Page 18 of The Black Table
“As I said before,” Kai says, grinning. “He’s not here. Just me.” He nudges the foil a millimeter closer. “Spar with me.”
I pull back, climbing up the arm of the couch so the tip’s out of range.
“Not right now.”
“Seriously? Come on.” Kai jabs the foil, and I duck—as best I can, still on the couch.
“No, Kai!” I yell. “Go…fight with your brother if you’re so horny to spar.”
Kai licks his lips. Both of us know him and Kingston sparring is a recipe for disaster, especially with King in whatever sour mood he’s in post scrimmage.
Still, Kai withdraws.
“Pussy,” he mutters.
I wince as he sheaths his weapon and flings it down by the fireplace, grumbling about being bored out of his skull, and I’m just about to close my eyes and rub my pounding temples when I hear my name.
“Lanz.”
I look up. It’s Callahan, wild-eyed and staring.
“I need to talk to you,” he says.
His voice is that low and gravelly sound that strums a chord buried deep inside me.
Which I try not to let show. Just swallow hard and nod. “Sure.”
“God, you are all so fuckingmorose,” Kai complains. He slams his book shut and shoves it into his bag. “I’m going to grade these somewhere lesstomblike,” he announces. “Come by Holy Grounds if you change your mind about sparring, pretty boy.” He glares at Cal. “You too, Virgin Mary.”
The front door bangs shut after him, leaving me and Callahan and the mess of a place that is Camlann House.
We stay like that a beat, silent, both listening for the departing thuds of Kai’s footsteps, waiting to see if Kingston emerges from downstairs. When he doesn’t, Cal jerks his head to the door, and I follow, flexing my hands as I go.
For a fencer, Cal’s big and broad—his past as a swimmer more than evident—and I always feel slight walking next to him. King and I are both tall, but more on the lean side, classical fencerbuild. Kai’s more muscle than anything, but Callahan’s six-six still has a few inches on even him.
I studiously avoid the Knights of Caliburn crest carved on the first landing of the stairs as we take the right-hand split, and we stop at the first door on the second-story landing: Cal’s room.
Inside, it’s tidy—especially compared to downstairs—but not just in the militarily-regimented way that Kingston does his hospital corners or the psychopathic way Kai racks up his blades. It’s…cozy, I guess, and that’s what I’ve always liked about it. Mixed in the with the same things we all have at Camlann—deep red bedspread, wooden cross on the wall, armchair and corner desk and window seat—Cal’s arranged little pieces of thoughtfulness: old maps tacked on the wall, postcards from Italy and Lake Geneva, an amberglass diffuser wafting the light scent of sandalwood.
The door closes behind us. And when it does, Cal seizes me by the shoulders, slams me against it, and claims my mouth with his.
God.It’s good, the taste of him, the warmth, and I moan against his lips as my fingers find their way to his hair, pulling him into me with desperate force.
This, I realize, this is what I need right now, body and soul.
But too soon, Cal pries himself away.
“I think he knows,” he says. “King.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “What?” I give my head a shake. “Why?”
Even as I ask, I am begging, pleading for it not to be true. Not now. Not this. Every inch of me, and especially the eight inches now straining hard in my boxer briefs, just wants to be lost in him, taken over. Thinking about Kingston at all is literally deflating.
Especially if he knows.
Cal licks his lips, rubs his fingers together—the thumb andindex, where he wears his rings. “He went to chapel yesterday. Did you know that?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling the smallest burst of relief in my chest. “Well, that’s just King’s way of?—”
