The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3

“Your bath is ready, Chevalier,” he said, unable to mask his exhaustion.

Gion had walked fourteen pails of hot water in pairs from the kitchens up the hundred steps to my fortress suite. It was a service the servants performed once a week for the Baron and me, and twice a week for the Baroness. The effect of this sublime luxury was that I slept like a baby when I fell into bed afterward. The comfort of such cleanliness came at the physical expense required of Gion and the other young footmen who toiled to meet this duty. Their efforts resulted in the thick shoulders and rounded backsides that only a strenuous defiance of gravity could create.

Not wanting to keep him any longer than necessary, I marked my place in my reading assignment, rose from my reading chair, and took to the bath.

Gion undressed me as always, removing each garment with pointed efficiency.

It bears remarking that we’d developed a different type of relationship since my transformation. I didn’t delude myself that such an unbalanced relationship spark the full honesty that genuine friendship required. But unfettered from my self-conscious embarrassment at being naked, I could abandon my pointless absorption and pay attention to him. I enjoyed speaking with him about several topics that interested young men and valued his voice whenever he shared it.

“You’re tired,” I declared. “Have a seat for a while.”

Gion gave a grateful sigh and did his best to keep from falling into my shaving chair beside the bath.

“I really should help close the kitchen,” he said, a sentiment I dismissed with a slight ruffling of my brow and shake of my head.

“Today, I learned why the water stays in the buckets as they sway in your arms,” I said. “Centrifugal force. Coined by the Englishman Sir Isaac Newton.

“You trust an Englishman?” Gion asked, his brown tensing.

“This one, unquestionably, though he’s long dead.”

“For the best.”

I nodded a smirk back at him.

“The idea he offered was that the water stays in the pail because you hold it by the handle, which becomes a second axis point for gravity. From the handle, a secondary gravity sways in a small arc. It works even better if you increase the distance of the water from the axis point. For example, if you keep your arm straight but loosen your shoulder. Now the small arc becomes wider, and the water stays in the bucket longer.”

Gion stared at me as if I were discussing nonsense.

“It’s the axis point that works against the earth’s gravity, bending it slightly. You can take it further if you swing the bucket in a full arc. If you expend enough energy, the earth’s gravity nullifies altogether, and the water remains in the bucket even when upside down.”

“Monsieur, every child with a bucket knows this trick.”

“But it has a name, Gion. Centrifugal force.”

“Very good, monsieur. Let us pollute the language with more English if it pleases you,” he said with a condescending nod.

His raised eyes sent me into a fit of laughter. When I’d released it all, I fell back in the tub to submerge my hair and rub my scalp clean.

“And Ducasse? Is he still the tyrant? Did I smooth him over with my explanation for the time you take with me?” I asked.

“Only to your face,” Gion said. “After you left, he dropped the mask and scolded me again for allowing others to pick up my slack. I wouldn’t put it past him to come here to make a show—relieve me and pretend to take over my duties because of some manufactured emergency downstairs.”

“I look forward to the challenge,” I said with a mischievous light in my eyes. “And Cecile?”

Gion couldn’t repress a boyish smirk.

Three years my senior, he was just as hard up as I was for a mate’s affection. It had taken him seconds to fall into the conversation when I first brought up the struggles of young manhood. And, of course, he had his attentions locked on a scullery maid who traded long looks and knowing smirks.

“You haven’t found your way with her yet?” I asked.

Gion released a defeated sigh.

“Disappointing,” I followed.

“I almost got her alone in the pantry yesterday,” Gion said, dropping his head back in the shaving chair with unrequited exhaustion, “but the old cow interceded at the last moment. Make no mistake, Cecile wants it just as bad. It’s too obvious the way she keeps returning my looks. When I get my hands on those plump melons… I swear they swell at me whenever I walk into the kitchen. ‘Gion. Gion,’ they cry at me. ‘Come free us from this cruel uniform and take us in your mouth. Please, Gion. We can’t live another day without the relief of your wet lips.’”

