Archive of Our Own ^beta

This story has been split into four parts.

All characters are owned by Petfly. I'm not making any money off this. I'm just borrowing the boys for some fun.

Acknowledgement: I'd like to thank three people for this story. First Paulette--this started out as a simple idea and turned into a mediocre story. She read it, said, "hmmm, interesting, but you can do better". I took it back and did this to it--it's nothing like the original story, has only a glimmering of the original idea, but I'm glad I listened to her.

Second Aly---she read half of this one day when she was bored (I find it hard to believe that Aly ever gets bored--she does after all have Jim and Blair in her basement). I hadn't actually finished the other half of the story---and without her encouragement I might not have bothered. She liked it--I kept writing. End of story (literally).

Third Maggie---despite being very busy she took the time to go through this line by line and remove as many of my mistakes as she could find (I try my hardest to hide them, but somehow the beta-readers always seem to find them!) She also uncovered a number of "oh-come-on" moments in my story that I did my best to correct. All remaining mistakes are definitely mine.

Ever read "Masque of the Red Death"? Ever seen the movies "Catpeople" or "Wolven"? This isn't any of those things, but you could argue the point that all of those influenced this. The idea was actually inspired by a video game: "Gabriel Knight, II"--which is just about the slashiest video game I've ever seen. And yep, it's a bit fantastical.

Woods Forsaken -- Part One
By Josephine Darcy
[email protected]

As you're pretty so be wise
Wolves may lurk in every guise;
Now as then, 'tis simple truth,
Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth.

from A Company of Wolves

Clouds drifted across the moon, darkening the night to the point where only a Sentinel could see clearly through the gloomy cast of the flickering street lamps.

Jim sighed as he locked his truck. He glanced upward at the sputtering security light that was supposed to brighten the small parking area at 852 Prospect Place. His neighborhood was normally safe, but considering Blair's history with Cascades various psychos and sinners, a faulty security light was just asking for trouble. He'd have to call someone in the morning and have it fixed.

Heading toward the stairs, Jim dialed up his hearing, seeking any sound that might indicate that Blair was home. It was the end of the semester, and Blair had been pulling late nights at the University, much to Jim's consternation. Ever since the whole Alex disaster he found himself growing uncomfortable when Blair spent too much time at the University. He didn't like the idea of his Guide sitting in that office late at night. Granted it had been morning when Alex Barnes had dragged Blair from the office at gunpoint and proceeded to drown him in the University fountain. But still--night brought on additional worries, an added element of danger and. . . well, darkness . . .that left Jim increasingly uneasy of late.

Blair-sounds echoed back at him: Blair humming to himself as he moved through the loft, the heavy thud of an overstuffed backpack hitting the floor, the double thunk of two tennis shoes being toed off and kicked into the bedroom, the rustling of paper as Blair fingered through the day's mail, the sudden intake of breath at. . .something. . .the increase of that familiar heartbeat.

Alarmed, Jim ran the last few steps up the stairs and hurried into the loft.

"Blair?" he called in concern as he pushed open the loft door.

Several things hit him at once--first and foremost that Blair was unharmed, standing in the center of the living room by one of the couches, a letter clutched tightly in his hand. Second that there was a strange scent in the room--very faint, elusive, feral, wild--like the musk of a wild dog. And third--and here Jim felt his body stiffening in concern--that there was a large black jaguar sitting on the balcony, black tail flicking restlessly back and forth. Something hard and cold gripped Jim's heart. Blair's scent was wrong, tinged with shock and grief.

"Blair? Are you alright?" Jim asked quickly.

Blair nodded and looked up, and just for a moment, his eyes rested on the balcony as if he too saw something there. But when Jim checked, the cat was gone, vanished like the figment of the imagination it was. "Yeah, Jim, I'm fine. Just got some bad news is all. I'm going to have to go out of town for a while."

Out of town. Jim did not like the sound of that. Bad things happened to Blair when he was alone. He quickly took in Blair's appearance--skin pale, blue eyes luminous in the dim light, tinged with sadness. It wasn't a deep sadness, nor a terrible shock, but still whatever this news was, it made Blair unhappy.

Tired of the darkness, despite his Sentinel sight, Jim flicked on a couple of more lights as he made his way to his Guide's side. "What happened?"

Blair just shrugged. "My Uncle Andros died. My cousin sent me an express letter about the funeral arrangements. He wants me to come."

"Come where?"

"Germany."

Germany. Jim felt the cold sensation around his heart tighten. Germany was a hell of lot farther out of town than he'd expected.

"I didn't know you had an uncle in Germany," Jim remarked, trying not to let his panic show through.

Blair smiled wistfully and nodded. "Yeah, Uncle Andros--he was a pretty amazing guy. I lived with him for about a year when I was a child. One of the happiest times in my life."

"Happiest?" Jim prompted, hoping Blair would volunteer a bit more information about this past. To his knowledge, Blair had never mentioned this uncle before.

Blair nodded as he moved toward the kitchen. "He made me feel wanted, you know," he explained. He began to make tea while he spoke, but it was obvious from the far away look in his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. "I was shuffled around a lot as a child. Naomi and I would go from one place to the next and eventually she'd get tired of where ever we were and take off. She always said she didn't want to constantly drag me out of school, which is why she left me behind--but I don't think it really would have mattered. I did my best studying on my own anyway. I was usually well ahead of the kids my own age. I would have preferred to travel with her."

"Why?" Jim asked.

Blair just shrugged. "Would have added some stability, you know."

"Stability? Getting moved from one place to the next?" Didn't sound very stable to Jim.

