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The fog was so thick Mark could only vaguely see the ground ahead of him with the flashlight. He carried a loaded shotgun, the pistol within easy reach in his holster. He had found a trail of the lion's tracks, but they looked old, weathered, nothing recent. She could have traveled miles by now, could be hunting on the other side of the mountain.
Three times he had stopped suddenly at the brink of sharp cliffs, looked down into the mist of gray clouds and had gulped at the peril. He was measuring every step now, being very careful not to step forward before he could clearly see the ground ahead of him. He came to a fallen tree along his path and shined the light ahead. It was a downslope, he could not see the bottom. He took the chance, heaved himself over the trunk and promptly found himself sliding downhill along the cold, muddy trail. “Shi-i-i-i-it!” he called, and the single word was stretched along the way. Desperately, he grabbed out for a tree limb, a bush, a weed, anything, but caught nothing. He lost first the flashlight, then the shotgun in his descent, began to roll and tumble. There was still no bottom, still nothing that could save him if this long slide ended in the top of another cliff that sent him hurtling hundreds of feet through the open air to a crashing death on rocks below. Straight into the bowels of his own hell.
He was able to roll on his stomach, moving feet first downhill now, dug with his fingertips and the tips of his boots into the muddy earth, shouting out for more strength to save himself, and abruptly, he stopped. His body had struck something, and just as he began to wonder, he was sick at his stomach. He had an incredible urge to curl up and whimper like a hurt puppy.
He had straddled a small tree. His balls had suffered the worst of the impact. Mark tried to ignore the pain, backed himself up off the tree, caught hold of it with his hands, held on with a wrath as he leaned over its edge to vomit.
It was a long time before he moved again, and when he did, it was still very painful. He could see a trail that went off to the side, too close to the sharp edge of the cliff, and realized he would have plummeted into hell from there had it not been for the tree. He blessed the tree and he cursed the tree, then he drew himself away from it and climbed across it to the trail. He had lost the shotgun and the flashlight.
He was forced to keep to the rocks and trees that lined the trail, for on the other side was the drop-off into hell. He hung on, his adrenaline rushing, for what seemed like miles before he found another, safer trail through the woods. Just as he had ascertained how very lost he was, he discovered fresh lion tracks in the mud.
Mark looked warily around him, not making a sound. If the lion was here, watching him, sensing him, she had the upper hand. He could not feel her presence. He had no idea where she was. He found himself short of breath, turning round and round, his eyes searching every tree, every clump of weeds, every rock.
The fog was not as thick in the woods, but visibility was still low. He relied as much on his other human senses as he did on vision, hoping to hear something or smell something that would give him a clue to the lion's location. The woods were so quiet that when he swallowed, the sound echoed through the trees. He winced to himself and took a light-footed step farther along the path.
Then he heard the growl. It was a low growl, deep and deadly, too close for comfort. Mark's heart was pounding, making too much noise, his throat was dry. He did not know from which direction the sound had come, did not know which way to run to get back to the cottage. He took out the pistol, held it in both hands, turning round again, looking for the tawny target, but she was not in sight.
He stood waiting, listening, hearing nothing. Maybe he had imagined the growl. But he did not think so. Penelope was there, he was fairly certain, somewhere to his right. As he turned his head, a movement caught his eye and he whirled, aiming the gun. He searched, with his eyes, with the gun’s barrel, with his every sense. There was nothing. Trees, mud, rocks, brown weeds, dead brush.
Another growl touched his ears, a growl that made all the hair on his back stand on end. He whirled again, the gun ready, still sighting no target. His heart raced faster with every trembling breath. He was exhausted of the fear. It was making him angry. He waited, listened.
Then, very subtly, a brown motion in the distance got his attention. He stared, aiming the gun, expected it to come closer. Again, she became part of the earth, laid flat on the ground, dead still, teasing him, taunting him.
He put both his hands to his sides, gun still in hand, looked straight at the lion that was invisible to him and shouted angrily, “You think you're good, don't you, you conceited bitch! You think you *own* this mountain, that it's your little playground, that you can do whatever your sadistic little heart desires up here, but I have news for you! I don’t love you any more! The game is over and you lose.”
