Snowbound

Chapter Nine

In the stone tower at Summershaven, Rupert Giles stirred and woke, free for the first time in months of the demon who had possessed him. It was a painful awakening. Memories like shards of glass drove into his mind, piercing it through until he craved oblivion, an end to the guilt.

But it had been only his title that he had renounced when grief sent him to quiet Oxford and the seclusion and peace it offered. Within his veins flowed the blood of a family whose roots went deep into this English soil, aye and had done before the Norman invaders had set foot on the land. Giles came from a line of fighters, of warriors. Strength of purpose, duty and responsibility; these were not mere words to one whose family had spilled blood in the service of kings.

All that had passed while he was bound by Kaltor was fresh in his mind and as he lay, feigning unconsciousness, he thought and planned. Opening his eyes but a crack, he saw the swirling black cloud that was the demon’s physical form in this reality. He did not make the mistake of thinking it powerless, but he knew that here Kaltor was at but a fraction of his full strength. He also knew somewhat more than Kaltor might have wished him to of the demon’s plans and history. While he had been enslaved within his own body, Giles had been studying the demon’s thoughts, laid out before him in a pattern of sorts, at first bewildering but, as time went by, clear as print.

Giles knew of ways to bind the demon and cast him forth, but he needed a power source. He needed the Three. And from what his swift glance had shown him, they were no longer within the circle...and when they returned from whatever pocket of time and space Kaltor had sent them to, they would be drained of all that animated them; body, mind and spirit, all stripped bare so that what was left was chaff to be scattered by the wind.

And then, Crusader blood notwithstanding, Giles knew he would die. Die fighting Kaltor, aye; he craved no easy ending...but he could endure no more empty years.

Kaltor, perceiving but dimly the desires and dreams that gave Giles purpose, had told the Three that Giles loved Wesley as a son. True in part, but far from the whole story. Giles had loved Jennifer, taken from him short weeks before they were to have wed, but in the years since her death he had come to realise that it had been the love of youth, delicate and bright as blossom, but too gossamer-light to endure frost. She had been a diamond of the first water, courted and adored, her essential fineness of character protecting her from becoming spoiled – but she had not known him. She had seen the handsome young man who could dance with her until dawn and whisper charmingly phrased words of love in her ear; a man with just enough town bronze to seem sophisticated to a debutante, fresh from the countryside. She had cared nothing for his intellect, his curiosity into life beyond the ton and when he was by hide,ide, neither did he.

His wealth and social standing had made him a welcome suitor to Jennifer’s parents but her younger sister, bookish and plain of face, had seen further than they.

Giles recalled how she had turned to him one day as he took her for a ride in the park behind his matched greys as a small treat. Dark eyes, so unlike Jennifer’s sparkling hazel, had met his and she had said thoughtfully, “When you are alone with my sister, is it then that you talk about, oh, real things? Things that matter?”

He had frowned. “We talk of love,” he’d replied, surprised into frankness. “Of our love for each other, I mean.”

“Is that all?”

There had been disillusionment in her voice, a disappointment, he’d found hard to bear, turning the conversation with practiced ease into a lively debate on poetry – but her words returned to him when next he was with Jennifer and he came to see that she had no depth, no mystery.

She would have bored him in a year and he would have strayed within two – and, as he came to realise, not necessarily to another woman. Grief took his steps down unfamiliar paths...which was why, when he first saw Wesley, the leap his heart gave was matched by a physical ache as his body responded to what Wesley, in all innocence, offered.

Giles knew of tutors who would have had Wesley bent over and begging within days. The lad was too perfect, too tempting. Without a word being spoken, Giles made it known that Wesley was not to be approached. If there were those who assumed he’d taken Wesley as a lover, there was no scandal broth brewed; discretion was, as ever, paramount in his circle. Others, wiser, saw Giles’ action as a kindness and looked no deeper.

It was. Giles had fallen in love with Wesley on sight – and buried that love, enduring as his love for Jennifer had been evanescent, the first time he saw Wesley with Angel and Spike.

