WARNING: Slash/sexual content/ Malfoy/Kuryakin
Also rude language (What do you expect from a THRUSH?)
Act 4: "You are not a Muggle."
THRUSH Central England
"You want to what?" Demonique's eyes flared in anger.
The blond stood unrepentant and apparently unmoved by her superior's reaction. "Seduce him. Fuck him stupid. You've seen the scars on his back and chest. Just short of frying him with your suit only makes him scream in agony, it does nothing to break him. He will die at your touch before he tells you what you want to know. Pain is not his enemy, he embraces it."
Demonique pouted. "So I should use this body against him?" She ran her elegant hands down her sides. Not that she didn't know how to seduce a man, it was, after all, an important part of a woman's arsenal in a world that thought men ruled. But Demonique had never enjoyed the bedding of her opposition even to assassinate them.
Lerya would have to choose her words carefully now. "Were he your opposite number, perhaps. But this is just an errand boy," she pointed out with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. "The commander is too valuable to waste time on such a task." Had she pushed it too far? She watched as the THRUSH Satrap
considered her idea more thoroughly, the dark eyes trailing up and down her assistant as she plotted.
"And to whom would I entrust this … mission?" Demonique purred at last.
"There are several operatives who might fit the bill, depending on his persuasion." Ah, that caught her boss off guard. She had not thought of a man who preferred his own sex. Not that Lerya believed the wizard was of that leaning, but it did have to be considered. She handed Demonique a list of personnel she considered capable of handling the mission. Given her superior's methods, Lerya's name was not on the list.
Demonique perused the names and reasoning before slanting a sidelong look at her assistant. "I do not see your name on this list."
Lerya flushed, praying her reaction was convincing. "Surely, my position is above such … basic interrogation methods," she answered with just a touch of worry coloring her voice. Long pale lashes shielded her eyes long enough to keep her triumph out of her look when she met her superior's gaze.
Demonique gave her another slow up and down look. "He is not my equal, but he is high enough in his master's councils to come here alone. You will … see if your recommendations work. You have two days. He is, after all, not a stupid man."
The matter settled, Demonique turned her attention to other reports, including the preparations for entertaining several of the High Council. That visit would time nicely to coincide with her ability to report on whether they should concentrate on wiping out the upstart "wizards" or use them.
Down the corridor from the room holding Illya prisoner, Lucius Malfoy tossed and turned searching for sleep and not finding it. He threw himself out of bed, lighting candles with a wave of his hand before stomping over to the window embrasure and collapsing onto the window seat. Cold stars glittered in a dark sky, like diamonds against deep velvet. He thought of Narcissa, graceful curves and pale flesh, restive under his touch. But she was still at her home, miles away and he was here with a houseful of guests he suddenly couldn't stand to have with him and a prisoner held in trust for his Master.
Faugh! Prisoner's should be in the dungeon, not housed in a guest room of antiques and riches. Perhaps he'd best check on his "guest". Muggles. What his Master saw in this pale, middle aged Muggle was beyond him. Sliding into a gorgeous embroidered silk dressing gown, he pulled on slippers and padded
silently through his house to where Illya should have been incarcerated.
The door was open. Lucius summoned his wand and did a quick search. Ah, there he was, traveling deeper into the mansion. Of course, the man couldn't know how to get out as he wasn't entirely himself when he came in. Lucius moved quickly to retrieve his Master's pet.
Lucius found his quarry standing frozen on the landing staring up at a painting of … Who was that? Oh, yes. Quartinius Adolfus Malfoy. Six centuries of overseeing the Malfoy house from that landing had yet to put a crimp in the painting's life. He was whispering things to the Muggle. That was old Q. to the life, from what Lucius understood. No bellowing or yelling from the old horror, just insidious comments that wormed their way into your soul. Lucius had learned to ignore the painting long ago.
As he reached to grab Illya's arm, he felt what caught his Master's attention. Fingers hovering millimeters from his quarry, he could feel magic flowing around the smaller man, sense the abortive grabs for the power that surrounded Illya. Then he gripped the arm and dragged the Russian with him back down the hallway. Why he didn't use his wand to enforce the drag, Lucius didn't know. Perhaps it
had to do with the agonizing hollow feel to his captive.
Instead of forcing Illya into the room where he woke up, Lucius pulled the mostly unresisting man back to his own room, shoving him roughly into the old wingback chair in front of the fire before looking for the potion he wanted. Illya's color was already better when Lucius shoved a cup into his hands and
commanded him to drink.
He could have laughed at the Muggle's suspicious look. "I could force the matter," he reminded the man with a sneer and a flick of his wand. Terror and rebellion showed on the Russian's face, but he threw back the drink and was obviously surprised at how much better he felt immediately.
"Why what?" Lucius shot back irritably. The Muggle's bizarre condition pulled at him, troubled him, annoyed him.
"Why pull me away?" Pale eyes searched the attractive, arrogant face.
