Nightingale

The thirst for deliverance and absolution are transformed into explosive flames of forbidden passion when a mysteriously charismatic masked man encounters a brilliant and handsome composer. Their lives are intertwined with those of two others, and only the ultimate sacrifice will satisfy the greedy appetite of fate...

Retribution is his only desire...

Fabienne Brunetto, a 17th-Century castrato of amazing vocal talent, is brutally attacked by a twisted enemy. But agonizing death is not his destiny. He is saved by Annatoly Constantine, the immortal hand of a brotherhood of fallen angels devoted to protection, balance, and order on Earth. But Fabienne bears the scars of his terrible encounter, and his song has been extinguished forever—at least until a rite of redemption can come to culmination. He must wait two hundred years before his hunger for deliverance can fully be sated.

Wounded and shamed...Annatoly Constantine, whom centuries before was also a man, is the protector of the Gios of Nightingales, a choir of immortal voices created to soothe and heal the world. Annatoly has always been destined to lose what he loves, never able to fully offer himself to a lover. Until Carne Giraint, a gifted composer, appears in his life, making him yearn for something more, something exquisitely forbidden.

A composer marked by the cursed blood of his ancestors...Carne Giraint is a mortal of extraordinary talent, tapped by the brotherhood of angels to accept his destiny as composer to the gios. Carne's greatest passion has never been ignited until he encounters a masked man known to him only as Maître. One night of fiery desire leaves him ravenous for the touch of Maître, a man he cannot forget.

A greedy man willing to give his soul for power and money…

Dandrae, a slave to the dark beings who seek to alter the course of Fabienne's and Carne's destinies, is tasked with quashing Carne's mystical gift for composition.

An earthly balance is at stake. Nothing happens by chance. And fate, here on Earth, will demand its bloody tribute no matter how high the cost...

This story is a work of original fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author.

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Copyright 2017 by Darcy Abriel

Cover Art Designs by T. A. Gallup

This story was originally released in March 2011 by Amber Quill Press/Amber Allure

CAUTION: This story contains explicit sexual situations and strong language. You must be over the age of 18 years of age to read this story.

Nightingale

By Darcy Abriel

Dream Romantic Unlimited, LLC

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Author Notes

Author Bio

Networking Links

Chapter One

Ce sont des gosiers et des sons de voix de Rossignol; ce sont des haleines à faire perdre terre, et àvous ôter presque la respiration…

—Abbé Francois Raguenet (1660?-1722),

writing of the Italian castrati

——

They are the throats and voices of the nightingale; it is to make one breathless and losing a sense of the earth [to hear them sing]…

* * *

Paris, 1885

Perhaps it was the black, predatory intentness of his eyes that first peaked Carne’s interest. Or it might have been a sense of the man’s authoritative demeanor, although it may have been his uncommon height, or a combination of all that aroused the baser core of Carne’s male libido. A contrast of light and dark—the allure of agate black eyes seemed such a vivid contradiction to the blinding white silk costume that enveloped all that massive, commanding strength. A barbarian prince. The way he stared at Carne, the sexual intensity of that look, spoke volumes without uttering a word, without truly exposing his features, without moving a muscle. Just the eyes and carriage alone quickened Carne’s passion. His every primitive instinct surged to the surface urging him to stalk his way across the glittering ballroom. To strip him, spread him, to fuck him—no, to be fucked by him. An untamed beast lurked behind that albino mask. God, yes, he wanted to be that man’s prey. He felt the primeval energy gathering momentum, an instinctive mating call, rumbling to the surface. He dropped his head forward, his lips stretched back, and narrowed his focus. The strains of the first notes of one of his compositions erupted from the orchestra. It was a nod to his talents as composer of the opera performed earlier in the evening. Voices and music ebbed and flowed like the rolling roar of a stormy sea around him.

In his mind was a measure of angry notes to the opening array of a new score yet to be written, clashing cymbals, a crescendoed timpani of thundering beats, instruments mastered by the sweating naked muscles of a drummer of exceptional skill and rugged beauty. A rhythm infused by fucking, buttock muscles clenched tight, squeezing his cock as he pumped deeply between flanks of molten gold.

An African jungle rhythm beating inside him. Different from anything he’d known before. It was ancient and ravening.

He studied his quarry closely, seeking signs of weakness, discerning none that were obvious. The sleek expressionless white mask concealed his features, the shimmering albino silk and obviously expensive glittering jewels that decorated the imported Venetian lace spoke of a sophisticated, yet supernatural elegance that trapped Carne most thoroughly beneath that focused riveting stare.

