Holding onto Light by Lucien Grey

General Release Date: 13th April 2021

Word Count: 51,608
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 197

Genres:

FANTASY
GAY
GLBTQI
ROMANCE

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Book Description

Two strangers running from their dark pasts find redemption in each other.

Harry, a former army doctor, lives in isolation after the devastating war between Rasacara and the Empire came to a bloody and violent conclusion. His lonely life is disrupted by a young, beautiful man surrounded by secrets and suspicion, who would likely destroy Harry if he knew who he was.

Kit, former member of the witch army’s Blue Crows, now on the run from his former master, must keep his identity a secret as his enemy is closing in and Harry, the gruff, mysterious woodsman, is all that stands between him and the man who wants him dead.

Forced together by Kit’s injuries, the two lonely men find comfort in each other, both scarred by the darkness of their pasts, but when Kit’s enemy catches up with him, they are forced to fight, revealing to each other the evils both of them have committed, and testing the strength of their new, fledgling love.

Reader advisory: This book contains reference to child abuse, graphic violence and injury, death, torture, PTSD and slavery. There are mentions of suicidal thought and homophobia.

He should have known. Harry cursed internally as he took in the two heavily armed members of the Witch Army. The Blue Crows, the very last people Harry wanted knocking on his door. Not just any Crows, but General Matthew Tariq with a second Crow at his back.

The general had grown portly in the years since Harry had last seen him and his now-white hair was shorn close to his scalp to disguise his balding spots, but it was him. He gave Harry a long, assessing look.

Harry held his breath.

This was it. This was Harry’s reckoning. Strangely, he had assumed when the time came he would have resolved himself to the fact after so many years of guilt. Yet he could taste bile as fear bubbled up his throat.

Tariq spoke first. “Sorry to disturb at this late hour, but we’re searching for someone. We lost sight of him in the forest, but his tracks have led us here.”

The stinging bile in Harry’s throat retreated. He waited, barely breathing.

There was no recognition in the general’s eyes, at least none Harry could see.

Harry nodded, hoping he appeared convincingly confused and bedraggled.

“A man, going by the name Christopher Leonor, blond, blue eyes, about a head shorter than you, wearing nobleman’s attire, was seen in the forest bordering your land yesterday evening. Come across anyone matching that description?”

The Blue Crows were always after someone. It was what they did. Once a mercenary band funded by the Emperor, they’d recruited witches into the Imperial Witch Army from all across the empire and beyond. But now the war was over they were nothing more than well-paid bounty hunters. They were good, efficient and brutal in their methods, and had soon found favor among nobles and gentry, covertly attacking their political or familial rivals or hunting down criminals.

Harry had to swallow before answering. “Can’t say I have. Not many folk have call to come out so far, unless they’re in the market for some good timber or game.”

The second man, thin and angular, his mouth set in a perpetual snarl due to an unfortunate scar on his upper lip revealing buck teeth reminding Harry of a rat, gave Harry an up-and-down assessment. Harry didn’t like it, but he liked even less the smile curling General Tariq’s mouth.

His fingers itched for his rifle.

“It would serve as a good hiding spot. Do you mind if we have a look around your home?”

Harry’s back shivered at Kit’s presence somewhere behind him. There was nowhere to hide. The bed was too low to the floor to hide beneath. Escaping through the window would put him in clear view of the Crows. There was no other door than the one they currently occupied.

“Of course, sir, though I don’t know how he could have gotten in.”

“He’s tricky. He could have snuck in while you slept.”

Clenching his scarred fist, Harry had no choice but to step back and allow them access. The two men strolled in. Harry breathed slowly through his nose, steadying himself, ready to grab his rifle and take aim. He could at least take out Ratty from behind and hope Tariq’s reflexes had slowed with age. The phantom smell of charred flesh momentarily gagged him. He bent low, the rifle just out of reach.

“You live out here alone, do you?”

Harry turned. The space under the window was empty except for the two vacated chairs.

Kit must have disappeared upstairs. He was still cornered.

Harry pushed the door as far as it would go, concealing the gun, ignoring the cold chill blowing in.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever go to the village Paix?”

“Sometimes, but not often.” Harry’s heart beat so loud in his ears he was sure Tariq must have heard it too.

“Light?” Tariq prompted when Harry just stood staring.

Harry blinked. “Of course, sir.” He went around the room, lighting his small collection of lanterns and candles. He finished lighting the last then returned to the door, standing perfectly still as the Crows investigated, opening cupboards, peering around stacked timber and even looking up the chimney.

“Is the man you’re searching for dangerous?”

