Chapter One

Wishbone's accustomed alley smelled of the catch dragged from the harbor to the fishmongers. To be fair, so did most of his customers. The only light spilled from the Royal around the corner, where the beer was cheap, yet so foul that Wishbone couldn't bring himself to drink it. The alley was not well traveled after the sun went down. Wishbone could rely upon two or three other boys who worked within shouting distance to come running if a customer gave him trouble. Lane kicked like a cart horse, and Kestrel (who only passed as a boy if he wore makeup on his wrinkles and kept to the shadows) could use the knife he carried.

The crowd that spilled from the Royal's narrow front door swirled as a covered coach and pair nudged around the corner. There were no arms painted on the coach's sides, but graceful construction and the beautiful matched pair of bays signaled money. The Royal's clientele moved toward the coach. Then, realizing that the glass-shielded coach lamps did them no favors, they scrambled back from the illumination. The gleaming horses' hooves slipped and sparked on the cobbles, but neither the coach nor the man driving it seemed lost on the narrow street. The gray-cloaked coachman snaked the driving whip gently over one mahogany flank, indicating, perhaps, what he might do to any who impeded their progress. The lamps were bright enough to lay bare Wishbone's territory all the way to the end, and he was not pleased with the exposure.

The coach halted opposite the barrel Wishbone used for a seat. The bays pricked their ears and glanced about in disapproval. The door opened, and out stepped a swirl of black: a cloak like folded wings, a wide-brimmed hat, gloves, boots, and layers of fine cloth that reflected or absorbed the faint light, whispering of money.

He was tall. That much could be seen through his enveloping clothes. He moved with easy balance over the slick cobblestone way. The cold made his breath into a jet of vapor. His hair was thick, curled, and dark with tiny, gleaming flecks of gray. What could be seen of his complexion was darker than usual, like a heavily-tanned sailor's, only silk-smooth. His eyes had irises the color of violets and no visible whites; the pupils were slit up and down, like an animal's.

Wishbone shivered. Did the gloves conceal fingers with extra joints, as rumor said? A fragrance emanated from Wishbone's guest. Musky and spicy, as if a predator beast had slept in a bed of rare herbs, it was detectable even over the foul air of the alley. Unlike every other customer who had come to Wishbone, this one appeared neither ashamed nor furtive.

"You're a shih-aan," said Wishbone.

"And you are a human," said the shih-aan. He smiled, revealing the point of a fang. "I offer you my hospitality tonight."

Wishbone cocked his head. "Is that all you offer?" he asked.

The shih-aan's smile did not waver. "Twenty-five crescents."

It was a respectable sum for a night's work, though not as much as Wishbone might expect from a client who wore such clothes and commanded such a coach. But whores who left the relative safety of the docks for the wealthier parts of town did not always return. What could his friends do then, tell the city guard?

He'd heard stories about what shih-aan did to humans. Plenty of men would swear they knew of someone who'd been gutted and cut into steaks by one of the demon creatures. If you pressed them about it, though, it always happened back during the war, and there were soldiers who had collections of shih-aan ears taken on the battlefields of Feras-aan. Since the treaty, a few shih-aan had always lived in Bronlyn Harbor, trading in fine cloth, building ships and not, generally, eating anyone. Still, there were stories.

Wishbone knew he should decline. Kestrel, who had lived so long through an abundance of caution, would never have considered the offer.

On the other hand, storms had kept the fishing boats to harbor for the past three days, and the sailors and fishermen were saving their coins for hot stew and beer. Wishbone's purse was flat. What the inhuman customer might do to him was theoretical, whereas his fate at the hands of the dock patrol if he didn't have bribe money tomorrow was more certain.

"Forty crescents," said Wishbone.

Gloved in black velvet, the shih-aan's fingers touched Wishbone's cheek. "I am intrigued," he said. "Why do you think that you merit such a sum?"

Keeping his eyes on the shih-aan's, Wishbone kissed the gloved fingertips. "Find out," he said, "or get out of my alley."

That earned him another smile. "What is your name?" asked the shih-aan.

"Wishbone."

"Forty crescents," the client agreed. "You may call me Sir." For so much silver, the shih-aan could call himself King Rendel the Third if he wanted.

Wishbone left at the heels of the shih-aan, equally hooked by money and fascination. The cloaked driver held the coach door for him as if he was someone important. Sir followed him inside and latched the door with those impossibly graceful hands.

