White Rose Blooming

By

Kadorienne

The students who took Professor Caesar Gabriel’s art history classes were motivated by love of beauty, but not necessarily in the form of paintings and statues.

Only twenty-eight years old, the professor was wand-slim, a fact which his shapeless, randomly chosen slacks and sweaters could not hide. His straight blond hair extended well past his shoulders, but only because he could never remember to get to the barber’s. His skin was clear and fair, protected from the sun by a lifetime spent in libraries and galleries and classrooms. His features were delicate and finely etched. He attracted admiring looks from men and women alike wherever he went, and remained, despite years of such gazes, completely oblivious to them.

In his entire life, there had only been two pairs of eyes that he had wanted fixed on him, and both, in the end, had found another sight more compelling.

"When you consider this Rembrandt of an old man thought to be—"

"He looks like Evan Andrews!" a voice from the classroom interrupted Caesar’s lecture.

Caesar looked away from the image projected onto the wall. "Who?"

"You know, that tycoon who died of an overdose last month."

The students chuckled softly; Professor Gabriel’s ignorance of headlines was a joke throughout the university. Coupled with his encyclopedic knowledge of art, languages, and history, it had cast him in every student’s mind as the quintessential absent-minded professor, and stories of his astounding ignorance were circulated regularly. It was said that, on the day the verdict was announced, he had wandered into a roomful of people discussing it and blurted, "OJ Who?"

Caesar looked at the student who had spoken for a moment. "He didn’t die of an overdose," he said matter-of-factly. "He was assassinated by a government agent."

The room was suddenly on the verge of exploding with suppressed laughter. "What government might that be?" one student managed to ask, his face red with glee.

Caesar thought for a second. "Some Arab country. Evan Andrews’ company was working on some kind of oil process they didn’t want perfected."

This time there was no holding back the giggles. In two seconds flat, half the students had fallen out of their chairs, holding their sides. The rest were bent over their desks, faces flushed.

The Professor looked around at them blankly. "I know that wasn’t very technical, but I don’t know anything about refining oil," he said bemusedly. And thus was born another legend of the absent-minded Professor Gabriel.

* * *

The Major sat alone in a corner of the hotel bar, morosely downing a dark beer.

Some might consider this a celebration, or at least a time to celebrate. Another mission accomplished successfully, without any of his agents getting killed, and without undue Eroica complications. In fact, as dealings with Eroica went, they had been rather smooth this time around. Of course, the pervert was annoying as ever, and Klaus had yelled at him constantly, but there hadn't been any blatant passes like that time in the Roman bath, nor had he been compelled to lay violent hands on the damned thief. That qualified as a success. So perhaps this lone, quiet beer qualified as a celebration.

Dorian definitely considered this time for celebration. He had swept in, flirted with Klaus a bit, ordered some ludicrous drink with cream and fancy garnish, and started dancing. Alone at first, and then a succession of women had joined him, even though they couldn't have been in any confusion about what kind of man Dorian was. Good God, the fact that he was a pervert was bad enough — did he have to flaunt it like that? But the way the women smiled at Dorian — they seemed to think it was cute.

Everyone was looking at the Earl. Not that that was surprising. The man was six feet tall, had a cascade of golden curls that any woman would have to envy and a face that was too pretty by half. Years ago, the pretty face and long curly hair had seemed incongruous with the strong arms and chest, but somewhere along the way, Klaus had gotten used to it.

There was, however, no getting used to Dorian’s wardrobe. Tonight he was wearing a flashy ruffled red shirt, belted at his narrow waist, that fell halfway over his slim hips, and black leather boots along with his skin-tight black pants. And of course the dangling bracelets, the black choker around his neck, and the earrings, jet disks that were quite striking against the golden hair. By contrast, the simple gold band on the third finger of his right hand was conspicuous in its simplicity. And that sunny smile lit up the dimly lit hotel bar.

Dorian blossomed as he always did when he was the center of attention. Klaus decided not to mull over any of the thief's past attention-getting ploys. With a mission just completed successfully, there was no point in getting angry.

Instead, he thought about how Dorian had been earlier that day, on the mission. The gamboling butterfly currently making a spectacle of himself on the dance floor was not the man who had coolly gotten them past a state-of-the-art security system as if it were as simple as saying, "Open sesame." The brains that man must have, and the nerves of steel — why in God's name did he hide it under all that foppish bullshit? And how could he have wasted such natural gifts to live a life of crime and perversion? He could have been a really first-rate agent, if he weren't so bloody narcissistic and self-indulgent.

Speaking of self-indulgence… a man was approaching Dorian. A man who was not particularly foppish, but something about the slight purse to his lips, and his somewhat prissy hand gestures, and the way he looked at Dorian, showed his nature clearly enough. Klaus turned his head away. He would not watch some stray faggot propositioning Dorian.

A couple of minutes later, when he finally glanced over again, Dorian was walking with the man, but looking right at Klaus. Not with flirtation or mockery, but with an unfathomable expression. Klaus glared back for a second before turning away again, and Dorian left the bar with the man he had just met.

Klaus downed the last of his beer and signaled for another one. He wanted to drink enough so that when he went to bed, he wouldn’t be thinking about what that sick bastard was up to.

Damned hot-pants pervert had no self-control.

* * *

The man took Dorian’s hand, twining their fingers together as they reached the sidewalk. Dorian felt his blood warm at the contact. Had it been Klaus’s hand on his, he would have been on fire.

"I didn’t catch your name," the man said softly.

"Dorian," he replied unhappily. He had grown to hate these moments. He tried to pull his hand away. The man held on to it, gently.

"Lovely name," he murmured, smiling at Dorian.

Dorian wanted to continue — his body was crying out for it, was demanding that the years of starvation come to an end.

He stepped away, withdrawing his hand decisively. "You’d better be getting home, darling. It’s late. I wouldn’t want your mother to worry."

He had to look away from the flash of hurt and embarrassment in the man’s eyes. He quickly went back inside the hotel and headed for the elevator, glancing about to make sure that Klaus had not seen his return. As he rode up to his floor, he wished he could apologize to his suitor of the night, explain to him.

This game had been amusing, once. No one would admit that they hadn’t bedded the easily bedded Earl of Gloria, and so each believed that he was the only one to have been rejected. But now Dorian knew how they felt, and it wasn’t any fun anymore.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto Dorian’s floor. Dorian went to his room and went to bed.

Alone.

* * *

Naturally, they all had to meet at nine in the morning for debriefing before catching their planes home. Dorian would be going back to England, not Bonn, and so he would be on a different flight. It meant that this meeting would be the last time he saw Klaus for a while. He would have to make the most of it.

Accordingly, he went against his nature and rose at dawn so that he could dress in a way that was certain to make an impression. That it would probably not be a favorable one did not stop him. Since he could not have his Major’s affection, he would settle for attention.

Red was always good for annoying the Major — why the man had such issues with the color red, Dorian had never learned — but he had worn red yesterday. He considered a matador-ish ensemble, but Klaus had seen him in one of those on their last mission together. And had made all sorts of jokes about bullshit, some of them quite clever.

At length, Dorian decided to dress conservatively — for him. Black silk shirt, white tie, white slacks and blazer, and a white fedora.

He’ll hate it, Dorian thought gleefully as he pinned a white rosebud to his lapel. Over the years, coming up with new ways to irritate the Major had become a game. Though it really wasn’t necessary. All anyone had to be to irritate the Major was present.

Dorian swept into the conference room, amused at how Klaus’s agents cringed at his entrance. The poor darlings. He supposed the Major must be a bit less difficult when he wasn’t around. Though not much.

Klaus was sitting at the table with a stack of newspapers, a cigarette and a cup of that awful Nescafé. As always, he was dressed in a crisply pressed suit and tie. Navy blue suit and unimaginative striped tie. The severe lines of the suit could not hide the muscled physique beneath it. His dark brown hair had grown a bit past his shoulders, a little longer than usual; Dorian supposed he was due for a trim. He already looked irate, but that was only normal. His scowl deepened as he looked up.

"Good morning, Major," Dorian sang out. "Love the suit. It makes me want to take it off you."

"Pervert." Klaus took a drag on his cigarette. "You are fortunate that I prefer not to punch people before breakfast. Sit down."

Dorian sat down. He answered the boring questions Klaus needed for his boring paperwork cooperatively, and listened nicely to the things Klaus felt it necessary to tell him. Klaus looked tired; paperwork was a terrible chore to him. Dorian wished he could smooth his hair, knead the tension out of his shoulders, hold him closely and make him forget everything. When Klaus was finished with his questions, Dorian kept his seat, gazing at his beloved.

"What do you want?" Klaus growled.

Instead of making the reply he would have truly liked to, Dorian smiled, leaned forward, and began to whisper to him. In the middle of the second sentence, Klaus shot to his feet, his face scarlet. "PERVERT!!!" he shouted.

Dorian was the picture of injured innocence. "But darling, you asked," he protested.

The Major’s emerald eyes narrowed. Suddenly he glanced around at his alphabets.

"Everyone except Eroica out of here," he ordered.

The alphabets rushed to obey, all of them shooting worried glances at Dorian. The poor darlings are all certain he’s going to kill me one of these days, Dorian thought affectionately. But, watching the way they fled, Dorian wondered, sadly and not for the first time, if Klaus had even one friend. If so, Dorian had never heard about it.

But now they were alone together, so it was imperative that he be obnoxious. He gave Klaus his most smoldering sidelong glance.

"You wanted to be alone with me," he murmured, putting a wealth of suggestion into his voice, knowing he was pushing it. "Is it because you didn’t want witnesses to my murder?"

The Major fixed Dorian with a cool, warning look. "Do not give me ideas. The fact is, I have been waiting for a moment to speak with you." He swallowed the last of his Nescafé and plunked the mug down. "This is none of your business, Eroica, but I am telling you so that you will not hear it second-hand."

"What’s that, darling?" Dorian replied, fluttering his lashes. It was an encouraging sign that Klaus hadn’t hit him yet. Maybe he wouldn’t, this time.

Klaus stubbed out his cigarette. He parted his lips to speak. And the world came to an end. "I am getting married."

On the whole, Dorian would have preferred a punch in the face.

Dorian froze, trying to breathe. Absurdly, he felt as hurt as if he had some right to be.

It makes no difference to me, Dorian reminded himself. Even if he were free, even if he wanted me, I couldn’t have him.

It didn’t help.

After a long and heavy silence, Klaus lit another cigarette. As he pocketed his lighter, he said, "I am telling you this because I thought you might make trouble if you learned of it some other way."

Dorian closed his eyes. "You really do think the worst of me, don’t you, Major?"

"Is there any reason that I should not?"

Dorian stood abruptly and crossed to the window. He knew he should be camping, pretending it didn’t matter, something, but he could scarcely stand up, let alone hide his anguish. He knew that his face was mortifyingly naked. The only reason he did not kick and scream was that he was in too much pain to do so.

Looking out the window, he swallowed with difficulty and forced himself to ask the question that his heart was shouting. He did not want to hear the answer, but he had to know. "Do you love her?"

"She is an intelligent and refined young lady from one of Germany’s best families."

Dorian managed a rueful little laugh. "And to think I was going to be jealous of her. The poor girl."

"Not everyone can squander their lives in self-indulgent searches for pleasure as you can," Klaus snapped. "And you are an Earl. One day you will have to marry and produce an heir as well."

Dorian’s mouth twisted bitterly. "That’s why my parents had me. Not because they wanted children, or loved me, or — oh, the hell with it. I think it served them right, getting an heir who is doing them no good whatsoever. And never will." He turned to face Klaus. "Doesn’t it trouble you, to think of the loveless home you and your wife and your children are going to live in? Was your own childhood so wonderful that you want to inflict it on others?"

Klaus glared at him. Then his expression eased to become merely serious. "Not everyone can talk about serious emotions as casually as you can," he said carefully. "That does not mean that we do not feel them."

Dorian turned paler. "So you do love her," he whispered.

"Are you going to cause trouble for me in this?" Klaus demanded.

Dorian swallowed. "No. I wouldn’t stand in the way of your happiness. You should know that, Major."

"Idiot."

"I hope she makes you happy," he said quietly, and turned to leave without another word.

