Date: Sun, 16 May 2010 14:54:38 -0600
From: Katya_Dee <concertoind@gmail.com>
Subject: The Year of the Salamander, chapter 25

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All the resemblances are completely
coincidental. All the characters, situations, and everything else in the
story is owned by myself beloved. Contains descriptive sexual scenes between
males. If you are not supposed to read it, do not read it! Feel free to
e-mail me.

   This is a sequel to Specter' Gamble
<http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/specters-gamble/>.  You don't
have to read the first one in order to get this one, but it would make it
easier to understand the characters in this story.



- XXV -



            By the end of Solstice break, Desmond was nightmare-free; he
hasn't had a single one ever since that afternoon nap on Solstice Eve. He
wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Sleeping peacefully again was great,
sure, but he was almost positive that those nightmares had something to do
with the whole sacrifice thing. He had no idea what it might be, but his
intuition was never wrong.

   To his greatest frustration, Tess DeCrusse had to take off right when the
new semester started on the third of January. There were some troubles
brewing somewhere in the South (Reagan seemed to grow more bored with the
arrangement lately), so Tess had been informed that her services might (or
might not) soon be required. He never told her about the nightmares; he
never got the chance. He was planning to talk to her about that, but the
first thing she said to him on January 3, was, "I am leaving and I don't
think I will be back by February fourteenth."

   She looked frustrated and tired after she said that.

   "Desmond," she said a minute later. "We have a little bit more than a
month until that day. I have to know for sure that it's not him."

   "I don't think it's him," Desmond said honestly. "Nothing is happening...
Plus," he shrugged. "He is with the Fire Guardian, and as much as I don't
enjoy admitting it, that arrangement should keep him safe, don't you think?"

   Tess blinked at that information.

   "Huh," she finally said very thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose you are
correct... On February fourteenth, however, you will have to make sure
that..."

   "Tess," he interrupted her. "As I said before, I will tie him down if I
have to, all right? Just..." he took a deep breath. "For the love of
everything, don't tell anyone about his birthday, okay?"

   She didn't seem completely convinced, but she nodded slowly.

   "I guess you are right," she sighed right before leaving. "It is not him.
If it were him, something would've happened by now..."

   Desmond almost said something about Eve, the dog's weird behavior, and
his strange nightmares, but then he decided against that. She was on her way
out, and there was nothing she could do about it right now. Desmond decided
to figure this whole thing out on his own. After all, the mutt was fine
around Sam, and Desmond assumed that it was a very good thing. Desmond's own
nightmares-situation was puzzling and disturbing, yes, but it bothered
Desmond and Desmond alone. As long as he keeps the kid home on the
fourteenth of February, everything should be just fine.

   ...He was sitting at home later that evening, studying the book on
sacrificial weapons, his hand doodling something in his notebook with the
pencil, and when the door of the house opened, he blinked and looked up with
a small frown.

   "What the hell are you doing home so early, kid?" he said when he saw
Sam. "Don't tell me that bastard..."

   "Blair had some meeting to go to," Sam rolled his eyes. "The Guardians
thing... He is not going to come back until probably three in the morning."

   "Ah," Desmond nodded and returned to his book. Probably has something to
do with the South, he thought absent-mindedly, his pencil drawing something
in the notebook.

   "Wow..." Sam said in quiet awe, and Desmond blinked again.

   "What?" he looked up.

   "This is..." Sam shook his head slowly. "Wow..." he said again, staring
at Desmond's notebook.

   Desmond looked at the page and frowned. He just doodled the exact same
thing as he did back at Blair's house, a month ago. Except back there, he
did it with his fingertip in the snow. Now the doodle was much more precise
and complete. "*It is complete*," someone whispered in his head, and he bit
his lip. Suddenly, he hated that doodle. He ripped the page out, crumbled it
in his hand, and was about to throw it away, when Sam grabbed his wrist.

   "Are you crazy?" he said with a small frown. "That is a perfect design!
I've been looking for something unique and I couldn't find anything... This
is perfect!"

   "What are you talking about?" Desmond said, trying to shake kid's hand
off his wrist. "It's a freaking doodle! Let go!"

   Sam sunk one of his fingers into a soft spot on the inside of Desmond's
wrist – the one right below the palm, into the pulsating area, right between
the bones – and Desmond's entire arm jerked at that.

