#anson

Watchful One above, is there a cure? Dame Bluff has been looking for decades now. Maybe there isn't one to find.

But all that's for later. For now, Vale has to get there first, and so he runs, fast as he's able, as meadows give way to forest, and forest gives way to farms, and at last the lake that lends the village its name stretches away to his left, wide and dark beneath the moon. Among the frosted grass, packed-earth roads appear, and tiny cottages stand dotted along the lake shore.

It's one of these cottages, tucked in along the edge of the village, that Vale approaches. He creeps up carefully, picking his ginger way through the vegetable garden he helped prepare to weather the winter last year — leans up against the doorframe, trembling and exhausted, trying to force back the sting in his eyes.

The sound of his knuckles rapping at the wood is furtive and quick, pitched low enough not to carry. He waits an endless few seconds, eyes darting out toward the darkness of the village at night. Vale's just beginning to think that he hasn't been quite loud enough when the door cracks open and pulls inward.

Inside, there's a table, rustic and ungainly, made by Anson's mother. Vale's sat at that table once a week since he learned how to walk, legs swinging before he could touch the ground and then, later, feet tucked up under him in a crooked sort of perch that Anson always laughed at him for. When he was a child, Vale sat in the far chair on the left, drinking sweetened milk; then, when he was grown, it was the strong, bitter tea that Anson grows in the garden.

It's the safest place Vale knows, but it won't be safe for long. Nowhere in the village will.

Further back in the room, the wood-burning stove has begun to gutter low, giving off the faint light of a fading fire. It casts the kitchen in shades of warm oranges and yellows, and it backlights the boy who stands in the doorway.

It's Anson, of course. His face ought to be hard to make out in the dim light, but Vale can see every detail all the same: the strong line of his jaw, and the worried crinkle of his brow, and the faint dusting of freckles across his nose.

"Vale?" he says, and his voice is a whisper, breath almost gone with disbelief.

"Surprise," says Vale, and it comes out with a tremor, a breath of air, half laugh and half something else entirely.

"We thought you were gone," says Anson. "We thought he took you."

Vale opens his mouth, a thousand thoughts on the tip of his tongue.

How to explain? How to put words to the nightmare that the last few months have been?

But before he can untangle what he means to say, before he can even begin to sort through the jumble of his own mind, Anson reaches out and takes him by the shoulders, dragging him in for a crushing hug.

It hurts. Of course it does; there isn't a single part of Vale that doesn't ache with bruises or lash marks.

But he doesn't pull away — only lifts his shaking arms and twines them around Anson's waist.

His chest hitches, slightly; he bites down on his lip. The scent is near overwhelming, rich and heady, and he's so very hungry.

"I thought you were gone," Anson is saying, and Vale can hardly hear him through the rushing in his ears. "I thought I'd never see you again."

That hitch comes again, tight and convulsive. Vale's eyes sting so badly that he has to close them, tucking his face up against Anson's chest. He's missed this, too — missed the way Anson touches him, casual and sure.

He's missed the way those calloused hands make his heart beat double-time and raise a flush of heat to burn along his cheekbones. This time, for once, that little flutter in his chest stays still and quiet.

This time, of course, his heart isn't beating at all.

"What happened?" Anson demands. "Where've you been? We sent out search parties. I looked for months."

Vale takes a shaking breath in, and then another. His fingers have curled into the fabric of Anson's shirt, holding on for everything he's worth.

"You were right," he says at last, quiet.

Anson goes very still against him. "What?"

"You were right," Vale says again. "He took me."

Those gentle hands go tense; an instant later, Anson shoves him away again, holding him at arm's length. Kind, dark eyes are frantic and searching, now.

"He didn't," Anson says, strangled. "No. You're — you're the same."

"It isn't like we thought," Vale says, tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. "I am still the same. I'm still me." He thinks of the brighter night, of the scent of blood sharp in his nostrils, of the heart that no longer beats in his chest. "Well. Almost."

Once upon a time, Vale wouldn't have been able to make out the details in lighting this dim.

He would have missed the way Anson's eyes grow wider — the flash of betrayal — the glimmer of fear. He catches it all, volumes of explanation in fractions of a second.

"I can explain," says Vale, hushed and urgent. "But more important, there's something I have to tell you. Lord Eramastus —"

Something changes in Anson's face. Vale clocks the expression as it shifts. It's the word "lord," he thinks later. His tongue found the title by rote — by habit beaten into him by long months. When they were small, they used to poke fun of the inhabitant of the mysterious manor to the east: Eranasty, His High Creepiness, and a dozen others just as childish, a parade of nicknames with bravado to mask the fear.

They've grown, since then; things have changed. But Vale has never once used a title for the lord of the dark manor, not until the crack of the whip trained his tongue.

The betrayal in Anson's eyes washes out, replaced by resolve.

"Guards!" Anson calls, voice bellowing out across the little garden, across the cobblestone walkway, across the neighboring cottages. "Guards!"

"Wait," hisses Vale. "Don't —"

But it's too late to explain. Already lights are coming on in windows, lanterns flickering to life. Doors are cracking open, and faces appear in the gaps, frightened eyes turning their way.

Watchful One save him, but Vale knows how this is going to go.

=== Like it so far? Check out the rest in High Stakes and Bloody Business!