* * *

Dorian arrived at Chandler’s home wearing one of his more eye-catching costumes, a tight sleeveless shirt of turquoise silk, an equally tight pair of black silk pants, and a flowing black jacket over them.

Chandler greeted him with open arms. Dorian returned his mentor’s embrace with relief, resting his chin briefly on top of the man’s head. It reminded him of the very first time the man had hugged him, the first time they had met. Then it had been Chandler’s chin on the top of Dorian’s head. And even though Dorian had been only fourteen, he had known instinctively that this embrace was purely fatherly; there had been no threat in it. That had always been important.

Chandler stepped back and cast an indulgent glance over Dorian’s attire. "Let’s have some tea," he said, leading the way to his study. Dorian found himself relaxing at the familiar, comfortable environment: the overflowing bookshelves lining every wall, too many for this tiny house; the clutter of a man with better things to do than tidy up; the worn furniture, exactly the same pieces that had been there thirteen years ago, and probably longer. The only room here that really changed was the basement. That was where Chandler kept his burglary tools, and samples of all the latest locks to practice on. It was there that Chandler had tutored Dorian in the skills of their trade.

Dorian curled up on the divan, accepted a cup of tea, and waited for the inevitable rebuke.

"I understand you accepted another NATO mission," Chandler began with gentle reproof.

"I just returned. And nothing happened."

"No more Roman bath incidents?"

Dorian could not help coloring a bit as he looked away. "I couldn’t help myself that time. He walked right in and I was — I didn’t plan that encounter. I never dreamed he’d come in while I was in the bath." Even after all these years, the memory was embarrassing.

* * *

Dorian stared in shock. He could not believe the uptight Major would actually come in here, not with him naked in the bath. The Major’s emerald gaze was focused on his face coldly, as if his nudity were unimportant.

"It is time to get out of there," Klaus ordered grimly. "Get out of that bath now and get to work."

The thought of getting out of the water with Klaus right there made Dorian’s head spin. Did Klaus actually not mind seeing him naked? And good God, had it not occurred to Klaus what effect his presence would have on Dorian?

No. There were too many reasons for him not to get out. Not just now. Perhaps when the Major left, he could take a very quick cold shower….

"After I’ve finished my bath, Major," he said as casually as he could. He knew that he was blushing, but if Klaus noticed, he gave no sign.

Klaus strode purposefully closer to the edge of the bath. "I am going to stay right here until you get out," he declared, to Dorian’s amazement.

He looked so terribly serious. Dorian suddenly realized that Klaus was so intent on his purpose that Dorian’s nudity or the oddity of the situation had not even occurred to him.

With a sudden flick of mischief, Dorian slid the soap across the tile floor, where it obligingly went right under Klaus’s foot. Instantly Dorian was contrite — suppose the Major was injured? But Klaus, cursing, merely went down next to the edge of the bath. One grey-trousered leg brushed against Dorian’s arm.

That contact, slight as it was, was all it took. Dorian could not help himself. He grasped Klaus’s leg, noticing with appreciation the hard muscles under the fabric, and pulled him right where he belonged, into the water and Dorian’s arms. Every other purpose in his mind was forgotten; he knew only that this man belonged in his embrace.

Klaus did not struggle, not right away, and at the moment, this seemed only natural. Without a thought, only the need to touch and see this beautiful man, Dorian began to undo the knot of Klaus’s tie. "Why don’t you take a bath before work, too? You can get to it feeling refreshed, you know," he murmured absently as he tossed the tie away and began to unbutton Klaus’s shirt. The numerous and excellent reasons why he should not be doing any of this evaporated from his mind, because this was right, this was the proper way of the universe.

Klaus had been frozen, staring at him. As his shirt opened and Dorian’s fingertips brushed his skin, sending fire through the veins of Dorian’s arms that spread swiftly throughout his body, Klaus flinched and seemed to come to life.

He grabbed for his tie and tried to pull away from Dorian’s embrace. "I don’t want a naked man to touch me!"

God, no. Dorian could not let go now. It would hurt too much. It would kill him. He could not live without touching this man. He tightened his hold on Klaus.

Klaus froze again, staring at Dorian as if mesmerized. Dorian leaned closer. God, the man was beautiful, so delectable with his shirt half undone and his dark brown hair darkened further with water….

"Jet black hair," Dorian said softly as he moved slowly closer, prolonging the delicious moment before their lips would meet. "The color of wet crow’s feathers.... very sexy." He reached for Klaus’s buttons again, drawing the precious moment out. He had never known touching another man could be like this. And this was only the beginning, oh God, he was beautiful…. "You’re dripping wet, and it gives me a tingle in my spine just to watch you drip... Major...."

Dorian’s fingers came to rest on Klaus’s elbows and moved slowly up to his shoulders. Klaus, still gazing enthralled, suddenly gave a quick shudder. An instant later he had torn himself from Dorian’s arms and out of the water. Not looking at Dorian, he shakily rebuttoned his shirt and put his tie back on, more as if he needed something to occupy himself with than anything else.

He walked to the wall and planted himself there with his back turned decisively on Dorian. "Now I am getting chills," he snapped tensely.

You aren’t the only one, Dorian reflected bleakly. Humiliation was curdling in his stomach. He felt certain that he would never again be able to look anyone in the eye. He battled the urge to walk over to Klaus and try again. Good God, how could Klaus not feel it? This was a law of nature. The sun rose in the east, and Klaus belonged in Dorian’s arms. His absence was physically painful.

Dorian suddenly covered his face with his hands, grateful for Klaus’s turned back. The lack of Klaus’s touch was agony enough. The humiliation of the rejection was worse. And on top of all that, the knowledge of how close he had come to tossing his vows out the window — this was a kind of insanity.

Frustration made his movements agitated as he climbed out of the bath. All of his certainties had been obliterated. At that moment, he would have considered Illumination well lost for the touch of a man who despised him.

Well. Nothing to do but carry on.

He despondently reached for a towel. Glancing over at Klaus, still wet and shivering with his back turned, Dorian groped for something Eroica-ish to say.

"Weren’t you going to wait until I got out?" was the best he could manage, and he knew his tone wasn’t coming off as it should. He pulled on his robe and left for his suite without another word. He could use the time it took to dress to compose himself.

* * *

"Anyhow, nothing came of it," Dorian said. "Not even a kiss."

"You can’t take any credit for that. You lost all self-control. If he hadn’t run away from you—"

"Do you have to keep reminding me of that? It was years ago!"

"Need I remind you that you took a vow, Eroica?"

"You needn’t. But you needn’t worry, either. Being in love with Major Eberbach is the best possible defense for my chastity." The aristocratic voice broke. "He hates me. And he hates — queers."

"I still don’t understand why you feel the need to tell everyone that you’re gay when you don’t act on it."

Dorian arched an eyebrow, smiling wryly. "Do you think that if I didn’t tell them, no one would suspect?" He tossed his curling mane over his shoulder and allowed the lacy cuff of his sleeve to flutter as emphasis.

Chandler shook his head ruefully. "You weren’t made for celibacy, Eroica. You are too capable of enjoyment."

Dorian’s lashes cast a shadow over his cheekbones as he lowered his gaze. "That’s true. But I took my vow, and — I’ll keep it."

"Everyone knows that you’re pursuing him, Eroica. It would be best if you avoided him altogether."

Dorian sighed. "In the future, I shall."

Chandler stopped, raising a brow. "I’ve been telling you to stay away from him for years. You always insisted you had to see him even if you couldn’t have him. What’s changed? Have you finally gotten over him?"

"I’ll never get over him. I’ll love him till I die, and after." Dorian swallowed. "He’s engaged." It was the first time Dorian had said it aloud. The words were bitter on his tongue.

Thus far, Dorian had resisted the temptation to send someone to find out who she was and what she was like. He was scarcely able to drag his mind away from speculation, however. Was she tall and blonde, or had Klaus chosen a petite dark girl, as different from Dorian as possible? Was she pretty? Kind? Shy or confident?

And most of all, did she love Klaus?

Worse was the painful curiosity about what Klaus was like with her. How he spoke to her, looked at her… and more. The speculation was going to drive Dorian mad.

Chandler waited a tactful moment before speaking. "I know that must be difficult, Eroica, but it’s probably for the best."

"Yes. He needs someone. I just hope she can—"

"I meant the best for you."

"Haven’t you ever been in love?" Dorian demanded in exasperation.

Chandler sighed, looking suddenly sad and resigned. "Yes, I have. And I remember. Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re going through. But I think I have something interesting to distract you."

Dorian looked up, sipping his tea. He drew one knee up and rested his wrist on it, negligently holding the cup with his little finger crooked. "Another mission? Is this to the library in Tibet?"

Chandler shook his head slowly, regretfully. "We sent an advance team to Tibet. Everything there was destroyed," he said flatly.

That news did not hurt quite as much as Klaus’s engagement, but almost. Dorian closed his eyes. "All those millennia of knowledge?"

"Destroyed."

Dorian nodded slowly, painfully. "My God. Those animals. That must have been the greatest reserve of arcane wisdom in existence."

"It can be salvaged!" Chandler said fiercely. "What was learned once may be learned again! And there are other repositories of wisdom in the world!"

Dorian tried to smile through his grief. First Klaus, now Tibet. Not a combination that would occur to many people. "And I presume that you’re going to send me after one of them."

"Yes, but not a library. A man."

"Who?"

"An acquaintance of an old friend of yours." Chandler rose, crossed to the sitting room, and beckoned to someone. A minute later a slender young man about Dorian’s age, with long straight blond hair, a pretty face and large eyes entered shyly. "Eroica," Chandler said with a smile, "I think you’ll remember Professor Caesar Gabriel."

Dorian rose and clasped the boy’s hand — even though they were the same age, or nearly so, it was impossible not to think of him as much younger. The look he gave Dorian from under his long lashes was as shy as ever, and there was a trace of his old infatuation there, though only a trace.

The boy was as lovely as he had been the last time they met, Dorian thought, and he looked much the same, except that his features were a bit more sharply defined as the roundness of youth had fallen away from them.

"Lovely to see you again, Caesar. I still have the exquisite statue you modeled for."

"Caesar has joined the Illuminati," Chandler explained.

"High time!" Dorian replied with a smile. He glanced at Caesar’s right hand, and sure enough, there was the simple gold band on his ring finger, like the ones that Dorian and Chandler both wore, the token of membership. "When did we first invite you? Ten years ago?"

Caesar smiled slightly. "Yes, but the vow of chastity put me off."

"May I ask what made you decide to take it, then?"

Caesar flushed a bit, quite adorably, and looked at the floor. "Leopard and Sugar got married a couple of months ago."

"I see," Dorian said gently. He did not ask which of them Caesar had been pining for. So I am not the only one.

"And after taking his vows, Caesar told us how he and his friends acquired their powers," Chandler put in.

"Yes?" Dorian asked, sitting down again, idly brushing his hair over his shoulder. Caesar sat in the straight-backed chair across from him, perching on the edge of it.

"When Leopard, Sugar and I were young, we were in Peru with our parents. We got lost in the wilderness for three days. We were about to collapse, when an old man approached us. He — I don’t know how he did it, but it was he who gave us our powers."

"Which are?"

"Sugar can see the future, sometimes. Leopard has very fast healing and reflexes. And I — I simply know things. Without knowing how I know them."

"Such as? What do you know about me now?" Dorian challenged lightly.

Caesar looked at the floor again as he considered. "You’re very unhappy." Dorian said nothing. Caesar raised eyes full of compassion. "You’re in love with someone who hates you and loves another."

Dorian’s mouth tightened. "What is our mission?" he asked Chandler. He felt a bit guilty at Caesar’s rebuffed expression, but he did not want to talk about Klaus’s engagement.

"To find the man who gave Caesar and his friends their powers."

"You said he was old. He might not be alive, after so many years."

"A man with such powers might well be. And if he isn’t, surely someone would have been appointed to carry them on."

"Do you have any idea where he is now?" Dorian asked Caesar. "Or what his name is?"

"None."

"So our plan is to go to Peru and wander around in the hopes that we’ll find him?"

"With Caesar’s abilities, it could work. And there are other things worth looking into. Caesar knows things instinctively about works of art, you know. You must take him to look at the Nasca lines, and Cusco. And there are Incan treasures which might need rescuing."

"When do we leave?"

"As soon as you can gather your team, Eroica."

