Port in a Storm Read online

  Colin, though sheer determination, kept his flippant expression in place. David had seen him. David had noticed him.

  His head observed rationally that David Stanton, stalwart protector of small children, almost certainly disapproved of public tipsiness and heavy petting and firework displays of libertine passion. His heart, not being rational, wondered what David was thinking to prompt that blush. Good thoughts? Wistful ones? Shocked? Which stories had been going around at that coven meeting, exactly? "Whatever you heard was likely true. By the way, I was at the last gathering, too. You just didn't recognize me."

  "Cat form," David said, catching up. "Right. But what happened? There were rumors, there're always rumors, and people said they'd seen you, but no one ever knew for sure. Some people thought you just got tired of everyone using you and said fuck it and quit going out, and some people said you ran off with a billionaire Italian sorcerer, and some people even said you'd let someone use you up, bleed you dry, and you were dead, and I thought, no, that couldn't be right."

  "I rather like the billionaire Italian sorcerer one. Which one did you like?" He didn't know why he wanted to know so badly. But he did. He wanted to.

  Standing in David Stanton's living room, they gazed at each other. The moment extended, tremulous and newborn and poised amid all sorts of possibilities.

  And then Colin shivered. Again. Because his legs were naked and his skin was prickling from the storm and even the softness of David's shirt combined with the hardness of the wall was making his body wobble, processing through aftermath.

  "Oh, fuck," David gulped, grabbing a blanket, running over. In motion again. Instinctive. Running to help. "Are you all right? Come on, come here, sit down, I can—I don't know anything about what you need—would, like, tea or something be—or food—or sugar, I might have orange juice—"

  "I'm fine, it's only the reaction, everything's sort of magnified for a while—"

  "—and I keep it cold in here." David lunged for a pen. Scribbled. The fireplace bounced to roaring life. David shook out fingertips; sparks scattered and dissolved. A graphomancer at work: magical talent located in hands, linked with an artist's gift for bringing the world to life. "Better?"

  Colin stared at the pen, then back at David. Most of the magic-users he knew who worked through physical media—art, story-telling, baking—set up stores of ingredients beforehand, receptacles that'd stockpile magic and hold spells for future use so a witch wouldn't immediately need to deplete himself. He knew David had assorted ink pots with different charmed ingredients; he'd seen the labels.

  The current pen had a hotel logo on the side and was not magical, unless the owners of the Sunny Days Inn had hitherto unrevealed double lives as warlocks. "Was that regular ink? You used your own personal power? Not anything pre-infused?"

  "You're cold!"

  "Well, yes, but I could've waited two minutes!"

  "Maybe I couldn't!"

  They gazed at each other some more. David wore jeans and a vintage-style green-and-blue plaid shirt, ordinary and comfortable; he must like plaid and blue, Colin concluded. David looked like the definition of the word cuddly, which Colin knew for a fact to be true, having been on that lap earlier. Dark hair, tanned skin, sturdy frame, neat and respectably tidy. Those forest-in-autumn hazel eyes.

  And David blushed again, apparently embarrassed about either being looked at or his own melodramatic leap into protectiveness.

  They sat on the sofa together under the clamor of ceaseless rain, and started and stopped sentences at the same time, awkward; David laughed softly and glanced away, and Colin breathed out and tugged his blanket more closely around himself and opened with, "You first."

  "What did happen?" David asked, tone cautious as if comprehending potential minefields. "If you want to tell me." Not pushing. Colin could say no. The no would be accepted.

  "Short version, I got impressively drunk at a party, slept with the most wrong person in the history of ever, and woke up naked, sore, hungover, and wearing a warlock's collar." He waved a hand. Maybe they could move past this quickly. "So that's my last eight months. How was yours?"

  "You were wearing a collar." Trust David Stanton to jump right over the preamble and to the spot that hurt the most, a dull throb of cold fright even now. "Compulsion, binding-spells—are you in danger? Are you hurt?"