Tariq eyed Harry for a second, the moment stretching until Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Nothing we can’t handle. A witch.”

Harry’s kept his voice flat. “What’s his crime?”

Tariq’s brow arched. “Killed a noblewoman who was sheltering him.”

Harry fell quiet as Ratty ascended the stairs, drawing his sword and pistol. Was Kit so dangerous? Whatever magic Kit possessed was useless with the tethered brand on his skin. How much of a threat was he against two heavily armed soldiers, one of whom Harry knew from experience was a powerful witch.

“You a soldier?” Tariq asked.

“No,” Harry said.

Tariq squinted, regarding Harry coolly. “Could have sworn…”

Harry held his breath, Tariq’s eyes boring into him.

A loud bang reverberated overhead.

Tariq copied Ratty, arming himself. Face stern, he tilted his head, listening, waiting. Harry took a step back toward his rifle. Into the agonizing silence, heavy footfalls banged down the staircase, the old floorboards protesting each step.

“Nothing, sir,” Ratty reported.

Tariq deflated, giving a rueful sigh, and sheathed his sword, turning back to Harry. Harry froze in front of his rifle.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Tariq said through a tight smile. With a nod to Ratty, they departed.

Harry stood in the doorway, watching them disappear down the dirt road which led to a footpath through trees to the fields. He allowed the cold air to lick gooseflesh over his skin, reassured this hadn’t been a dream. Through the gentle cries and chitters of wildlife occupying the trees and undergrowth, he heard the distinct neighing of horses and the heavy beat of their hooves being swallowed by the night.

Finally closing the door, heart vibrating in his chest, Harry flew up the stairs. His bed was on its side, blankets thrown about the floor, drawers pulled from a chest, but other than that, it was completely deserted.

“How—”

A hand caught his from behind. Before Harry could turn, his arm was twisted up behind his back. He was maneuvered around by that painful grip and shoved up against the wall, his chin colliding with a timber beam. The air rushed out of him in a startled yell. Something thin and pointed was pressed against his throat. He went rigid, scared to swallow as it pricked his skin.

“What did you tell them?” Kit breathed against his ear.

Harry snarled, “Nothing.”

Kit was quiet for a moment, his grip unrelenting. “I’m sorry for this, but I can’t let them find me.”

“I didn’t tell them anything.”

Kit was silent again, his breathing harsh against Harry’s ear. He hissed, “You’re a witch.”

Harry swallowed, grunting as metal grazed his skin. “No.”

The weapon, Harry now realized, was a small, thin chisel. He could feel something else—Kit trembling. His breath came out in short, panicked bursts. “Don’t lie to me. I know you have magic. That’s how I found this place.”

Clenching his teeth, Harry tried for calm, releasing a slow breath. “I’m not a witch. I didn’t tell them anything. Let me go.”

Kit growled, trembling harder against Harry’s body. “No.” He grunted,  his pain obvious. “I can’t.” He gave a heaving breath as though holding back vomit. He snarled again, the trembling subsiding a little, his voice pained as he said, “I’m sorry. You might be lying. I can’t take that chance.”

Kit’s grip shifted on the chisel.

Adrenaline spiked. Harry threw his head back, skull colliding with Kit’s face. Kit grunted and staggered, the chisel grazing but not penetrating Harry’s skin. Harry took the opportunity to stomp his boot down on Kit’s naked foot. With an elbow to the ribs, Kit was forced back, grunting as his body took the multiple blows. Harry fingered the graze on his throat. His fingers came away clean, but he wasn’t safe yet. Kit was already recovering, that feral glare back in his pale eyes, his lips curled in a silent snarl.

“Calm down.”

Kit shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shut up.”

“You need to stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Kit wasn’t listening. His face was white, shining with a layer of sweat. He rushed Harry.

With a quick and precise hit to Kit’s wrist, the chisel was dislodged from his grip, bouncing and rolling away as it hit the floor. Kit adapted quickly if not elegantly. Dropping low, he tried tackling Harry to the ground. Harry had just about recovered his breath when it was forced out of him again as his back slammed into the wall. Gripping Kit’s shoulders, he attempted another kick only for Kit to grab his ankle, shifting his weight and dropping him to the floor.

Momentarily pinned, Harry stared up at Kit. None of Kit’s haughty elegance remained, only a desperate man. His blue eyes were ablaze, teeth flashing as he put all his strength into keeping Harry down. He went for the throat, his grip strong. Harry grasped Kit’s wrists, his weak left arm protesting as he struggled to pry Kit’s grip apart.