He turned and ran headlong into the trees, no longer being careful of the drop-offs into hell. The path forked and he sprinted upward, shoving the pistol back into the holster. He saw a break in the ground ahead of him, fifteen feet separating the two cliffs as if the earth had split apart. He ran toward it at full speed. He had spotted the vine, a vine that seemed to hang from the heavens, from the glorious branches of the huge maple set in that particular spot by God’s own hand just for this unique moment, prayed it was strong, grasped it firmly as he ran. With vine in hand, he leaped from the cliff, swung precariously out over the bottomless ravine.
He could not swallow. His throat stuck together as he glanced down into the clouds below him. He swung in a wide arc, felt the thrill of the terror, felt the tightening in his chest that made his limbs weak and rubbery, that made his fingers slip from their hold, then, the vine snapped.
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Mark closed his eyes, fully expecting the long flight down, but the immediate thud and the jar to his chin gave him to know he had landed safely on the other side of the ravine. He laid still a few seconds to restore his respiration before he raised his head to see what his options were from this point. To his left was an incline baring jagged rocks in an uneven column from bottom to top. They were moss-covered, likely very slippery, but it was the only reliable way up.
He jumped for the first rock, tore the flesh of his wrist, strained, gritted his teeth and hauled himself upon it, his boots sliding on the moss. His heels made long skid marks in the brownish-green clustering vegetation as he pivoted to sit firmly on top of the rock. He looked to see how high he would have to jump to reach the next one. It was in stepping distance.
From one to the other he went, thanking God for placing the rocks each where they were. He was halfway up when a movement caught his eye and he chanced a glimpse down at the ravine. The lion was loping, gracefully stretched herself to cover the gap, landed easily on his side, and peered up the incline at him. She studied the rocks, sizing up the situation, then drew herself back in a very catlike way, readying herself to jump to that first rock.
Mark knew better than to hasten the climb. He reached for the next rock but his fingers slipped on its barbed edge. His cheek took a blow from another jutted section. Rowing with his arms, he found a protruding growth of shale and snagged it, lifted himself onto it like a gymnast. Ignoring the blood that streamed from his wrist and from somewhere on his face, he reached for the next rock without looking down at Penelope.
His perseverance was rewarded after the long, painstaking climb. Shoving himself off the last rock, he rolled onto solid ground, saw a narrow stream ahead of him, and beyond that, he could see, still enveloped in the fog, the cottage. Smoke billowed from the crooked chimney, and blended into the fog, made it a darker hue of gray. There it was! So close!
He dared to look behind him and saw the lion on the third rock, saw her slip, her sharp claws cutting deep into the soft shale as she fell all the way back to the ground. Infuriated, she made a frantic leap and began her climb again.
Mark ran. He reached the stream, waded across, hoping there were no deep holes beneath the water, breathed relief when he crawled out on the other side. He no longer felt the cold.
An earsplitting roar sent him hurrying across the brown and white clearing toward the cottage. He ran, pumping his arms and legs until they burned, kept going, felt the constriction in his chest. He wanted to scream a warning to Nick as he approached, but could not utter a sound. The lion was closing in on him, he knew it, could not take the time to turn and look, simply knew it. He kept running.
Nick came out on the porch, gun in hand. He had sensed the danger. Along with the power to heal, he had inadvertently given Nick part of his other gift.
Mark found himself in a dream-state as he ran faster, dreaming of things long ago, of the girl he had once loved, of friends he would probably never see again. He thought of the kisses he had shared with Derek, then Nick, of their faces, their smiles.
He heard Nick's gun fire twice before he was slammed bodily to the ground, the tremendous weight of the lion on his back, crushing his face into small rocks that littered the grassy surface. He felt long, razored claws piercing deep into his flesh. He was helpless to fight against it. On his face, mortally wounded, he was beaten. But there was one last thing he could do.
His fingers found the pistol in his holster and dragged it from beneath him, switched it around backward, the thumb on the trigger, the barrel pointing directly behind him and he fired into Penelope’s face as many times as he could before the angel of death descended upon him.
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Nick brought Derek out the door, spoke soothing words in his ear as they approached the two bleeding forms on the ground. Nick had spent all the shells in the first clip, had dropped it out and had thrust in the second, shot until it, too was empty. Penelope was still jerking spasmodically. Mark was not moving.