Blair laughed, but far from being a carefree sound, it was heavy and laced with sorrow. "No, I don't mean that. I was shuffled around anyway. I mean it would have been nice to have one constant in my life--a person or a place. Home is where the heart is. . . it would have been nice to have known that place would have always been at Naomi's side. But she'd leave, I'd get sent to one relative after another--no one really wanted me. I think I moved around more than my mom did."

Jim frowned. He couldn't imagine anyone not wanting Blair. Much as he liked Naomi, the more he heard about her past the more he disapproved of the way she raised Blair. That he'd become such a warm, compassionate human being was a testimony to his strength of character.

"Anyway, one day she took off and I was stuck with some relatives in England. They waited exactly one week before putting me on a plane and sending me to Uncle Andros in Germany. I was only eight at the time, and I'd never met him before. I was a bit frightened. The next thing I know I'm arriving at this ancient castle in the Black Forest--it was like something out of a dream or a fairy tale."

"A castle?" Jim's voice rose with disbelief.

The kettle of water boiled and Blair removed it from the burner. "Yeah, a castle. Been in the family for hundreds of years apparently. Uncle Andros has some sort of title--though I don't really remember what it is at the moment. Anyway, this castle was just amazing. . . seemed to be in the middle of no where. I remember there was a small village nearby where we did a lot of our shopping. . .these people were like something out of the past. . . so full of wild superstitions and stories. I loved it."

"What sorts of stories, Chief?" Jim asked as he took the cup of tea Blair had automatically made for him. He didn't particularly like tea, but he always ended up drinking it when Blair gave it to him. Just seemed force of habit anymore. One of the many ways Blair had changed his life.

"Well, like in World War II," Blair began. "The Nazis went around seizing all sorts of estates. They stole a fortune in property from the Jews, and most of the time there was no one left alive after the war to reclaim any of it. But for some reason they left Uncle Andros alone--"

Blair glared at Jim as he was about to speak up, silencing the comment he was about to make. "And no, Uncle Andros had nothing to do with the Nazi party. Just the opposite, he hid hundreds of Jews during the war and smuggled them to safety. The villagers all said that Uncle Andros had some sort of power that kept the Nazis away--not like political power but like magic. What ever it was, they seemed to have simply overlooked the castle. Maybe it was just too remote. . . I don't know. What ever it was, he saved a lot of lives. The villagers were a bit afraid of Uncle Andros, but they all agreed he was a good man."

"What did he do when he met you?" Jim asked. "You said you stayed with him for a year?"

"Yeah," Blair smiled, a dreamy expression crossing his features. "He welcomed me the moment he saw me. Made me feel like he wanted me, even loved me, despite the fact that we'd never met. It's like we had this instant connection. Closest I'd ever come to having a father." He sighed then heavily. "I'll miss him. I should have visited him, but. . ."

"You can't regret the past, Chief," Jim offered, wishing he knew what to say to ease the pain of loss.

"I never saw him again, Jim," Blair explained, his voice laced with guilt. His blue eyes were wide and filled with regret. "I don't know why I never went back. . . it just seemed. . ."

"What?"

"Naomi showed up one day unexpectedly," Blair replied. "She was enraged. I've never seen her like that--not then and not since. I remember her yelling at Uncle Andros, furious with him about something. And then she just grabbed me and left. Didn't even let me pack. She just shoved me into a car and drove away. I remember crying and screaming at her, telling her I wanted to stay. But she ignored me. She wouldn't even stay in Germany that night. . .had to get out of the country immediately. I think I hated her. And then--" Blair broke off, a perplexed look crossing his face. For a moment his heart rate fluctuated as if he were experiencing some sort of emotional distress.

Jim took a step closer to the young man, restraining himself from actually touching Blair. "And then?"

Blair just shook his head and shrugged. "And then. . .it just went away."

"Went away? What went away?"

Blair shook his head, obviously searching for someway to explain it to Jim, but finding it difficult. For someone who was so good with words, it seemed a strange occurrence. "I don't know how to explain it. One moment I hated Naomi for taking me away from Uncle Andros, and the next I didn't. It suddenly seemed as if it had all happened a long time ago. Only a day had gone by and yet it seemed as if it were nothing more than a distant memory--like Uncle Andros was just someone I had met a long time ago and couldn't remember."

Blair glanced down at the letter he still clutched in his hands, a look of disbelief and confusion on his face. "To be honest with you I don't think I've even really though of him except in passing until now. How weird is that?" He set his cup of tea down on the counter and began pacing back and forth restlessly.

Jim watched him for a long moment, disturbed by the young man's behavior. He seemed suddenly very agitated, filled with a restless energy different from the normal exuberance he typically displayed. This was almost manic. "Chief? Blair?"

"How weird is that, Jim?" Blair demanded, his eyes flashing. "I loved this man like a father, and I never think about him again until he's dead? I should have called him! Written to him! Visited him! What the hell is wrong with me?"

Jim moved forward and caught Blair's shoulders, stopping his frantic pacing. "Calm down, Chief. You were eight years old and suffered a loss. . .maybe it was more traumatic than you realize."

"What?"

"Maybe you blocked it out, repressed it. . .as a defense mechanism. You said yourself that you wanted something stable in your life. It sounds to me like Uncle Andros gave you that, and then Naomi took it away from you. Maybe you just couldn't deal with it, and blocking it out was the only way to cope."

The explanation sounded plausible, and Jim saw that Blair did indeed take time to consider it. But in the back of Jim's mind he couldn't help thinking of another, darker theory. Much as he might disapprove of Naomi's parenting skills, there was no question that she loved Blair. There must have been some reason she was angry that day--some reason she didn't want Blair with Uncle Andros. Jim could only hope there wasn't something far darker Blair was blocking from his mind--some other reason Naomi Sandburg might not want her eight-year-old son staying with some mysterious Uncle in the Black Forest of Germany.