"I'm supposed to keep you safe." That was a laugh. A Malfoy keeping a Muggle safe. Yet everything he felt and saw told him this was not a Muggle. He just couldn't figure out exactly what Illya was. Gently, with the calming potion still working, Lucius probed the field around Illya, searching for some indication of what kept the man from his magic, or whether he was a man at all.
Long silent minutes passed, and no answers were forthcoming except that Illya's fine blond hair was gathering a static charge. Lucius reached out to smooth his captive's hair, long fingers trailing down the curve of Illya's cheek while the pale eyes widened, staring up. With a very shark-like grin, Lucius leaned down to capture a mouth that was so very attractive.
Magic swirled through the room, surrounding Lucius and Illya, fading all but mouths and heartbeats away to a distant afterthought. The Russian felt the insistent press of the wizard's tongue against his teeth and opened to the invasion. Somewhere in the back of his mind was shock and denial, but the
forefront was only concerned with the feel and taste of his companion. He wanted to be touched as he had not been in so very, very long. No, not want, need; desperate consuming need to be touched, to be wanted, to be … loved?
Clothes vanished leaving skin against skin, hardness against hardness, muscles and touch all wrapped up into one flow of sensation. Time, so frequently his enemy, became meaningless as Illya explored the other; as they explored together. Release came in a torrent of shuddering pleasure before boneless
collapse onto the now wholly disarrayed bed.
Lucius looked up into the stranger's face above him as Illya balanced lightly on hands and knees. Shock ran through him, but his body was having none of that. The light blue eyes were now wholly blue, no white showing, no pupil, unless a shade darker blue in the center could be called that. The broad cheek bones were sharper, giving the Russian's face what Muggles would call an elfin look. And those blue eyes stared as though they would gain entrance to his very soul if he let them. "Illya," he said softly.
The man blinked and subsided against him, nuzzling the side of the long, muscular neck, nibbling lazily. "Da."
"What are you?" Lucius asked cautiously, not wanting to rouse anything that had not already been explored and trying to ignore the insistent hardening he was experiencing from Illya's touch. This was too important to be side tracked by sex, however incredible and satisfying it was.
Illya leaned up to look at his conquest and shrugged. "I'm Vanya, clothing designer of the exclusive. I don't even give seasonal shows, I just am." He caught his lower lip between even white teeth as though there might be something else to say.
"You're not a Wizard?"
"Nyet! I am not ..." The vehemence of his denial surprised them both. Illya frowned and shivered.
Instinct wrapped Lucius's arms around the smaller man, holding him while the wizard considered what had happened between them and that vigorous denial. "Look at me," he whispered, not quite forcing his will on the other. Fear widened Illya's eyes, the blue on blue look fading until he again looked like the man he had always been. "Trust me." It was a command.
The two words hammered at Illya. Trust? Who was he to trust? Every time he trusted he … got burned. Oh, how that hurt. Trusting had brought him to this position. The color rose in his cheeks. It wasn't as though he'd never bedded a man. In the course of duty he had done many things he would not normally do, sex was just one more weapon in his considerable arsenal. Yet he hesitated to draw away, he felt oddly safe being held by this enemy.
Damn. What did he have to lose? "Why should I trust you?"
Good question. Why should he trust Lucius Malfoy, or any Malfoy for that matter. Lucius pondered the question and shook his head. "Because you bear secrets I can help you handle," he answered, not quite as glibly as he would have liked. "You're not a Muggle."
"Muggle," Illya repeated. "You say that word like men from the Southern States say "black". What does it mean?"
"Mortal. Without magic."
Illya snorted. "The majority of the world not only doesn't have magic, they don't believe in it. You should leave them alone." He shifted, pulling away now, more in his own mind as he tried to find a way to turn this encounter to his advantage.
Lucius tightened his grip on Illya's arm. "You are not a Muggle," he repeated, lending force to the statement with his own magic, pushing at the guards that kept the Russian from touching what was by right his. For just a moment, there was a connection, magic to magic and Lucius felt terror, not just that of the man with him, but someone else.
Illya yanked away from Lucius' grasp. Voices echoed in his head, memories long buried surfaced. He fought them down and away, trying to bury that sweet voice, his mother's voice. No. Nyet! He could not remember! He would not! His vision blurred as a blinding headache set in, depriving him of focus and letting the words flow over him before he took refuge in unconsciousness.
Lucius scowled at his captive. Damn. He slid off the bed, dragging on his robe as he did so. He ought to kill the man and be done. Of course, then he'd bear the brunt of his Master's displeasure and they would not draw Roxana and her stupid husband into their trap as planned. With a flick of his recovered wand,
he placed Illya on the bed and drew up the covers.
He needed to do some research on this half-blood, but not tonight, he decided as a yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. Drawing on a clean night shirt, Lucius made short work of the evidence of their encounter before settling back into the comfort of his bed beside his unwilling guest. Half-bloods. Muggles. To hell with all of them.