The crazed blue eyes sent a jolt of hideous grief through Harry’s chest. Panic and rage surged through his blood. Using his greater size and strength, Harry tore Kit’s hold from his throat. Bending his leg, he wedged his foot against Kit’s chest and kicked out as hard as he could, sending Kit up into the air, stumbling back and falling onto his arse. Clutching his chest, Kit fell onto his side, wheezing.

Harry coughed, regaining his own breath, rubbing his throat.

Kit’s heaving didn’t stop. Harry glared, controlling his anger after having a chisel aimed at his throat. Kit’s eyes were enormous, his pupils blown wide. His chest expanded and contracted rapidly. Spittle wet his mouth, leaving a puddle on the floor.

Harry crawled closer, scared it might be a ruse. “Kit?”

Kit’s deranged eyes met his. An unexpected tug had Harry falling forward onto his hands and knees. Something was being pulled from him, as though his very soul was being ripped from his body. Darkness lifted its head and sniffed the air.

No.

Fighting it back, he looked to Kit. His eyes were no longer stark and fearful. His pupils were rolled back into his head. Blood trickled from his nose. He gave a shuddering gasp and the pressure pulling at Harry ceased. His body felt heavy as he tried to move, exhausted as though he’d run to the village and back.

Kit’s heavy dry heaves caught his attention. Harry went to him, lifting Kit’s nightshirt up, modesty forgotten. Revealing Kit’s torso, he was met by a red imprint of where his boot had connected with Kit’s chest. Farther down his eyes were drawn to the inflamed skin around the brand. The smell of decay reached his nose. Tentatively, Harry pressed his fingers along Kit’s abdomen. No broken ribs. It was amazing Kit hadn’t vomited. He pressed his ear to Kit’s chest. His airway didn’t sound obstructed. He was having a panic attack, coupled with a high fever from the infected wound.

Opening his eyes, tears welling around them, Kit reached out.  He clawed at Harry’s sleeve, gasping. He looked terrified.

“Try to slow your breathing. Take deep, slow breaths or you’ll hyperventilate.”

Kit trembled, shakily complying, letting out a series of stunted, slow breaths. He breathed in and out, in and out, on and on until they became less haggard and a little more even.

“Good. Don’t move. I’m going to examine you.”

Kit flinched, but didn’t move away when Harry held up his hands for calm, his face pale and eyes screwed up in pain.

With minimal prodding and some filthy, labored curses from Kit, Harry diagnosed, “Nothing’s broken. But the wound on your side is infected. It needs treating or the infection will enter you blood and spread throughout your body. I’m going to put you to bed, all right?”

Harry stood and righted the bed. Kit didn’t look at him as Harry gathered and cradled him against his chest and lifted him. A hissing moan escaped Kit’s clenched teeth as Harry moved him, and he shivered in Harry’s arms. Laying Kit down gently, Harry sighed as Kit turned away from him, gripping the edges of the blanket with shaking fingers.

“We need to draw the infection from the wound.” Harry tried to turn Kit over to get at the branded skin.

Kit turned away from him. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice breaking, his eyes puffy and red.

Good question. Harry couldn’t think of a decent answer so said, “It will hurt, but if we don’t clean the infection it will kill you.”

Visibly shaking, Kit grimaced as he turned, allowing Harry to see to the wound. Harry got up and went downstairs, rummaged through his medical supplies, returned with what he needed, and he set about drawing the pus from the wound. He offered Kit pain powders, which he gulped down vigorously. He cleaned the wound as best he could, working silently through Kit’s occasional hissing curses and grunts of pain.

He stayed beside Kit, offering more powders until Kit fell into a fitful, exhausted rest.

Later, he left to fetch some clean dressings and a mug of water for when, or if, Kit woke. He was on guard as he returned upstairs, but he needn’t have been. Kit was still asleep. His breathing was too rapid, his eyes moving under his lids as he fought off the infection heating his body.

Placing the food and drink within reach, Harry spotted the chisel still lying on the floor.

What the fuck am I doing?

Sighing, Harry returned to his post by the window, methodically checking over his gun before propping it on his knee.

 

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Born and bred in the Midlands, Lucien spends most of his time inside his small bedroom/library/office reading and writing gay fiction, sacrificing his wardrobe space for his bookcases.

Stumbling upon Yaoi in his teens, Lucien’s passion for gay romance/erotica began, starting his once small, now consuming book collection. Not too long after, he started writing his own fiction and never looked back, even writing a lesbian themed short story in his GSCE English exam.

While a fan of most subgenres, he enjoys writing historical, fantasy and BDSM stories.

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