"Maybe," Blair conceded, though he still looked perplexed, confused, and deeply hurt by the discovery. "I have to go pack."

The abrupt change of subject caught Jim off guard and he stepped back, watching in some trepidation as Blair headed toward his room. "Pack?"

"For the funeral," Blair explained. Jim watched as he hauled out his largest duffel bag and began stuffing clothes inside it.

"You're just going to fly to Germany on a moment's notice?" Jim exclaimed, alarmed at the thought of Blair going off on his own like that. "Where are you going to get that kind of money for the plane ticket?"

"Don't need to," Blair replied. "My cousin arranged everything for me." He stopped suddenly, glancing uncertainly at Jim. "He chartered a plane. I don't suppose you'd consider--" He broke off abruptly and shook his head. "No, probably not," he muttered under his breath.

Jim latched onto the offer he thought he heard. "You want me to go with you?"

Blair glanced uncertainly up at him. "You don't have to. I know it would be hard for you to get the time off and all. Besides it's my family. . . .I just. . ."

"Blair," Jim cut in, looking the young man directly in the eyes. "Do you want me to go with you?" He spoke clearly and distinctly, letting his Guide know that his answer was important.

Blair stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. Finally he just nodded. The look of apology in the young man's blue eyes disturbed Jim deeply--like he thought he didn't have the right to ask such a thing of Jim.

"I'll call Simon," Jim said simply. "He owes me some time off. When do we leave?"

Relief flooded Blair's features, and he let his breath out in a loud sigh. "Eight o'clock, tomorrow morning. And. . . . thanks, Jim."

"Any time, Chief," Jim smiled. He headed upstairs then to call Simon and begin packing. Looked like the two of them were going to Germany.

They reached the airport with time to spare the following morning, both men somewhat restless with the thought of the long flight ahead of them. To Jim's surprise, rather than steering the two of them toward the Lufthansa gate, Blair headed toward the private sector of the airport.

"Where we are we going, Chief?" Jim asked with a frown.

"Oh, didn't I mention?" Blair grinned at him. "My cousin chartered us a private jet."

"Private jet?" Jim stared at him in shock. "I take it your family has more money than you ever let on?"

Blair shook his head. "Just Uncle Andros. Old money, Jim. Really old money. I guess it's all Tristan's now."

"Tristan?"

"My cousin," Blair explained. "He's Uncle Andros' son . . . only child if I remember correctly. He was quite a bit older than me." Blair frowned then. "I don't think I ever really liked him all that much. Or he didn't like me. Tristan was always rather cold to me. I always thought he was a bit jealous of my Uncle's attention."

Unease flooded through Jim at that. If Tristan hadn't liked Blair, why would he bother sending him a private jet to fly out for the funeral? He wondered if perhaps there was some stipulation in Andros' Will that had arisen. The last thing he wanted was for Blair to become involved in some sort of battle over money between some strange cousin and his dead father, particularly if there was already animosity on Tristan's part. Still, he decided not to mention it to Blair. His Guide was uneasy as it was. No sense in making this trip any harder for him.

The private jet was luxurious to say the least. The flight crew was waiting for them, and treated both deferentially. They were seated in a plush cabin, offered breakfast and beverages while they lounged in cushioned leather chairs, and then were politely asked to strap themselves in while the plane took off.

"Okay, I think I could get used to flying like this," Jim confessed with a grin.

Blair grinned back at him. "Sure beats coach." He leaned back in his chair, squirming a bit to get comfortable. "Jim," he said quietly. "Thanks for coming with me."

Jim smiled quickly. "Sure, Chief. That's what friends are for."

Blair just nodded and turned his head to watch Cascade disappear out the window. Jim felt his smile melt away from his lips as he studied the young man. There was a lot the two of them needed to say to each other--a lot of confusion they still needed to clear up. Ever since Alex and the strange trip to the Temple of the Sentinels, their relationship hadn't quite been the same. Granted Blair had moved back in with Jim--but Jim knew that was largely due to the fact that Jim had moved the young man's belongings back in himself. They had never discussed it beyond a simple comment in the hospital after Blair's revival. But before Jim had gone in pursuit of Alex, he'd moved everything back where it belonged into the loft, and then brought Blair home without comment.

He could still remember the way Blair had glanced uncertainly around the loft--his gaze lingering on his own belongs--the African mask on the living room wall, the books on the bookshelf, the CDs by the stereo. For a moment there had been a look of grief in the young man's eyes before he'd covered it up and shot a bright grin at Jim, telling him it was good to be home.

Jim had tried to apologize, but at the time his mind had been too focused on finding Alex. In the end, he'd just muttered a few words about how good it was to have Blair back, and then had taken off without explanation to hunt down the other Sentinel. Now, months later, he couldn't help feeling that there was something more he was supposed to say to Blair. Something more they were both supposed to say to each other. And not knowing what that 'something' was, was slowly driving Jim crazy.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and tried to sleep. He let his senses drift, and like they so often did, they drifted in Blair's direction. He fell asleep to the sound of his Guide's heartbeat, the scent of Blair's warm body soothing him.

Nearly seventeen hours later, the two of them found themselves in a plush limousine driving through some of the most beautiful wine-country Jim had ever seen. Both of them were exhausted. There had been a hold up in customs, and they had despaired of ever getting out of the airport. Finding a driver and limousine waiting for them, courtesy of Blair's mysterious cousin, had mollified them immensely. And the sight of the surrounding countryside was certainly relaxing, but as they drove, Jim could sense his Guide growing increasingly anxious.

He watched as Blair stared out the window, the observer in him taking in all the new sights. There was a frown-line between his eyes, a mark of nervousness or extreme concentration, and Jim couldn't help wondering what he was thinking about. More than anything he wanted to reach out and sooth that frown from the young man's forehead, but as he so often did, he suppressed the urge to touch.

