DISCLAIMER ==========
This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author asserts all legal and moral rights (copyright (c) 2006 - psun@hotmail.com) to this work and you may not copy it or transmit it in any way except in its entirety and with this disclaimer. This story features descriptions of sex between males:
- if such material is prohibited in your jurisdiction, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you're under the legal age to read such material, please DO NOT READ ON, - if you don't like, or are offended by such material, please DO NOT READ ON.
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"Honey, I'm home."
Somehow I should have guessed that this was how it would end for me. With a dark, handsome warlock breathing down my neck and a jewel-encrusted Byzantine era dagger at my throat.
What did they used to say about warlocks? Oh yeah, stay as far away from them as possible - and no matter how attractive or charming they may be, trust them only as far as you can throw them. At least that's what the latest Witches' Home Journal said but hell, I hadn't been a regular subscriber for a very long time. Any magazine my Aunt Hester quoted from certainly wasn't on my to-read list. Lately, all I'd been reading was the WQ - or the Warlock Quarterly. Nothing like finding out what the latest fashionable warlocks' were wearing and let's face it, supple black leather from italian designers certainly beat frilly Laura Ashley prints hands down.
And hell, paisley skirts never looked good with my hairy legs anyway.
John Blackwell is my name and I'm one of the few warlock/witch halfbreeds in the world. Not many of us around since the unwritten law practically forbids relations between the two ancient clans. Think Montague and Capulet of the supernatural world. Still every few decades or so, insatiable lust steps in, a daring couple slips and a halfbreed is born. The combined potential of a witch and a warlock - and a little something extra added in. Something about the murderous gleam in his green eyes told me that the man with the dagger to my throat didn't look for the numbers of halfbreeds to rise.
Shouldn't have surprised me to have an assassin gunning for my blood since just three days ago, I'd been framed for my father's attempted murder.
In retrospect, foolishly believing that my brothers were complacently accepting the return of the prodigal son was plain stupid. Sure, they had all taken me in with open arms initially since I'd had no intentions of remaining with the family. Did I forget to mention that my recently reconciled father was the CEO of a Cabal? Think a supernatural mafia and you've got the Morelli Cabal. It seemed to be all fine in the beginning but when I'd moved to New York to be closer to my recovering mother, the middle son, Alex, hadn't been pleased. Suddenly a new brother with claims to a slice of the billion dollar pie didn't seem all that appetizing anymore. Even for the son of a Cabal CEO used to keeping his thoughts hidden, it wasn't easy keeping secrets from a telepath of my calibre.
Hoping that I'd be accepted in due course on my own terms, I'd dismissed the unsettling thought. Little did Alex Morelli know that I had no intentions of involving myself in what I termed Demons Inc.
It was a fatal mistake on my part.
Three days ago, I'd been invited for a private dinner with my father. What I'd discovered was his unconscious body, a dagger gleaming with blood in his back, the signs of a nasty witches' brew gone wrong and moments later, a cadre of vengeful warlocks at the door bent on my blood. And older brother Alex looking as smug as you please. It didn't need a mindscan to know what had happened.
For a son of a witch, it certainly wasn't the best place to be. Before I'd had the time to protest my innocence - not that I would have been given much of a chance since warlocks are renowned for their thrist for vengeance, an energy blast had sent me hurtling out the window. Obviously I didn't stick around for a second round. With the range of defensive spells in my arsenal, I could certainly hold off a warlock or two but triple that number and add in their respective demon bodyguards, and I'd be in a supernatural world of trouble.
With a cabal CEO injured almost fatally, something told me there would be a witchhunt soon. That was how I ended up in an apartment several blocks away with my ex-roommate. After all, both of us were misfits in the tea-drinking, paisley-wearing suburban witches community. Far from the stereotype of a typical suburban witch, I was the strapping, opinionated half-warlock witch with the XY gene and Grace Willows came closer to the stereotype of a bimbo cheerleader - all blond, bubbly and bubbleheaded. Or at least, that was what she wanted everyone to think. In reality, she ran a successful dot-com and I'd come to rely on her as my omniscient information goddess. My Oracle, I called her.
Unfortunately with all the information on her hands, Grace hadn't predicted this.
