Chapter 6
Six
The tomb of ice and timber did not stop him. Tomasz was dead. A ghost forgotten by the village. What were walls to a haunting?
He ran across the threshold and down the front walk, skidding onto the well-traveled road mere feet from his front door.
Curiosity turned his head, and Tomasz screamed his horror at the ruins of his tavern. Crushed beneath a tumult of rotted, snow-covered trees, broken timber and mottled thatch gave the barest suggestion of the building that had once proudly stood at the crossroads.
The fierce winds from that night raged through his memory, the terrible howls from the mountains, and the awful crack of branches above.
His temple throbbed. One skull-splitting, knee-quaking pulse of pain, blurring his vision and blinding him to the ruins of his tavern and the fallen trees. Until all he saw were two molten orbs floating in the dark.
“Please, Tomasz.” Garek’s voice traveled on the wind.
Tomasz did not wait for more. Following ghostly instincts, he broke into a sprint. Never winded, never suffering the cramps or aches he would have if he were alive.
The knowledge sped him faster, and he entered the village, slowing only when he came upon the market square without passing through the gate.
The gate, which would have been closed after sundown.
He tore around the marketplace, panicked mind cataloging the impossibilities.
Odd flames flickered behind glass enclosures atop iron poles.
A fountain, the sort Garek had spoken of seeing in Lutetia, burbled in the center, and paved roads framed the square.
Gone were the ground-floor cottages, replaced by half-timber, multi-story homes, each of them grand enough to rival the burgermeister’s mansion, now dwarfed by a brick building and a sweeping church.
Hooves crashed like thunder against cobbles, driving Tomasz from the square.
He followed old familiar paths, unable to slow his run when new walls and buildings obstructed the way.
All he knew was terror and burning rage at the unfairness of his death.
How easily he was forgotten and left to rot, trapped on the threshold and unable to move on.
How many nights had Garek come for a drink? A bite? A few hours of respite and pleasure before heading back out into the cold? Twenty? Thirty?
How long could Tomasz run from the truth of what those visits were? Of what Garek truly was?
Salt upon the threshold and sweep the frame with ash. Set out a bowl of milk, and let the wild hunt ride past.
He burst from the rear of the village, running through a low hedge that had not been there before. The woods rose to meet him, low-reaching branches ghosting through his arms and legs.
The crash of hooves thudded against earth and grass, drawing closer, yet still he ran until his dead lungs ached and the legs he could not feel gave out.
He fell to his knees in a clearing, catching himself on hands he could not feel and panting breaths he did not take as a sob welled within him.
Dead.
Dead and gone a score of years and more, with none to remember him but a huntsman.
The collision of hooves to earth vanished, replaced by the rustle of boots walking through the undergrowth. A cold wind preceded Garek’s approach, drawing Tomasz upright on his knees. It lifted his chin, holding him tight in its ghastly embrace.
“I told you not to run.” Garek’s voice, that lovely baritone, had hardened into an unrecognizable steel. “I begged you not to run.”
He loomed over Tomasz as he had that first night.
A tall, massive figure in black furs and riding leather, lingering on the threshold of life and death.
The snow-dusted cowl covered his head, and though his face was masked in shadow, the weight of Garek’s gaze was inevitable. Final, and fixed on Tomasz.
“Please,” he breathed. “Help me.”
“I cannot.” Garek, for all the terror he instilled, sounded weary and resigned. “It is my curse.” A dry wind sighed from his lips, lightly crashing against Tomasz’s cheek like a kiss. He removed a worn glove from one hand and reached for him. “Forgive me, kochanie.”
Kochanie. An old word in his mother’s tongue. My love.
A sob cracked out of Tomasz as Garek gently cupped his cheek. Calluses scraped his wind-burnt skin, warmth bleeding through the dead winter chill, and time stilled.
The winds ceased their howl. The moon halted its course across the sky.
Garek sucked in a sharp breath and collapsed to his knees.
Snow drifted up around them, and he tore his second glove off, tossing it aside and clapping his hand to Tomasz’s cheek.
Silver eyes burned bright beneath the cowl, and Tomasz tore the garment free, if only to look upon his lover one last time.
“I can touch you,” Garek rasped.
“What?”
“I can touch you. Gods above and below, I am touching you.” Tears turned silver by the moonlight limned Garek’s eyes.
Tomasz searched his face, seeking the meaning behind his bewilderment. “You are.”
“And you are still here.” He hauled Tomasz forward, crashing their mouths together. Teeth struck teeth, lips locked and sealed and split as Garek pulled away, peppering Tomasz’s face between utterances of, “Here, still here. You’re here.”
“I am dead,” he answered, numb to the truth of the words.
“But not gone.” Garek held Tomasz tight against him, cradling his head against his shoulder. “The quarries I chase, they do not linger. My hand sweeps through them like a fog, and they vanish into death, but you are solid, and smooth and here.”
Cold, or the memory of cold, bit Tomasz’s shoulder when Garek lay him in the snow, the hard press of his body driving him into the icy bank. His riding coat fell over them as a blanket, and any protest Tomasz had, any fright or hesitation vanished at the heat and weight of him.
