Winter's Knight

Chapter 1 It was snowing in New Amsterdam. Big, fat, flakes fell from a low ceiling of black clouds and covered the empty patios behind The Magnolia Hotel. In more seasonable weather, the patios were open to guests at Leaf, the hotel’s five-star restaurant, but for now, a mere two weeks before Christmas, the outdoor dining area was a graveyard, the tables and chairs tombstones of good meals past. “More wine, sir?” Without taking his eyes off the bank of windows that made up Leaf’s rear wall, Lucian Edward Gray waved a hand at John, one of the attentive waiters who usually served him when he conducted business here. Lucian’s glass was still half-full of the driest red wine Leaf’s winery had to offer, and he had no intention of drowning his anxiety in alcohol to the point that it dulled his wits. He would need every single scrap of the considerable intelligence he possessed for this evening’s meeting and possibly more than the reserve could spare. “Very good. Will we have the pleasure of serving your guest soon?” “Soon enough,” Lucian answered in the slow, modulated tone he used to ensure the lisp that had haunted him in childhood didn’t betray him in adulthood. It was easy enough to manage now, and he’d stopped hating the idea that his ornate, sometimes magniloquent way of speaking was his father’s doing. The man had once said Lucian’s tongue would be cheap pine and never stately silver. Such a pity his foresight was poorer than a simpleton’s use of metaphor. “We agreed to six-thirty, but he’ll be late.” Lucian lovingly watched winter craft icicles, their points stabbing toward the slate lining the courtyard. “Very well,” said John. “Is it?” Lucian asked, absently inquisitive. “I’m sure I don’t know for certain, sir,” John recovered smoothly, and Lucian gave him points for grace. “Shall I have anything prepared for his arrival?” Lucian slowly spun his wine glass on the linen tablecloth. He knew what his guest drank for all meals of the day. He knew what his guest sipped for comfort in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, and so of course he knew what his oldest friend would want when forced to dine at Leaf among the high-class humanity he usually avoided like the plague. “Jack Daniels, gold label, on ice with a glass of water, bottled.” Lucian paused, an image of a skinny kid wearing a rumpled Academy uniform, tie undone and shirt tail mostly untucked, floating through Lucian’s mind like a ghost. “And he’ll likely need a suit jacket. Never was much on social conformity.” “Of course, sir. Would you know the size, perchance?” “Thirty-eight long,” Lucian replied, thinking of lean lines and tan skin. “I’ll see that it’s done, sir,” John said with a nod. John vanished, and Lucian sipped his wine, hardly tasting it. He smoothed fingertips over the shining flatware and finally glanced at the small box sitting on the bench next to him. It was professionally wrapped, the midnight blue paper thick enough to need special tape to hold its shape. The bow was silver and constructed from ribbon in complicated loops and twirls. Lucian traced an edge, and barely stopped himself from running for the exit and backing out of the entire evening. The excuses would be unpleasant business, however, and might suggest Lucian had made an error by setting up the date in the first place. Obviously, that couldn’t happen. Lucian sighed. He checked the time on his cell phone and slid out of the booth. He buttoned his dark gray suit jacket while he walked toward the men’s room, and he acknowledged a handful of the appreciative stares or bids for his attention from men and women alike. None of them were high enough on the city’s food chain to deserve a nod from Lucian, son of the infamous corrupt Mayor Hendrick Gray, and none of them were involved in any of Lucian’s side affairs. Not the clubs, not the charity work, and certainly not the night job. That was one of the many nice things about Leaf—legitimacy lingered in the air. In this town and in this life, however, everybody wanted something: information, connection, money, power. Lucian only rarely had incentive to provide such favors for free, and only a flaming i***t would try to take something from Lucian he did not wish to give. He reached the men’s room without incident and reminded himself not to let paranoia trump good sense as he shoved open the door. “Good evening,” said the restroom attendant, and Lucian tipped his chin in greeting. He walked to the farthest sink, let the automatic tap run, and stared into the mirror. Wide-set, nearly colorless eyes in an expressionless face regarded him. Sometimes blue, sometimes steel, they reflected what Lucian wore, and tonight they shone darker above the deep gray jacket, black shirt, and pale lavender tie. Lucian’s eyebrows were waxed to a hair’s perfection, his cheekbones prominent, and jawline inherited from his father’s side of the family. His waist-length dark brown hair was without split end, the shortest layer falling just beneath his chin. He examined every pore of clean-shaven pale skin for a flaw that didn’t exist thanks to continuous upkeep, and finally satisfied, he accepted hand soap from the attendant. Three years, Lucian thought as lather built. It’d been over three years since Lucian had laid eyes on Shea, and though Lucian would never admit it to a soul, he had felt the loss every single day. There’d been no fight or falling out, just a protracted silence perpetuated by both sides. Because Lucian couldn’t assume it had anything to do with his own actions, else the mystery drive him insane, Lucian thought the cessation of communication had to do with Shea finally getting away from family expectations. The Ollivanders owned one of the largest dairy manufacturing facilities in the country. Shea had never wanted anything to do with it and had gone to school for economics. He’d been successful, of course. With a mind like Shea’s, being bad at much of anything would take work. Three years ago, however, Shea had quit his job and vanished, quite literally, into the woods. Shea had built a cabin on the fringes of his family’s land with his bare hands. He’d retreated from people and eventually took a job in construction, of all things. Lucian would have