  "Thoroughly embarrassed, but that's not new." Colin had to look away from all that care. He ended up staring at David's rug, which was solid and fuzzy in chunky anemone-tendrils, just made for batting at with cat-paws. Not at David's face: too much compassion aimed squarely at him. "It could've been worse. I was a cat for most of it, he used me as a magic source, commanded me to be human when he wanted to fuck me, but he wasn't terrible in bed. And he fed me well, and otherwise he mostly left me alone, except for the power-drain. I'm okay."

  "Are you?"

  Colin opened his mouth to reply, to find words more sarcastic and flippant and glib—

  David watched him, concerned.

  "No," he said, very small, "I don't know," and then he put his face in his hands and breathed for a minute, not crying. David, after a heartbeat of indecisive hovering, picked up a second blanket from the back of the couch and held it out. Colin took it gratefully, curling up under sunny blue-and-white stripes. His hands had gone icy.

  Captivity could've been worse, he knew. He'd heard those horror stories. And he hadn't been lying; he hadn't been hurt, physically speaking; he'd been fed and cared for; he hadn't been abused as such. He'd even been allowed—with restrictions in place—to contact his mother.

  What he had been—

  He'd been ordered around, bidden by the compulsions laced into that collar. The warlock had mostly demanded that Colin pour his magic into more effective spells, and sometimes to make dinner because he was actually a decent cook when he bothered, and sometimes to be human again and stay naked and bend over, which hadn't been the worst thing, because the man did like to see him enjoy it too, and Colin under other more consensual circumstances rather appreciated being dominated and commanded and pinned down.

  Nevertheless: captivity. Not unbearable, at times even pleasurable, but not his choice.

  To be fair, his conscience circled back to remind him, the disaster had started with himself. Those aforementioned extremely poor decisions. Sometimes he also had the morals of a cat, at least in terms of thinking about pleasure and the immediate moment, getting blissfully intoxicated, being petted by a lot of euphoria-inducing hands, and falling into strangers' laps. In his defense, he hadn't expected one of those strangers to turn out to be a nasty power-hungry warlock with expertise in binding magical creatures. That wasn't normal.

  He'd spent a lot of the unoccupied moments of the past eight months in cat-form, by choice, sulking atop bookshelves and under chairs.

  "Want hot chocolate?" David said, once the silence stretched out to become unbearable.

  Colin said, because why the hell not, "Yes please."

  And then, as David got up, "I am still wondering. About all the guesses. Where I went. Which one did you believe?"

  David stopped. Made a face: a wry half-smile. "I don't know."

  "Oh."

  "I didn't know you. I didn't want to make assumptions. I remembered thinking, when I saw you, you didn't look happy. Even when you were being petted and fed fireflower drops by the warlock twins. You looked like you were gettin' off on it, yeah, but… that's not the same thing. And they had a ton of power that weekend, spells they shouldn't've been able to handle, and we all knew that was you, but if it was consensual, then it wasn't my business." David nibbled at his lower lip, let it go. "I wanted to think you ran off with an Italian sorcerer. I wanted to think that you wanted to go and he'd take care of you and make you smile."

  "But you didn't know."

  "No." David swallowed. "I didn't—my little brother's had some rough, um, not that you ever did serious drugs, or not that I know about, as if I'd know. But you had that look. Sort o
f. Not like you were an addict, but—I can't explain it. Not in good words. Like you could be petted and fucked and three sheets to the wind on dandelion wine all weekend, but you'd still be watching everybody, knowing they wanted your magic, thinking you were alone. I hoped you were okay. But I didn't know."

  Colin unearthed a nod because he had to respond in some fashion. Inside he was dizzy: unnerved by David's insight, rattled by David's ability to care for someone as yet unmet.

  "And you weren't okay," David summed up. "I should've looked for you."

  He bolted upright under the blankets. Shoved up one of his borrowed, too-long shirtsleeves. "What—why—I'm not your responsibility! You don't even know me!"

  "You were my cat for like ten minutes," David pointed out. "I feel responsible for you. Good cat owner."

  Colin narrowed eyes, realized that this was teasing—half-teasing, anyway—and went with, "I wasn't your cat then, and weren't you making us hot chocolate? Go. Feed me, witch."

  Entertained eyebrows shot up. "Oh, so that's how this is? Are all shapeshifters this bossy?"