He’d been strolling along the river bank, with spring painting the grass green and the sky blue; rich, vibrant shades after the monotonous grey of winter. If he remembered that Wesley had spoken of fishing that afternoon and named a place, he pretended to forget; he was simply enjoying the perfect day. Then he’d rounded a bend in the path and heard their voices, recognising Wesley’s clear tones at once. Moving through the trees and undergrowth with a caution he did not attempt to excuse as anything but dishonourable, he watched them for a short while as they lay sprawled on the grass, shirts open to the warm sun, the golden light reflected on their faces. To anyone else, they would have been unremarkable, but Giles saw with the eyes of a lover and knew that Wesley was not his to love, not as they did.

A bee, drunk on nectar, had landed on Wesley’s head, tiny wings tangling in his hair. Angel had rolled over, lazily bidding Wesley to stay still, and freed the bee, smiling down into Wesley’s face; touching it with as light a touch as a butterfly’s wings. Giles had felt tears form in his eyes, unshed, but he felt that if he were to taste one, it would have not been salt against his lips. There could be no bitterness of regret in the face of this unity. His gaze travelled to Spike who watched the others with a relaxed satisfaction and he turned away in silence.

When Wesley told him what he already knew, he could meet the whispered, halting confidences with an unfeigned calm and a kindness he would not have thought himself capable of feeling. Of course, by then he’d also known what they were...

His wandering thoughts were wrenched back to the present by a hiss of triumph from Kaltor. The circle was glowing and within it, figures began to form.

The Three were returning. Giles gathered up his will and prepared to defend them with his life.

***

Wesley moaned, back arching as Angel’s cock was sheathed within his body. The sensation was one he rediscovered every time, no memory being capable of encompassing the moment without some details spilling out and lost. So it was now, as his hands grasped helplessly at the sheets on which he knelt...that he recalled; the need to clench fists around something, to squeeze hard as the pain, welcomed because it was the harbinger of pleasure, sank sharp teeth into his body. Angel’s hands on his hips, light and firm, not yet holding him with a grip that sometimes left bruises; now that he’d forgotten. Forgotten how gentle those hands could be as they moved to stroke the inward curve of his back...forgotten too, how Angel would shift back, bracing himself against Spike who would kneel beside him, move back, so that no part of him was touching Wesley but that which lay within. Wesley would close his eyes and feel nothing but the slow, slick slide of Angel’s cock, over and over, until he was begging for a touch, for a kiss and Angel would lose patience with his own games and send Spike to Wesley’s mouth to kiss away the loneliness.

Angel would lean forward then, his hands on either side of Wesley’s body, letting his chest rest lightly against Wesley, dipping his head to nuzzle hard against Wesley’s neck, murmuring love words in his ear until Wesley smiled against Spike’s mouth and twitched his hips in a subtle reminder. Then Angel would laugh and shift position again, hands hard on Wesley, thrusting deep within a body that, at that moment, existed only to give him pleasure, because really, that was all that mattered, pleasure and possession and –

“No!”

Wesley froze and then, as Angel continued to move in him, close to coming, he lashed back with his hand, the blow landing with enough force to make Angel pause and then withdraw, as Wesley began to sob, curling up and fending off their attempts to hold him.

“Wesley, what is it? Did I hurt you? I would not have – not for worlds! Tell me!” Angel sat back on his heels, his face filled with concern, his hand reaching out and then falling back slowly.

Spike laid his hand on Angel’s arm, calming him. “You did nothing,” he said softly. “I saw his face. He was lost in pleasure, as were we and then – it was as if he had seen horrors.” He looked at Wesley, who was whimpering, eyes closed and his face hardened with resolve. “Wesley,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Look at me. We are here, with you. We love you. Do not shut us out.”

He dared to reach out, but Wesley struck out blindly the instant Spike’s hand cupped his tear-streaked face.

Spike turned to Angel, his eyes desolate. “I do not – Angel, what is this place?”

Angel glanced around. The room was dark, deep shadows cloaking it. The fire they had kindled – he frowned. It seemed so long ago, not a handful of hours. Was the fire burned out then? Why could he see nothing beyond the bed and what lit it with that strange, silvery glow? Silver...he shook Spike’s arm urgently. “The bed-” he said. “I cannot recall, but –oh, all is so confused – did we not touch it and trigger some spell that helped us heal Wesley’s back? Or was I dreaming?”

