Page 30 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

Without acquiescing to Christian’s desperate appeal to provide a strolling experience rather than atowingone, the god looked back and stared blankly at the flustered young man. They were nearly at one of his preferred feeding places, far from theluxury condo at Bloor-Yorkville, where he currently resided. Corey preferred his privacy and solitude and never brought guests ordinnerhome.

Christian’s unease grew with each passing moment as they accelerated exponentially. Nothing about the situation made sense.

“Corey, where are you taking me? Why are you looking at me like that? It’s freaking me out. How can you run so fast? You can’t possibly see where you’re going! Please, slow down!”

As the god continued to increase his speed, Christian’s legs eventually came away from the ground, unable to keep up with the inhuman pace. He was practically flying, attached to Corey by nothing more than an increasingly vice-like grip.

“So many questions,” Corey smirked, and he pulled the panic-stricken mortal into a snug bear hug; it did not take enhanced senses to tell the fearful, inexperienced young man needed succor and reassurance. The embrace was affectionate and soothing, even erotic, as the god, while still running, stroked Christian’s face and then moved downward towards his bubble butt, cupping it firmly.

Corey knew the myriad of sensations swirling inside the mortal—fear, desire, panic, lust—all heated the blood, sweetening the flavour of the Ambrosia. A delicacy soon to be tasted.

With the scent of lake water in the air, Corey knew he was nearly at the tucked-away alley on the Harbourfront that no one ever seemed to frequent but him. Most people did not even know it existed; it was narrow and shrouded in darkness, nestled between two mid-sized, chunky, red-brick buildings. And it was usuallysurprisingly clean, but unlike some ancient fuss-buckets, this god never minded getting a little dirty now and then.

In this quiet place, the god had taken many prey and drank deep from the well of human life. Then, when satiated, he abandoned them, allowing the men to return to the light; he rarely thought of those mortals again.

“Look up, handsome, because we’re—”

And then, like a sucker punch to the gut, a very familiar smell filled Corey’s nostrils, catching the god completely unaware and overwriting all other scents in the immediate area; this caused him to arrest all movement instantly. Christian remained snuggled in his arms, breathing heavily, highly disoriented but unharmed.

The overwhelming fragrance was not Lake Ontario water, street garbage or the pungent aroma of cooked mystery meat mixed with mustard and relish from a hot dog vendor. It was a manly musk: spicy yet sweet, fresh yet—ancient.

It can’t be. He wouldn’t dare—!

And then, the aroma evaporated into nothingness as quickly as it had come upon the god.

Corey reached out with all his preternatural senses, attempting to locate the figure who belonged to that scent. Still, he saw nothing, heard nothing and smelled nothing—at least, not anymore. Not a whiff remained to give credence to his suspicion that another immortal, a very particular one, was near.

Corey then searched psychically, reaching outward into the city with invisible tendrils of mental energy, attempting to locate themind that belonged to the individual who secreted that familiar and infuriatingly delicious scent. His power stretched from the lakeshore to Toronto Island and as far as Scarborough, though he knew that was likely overkill.

And his efforts came to zero; he sensed nothing out of the ordinary. The aroma had indeed vanished like it was never there at all.

And Corey began to think that perhaps that was true.

You’re losing it, foolish god. You’ve been on my mind much of late, Olympius, even influencing my choice of prey tonight. Here in my arms, a mortal who bears but a flicker of your exquisite beauty, but still enough to bewitch me and confuse my intentions. My mind’s playing tricks on me. My torment at wanting you but hating you is fucking with my senses. Something close to your scent, probably manufactured, triggered me. No, you aren’t here, my love, my tormentor. And that’s how it must be.

“Forgive me, Christian,” Corey said gently to his freaked-out date, still enveloped in his unbreakable embrace. “I didn’t mean to halt our travelling so abruptly.” The god returned to stroking Christian’s hair soothingly. “I don’t like it here anymore. Let’s go elsewhere to continue our date. I know a place that’s a visual banquet of delights for the eyes.”

“Corey—did you drug me?”

The god sighed. Though barely a whimper, the biting accusation was not unexpected. How else could a modern-day mortal who did not believe in ancient deities explain these incomprehensibleexperiences? Comic book characters, not humans, possessed superspeed; not even an Olympic gold medalist could move so swiftly as to inadvertently lift a grown man off the ground and run with him still attached by a single hand.

For Christian not to think he had suddenly gone insane, the presence of drugs in his system had to be the cause for such madness.

And this was not the first time a mortal accused the god of this.

“What you’re feeling has nothing to do with drugs, believe me,” Corey promised. “I would never drug you or anyone. Please trust me, Christian, and I’ll introduce you to sensations you’ve been too timid to partake in. I can also offer an erotic experience no drug could hope to duplicate. Are you ready?”

The god softlywhisperedto the man to be calm and unafraid; he did not compel compliance. Corey wanted the prey to have agency in his choice.

With little movement, still clutching to Corey’s muscular body, Christian softly replied, “No, I don’t want to turn back. Please take control, take me, and do what you like. Be my—my master. I can’t resist you. No—I don’t want to. I trust you—sir.”

Excellent.The god was beaming. “There’s no turning back now.”

Corey whisked Christian away from the Harbourfront toward downtown to Graffiti Alley, the three-block, one-kilometre-long stretch from Portland to Spadina, running parallel to Queen Street. It was a far cry from the small hidden alley he originally planned to use for feeding.

At this time of night, the area was practically dead, aside from the occasional street denizens who smartly kept to themselves.

Corey saw the perfect feeding spot at the alley’s midpoint: a recessed doorway, no longer used, elevated off the ground about one and a half metres, on the side of a wildly painted brick building.

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