It worried him sometimes--his need to constantly touch his Guide as if to assure himself that he was really there and not lying dead by a certain fountain. But even before the whole Alex incident, he'd touched Blair a lot--more than anyone else. Truthfully, he couldn't recall touching Carolyn as often as he touched Blair.

Still Blair never commented on it, never seemed to notice one way or another. Never stopped to ask him, 'hey Jim, why do you touch me so much? You don't touch Simon or any of the other guys that much. . ..?'

Jim smiled at the thought. No, it just wasn't the sort of question Blair would ask him. Wasn't the sort of question a guy would ask another guy. Still, he had to admit it was a question that warranted answering--maybe then he could figure out why there was still such a disconcerting distance between the two of them. Maybe then he could figure out what precisely he was supposed to say to Blair to make everything all right again.

"Anything look familiar, Chief?" he asked, deciding that perhaps it was time to push his Guide a bit and get him to talk some more about his year with Uncle Andros.

Blair shrugged. "Sort of, maybe. . . I don't know." He sighed and shook his head. "Now that I think about it, I don't think Uncle Andros and I ever actually went anywhere. We stayed close to home, visited the village, walked through the woods. Seems to me we spent a lot of time in the woods."

"Doing what?"

But Blair just frowned. "I'm not sure I remember. I remember enjoying it. . .feeling a strange sense of both freedom and belonging. I think Uncle Andros liked to hunt or something."

"He took YOU hunting?" Jim asked in disbelief. Blair had trouble stepping on a bug. He couldn't imagine the young man actually shooting anything.

"No," Blair replied thoughtfully. "I don't think that was it. I've never liked guns. Neither did Uncle Andros. I don't know, Jim. It was so long ago. It all seems rather like a dream really." He shook his head and turned away, his gazing moving back to the scenery out the window.

Eventually they left the vineyards and moved into a more wooded area. Jim had glanced at a map earlier, trying to figure out where precisely this 'castle' was located. The nearby village had not been listed on the map, but Blair had indicated that the castle was in the northeastern part of the Black Forest, in a mountainous region near the Bavarian Alps.

It was just afternoon when the limo slowed to drive through a small hidden village; the jarring of cobblestone roadways beneath the tires was rather startling. Jim found himself staring in amazement out the window. Blair had been right--the village was like something out of a fairy tale. While there were obvious signs of modernization--telephone wires, electricity, the occasional car parked in an alleyway--the village looked as if it probably hadn't changed much since the middle ages. The people who paused on the walkways to watch the limo drive by were all plainly dressed, probably not too dissimilar from their ancestors. But Blair had explained that the villagers he remembered had liked Uncle Andros--these people stared at the slow moving black limo with distrust and fear in their eyes. Their dark gazes sent chills down Jim's spine.

A narrow roadway led out of the village and up a steep incline toward the castle. While not overly large, it was nonetheless impressive--several watchtowers overlooked the main stone structure, and Jim could almost imagine ancient knights manning those battlements, watching like Sentinels over the village below. No moat to protect the gate--the castle was however built on the edge of a rather steep chasm that would have protected it from attack from any direction save the front. And the front of the castle was accessible only through a great archway that could be sealed off with an iron gate.

The gate was open today and the limo drove directly into the main courtyard of the castle. And while the limo driver went to get their luggage, Jim and Blair both climbed out of the car to stare around in silence. The air was fresh and clear, but a strange scent struck Jim immediately. It was faint, too faint perhaps for Blair to notice, but to the Sentinel it was both strong and familiar. Wild, feral, musky--it was the scent of a wild dog--the same scent he'd smelled in the loft when Blair had received his cousin's letter.

He had little time to ponder the scent, however, for a moment later a young man emerged from the main structure and made his way toward Blair. Jim frowned. He guessed the man was Blair's cousin Tristan--but from the description Jim had expected him to be older. This man wasn't anything like Jim imagined. Not overly tall, he was nonetheless several inches taller that Blair. But beyond that there was a certain family resemblance Jim couldn't deny. His dark hair was thick and wavy and hung to his shoulders. His eyes were gray not blue, but shone with the same intensity as Blair's did; and like his Guide he was extremely handsome--almost to the point of being pretty. Lean and wiry, he moved with a definitive grace--more like a practiced fighter than a dancer, and Jim found himself feeling strangely wary of him.

Blair smiled hesitantly at his cousin, as if not certain of the greeting he should expect. But Tristan's smile, despite Blair's claim that the two of them had not been close, was warm and welcoming. Tristan moved forward and set his hands lightly on Blair's shoulders, and then to Jim's surprise he bent and kissed Blair gently on the cheek.

"Welcome home, Cousin," Tristan murmured, his voice low enough that only Blair was meant to hear. But Jim heard and noted immediately the almost seductive quality in the tone.

Jim stiffened, his jaw tightening. Cousins or no, the kiss had been strangely intimate, and Jim had not liked the sight at all. And his words--the very idea of any place other than the loft being referred to as Blair's home--it chilled him to the bone.

But if Blair found anything at all odd in the greeting, it did not show on his face. He smiled warmly instead, and said simply, "Tristan." And it seemed to Jim as if in that instant Blair had been taken away from him and claimed by a life Jim knew nothing about.

Frightened, angry, filled with an absurd panic, Jim took a step toward Blair, reaching out as if to grab him and pull him out of Tristan's grasp. "Sandburg!" he said warningly.

Instantly both Blair and Tristan turned toward Jim, and if either noticed Jim's alarm they made no mention of it. Rather Blair grinned and caught hold of Jim's outstretched hand, the physical contact instantly soothing Jim's nerves. "Hey, Jim, this is my cousin Tristan," he exclaimed.