As the carriage negotiated the narrow streets between the dock and the Hill, Wishbone tried to relax into the fine leather seat and act like he did this sort of thing every day. Sir clasped long-fingered hands upon one knee and appeared to doze. Wishbone tried not to stare. He kept glancing under his lashes at the demon who had bought him for the evening, looking for signs he had made an irretrievable mistake.

The carriage door opened in the secluded courtyard of a detached, two-story house with a garden gone dead for the season. Lamplight brightened windows on both floors. Stone gargoyles lurked amongst the cornices, casting disturbing shadows into the trees.

"Inside," said the shih-aan.

They entered through the front door. A servant bowed and took the shih-aan's cloak and hat. Young and male, neither shih-aan nor human, he had mahogany skin and black hair exactly the same color as the bay horses. His ears were slightly pointed. He was strikingly handsome, and Wishbone wondered why, with such a dish at home, the shih-aan fished for meals down by the docks.

"Good hunting, tonight, Sir?" asked the servant, in passable Bronlyn tongue.

Sir lifted the servant's chin with one finger and kissed him shamelessly on the mouth. The ardor and the fearlessness of that kiss went straight to Wishbone's loins. The two spoke for a moment in a tongue made all of sibilants and liquid trills. The shih-aan patted Wishbone on the shoulder. "Follow Terefar. He will guide you to a bath." Sir turned his back and mounted the stairs, disappearing upward past a painted landscape and a gilt-framed mirror.

Wishbone stared at Terefar, feeling smug, because no matter what Wishbone smelled like, Sir had chosen him for the night. The servant dropped his eyes, took up a candle from a claw-footed table, and opened a door. Wishbone hurried after him toward the back of the house.

The bathroom had a tiled floor and a half-filled sunken tub. A stove against the back wall held three steaming kettles. Terefar lit a lamp that hung from a wall bracket and emptied the kettles one at a time into the bath.

"Please," he said, and pointed to a tray of soaps and oils, a robe hanging on a hook, slippers, and a pile of towels on a little table. "Leave your clothes here. They will be returned." He spoke hesitantly, as if he had to think before pronouncing each word.

Wishbone waited until Terefar had closed the door before he stripped down and dipped a toe into the bath. The water was pleasantly warm. He slid in and grabbed for a bar of soap that smelled of lavender. The soap foamed between his hands, and Wishbone slid it all over his body as the luxurious water soothed away the late autumn chill.

He unbraided his hair and opened a tiny bottle of expensive-smelling oil. Ducking his head under the water, he scrubbed his scalp with the oil. Dirt and dead hair floated on the water's surface.

By then the bath was beginning to cool. He climbed out and picked up one of the towels. He dried himself completely, then wrapped the plush robe around his body and stuck his feet in the slippers. There was a wooden comb, a razor, and a tooth stick on the table beneath a mirror. He worked the comb through his pale hair until he'd got most of the tangles out, then set it back in a braid. His three chin hairs hadn't re-emerged since the last shave two days ago at the public baths, so he ignored the razor.

Wishbone looked at himself in the tall mirror. The public baths had mirrors, too, but usually he was in too much of a hurry to take in the details of his person. His face was thin, as was his body, hidden in the oversized robe, and an old scar made his upper lip look crooked. His eyes were a pale blue, not exotic and green like Lane's. With his hair tied back in a braid, his ears stuck out. He undid the braid, toweled his hair dry, and used the comb to straighten the part. Finally, he made use of the tooth stick, which tasted of cloves.

Opening the door, Wishbone found Terefar waiting with his candle.

"Follow, please," said the servant. He turned without waiting, and Wishbone hurried after him, down the hall and into the kitchen. An enormous, iron stove radiated heat, warming the air and the stone floor. Copper pots hung in ordered rows from hooks on the walls. Rows of little bottles with unreadable labels filled the shelves. A bent old woman with dark skin and pointed ears like Terefar's was placing a plate and goblet on the table. But for her exotic looks, this could have been any well-appointed kitchen.

The plate held slices of beef cut thin and laid out like a fan around a small mound of mashed parsnips. The food was hot, though the meat was pink and bloody on the inside. It tasted pleasantly of pepper. Wishbone ate every scrap before taking up the goblet. The wine was cool, honey-colored and sweet, as unlike the sour beer he drank at the dockside taverns as well water was unlike the sea. Wishbone swallowed it down and felt the warmth penetrate his insides.

"You are finished?" asked Sir's pretty servant, who had stood behind Wishbone's chair the whole time. "Then come with me."

They passed up a narrow back stair to a carpeted hallway. The walls were covered with heavy tapestries woven with pictures of human lords and ladies at the hunt, in their gardens, dancing. Terefar knocked on one of the doors, waited for an answer, then opened it and ushered Wishbone inside.

