"Revenant" - Prologue

by Connie Bailey

Cillian stepped out of the small rowboat into the cold nighttime waters around Ynys Gwarchodwr.  Pulling the light craft up onto the rocky shore, the young Welshman staggered up the steep incline, cursing under his breath.  At least it wasn’t far to Castle Guard; the medieval pile of stone took up most of the small island it crouched on.  Across the sound, the young man could see the paltry lights of the village of Drws Cefnforoedd on the mainland.  Deliberately, Cillian hawked phlegm and spat in the direction of the home he couldn’t wait to leave.  This clandestine meeting with his lover was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him in his seventeen years on Earth, and he went eagerly through the dark fortress gate.

He moved swiftly across the bailey and into the main building until his foot caught on a piece of loose masonry in the great hall and he went sprawling.  Calling on the saints to witness the malicious intent of the obstacle that had tripped him, Cillian made sure that the bottle Morgan had procured for him wasn’t broken.  Rising to his knees, he dug a disposable lighter from the pocket of his worn jeans and flicked it.  The tiny flame and the scant moonlight that found its way through gaps in the ceiling did little to dispel the oppressive gloom of nine centuries and thousands of tons of ancient stone.  Cillian tried drowning his nervousness over the trysting place in a few inches of whiskey, but his anxiety refused to die for a few good reasons. 

Chief among them: Cillian was trespassing.  The island and fortress of Caer Gwarchod belonged to Lord Turcotte, and though the peer lived in London, Cillian knew the man wouldn’t take kindly to prowlers on his property, whatever their purpose.  Cillian didn’t know the lord personally, not the likes of him, but Turcotte’s reputation for being a hard and unforgiving man was well known in the village.  If Cillian were caught here, he didn’t think that even his lover’s high position in the community would confer any mercy.

“Fuck Lord Turcotte and all his ancestors,” Cillian shouted with drunken bravado, as the lighter grew too hot to hold.  “Bunch of toffee-nosed gits thinkin’ you’re better than me.”

Giggling at his daring, the boy took another drink.  Cillian’s man, Sean, didn’t like it when he drank, but damned if he would wait in this haunted place without a drop of something to stiffen his spine.  He didn’t believe in ghosts as a general rule, but here in the old castle after dark, it was hard not to imagine ghouls in every corner.  Cillian took another pull at the bottle and willed his lover to hurry.  Thinking of Sean and what they’d be doing in a little while made Cillian’s half-a-hard-on pulse eagerly. 

Setting the whiskey aside, he slipped a hand down his flat belly and under his waistband.  Eyes half-closed, he fondled himself idly, lulled by the rhythmic crash of the surf against the rocks.  He was starting to get serious about having a wank when an odd noise stopped him in mid-stroke.  The ringing sound, like a fingertip rubbed lightly along the rim of a crystal wine glass, came from the direction of the sweeping double staircase, but Cillian could see nothing in the welter of deep shadows.  It occurred to the young man that his lover might have arrived before him and was watching him toss off.

“Sean?” the boy called softly.  “Is that you, love?”

Behind Cillian, the grainy moonlight began to thicken.  Minute motes of argent charged by some arcane force flew together like iron filings in a magnetic field, forming a column of shimmering silver.  Feeling a sudden chill on the back of his neck, Cillian turned.  He leaped to his feet and stared wide-eyed as the fragile radiance coalesced into the shape of a man.  The ghost, for what else could it be, fixed its pale gaze on the young man.  The strong, aquiline features looked tantalizingly familiar to Cillian, but he was too stunned to identify the phantom.  His astonishment metastasized to rank fear as the spectral stranger reached out a hand to curse him – or worse.  The nameless dread of being touched by the thing was instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Fuh-fuck off!” Cillian stammered as he spun away from the ghost.

The apparition swooped forward, snaking its arm around the young man’s neck.  Cillian was yanked back and up, his feet dangling several inches above the ground, as his breath was choked off.  He struggled, but his flailing limbs met nothing but air.  Only the arm that held him aloft and the cold lips on his throat seemed to have any substance.  Cillian ceased thrashing and went limp as he struggled to drag breath into his burning lungs.  Instantly, the pressure on Cillian’s windpipe eased, and he was lowered until he could stand.  He felt the ghost behind him gain solidity with each passing moment until he was pressed against a broad chest by two muscular arms.  Cillian closed his eyes, shivering from terror and the wintry chill that the spirit exuded.

“Whuh-what do yuh-you wuh-wuh-want?”

The ghost made no answer, reveling in the rising spiral of its victim’s horror, relishing the mortal’s blind fear of an unknown fate.  Yes, the fear was good, sharp and intoxicating as that whiskey.  However, there were sweeter delights to be sampled when the victim’s terror had provided enough sustenance to make the phantom whole.  The fuel provided by strong emotions was bread and water compared to the feast of energy produced by human sexual activity.  Licking at the tears that flowed down Cillian’s smooth cheeks, the specter savored them like some exotic liqueur.  The young man cried out and fought back as his pants were shoved down his hips, but ghost held him as tightly as a spider until all struggling ceased.

