Flameborn. Corinna Rogers

he comes long and hard down Shane’s throat.

      For a long time, Drake isn’t aware he’s breathing. The only sounds in the cabin are Shane’s breaths, ragged and labored and a little panicky towards the end, until he slaps Drake’s wrist. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”

      Shane pulls off with a gasp as soon as Drake removes his hand, wiping his streaming eyes with his thumbs, coughing a little. “Rude.”

      “You like it.”

      Shane punches him in the arm, not exactly gentle. “Still rude. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what’s in your beard.”

      Drake pulls the mirror down from above the passenger’s side window, scrutinizing his face closely.

      “Kidding.”

      Drake gives him a glare, noting the marked lack of blotchy redness in Shane’s face. He’s used to seeing Shane use magic for big things—he’d seen him re-grow an entire hand once, though that had been when his powers had been augmented by the Ice King—but the tiny casual displays are the ones that make him nervous. Of course, those are the things that Shane had concealed from him before, for exactly that reason. Flashy Mages don’t live as long, he’d said years ago, but seems to have dropped that concern.

      Drake shrugs off the uncomfortable thought, twisting to open the door with his left hand, right still firmly gripping the sword’s hilt. If it weren’t for the boost of endurance and power the sword lends him, he’d probably be feeling his fingers cramping by now.

      “How long are you gonna hold it?” Shane asks, mind obviously running along the same lines as they climb the stone steps.

      “Until I figure out how to get the damn thing out of me.”

      “That’s gonna be awkward if we want to go out to dinner.”

      “With what money?”

      Shane makes a face at that, but doesn’t argue. “Your fingers are gonna freeze that way. At least they’ll be stuck in a shape that’s easy to—“

      “Not in church, Shane.”

      That earns him an eyeroll as Shane tosses back his hair, letting it shimmer into blue-green waves, hanging just past his shoulders in the back, rippling with magic as it changes color. “Not that guy anymore, Drake. Quit forgetting.”

      It isn’t easy to forget when a little slip-up could mean losing everything he’s finally regained, but Drake tries to remember. He reaches for the door, but Shane is there first, eyes fixed on the high vaulted ceilings.

      The church is anything but ostentatious, for a big stone building. All mentions of saints, kings, and angels have been removed, leaving empty recesses in the stone where statuary used to reside. Only two pews remain, kept near the back for the disabled and anyone who can’t physically stand for more than an hour at a time. The windows aren’t made of the glass they look like, but crystalline, and reinforced with plexiglass. Drake isn’t entirely sure what denomination the building used to belong to, not that it matters much.

      Shane breathes in deeply through his nose, exhaling with a long sigh. “I can’t believe I hated this place,” he says, eyes half-lidded, fingers twitching. “The air in here is fantastic.”

      “Seriously? You used to say you couldn’t breathe in here.”

      Shane blinks. “Really? Huh. Must be… hmm.” He flicks his tongue out a couple times, rubs the pads of his fingertips together, and frowns. “Yeah, there’s magic in here. Like, not just in use, but in the air itself. You can feel it, right?”

      “The only kind of magic I can feel is when the sword wants me to kill it. Don’t forget I’m just an ordinary human.”

      “That’s an awful and untrue thing to say about yourself! You’ve seen wonders and horrors humans never have, you’ve fought false gods and kings and monsters.”

      “You think that makes me less human?”

      Shane gives him a thoughtful look, then deliberately shrugs. “I think it makes you more something else.”

      Drake shifts uncomfortably, looking around for any trace of Father Aaron or one of his junior priests, anyone that could put a stop to this conversation. Shane had never said things like that before his ordeal, before they’d been separated. “I’m just as human as I ever was. I just have a fancy sword and a magic boyfriend.”

      It sets off an old worry in him to hear Shane talking like that. He’d wondered a hundred times, before, if Shane would ever get sick of his pet human and find someone better, someone stronger, more powerful. It’s possible that just a human isn’t enough for Shane anymore, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s been.

      The Church only has one bell, a mournful, serious brass bell that Drake knows all too well. It rings now, one deep, penetrating note that always sets Drake’s teeth on edge. He looks around just in time to see a junior priest, Father Thomas, he thinks, scurrying for the door before it’s thrown open by Father Aaron.

      “Champion!”

      Father Aaron is a trim man in his forties, with a shock of thick black hair and a deep- bronze complexion. At least, Drake is fairly certain he’s in his forties, since he looks almost the same as he had ten years ago. He felt younger then, though, even though there are still no wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he doesn’t move any more slowly. His back is straight, perfectly so, and long-fingered hands lace together in front of the stark black of his robes. “We ring the bell in joyous celebration, that our Champion has returned.” Despite the severity of his demeanor, there’s a warmth in his dark eyes that Drake finds comforting.

      “I’ll just bet you do.”

      “Shane.”

      Father Aaron’s eyes flick over to Shane, and now lines do appear at the corners of his mouth. He wrestles with himself for a moment, obviously trying to decide whether to avoid conflict or seek it out, and then swallows hard around the impulse and just ignores him instead. “Have you been victorious in your battle, my Champion?”

      “He’s not your anything—“

      “I have, Father. We slew the Inferna before it could claim further lives.”

      Father Aaron finally turns fully away from Shane and frowns, eyes searching as he steps forward. He lays a hand on Drake’s head, though he has to reach significantly upwards to do it, and Drake pretends he can’t hear Shane grinding his teeth. “Why so much energy?” Father Aaron wonders aloud. “Why do you hold the sword even now? Surely you aren’t expecting an attack from those you keep safe.”

      “I was… injured, Father. This is the only thing that stopped the creature from consuming me whole.”

      Dismay spreads over the priest’s features, and the hand on Drake’s hair gets stronger, more possessive. “I have heard,” he says carefully, “that the partner you chose once more in life despite all wishes of the Church—“

      “Who is standing right here. Geez, you people wonder why no one wants to join you.“

      “—has some skill in healing.” Father Aaron’s voice is cool and humorless. “Is he unwilling to save your life?”

      “I, uh, don’t think he can.”

      “Ah, so he is merely incompetent rather than cruel. I am relieved to hear that he is at your side in these difficult battles.”

      Drake’s expression hardens. “I’m finding precious little of the Church’s blessed forgiveness in you, Father. You and yours want me to be your guardian against the night. That’s fine, but that doesn’t give you any right to govern my choices.”

      “No, sadly.” Father Aaron gives him a small, sad smile and withdraws his hand. “I just personally think you have abominable taste.”

      “Which I’m pretty sure is none of your concern,” Drake responds