  "Yes. We're rare and special and expect privileged treatment. No, actually, please don't, you don't have to." He caught David's sleeve. He did have cat-like reflexes. "That was a joke. Not a good one. You've already done so much, letting me stay here even this long. I can go, I swear, just give me a few minutes to get warm and level out."

  "Where would you go?" David eyeballed his own living room window. Rain lashed the pane with unbridled irritation. "I'm not ordering you to stay—I'm guessin' you've had enough of that—but I'd like it if you did. I don't like the thought of you going out in this. Level out?"

  "Oh, right. You wouldn't know. The…" He wiggled fingers in the air, unsure exactly what he might be demonstrating. "The moments right after a change can be overwhelming. Like trying to process two sets of signals, sensory input, for a while. One set gets weaker and fades out, but basically everything's on overload for, oh, maybe another twenty minutes." Underestimating, but he'd be up to running by then if he had to. "Stop looking at me like that. It's not not fun. Kind of, um… you know how after you sort of have really incredible sex? Right after, so everything's all extra-sensitive and tingly?"

  "Oh." David's eyes widened. "Oh."

  "Yes. That."

  "Now I'm really against you leaving." With an expression Colin legitimately couldn't decipher: concerned plus something more, but the something was being shoved hard down under the surface. "Do you need anything?"

  "No, I'm used to it, and you've been helping, the fire and the blankets—"

  "Hot chocolate!" David jumped in, interrupting. "Right, warm things, you could use—be right back—" and sprinted to the kitchen.

  Colin, left alone with two blankets and a cheerful magically-lit fire, blinked at the abruptly empty spot on the couch. Cupboards opened and closed in the other room. Mugs rattled. And his temporarily enhanced hearing picked up a muttered profanity or two. He stared at flames until his eyes watered.

  Of course David would be muttering profanity. David planned to rescue a kitten, and now had a runaway scandalous shapeshifter curled up under blankets on his sofa.

  Firelight cast shadows, leaping. His skin burned too hot and too cold, drowning in sensation. He wanted to cry and he wanted to sleep for a week and he wanted to get fucked by someone he wanted, someone he chose, so that he could feel release, so that he could feel relief, so that he could feel real.

  He looked at the window. Firegleam reflected through rain. He hugged David's blanket, the one knitted in the cheery striped pattern, to his chest. He let one naked leg dangle toward the floor.

  No sounds came from the kitchen. No indications. Hints of warming milk and cocoa powder—instant, he'd guess, based on current sensory data—but that wasn't helping him make a decision.

  He could go. He should go. He could go to his mother's house up in Seattle; he could travel in cat-form or stop by a bank in the morning. He wouldn't have any identification, but he could demonstrate the truth of his identity if asked; not like there was more than one of him. He had some money, not a lot because he'd never had a steady job amid the string of parties and kept-kitten weeks, but some. He should leave David alone.

  He should let David live this life: this simple life of magic and healing, of open hands and an open heart.

  Fire-heat spilled over his face like tears, when he shut his eyes.

  David came in and instantly shoved two mugs of instant hot cocoa—topped with whipped cream—onto the coffee table and demanded, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  Colin froze. Hand on the window-latch. "Checking on your storm-proofing?"

  "Sit." David pointed meaningfully at the couch. "Down."

  Colin came back and sat down, mostly because he was abruptly too tired to argue. Lead inside his bones, weighing down each step. David was giving him orders. David was angry with him. David would make a demand, now: trade for shelter. Okay, he thought. Let this be what happens. Payment for pastrami and a borrowed shirt.

  "Shit." David sat down beside him, not quite touching but close enough if that might be wanted. Held out both hands: not a command. "I didn't mean that. You scared me, is all. I'm sorry."

  Colin looked at the hands. Looked at the apprehensive expression. Tentatively set fingers into David's. David immediately started trying to rub warmth into them. "I'm really sorry. You don't have to listen to me, I'm not giving you orders, I'm not gonna keep you here if you want to go. I just—you said you were feeling—and it's pouring cats and dogs—shit, sorry again—out there and I don't want you to get hurt. I just made hot chocolate, come on, the least you can do is drink one of them with me."