I took in the sight of him as he stared off at the ceiling. His large, limp hands hung off the armrests. The skin pulled tight over his Adam’s apple because of his heavy jawline. His wide shoulders and the swell of his chest pushed at the sleeves of his tightly tailored uniform. I fancied I could see the frustration in his breath as his chest rose and fell. I even stared at his crotch, fancying I could see the outline of his balls through the fabric of his breeches, but they were far too loose to make that wish come true.

Before I knew it, my silent indulgence had resulted in an erection. I thought it was better to dismiss Gion now than let him catch sight of it when I exit the bath into the waiting robe he’d hold out for me.

But then, an idea seized me. What if? What if he might allow himself another kind of indulgence in his unrequited agitation? It was an absurd notion. There were no other queer men in the fortress—Gabrielle had confirmed it. But what if she was guessing? What if there were variations in men that didn’t present themselves until just the right moment? Perhaps, at the right moment, it wasn’t out of the question for some men to engage in friendly relief.

Before considering the consequences, I reached between my legs and took my length in hand. Could I begin and hope Gion would agree to do the same? Would he reach into his breeches and join me in this ritual I knew he needed as desperately as I did?

With my thumb, I pushed at the base of my erection to raise it out of the water to point at the ceiling. Then I released it to slap back down on my abdomen.

The splash drew Gion’s eyes open, and he lifted his head, perhaps to see if I was exiting.

Again, I pushed at the base of my erection with pride to raise it out of the bathwater for Gion to see, then released it to slap back against my abdomen, releasing a splash that rippled through the tub.

He stared at my rock-hard cock with absorbed eyes. Perhaps they were just confused.

“Will you help me with it?”

I shifted my hips in the bath as if the stress were such a burden that I could use the help. Maybe I was having a stroke. Would he think I was making fun of him?

One by one, the question set off every muscle surrounding his eyes. His brow furrowed. His lids sharpened and slackened. The almost imperceptible movements ran the gamut until they’d produced an unmistakable thought-processing roadmap. He finally realized what I asked of him.

Gion stood with a start.

“If that’s all, monsieur,” he said, his eyes raised away from me.

It was an unequivocal rejection. I also looked away. The truth of the moment took hold of me, forcing me to recognize what I’d just done. I’d surrendered our fraternal bond in one moment of sheer stupidity.

“Forgive me, Gion,” I managed. “Good night.”

With my apology and dismissal offered, he left the room.

Idiotic, I thought to myself. It was true I no longer felt fear or the apprehension I once did among other men, but I could feel self-loathing like never before. I had damaged the first friendship, if you could call it that, I’d made here. There was no scenario where I imagined he might forgive the indignities I’d caused him and allow himself back into my confidence.

Frustrated, I chucked my washcloth at the nearest wall. In time, I stood up in the bathtub to dry myself and dress.

Father’s words returned to me, and I considered his advice. There was a young man only a mile away that I might befriend, who might welcome the chance for intimacy. I might slip out of the fortress tonight and steal away. Even if he was asleep, I might catch a glance at him through a window.

The idea of a predator sneaking around the shadows outside that young man’s home struck me as unhinged, and I sought my bed in a self-loathing huff.

“Saulieu,” I said aloud to myself, not bothering to blow out the candles. I would follow his advice and visit the town. I might check into the tavern for a few days. It didn’t concern me I might run into the vile priest who’d told me never to see Father again. Frankly, I’d welcome the exchange—the opportunity to tell him what I thought of him and his religion now that I was no doubt more educated on the subject than he’d ever been. But that would be a distraction.

No, I was going to town to find a lover. I didn’t have Gabrielle’s power to hear the thoughts of humans, but I didn’t care. I’d find someone. Somehow, I’d make it happen. It felt like I had no choice.

I couldn’t go on my own. Even surrounded by two living gods who filled my days with endless diversion, I felt such emptiness as I lay in my bed alone. I was lonely in a way I’d never expected.

Overtaken by sadness, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.