On the edge of shock, Henry had looked to Frank. Maybe it had just been reflex or perhaps he’d harbored some desperate hope that Frank would call it all off. It had been so long ago Henry didn’t remember anymore. What had been burned into his mind at that moment had been Frank’s countenance.

Henry could see him even now.

His face was pale as candle wax, his eyes wide with terror, and yet his expression was pure determination. The smell of vomit clung to him and sweat had soaked through his clothes and lab coat. Still, he took Henry’s severed finger in one hand and lifted the long bronze knife in the other.

In that moment Henry knew there would be no reprieve. Not even an angel of Abraham could still Frank’s hand. He’d convinced himself—and too many of his superiors—that this was the right choice, the only choice. A single human life and, in return, mastery over the shade lands: a key to death and immortality. This war and every one after would be theirs to win. And what was one life lost when thousands were dying pointlessly in filthy trenches?

This single sacrifice would promote Frank to the highest ranks and open the gates of the most profound power for him. And perhaps there had even been a part of him that had felt relieved to be free of the exposure that Henry had come to represent. Henry thought he saw as much in Frank’s face as he leaned over him, his clammy skin glistening with sweat.

The surgical lamp flared like a halo.

Frank’s hands trembled as he lifted the knife over Henry’s heart, but he still brought the blade down fast and hard. It struck deep to the very core of Henry and agony bloomed through him.

Henry knew he was dying and almost welcomed it, if only to stop seeing that sick, broken expression spreading across Frank’s face…if only not to witness Frank cry out in horror and crumple over his body sobbing—now that was all far too late.

Henry just wanted it to end.

But the pain only intensified as Frank tried hysterically to jerk the bronze blade out of Henry’s body. Henry felt every motion as Frank’s sweating hands slipped on the blood-slick hilt.

At the edges of Henry’s vision the Lost Mist rose and then the dark depths of the shade lands opened. He’d thought it had been all over then. But he’d been wrong.

They’d all been so wrong.

Back then, they hadn’t understood the real nature of sacrifice nor the price of true power. It had all seemed so simple when depicted in neat little rows of pretty runes. They’d blindly reenacted rituals pilfered from ancient tombs and then expected easy glory. They’d been stupid as kids playing tag in a minefield.

Their incantation had opened the shade lands before them all, but the dead within that vast darkness did not suffer the living. And suddenly only Henry, with a blade in his jerking heart, no longer qualified as a living sacrifice. But every other man and animal in the military laboratory had been.

With each of their torn bodies, the ritual had bound Falk to life in death: fed him their deaths, armored him with their shattered bones, and burned away his promise of mortal respite.

Eighteen hours later, in the gore-spattered ruins of the lab, Henry’s heart had started beating despite the bronze blade impaling it. Henry had taken a breath and choked on pain and blood. And then he’d realized that it would never be over, not for him.

***

Henry came fully awake, but the warm body in his arms hadn’t fled along with his dreams.

Jason lay pressed against him, his long hands curled against Henry’s belly and his breath tickling through the blond hair of Henry’s chest. His morning erection thrust up against Henry’s thigh with the excited optimism of a teacher’s pet waiting to be called upon.

Henry’s own arousal intensified from a dim flicker to something much harder and hungry. As gold pools of morning light spread across the bed, Henry shifted, slipping his big hands down Jason’s body, stroking the length of him.

Jason’s eyes opened and he smiled, groggy and shy. But he didn’t pull away. He nuzzled his face into Henry’s chest and murmured a soft encouragement. Henry almost laughed at this sleepy lust, but somehow he found the honesty of it too moving to deny. As he stroked and teased Jason’s flawless, young body fully awake, Jason shyly returned his attentions.

Jason’s hands drifted to the waistband of Henry’s sweatpants and slipped past the elastic. Anticipation thrilled through Henry. Just the first brush of his fingers felt electric. His sure caress and knowing grip assured Henry that Jason might be young and sweet but he was no virgin.

With that knowledge, Henry abandoned his restraint. He nudged Jason’s legs wider, feeling an almost predatory pleasure at the trusting access Jason offered him to his body. Henry slicked his fingers with saliva and incantations. Then he applied himself to discovering just what touch where would bring the young man off. Henry’s hands were large and rough, but Jason soon responded to his motions with wanton thrusts and urgent, eager gasps.

All the while, Jason’s encouraging caresses rocked through Henry’s body, like the rush of life returning to his flesh. Whether by instinct or experience, he knew almost too well what he was doing. Sweat beaded both their bodies and their breaths came in fast gasps. Jason gazed through his lashes, his face flushing. Henry watched him with hungry fascination.

They worked each other almost as if it were a contest of pleasure. Henry drove Jason’s taut body to crests of ecstasy with calculated control, while Jason gasped and quivered, using both his sweat-slick hands to pump and please Henry’s thick erection.

At last Jason came with a muffled cry into Henry’s chest. As if inspired by Jason’s exuberance, Henry’s own body climaxed, spilling semen across Jason’s belly.

Jason smiled and lifted his face to meet Henry’s gaze directly. He looked both vulnerable and proud, like he had just won a marathon and wanted to be congratulated. He’d looked the same way briefly last night, just after he’d patched up Henry’s chest…flushed and tender, like he was waiting for true love’s kiss.

It was only then that the stupidity of this entire thing struck Henry. He was nobody’s true love. Hell, he was hardly decent enough company for the hustlers in the Tenderloin. Jason was probably too inexperienced to recognize it, but a man like Henry would be worse for him than letting a vampire loose in his living room.

He should have known better than to even lay a hand on someone as kind, clean, and young as Jason.

Henry broke away from Jason’s gaze and sat up.

“What time is it?” Henry asked, though he could see the clock easily.

For an instant Jason just lay there, looking stunned. Then he too quickly sat up. He turned so that Henry couldn’t see his face.

“Six a.m.” Jason didn’t look back from his study of the clock.

“We should probably get a move on…” Henry commented, but without any real intention. He just didn’t want this to become some kind of a scene.

“Right,” Jason agreed. But he still didn’t look back at Henry. Bright morning light shone across the planes of his straight back and tense shoulders.

Henry felt like a bastard, but he couldn’t let Jason start thinking that they were having a romance here. Jason would only end up hurt worse.

“Unless you need to use the bathroom first, I’m going to take a shower,” Jason stated.

“Sure, go ahead.”

Jason stood quickly, snatched some clean clothes from the crate beside his bed, and fled into the bathroom. Henry heard him lock the door behind him.

“Well, shit,” Henry muttered to himself. This was exactly why Henry spent more time with the dead than the living.

From the windowsill a tiny meow sounded as if in agreement with him. Princess lay in a patch of morning sunlight, watching him from over her scarlet tail.