  The hot chocolate wafted sugary steam upward, beckoning.

  "Well," Colin said to it, letting David hold his hands, feeling icicles start to thaw under his skin, "I suppose that would be good manners. Since you did go to the trouble of making it."

  "Right, and you don't want to hurt its feelings."

  "We couldn't have that. Such tragedy." Solid ground, perhaps. Uneven terrain, unfamiliar, but not giving way under his feet. "I don't want you to get hurt either. That was why. I didn't mean to scare you."

  "Yeah, I figured." David released one of his hands to grab a mug. Handed it over, picked up the second one on his own behalf. "Feeling any better? Or not better, exactly, not from what you said, but y'know."

  "Less like I'm going to have a spontaneous orgasm on your couch?"

  David narrowly avoided choking on a sip of cocoa. Coughed. Managed to look impressed while coughing.

  Colin smirked. Regaining balance on that unfamiliar ground. And David had called him a brat, earlier. "And yes. Better. Give me another five minutes or so and it'll even out. What do you mean, you kind of figured? You don't know me."

  "You're a good person. Hey, can I ask you something? Might be personal."

  Colin raised eyebrows at him over whipped cream. They'd been decidedly personal already. Spontaneous orgasm jokes and all. Therefore: "No."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "Of course you can. I'm in your house, wearing your clothes, drinking your hot chocolate—I do love whipped cream, thank you for that—and you can ask me anything. I don't have to answer."

  "Someday," David grumbled, "I'm gonna figure out what you think passes for a sense of humor—"

  "See if I ever cure your headaches again." Someday? As in more days? As in David wanting to see him more?

  "No more chin-scratches for you. You seem like a whipped cream sort of person. Why a kitten? I'd've guessed six months, maybe seven or eight, but you're around my age? A little younger? Human you."

  "You had to ask that one."

  "Is that like a shapeshifter taboo thing? You don't have to tell me if it is." David made a face at himself, drank more cocoa, got whipped cream in his beard. "I was just wondering."

  "No, it's fair. Honestly, though, I don't have a good answer." No one'd ever managed a proper long-term study of therian
thropes of any species; too rare, too small a sample size, never terribly fertile in any form. Academics kept trying, but the subject remained fraught with difficulty. "At this point I think it's stuck that way. When I was little I was an actual kitten, ball of fluff, wobbly legs, the whole precious deal."

  "I bet you were adorable."

  "I still am, thank you. And so—"

  "True," David agreed. "You are."

  "Thanks. So that form aged along with me for a while, and then it stopped. Sometimes that happens; you never know what your final shape's going to be. My mother's a full-grown cat, but she's tiny. My father was—don't look sad, I never knew him, he died when I was two, some sorcerers' duel—"

  David closed his mouth, though his eyes said quite a lot about the kind of person who'd fight an illegal magical duel to the death when he had a family at home.

  "—anyway, he was the fluffiest cat you've ever seen, long-haired and bulky all over, and obviously I'm not. My mother thinks it has something to do with the way you feel mentally—childlike, mature, playful, fat and lazy, you get the idea—and that bleeds into the morphology, but that's a guess."

  "So, kitten."

  "Potentially somewhat older after this. We'll see if it's true. I'm twenty-six, by the way. Human me."

  "Thirty-one. So you are younger than I am. Kitten."

  "Barely!"

  "After this, you said." David took a sip of hot chocolate, settled down and sprawled out next to him on the sofa, secure and steady against the lashing angry backdrop of the storm. "Can I ask how you escaped? I know how hard compulsions and bindings are to break."

  "Should I remind you what got me into that whole disaster? He does like to party."

  David got it after a second. "Oh, right, and binding spells on actual magical creatures—not that you're a creature, fuck, sorry—"

  "Don't worry about it."

  "—he would've had to renew yours every, what, four weeks?"

  "Three, please," Colin retorted, mildly affronted, "I was trying to get away, you know. Anyway, so finally one of those nights of debauchery coincided with a night he should've remembered, and he didn't, and this would also be why—"