Spike frowned. “If so, I dreamed it too, but when was that? How long have we been here?”

Shapes shifted in the darkness around them and Angel shivered. “There is something amiss, Spike. We have been fools. Take Wesley’s hands - no, I care not if he will not be touched, take them I say! Join us, link us and then –”

They moved to flank Wesley, gripping his wrists with their hands and forcing him around, placing his hands against the head of the bed and ignoring his struggles and cries. As soon as Wesley was touching the ancient wood, the symbols appeared and he relaxed enough for Spike and Angel to each shift a hand from Wesley’s wrist and let them rest, palm against the back of Wesley’s hand. The silver light flared brightly and the room disappeared.

***

As the three figures appeared in the circle, Kaltor cried out in triumph, surging forward, his wraithlike form solidifying into a hideous shape, clawed hands reaching out. Giles rose up behind him, grabbing at the small table and bringing it down on Kaltor’s back. It produced a howl of pain – evidently, in this form Kaltor was vulnerable – but the demon did not even turn, his concentration fixed on the circle.

The table splintered and broke. Giles let it fall to the floor and picked up one of the legs, wrenching it free and hurling himself forward, trying to block Kaltor, who was at the edge of the circle, chanting words that Giles could not hear without shivering with revulsion. Words of greed for life and love of death; dark words, filled with malice and envy. Evil was rising within the room, howling and begging to glut itself with power.

The circle was a crimson wall now and through the scarlet haze, Giles saw the prone figures rise to their feet. Kaltor saw too, stepping backwards, his words faltering.

“What is this? Why do they not die?”

The red wall created from the blood-drawn runes was dissipating. As Giles watched, hope kindling within him, it vanished completely, leaving the floor unmarked, as though it had never been defaced. Kaltor shrank back, his assurance fled, as the men he had sought to destroy stepped forward, faces implacable.

“No! I will not be robbed of all that I have sought for so long!”

Something caught Giles’ eye; in the heap of clothing Wesley had discarded, something glittered; the knife he had used – Giles swallowed – on the servant girl. Moving with a speed made possible by Kaltor’s distraction, he hurriedly scooped it up and flung it with the accuracy of a well-trained arm.

It struck Kaltor in the back and oily, dark blood sprayed out from the wound. Giles darted forward, intending to recover his weapon and strike again, but Kaltor allowed his body to shift to mist once more and the knife fell to the floor. With the speed and savage desperation of an animal at bay, the misty figure gathered itself and moved to engulf Giles, seeking to control him again.

Giles raised his hands instinctively to ward him off and then let them fall, knowing that he was incapable of preventing Kaltor from violating him again. “Wesley! Kill me once he is within me. Strike and end this, I beg you.”

Angel and Spike, standing on either side of Wesley, placed a hand on his shoulders, linking them. They did not move, but the knife did, rising from the floor into Wesley’s grasp. He slashed open his hand and Spike and Angel extended their free hands for him to cut. Their blood mingled on the knife and Wesley smiled. “It will end, Giles, but not like that. Trust me?”

It was the easiest thing imaginable to nod and return that smile as Wesley threw the knife straight at him.

Giles kept his eyes open, wanting to die with the image of Wesley’s beloved face before him. He could feel the bitter cold that heralded the invasion and braced himself for the twin pain of knife and possession.

He felt neither. The knife struck and slowed, coming to rest an inch away from Giles’ chest and the black mist, poised to seep inside him, froze in place, solid once more and trapped as he, Giles had been trapped for so long.

“Take it,” Wesley said. “Do as we did and then strike home.”

Giles reached up and took the hilt of the knife, feeling it warm and rough against his palm. A good knife. He drew the blade across his flesh and felt a tingle of heat as his skin split and his blood welled up to mix with theirs.

Then he drove it home, into the very heart of the demon before him, and felt it die, twisting and writhing, pinned by a blade that was more than metal. The evil presence fled and Giles opened his hand and let the knife fall to the floor, sinking to his knees beside it, the grief and pain finally overwhelming him.

He felt hands touch him, soothe him, heard voices calling his name...but it took Wesley’s kiss to make him open tear-blinded eyes and smile at them all.