   "Ow!" he yelled and relaxed his fist. Sam snapped the paper out of his
hand immediately. "Son of a..." Desmond hissed. "Goddammit, kid! I didn't
teach you those moves so you could use them on me!"

   "Sorry," Sam said without even a shadow of remorse. He smoothed out the
paper and stared at the doodle almost lovingly. "This is perfect," he said
quietly.

   "What are you talking about?" Desmond shut his book with great
frustration.

   "I have been thinking of getting a tattoo," Sam said with a small smile.
"I was trying to find the right design, but nothing seemed right... This..."
He smoothed out the paper some more. "This is perfect!"

   "A tattoo?" Desmond wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

   "I don't know," Sam shrugged. "Just feel like it, you know? This is
perfect..." he muttered again, all but drooling on the damn doodle.

   "Where?" Desmond sighed. "I mean, where on your body...?"

   "Right here..." Sam absent-mindedly slapped his left shoulder. "On the
shoulder blade. Do you know a good tattoo artist?" he looked at Desmond. "I
don't want to end up going to some idiot who would butcher this..." he
smoothed the paper out even more.

   "No, I don't," Desmond sighed again. "But I know someone who does..." He
immediately remembered Richie Zabrowski and the fact that the kid had at
least four tattoos. Well, visible ones, that is. All his tattoos looked very
precise and extremely well drawn. "I'll ask him tomorrow... But, kid,
seriously... You gonna tattoo *that *onto your skin?" He nodded at the piece
of paper in Sam's hands.

   "Yup," Sam said with a small smile. "Told you, it's perfect...! I have
never seen something so... Fascinating before..."

   "Fascinating," Desmond snorted.

   "Hey, would you go with me?" Sam looked at him almost pleadingly.

   "What about your `fire guy'?" Desmond said with yet another sigh.

   "I want it to be a surprise," Sam grinned.

   "Fine," Desmond grumbled. "I'll go with you... Probably on Saturday."

   "Great!" Sam beamed. "Thanks, Desmond!"

   "Uh huh," Desmond said and opened his book again.



****



   Next day (it was Friday), right after the last class of his day was over,
Desmond looked up and said:

   "Zabrowski! A word," he nodded at Richie's puzzled look.

   He waited for the classroom to clear and looked at very puzzled and
somewhat uncomfortable-looking kid.

   "Who did your tattoos?" Desmond asked, and the kid blinked at that.
Clearly, this was the last question he expected to hear from Desmond.

   "Umm..." he said.

   "I need a good tattoo artist," Desmond said shortly. "Yours seem to be
very well done, therefore, who did your tattoos?"

   "Oh," Richie said with visible relief. "His name is Maxwell Todd, his
place is..." He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and grabbed a piece of
paper off Desmond's desk. "Here..." he handed the paper to Desmond a minute
later. "That's the address."

   Desmond glanced at the address quickly, and nodded before throwing the
paper into the trashcan. Richie frowned at that slightly.

   "I don't need to write anything down," Desmond explained somewhat
patiently. "I remember things."

   "Oh," Richie said again. "Okay..."

   "Thanks," Desmond nodded and grabbed his books off the desk. "That's
all," he said after Zabrowski just stood there, as if expecting some other
question.

   "Umm," the kid said somewhat uncomfortably. "Tell him that you know me...
He'll give you a discount... I've known him for the last six years. That was
when I got my first tattoo."

   "Six years?" Desmond frowned. "Weren't you fourteen six years ago?"

   "Yeah," Richie grinned. "Max didn't care though... And he did an awesome
job, so I came back two months later... I've been going to him ever since."

   "How many tattoos do you have?" Desmond blinked.

   "Ten," Richie said simply. "You can't see all of them because a couple of
them are on my back, one on my..."

   "I don't want to know," Desmond nodded firmly, and Richie coughed.

   "Yeah," he said. "Okay..."

   ...When Desmond came home that evening, he was thinking of phoning Sam,
since he was positive that the kid would be out of the house. To his
greatest surprise, Sam was at home, watching TV and polishing the
silverware.

   "What are you doing?" Desmond said after he kicked off his boots.

   "Cleaning," Sam said in a tone of voice that all but screamed, `Duh!'
"And watching TV," he added a few seconds later.

   Desmond rolled his eyes.

   "I thought you said your `fire guy' would be back by now," he said,
ignoring the dog who was trying to shove his nose into Desmond's palm. The
damn dog was bloody huge by now. Unfortunately, the growth spurt only
affected his size, and not his maturity level. He was a humongous, insanely
strong eight-months-old puppy.