Believing that we'd be relatively invisible to the eyes of the Cabal in her safe house, we'd let down our guard. Remaining relatively unmolested in her sanctuary had made me careless and I'd dropped onto the bed like a log, albeit with a baseball bat underneath. Along with our magical wards and the traps we'd set, the two herculean half-demon guards at her doors seemed to be overkill. Although we'd both tried our best to cover our tracks, what we both hadn't counted on was the tenacity of a werewolf who had my scent imprinted in his canine senses and it didn't take very long for the Cabal enforcer to come knocking. After all, if the man could track me down to the middle of fucking nowhere as he termed it, it made sense that he'd sniff me out barely four blocks away from his home.
Just as I closed my eyes to sleep, I half-sensed his silent entry but before I could mount a defence, he was at my side with a dagger to my throat. Clay wasn't a happy camper. Even in the dark, I could make out the developing bruise and some cuts on that handsome face. From past experience, I knew they would heal completely but the sting would irritate him like hell. Dried blood and dirt clung to his usually immaculate black suit and his raven black hair had been slightly mussed. Obviously the two giants by the door had given him some trouble downstairs but it still wasn't enough to stop him.
"How long did you think you can run, John?" He was dressed all in black. Could have sworn I'd seen it on WQ, some sleek leather suit that was so impossibly unforgiving that I imagined only a man with an impeccable physique and zero body fat could pull it off. Clayton James pulled it off and made it look damned good. Still great sartorial instincts aside, the man was a bloody fucking turncoat who said he loved me and now he wanted to kill me. Bastard. So why could I still imagine peeling that leather suit off that amazing body with my teeth?
Surprised by my instantaneous reaction to his proximity, he shook his head in wonder and his wolfish smile flashed in the relative darkness of my bedroom. "I've got a knife to your throat and you're getting a hard-on. Typical."
"I was sleeping. In my dreams, Chris Evans was in my bed naked and slicked up in baby oil. Don't get too flattered."
"Liar." He chuckled softly but his hands remained steady.
It could have been true. But why live with the celluloid fantasy of a human torch when I had the reality of a musclebound werewolf with amazing hands by my side?
Unfortunately I'd forgotten that his hands were also very good at maiming and slicing. Damn but the bastard was actually as good as his reputation. His arrival in the night hadn't even rung any bells. Trust Clayton James to find a way to get close enough to a psychic to stick a knife to his throat. Mostly the man had glossed over the salient facts about his unsavoury past but I'd figured most of them out, listening closely to the workdrones and occasionally inadvertently picking their brains. Didn't come as a surprise to me since Clayton obviously hadn't risen up the ranks of the Cabal because of his model perfect looks. Looking like a centerfold straight out of Playgirl wet dream didn't earn points with the Cabal, racking up dead enemies did. From what I'd pieced together of his years in the Cabal, he'd sliced, diced and tortured more people than I could possibly imagine. Although I'd turned my back on some of our more passive methods, I'd still been brought up a peace-loving, pacifist witch and it horrified me that he'd been involved in such activities.
It had been a can of worms that neither of us felt secure enough to open at this stage of our fledgling relationship but obviously when the man had a knife to your throat, talking about the obstacles in our relationship was obviously a moot point. And it certainly wasn't the time to quibble over a couple of other dead demons when I had my own skin to save. Luckily Grace and I had been reading up and practising just for this moment.
Clayton caught his breath in a gasp as my hastily whispered incantation ended. The moment his hands faltered was all I needed and I shoved him away. Aided by the repel spell I'd prepared, it had him flying across the room to slam against the wall opposite with his dagger going the opposite way. Anyone else would have suffered a debilitating number of fractures but that werewolf gene in him would soon have him up and running in a second.
I didn't have any time to lose. Reaching under the bed to grab the baseball bat I kept handy, I raised it just as he came to a crouching position. Watching me with those devilish green eyes, his thick, sexy lips had curled into a spitting snarl. The bastard never could stand being flouted.
What had obviously happened to the two goons outside remained at the back of my head but they were beyond my help now if Clayton had gone through them. With barely a scratch it seems. I didn't even want to think of their condition. Glancing out my bedroom door, I started yelling. "Grace! Get help!"
"Grace! Grace!" There was a wickedly teasing glint in his green eyes as he sneered at me. "I'm sorry but I'm afraid your little witch is a little indisposed, Mr Blackwell."
The snigger in his tone had me more than a little worried. With Clayton James, it ran the gamut of every little torturous scheme planned by the Spanish Inquisition. "Grace! What the hell did you do with her?" What did they say about hate being the opposite of love? It was true. I could have flayed the skin off his flesh at the moment if I'd had that spell handy. Where were the amazingly powerful wicked witches when you needed one? Circe's spell to turn men into pigs would have come in handy just about now. My mother could have given me some ideas but I'd shipped her to England three weeks back to recuperate.