Tristan smiled and offered his hand to Jim. "You must be Detective Ellison," he said as he shook Jim's hand. "Welcome to Anwen Castle."

Tristan's skin was cool, and his grip was strong--almost too strong for a simple handshake as if he were subtly challenging Jim in some manner. Jim frowned and simply nodded at the man in greeting, still too disconcerted to know precisely what to say.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful this place is," Blair sighed as he gazed around the courtyard. "The castle, the forest, the village. . .it all brings back so many memories."

"We'll have to go for a walk and look at all the old places," Tristan offered. "I remember how much you loved the woods."

"Yes," Blair agreed, his gaze growing distant as if he were remembering something long past.

Again the scent of wild dog assailed Jim's senses and he frowned, not certain he liked the idea of Blair wandering out in the woods. "Are there wolves in these woods?" he asked Tristan.

Tristan raised one dark eyebrow, his mouth twisting in amusement. "Wolves?" he laughed. "There haven't been any wolves in the Black Forest in years Detective. But come, you both must be exhausted after so long a journey. I'll show you to your rooms so you can rest. There will be a gathering tonight with some close family and friends--a wake of sorts for my father."

Blair's face darkened with sorrow at the mention of Andros. "How did he die, Tristan? You didn't say in the letter."

"Didn't I?" Tristan asked with almost a careless shrug. "It was a hunting accident, I'm afraid."

There was something odd in his words--a strange inflection to his voice, a brief irregularity to his heartbeat, a nearly imperceptible flush to his skin. Jim didn't know why, but Tristan was lying. Andros, whoever he might have been, had not died in a simple hunting accident.

"When's the funeral?" Jim asked.

"Tomorrow, Detective," Tristan answered as he showed the two of them into the castle. For all Tristan's warmth and affectionate greeting of his long lost cousin, he did not look like a man who was about to bury his father tomorrow.

Tristan showed Jim to his room first, and then led Blair away. And for the life of him, Jim couldn't think of a single excuse to go with them. He couldn't complain about the accommodations--the room he was given was fit for a king. Blair had been right--this place was like something out of a fairy tale. Decorated with artwork dating back hundreds of years, it was like a museum showplace. And while it had been modernized with plumbing and electricity, Jim still felt as if he'd stepped back in time.

His room was large, finely furnished with beautiful tapestries and embroidered rugs. His suitcase was already placed beside an enormous wooden wardrobe that was decorated with gold inlay enamel. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the room--complete with a heavy curtain that was currently tied back with strips of velvet. And the two windows looked out over the great chasm and the forest beyond. But rather than unpacking or exploring the room in more detail, Jim found himself standing near the door focusing his hearing on his Guide.

To his consternation Tristan led him down the hallway and into a separate wing to a bedroom on the far side of the castle. He heard Blair's murmurs of appreciation as he looked around his bedroom. But more importantly Jim heard Tristan's words to his Guide. "My room is right next door. If you need anything just ask. It's good to have you home, Blair. You've been away much too long."

And then another sound--and Jim dialed his hearing up all the way to catch it--the gentle slide of flesh against flesh. Jim guessed that Tristan had kissed Blair again--on the same cheek, he wondered? Or was it perhaps the other this time? He tried to picture it and found he could do so only too well. Or perhaps he'd opted instead for the forehead.

No, Jim thought--that would have been too paternal, and he suspected Tristan's interest was not even remotely paternal. He would have gone for the cheek again--but what if this time it had been more intimate--what if his mouth had brushed the skin closer to Blair's lips? What if. . .

Jim shook his head. What was he thinking? Why should any of this matter? But still he listened. He heard footsteps, heard Tristan leaving Blair's room, heard the door shutting behind him. And then finally the sounds of his Guide moving about the room until finally coming to rest on the bed. Then the slowing of Blair's heartbeat, the easing of his breath as sleep over took him.

Jim shook himself again, realizing he'd been standing unmoving for nearly a half hour, his senses so focused on his Guide he'd been zoning. Not good, he told himself, wishing suddenly that neither he nor Blair had ever left Cascade. He wasn't looking forward to this gathering tonight--not if Blair's other cousins or family members were anything like this Tristan. Best to make certain he was well rested so he could keep any eye on things.

Stripping down to his boxers, he moved to the bed and climbed in. A few hours sleep and he was certain he'd feel better--too much travel, too much coffee, not enough rest. It was bound to make anyone uneasy.

No wolves in the Black Forest. Why then, he wondered as he drifted off to sleep, could he smell them all around? And what was that sound--far off in the distance--like a lone wolf howling in joy? But sleep claimed him before he could ponder it any further.

It was late when Jim finally awoke; the sky beyond the castle walls black and wind-tossed. The curtain around the bed was closed. It had been open when he'd fallen asleep, and the heavy drapes muffled the sounds of the room. Still, a breeze from the windows--both now open--rustled the curtains, and Jim could see the darkness beyond.

Shocked by his prolonged slumber--he'd only intended to sleep an hour or so--Jim sat up quickly. He pushed aside the bed-drapes in consternation, not able to remember whether or not he'd pulled them closed before he'd lain down. He didn't think so--nor did he remember opening the windows.

Once out of bed, he spotted a tray waiting for him on the nightstand. The scent rising from the tray--a covered bowl of soup, and a pot of tea, both still hot and accompanied with fresh baked bread--caused his stomach to growl, and Jim guessed that perhaps his Guide had brought it up to him when he'd slept so long. More than likely Blair had gone down already to join the gathering of his family that Jim could hear faintly below in the main halls of the castle. Still he frowned at the thought that Blair hadn't awakened him--both that Blair hadn't bothered to shake him awake, and that Jim hadn't heard him come in. Wasn't like him to sleep quite so deeply--especially in a strange place.

