Blood Claim Laura Mykles (best classic novels txt) 📖

Luke said, as sure of that as he was about his distrust of sunlight. “I don't know what you are, but you are not my Cory."

Cory's face changed, instantly. Gone were the smiles, and he was as still as though he'd been suddenly chiseled out of stone. “He is in here."

"Unless he's in the driver's seat, we're not taking the car out of the driveway,” Luke said. He broke free, having to get away because his body truly wasn't minding the lack of Cory inside Cory's body. “What are you?"

Cory—or Cory's body, at least—leaned back, sprawling the exact way Cory had a thousand times before. “These must be principles,” he said. “I cannot say that I like them at all. You liked it when Cory begged for you. Would that change anything?” He ran his hand down his belly and touched his erection. “I could beg on my knees, if you think it will help."

"Let me speak with Cory,” Luke said.

"I told you. He's in here. He's just a little busy.” Cory stood up, going to Luke, but Luke held him away at arm's length, and Cory, for once, respected that. “I could just take you."

Luke held out his hands. “That is not going to happen,” he said. “I believe you don't mean Cory any harm. Just let me speak with him."

Cory stood up, practically stalking Luke across the living room. “What I want, I take. Isn't that how you humans are? Do you think you can stop me?"

Luke closed his eyes. Cory was so close and smelled so familiar, Luke could barely push him away, but push him away he did. He opened his mouth, but couldn't form the words the first time.

"What did you say?” Cory demanded.

"I said, I revoke my invitation.” Luke formed each word carefully. Cory screeched in pain, Luke bolted for the door and swung it open, and Cory turned back into the bird. Wings beat against Luke's face, talons dug into his cheek, and then the white owl was away. He watched as Cory flew up into the night, but he didn't call him back. He couldn't; it would have invited whatever that thing was back into his house again, and the thought of being alone with it, when he was completely defenseless, was more frightening than it should have been.

"I'm sorry,” he told the night sky, when the bird was completely out of sight. It was Brutus who answered, miles away but crystal clear on the cold, chilly wind.

* * * *

Lathe let Brutus out at true dark. The wolf bolted past him, into the garden and behind the house, where the forested edge of the river met the parking lot. Lathe let him run and opened himself up to Brutus's feeling of freedom. He felt caged in, himself; the vortex was gone, the restaurant was empty but for the ghosts, and he needed time to think about how he was going to trap it again.

The world was too bright for him to concentrate, so he went back down to the basement. The corpse was dried out, but he kicked it nonetheless before settling down into his nest. He could still feel Brutus running through the trees, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and that, at least, was calming. Soon he would find something to kill, and they would both feed for the night.

He'd created Brutus out of ice and need and hunger and just a little bit of himself. They were linked. He opened himself a little more, letting him be the wolf and enjoy the hunt. He'd found something, something wholly alive and full of blood. He bounded further down the trail, silent as death, and his body responded to its panicked biorhythms with absolute hunger.

When death came, though, it didn't come from teeth and claws, but talons and beak. The owl descended silently from the sky, digging its claws into the back of Brutus's neck. Its beak came down, and Lathe felt the sharp pain as though it were happening to the back of his own neck as the owl severed Brutus's spinal column. It wasn't a line of nerves, but the core of what tied Brutus together. When it was severed, Brutus collapsed.

Lathe sat up, completely alone in the basement. Alone for just a second, of course, as the flurry of wings stirred the air around him. The owl struck his face, the power of its wings beyond what any owl should have had. And then it was just Cory, naked and sitting cross-legged at the end of his nest. “You didn't have to kill it,” Lathe said.

Cory wiped off his mouth. There was no blood; Brutus didn't have any in him. But it wasn't done entirely for the dramatic gesture. There was something on his lips, even if it wasn't blood, and it smelled of Brutus. Lathe could only watch as Cory licked his fingers clean. “Sweet,” he decided. “That's what I'm going to call it."

"You belong to me,” Lathe said, voice harsh. “I demand that you—"

Cory backhanded him with his free hand; he wasn't quite finished taking in Brutus's essence with the other. Lathe fell back, head striking one of the numerous support poles holding up the main floor, and he had to shake his head to clear the ringing from it.

"Would you like to rephrase that? I believe I'm going to call this feeling I have here as taking offense to your tone."

"I freed you,” Lathe said, changing tactics, though it stuck in his throat to do so. This Cory was stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. The power radiated from his skin in the same sickening blue light, and his eyes shone with it. He had an erection, and occasionally his hand would drop down and stroke it a couple times, but his eyes never left Lathe. Lathe stopped talking before he accidentally added a you owe me part to the sentence.

"You did,” Cory said. He sat up so that he