Letting Derek go, Nick rolled the lion away from Mark, then, after confirming she was dead, he knelt beside Mark, turned him on his back. He closed his eyes in regret. “Here, Derek.” Nick took him by the arm and leaned to the dead animal, a long, sharp knife in hand. As the knife’s point touched the cream-colored throat and bore downward, the lion awoke. A huge paw came round with sufficient force to propel him backward, to knock the knife from his hands. Four slices in his upper leg seeped dark red through the trousers. He was undaunted, picked up the knife again and impaled the animal’s trachea, then, blinded by the spray of blood in his eyes, he sliced through muscle and bone to the firm underbelly. His strong hands took hold of the separated flesh and tore it, broke large ribs in his quest to find the heart. Only seconds later, it was revealed.
Wide-eyed with amazement and fear, Derek reached into the lion’s opened body and tore the heart from the chest cavity. With a shiver of anticipation, he brought the warm, bleeding organ to his lips and took a huge bite, then another one.
Penelope’s body jerked again, one last time, and she laid still. Nick lowered Derek to the ground a few feet away, and hurried to Mark. “Save him, Nick.” Derek implored. “He let the lion chase him and kill him for me. Mark...”
Nick laid his hands on Mark’s chest, took a deep breath, allowed the peace and power to enter his being. His countenance was calm. In all his life, he had never felt such enhanced serenity. His faith was unerring. “Mark,” he said in a soft command. “Open your eyes.”
Mark's eyes popped open, the shock was obvious. He coughed, groaned and turned his head to look at Penelope. Then, he covered his face with both his hands and wept with a broken heart.
Derek crawled to his side, leaned to comfort him. On either side of him, they waited, gave him time.
Finally, Mark sat up, looked down at himself, at the wounds that had caused his death, at the shredded clothing, at the dark red stain that covered the ground. He looked at Derek, then at Nick, then again at Penelope. “So. It’s done.” he said. “She’s gone forever. She’s finally at peace.”
“Yeah.” Nick assured him. “She’s at peace.”
Mark sighed. “How do you feel, Derek?”
“I’m feeling an improvement already.” Derek struggled to his feet and rested his forehead against Mark’s temple. He watched the gashes on Mark’s body steadily heal until there remained not a sign that he had been attacked. “You didn't have to do what you did, Mark.”
“What are you talking about? What would you have done in my place? Tell me it would have been different.”
“Well, maybe not. I’m glad you gave Nick the power to heal.”
“So am I.” Nick said. The wounds the lion had inflicted in his thigh were quickly healing at his own magic touch. “Yeah. Me, too.” Mark said sadly.
Derek kissed his cheek. “That was very brave of you.” he said gratefully.
“It was something I won't forget if I live a thousand years.”
“And you just might.”
“Yeah.” Mark agreed. “I just might.”
“Let's go inside and get warm. It's still very cold out here.” Nick said.,p> Walking between them, an arm around each of them, he went back into the cottage.
_____________________________________________________
*SLASH ALERT!*
Derek was able to walk without support, was steadily improving. Overnight, Mark’s healing had completed.
Nick had been up an hour before either of his two companions woke the following morning. He had built a fire, had sat meditating for a time, pondering the meaning of life. He realized that he had given priority to far too many insignificant things. Mark had been right. Life was too short to waste. The important things must be attended to first. At the very top of that list of valuable essentials, in bold caps-- was Derek.
His thoughts kept him occupied until Mark and Derek were up. Then, conversation was sad and quiet until after breakfast.
Finally, Mark went to say his final goodbye to Penelope. It would not be necessary to bury her. The mountain would be her shrine.
From the doorway, Derek glanced at Nick, who was standing on the porch. “Nick, are you all right?”
Nick nodded, a little uncertainly. “I’m fine.” He reached out a hand and touched Derek’s cheek, trailed his fingertips from temple to jaw. “This is real, isn’t it? What I feel? What I think *you* feel? This is the real thing...not just a fantasy?”
Derek swallowed hard, closed his eyes and turned his cheek into the palm. “You know how much I love you, Nick. You can read minds, now, remember?”