* * *

James, of course, seemed to be on the verge of a stroke at the suggestion of a trip to Peru.

"It’ll cost a fortune!" he wailed. "There’s all kinds of things you could steal right here in England, my lord!"

"But the things I want to steal are in Peru," Dorian explained patiently.

"He’s right, me lord," Bonham had insisted unhelpfully. "I just got wind of some wonderful emeralds in Portugal, and a buyer who’ll pay—"

Dorian shook his head. "How many times must I tell you all that I cannot steal for money alone? I must be inspired."

His team had all nodded in resignation, not much happier about the prospect than James. He had looked at them for a minute, coolly told them, "Pack everything up and leave at once, preferably tonight. I want you all to go there a couple of days ahead of me to set things up," and turned on his heel for the sanctuary of his bedroom.

His team was like his family — more so than those who actually shared his blood. And as was often the case with a family, he loved them all and knew he was loved in return, but seldom did he feel understood. So often he tried to tell them about the things dearest to his heart — art, beauty, Illumination, and of course the Major — and saw their faces and knew that he might as well have been speaking Sanskrit. None of them, of course, knew about the Illuminati.

When he insisted, they would go along with his plans, would follow him to the ends of the earth if he led them there, and yet they did so as if they were humoring a child with grand notions.

"Is bringing me down from being a hero to a comic role the divine ordeal designated for me?" he demanded aloud of the empty room.

Alone among his favorite treasures, he sat on his bed — a luxurious but narrow single bed, a constant reminder to himself of his vow of celibacy — and gazed about at the works he had so unlawfully acquired. The Giorgione shepherd, with its large and soulful eyes. The angel for which Caesar had modeled. An obscure but striking portrait by Romaine Brooks, of a middle-aged woman who, like all Brooks’s subjects, seemed to regard the viewer with a level glance full of self-awareness and dignity. And many other works which would have fetched several kings’ ransoms had Dorian allowed his people to sell them, but which no force on earth could induce him to part with.

What was it about these particular works that compelled him? Dorian could not have said. They spoke without words of mysteries, of the depths of the spirit, of the indefinable power that lay dormant in every soul.

Art, the Illuminati believed, was one key, one path to unlocking that power and elevating humans to the godlike status where they belonged. All of the Illuminati’s various pursuits had one goal: to bring what were vulgarly known as psychic powers within reach, to Illuminate the hidden depths of the human mind. It was not the next step in human evolution, it was the key to reversing the species’ decline. Comparing the works of Egypt to those of the present convinced Dorian that decline it had. The world was dissolving, not in evil, but in banality. He would find the way to rescue the human race from mundane idiocy if he possibly could.

* * *

When the Chief summoned Klaus the day after his return, he resolved that no matter what the requirements of this mission, he would not allow the Chief to strong-arm him into hiring Eroica this time.

In his office, the Chief shoved a photo over to him, of a young man with long, straight blond hair and a rather pretty face. "Do you remember this chap?"

Klaus scowled at the photo. "Caesar Gabriel. That sniveling brat you thought was psychic." Investigating that boy had been the first mission that Eroica had mucked up for him.

"And you concluded that he was not."

"That is correct, sir."

"Something happened recently that has renewed our suspicions."

"Does NATO have good reason to believe that such powers even exist?" Klaus demanded skeptically.

The Chief met his gaze stonily. "If such abilities exist, we cannot afford to ignore them."

Klaus nodded curtly. "What happened with this boy?"

"He’s hardly a boy now. He was lecturing to his class and someone brought up Evan Andrews’ recent death by overdose. Gabriel remarked off-handedly that Andrews’ death was not an overdose, that he was murdered by an assassin from a Middle Eastern power who want an end to certain research that his company is conducting."

Klaus’s brows met. "Are you telling me that the boy was right?"

"Entirely."

"That news story was a cover."

"Yes. And we’ve been monitoring the news; there have been no leaks."

"Perhaps he simply guessed."

"It’s a cynical guess, and Gabriel is not a cynical person. He’s one of those artistic dreamers. And Andrews’ company’s research is quite hush-hush. Only a handful of people know about it."

"So you think ESP told him the truth."

"Either that, or else he heard it from a reliable source. In which case, we need to track that source. Find Gabriel and find out how he knew. This could be very critical indeed."

"At once, sir."

On the way to his office, the Major jerked his head at A, who quickly rose to follow. Inside, he showed A the photo. "Remember this brat?"

"Yes, sir. The alleged psychic."

"Pull all of the files on him and find out his current whereabouts. And find out if he is still associating with that curly-haired bugger."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed!"

Only a short time later, B tapped on the door. He entered with a thin file, which he laid on Klaus’s desk without a word. Klaus opened it, dismissed B with a nod, and looked at the printout and photo before him for quite a while.

Years ago, he had given B a short list of names and given him the assignment of constantly monitoring those on that list, and notifying him whenever information came along. Over the years, the list had gotten slowly shorter. Now there was only one name left on it.

Santiago Gonzalez. Current whereabouts: Lima, Peru.

An hour later A entered. "Sir. Professor Gabriel just flew to Cusco, Peru yesterday, with his friend Leopard Solid. I found out the name of the hotel where he’s staying. And there is no record of association with the Earl in the last ten years."

"Peru?" Klaus looked meditatively at the file B had brought in. Several years ago, he had believed that the world operated by random chance. Since then, he had experienced enough coincidences to believe in Fate. Though he did not consider Fate to be a benevolent force. Fate had a malicious sense of humor. Eroica was proof of that.

"Book a flight tomorrow," Klaus ordered. "Me, you, B, G, Z. Cusco, Peru." He didn’t really want G along, useful and dedicated though the simpering transvestite was, but the Chief deserved the separation for making him hire Eroica on the last mission.

"Yes, sir."

Evening found Klaus sitting stoically in a limousine beside his father. He did not expect to enjoy this dinner, but it was his duty to withstand it.

"You and Greta should set a wedding date tonight," his father said. Ordered, really. "When I was your age, I was already married and had a higher rank."

Klaus set his jaw. "I will speak to her," was all he said. He had to concede that his father was right. He and Greta had been engaged for nearly a year now, and still had not formally announced it, much less set a date. She had pressed him, gently, to set one a few times. There had been so many delays, his work being what it was, but it had been long enough.

He should have told Eroica sooner, though. The result of the news had been a relief. He had been certain it would either cause a blowup of unprecedented proportions, or else rid him of the nuisance forever. Dorian’s wistful question about whether Klaus loved his fiancée had inadvertently shown him the way to discourage him. The thief hadn’t sent an ounce of flirtation his way since. Who would have thought a pervert would have such respect for betrothal. His stricken look when he heard the news had been more than Klaus expected. He supposed the perverted idiot must actually mean the things he said.

Klaus’s father had arranged this evening’s visit to Schloss Holbein without consulting him, knowing that Klaus would accede to his duty to his father and to his fiancée and go along.

It was time he had a serious relationship with a woman, Klaus thought. All the women in his life had passed through it in a matter of hours. The encounters had been unsatisfying at best. But it was small wonder, considering that he had never been with a woman he cared for or respected. Two years ago, after another awkward night with a beautiful woman of dubious character, he had realized it was time for something more.

Accordingly, at the tedious social functions his family’s position required that he attend, he had looked over the eligible young women whose parents did not neglect to introduce them to him, and found Greta. He liked the way she looked him, and everyone, right in the eye. She did not unleash a barrage of flirtation on him, but spoke intelligently. She was well-educated and articulate, and not vain even though she was rather pretty, in a quiet way. He had liked her at once.

He had begun a courtship, in formal terms which he later realized belonged to his father’s generation, or perhaps even his grandfather’s. She had seemed amused by his old-fashioned, correct advances.

She had fallen in love with him.

At Schloss Holbein he greeted Greta first, taking her hand, remembering to smile and compliment her dress, and then made the correct remarks to her parents and visiting aunts. He was filling every social protocol perfectly, he congratulated himself.

He submitted dutifully to the hour of cocktails and tedious small talk with the entire family. Greta, he noted with approval, withstood it better than he did. In fact, her sensible nature and gentle humor improved matters a great deal. She spoke to her elders with respect, even when they made remarks he knew that she disagreed with. Her poise never faltered; her manners were perfect. No man could ask for a better wife.

It was about an hour after the Eberbachs’ arrival that Greta’s mother suggested, with studied casualness, that the young couple might like to take a walk around the grounds. Klaus offered Greta his arm properly and escorted her outside. The sun was beginning to set; the clouds were turning colors, and there was still plenty of light.

When they were a short distance from the castle, Greta broke the silence. "When did you return from your mission?"

"Three days ago."

"And you didn’t come to see me until today."

Klaus frowned as he realized his error. "Forgive me. I should have. The only excuse I can claim is that of exhaustion. But after all, we will see plenty of each other once we are married."

She did not smile. "Weren’t you even a little impatient to see me?"

This, Klaus judged, was a good opportunity. "I am impatient to set a date, Greta. Though I am about to depart on another mission, and there is no telling how long it will take, so we must not make it too soon—"

Greta stopped and searched his face. "You are finally ready to set a date?"

"Yes. Do you think in about six months would—"

"Why? Why are you ready now?"

Klaus was a bit taken aback. "Well… it has been a year. We have waited long enough."

"I would say so. How long would it have taken you, today, to arrange to be alone with me? My mother had to suggest it."

"I was certain that a convenient moment would come," Klaus began, but Greta turned away from him and resumed walking. He followed obediently.

"Is it strange that I think that my fiancé should be impatient enough to see me alone after being away for six weeks that he wouldn’t be willing to wait for a convenient moment?" she asked softly.

He drew a breath. "Greta. Listen to me." He stopped, and she did as well, meeting his eyes seriously. "We have been through this before. I have never pretended to be the sort who can spout idiotic poetry or any such nonsense. But you will never have cause to complain of me."

"I’m sure," she said sadly. "Klaus, tell me. Have you ever been in love?"

Klaus frowned, unsure what to answer. Greta smiled ruefully.

"The correct answer, Klaus, is ‘Of course I have, with you.’ You could at least pretend. It would be polite."

"There’s no one else. I have been completely faithful to you since the day we met."

"I don’t doubt that. I wish I could. It would be more flattering, if I could believe there was someone else." She sighed, turned her profile to him. "Klaus… mine is one of the oldest families in Germany. For what it is worth in this democratic age, we are titled. I’m also unfortunate enough to be the sole heiress to a very large fortune. I have always known that I could not hope for a love match. I have too much to offer besides myself. But I always hoped that some man would be grateful that a good family had produced an heiress like me." She gave him a searching look. "That he would consider himself lucky to find a woman who was not only well-born and wealthy, but also pretty, intelligent, and — passionate."

Klaus had been going to protest, but the last word made him flush. He scowled. At last he sidestepped the remark. "Greta, ever since I was sixteen, I have had to endure constant attacks from eligible young ladies and their mothers. I know what that is like. You should not think I was only…." He tried to find the right words.

"It’s been a month and a half since you last saw me, and you haven’t even kissed me yet," she said sadly. "Klaus, you don’t want me. Not even a little."

"I proposed to you, didn’t I?"

She laughed mirthlessly, shaking her head. "Klaus…." She tried several times to say more, but at last, blinking away tears, she silently removed his mother’s diamond from her finger and held it out to him.

He frowned reprovingly. "Greta, you are being childish. I will not falter in my obligations to you. I—"

With a little sob, she dropped the ring to the ground at his feet, turned, and ran away, covering her face with her hands.

Klaus stared after her, with no idea what to do next. He hadn’t thought she was in earnest. He hadn’t taken her complaints especially seriously.

After a moment, he bent and retrieved the ring. It was still warm from her flesh. Brushing it off carefully, he pondered whether he should find her and try to change her mind. But the fact that he had not even realized what the problem was convinced him that he should not. They were not as compatible as he had hoped.

He put the ring in his breast pocket. He regretted Greta’s distress, but he already was feeling guiltily relieved to be free of her.

When he returned to the others, Greta was not present. Her mother looked at him sharply, then resignation settled on her features.

"Where is your fiancée?" Klaus’s father demanded.

"I suppose she went to change," her mother said smoothly. "Have you seen the new opera house, Herr Eberbach? I think I rather prefer the older ones, though it does have all the latest amenities."