As I waved the bat threateningly in his general direction, his green eyes narrowed ominously. "She was a very naughty girl so the Big Bad Wolf ate Lil Red Riding Hood."
Obviously a reference to her red hair. I glared at him. "Clayton."
"Finger lickin good. Yum."
One of my besetting sins was letting my heart act before my head. The rage propelled my motions even before my mind could form a coherent thought. Before I could react, I'd tossed a fireball so fast it was practically a reflex.
With his inhuman reflexes, he ducked just in time but not fast enough to receive a singe across his sleeve. Glancing down at the rent dispassionately, he turned back to me with a growl in his throat. "Fuck. That's Versace."
"You have ten more in the closet, pretty boy."
"Compliments won't help you now." His fangs flashed as he showed me a particularly wolfish smile. "You're still gonna die."
We jumped almost on tandem but what happened next took me utterly by surprise. As I swung the bat at his face, my heart stuttered for a split second and my hands faltered. Those bright green eyes glittered in fury and violence, his strong fists reaching out for me and yet I balked at the last. Instead of landing square on his chiseled nose as I had intended, the bat swung wide and he caught it easily in his powerful hands.
With his preternatural strength, he snatched it from me, snapped the bat as if it was made of matchsticks and tossed it aside without a second glance. Half the bat went flying to land on the bed behind me. "A fucking baseball bat? Don't insult me."
Arrogant bastard. Quickly mumbling a memorized incantation as he came forward, it literally stopped him in his tracks. Green eyes flicked up to me in barely concealed shock. For anyone else, they would have been frozen to the spot but for a guy with his rapid metabolism and that inexplicable partial immunity to spells, it only managed to slow him down a fraction. As he reached out for me in a tenth of his usual preternatural speed, I dropped to a crouch and snapped my leg forward, hoping to catch him unawares. Caught unwittingly in my spell, I managed to clip Clayton and he slipped backward onto the hardwood floors, stunned.
"Like that better, big guy?"
It wasn't easy keeping my distance - and not childishly sticking my tongue out at him in retaliation - but I backpedaled in preparation for his next move. I knew I wouldn't have long to gloat since he was up in an instant, his speed and reflexes obviously back to normal. There was a hint of respect in the quick glance he shot at me. "Excellent, John. I see you've been learning."
"I had a good teacher." From my perch a few feet away, I watched him quietly in anticipation. Sure, I had a good teacher. Clayton had taught me after all.
"Good, my ass." This time he managed a wicked grin and in the relative darkness, his sharp fangs flashed dangerously. "I'm the best."
Well, he wasn't exactly known for his modesty. What came next surprised the hell out of me. Clayton's powerful physicality was so much a part of the man that his sudden incantation caught me utterly unawares - and left me bespelled before I could resist. Obviously I'd been much too complacent with him that I'd forgotten his innate warlock heritage. It was a holding spell that he'd learnt from the witches' grimoires but despite practising endlessly, he could never quite perfect the skill. Surprisingly - and to my horror, it worked this time. Unfortunately for him he couldn't hold it for long since witches spells didn't work as well for warlocks and vice versa.
Still all he needed was that split second to have me flat on the bed with my wrists clipped to my back. Granted it was one of my favourite positions but a wooden stake through my heart wasn't exactly the impaling I was planning on. It was easy enough to forget Clayton James when warlocks and demons were after my ass but right now, in the darkness of the room, suddenly all I could feel was his heat, the solidity and the strength of his physique and it wasn't easy not to be overwhelmed by it all. He had that effect on me. It was easy enough to recall the last time I'd seen him. Naked, sexual, inviting. Utterly unafraid of his nudity, lying naked on the decadence of the exotic persian carpet in his living room, his neck thrown back in abandon, his powerful body glistening in sweat and that wicked smile of his flashing in the glow of the candles, daring me to come close.
I took a deep breath and tried to remember that coming close to Clayton had brought me to this.
Although I knew the effort couldn't have cost him, I could hear his laboured breaths beside my ear. Under mine, his heartbeat raced wildly and I could tell that the man wasn't all that immune to me either. His deep voice rasped out a dare. "So sweetheart, now that I've got you on your back again, can I assume you're liking this?"