Nick took a step forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “I love you, Derek.” he murmured. He repeated the kiss, twined his arms around the older man’s waist, opened his mouth and kissed him deeper.
As he backed away, Derek chased the kiss, captured his lips again.
“You’re so incredibly sexy.” Nick said, gazing at him in awe.
“What do you want from me, Nick?” Derek asked, his hands on his arms.
Slowly, Nick caressed his shoulder, his chest, his ribs. “What are you willing to give me?”
“Anything you want. Anything in my power to give you. Just tell me what you need from me. You can have anything. What do you want from me?”
Nick kissed him again, gently, lovingly. “I want your heart.” he said.
“It’s yours.” said Derek. “And with it comes the rest of me.” The next kisses were in a state of utter oblivion, long minutes were gone that they could not account for. Mark’s voice brought awareness back to them and they parted to look around with glassy, impassioned eyes.
Mark was smiling. “I see you finally caught on.” he said.
Nick looked ready to bolt. “It’s not what you....”
“Don’t even try, Nick. It couldn’t be anything else. You’re in love with him. Stop trying to deny it. He loves you just as much.”
Derek caught Nick by the arms. “Nick, please. Come inside with me.”
“Go inside with him.” Mark urged. “He needs you.”
Nick nodded nervously and followed Derek inside the cottage. Mark remained outside, pulled the door shut with a private smile.
Derek undressed and crawled into the covers as he watched Nick remove his clothing. The brown eyes had lost their tired gaze, were now alert and full of ardent anticipation as each item of clothing fell.
As Nick unveiled his impressive erection, he was amused at Derek’s fascination with it. “You’ve never seen a guy with a hard-on before?” he asked as he snuggled in beside him. The tip of his erection rubbed against Derek’s thigh.
“Not for a while.” Derek answered. “I don’t remember ever seeing one, except my own, that I was this interested in.”
Nick chuckled. “Then why don’t you have one?” he asked, his hand cupping Derek’s soft organ. His fingers curled beneath the sac, bunched it up and gently kneaded the flesh. The balls had escaped into the body. Slowly, manipulating him, he managed to push them down into the sac. He gently rubbed them, first one, then the other.
“I don’t know.” Derek had whispered. “The lingering side-effects from the attack, I suppose.”
The organ was still limp. Nick kissed him, rolled on top of him and slowly, very tenderly kissed his way down the body beneath him. His fingers continued to roll the testes around carefully, and as his lips slid down the flat stomach to kiss his penis, he felt Derek gasp. There was a reflex action and the organ swelled slightly. Knowingly, Nick took it in his mouth and ran his tongue around the head.
He was not hard, not yet. Nick knew of one other trick, something he had heard in barroom conversations. If he stimulated the prostate gland, the erection might develop faster. Very gently, he slid his index finger to the anus, circled the ring at the edge for a few seconds before, with the greatest of care, he probed in. He moved slowly, no pressure, sliding the finger in and out a few times before his hand was flush against his bottom.
Derek was breathing hard. His whole body was responding. Nick located the prostate and ran compressed circles on it with his fingertip, which sent Derek into tremors. He was pleased at the reaction. By degrees, Derek was growing harder and harder. “Yeah, you’re getting there.” he said, taking him more deeply into his mouth.
Nick had never given a man a blow-job before, had never had the inclination, but Derek had made him feel differently. The taste wasn’t bad as long as it was Derek he was tasting, as long as it gave him pleasure.
Five minutes later, Derek cried out, came with a phenomenal force into Nick’s mouth. Nick swallowed the spurts as they hit the back of his throat, sucked him dry. Finally, when he had gone limp again, he raised up and smiled at him, wiping his mouth. Carefully, he removed his finger from Derek’s rectum. “Was that okay?”
“It was wonderful.” Derek answered, reaching for him. “Let me do this for you, too. I want to make you come like that.”
Nick smiled. His thoughts exactly.
End
Author’s note: A romantic adventure will soon develop for Mark and another wonderful character. Derek and Nick have kissed him goodbye and returned to Angel Island.
I apologize for the lack of decent slash in this story and promise more in the next. My thanks to Sherri Smith for being my help and my inspiration and to Reets for her time and patience.
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