He extended his senses, trying to get an idea of what awaited below. People--lots of people--he could hear their voices, their laughter, the movements of their bodies. There was music--strange haunting tunes with dark, primal beats, and he could smell food of all types. Perfume mingled with the scent of dinner, other scents too, like smoke from the fireplace, and the stronger scents of wine and alcohol. But he also smelled stronger aromas--opium, absinth, both heady and powerful. And deeper still, beyond the normal scents Jim expected at a gathering, was that odd musky scent of wolves.

Perplexed, Jim reached for the bowl of soup and ate quickly, trying to find his Guide amongst all the different heartbeats below. It was supposed to be a wake, he knew--but he didn't hear the expected sounds of grief, couldn't smell sorrow in the different body aromas. Far from it--it seemed more a party, wild, perhaps exotic--but not a funeral wake.

The soup was oddly spice, but Jim ate quickly and toned down his taste buds to compensate. He drank several sips of the tea, and then pushed it all aside to change his clothing. He showered quickly and changed into something more suitable to a formal gathering--glad to note that someone at least had thought to unpack his suit. Blair, he suspected. Must have done that when he'd brought in Jim's dinner.

As he dressed, Jim continued his search for his Guide, growing concerned when he had trouble locating him. He thought time and time again that he'd found him, thought he'd heard his heartbeat below in one of the rooms, but he lost the sound over and over again, seeming unable to focus.

He finished dressing and headed quickly toward the door, frowning in confusion when it seemed for a moment as if he were moving slower than he should be. But no. . .he shook his head. . .must still be tired, which might of course explain the light-headedness that overcame him suddenly. He paused briefly, hand on the doorknob, and shook his head. A deep breath relaxed him. He pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway.

He could hear the laughter and the music clearly now, and the sound seemed to pull him forward toward the stairs at the far end of the darkened hall. There were no lights turned on up here, but that hardly bothered him. Truth be told there was something oddly soothing about the darkness; he felt warm, relaxed, and a strange languid pleasure began stealing over his limbs.

The throbbing beat of the music filling the castle worked its way into Jim's veins, and it felt suddenly more like a heartbeat guiding him forward and down into the gathering below. He smiled faintly, moving with the rhythm now as he made his way easily down the stairs. The scent of opium grew stronger, and mingled with it were so many exotic perfumes it threatened to overwhelm him. He breathed deeply again--musk assailed him, reached inside him. His body vibrated with a sudden nervous energy.

He rounded the corner of the long curved stairwell, and caught sight of the gathering below--not a few relatives, not a small simple gathering--but hundreds of people. The rooms below were lit by candlelight alone, and the flames danced before Jim's eyes. Laughter and music and the soft murmured whispers of so many conversations caressed his skin, the sound vibrating against his flesh, and he could now taste the drugs in the air.

Beautiful people--so many beautiful people--all ages and types, dressed in strange exotic clothing--some it seemed were in costume, faces hidden behind feathered masks, others dressed in old-world attire of velvets and brocades, others still in sleek, chic fashion out of some modern erotic world with so much sweet, smooth skin exposed it made Jim's body burn.

He frowned, trying to shake the sensations that had grabbed hold of his thoughts. He spared a moment--a brief moment only--to consider the possibility he'd been drugged. The soup perhaps, or the tea--or maybe nothing more than the scent of drugs in the air had effected his mind---certainly something he guessed. But the thought, while terrifying, was elusive in light of the powerful pull of the sights and sounds and scents all around him.

Blair, he thought, he had to find Blair. If something were wrong with him, if he had reacted to the drugs in the air or some spice in the soup, Blair would know what to do, would figure out how to take care of him. And beyond that Jim had a powerful urge to see his Guide--a powerful urge to inhale his Guide's unique scent, see the candlelight dancing among the highlights of his hair, watch his body move to the heartbeat of music all around them.

He moved from room to room, so slowly it felt as if he were somehow moving through water instead of air. The music, he thought, he couldn't quite seem to break out of the rhythm of the music, and he walked in time to it, moving among the strangers as they too circled in a fluid endless waltz. From time to time he found himself standing still amid a group of strangers as they moved about him, and only after the fact becoming aware that he was being touched and spoken to. A hand against his shoulder, a caress of gentle fingers against his face--some soft female body pressed briefly against his own as he turned on the dance floor he never remembered entering.

They spoke to him too--these strangers--seeming not to care that he did not speak back, seeming not to care that he didn't even understand most of the foreign words they uttered. And they smiled and laughed as if he'd responded somehow, responded in someway that pleased them, delighted them. And more than once he felt a kiss against his skin, against his lips, and again and again wine upon his tongue.

And later still he found himself wrapped in warmth, seated upon a low couch, surrounded by perfumed strangers who spoke and laughed. Someone was stroking his hair, and from time to time he felt smooth silky skin beneath his own fingers as if he too was reaching out to return these odd caresses. These strangers passed around bottles of wine and gleaming crystal goblets that danced in the candlelight--and someone was reading from a large black book--a voice beautiful and soft and filled with such amusement.

Jim smiled faintly when he realized that the words he listened to below the strains of music were English when so many of the others tonight had not been.

It was a woman's voice who read to him, a woman who held the dark book in her hands. "'It was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy--a mere nervous affectation he immediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations.'"

Jim frowned, something vague and bewildering grabbing hold of him. "Unnatural sensations?" he whispered uncertainly. He glanced around trying to clear his mind, trying to catch hold of thoughts that seemed to be eluding him. There was a young blond woman seated on the ground at his feet and he'd tangled his fingers in her hair. He felt caught in the long gold strands, watching the way they twisted like silk around his fingers.

