Free (A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord by Kj Charles Page B

Crane sat heavily on the rough stone and slumped forward, resting his forearms on his thighs to support himself.
    “I need your left hand.” Day squatted down next to him.
    Crane extended it without asking. Day took it, brushing his thumb over Crane’s knuckles. A pale yellow light from nowhere illuminated the skin.
    “What the—”
    “Me, that’s just me,” Day said hastily. “Sorry. I need to see.”
    “What’s that on my hand?”
    Day’s thumb slid over the dead white patch on his knuckles. “It’s an abreaction. You’ve heard of people’s hair turning white when they see a ghost? Like that. It shouldn’t be permanent if I can deal with it now. Otherwise it’ll just be a white patch. Nothing to worry about.” His thumb moved back and forth, gentle but firm, prickling champagne bubbles on Crane’s skin.
    There was silence for a few moments. Finally Crane forced out, “That thing. Was that Hector? His—his spirit? His soul?”
    “I’m not a theologian.” Day’s hand was folded around Crane’s as his thumb slid over the skin, fingertips tingling against Crane’s palm. “And this isn’t my field. But…it reacted to you, it reacted to your reaction, it was astonishingly physical and close to audible… I think it’s not Hector exactly, but it’s what’s left of Hector. Or what Hector is now.”
    “Marvellous,” Crane muttered. “And it’s not gone for good?”
    “Not yet. I might need help to get rid of it permanently.” Day hesitated. “Were you frightened of him, as a child?”
    “Terrified. I used to spend half my time in the attic, hiding from him. One holiday he found me and broke my leg in a door so I couldn’t run away. It took him three tries. When I heard he was dead, we got drunk for a week.”
    Day’s thumb had stilled, his grip tightening on Crane’s hand. “I will make it go away,” he said softly. “I’ll get rid of it for you. I promise.” His thumb resumed its circling movements, slower and a little firmer, warm and close and caressing. “You know,” he added, “there are a number of recommended methods of dealing with ghosts—salt and iron, harmonic resonance, some people swear by exorcism, and not just priests—but that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone try a left hook.”
    “Now you say that,” Crane said, “it strikes me that it was a very stupid act.”
    “It was brave.” Day sounded serious. “A bit stupid. But mostly brave.”
    The shaman knelt before him in the moonlight, painfully close. At some point, Crane wasn’t sure when, he’d moved so that his arms were now resting on Crane’s thighs, warm and heavy. His hair glimmered dark copper in the cold light, and his caressing thumb was sending spangles of sensation up towards Crane’s elbow now.
    Crane looked down at him. As if he’d felt the gaze, Day looked up, mouth slightly open, and his wide eyes met Crane’s for a long breathless moment.
    Crane reached out with his free hand and brushed his thumb slowly over Day’s lips, pushing them gently apart, feeling his mouth move softly, opening, accepting the touch. His breath came fast against Crane’s hand. Crane’s need was suddenly, violently urgent after the night’s terror, and Stephen Day was kneeling before him, lips inviting, pupils dilated, a gift to be unwrapped. He pushed his thumb further into the warm mouth and felt a flicker of tongue against his skin, a tentative taste.
    “Stephen,” said Crane softly, trying out the name.
    Stephen tilted his head back a little. “I…I don’t…”
    “Oh, you do.” Crane stroked his fingers possessively over the small chin. “You really do. Lovely boy.”
    “I’m twenty-eight,” Stephen said weakly, and Crane’s lips curved, knowing that was surrender.
    His hand closed on Stephen’s jaw, pulling him closer. “Come here. Unless you want to stay on your knees, of course,” he added, with a twitch of a brow, and something in the other man’s eyes went suddenly