Wishbone expected a bedroom. Instead, this looked like a drawing room. Sir sat back on a brocade-covered lounge chair, reading a book. Freed from the hat, his curled hair spilled down past his shoulders in a thick fall of darkness. The small amount of skin that showed glowed a burnished tan in the light of the roaring fire. The door closed behind Wishbone with a click that made him jump. Sir smiled, this time showing both canines, so long and sharp that Wishbone wondered how he shut his mouth without puncturing his lips. Wishbone noticed the coils of rope on the floor next to Sir's chair. They worried him. He'd been bound by clients before. Usually they displayed more enthusiasm than skill, and he had to pretend that he couldn't get loose. Sir struck him as the sort who wouldn't use something he couldn't use well, though.

"Your name is not a common one amongst your people," said Sir, marking the book and placing it on an end table. "Tell me how you acquired it."

Wishbone tugged the robe more snugly around his body and looked away from Sir's inhuman face. "There's a child's game. The breast bone of a goose or a turkey is shaped like a bow. One child grasps each end, and they make wishes. Secret wishes. Then they pull on the bone until it breaks. The child with the biggest piece gets their wish.

"There's a trick to it. If you let the other person pull while you hold your end steady, you almost always get the bigger piece. I used to win all the time, and my little sister would cry and tell my father I'd cheated. He patted me on the head and called me his Wishbone." Sorrow like a physical blow to Wishbone's breast came with the memories of his father calling him something else when the man had stumbled on Wishbone and Athel the smith's son behind the barn. He mastered himself, but it appeared that the shih-aan's predator eyes missed nothing.

"What did you wish for?" asked the shih-aan.

Wishbone shook his head. "It might still come true."

The shih-aan tugged his gloves free and fanned his fingers so that Wishbone could see the extra joints on each one. "Perhaps even tonight. Remove the robe."

Wishbone untied the belt and let the robe drop to the floor. It felt decadent to be naked. Even in warm weather, his alleyway business was transacted half-clothed. Only a rich man could afford a fire like this in his private parlor.

"Turn around."

Wishbone wondered if the shih-aan liked what he saw. How did a skinny dock whore measure up to the well-groomed, exotic creature he had met downstairs?

"Spread your legs. Bend over and part your buttocks with your hands."

Shivering, Wishbone complied. This wasn't what he'd expected at all, and he kept the agreed sum in mind as he displayed himself in this ridiculous manner. The fire-lit air stroked his arse-hole, still damp from the bath.

"Your obedience pleases me," said Sir. "You may approach."

What a pompous ass, thought Wishbone. But his intended retort died as he turned around and saw that pointed smile again. He was exactly where no whore wanted to be--in a private home on the Hill, naked, with a pile of rope and a client toothed like a bay shark.

The shih-aan placed a pillow on the floor next to the lounge chair and directed Wishbone to kneel upon it. Sir clasped his warm hands at the small of Wishbone's back, restraining Wishbone gently while leaning over to press his lips against Wishbone's throat. A line of kisses burned across Wishbone's collarbone and up the left side of his neck. He squirmed, then sank his face in the shih-aan's dense mane as the tongue-tip probed his ear, painting it in little spirals until the pointed tongue reached the center. The touch brought to mind other, more intense penetrations, but offered no hope of release. Wishbone moaned in pleasure and confusion, drowning in the velvet-clad limbs and rich scent of the shih-aan's body. Teeth caught his ear lobe and bit down. Startled, he tried to pull backward. The arms tightened. The shih-aan was at least as strong as any human who had ever before embraced Wishbone.

"I will not injure you," Sir whispered into his ear. "But you are wisest not to struggle."

The shih-aan brushed his lips against Wishbone's. There was no hint of stubble, and Sir's face was as smooth as a young girl's. He ran his tongue under Wishbone's upper lip and held it in his teeth. Fear and arousal mixed deep in Wishbone's belly, each enhancing the other.

Wishbone found himself drenched with curiosity over what Sir hid beneath those fine clothes. Would there be extra nipples, as the rumors said? Did Sir have pubic hair like a man's? Fur on his body? Was his cock long, or thick, or both? Where would he want to put it? Wishbone's own cock stirred as the shih-aan's clever fingers stroked his body and his imagination.

Sir's tongue slid deeper into Wishbone's mouth, while those fingers pinched his nipples. Wishbone felt himself sag helplessly in the shih-aan's arms. He leaned his forehead against Sir's knees, while the long, long fingers combed through his hair.