Klaus’s father shot Klaus a suspicious look, but allowed Frau Holbein to change the subject. Greta did not rejoin them for dinner.

Klaus’s reprieve ended the moment they were inside the limousine. "What’s wrong with Fraulein Holbein?" his father demanded.

Without a word, Klaus took the ring from his pocket and handed it to his father. Herr Eberbach took it with deep discontentment.

"How did you bungle it?"

"I didn’t. She was planning to end our engagement before she saw me."

"Why? What did you do?"

"She wants someone romantic," Klaus said flatly.

His father shook his head and made a small noise of disgust. "Women. In my day, parents wouldn’t have allowed a girl to ruin a good match over such foolish considerations."

"Did you talk romantically to my mother?"

His father ignored the question. He had hardly spoken of his wife since her death thirty years ago. "You should have talked some sense into her."

"I tried."

"You obviously did not try hard enough."

Klaus stopped arguing. He listened to his father’s recriminations in silence for the rest of the ride home. When they reached Schloss Eberbach, his father demanded, "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Klaus looked straight ahead, his jaw set grimly. "Nothing, sir."

His father glared at him for a minute. The chauffeur opened the limousine door. "We’ll discuss this more tomorrow," his father said before stepping out. Klaus also got out and went to his own room without a word. He saw no need to mention that he was catching a flight to South America tomorrow.

He changed into workout clothes and went to his gymnasium. He was upset and needed exercise. In spite of the ashamed relief that he no longer had to try to behave in the unnatural way required of a dutiful fiancé, he was troubled. It was partly because he had hurt Greta, which he had not wished to do. He focused carefully on that aspect of his disquiet.

But under that was the knowledge of something else. He had hoped that marriage would solve things for him, problems he had never quite put into words. He had expected it to give him a certain safety.

Face it, Eberbach, he told himself as he glanced in the mirror. You’ve lost another battle.

He drew a breath and lifted his head. One battle was not the war. It was not in him to give up. He would find another way to fight, and this time he would win.

* * *

Dorian’s team was already ensconced in the best rooms of Cusco’s most comfortable hotel and had a two-bedroom suite waiting for Dorian and Caesar.

"I can’t get used to hearing you called by Leopard’s name," Caesar told Dorian in a low voice as Bonham drove them to the hotel. All the airport employees had addressed Dorian as "Señor Solid". "Do members of the Illuminati always travel incognito?"

"Not often. I simply thought no one would consider it amiss that you were travelling with your old friend."

"Why would anyone consider anything amiss?"

Dorian shrugged. "I suppose I’ve simply picked up paranoid habits from association with NATO. I imagine I’ll grow out of it now."

"Why?"

"Because I am not working for NATO anymore." Dorian quickly leaned forward to speak to Bonham, eager to change the subject. "Is this car going to hold up for our visit?"

"The engine’s in great shape, me lord."

"Then I suppose James didn’t choose this vehicle."

"No, he cried buckets when we bought it."

Dorian laughed. Caesar, who had already heard numerous James stories, asked, "Why in the world do you tolerate him?"

"Because he’s one of my own," Dorian answered promptly, and then added, "When my father died, he left no money and a stack of debts that would make your blood run cold. James is the one who kept me out of bankruptcy."

"James and your own light fingers, me lord," Bonham reminded him. "We did a bit of advance scouting, me lord," he remarked a minute later as he pulled into the hotel’s parking lot, "so we already know of a few odds and ends that might merit your attention. Sadly mistreated, and worth their weight in gold to the archaeology blokes."

But Bonham waited until they were walking up the stairs to their suite before admitting, "We didn’t tell James that you were bringing the professor, me lord, so—"

This information was cut short by a piercing shriek. "Oh, no! No, my lord! Not that horrible boy again!"

Dorian sighed. "James, he’s just here to identify artworks for us—"

"You said he was your obsession! I knew you would go back to him in time!"

"James, that was ten years ago," Dorian reminded him in exasperation.

"And now you’re going to share a suite with him!" James stopped whining and commenced howling. Dorian gave Caesar a resigned look.

"Would you mind rooming with Jones, Caesar?"

"Not at all," Caesar murmured, stunned by the entire exchange.

"There, you hear that, Jamesie? Now go get your things and put them in one of the rooms in my suite. Caesar will take your room!"

James’ tears evaporated instantly and he bounced back into his former room for his things, caroling his stroke of luck to all within hearing. Dorian winked at Caesar and entered his suite.

It was Cusco’s best hotel, but would have been considered scarcely acceptable in Europe or the States. The plumbing was only barely adequate, but in South America, better could hardly be expected. But this was not the first time Dorian had foregone his admittedly beloved creature comforts for the sake of a mission for the Order — or for NATO. The furniture was comfortable and the cracked stucco walls he saw out the window and overgrown flowers had a charm of their own, as did even the heavy humidity.

A complete change of scenery, and a new companion. Precisely what he needed. Inhaling the overpowering fragrance of the flowers, he reminded himself that the Major’s engagement was the best thing for all concerned. The Major needed someone. Desperately. It would have been nice if Dorian had been that someone, but then, he could not be, and not only because Klaus hated queers. Dorian was grateful, in fact, that the one serious temptation to break his vows had been removed once and for all. That gratitude was not whole-hearted, but it was genuine. Now he simply had to accustom himself to a life in which Klaus had no part whatsoever, even the tantalizing, unsatisfying part he had had in the past.

It would be easier, once he had lived with it for a time.

A commotion across the hall distracted him from his musings. Dorian quickly went into the hall. The commotion was coming from the room Jones was going to share with Caesar. Dorian walked in without a word, thinking a cool head might be needed where Caesar and James were concerned.

He entered the little sitting room between the two bedrooms to find Caesar stretched out unconscious on the sofa, as Jones tried to revive him and James ranted something about specimens for entomologists.

"What happened?" Dorian asked in the calm voice he used for Jamesian events.

"There was a monster of a spider in the bathroom, milord," Jones explained, "and the professor walked in and saw it and just keeled right over."

"So he still has the habit of fainting, me lord?" Bonham asked at Dorian’s shoulder.

"Evidently. I had hoped he would have outgrown it," Dorian sighed as he went to sit at Caesar’s side. His lids were flickering as if he were dreaming. "I’ll wake him, Jones. You deal with the spider."

This evoked another screech from James. "Don’t kill it! It’s a huge specimen! We can sell it to a scientist! Bug experts always need specimens!" He followed Jones into the bathroom, still carping.

Dorian dipped his handkerchief in the glass of water Jones had had ready for Caesar and moistened the boy’s brow.

"So Uncle NATO didn’t teach him any of his virility, it seems," Bonham remarked.

Dorian’s mouth twitched. "Please don’t bring the machine maniac up, Bonham," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off Caesar’s pale face.

Bonham sent him an inquiring look. "Hem… any particular reason, me lord?"

Dorian drew a breath. "He’s engaged," he announced flatly. There. That was the second time he had said it. In time, it would become easy. He hoped.

Bonham was evidently groping for something sympathetic to say. He was saved from the necessity by James’ triumphant emergence with a drinking glass in which the arachnid in question was imprisoned. Looking at it, Dorian didn’t altogether blame Caesar. It was enormous. James charged down the hall, announcing his planned profit to the bemused tourists who peeked from the other rooms. Dorian shook his head, sympathizing with the unsuspecting entomologists who were about to be accosted.

Caesar sat up abruptly, opening his eyes with a gasp.

"It’s all right, Caesar," Dorian said soothingly. "It’s gone."

Caesar shuddered and put his face in his hands.

"Were you having a bad dream?" Dorian asked gently.

"Whenever I faint, I have — flashbacks."

"Flashbacks?"

"To previous lives. It’s been this way ever since I got these powers."

Dorian was at once intrigued. "What did you remember?"

Caesar drew a breath. "I’ve recalled bits of this life before. It seems to be the late eighteenth century, and I was a police detective in New York."

"Did they have detectives back then?"

"They must have. Leopard and Sugar were there, too," he added. "But that time, she chose me."

Dorian put a comforting hand on Caesar’s arm.

"Well, he got killed," Caesar admitted glumly.

"What a pair we are," Dorian said ruefully. "Let’s try to distract each other, shall we? After all, we have important work to do. Let’s wash up and go to some museums."

* * *

Klaus and G both attracted attention when Klaus and his alphabets checked into a hotel in Cusco. Pretty blondes were not very plentiful in this corner of the world, and of course G looked like a girl even when he wore a suit. But today he was in his preferred dress and hose and high heeled shoes and makeup. And his diminutive stature and slight build made him a very convincing transvestite. Christ, even Eroica was more masculine than that. And at least Eroica did not feel the need to simper and pretend to be helpless except at the most urgent moments, as G did. Eroica’s dandified affectations were downright powerful by comparison. Why the hell did queers feel the need to pretend to be airheads?

"Keep those lechers away from G," Klaus muttered at the other agents, much to G’s disappointment.

Klaus pretended that he did not notice his own admirer, a tall, shapely redhead in a tight, expensive dress. She had been crossing through the lobby with two besotted men in tow when she caught sight of Klaus, standing at the desk, and found some excuse to loiter, trying to catch his eye. He was aware of her appreciative glance, but carefully did not look in her direction. He was annoyed. He could not see any reason why people had to lust after him. It was a plain nuisance.

The clerk handed them their room keys. Klaus led the way up the stairs. He scarcely gave them time to put their suitcases down before saying, "Find out where that boy is right now."

* * *

Cusco was sufficiently magical that Dorian was able to forget the Major for minutes at a time. There was seemingly no end to the artifacts, both beautiful and fascinating, the city offered. Caesar could distinguish real from faked at a glance, even more quickly than Dorian could. And in the patterns on the items they looked at, there were, now and then, tantalizing hints at the mysteries they pursued.

A few of the many museums the city had to offer were good enough to pass Western standards, their treasures adequately protected from the ravages of time. Most were not, and Dorian was already making plans to rescue certain items from irresponsible care.

One day, as they were prowling through another substandard museum, Caesar suddenly looked up from the shelves of pottery, an expression of uncomplicated fright passing over his pretty face.

"That German Major is after me again!" he exclaimed.

Dorian felt as if cold water had been dashed on him. "What?"

"Major Eberbach — remember him? That fierce NATO Major? He’s coming after me again!"

Dorian put a soothing hand on Caesar’s arm. "Caesar, are you certain about this?"

"Of course! These feelings are never wrong. I only wish they were!" He put his head in his hands.

"Why on earth would he be after you? Can you sense the reason?"

Caesar shook his head hopelessly. "Maybe the same reason he arrested me last time, to test my powers."

"And he’s come all the way here to do it?" Dorian asked incredulously.

"He’s here! You have to believe me!"

"All right, all right!" Dorian turned to Bonham. "You and Jones go to the hotel and get our things. Don’t let him see you, if he’s hanging around, and don’t check out. We’ll head for the Lines at once."

"But my lord, if we don’t check out, we’ll have to pay for the rooms!" James whined.

"If we do check out, we’ll all be handed over to Interpol," Dorian snapped, exaggerating the risk as he always did when dealing with James.

"But we can’t leave without getting the things you said you would!" James wailed. "We need those to sell for the expenses!"

"I’ll go back for them later, James," Dorian said with all the patience he could muster.

"But the Major isn’t stupid, milord," Jones objected. "He’s going to guess where we’ve all gone. We’ve got to have a distraction for him."

Normally Dorian would have jumped at the chance. But now….

"I suppose there’s no help for it," he said reluctantly. He felt irrationally annoyed at Klaus. Why was Klaus always getting in the way of his missions? "Caesar, you will continue to travel — under the name Leopard Solid. I will travel to Lima as Caesar Gabriel. The Major will follow me away from you."

"No!" James screeched. "You’re going to be lovers with the Major, aren’t you?"

The knife twisted. Dorian gave James a weary look. "James, he’s engaged. He might even be married by now."

"You wouldn’t philander with a married man, would you, my lord?" James asked hopefully.

"Of course I wouldn’t—"

"But you can’t go alone! When he sees you he might forget his fiancée!" James declared.