His scent accosted Tomasz. Sweat and exertion. Crisp winter wind and gorza and woodfire. Garlic and salted butter. Horse hair, leather, and life.
And in that, the time between their nights stretched into years. The hollow days between visits blooming like a dollop of ink in water until Tomasz felt every one of them weigh down upon the body he did not own.
And yet, he felt every sweep of Garek’s tongue. The press of his knee working his thighs apart. The grind of his cock and there, faint, but there, the beating of a heart.
Two.
Twinned and matched in time as Garek worked a hand under Tomasz’s shirt to rest off-center on his chest.
“Tomasz,” he sighed. “This is impossible.”
“Don’t question it.” He fisted Garek’s hair, dragging him down into a searing kiss. Those callused hands wandered, touching Tomasz everywhere they could reach. Working lower, beneath the waist of his trousers to grasp his cock.
“Gods!”
“I will never grow weary of this, kochanie.” He stroked him slowly. Intentionally. With the skilled touch earned from night after repeated night toying with Tomasz’s body and learning it as well as he knew his own. “Never in a thousand years.”
“Could we have that long?”
“Gods only know,” he answered. “But we have tonight, and damn the gods, I am caught.” He laughed as he slipped his hand between Tomasz’s thighs, pressing against his entrance and working him with the patience of a man with eternity at his fingertips. “I am caught.”
Tomasz arched against him, tugging his trousers low and widening his legs, the bitter cold of snow against his backside less than a memory of feeling.
All that there was, all that there could be, was Garek preparing him, stroking him, kissing beautiful words into his skin before sealing their mouths together.
The press of his cock earned a grunt, the slow working until their bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces, an eternity of bright pain and deep pleasure.
His belly swooped at the final notching, and they groaned into each other’s mouths, savoring the taste of their breaths mingling until they were one.
He eased into a steady pace, breath crashing warm against Tomasz’s cheeks and nose.
A hitch of his hips dragged forth a moan, pleasure curling his toes in his boots.
Garek bit his shoulder and pressed his tongue deep, as if he could swallow the sound.
But the bliss of their coupling paled against the quickening of Garek’s heart.
Chest to chest in the snow, as though Garek were loath to put any space between them.
His muscles tensed, pleasure surmounting the distant memory of cold and the faint pain of being filled, release building like dawn’s light cresting the horizon.
A faint echo blooming brighter with every pump of Garek’s hips.
He clutched his shoulders and dragged his hands down Garek’s back, holding tight until his arms and legs shook, the only warning before orgasm blazed through him.
The trees echoed with his cry, and Garek’s answering roar.
He did not relent, fucking Tomasz harder and riding him down like the quarry he was.
Impossibly, pleasure built anew, surging and bursting brighter than before.
He buried his face in Garek’s shoulder, whimpering and babbling until finally his lover slowed and stopped.
Those beloved arms wrapped around Tomasz, holding him close as Garek rolled onto his back, stroking him in the come down.
“How is this possible?” he rasped after a long while.
“I fear the answer, if we are ever given one.”
Tomasz raised his head, relishing the sight of Garek at ease.
Head tipped in the snow, his eyes were closed, the strain he carried in all of their meetings vanished at last. He was lovely like this, sated and winded from catching his prey.
Callused palms braced Tomasz’s back, though no winter cold prickled his skin.
He dreaded his next words, knowing they would erase the loveliness of the moment.
“Will you leave me again?”
Garek’s fingers dug into his back. “Never.”
“I am dead.”
“As am I,” he stated plainly. Tomasz stiffened, and Garek cracked one silver eye open. “Did you think I was alive?”
“I did not know what to think.” He drew a light circle over Garek’s heart. “But if you speak the truth, how are you here?”
“Crossed the wrong witch,” he answered. Gently, Garek removed himself from Tomasz, tucking back into his trousers before helping him dress. “She sought a companion in me. I told her she was chasing the impossible, and here we are.”
Tomasz rose on shaking legs, moving to brush snow off of his clothes and stopped with a gulp when there was none. He looked to Garek, lost in the reminder that he was no longer of the world he knew.
The huntsman stood tall before him, bright eyes gleaming. Where before they reminded him of the winter moon, cold and distant, now they shone with the warmth of adoration, and love.
“Come with me, kochanie.”
Garek extended his hand. The wind followed, dragging with it a ribbon of snow to wrap around Tomasz. It pulled at his sleeves and teased his hair, playfully drawing him forward, closer to Garek and his offer.
“How?” He slashed his arm and the wind fell away at his bidding. “How would this even work? I am a ghost, and you are cursed, this is impossible.”
“Cursed to ride for my quarry,” Garek said in an odd, empty voice, as though he were reciting something far older than Tomasz. He cocked his head and that lovely smile played over his lips. “Cursed never to touch, never to be caught. Cursed to chase the impossible.”
In one stride he closed the distance between them, cupping Tomasz’s cheek and dragging a thumb across his lower lip.
“But I see now,” Garek said, breathless in awe. “It was never a curse. Never a punishment. Because no curse could have brought me to you.”
“Then what did?”
Garek answered with a kiss, tender and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world, and then some. “Fate.”
THE END
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