his hazel eyes almost shining, a gentle expression in them. “I’m too used to being on my own, relying only on myself. I don’t fight back with you except to keep silent.”

Bjorn agreed with his silence, not wanting to give his lover a reason not to keep speaking.

“You’ve kept tabs on everything I’ve been working on,” Petrok murmured, moving a little closer and pressing a soft kiss to Bjorn’s shoulder. “You know what I’d been asking you for help with.”

“I am sorry for not listening,” Bjorn started, “I was—”

“Not done yet—”

“Sorry.”

Petrok smiled, “So I know you care. You’ve tried.” He paused, “I want to try too. With you.”

For a long moment, Bjorn considered that. He closed his eyes, not wanting what he thought to be true, “Do you not care for me at all? Right now, after all this time?”

“Look at me,” Petrok cajoled and Bjorn did. “Do not think for one moment that I do not love you, Borgie.” Bjorn’s heart nearly stopped, “I am only saying that I want to try to make a real relationship of this. I’ve not had one before.”

“Was I…?” Bjorn couldn’t quite get the words out, “Was I your first?”

Petrok, and Bjorn could not believe he was seeing this, flushed. It was answer enough… except then Petrok whispered, “This vampire mates for life.”

Staring and stunned, Bjorn said, “If I were not injured, blood-sucker, I would turn over and pin you to this bed, tie you down and never let you leave it.”

“Nonsense, human,” Petrok smoothly returned, rising up onto his elbow over Bjorn, eyes sparkling, “It is I who shall tie you down this time.”

“You’d never really need to, you know,” he murmured, staring hard at his lover. His. “I would never want to leave. I never will.”

Petrok’s gaze burned, “Don’t say things like that to me right now, you persistent noble. I’m hungry.”

“Heal me,” Bjorn said suddenly and Petrok blinked. He growled, “Heal me then fuck me.”

Petrok’s eyes changed rapidly, his body melting into darkness, his face elongating a little and turning the palest of white, fangs snapping out. “Mine,” he snarled in his double-voice.

Bjorn eyed the slash Petrok cut into his own throat, watched the blood well as Petrok bent to offer it to him. He would a hand into his lover’s hair and jerked sharply, eliciting a gasp, “Mine,” he hissed back, and bit.

“The ship was a bit of a decoy,” Yale explained. “It was built from the financier pool’s reserves and sent out on a journey, yes. But that was as far as the fair play extended. It sailed to Spain, was relabelled and sent on various expeditions. When one of the bigger shipping hauls returned from the Orient, the triad of Barons had already long ago bought shares.”

“So they transferred the cargo into The Lady’s Grace after an appropriate amount of time had passed through which she was working only in this area and a little further,” Petrok put in, scowling, arms folded.

Bjorn reached over and ran his hand through his lover’s hair, just catching sight of Yale’s eyes widening before Yale looked elsewhere. “Continue,” he said, when Petrok subsided.

“They had enough of a share that they could split the cargo into two loads,” Yale said, voice tense and cheeks flushed as he studiously avoided looking at them and shuffled through his notes, “They made it look like there were two shipments, re-sold everything here and allowed the rest of the pool the market profit while keeping only a small profit for themselves. But of course they took in all of The Lady’s Grace’s profits during that time. The shipments paid off what they’d initially invested in the pool and ‘tis the hidden profits which flooded their pockets.”

“Then they pretended she sank,” Petrok vehemently snapped. “Those lying, cheating, fraudulent—”

“Do speak up, lover,” Bjorn fondly murmured, stroking his lover’s hair again, “It’s not healthy to keep all your anger inside.” Petrok glared.

“Yes, well,” Yale’s cheeks had turned an interesting shade. “They sold the ship secretly and claimed insurance. Their partners received their due payouts, they were careful to abide by our laws, but those folks made a very marginal profit for such a long-term investment. So marginal it barely covered their living costs up to the end of the financier pool –now dissolved.”

“Any of the partners from modest backgrounds?” Bjorn asked quietly.

“One cooperative investing in the pool was a farmers’ association,” Yale answered, glancing over his paperwork. “After their share was split up, they profited only enough to get by.”

“Bastards!” Petrok hissed.

“See that all the Baron’s profits, excluding their initial investment into the pool, is tracked down and redistributed,” Bjorn stated. “The profits are illegally acquired though they follow protocol beyond our territories, but as that money is here now and those men are to be imprisoned…” he trailed off meaningfully and Yale nodded. “See to securing Gratren’s estates. We shall need to establish Patience’s identity.”

“Yes, mi’lord.”

When Yale had all but dashed out, Bjorn turned to his lover, “What, no more curses?”

“I hope those measly excuses for human beings get so heavily find they fall into bankruptcy!” he seethed, “And their wives leave them!”

“We could offer them legal assistance to reclaim their estates,” Bjorn suggested, “I happen to know Barons Tarren and Hildrene acquired their titles through their wives.”

“A fine idea!” Petrok all but exclaimed, jumping to his feet, eyes afire. “They’ll get their homes back and—you were careful not to damage them financially, asking Yale to take back only what they profited illegally.” He began to pace, “That was a fine thing, they’ll need all the help they can get.”

Bjorn calmly reclined in his seat, shifting when a certain ache presented itself, adjusting to a more comfortable position. But he smiled at the memories of how he’d acquired the discomfort.

“Why are you smiling?” Petrok demanded, pausing too far away for a haul over Bjorn’s lap.

“I’m remembering what a pain in the ass you are,” Bjorn grinned.

Petrok paused. Then a small smile tugged at his lips, his mind obviously following where Bjorn was all too happy to lead. “Yet I never seem to hear you complain.”

“Oh, of course not,” Bjorn put on an aghast expression, “Not when I so look forward to the next time.” He meant both the next project Petrok took on and the next… well. He grinned.

Eyes glinting, Petrok pounced.

Fin.