The breadth of the Parisian ballroom stretched between them, and yet Carne felt as though he was tied to the stranger as thoroughly as if he were trapped within his embrace. He could almost feel the man’s hardness pushing against him, forcing his surrender, breaking his will. He could sense the measure of hard cock thrusting against his own rigid erection.

"Monsieur Geraint, may I say how much I enjoyed your composition this evening at the theater. The opera was magnifique, monsieur." The elegantly masked woman sighed with apparent orgasmic delight.

"Merci, countess," Carne responded with an uncharacteristic abruptness, virtually ignoring her effusive compliment, barely glancing at her—his total focus upon the mesmerizing broad-shouldered man across the room. Stepping away from the cloying perfumed and powdered countess, he cut her with little thought for repercussion of such a rude etiquette. No one existed in this cluttered, flamboyant assemblage but the man dressed in white, bearing a mask of blank expression, eyes burning with an inner core of barbarian fire, an undeniable challenge thrown out to Carne.

More effusive congratulations barely touched him as Carne pushed a path through the crush of perfumed bodies, forcing his way across the room to the man of breathtaking height and presence. A man whose hauteur spoke of confidence and expectancy, as though no less than having Carne on his knees before him would satisfy him. It was as Carne reached the center of the room, masked dancers swirling around him, the man vanished and Carne’s exhilarated anticipation was swallowed by absolute terror.

A flash of white from the corner of his eye drew his attention to the open doors leading to the garden. Carne changed direction and, moving with the swiftness of a gazelle, wove a path expertly through the throng of people, and made his way to those same open doors. Again, a measure of movement from the corner of his eye. He sprinted down the marble steps and again halted. He caught the clang of an iron gate to the left and swung toward it. With no idea where it led, Carne only knew that he couldn’t let the man go, he had to know who the masked stranger was. Carne opened the gate and stepped out into a narrow cobbled street, shiny and slick with recent rains. Hearing the echo of departing footsteps, he raced down the street, no thought for his safety, that he could be accosted by footpads, no concern for anything other than the intriguing man dressed in full white masked regalia. It felt as though his very life depended on finding him.

Surrendering to instinct, he turned right, his footsteps echoing loudly on the slick stone beneath his feet. Drawing to a standstill at the entrance to an alley, he listened for any sound. A white-clad arm shot out and powerfully yanked him into the alley, thrusting him against the building’s brick façade.

Who are you? Carne asked breathlessly, excited by this dangerously delicious commanding presence. First he asked in English, then repeated it in French. Perhaps he should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Blood boiling, his arousal at such a peak of anticipation, Carne could barely contain his excitement. If he was going to die, God yes, let it be with this man’s cock stretching his ass. To die in the arms of a man like this would be…uncommon rapture.

The man pressed a gloved finger against Carne’s lips. "No questions. Tonight you may call me…Maître," he whispered.

Maître. Master. This was going to be a night to remember. Barely a moment passed for the words to register before Maître grabbed Carne’s arm and pulled him deeper into the narrow alleyway. Farther and farther away from the main thoroughfare, and then he stopped in front of a doorway at the end of the alley. Throwing it open, he shoved Carne into the room. Carne stumbled, then quickly righted himself, taking a moment to get his bearings. He was mildly shocked at the elegance and sensuality of the intimately appointed sitting room. It was almost as though they were expected.

A small white and gold pianoforte set to one side of the fireplace. Silver candelabras were arranged on either end of the pianoforte. The floor was covered in a thick carpet. He turned to the man who seemed to dwarf this room. Maître tossed his cape onto the Grecian styled couch and then moved to the pianoforte. A silver tray sitting atop the instrument bore two crystal goblets, a cut glass bowl of sugar cubes, a carafe of water, and a bottle of absinthe. He prepared two glasses of the emerald liquid, lifted one, and proffered it to Carne.

Carne shook his head. Not even for this beautiful stranger would he break his vow of abstinence. "I do not imbibe, monsieur—I mean Maître. The cause of my father’s death, so I am told, was too much drink. Thus I choose not to imbibe in an effort to circumvent my early demise." Why was he explaining himself to this man? For whatever reason, Carne was struck by the need to offer only truth in the presence of such a powerful figure. Carne had never felt the need to bare himself so completely to another human being and it left him feeling vulnerable and defenseless.

As you wish, Maître said in a low voice. He returned the glass to the tray. Play for me Geraint. Play for me alone. He stepped aside so that Carne might seat himself at the pianoforte.

Carne went to the instrument, no thought of denying this man anything he wanted. Once his fingers touched the keys he was immediately transported, consumed by the music. It seemed hours later, perhaps it was only moments, that finally the driving passion to pour his soul into the music drained away, leaving him weak and trembling in its wake. Maître moved toward Carne. He stroked the side of Carne’s face. Carne turned and kissed his palm, tasting leather and