Taking both of Wishbone's hands in one of his own, Sir pulled Wishbone up and over his lap so that the young man's arms dangled on one side of the lounge chair and his bare legs on the other. Wishbone felt the fingers covering every inch of his skin from nape to buttocks, pausing to trace the pale lines of ribs, the knobs of spine. His prick, pressed down against the side of the chair, went as stiff as a mast. This was nothing like the brutish couplings of his trade. There was a potent sweetness to the shih-aan's demon hands, and a lack of haste, as if Wishbone's pleasure was far more interesting to the shih-aan than his own. The fire warmed Wishbone's rear, while his face remained exposed to the room's cool drafts. If it wasn't for the growing pressure in his loins, he would gladly have enjoyed being stroked this way until dawn.

One long finger came to rest at the very base of his spine. Wishbone squirmed, but a fist tangled in his hair, holding him fast. The finger stroked his cleft until he bit his lip to keep from whimpering. The finger retreated suddenly, and Wishbone heard the sound of a jar opening. When the finger returned, it spread something cool and silky into his cleft, making lazy circles, pausing occasionally to penetrate the opening by no more than a single joint.

Wishbone must have made a sound, because the shih-aan laughed. "What a greedy little arse you have," he said.

"Yes, Sir," mumbled Wishbone into the side of the lounge chair.

The shih-aan slid out from under Wishbone and turned him onto his back. Taking up a rope, the shih-aan looped it around Wishbone's wrist. Wishbone tensed. He pulled against the iron grip of the shih-aan's hands. Sir brought Wishbone's wrist to his mouth and fluttered his tongue against the pulse point. Not a command, but a seduction, the insidious pleasure stole all resistance from Wishbone. The shih-aan bound Wishbone's right wrist to his right ankle and his left wrist to his left ankle, folding his knees up and spreading his legs wide. Wishbone's buttocks rested at the edge of the lounge chair. Sir rolled up one sleeve, dipped his fingers into the jar, and reached down between Wishbone's parted legs. A log in the fire popped, and Sir's eyes glowed red.

This time, the slight penetration by a single finger made Wishbone cry out. It was delicious, but it wasn't enough, not even when a second finger joined the first, and then a third. He kept his eyes on the shih-aan's and tried to beg for more that way. Sir's fingers pressed against Wishbone's insides in a way that a cock never had. There had to be more, and if Wishbone didn't get it, he thought he would die of disappointment. And more he got, though not as he expected. Sir opened him wider with one powerful hand. His arm muscles bulged in his dark velvet clothes. The supple, greased fingers stirred Wishbone until he couldn't help but lift his hips and force himself down onto them. His insides rippled, and Sir twisted, and then, much to Wishbone's surprise, the entire hand slid inside.

Wishbone panted. Sweat streamed down his armpits. His defeated ring kissed the shih-aan's wrist. Wishbone had never felt so completely filled, or so helpless. Why wasn't he the one giving pleasure? Their eyes were locked together, and Wishbone felt as if that gaze was also a penetration. The fingers curled into a fist that rocked inside him, forcing clear fluid from his stone-hard prick and wordless cries from his mouth. Sir smiled down at Wishbone, lips parted as if to drink in his cries, eyes slightly unfocused with concentration. His fangs gleamed.

Without breaking the rhythm of their coupling, the shih-aan eased himself down on one knee and bent his head forward so that his long curls spilled over Wishbone's loins. Hidden behind the curtain of mane, his breath caressed Wishbone's tight, furry scrotum and throbbing cock. The tip of a pointed tongue traced the head.

Wishbone felt lost. He'd been more in control bent over a barrel than trapped by a hand that filled him and a tight set of lips that threatened to empty him. Sir's throat tightened on Wishbone's cock. Then Wishbone felt the points of the shih-aan's fangs against his shaft, and he panicked.

His body tensed as his legs kicked against the ties. He tried to pull himself backward, away from the teeth, but the knuckles jammed against his wide-stretched ring. He groaned, this time in pain. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Sir released Wishbone's prick with a flourish of tongue. "I warned you not to struggle," he said from behind his mane. "I gave you my word that I would not hurt you. Do not anger me by causing me to break it."