Dorian indulged for a few seconds in a wish that such an eventuality was within the realm of possibility before realizing that James had a good idea. He didn’t want the Major to linger around him; his presence would be more painful and frustrating than ever now, and on a pragmatic level, the longer he lingered, the more likely he was to realize that the real Caesar Gabriel was actually in Peru. With James around to make a nuisance of himself, the Major would probably flee the country within minutes.

"I shan’t be alone, Jamesie," Dorian said coolly. "You’ll be coming with me."

* * *

That sniveling brat Caesar had always been a nuisance. Much more trouble than he was worth. Now, as soon as Klaus had tracked him down in Cusco, the brat had suddenly taken off to Lima instead. Of course, Klaus needed to be in Lima, but the brat had upset his plans.

Accordingly, Klaus promptly dragged his alphabets to Lima and set them to covertly learning what they could about Gonzalez while he took care of his official mission. It shouldn’t take long, and then he would be able to devote himself to Gonzalez.

The boy professor was away from his hotel room at the moment, so Klaus let himself in — not as easily as Eroica would have managed it, but easily enough — and searched it. It was rather more luxurious than he would have expected of the bookish youth he remembered, but perhaps the brat had changed in ten years. There were a few books on Incan artifacts, as expected, but not so many as Klaus would have anticipated. The wardrobe was also different from the drab slacks and sweaters the boy had worn a decade ago, the indifferent attire of one who leads a life of the mind. Now the closets held tunics, frilly shirts, and tight trousers. Seeing them, a nasty suspicion and dread formed in the Major’s mind, which was confirmed when he stepped closer to examine the clothes more carefully and caught a whiff of rose scent.

"Scheisse!" he muttered, and chose a chair to wait in.

A little more than an hour later, the door opened. Dorian strolled in cheerfully, that blasted stingy-bug on his heels. Both of them stopped in the doorway when they saw him.

"Come in," the Major invited, his tone a parody of politeness.

James glared fiercely, wrapping possessive arms around the Earl’s waist. Dorian, whose too-pretty face was flushed from the hot sun outside, had looked startled when he had first entered, but he quickly regained his usual aplomb. He struck a pose and examined the .22 which Klaus was aiming at him, more for form’s sake than as actual threat.

"Why, Major," Eroica drawled, arching an eyebrow at the small pistol, "what aren’t you compensating for?"

"Close the door."

Eroica did so, though the operation was a bit tricky with the stingy-bug clinging to him so tenaciously. "I don’t think Mosel's Wehlener Sonnenuhr is readily available in South America. Shall I order some other vintage sent up?"

"Where is Caesar Gabriel?"

The Earl smiled charmingly, toying with a curl. Somehow, he nearly always looked tousled, as if he had just— "Having a delightful time among my treasures at North Downs, I should think."

"Why are you travelling under his name?"

"Really, Major. In our professions, travelling under one’s real name is downright foolish. And the dear boy’s credentials are most convenient in gaining access to all the best places out here."

Bloody foppish longhairs, always screwing up his missions. Still, at least the Earl’s idiot impersonation had given Klaus an excuse to be in Peru. Klaus bent down to put the .22 back in its ankle holster. Then he stood.

"Don’t tell me you came all this way to see Caesar," Eroica said.

"I had no intention of telling you anything," the Major retorted, heading for the door.

"Why on earth are you looking for him? Should I be jealous?"

"Don’t make those perverted assumptions!" Klaus stopped to yell.

To his surprise, Dorian actually looked a bit contrite for his words. "How tactless of me. I was so surprised to see you that I almost forgot that you must be a newlywed by now." His eyes flitted to Klaus’s left hand, looking for a ring. "Or soon will be."

Even broken, the engagement was defending him.

Klaus glared for a second, again more from habit than anything else, and stalked out without another word, ignoring Dorian’s call of, "Do feel free to drop ‘round again sometime, Major."

James had not let go of the Earl’s waist the entire time.

* * *

"Are you certain it is Iron Klaus?" Santiago Gonzalez asked in a low, tense voice.

His informant nodded slowly. "Would I have dared to tell you if I were not certain?"

"How many agents does he have with him?"

"Only four. But those thieves he hires are here as well."

"The Eroica gang?"

The informant frowned. "Yes, but Eroica himself does not seem to be with them."

"Perhaps he plans to join them later. In any case, the gang will be useful to us. Is the old monastery in Nasca still secure?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Call the others. We must avenge our fallen comrades."

* * *

That night, Klaus retired early, as was his habit. He hummed to himself as usual, but this night the conditioned reflex did not follow its path; after five minutes, he was still humming and still awake.

It was because of that curly-haired bugger. The thief was a damned nuisance, in numerous ways. Getting in the way, mucking things up, distracting Klaus from his missions.

The Major’s mind was well-disciplined. Most of the time, when it went along unproductive paths, he was able to school it in the safe routine of mentally taking apart and reassembling his Magnum, or reciting every kind of tank currently in use in alphabetical order, or taking some random sentence and translating it into ten languages. But occasionally his mind rebelled and insisted on venturing where it wished to. And where it wished to, more and more over the last few years, was Eroica. Damn him.

Drawing a breath of irritation, Klaus rolled out of bed onto the floor and began doing sit-ups. Fifty of them didn’t help. His thoughts were still wandering into dangerous territory. If only the bloody thief would leave him alone.

He sat on the floor glowering into space for a couple of minutes. It was not even ten o’clock yet. He knew what he had to do. He didn’t like it, but he was going to purge himself no matter what it took.

His jaw set, he rose and dressed.

As he had expected, the red-haired woman was still parading herself through the hotel’s nightclub. None of the alphabets were around, but Klaus would not have allowed their presence to deter him in any case.

Three men were gathered around the redhead, all hanging on to her every word and endeavoring to impress her as she held court, keeping them all at bay with lazy amusement, doling out just enough encouragement to keep them attentive. Idiots. Klaus’s natural dislike of such antics had inadvertently taught him the proper approach. He took up a spot at the bar, ordered himself a dark beer, and instructed the bartender to give the lady a drink. He did not glance her way as she accepted the drink and interrogated the bartender. Even a few minutes later, when she shook her three satellites loose and came to sit beside him, he did not look at her, but concentrated on his cigarette. One sign of interest, and he would have given her what she wanted and she would move on.

Come to think of it, perhaps he should have tried that strategy on Eroica. But no, after a moment’s consideration, he did not believe that would have worked on him.

He waited for her to begin the conversation. He volunteered nothing, making her ply him with questions. Unasked, she offered the information that her name was Vanessa, that she was from California, and that she was, in her own words, "a madcap heiress." A series of bored nudges from him eventually turned the conversation in the necessary direction, and he was invited to her room for another drink.

Once they were in her room, he knocked back the drink she offered him promptly to fortify himself. Then he looked at her and simply waited.

He did not have to wait long. The woman regarded him in a predatory fashion, sipping her drink, before setting it down on the bedside table, walking slowly to him, draping herself against him, and kissing him.

Klaus forced himself to hold still as the woman unbuttoned his shirt. He hated the vulnerable feeling of nakedness; even when he was alone, he dressed the moment he emerged from the shower. Still, he supposed he should reciprocate. Stiffly, he fumbled behind her for the zipper to her exceedingly tight dress. How could she breathe in this?

He wondered, as he always seemed to at such moments, how in God’s name he’d gotten himself into this situation. But of course he knew. She was strikingly beautiful, with all the right kinds of curves, clear skin and coppery hair. He had never had a redhead before. Perhaps, he thought without optimism, that was what he needed. He had heard, from numerous sources, that she was an expert. If she was, she might be able to solve the problem. The problem, which he never actually put into words, even in his own thoughts.

She took his hand and drew him in the direction of the bed. "Relax," she cooed, her eyes moving over him with feral possessiveness. He resented the look, as he resented her assumption of her right to touch him, but he complied. He only hoped she would not make too many… demands. The last time a woman had asked more than the most basic of cooperation from him, he had virtually fled from her room, and had not gone near a woman for two years afterwards. Not until guilt forced him to try again.

The redhead was working on his zipper now, and gave him an inquiring look when she found he wasn’t ready. Instantly his whole body tensed, and he felt a slight moisture of sweat on his forehead. These moments were so bloody embarrassing. But he had learned how to deal with them. With a slight, derisive smile, he taunted, "It seems you aren’t as good at this as I’d expected."

The spark of anger in her eyes was expected. She promptly set about proving him wrong. The touch of her mouth and fingers was skillful, he thought, and after a time, his body relented and responded to it.

He felt that he really ought to do more, but he could not bring himself to. Try, he ordered himself. He ran his hands over her body without interest. He tried to notice the pleasant feel of her skin, her beauty, her perfume — musky, not flowery, certainly not rose.

As he had expected, it did no good. She was beautiful. She was a skilled lover. His body was still responding only to the friction of skin on skin.

Would Dorian’s touch be as sure? What were those fingers, so agile at picking locks, capable of on another man’s body?

Klaus could not combat the rush of combined arousal and disgust that followed this thought. The redhead smiled smugly, believing that she had finally found the proper approach. He ran his fingers through her hair, forcing himself to pay attention to the fiery color. He had avoided blondes for years now; they made it too difficult to avoid the wrong kind of thoughts.

He suddenly wondered if Dorian lay in other men’s arms and pretended they were him. He closed his eyes against the thought.

Abruptly, he decided to get it over with. He made his wishes known in the briefest way he could voice. She looked a bit surprised and a bit annoyed, but at least she did not argue. She, too, seemed to decide to finish with the matter. Klaus wished he could simply walk out, but he could not quite summon that degree of rudeness. Not in this situation.

When it was over, leaving him unsatisfied but too spent to try for anything more, Klaus did not even light a cigarette before rising to wash and dress, hurrying so that he could return to his room and shower, wash off the feeling of her body. She lay finishing the drink she’d poured before they had started, the sheets pulled up around her chest. To his relief, she did not attempt conversation. Some women had, which only made it the more awkward. She did look rather put out. It was an expression he had seen before. He supposed he was something of a disappointment in this arena.

Well, hell. He couldn’t be the best at everything. He was Iron Klaus, not James Bond.

Two years earlier, after an encounter like this one, he had convinced himself that the problem was that the woman in question had meant nothing to him. Accordingly, he had sought out a woman he could have feelings for. After a long search, he had found Greta. He felt ashamed when he thought of her. She had been deeply wounded by him. And he had never intended that, and he was powerless to mend it. To do so he would have had to love her, which he had tried very hard to do, and failed. Just as he had been failing since he was fourteen years old.

* * *

Klaus had few friends throughout his school years. The few he had were not so much friends as classmates who shared pursuits such as sports with him, and their association consisted of those pursuits and not of friendliness. But there was one exception, when Klaus was fourteen, that lasted several months, and that was Gustav.

In later years, Klaus was unable to recall what he had seen in Gustav to capture his attention. Gustav’s abilities could not compare with Klaus’s either academically or athletically, though he was more than competent in both spheres, with respectable achievements. But he had one thing that Klaus utterly lacked: charm. He never seemed to want to argue, yet stood up for his own interests in a quiet way which never offended. He treated everyone with an automatic respect and friendliness, as if it never occurred to him that they did not deserve both. It was impossible not to like him. And he was always charming to everyone. Even to Klaus.

Perhaps that was Gustav’s appeal, that he seemed to like Klaus and enjoy his company. Klaus was not accustomed to being liked. He was too impatient, too intense, too overbearing, too often right. Gustav’s friendly gestures to Klaus were no greater than those he made to many other boys, but to Klaus, they were a novelty to which he responded as if he had been starving. Which, of course, he had.

For once, Klaus sought someone out. Gustav’s easy friendliness was a balm to burning wounds Klaus had not known he had. Klaus had forced himself to be patient with the time Gustav gave to other boys, to his many friends. The moments when Gustav chose to make him, briefly, the center of his attention were golden and precious.

Klaus found himself trying to impress Gustav. Gustav remarked that doing something or other would be clever, and Klaus did it. Gustav expressed disapproval of some mischief a couple of classmates were getting into, and Klaus put a stop to it. Gustav remarked that doing something or other would be fun, and Klaus promptly arranged for them to do it.

Gustav was always appreciative, but never did Klaus get the kind of enthusiasm he was aiming for. It did not matter. He would still go to any lengths to fulfil what he suspected were Gustav’s wishes.

