Fool's Oath: Fool's Odyssey, #2

By Chris Quinton

Being a newly-fledged vampire isn't easy. A rush of over-confidence on Xavi's part and his friend dies bloodily. Xavi is forced to face the reality of his new nature and the depth of his relationship with Andreas. And then there's the gold hidden in the walled-up crypt of the church…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kouros Books
• Release date: Jan 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224282975

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

Dedication

To the Usual Suspects - thank you for your support, nags, kicks in the arse,

copious amounts of tea, beer, wine, and encouragement.

You make writing even more of a pleasure.

Chapter One

Dateline - August 2042

144 Las Bolas Street, Barcelona

Xavi toweled himself dry and strolled into the bedroom. A glance at the clock on the night-table told him it was late in the morning. He’d slept solidly for nearly twenty-four hours and now he felt good. Energy fizzed in his blood, tingled on his skin, and everything around him was sharp and crystal clear. The doctors’ initial prognosis of a couple of days or a week of discomfort had turned out to be a hell of a lot more but finally, for the first time in what seemed forever, Xavi knew himself to be back to his usual form, one hundred percent back.

In retrospect the finer details of last two months were hazy, caught in a miasma of soaring fevers, delirium, and muscle spasms that felt as if his body was trying to tear itself apart. He had a vague recollection of being questioned by the investigating judge and giving evidence at a hearing, but there was another, more important point of reference that stood out.

Andreas. He had been a constant, both in the Hematological Alteration Research Center at the Santa Maria Hospital, and lately in this small split-level house that climbed a steep hillside not far from the hospital. Andreas had kept the nightmares at bay. Andreas had soothed and massaged his knotted muscles. Andreas’s strength had held him safe through the physical and mental torture that wracked him as the mutation worked its way through his body. Andreas seemed to have been on a period of extended leave, because Xavi could not recall a time when he’d been alone in the house.

But he did remember something of those days and nights when the seizures had left him shaking with exhaustion. All he’d wanted was the silent comfort of being held, and it was given unstintingly. Something warm unfurled in him, something he did not have a name for as yet, but whatever it was, it unsettled him and he did not want to examine it too closely. Instead he opened the wardrobe door and studied himself in the full-length mirror on the back of it.

He’d lost some weight, he noted. Not that he’d had much to spare in the first place. And his muscle-tone needed attention. He’d always kept himself pretty fit. His body was, after all, his stock in trade, so he’d be back to the gym as soon as he could make it. He was also paler than he liked, and Xavi scowled at his reflection. He’d already decided he’d have to start working on his tan as well. No way was he going to end up lily-white. It wasn’t profitable.

But all in all he was in good shape, considering, and while that pallor was the only potentially long-term negative aspect as far as Xavi was concerned, it should be easily—if uncomfortably—remedied. A couple of days ago, an amused Doctor Cortes had finally admitted that, yes, there was a possibility he could regain and maintain his previous tan, but it would take some unpleasant sessions under a sun-lamp to do it. Xavi was prepared to suffer some pain if he got his color back and kept it.

His eyes, too, had lightened from hazel to gold-flecked topaz.

Then there were his teeth. He’d half-expected to sprout fangs overnight, but it hadn’t happened. The growth of the sharp incisors and extended canines had taken the same two months to adapt as the rest of his body, adding the misery of aching jaws and bleeding gums as new teeth formed and grew, pushing out his original ones. He ran his tongue-tip over smooth enamel, testing the keenness of the cutting edge. His frown became a grin.

Xavier Peres Escudero was a vampire.

Still grinning, Xavi stretched his arms above his head, watching the easy flow of his muscles. Gold moved at his throat: a simple curb chain, unadorned. Xavi had worn fancier, far more expensive jewelry, yet this one chain implied far more than anything he’d ever had.

So did this place. Not a safe house supplied by the Police Department, but a fully furnished rental that Andreas had found in the hilly outskirts of the city. It also had the added bonus of being within easy reach of the vampire-experts at Santa Maria. Xavi had explored it properly for the first time yesterday morning, before going back to bed for the rest of the day and night. The street door opened straight into the large kitchen, and off to the side was a sheltered patio between it and the next house. On the floor above was the living room and their bedroom, and both had wide glass doors onto a terrace that gave views over Barcelona and the countryside. It had been constructed partly on the hillside to take advantage of a couple of scrawny shade-trees, and partly over the kitchen roof. On the next level up was a second bedroom with a deep balcony. All told it was a neat white-painted clambering kind of house capped by terracotta roof-tiles, a house that Xavi was beginning to associate with settled comfort.

But nothing lasts forever.

Memory came to underline the thought. The previous day, the phone had rung shrill in the living room. In the bedroom Xavi had woken from a drowse and turned over. He’d made a good guess at who it was. Those calls had been coming in pretty regularly over the last few weeks. He’d listened, and didn’t have to strain his ears to catch Andreas’s quiet voice.

Hello, Gordon, Xavi had heard, and he’d sworn resignedly. He’d guessed the slant of the conversation as well—the insistent semi-official questioning as to when Andreas was going back. Andreas Rousakis was a cop who had been trained by the FBI and had been loaned to the National Security Agency in America. Andreas had come to Spain and settled in Barcelona, the Warden Detective of Renaissance, the commune not far from the city. But Xavi was certain that sooner or later Andreas would obey and return to the bleak oppressiveness of the current regime in the USA. And he, Xavi, would be on his own again. Or would he?

