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the reality was that he feared one answer above all others—that Everard was not the grandson of a returned soldier, but was in fact the crusader himself.
    Such a thing seemed impossible. How could a man retain his youth and beauty for so many years? Yesterday, Sufyan would have declared these thoughts ridiculous, but after his encounter last night with the blood-fiend, he acknowledged now that all things were possible—including immortality.
    “Yesterday,” he said quietly, “I thought you were an angel.”
    Everard looked at him.
    “Azrael, the Angel of Death, to be exact,” Sufyan continued. “To the righteous, he appears in a form most perfect and pleasing. In your silver armor, you seemed to me unearthly and beautiful.”
    “Thank you.” Everard smiled. “Does your master know of your proclivities?”
    Sufyan chose to misunderstand the question. “He may suspect I'm a Muslim, but I doubt he cares. His Grace is more concerned with political power than with the state of my soul, although whenever he sees me, he likes to lecture me on certain aspects of Christianity. I don't know if he's trying to convert me or whether he likes the sound of his own voice. I suspect the latter.”
    “I didn't mean your faith.”
    Sufyan gave him a sharp look. “You see too much, Montparnasse.”
    Everard's smile deepened. “I know men. I would like to know you.”
    “Now you speak in riddles.” Sufyan felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He wasn't sure if that had been a proposition and refused to hope for too much.
    “On the contrary,” Everard corrected, “I believe my intentions are clear.”
    Sufyan drew up his knees. Even if this was nothing more than an innocent flirtation to pass the time, it was still having an effect on him. He didn't want Everard to think him so barbarous that he couldn't control his desires, but neither did he want to miss an opportunity if it were offered.
    “You said last night that the blood-fiend knew I was distracted,” Sufyan began. It felt difficult to admit the fact of his weakness so plainly. “You said it could sense my interest lay not with it, but elsewhere.”
    Everard looked straight at him. “Yes.”
    “You were the distraction.”
    “I know.”
    “It won't happen tonight.” Sufyan glanced away. “I will be focused.”
    “I know you will.”
    Sufyan looked at him. “You do?”
    “Yes,” said Everard calmly. “Because if I give myself to you now, you will stop wondering what it would be like to fuck me.”
    Sufyan gaped at him in astonishment.
    Everard watched his reaction. He seemed uncertain, voice soft with anxiety when he asked, “Am I too forward?”
    “Yes.” Sufyan changed his mind. “No. By God, you are unlike any other Norman I have ever met.”
    “That's because I have a secret.” Everard's eyes flashed before he lowered his gaze. He looked innocent, sweet, and tempting.
    “A secret,” Sufyan prompted. Almost without realizing it, he moved from his side of the fire to sit next to Everard. When he felt the well-worn fabric of the gray and white surcoat beneath his hands, he glanced down in bewilderment, surprised to find himself there.
    Everard edged nearer. He cast a brief glance up at Sufyan, his eyes dark and brilliant, as hard as steel and as wanton as springtime. “I have darkness within me,” he confided in a murmur. His lips shaped the words like a prayer, like a sin. “I am a man divided, torn between greatness and the basest need; between love and hate, good and evil, light and dark.”
    Sufyan barely heard what Everard said, his concentration entirely on the pale, perfect mouth, on that creamy skin and the ripe, tender body. He was close enough now to smell the wood-smoke caught in Everard's hair, to see the delicate shadow of a beard just beginning to show along Everard's jaw, to feel the tremble of eyelashes as Everard lifted his gaze to Sufyan in mute, deliberate appeal.
    “Help me,” Everard whispered. “Help me fight the