His own world began to revolve, for the first time since his mother’s death when he was very small, around another person. His school day was made up of classes he shared with Gustav, separated by classes he did not. During the former he was aware only of what Gustav probably thought of the information being imparted, of Gustav’s expression as he listened to the nuns instructing them, of Gustav’s moments of inattention, of whether he seemed interested or not. When Gustav answered the teachers’ questions correctly or made a good grade, Klaus felt far more proud than when he himself did so.

A good day was one during which he spent time with Gustav. A wonderful day was when, for a little while, studying or walking around the school grounds talking or anything, he had Gustav to himself. He kept a journal to record the details of those interludes, and replayed them over and over in his mind.

His eyes were always on Gustav. He could have sculpted an image of his friend from clay wearing a blindfold, so well did he know Gustav’s form: his height — just four inches less than Klaus’s own, his trimly muscled figure, his properly straight back, his well-shaped hands, the slight waves of his light brown hair, the firm line of his chin, his rather wide-set dark eyes. Klaus observed Gustav’s every movement, the simple grace of how he smoothed his hair back, or picked up his books, or kicked a ball on the field.

Klaus tried, with unaccustomed subtlety, to discourage other boys from approaching Gustav. He did not succeed. There were a few in particular, boys who had been close friends of Gustav’s for years, who roused Klaus’s jealousy. Low-key attempts to alienate them did not work, and Klaus felt that his usual aggressive tactics would have annoyed Gustav, so instead he did his best to befriend the boys himself. His efforts were unconvincing, but they tolerated him because Gustav liked him.

Once, just for a second, to get his attention, Gustav put his hand on Klaus’s arm just above the elbow. The touch warmed Klaus all over, and he glowed from it for the rest of that day.

Once or twice, other boys remarked on the attachment, but wariness of Klaus’s well-known violent temper kept the remarks moderate. That temper, incidentally, was never unleashed upon Gustav. On more than one occasion, Klaus had begun working up to a fury, and Gustav said easily that it wasn’t worth getting mad over, and Klaus accordingly forced his rage down and endured it quietly. Gustav was able to gently tease Klaus without provoking an outburst; when he did it, Klaus saw affection, not malice. He wished Gustav would take the trouble to tease him more often.

In later years, when Klaus remembered Gustav, which he tried not to do, there was one moment that inevitably came to mind. They had been sitting under a large tree by a river not too far from the school, where they technically were not supposed to be, but a favorite place of theirs to come to study and talk together, and for Klaus to smoke, a vice Gustav did not share with him.

Gustav was not very good at math, and Klaus had pressingly offered to help him, an offer to which Gustav occasionally indifferently acceded. There was going to be a test the following day, and on this afternoon Klaus was quizzing Gustav on the formulas, refreshing his memory with a patience no one else had ever received from him, before or since. Gustav did not notice when an insect settled on the suntanned skin of his arm. Klaus did.

"Hold still," he said. It was an order, but spoken gently, as if Gustav was the one person in the world who Klaus did not consider under any obligation to follow orders from him. With care that far exceeded the operation’s requirements, he brushed the insect off, careful to take it by surprise so that it did not bite Gustav. Klaus would not have cared if he himself had been bitten.

And then, without thinking at all, Klaus laid his hand on Gustav’s arm where the creature had been and simply looked at him and smiled. Smiled with pleasure at the general sense of the wonder of Gustav. His soul responded to the simple physical contact like a plant to rain and sunshine, as if the world were only in order when he was touching Gustav.

Gustav returned the look, and did not smile.

He frowned a bit, as if something had just occurred to him. When Klaus’s expression did not change, something altered in Gustav’s eyes. Nothing definite. But abruptly there was a chill, a distance there which Klaus had never seen when that gaze was turned on him. From Gustav, it was a killing frost.

Feeling cold all over, Klaus froze, his smile fading. The beautiful moment had suddenly turned quite ugly.

A few seconds later Gustav had stood, moving his arm away from Klaus’s touch, a lack which mattered absurdly much.

"It’s time to get back to the dormitory," Gustav remarked.

An observer would have thought that the two boys were the same together as always as they walked back, except perhaps that Klaus was a bit less cheerful about being in Gustav’s presence than usual. But Klaus knew, with a coldness in the pit of his stomach, that things had changed. He had given offense. He had presumed too much.

In the weeks which followed, Klaus was certain that it had not been his imagination. Gustav had cooled towards him. There was nothing definite or overt. He was as charming as always. But there was no more time with the two of them alone, and no more moments in the sun when Klaus, of all Gustav’s companions, was singled out. Klaus was merely one of several, with no special notice given him.

This was Klaus’s version of the lowest circle of Hell: the outer circle of Gustav’s friendship. And he knew, knew that he had lost what little special claim he had on Gustav’s affection. It could never be reclaimed. He had ruined it.

He tried to tell himself that Gustav still liked him as much as he ever had, but he did not believe it. He knew perfectly well that Gustav was trying to put distance between them. Suggestions of time together, without others, were met with cheerful, offhand excuses which could not possibly give offense, yet which twisted Klaus’s innards as painfully as the most emphatic rejection could have.

He moped. His grades fell off, though only slightly. He burned his journal. His free time was spent mulling over his lost friendship, and asking the universe, with a cry of anguish, Why? Why had he lost the regard of the only companion he had ever cared for?

And as often as he asked that question, he very seldom answered it. The answer lurked beneath the surface of his thoughts, like a deadly beast concealed by the darkness, ready to attack at the first relaxation of vigilance.

And occasionally Klaus’s vigilance did relax, and in those horrifying moments, he knew. He knew why Gustav had forsaken him. He knew what would have happened had Gustav, instead of turning cold, smiled back. He knew, God help him, what forbidden and ugly wish Gustav had seen in his face that day by the river. The fact that at the moment it had felt quite pure and beautiful made no difference. At the thought that Gustav had seen this, that Klaus had been for one instant so vile and Gustav knew it, that Gustav had perceived in him something so repugnant that he was forced to flee, Klaus shriveled inside.

And so he locked that knowledge inside. Where he was able to disregard it for some years. If anyone noticed that he quite suddenly excused himself forever from the even the outer circle of Gustav’s friends, no one connected this with the sudden increase in his already violent temper. Fighting — especially an all-out brawl with two or more worthy opponents — was a relief, an outlet for the pain he did not acknowledge.

By the time he was at university, he had known that he was afflicted with desires that he would have to fight. He did not think of them as a part of himself, but as enemies which occasionally attacked him from within, trying to drag him into depravity. He avoided thinking about them, when possible. When he could not, it was with a combination of guilt and anger at the burden the universe had struck him with. He never allowed himself to consider the matter enough to untangle troubling conflicting emotions the issue raised. It was not something to be understood, but to be fought, at all costs.

* * *

Dorian put down the phone and frowned, staring at nothing.

"What is it, my lord?" James demanded anxiously. "There hasn’t been a stock market crash, has there?"

Dorian couldn’t help laughing at that. "No, Jamesie, don’t fret about that. I’m just wondering why the Major hasn’t gone back to Bonn yet."

"He’s still here? In Lima?" James’ eyes welled up. "He’s staying here to be near you! I knew it!"

"James!" Dorian snapped. At his tone, James was startled out of his imminent wailing. "I don’t want to hear another word like that! The Major has never had any interest in me and now he’s engaged to some woman who’s probably only after his rank and fortune and you can damn well shut up about it!"

James resorted to quietly whining, as he always did when Dorian lost his temper with him. Dorian moved to the window and gazed out it absently, pondering. He was getting bored, here in Lima with only James for company, and was itching to find out what Caesar was learning in Nasca, but while the Major was still here, he didn’t dare draw attention to Caesar’s actual whereabouts. Why on earth was Klaus still here? It certainly couldn’t be on his account.

A familiar pounding sounded on the door. Dorian whirled, too stunned to move to answer. For one insane second, he believed that James’ self-pitying speculation had been true.

Another loud knock, and James incautiously scurried to open the door, apparently not recognizing that distinctive hammering. When the door swung open to reveal the Major, grim and tight-lipped, James recoiled with a screech.

"I knew it!"

"Shut up!" Klaus and Dorian both snapped in unison. James cringed.

Klaus’s gaze went to Dorian. He looked serious, but not angry. Dorian braced himself. "Major. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"What was your team doing in Nasca?" Klaus asked in a peremptory tone.

Dorian smiled slightly. "What do you think?"

Klaus closed the distance between them in a few long strides and seized Dorian by his shirt front. "This is no time to joke, Eroica," he snarled.

"This is a business trip," Dorian said patiently.

Klaus gave him a little shake. "Be more specific, damn it."

Dorian sighed. "We’re looking for artifacts that need good homes, what else? And of course we meant to take a look at the Lines before we leave."

"You did not have anything else up your lacy sleeve." Klaus’s eyes were boring into Dorian.

"We were also hoping to meet a mysterious, wise old man who would give us magical powers. Other than that, no, Major. Why do you ask?"

As if remembering himself suddenly, Klaus released his shirt and stepped back. When he spoke, it was in his approximation of a gentle tone.

"Eroica… your team has been kidnapped."

Dorian’s eyes widened. "What…? Are they — do you know—"

"They will be fine," Klaus said curtly. "I know the people who have them. But I have to get them out."

Dorian slumped against the wall.

"How much ransom do they want?" James was demanding anxiously.

"What do they want?" Dorian whispered.

"Me," Klaus answered grimly. When Dorian’s eyes widened, he explained, "One of these criminals is… an old acquaintance of mine. When he found out that I was here, he took your team hostage and notified me — he knows of our association." He scowled. "I did not intend to endanger your people, Eroica."

Dorian nodded numbly. "I’ll get them back."

Klaus pinioned him with a fierce glare. That expression really ought to be a registered weapon. "You will stay the hell out of my way."

"While my people are in trouble? I have a responsibility to look after them and Caesar. I have to—"

"Caesar?"

Dorian bit his lip, then made himself return the Major’s glare. "He traveled here with us to study Peruvian artifacts. When we found out you were after him, I was naturally concerned for his safety. I sent him away and distracted you to protect him."

"Protect him." Klaus’s face was hard.

"Yes! We haven’t forgotten the last time you took an interest in him."

"So you sent your lover off to Nasca to protect him."

"I never said he was my—"

"Idiot!" Klaus started shaking him again, harder this time. "I was assigned to find that sniveling brat, and now he has been kidnapped by those— That is the result of your trying to protect him!" Klaus abruptly shoved him away, apparently bored with shaking him.

"I’ll get him back," Dorian repeated. "James, pack my tool kit and fetch—"

"I told you to stay out of my way for once!" Klaus yelled.

"You stay out of my way," Dorian replied irritably. He was already going insane with worry for his team and Caesar. The last thing he needed was to be inconvenienced by NATO. "You think I’m going to let a friend of mine be fought over by two sets of psychopathic kidnappers?"

Klaus seized his shirt front again and raised his fist. Dorian braced himself and averted his face so that the right side of it faced Klaus, literally turning the other cheek.

"Could you get the other side for a change of pace, darling?" he said in the lightest tone he could muster.

Klaus froze, his angry mask dissolving for a few seconds. Then, with a curse, he shoved Dorian away.

"These are my people whose lives are on the line, Major," Dorian pointed out, straightening his blouse.

Klaus’s snarl faded, and Dorian almost thought that what replaced it might be grudging respect. After a moment, Klaus spoke again, in his usual commanding tone. "You are coming with us."

"Pardon me?"

"I can see that short of strangling you, there is no way that I can keep you from running to your lover’s side—"

"It’s silly of you to assume that just because we’re—"

"—so you are going to work with us, where I can keep an eye on you."

Dorian sighed. "That really isn’t necessary, Major. I’ll get him back."

Klaus looked at him incredulously. "Are you refusing to work with me?"

"Yes," Dorian said gloomily.

The silence that followed was heavy.

"You are working with me," Klaus informed him. "I can put you in handcuffs and have B keep you in custody, or you can cooperate."

Dorian considered making a joke about the handcuffs, but decided it wasn’t worth the bother. "I’ll cooperate," he said, defeated. "Just stay out of my way."

Klaus was stalking to the door, manfully ignoring Dorian’s last words, when he stopped suddenly and turned, skewering Dorian with a glance.

"How did you know that I was looking for him?"

