"I'm going to come,” became, “Please, Luke, let me come,” and Luke, smiling though there was no way Cory could see it, would kiss the back of his neck or run his tongue on the soft spot behind Cory's ear.
You can hold out a bit longer he would say, and did say, in Cory's head. And Cory would insist that he couldn't, but oh, fuck, he could, and the stings and promises would continue until Cory couldn't even think straight and his entire body would feel the orgasm slide out of him, lasting forever and all but lifting him off the bed or couch or floor he was on.
"I love you,” Cory would say, in that brief second, when everything in his entire world was right, including the words that escaped him, and Luke would kiss his shoulder and pretend he didn't hear.
The smell of his semen filled the dusty, dry room. The vortex slid the rest of the way inside him, and if Lathe had any idea how much stronger this one was compared to the girl in the closet, he wouldn't have gotten involved.
"But he's involved now,” Cory said to the empty room. He held out his hand, willing himself to do it. He had to remember how to move his muscle groups again, and then realized with a shock that it wasn't his command that had moved his arm. He looked up to the window, but the corona was gone; it was nightfall, or close enough to it that the world was coming back alive. He heard Brutus starting to pace, still mostly formless so that it was just the sound of smoke drifting across the wooden floors, but he heard it. He heard Lathe wake from his slumber, felt him stand over the corpse he'd fed on and then take the stairs two at a time.
Cory pushed to his feet. Moving the bookcase took no more effort than drawing in a breath to speak, and even though the window had been painted shut for years, he had no problem pulling the window open, either.
He was sitting on the ledge as Lathe appeared, the vicious knife in his hand sharp enough to shave with. In his other hand was a wooden stake, round and sharp. “You've come to kill me,” Cory said, voice only slightly mocking.
Lathe nodded. “That is the plan."
Cory stood up, feeling the rush of power in his body. He was still himself, barely, and soon he'd be swallowed up completely by the other, but for right now, he could enjoy this.
"Do you really think I would let that happen?” he asked. He let a hint of the power that had collected here, where the two rivers joined over millennia, fill him, and Lathe stepped back. Cory smiled again. “You have freed me, and for that, I will not kill you tonight."
"I have mastery over you!” Lathe snarled.
Cory walked to Lathe. Lathe's hands were suddenly too heavy for him to be able to lift either weapon, and they both clattered to the floor. “But I will kill you,” Cory whispered and kissed Lathe on the cheek. “This body is magnificent,” he said, and that line was wholly the other. “I really must thank you."
"Come back,” Lathe said, but oh so weakly. “Please."
Cory felt himself change. Not to the raven—he couldn't, not nude as he was—but to a snowy owl, beautiful as he was deadly. He took to the sky, wings barely making it through the window, and he was off and up. Away.
And no longer himself at all.
* * * *
Luke had just made the coffee when he heard something strike the window. It didn't have the weight of a bird breaking its neck, but he heard the nail-on-a-chalkboard sound of talons striking the glass. “Cory?” he called, going to the door, but flicked on the floodlights before opening it.
It wasn't Cory. At least, it wasn't a raven. The snowy owl in the tree cocked its head to the side, its round yellow eyes frankly observing, and then it was Cory himself, naked, sprawled over the branch. He threw his leg over the branch and slid down. He landed lightly on the grass and padded toward Luke.
"How did you—” Luke began. It was still cold out; the snap had lengthened into a spell. But even though Cory looked paler than usual from lack of blood, he seemed unaffected by it. “Cory, you must be freezing."
"Fuck me,” Cory said.
"We're back to this?” Luke asked and rubbed his face. Just when he thought he'd broken through with Cory, it was like he was always trying to push. “Look, I'm thrilled you're back, but I don't—"
Cory kissed him, taking Luke's head in his hands. “Fuck me, Luke. Please. Here on the grass if you want. Would you prefer me on my knees?"
Luke wished he could say no. He took Cory by the shoulder and pulled him inside. “You said you loved me,” Luke said. “That you were mine."
"I did,” Cory said, voice joyous. “Do you want to fuck on the couch or go downstairs?"
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"Later. I need you. Now, please."
There was something wrong, and Luke knew it, but he wasn't a saint, either. He took Cory to the couch. It was obvious that Cory couldn't wait. Already naked and hard, he squirmed away when Luke tried to kiss him. “Suck my cock,” he said, trying to push Luke's head down. “Go on. Suck it. I want to feel your lips on my skin."
Something was definitely wrong. He took hold of Cory's wrists and was actually quite shocked at how easily Cory broke his hold. “What—” Luke began, but Cory wouldn't let him speak. They kissed again, more for Cory to shut him up than out of affection or love, and Luke broke away. “What are you?"
"What do you mean, what am I? I'm your Cory. You need to fuck me."
"You're not my Cory,”