The woman continued reading, and Jim tried to focus on her words. "' Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and the general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odor of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and those from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him with horror.'"

Laughter interrupted the reading, and Jim frowned, his heart growing heavy in his chest. This sounded familiar--like perhaps he'd read it before, long ago. A morbid acuteness of the senses--he glanced around, trying to focus on the individual faces surrounding him. The woman at his feet, a young man beside him on the couch, another woman behind him, her own fingers stroking his neck. Other young faces seated around them, smiling at him. His senses were all dialed up--but still bizarrely muted. Nonetheless he could hear their heartbeats beyond the rhythm of the music--he could smell the musky scent of wolves still, and the overwhelming perfume of pheromones.

"Shall I continue, Detective?" a soft voice asked, and Jim turned to stare at the speaker--the reader, the woman, young and beautiful, with dark hair and dark eyes.

"Where's Blair?" Jim asked, wishing he could shake off the cloud that muddled everything.

"Nearby, I'm sure," the woman smiled. The others around them laughed. "Sweet, Blair, how we missed him."

"So sweet," someone else agreed--the young man beside Jim on the couch. "But do continue, Allisia. Let's hear more of the story."

"Yes, Allisia," another woman urged. "Keep reading."

Allisia smiled, and turned her attention back to the book in her hands. Jim shuddered. A morbid acuteness of the senses--did they know, he wondered. Did they know he was a Sentinel? Is that what this book was about? He tried to focus his eyes on the cover, tried to see the title, but everything seemed so far out of focus.

"'There were times, indeed,'" Allisia continued with the narration, "' when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound.'"

A zone out--she was describing a zone out. And Jim realized in that moment that hours had gone by, and not the few minutes it had seemed since he'd wandered down stairs from his room. Hours had gone by, and he'd been drifting and zoning on all the sights and scents and sounds around him, and not once had his Guide come to rescue him. Not once had he seen Blair in all this madness.

He lurched to his feet, trying to throw off the dream he'd been drifting in. But it didn't seem possible; he didn't seem able to pull himself out of the overload of images.

He moved away from the strangers, and no one reached out to stop him. No one even seemed really to care that he'd wandered away--indeed others smiled and laughed around him as if a stoned Sentinel was the most natural of sights.

He heard wolves again, howling around him, and for a moment the strangers moving through these crowded rooms looked dark and dangerous--more like predators than people. He shuddered, hearing a hundred heartbeats pounding through him--he had to find Blair. Had to find out what was happening here.

Someone touched him, and he shuddered at the sensations that washed through him. His skin was on fire and the very air was alive with electricity. The hand on his arm seemed momentarily like a claw and Jim gasped in horror as he looked up at the woman who'd stopped him. But no--she was just a woman--just a woman who smelled of musk, perfume and sex--and her eyes were dark and hungry, and her red lips were twisted with amusement.

Jim backed away from her. He had to find Blair. Something was wrong--something was so terribly wrong here.

He dialed his hearing up farther, tried to filter through the hundreds of heartbeats to find the one he recognized. He tried to filter out all the strange exotic scents--the perfume and the drugs, and the drink and the food, and the wolves--and the scent of sex was growing stronger--and surely there was more skin visible now than there had been when he'd first entered these chambers. And certainly the dancers were moving together so much closer, touching and stroking each other as they had not been before. But there--a heartbeat--familiar, nearby. Jim moved through the crowd, but so many reached out to distract him. He felt hands on his skin, against his face, his chest, his legs. Heat against his groin. He moaned, trying to move past it all--couldn't even tell any more who was touching him, how many of them he brushed past, men and women, all seeming not to care that he did not know them, did not want to know them. He pushed through the crowd trying not to see the bare skin exposed now to his sight, trying not to drink from the cups that were pressed time and time again against his lips.

And then somewhere, amidst all the madness, finally, he spotted Blair. Saw his Guide from across the room--beautiful Blair who was smiling and laughing as he made his way through the crowd, moving and circling as he wandered from person to person who greeted or touched him.

Blair was dressed in dark jeans and a blue silk shirt that shimmered as he moved. His hair was down and the light from the candles gleamed within the deepest red highlights. His skin was flushed, his eyes luminous, and his full lips seemed somehow swollen as if from kisses.

Kisses indeed, for as Jim watched him across the room, stranger after stranger came to Blair to kiss him. They touched his face and tasted his lips, and Blair simply laughed and accepted as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Never mind the fact that these must be strangers to the young man, that many of these kisses came from men as well as women. And it seemed to Jim as though with each kiss placed upon his Guide's lips, Blair slipped farther and farther away from him. He could hear his Guide's heartbeat--slow and steady--could smell his scent--but that scent was slowly changing. There was the scent of a hundred strangers mingled on Blair's skin, and the rise of pheromones, and the heady, foresty scent of musk mingling with the heat of his body. The scent of wolves grew, overwhelming everything else, and still the kisses continued, and Blair moved farther away into the shadows.

Jim growled low in his throat--a sound that had nothing to do with wolves or passion. It was the angry low cry of a cat, and something primal rose within him. For one moment, for one sweet blessed moment, the heated press of bodies drew back as if momentarily repulsed. Jim moved forward then, stalking, hunting, moving after his Guide as he disappeared into yet another room. His senses focused and narrowed, and he saw Blair moving then toward a familiar face--Tristan. Tristan stood off to one side in the shadows, overlooking all the rest, seeming as if he'd been waiting for Blair to join him.