Dorian bit his lip again. He had probably given something away. "You should be more careful who you ask questions of," he suggested as if idly. "They might find it more worth their while to tell others you’re asking than to tell you the answers." Which was true in principle, but in fact had nothing to do with the case at hand.

Klaus accepted the answer, however, and nodded grimly. "You have ten minutes to get your equipment together, Eroica," he said brusquely. "And I suppose your foppish clothes as well."

"Would you prefer I left all my clothes behind?" Dorian said automatically, but without his usual Eroica flair. His heart really wasn’t in it.

"Pervert," Klaus retorted as he strode out, but he sounded half-hearted as well.

When the door closed behind the Major, Dorian closed his eyes and drew a breath. His team and Caesar were in danger and he was going to have to work side by side with his beloved who was now more unattainable than ever. Things could probably be worse, but offhand he really couldn’t see how.

"He’s going to strangle us both!" James howled, apropos of nothing. Dorian opened his eyes reluctantly.

"Only if we’re late. Pack up my tools, Jamesie," he ordered, pushing himself off the wall with an effort.

* * *

Klaus stalked to the Jeep parked in front of the hotel. "Caesar Gabriel’s with the pervert’s team," he snarled to A.

"Then Gabriel’s being held hostage, too?" A asked, distressed.

"Probably," Klaus said grimly, getting in. "Do not tell that curly-haired bugger how dangerous Gonzalez and his cronies are. Bad enough having him around without having him in hysterics."

"’Having him around’?" A echoed nervously.

Klaus glowered at nothing in particular. "Short of shooting him, there is no way I could stop the idiot from attempting to rescue his team himself. As long as he is going to be mucking up the works, I decided it would be best to keep him where we can watch him."

"Yes, sir," A said dolefully.

* * *

Half an hour later Dorian and James joined Klaus and his alphabets at their temporary headquarters. The agents were dashing around — it looked like chaos, but Dorian knew there was order to their frenzy. They all paled when they saw Eroica, but did not pause in their tasks. The poor darlings paled even further when Klaus discovered that he was out of cigarettes. G ran off to buy some. The others continued loading things onto Jeeps and looking at maps and generally looking busy. James started harassing A about their fee, ignoring Dorian’s attempts to explain that they hadn’t been hired.

Dorian mostly tried to stay out of the way. He was feeling rather numb. Just when he’d thought his life was changing, becoming less complicated, his quest nearing its object at last, all at once he was back where he’d been for the last ten years: trying to work with that appallingly attractive madman and keep his hands to himself, while pursuing a mission not to his taste at all.

Klaus prowled all over the room, glaring at everyone and everything, snapping orders in machine-gun rapid German. He paused by Dorian to snap, "Did you give your stuff to A?"

"You saw me do it," Dorian said composedly. "You can ask you if you don’t believe me."

Klaus nodded curtly as if unaware of the impudence in Dorian’s reply, or of his own error. He reached for his front pocket and then let his hand fall, irritated. Dorian smiled to himself, recognizing the gesture of a frustrated smoker, and reached into his own pocket.

The Major was turning to bark an order at another of the alphabets when his eye fell on the open pack of Eckstein No. 5 unfiltered German cigarettes that Dorian was holding extended to him. Klaus would smoke anything, though given the choice he thought the stronger the better, but a couple of years earlier Dorian had bribed several people to learn Klaus’s favorite brand, an expensive and elusive one. Germans had been making Eckstein No. 5 for a century, even shipping them to their soldiers in the first World War. Their history had to appeal to Klaus, as did the flavor, good but far too rich and strong — much like the man himself.

The Major scowled at the pack. The typical Klaus-ian reaction to thoughtfulness made Dorian want to smile, but he suppressed it.

"Since when do you smoke real cigarettes, Eroica?" the Major demanded irritably. "I thought you liked those pansy things that taste like paper."

"I do," Dorian replied serenely, holding Klaus’s gaze. Though the fact was, he smoked perhaps twice a year. "I got these for you, Major."

Klaus took a cigarette from the pack and held it between his lips as he took the pack and stuffed it into his pocket. He reached for his lighter, but Dorian already had his own ready and ignited a couple of inches from the tip of Klaus’s cigarette.

Klaus stared at Dorian’s gleaming gold lighter for a second before conceding. He leaned forward slightly, and when the cigarette’s tip did not immediately meet with the flame, he steadied Dorian’s hand with his own as if automatically. Dorian’s lips parted at the slight touch, the more precious because it was treated so casually. God, if only this could be normal.

Those emerald eyes had been fixed on the cigarette and lighter, but without warning they snapped up, meeting Dorian’s. Klaus’s eyes gave nothing away, but they also did not evade Dorian’s. Dorian did not breathe. But Klaus inhaled, drawing in the overpowering flavor of those unsubtle Ecksteins even as he held Dorian’s gaze.

If they could have spent eternity standing like that, their eyes locked and Klaus’s large hand curving around Dorian’s more slender fingers, Dorian would have been perfectly content.

But of course it ended. The cigarette ignited. Klaus straightened and his hand dropped away as if nothing of moment had occurred. Dorian released the lighter’s button and then slowly lowered his hand. Their eyes were still locked, and they were standing closer than could be comfortable for either of them.

Klaus’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Then, almost gently, he blew a cloud of smoke right into Dorian’s face.

Instinctively, Dorian closed his eyes and averted his face, grimacing slightly. When he opened his eyes a second later, waving the smoke away, Klaus was already stalking off, yelling at B to find some map he wanted.

"You’re welcome, Major," Dorian informed his beloved’s swiftly departing back.

G returned with cigarettes and an armload of other last-minute supplies. Klaus snatched the cigarettes — apparently there was no such thing as too much tobacco — and snarled at G to pack it all on one of the Jeeps. "We are leaving in half an hour," Klaus barked.

"To do what, exactly?" Dorian spoke up at last. "Is there a plan?"

"Of course—" Klaus stopped abruptly and scowled. "I suppose having you in the mix changes things."

"Naturally. Now that you have my skills at your disposal, surely your plan can stand improvement," Dorian said tranquilly. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed the alphabets bracing themselves.

"Use one criminal to rescue more criminals from still more criminals," Klaus said acidly. "Makes sense. So what is in that devious brain of yours?"

"A simple enough strategy. The rest of you will take the most obvious route to the — where did you fellows say my friends are being held?"

"In an old monastery in Nasca," Z supplied.

"Nice to know Fate hasn’t lost her sense of irony. While you fellows are basking in their attention, I will take a different route, sneak in the back way as it were, and break my team out by my own methods." Dorian gave the Major a level glance that was a shade too respectful. "And while I’m at it, I’ll be happy to pick up anything the other chaps have that’s caught your fancy, Major."

"If you think I am going to let you run off alone and get up to God knows what," Klaus snarled, "you are an even bigger idiot than I thought you were." He added as an afterthought, "Besides, you would get yourself killed."

"True." Dorian turned a charming smile on the alphabets. "Maybe one of you brave lads could come with me, to chaperone me and beat up anyone who needs beating up."

"The strategy is sound, sir," Z said nervously. "If you decide to go along with it, I’ll volunteer to accompany Lord Gloria—"

"Nein! I am not putting any decent German boy where he can—"

"Oh, for Heaven’s sake," Dorian snapped. "It was your idea that I shouldn’t go alone. I promise to be a perfect gentleman. In any case, I believe Z can defend himself."

Klaus shook his head impatiently. "If an inept fighter like you is going in as half of a two-man army, you need someone who can easily fight for two and keep you out of trouble to boot!"

In the silence that followed, everyone realized who that had to be.

Dorian closed his eyes and covered his face with one hand.

"God damn it to fucking hell," Klaus groaned.

"I’m certain Z will manage me quite nicely, Major," Dorian said tonelessly.

"The hell he will. I am going with you to get your team and your lover out of there."

Dorian sighed. "If you insist."

Eroica’s odd reluctance to be accompanied by the Major did not go unnoticed by the alphabets, but none remarked on it. James, however, did.

"My looooord!" he wailed. "You promised!"

Klaus crossed to James in three long strides and lifted him by his shirt front, shaking him and snarling, "Shut. The. Hell. Up."

Dorian’s eyes sparked with anger. He moved to them quickly and seized Klaus’s wrists, insinuating himself as close to in between the two as he could. "You leave him alone! If you want someone to beat up on, beat up on me, not my people!"

Klaus turned his head to look at Dorian, looking faintly stunned. Dorian held his gaze, glaring. The alphabets held their breath.

"I knew you cared, my lord," James sniffled smugly into the silence.

Klaus shoved James at Dorian, knocking both of them off balance. A minute later, with Klaus prowling over the Jeeps deciding what he and Dorian would need and lots of commotion going again, Z deemed it safe to help them up.

"Better not let him catch you being nice to me," Dorian sighed. Generally he had ignored his beloved’s hostility toward him, accepting it as simply the way Klaus took the world, friend and foe alike. As often happened at such moments, he felt sudden, surprising compassion for his Major. Surely even Iron Klaus could not like to be so isolated. Dorian found that there was one corner of his soul that could be genuinely glad that the man he loved was getting married. If ever a man needed someone, it was Klaus. He was a martyr, bearing a double cross and saving the lives of many... and hopelessly clean and abstinent.

As for Dorian… he was simply tired of it all. Tired of the entire struggle, the whole decade-long fight. And as he had anticipated, having Klaus present and untouchable was more painful than ever now. It seemed that one more barrier between them should not make much difference, considering how impenetrable those already dividing them had been. With homophobia and a vow of chastity already keeping them apart, what difference did an engagement make?

A great deal, at least to Dorian’s heart. Every time he looked at Klaus, it cut deeper.

It was no better when the alphabets and James took off in two Jeeps and he and Klaus left in another, heading in a different direction, just the two of them. Rejecting his past tactic of trying to make conversation, Dorian sat quietly, watching the view as ramshackle houses gave way to rocks and barren dirt, not looking at Klaus.

"I have never seen you this quiet," Klaus snapped about half an hour outside of Lima. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"You mean besides that all of my friends have been kidnapped and the man I love is going to marry someone else?"

Klaus looked grim even for him. "We will get your people out," he said a minute later. "And I can personally guarantee that their kidnappers will not bother you or anyone else ever again."

Dorian hesitated before answering. "You shouldn’t take so many risks anymore, Major."

"Why the hell not? It is my job."

"Because you’re engaged. You don’t want to make her a widow before she’s even a bride, do you?"

Klaus shot him a suspicious look. Dorian looked straight ahead, his face grave. "She will have to accept the risk," Klaus said.

Dorian thought for quite a while before speaking again. "You don’t sound like a man in love."

"What should I do? Devote a week to systematically wreaking havoc on her life in every way imaginable, and then, when she asks me why, announce in front of a room full of strangers that I did it because I love her?"

Dorian’s cheeks burned. "Point taken," he said in a small voice. "Major—" He broke off and looked away.

"What?" Klaus demanded after a long and tense silence.

Dorian shook his head, defeated. "Nothing."

"Tell me what you were going to say or I will stop the vehicle and shake it out of you."

"You could try just asking, Major."

"Then spit it out."

Dorian twined his fingers together on his lap and looked at the rocky cliff rising on one side of them, nearly twenty feet high, stretching perhaps half a mile ahead of them. In spite of the inhospitable rock terrain, a scrubby tree had staked out a home in a small, deep hollow in the cliff wall where wind and rain had deposited a modicum of soil. It was probably scarcely enough soil to nourish the tree and brace its roots at all, but the tree was stubbornly clinging to its spot, its branches twisted oddly as they reached out of the cliff face for sunlight. The tree looked downright crippled, but still it had put out a few bright yellow flowers in the face of overwhelming odds.

Dorian found his voice. "I was only hoping we could make some kind of peace with each other, since with any luck we won’t be seeing each other again after this mission."

"If you stay away from me and stop mucking up my missions, that will be peace."

"Do you ever unbend and act like a human being? Just for a minute?"

"Not for perverted thieves, I do not."

"Of course not." Dorian fell silent for a bit longer. "We have to work together for a few days, at least. Shouldn’t we try to get on?"

"Go ahead."

What do I see in this brute? Dorian thought, but he had stopped asking himself that question in earnest long ago. He knew the answer perfectly well. He loved Klaus because Klaus was Klaus. It was as simple and incomprehensible as that.