"Frankly I'd like our positions reversed actually." Sarcasm was rife in my voice but even though I tried, I couldn't keep the wild, lurid images from circulating in my mind. Sex with Clayton James had been more than phenomenal, and my mind and body wasn't letting me forget it easily. Trying to fight his allure, my fingers twitched imperceptibly and I knew his holding spell was gradually wearing off. Certainly wasn't out of the woods yet since I still had to contend with more than 200 pounds of werewolf muscle. "Get off me!"
"Dominating bastard." As he nuzzled his lips down the angle of my jaw, he growled in frustration. "Always wanting to be on top when you know how good it feels to be the bottom." His free hand partially shifted to a claw and the sharp tip scratched lightly across my cheek down to my vulnerable neck. A ferocious light gleamed in his eyes as he nicked my Adam's apple. The small nick bled a drop of blood and he brought it to his lips. "Delicious."
I literally spat out his name, blind fury making me buck against him despite the futility. "I don't intend to go without a fight, you fucking bastard."
"Come on, baby, let's not fight." Clayton said it with a teasing smile but the nerves in his voice was evident. Strong arms strapped like relentless iron bands around me even as his supple lips traced the line of my jaw again in a trail of heat. "It's been a really long while..."
"It's been four days!" I knew it would end like this. Never should have trusted a damned warlock. Trust Aunt Hester to come out with a prediction that actually came true. But what I hadn't counted on was Clayton's hands slowly spreading my shirt open. "Clayton. What the fuck are you doing and -"
"You're spoiling the moment. Can't you just shut the hell up for once?" As I tried to make another protest, he forced his lips on mine even as his hands reach down to rip my shirt open.
As Clayton eased off on the pressure, he closed his eyes giving me the opening I needed and I blindly groped for the handle of the broken bat before slamming it down on his broad back. The stunning blow was enough to stun him - and just enough to shove him aside and roll off the bed onto the floor. From past experience, I knew half a broken bat didn't do much except dent his manly ego and irritate him like hell. True to form, once the man recovered from the blow, he swung to me with a barely disguised snarl. Pissed off was an understatement and I knew the kind of look he gave to his hapless victims before they got flattened. The crazed lunatic looked as if he'd eaten nails for breakfast.
The glow in those green eyes were almost unworldly, blazing with scorching flames that didn't bode well for me. From my position on the floor, I slowly curled up into a defensive crouch and tried to reason with him. "Look, I didn't try to kill Mr Morelli. You'd be a fool to believe that."
Intellectual discourse with Clay when he was in this mood only served to irritate him further. Any attempts I'd made to pacify the beast didn't seem to work and he only let out a disgusted snort of disbelief. When he finally pounced, I scrambled onto my feet and threw the broken bat in his direction. Nothing seemed to deter him at all and he swatted the bat aside as he would a pesky fly without breaking stride. In self-preservation, I aimed a flaming fireball at his torso and yet he kept on coming, as relentless as a freight train. The front of his suit charred and smoked from the burn and yet he persisted. Tendrils of smoke rising from his burnt torso, his eyes flaring in green fire and his swiftly mutating claws reaching out for me. I am sorry to say that I reacted as any hysterical blond bimbo from a horror flick would and tried to make a futile escape from the rampaging werewolf.
Stupid, silly me. It wasn't the first time I'd had to outrun a homicidal werewolf and I should have known better how futile it was. As it was, I only made it as far as the hallway. He was on me in seconds and snagged me by the ankle as I slammed down painfully on the floor. Trying to kick him off turned out to be of no avail as he crawled his way up my prone form and held me down. As a normal man, he already outweighed and outmuscled me. Added to his preternatural werewolf strength, I was practically helpless which only added to my impotent fury. As I aimed a kick at his face, he bellowed furiously. "You crazy fucking witch. Will you stay down!"
As he tried to force my head down, I rammed my fist into his face only to have him catching it with his own. His fists were covered in blood, certainly not my own and I noticed the gash on his forehead I'd caused healing preternaturally. Damn werewolf. "And let you kill me? I'd see you in hell first."
"Murderous bastard." Clay huffed and he puffed but to no avail since I refused to surrender like a wimpy witch would. Although knowing it was futile, I still maintained my struggles but the outcome was never in doubt. Finally managing to twist my arms into an acutely painful pretzel, he held me down and sighed. "Stop fighting, you fucking idiot! What the fuck are you talking about?"
Held against my will and immobilized, I huffed out a protest. "Look, I know you don't believe me but I didn't kill Mr Morelli. I walked in and it had already been done."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
Instead of getting butchered and gralloched as I'd expected, I heard the wry frustration in his deep voice and I started to wonder. Twisting my head around, I stared at him. "What?"