As Blair reached his side, the young man caught him about the waist and pulled him tightly against him. No cousinly kiss this time--no simple brush of his lips against Blair's cheek--Tristan bent and took Blair's mouth with his own. Jim's heart spasmed in shock at the sight, and he growled again, a deep burning anger overtaking him. He pushed harder against the bodies between him and his Guide, desperate now to reach him, to pull him out of Tristan's embrace. But more and more people seemed to be crowding the space between him and Blair, more and more people seemed to be touching him, distracting him. He saw Tristan pull Blair from the room, saw Blair go willingly, his hand held tightly in his cousin's. And though still deep in the fog that had gripped his mind, Jim knew without out a doubt that if he didn't get Blair back, didn't get him away from Tristan, he'd lose him forever. Just as he knew suddenly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these strangers all around him were purposely keeping him from pursuing.

It was too much, and Jim snarled in rage, pushing violently at the strangers now. They parted quickly then, suddenly cowed by his anger. Someone tried to give him more wine, someone tried to tell him that it was pointless to go looking for Blair, that he'd never find him in the dark. But Jim was beyond caring now. Something terrible and primitive had awakened within him--and wolves or no, he'd hunt and kill anything that stood between him and his Guide.

He caught up to them in one of the rooms beyond, stopping Tristan's retreat, his hand closing tightly around Blair's arm. Blair seemed not to notice, but Tristan frowned and glared up at Jim. And for one thrilling moment, Jim thought Tristan was going to challenge him. He saw it in the gray eyes, saw anger and rage and the need to possess deep inside eyes that looked more animal than man. And the hunter inside Jim awoke, and the black cat that had for so long guarded his spirit, snarled beside him.

Abruptly, Tristan backed away. Something flashed in his eyes--recognition perhaps, acknowledgement of one killer to another--and then Tristan was gone, vanished from the room, and Jim and Blair were completely alone in a room full of strangers who laughed and swayed in some wild dance to music too powerful to ignore.

Jim pulled Blair against him, took hold of his chin, searched his eyes for some sign of recognition. But there was nothing there in the bewildered blue of his eyes, and Blair laughed and threw one arm around Jim's shoulder's moving his body to the rhythm of the music. And the heat pressed against Jim now was too much all of a sudden--for it wasn't a stranger this time. Jim knew this scent, the sound of this heartbeat, and those silken, kiss-swollen lips were so near to his own.

"Blair, " he whispered. But Blair didn't seem to care where he was, didn't seem to care who he was with--perhaps didn't even know what it was that was happening. He continued moving, and pressed his hot body more tightly against Jim. The fire that flashed through Jim made him gasp in shock, even as the desperation to bring Blair back from whatever world he'd slipped into grew unbearable.

Kisses had stolen him away--every kiss these strangers had placed upon Blair's lips--Tristan's touch, Tristan's kiss--all had conspired somehow to pull Blair into a world Jim could not see, could not touch, a world perhaps where this weird nightmare of a party made sense. But if kisses had stolen him away, then kisses could bring him back--or so Jim's heat-clouded mind informed him.

Either way, logical or not, Jim soon had Blair pressed back into another shadowy alcove, body pinned up against the wall. He caught Blair's wrists, pulling his arms from around him, pinning his hands over his head even as he held his body immobile with his own. Blair just threw his head back and laughed, eyes dancing with mirth; he rocked his hips against Jim's in an effort to continue his dance.

It was too much for Jim. The heat he now knew was desire, and the painful ache in his groin had nothing to do with the wild, near naked strangers behind him. He surged forward and caught Blair's mouth with his own, swallowing Blair's laughter, forcing Blair to open to him, forcing his tongue inside that hot sweet cavern. He heard Blair moan, and he forced the kiss deeper still, devouring Blair's mouth, mating with him with lips alone. An no kiss had ever been so sweet, so hot, so desperately craved and Jim growled with hunger, and rage, and pain, wanting it all, wanting everything, unable to move fast enough, unable to claim and possess enough.

But God it was so good, so desperately wonderful--and when he felt Blair's hips rocking up against his own, pressing the heated length of his cock against Jim's, it was as if the world took on a new dimension. Blair turned his head away momentarily to gasp for much needed air, and Jim sucked at the heated skin of his neck, leaving marks as he moved his teeth down the pale expanse of his throat. He rocked his hips violently against Blair's seeking a friction through the rough material of their pants to ease the need raging through him. He released Blair's wrists, and caught instead at his hips, moving his hands to cup Blair's ass and pull him more firmly against him.

Blair was moaning now, moving desperately with Jim as they both sought relief, both sought release. And no longer was Blair's heartbeat slow and steady--but wild and out of control, and his breath was coming in broken gasps, and Jim could feel the blood pounding beneath his skin. And the smell--his scent now mingled with Blair's, sweat and sex, a mixture of their own--and it didn't matter that they were in a room full of strangers. Nothing mattered any more but the taste on his tongue, the skin beneath his mouth, the wild thrashing body in his hands, the heat burning into his groin.

The music grew louder, and the haunting wail of wolves out in the woods harmonized now with their own moans and cries. Blair staggered under the onslaught of Jim's violent caress, his arms winding around Jim's body in a desperate attempt to keep himself up right. Wanting more, needing more, Jim tightened his hold on Blair's hips, lifting him, pressing him more firmly against the wall behind him, sinking his teeth into Blair's shoulder even as Blair lifted his legs and wrapped them around Jim's hips, locking them into place. It gave Jim the angle he sought, and he thrust more violently against him, moving now in a driving rhythm that pressed heat against heat, with such friction he thought surely he'd burst into flames.

And the pressure was building, the fire growing hotter, and he caught Blair's mouth again with his own, needing to taste him once more, needing to swallow the scream that burst from Blair's chest as his body convulsed with such force. And Blair's release, shattering and unbearable, triggered Jim's own, and as he came, he tasted blood, and that too was sweet beyond imagining.

Continued in Part Two.

Link to text version of part two: http://archiveofourown.org/works/797250