You’ve already said that, Andreas had continued after a pause. He was talking in English, a language Xavi understood better than he could speak it. Gordon, I have commitments here. The Matas murder and trial— There was another break. Yes, the Barcelona-Renaissance liaison is set up and working well, but— Then, clearly doing some interrupting of his own: Gordon. You are not listening. I have commitments I am not willing to relinquish. Pause. I see. Then I’m left with only one option. As soon as the letter arrives, I’ll contact you.

That had sounded ominous enough to Xavi at the time. Now, twenty-four hours on, it still did. Letters carried an official authority that boded ill, and he couldn’t see how Andreas could avoid the recall. As if to underscore the threat, the phone rang again and Xavi did not doubt it was a long-distance call. But not, he quickly realized, from the unknown Gordon.

Yes, Andreas was saying. I will wait on your letter. Short and to the point, and he put the receiver down.

Xavi pulled on a robe and drifted to the door, pushed it open and lounged against the frame. For the first time in a long while, he studied his vampire. Andreas was staring at the phone as if the weight of his gaze was enough to crush it, but the ivory-pale face was expressionless. It usually was. Gone were the tousled curls and casual clothes of their witness-protection days. Now the vampire’s black hair was once more combed straight back and gelled into place, and his lean, powerful frame was hidden under one of his God-awful old-fashioned one-size-too-big-but-smart suits.

In his mind, Xavi removed that suit and the shirt beneath it, and recalled the marble perfection of Andreas’s body—and realized with a shock that the last time they’d had sex had been before the shoot-out at Las Palomas. The shoot-out where Andreas had been hit by a shotgun blast and Xavi had collected a bullet-wound and he’d deliberately infected himself with the vampire mutation-thing in Andreas’s blood because he wanted—needed—the man in his life and he didn’t want to be old and vulnerable—

But nothing lasts forever, and his weeks of illness had surely blown any chance he had of keeping this enigmatic meal-ticket protector around, no matter the care Andreas had shown him. So if Xavi really wanted to hang onto him for as long as possible, he would have to claw back all the lost ground he could before it was too late.

Trouble? he asked.

No, Andreas said, and Xavi shrugged. Define trouble...

Same old song from the USA? he said instead.

Yes. The Area Controller is sending an official recall. It was impossible to read anything from the vampire’s voice, face or body language.

Oh. He’d just run out of time. A small, bitter part of Xavi had known this would happen right from the word go, so it didn’t come as any great surprise. But he had hoped it would have been later rather than sooner. When do you leave? he asked casually. Andreas wasn’t the only one who could play at Stone Face, and he refused to acknowledge the pain in his chest.

As soon as I receive the letter. But I will return.

Yeah, sure. Xavi kept his voice light with an effort.

It will take me a few days to make the necessary arrangements, Andreas went on. A week at the most. I’ll be back before the next hearing for certain. I’ll inform Inspector Gavarró, and he’ll make sure the area police send a patrol past the house every so often while I’m gone.

Good, Xavi said. He’d forgotten he was still a witness. Even though his part in the legal proceedings was largely over, he remained at least nominally under police protection. That was probably why Andreas had become a permanent fixture at the house—he was merely baby-sitting. I stay here, then?

For the first time, Andreas looked up and met his eyes. Yes. Of course. Where else would you stay?

Xavi shrugged. Don’t know. In Renaissance, maybe, with the rest of the vamps. Or whichever safe house they decide to stick me in.

Andreas’s spine became rigid. This is your home, he said, voice cold and controlled.

Great. Fine, Xavi said, a vicious bite in his voice before he could check it. But I don’t have a cent. So what about the rent? Or is Gavarró paying that?

The rent is paid.

And what do I live on? He glared at his lover, snidely amused to note that Andreas was almost frivolously dressed in a white shirt and red tie under his dark jacket. And he wasn’t even going to work. Hadn’t been at work since the shootout, from what Xavi could remember, but every day it was the same style of dress, regardless. Oh, yeah, I’m forgetting. I don’t eat food anymore. Just drink that stinking crap—

Xavi. There was a warning in the even tones. I will be back.

Sure you will, he muttered. Fuck it, this was no way to keep hold of the man! He was acting like a dumped lover, for fuck’s sake, and the whole idea was to make sure that didn’t happen—or at least, if anyone was dumping anyone, that it would be him doing the dumping. Which was another thing that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He knew a good deal when he had it. So since Andreas had not said word one about Xavi accompanying him on any foreign travel, he would have to persuade Andreas to take him to America. Which meant keeping him sweet. Hey, why don’t we go out tonight? Take in the Ramblas and some bars? That isn’t going to be so much of a risk, is it? Most of the crooks I helped you get are in jail, and I’m a lot harder to kill now.

You’re feeling better, then? Andreas asked cautiously and Xavi laughed, pushing away from the door-frame and strolling towards him.

I feel great, he drawled. No cramps, no aches, no fever, and more importantly, no tiredness.

Andreas smiled and it lit up his features, bringing life and animation to transform the blank mask. I’m glad, he said simply.

Xavi’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he could only nod. So, the Ramblas? he managed after a brief pause. Not that he wanted to go. He’d sooner persuade Andreas out of his clothes so he could rediscover the incredible sexuality of the man. And get himself fucked out of his skull. Definitely that. God, yes. He’d relished the gentle care when he was sick, but he wasn’t anymore and right now he wanted to be on the receiving end of hot and hard sex.

Andreas didn’t answer him directly. You’ve forgotten, I think, he said calmly, "what I told you when