His handsome face - albeit with a rapidly healing scar on his forehead - was flushed with anger as he bent to glare furiously at me. "You think I believed that cheap ploy? I fired the damned blast to get you out of there, you idiot. God knows you were probably about to do something utterly stupid like attempt to talk to them so I knew I had to get you out."
That explained the energy blast that knocked me out of my father's office, left me bruised all over - and likely left a large hole in the wall. At that time, I didn't have much time to contemplate on the energy blast since I'd concentrated only on getting the fucking hell out of Demon Inc. Questions on how I'd gotten out of the place wasn't foremost on my mind, survival was. "You didn't intend to kill me?"
"Kill you?" He snorted in indignation. "Don't insult me. I'm a professional. If I wanted you dead, I'd be wearing Armani black and sobbing profusely over your dead carcase now."
"You could certainly try, dammit." Due to sheer orneriness, I dared him but the earlier conviction had left my voice. That energy blast had been just enough to sent me hurtling through the windows without hurting me - and it did make sense after all. As a credit to his fearsome reputation, I seriously doubted that any of Clay's targets actually survived one of his attempts. From the reports I'd gleaned from some of the more susceptible employees under him, I reasoned that Clayton James didn't play around with his victims. He did the job as neatly as possible, ended their lives and left. A sight better than those who toyed with their helpless victims. It amazed me that I could think of his murderous crimes in such a cool, dispassionate way instead of screaming a hissy fit as I'm sure my Aunt Hester would. No wonder my aunt called me a changeling.
Good God. What was happening to me? Was I actually condoning his psycho killer past? My mother should have warned me that consorting with demonic warlocks with a penchant for assasination would corrupt my moral values!
Still I had to be sure after all and I watched him quietly, trying to ascertain his honesty. "I didn't know exactly what to think. Clay, when you didn't come earlier.."
"Just like a witch to think like that." Disappointed by my evident lack of intelligence, the man shook his dark head. "You've been watching too many chick flicks. That's much too obvious and you can be sure Alex would have some of his cronies tailing me initially. I've been busy gathering evidence - as I bet you have. By the way, Alex isn't all that great at hiding information. He obviously thinks that since all the evidence points at you, no one's going to be looking elsewhere. Idiot."
"You know it's not me?"
Clay narrowed his green eyes. "Now you're seriously insulting my intelligence."
Since he already had me trampled ignominously on the floor - and didn't seem to have any homicidal thoughts, I couldn't help needling him. "What can I say? Pretty boys like you aren't exactly known for their brains."
The grin he shot me was seriously pained. "Shut up."
The fact that he'd trusted me more than what te evidence showed surprised - and pleased me. God, I really was in love with this crazed monster. "I'm still trying to get over the fact that you actually believed me! Is this some kinda evil ploy to get me to trust you?"
"You're the man that I love." The quiet emphasis on the words had my heart melting despite the fact that moments ago, he seemed about to kill me. "Anything less than total trust would be highly insulting." Although his eyes weren't the crazed, maniacal shade of green anymore, he still eyed me with some disfavour as he said that.
Evidently the man wasn't exactly happy with the fact that I'd brained him with a broken bat. Damn, he seemed to be the type to carry a grudge for years. How to tell him that I'd actually doubted that his ... love for me would pale in comparison to his dogged loyalty to my father? Somehow I'd foolishly imagined that the sight of his mentor with a dagger stuck to his back would negate any feelings he had for me. Putting on an apologetic face, I pouted as well as I could. "Ouch. Okay, I'm sorry."
Clayton wasn't easily fooled by my fake half-hearted apology and he gave me a little shake. "Can the apologies. And I know you, John, far better than you would think. If you'd actually killed him, you'd be a damned sight smart enough to hide the body from me."
"Well, you got that right. Now let me up." As he'd released the tension a little while we talked, I struggled again.
"You gonna hit me with a baseball bat again? Sic idiot half-demons on me? That hurt, let me tell ya." This time he pouted and I could see that he did it far more convinciongly than I did. Then again, an Abercrombie & Fitch hunk like him - with his full, sensually carved lips - would pout beautifully of course.
That didn't mean I was falling for it though - although I have to admit he looked damned cute with that pout - and I grinned back at him. "Scared?"
"Hell, no!" The little pout shifted into a full-blown, fangs-flashing leer as he gave me a wink. "Just wanted some warning. You know I like it when we play rough, honey."
"Pervert."
"That's what they all say." Clayton grinned. "But you love me anyway."