Wishbone exhaled, feeling the tears spill down as his lower body unclenched by tiny degrees. It was not the threat that made him do it, but the steel in the voice. Sir spoke as if it was impossible that he could be disobeyed, thus Wishbone gave him obedience. The merciless hand slid deeper in, as if it could split Wishbone in two, and the fingers, with their extra joints, did things to him that no human could achieve. Lips brushed Wishbone's prick, which had grown, if anything, even harder. Sir's other hand worked on a nipple that tightened between the tips of his fingers. Wishbone felt the tight sheath of Sir's throat take him in, while the tongue probed the root of his cock. The whole time, the fist that impaled him continued the motion like a boat riding low waves before a storm, pressing each time against the secret places inside Wishbone's body. The room filled with Wishbone's rising cries and the wet sounds of sucking.

When the storm broke, Wishbone screamed fit to bring the dock patrol down upon their heads, if they hadn't been locked in a house on the Hill, in a room with no witness but the fire. His nether muscles fought to expel the hand that only pressed more deeply and wrung more desperate spasms from his cock, spilling the sea into the shih-aan's mouth.

When Wishbone's throat had gone all hoarse from crying out, when his balls had emptied and his muscles had turned to jelly, Sir slid a hand free and untied the binding on Wishbone's legs. He opened a dresser drawer and brought out a towel that he used to wipe down his hand and Wishbone's arse. He took a soft woolen blanket from the same dresser and laid it over Wishbone's body, then placed another log on the fire. Wishbone was asleep before Sir left the room and only woke at dawn when Terefar brought him his clothes and a small, leather purse with more than forty crescents.

* * * *

Tonner was awake when Wishbone knocked on his door.

"You look like you've had a night to remember," said the burly sail-maker.

Wishbone staggered theatrically inside the tiny room and fell back on the bed.

Tonner laughed, but softly. The walls were thin between apartments, and not everyone would have awakened yet. "Would you like some tea while you tell me about it?"

"Please."

Tonner poured two cracked ceramic mugs and handed one to Wishbone.

The sail-maker had close-set eyes, broad shoulders and a broken nose. He allowed Wishbone to sleep in his bed during the day in exchange for certain favors. One of them was a narrative of the previous evening's adventures.

Wishbone stared at the water-stained ceiling. "I went up the Hill and got fucked senseless by a shih-aan."

"By the Unnamed Gods, Wishbone," Tonner sputtered into his tea. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about this week's hush money."

"I'd have loaned you the coin."

"That's very sweet of you, but I know you don't have any coin to speak of. If you did, you wouldn't be re-using those tea leaves."

"Well, there's truth to what you say," Tonner admitted. "You survived. Tell me all about it. I heard that shih-aan have great big spikes on their yards."

Wishbone opened his mouth and hesitated. The truth seemed unreal now. At the same time, his feelings were so tangled that he wasn't sure he wanted to share them with anyone. He felt cheated that the shih-aan had given him no moment of sweet weakness to savor, and Sir's body remained a clothed mystery. So he made up a tale in which all the usual perversions were indulged, where he'd ridden a cock (unspiked) instead of a fist, and that of prodigious size indeed to account for how sore he was.

"Certainly too sore for another ride this morning," he concluded.

"You must be dead," said Tonner. "I'll call a priest."

"I'm serious!"

"It'd be the first time. Now be good and turn over."

Tonner's cock wasn't that long, but it was thick. Wishbone winced at first at the friction in his well-used ring, but soon found himself struggling as always to take Tonner's meaty thing further in while he worked his own cock with one spit-slicked hand. He arched his back and bit the bedclothes to muffle his cries. The spilling, though, was a pale echo of the one given by the shih-aan. Probably Wishbone was just tired. He pulled up his trousers, and something fell from the pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tonner, as he settled his own clothes.

"A bonus for a job well done." He picked up the comb. It appeared to have been carved from a golden seashell. The ripples in it fascinated the eye and pleased the hand. A graduated series of purple stones were set along the back so that they caught the light. "They left me alone long enough to search through some drawers, and I found this on the bottom where it might not be missed." He offered it to Tonner. "Looks like a better prize than the tin ring I lifted last week."

Tonner took the comb in his hand, then dropped it and backed away. His eyes opened wide. "That thing is cursed."

"This?" Wishbone picked up the comb again. He felt nervous when he closed his fingers on it, but that was entirely reasonable given that he'd stolen it.

"I don't know how you can stand to touch it," said Tonner, "But I want it out of the apartment immediately."

"Can it wait until after I've slept?" asked Wishbone. He was in a hurry to move the comb, as well, but Davvy wouldn't have his booth open until much later.

Tonner shifted from foot to foot. "I'll allow that," he said finally. "But I want it gone. Now I've got to open the shop."

"Hold up." Wishbone fished in his purse for a crescent. "Buy us some new tea, hm?"