been worried, but every source Lucian used to keep tabs on Shea didn’t indicate that Shea suffered from anything worse than exhaustion. The rat race didn’t agree with Shea, and so Shea had dropped out of the competition. That was all well and good, so far as Lucian was concerned. Lucian wanted Shea happy, and if he liked digging ditches, more power to him. But Shea didn’t call, and that was not so well and good for Lucian. Granted, their lives were busy and very different, but they usually got in touch at Christmas. It was a tradition they’d begun back in college. Both of them went to schools on the West coast to get away from their families, and they saw one another from time to time to get into trouble. Shea, though, always went home for the holidays, and Lucian followed. Back in their familiar stomping grounds, they’d meet in a bar, get drunk, talk about how their lives were going to be different from their parents’, and that was how they’d celebrated. It was far nicer than his estranged father’s empty penthouse or, later, Lucian’s quiet home. The tradition had lasted through Lucian’s law school stint and Shea’s Masters, through life decisions both big and small, and through tragedy, family problems, and coming out. December twenty-fifth meant a night of platonic companionship with Shea instead of a lonely night of longing, and that meant the world. Shea meant the world, had always been there as long as Lucian could remember, and if he somehow f****d that up tonight, somehow lost the friendship he treasured because Lucian couldn’t keep his f*****g feelings to himself, he would never— “Sir? Are you all right?” “Yes,” Lucian answered the attendant with a deliberate smile that Lucian watched in the mirror. It was a careful turn of thin lips, nothing more, and the attendant looked away. Lucian dried his hands on a towel, tipped the man generously, and left. He returned to his table and watched the door for a familiar slender form. Three years. Lucian swallowed bile and wanted to laugh at himself. Corporate climbing, speeches, charity functions, shady deals, meetings to discuss the nastiest parts of the city he claimed as his own and tried to save from his father’s network, and a dinner date with a man he had known for a lifetime made Lucian feel sixteen and virginal. He just couldn’t believe it was actually happening, couldn’t believe he was actually going through with this. He’d been shocked to hell and back again when Shea had answered the phone three nights ago— “Lucian Gray calling for Sheldon Horatio Eucristicles Alexander Ollivander the Third.” A heavy sigh. “Luke, this is my cell phone.” “Yes, Sheldon. So I realize.” “Lucian.” “Shea.” Another deep breath. “Well, who the hell else do you think is going to answer?” “Any number of a harem, no doubt.” An unkind snort. “The f**k do you want, Prince?” “It’s Christmas.” A pause tinged with resignation. “…yeah. Okay. Which bar?” “I thought maybe this time we could upgrade.” Hesitation and interest. “Oh?” —and even more shocked when Shea had agreed to meet. It wasn’t like Lucian had called at any point over the last few years, either, and by all rights, Shea could have told him to go commit an anatomically challenging act. When that didn’t happen, and when Lucian cleared the dazed fog in his brain, cell phone still clenched tightly in one hand, he started preparing a plan and bracing for the worst. Lucian finished off his wine, watching a tall, broad man in jeans stop at the host station just inside the entrance. Lucian grumbled a curse under his breath and checked his phone. Shea was officially late by ten minutes. Naturally. He had never been on time for anything since they were six, so there was no reason why Shea should begin now, and why was that man shrugging into a borrowed suit jacket walking toward the table like it was somehow appropriate? The man looked familiar and, God, Lucian hoped it wasn’t a scorned lover about to make a scene. That was the last thing Lucian needed tonight. Lucian glared at the interloper until the man shoved hands into jean pockets and glowered at the ground. Lucian sucked a breath. He would know that scowl and body language anywhere. It had been directed at him a million times, and Lucian clenched his teeth to keep from gaping. Shea had started out as a tall, lanky kid and not much had changed over the years. The last time Lucian saw Shea, he was skinny, geeky, and adorably self-conscious. Shea wore glasses and a buzz cut, his lack of fashion sense put the entire gay community to shame, and he tried to blend into the wallpaper. The man approaching Lucian’s table, however, walked with a stride that owned every inch of his six-foot-two build. The suit jacket, which was definitely not a thirty-eight and more like a forty-four, was too tight across broad shoulders and defined arms. The Shea that Lucian remembered could scarcely grow a mustache, but this man had a rugged five-o-clock shadow that any masculine member of Hollywood would envy. The light brown eyes weren’t disguised by thick metal frames held together by tape, and instead glowed with a confidence that aroused Lucian at twenty yards. The buzz cut was now a shaggy mess of brown curls begging to be touched. The jeans were snug over heavy legs and a pleasant bulge, the sweater was plain, but the beige color did amazing things for the tan complexion. When Shea paused next to the table, Lucian started at the dark brown boots and didn’t stop panning up and admiring until Lucian met a completely unreadable gaze. “Hey.” Shea nodded curtly and slid into the seat across from Lucian. “Hello there,” Lucian said, setting down the wine glass before it shattered in his fist. Lucian struggled to account for such a drastic change and couldn’t get past sending flowers to construction foremen and personal trainers. Shea rolled his shoulders in a fascinating display of bulk. The borrowed fabric stretched, and Shea frowned at the table. “This thing’s like a fuckin’ straitjacket.” “Such pleasant images,” Lucian commented in a monotone that hopefully masked exactly how pleasant he found them. Shea gave Lucian a dark look, and Lucian chuckled. “Perhaps I’ll supply them with clothing of my own taste that would fit your more substantial frame.”