   "Oh," Sam sighed and let out a small, short whistle, letting the dog know
to back up and leave Desmond alone. The dog let out a sigh and went back to
Sam. "Yeah, turns out it's something more serious than he thought. He'll be
back tomorrow morning. And then he'll have to leave on Monday again..." he
said gloomily.

   "Ah, yes," Desmond snorted. "It's the princess' time of the month, isn't
it?"

   "I would laugh," Sam said seriously. "Except, that's exactly what Blair
calls it, so the insult didn't really work."

   Desmond let out another snort (more frustrated this time) and went into
the kitchen.

   "I got the name of the tattoo artist!" he called loudly while digging in
the fridge. "If you still want it, we could go tomorrow!"

   "That would be great!" Sam shouted back. "Thanks!"

   ...Desmond didn't fall asleep until almost four in the morning, thanks to
Rayhe, whose ability to keep both of them awake and making Desmond scream
for more, was truly admirable. Finally, around four in the morning, he fell
asleep with his arm wrapped firmly around Gabriel's waist, and he didn't
even bother to mutter something about the fact that it was so late. Tomorrow
(well, today, technically) was Saturday, so Desmond could sleep in as late
as he wanted.



****



   He was standing on the same cliff in front of the same old watchtower.
Now, however, there was no canvas or paintbrush in sight. He frowned and
glanced around, listening to the lazy splashes of water beneath the cliff.
Then he sensed another presence, and he whirled around. There she was,
standing not too far from him, smiling gently. She was wearing a dark-red
long dress that made her look like she was starring in some historical
flick.

   "Hello, Delvin," she said. "Sorry, Desmond," she corrected herself. "I am
bad with the names," she shrugged lightly. "Boy, are you the tough one!" she
frowned slightly. "Usually, it takes me a couple of weeks to get through to
someone... But you..." She shook her head. "It took me several months! You
have no idea how relieved I am right now! Seriously," she nodded. "I was
afraid that I would be late, with you resisting so hard... Plus, that
dog..." She wrinkled her nose. "Damn Akbash breed..." she muttered to
herself mostly.

   Desmond didn't say anything; he simply lunged at her. He almost grabbed
her by the throat, intending to throw her off the cliff, but the very second
he felt the warmth of her skin, she shimmered slightly, and then she was
gone from his grasp.

   "Oh, don't bother," she said, and her voice came from behind Desmond's
back. He turned around again. "This is a dream, remember?" She smiled as
gently as before. "You won't be able to do anything to me here. If this..."
she gestured around. "...were real, it would be a different matter. It is
not, however, so don't bother," she repeated with a slight nod.

   Desmond gritted his teeth. She was right and he knew it.

   "God," she said with a small sigh. "I didn't expect this to be so
complicated... I mean, come on! How hard is it to make a twenty-two-year-old
kid to become consumed with lust? Especially, if there is a spell helping
you with that... I honestly thought this would be easy as pie..." She sighed
again. "I didn't even have to use the spell on the very first time he met
me... Everything happened so delightfully naturally..." She smiled
wistfully.

   "That's why the mutt didn't sense anything that one night," Desmond
thought furiously. "Goddammit!"

   "And then he tells me that he met someone!" She continued with slight
irritation. "I couldn't believe that! Literally could not believe that!
After the spell, after everything..." she shook her head. "I decided to play
dirty, thinking what the hell, right? So I hit him with the lust spell, he
looks like he would do anything I want, and then all of a sudden, guess
what! No, ma'am, thank you!" She tutted loudly. "Talk about ego busters!
Ouch..." She sighed again. "So I figured that I had to do it the hard way.
Got the blood, had everything ready to go, but I could not, for the life of
me, figure out how in the world I was supposed to prepare him... Then I've
met you," she smiled brightly. "That was perfect," she nodded energetically.
"I wouldn't have to prepare him! You would do it for me! Pretty great, huh?"

   "After I wake up," Desmond said calmly. "I am going to kill you, you
realize that, right?"

   "No, you will not, Delvin..." She didn't even bother correcting herself
this time. "Because after you wake up, you are not going to remember a
single thing."

   Desmond gritted his teeth again.

   "Yes," she nodded, studying his expression through her eyelashes. "You
know that, don't you? Yes," she nodded again. "You do... Now, enough
chitchat! This is what I want you to do, Delvin... Listen carefully and pay
attention..."