When Cillian gave up, the apparition grasped the young man’s wilted shaft and stroked it firmly.  Though Cillian’s cock remained stubbornly limp, a dark smile twisted the ghost’s translucent features.  When he was stronger, he would be able to control humans without much more than a thought, but for now he must do it the slow way.  Cillian squirmed as a moist finger crept along his crack, but stilled again as the icy digit pushed into him.  Without subtlety or finesse, the phantom found the bump in the hot sheath of flesh.  Cillian whined in protest as the stimulation took effect.  Diaphanous fingers tightened around his rising cock and pumped insistently.  As the apparition manipulated him to release, Cillian prayed he had fallen asleep and into a nightmare.  He promised the God that he’d only last month decided didn’t exist that he would never sin again if he could just wake up with naught worse than a hangover.  But the only supernatural power in the room had no love for Cillian – only for the essences that the young man’s body produced: essences that would give the ghost life … of a sort.

Like a cow being milked, Cillian spurted a healthy amount of cum into the phantom’s fist.  The milky stream evaporated in mid-air, disappearing completely even as it broke into fat droplets.  The ghost sighed, and Cillian felt the puff of a weak breath against his cheek.  The faint exhalation, redolent of seawater, frightened Cillian more than anything that had happened thus far.  Shaking off his lassitude, he struggled against the phantom’s newly fleshed-out grip.  He might as well have tried to move one of the thick columns that held up the roof.  The energy that flowed into the specter surged as it absorbed the endorphins the boy secreted.  Spiked with adrenalin, the essence of the chemicals spread quickly through the ghost’s incorporeal form, vitalizing and thickening the wispy stuff of which it was composed. 

With a hiss, the phantom pressed closer to its victim, and Cillian cringed away from an unmistakably male organ, aroused and of impressive proportions.  The shaft was as cold as the rest of the ghost, and Cillian’s mind retreated, refusing to accept what was happening.  He was jarred back to harsh reality as he was breached.  Without mercy, his attacker drove into him, tearing delicate tissues.  Blood steamed in the frigid air as it trickled down Cillian’s thigh, vanishing before it could drip to the floor. 

“Ahhhhh, virgin blood,” the ghost whispered.

“I told you he was untried.  I’ve not led him that far down the path of corruption.”

Cillian’s eyes snapped open as a man walked from the shadows by the stairs.  Relief rinsed through the boy at the sound of his lover’s voice.

“Sean,” the young man choked out.  “Help me.”

“Shhh, Cillie,” the man said, stopping in front of the boy.  “You’re being given a great honor.  Your life force will allow the man who built this castle to rule it again.”

“Help me, Sean,” Cillian pleaded.

“Of course,” the man said coming closer. Cillian sobbed harder when his lover knelt and kissed his manhood. “Hush now, lad.  You’ll be coming many, many times tonight, and each time His Lordship will grow stronger.  You’ll be drained, of course, but there are a lot more strong young men out there.  When I’ve brought enough of them to this castle, the real Lord of Gwarchodwr will return, as potent as he was before he went to the Holy Land.”

Cillian screamed as the ghost entered him again.  Warm lips closed around Cillian’s resurrected erection as the ghost basked in the mortal’s horror of the ravishing.  The boy’s exhilarating fear was laced with the pain of his lover’s betrayal, like a mouthful of dark and bitter Arabian coffee.  The phantom drank it all in, his power swelling exponentially.

“You may go,” he told his minion.

“But I can help you, my lord,” the man said in surprise.

“You have served me well, but I need no help in this.  Go, I tell you, until I bid you return.”

Sean obeyed resentfully even as he rejoiced to hear his master’s voice so strong and commanding.  He had been looking forward to watching cocky young Cillian broken and humbled by the phantom’s lust.  But even more, he longed to see the expressions on the sheep-like faces of the townsfolk when Lord Alun came into his own again.  Sean was respected; people considered him an upstanding, decent man, but he was a fixture they took for granted.  That would change when he was revealed to be the instrument of Lord Alun’s return.  Then they would see what lay beneath his everyday mask.

Soon the ancient ritual would be complete, and the conjury would be worked. Then the villagers would know what power had slept unsuspected in their midst for all these years.  Until then, he must keep his eyes on the goal and ignore small disappointments … for it would work.  He was sure of it.  All that the spell required was suitable donors.  And Sean would supply them.

 

“Have we reached an agreement, Sir Rhys?”

Lord Turcotte yawned.  “It would seem so, Mr. Red Dog.  Once Mr. Andressen signs the contract you’re holding, Red Recovery can begin work on the castle.”

“Mr. Andressen will be glad to hear that,” Sean Red Dog said, eager to leave his host’s condescending presence.  With a nod that could be interpreted as a gesture of respect, Sean rose from the leather wing chair and showed himself out.  Once he was in the hall, he flipped open his cell phone and stabbed the top number.

“Bo?  Hey, pard, stop your grinnin’ and drop your linen.  We’re in.  Hey, have I ever let you down?  You sure got that right.  Now get your bad ass to Wales and bring the boys.  We’ve got a treasure to find.”

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