Page 53 of Bluebeard’s Key

He hurried to Tom, barely conscious, and tipped the flask to his lips.

“It’s nearly over, my love,” he said, laying his hand on Tom’s cold cheek.

His Elixir of Life, improvised through love, made him wait a single heart-rending moment, perhaps the price for his months of deception and hubris, but then he felt the warmth returning to his lover’s cheek.

CHAPTER 37

Tom felt strength returning, rushing from his lips and filling his head with sparkling light. It spilled through his body, warming his chest and arms and legs and feet and…only one hand. His other hand, his right hand…he couldn’t feel it. Tight, painful pressure gripped his wrist. He tried to move his fingers, but failed.

“Zay, my hand,” he mumbled, looking up into his lover’s eyes. His beautiful brown eyes, red with tears but set with determination. He would know what to do. He knew everything.

“Of course,” Zayan gushed, fussing with his arm. The pressure released and heat flowed in, searing heat burning along his nerves.

“Hurts,” he said, “Is it…”

“Don’t talk,” Zayan answered his unspoken question. “Everything will be fine. I’m here with you. Let it do its work.”

The pain burned down his arm and into his hand, and that was a small comfort. He still had a hand, and he could feel it. A vision of blood flashed through his fuzzy mind…there was so much blood…but Zayan said not to worry. Zayan had it under control. He could feel the fiery pain outlining each of his fingers, but one the most. His index finger, the one he pricked on the key, the one that was bleeding so much. Why was it bleeding? Was it still bleeding? There had been so much blood, but Zayan’s eyes told him he was safe. Slowly, the pain began to subside, drifting away, only a bad memory, but a sharp one he’d never forget.

He lifted his hand, seeing the bloody bandage and remembering it all. Zayan at the promontory, the terrible weakness, the blood, and Zayan asking for his trust. Of course he trusted his lover, his love. And a plan, Zayan’s plan, improvised when Bluebeard locked them in his laboratory. And all those dead women. He barely remembered. An explosion? It was all so gray and fuzzy.

“Did it work?” he asked, grasping for something tangible. “Your plan? I don’t remember what you...”

Zayan stopped him with a gentle hand on his cheek, saying, “He fell for every step of it. I kept him angry and off-balance and got him to promise three times he wouldn’t enter. I don’t think he suspected anything. He locked us in his lab, and he listened to everything I did. He heard the fake calcinations, even offered to help, and then the explosion. He was furious about that, as I knew he would be, yelling and pounding on the door. Then the Key did its work when he burst through the door. He’s dead on the floor now.” Zayan dipped down for a kiss, saying, “You’re safe.”

With those happy tidings, Tom breathed easy, relaxing, knowing his lover had everything under control. He knew he was safe, until suddenly he saw Thierry’s face, streaked with blood, rise behind his lover’s back.

“Zay,” he said with as much force as he could muster, pointing. “Behind you…”

Zayan flipped around, leaning back and sheltering him, bodily blocking Thierry. The neat and tidy steward was gone, banished by Bluebeard’s blood. His crimson-stained hands were empty, but he was reaching for them, a trail of bloody footprints on the floor behind him.

“I apologize,” Thierry said, taking a step back and lowering his eyes. “I did not mean to intrude. I merely meant to catch your attention.”

Under the blood staining his face, streaked across his waistcoat, Thierry looked tired, tired to the bone, shoulders sagging, arms limp at his sides, crushed. And no wonder—he had just lost his master and his unrequited love.

The moment stretched as Zayan stood, brandishing his sword, facing Thierry and steeling himself for whatever might follow. Tom wasn’t afraid, not in the least. Zayan was there to protect him. Thierry broke the impasse, saying, “Mage Zayan, perhaps Doctor Dalton would be more comfortable in his bed.”

The next morning, Tom woke as the dawn brightened the window. He felt warm pressure on his chest and found Zayan curled next to him, trapping him under his arm. He didn’t dare move, or he would wake him.

His handsome boyfriend, so fierce the day before, was helpless, lying naked next to him and gently breathing. His brow was smooth, eyes gently closed, with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, if you knew to look for it.

He raised his hand, intending to stroke Zayan’s back, but instead stared at it. He wiggled his fingers, and there was no pain. Weakness, surely, like the weakness that permeated his entire body, but no pain. In the dim light, he could barely see the small shadow of a dimple on his fingertip, his index finger, the finger that was pricked by Bluebeard’s Key. It was completely healed in a single day. His talented alchemist did that.

When he looked back, Zayan was awake, sleepy but watching him.

“Morning, handsome,” he said, wiggling his fingers again. “Look what you did.”

“Promise me,” Zayan said, guiding his hand down and kissing his finger. “Promise me you’ll stay with me forever.”

He answered with no hesitation, “I promise.”

With that, his flirty Zayan woke up and said, “In that case, we should get some food into you before you wither away to dust. You lost a lot of blood, and we need to build up your strength. I think this is a perfect morning for breakfast in bed. Let me help you to the bathroom, and then I’ll scrounge up a feast.”

When they were installed back in bed with their breakfast, Zayan said, “I apologize. The cook is still gone to wherever Bluebeard sent her, so this is more like a picnic than breakfast. Fortunately, I found where she hid the coffee.”

Zayan handed him a steamy mug and set to arranging a plate in his lap. Bread and jam, luscious raspberries, a chocolate croissant (his favorite), and some cheese. It couldn’t be more perfect, but the real treat was sitting cross-legged right next to him, gloriously naked and getting crumbs everywhere, looking every bit the yogi he’d first admired a year ago.

Tom asked between bites, “Is it true? He’s dead?”