Had Klaus been anything like Caesar, or any of the other men Dorian had met, the ones who had wanted him, Dorian could have been just as indifferent to him as to the others. He had a great deal of practice, after all. He had built up immunity to most kinds of charm.

Dorian had chosen his path in life on the night of his first attempted theft, and he hadn’t looked back since. At the age of fourteen, scant weeks after a truly beastly man had tried to force his attentions on Dorian, a vow of celibacy had not seemed at all daunting. The experience had frightened him so that it even seemed a relief; no need to ever face it again, ever.

His love for Klaus had never made him reconsider his vows, but it had made him wonder if he would be able to keep them, on the off chance that he ever had the opportunity not to.

He was, strictly speaking, bending the rules when he stole the occasional kiss from some lovely young man. But his tastes aided him in this. Perhaps from a desire to reclaim his more innocent past self, or perhaps from a need to control his flirtations after that frightening experience, he was drawn to innocent, pretty, waifish young men. Such men were generally too uncertain to make any advances themselves. Dorian could safely steal a few kisses from them, knowing they would be too awed to press the issue and insist on more. Though few had been as easily turned aside as Caesar; no other man had ever passed out after kissing him. It had been rather flattering.

Yes, Dorian had liked pretty boys like himself, slim, winsome, artistic young men, poets and ballet dancers. Men with hard muscles and harder souls had had little appeal for Dorian. He did not care for men who were like wire ropes.

Until one wire rope showed him the beauty of highly polished steel.

Dorian believed that was what had done it: the total incongruity of the man's iron spirit and his hidden romanticism. Only a dyed-in-the-wool romantic could possibly devote his life to such a quixotic quest for perfection. The man was as big a dreamer as Dorian was. And the unusual form of his dreams only made them the more compelling.

The instant they had met, it had been obvious that Klaus was not his type. This had made him feel free to flirt outrageously, gleefully enjoying the stuffy Major’s furious reaction. When they had ended up in that tank together, he had been concentrating on distracting himself from Caesar’s semi-conscious charms, thus leaving himself totally undefended against the sudden revelation that there was a human being inside that crisp uniform of the Major’s.

He had scarcely realized what was happening to him as he suddenly acquired an appreciation for the beauty of highly polished steel, and abstinent uniforms, and angular muscled physiques. Had Klaus made an overture at that moment, he would have been powerless to resist. As it was, when he emerged from the tank, he realized that there was a new brand of temptation in his life, more potent if only because it was new.

It was like a trashy romance novel: his heart had been untouched, until he had encountered a tall, dark and handsome Alpha male able to take him in hand….

Consequently, he had resolved to avoid the stunning, austere Major after that. But as always, Fate had plans of her own. In Greece on business of his own, he’d found himself right into the middle of a NATO operation, headed by none other than Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach. The belligerent oaf had threatened him, on that cliffside. Dorian had somehow found the right words to break through his fury, and once more Dorian had glimpsed a chink in that armor. And once more he had been charmed by it.

Then in Persia, Fate had given him a chance to safely embrace his beloved and kiss his sandpaper cheeks, inhale the scent of his cheap aftershave and expensive tobacco, with at least two dozen witnesses to prevent Klaus from either killing him or succumbing to him. After nuzzling that wonderful strong jawline, Dorian had thought he was going to faint. How could he do otherwise, holding six feet and two inches of deadly German muscle and iron shivering faintly with impending violence in his arms? Good God, this was no awed boy who could be given a few kisses and dismissed. If Klaus had wanted him, Dorian’s vows wouldn’t have stood a chance.

But Dorian had allowed himself the dangerous game of infatuation, certain that it was safe because his feelings would never be returned in the slightest measure.

Then came his first job for NATO, and the Hallelujah Express.

Dorian had absconded from the train to make copies of the blueprints for his people to go over. He had returned via helicopter in time to obstruct one of Mischa’s snipers, who was aiming at Klaus. Was that the first time he had saved Klaus’s life? They had rescued each other so many times, over the years….

The sniper foiled, Dorian dropped the ladder from the helicopter and climbed down. Trying to jump into a moving train was much more difficult than jumping out of it, he found. Scarcely had he gotten a handhold on the door when an iron grip had seized him and hauled him aboard.

The Major, of course.

"'Lo, Major," Dorian had said with all the aplomb he could muster, considering that he was being held at a precarious angle by a large handful of his "flashy" red shirt. "Thanks for greeting me."

Klaus had been so furious that he had been unable to form a complete sentence. He shook Dorian until his head knocked back and forth, snarling, "You — you — this — bugger — you — God damn—"

"Don't shake me so much!" Dorian had snapped. "You’re driving me crazy."

"You are crazy to begin with!" Klaus’s grip on his shirt had tightened.

"I can't breathe—" Dorian had tried to protest.

"SHUT UP!"

Dorian shut up, pressing his lips together and waiting with raised eyebrows. It seemed to calm Klaus just a bit, enough to stop shaking him and start berating him instead.

"How dare you leave the train!" the Major demanded. "You have quite a nerve, Lord Gloria!"

"I kept my word," Dorian said coolly.

"Who the fuck can believe your frigging words!?" the Major snapped, becoming angry again.

Dorian dropped the blasé pose and spoke seriously. "Didn't you wait for me because you trusted me, Major?" he asked softly.

The Major’s fury evaporated instantaneously as he realized that Dorian was right. They locked eyes. Dorian could not have said later how long they looked at each other like that, but it felt like years.

Dorian was aware of Klaus’s body tantalizingly close, of course. It was always distressing when an attractive man came into such close contact. But there was more.

Dorian had known that the Major was dangerously sexy. He had known that the Major was dangerous, period. He had known that any encounter of two personalities as extreme as theirs was bound to be explosive.

But until that moment, with Klaus’s unguarded eyes boring into his, the Iron Major’s usual masks of fury and stoicism dropped, leaving only a perplexed and fascinated human being… until that moment, Dorian had not realized that he loved him.

He loved him.

Without warning, Klaus shoved him roughly away, turning his back and heading for the door with a curse. Dorian, to his own amazement, found himself watching the characteristically irascible behavior with delight. Klaus was wonderful. He was always so very, very like himself.

Klaus whirled back to Dorian suddenly, though Dorian had made no sound, and found Dorian watching him with what must have been a thoroughly soppy and adoring smile. "What is so funny!?" Klaus had demanded furiously, as if anxious to make up for having behaved like a human being for an entire minute. "What are you so happy about!?"

I love you, Dorian thought. But the Major’s face was angry again, and there seemed to be just a hint of fear in his eyes, or did Dorian imagine it?

In any case, Dorian was not going to let the Major ruin this moment for him.

"If I told you, you'd get mad again," he said, flirtatiously half-hiding his little smile behind a gracefully curled hand. It was all he could do not to giggle. He felt downright giddy.

Those lovely emerald eyes darkened. "Then don't. More foppish bullshit, no doubt. Excuse me," Klaus snapped. Dorian wondered how Klaus could make even conventional pleasantries like that sound like insults. It really was adorable.

Klaus had turned away again before Dorian realized that he had the means to stop him. He just wanted to bask in the wonder of the man’s presence for a bit longer. "I'm returning the blueprint," he said, extending the envelope. "I've made a copy of it. My men will study the plans and prepare things so that when we get to Rome we can get started with it."

Klaus snatched it back and stuffed it in his breast pocket. "Is that the way you do it?"

"I don't tell my professional secrets even to you. You have lots of things you can't tell me yourself, don't you?"

That set Klaus off again. It never did take much. "Don't equate my keeping international top secrets and your greedy craftiness, you idiot!"

"Understood, U.N. Army!" Dorian had teased. Even this light taunt made Klaus glare ominously. The man was just a walking bundle of rage. He was amazing. He was magnificent. If iron were to ever lose its iron-ness, that would be the end of the world.

"It's NATO! Do not ever do this again! Understand?"

With a little smile, Dorian raised his hand as if to take an oath. "Yes, I promise."

"I will put a guard at your seat."

Dorian decided to believe that Klaus was showing concern for him. He knew better, but he could pretend. "Do as you wish."

"Then get back to the seat." The Major pointed imperiously in the proper direction.

Dorian couldn’t go. He couldn’t tell Klaus of his discovery, of his love. Klaus would be furious, and that would spoil it. But he could perhaps let him know, obliquely, that he cared. "Major... that was Mischa the Cub over there. Snipers were aiming at you."

Klaus seemed struck by the information for only a second. Then his indifferent façade was back in place. "Trying to make me feel indebted, are you?"

It was probably Klaus’s version of "Thank you." Dorian smiled, hitching his shoulders just a bit. "No. Even if I were, you wouldn't be, would you? I just meant to say…." Dorian groped for words that Klaus would not classify as "foppish bullshit". He didn’t find any, so settled for, "I'm glad you're in one piece." Unable to stop, he blurted, "Let's take good care of ourselves until we get to Rome. That's all," he finished lamely.

Klaus looked at him like he was an idiot. For once, Dorian didn’t blame him. He felt like an idiot. Walking away, Klaus tossed over his shoulder, "Do some aerobics or something, then."

Dorian turned his own back and salvaged his pride with a parting taunt: "I'll do that, Defense Army."

Dorian closed the door on Klaus’s shout of "It's NATO!"

I’m in love, Dorian thought giddily as he floated back to his seat.

As he sank into his chair, giddiness dissolved into dire trepidation. The sheer impossibility of the entire situation came crashing down on him. He put a hand to his forehead, twining tense fingers in his hair.

Oh, no, he thought. I’m in love.

He laid awake that night, trying to talk himself out of it. The Major wasn’t even his type; he liked pretty, sweet boys, not bundles of muscle and iron and rage. And Klaus had been furious enough at the most flippant hints that he was attractive; being loved would probably make him homicidal — a prediction which was to be completely borne out a few days later when Dorian declared his feelings.

And the Major hated him. Dorian closed his eyes in the darkness. That was, of course, his own fault. They had gotten off to the worst possible start. But then, Dorian hadn’t known that it was ever going to matter. What difference did it make if Herr Stuffed Shirt hated him? It had been amusing to bait him, to provoke that hair-trigger temper. And now it was too late to go back and start again. Had Dorian known that one day he would care what the Major thought of him, he would have acted differently from the start, instead of making outrageous public overtures and stealing things from under the man’s nose just to see the resulting tantrum. He would have been completely different, and perhaps they could have been friends, and Dorian could have kept his love unspoken and, perhaps, done the lonely man of iron some good.

Perhaps.

But after all, perhaps it was best that they had gotten off to such a bad start. If there were any chance that Klaus might ever give in to him — and once every blue moon, for a few insane seconds Dorian thought there might be — Dorian’s embarrassing antics would effectively keep him at bay, protecting Dorian’s vows. After all, not everyone could be like Caesar Gabriel, conveniently passing out every time someone made an overture.

The dangerous moments were not the ones when Klaus pointed a gun at him, or hit him. The dangerous moments were when Dorian inadvertently got through the iron shell and they had one of their rare but very precious amiable interludes. They never lasted long, but they existed. Dorian wondered, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, if Klaus played those memories over in his head as Dorian did.

Dorian tried not to dwell on those times. It was never long before they were bickering or even at each other’s throats again. Klaus’ walls were of iron and three feet thick. Dorian’s were a mass of thorny rose vines like those which hid the Sleeping Beauty. They were equally formidable. If Klaus didn’t start it before long, Dorian would come to his senses and do so himself, generally with an obnoxious pass guaranteed to fail, even had it been directed at a more receptive target.

Yes, the pattern of their relationship had already been set. Dorian resolved many times to avoid the foul-tempered Major. He had thrown himself into his work. He distracted himself, or tried to, with harmless flirtations with men of his own sort. Yet again and again he was unable to resist the temptation to see Klaus again. The repressed, irascible, beautiful psychopath was the moon, the stars, the flowers and the dreams to Dorian. He could live without Klaus’s touch or Klaus’s love. He could not live without Klaus’s presence.

* * *

The sun was low in the sky when the silence between them was broken once more. "Look straight ahead," Klaus said evenly.

Dorian did. When Klaus spoke calmly instead of yelling, he knew it was important. "What at?"

"Doesn’t matter. Just do not look behind us. We are being followed."

"Anyone we know?"

"Friends of the kidnappers." His eyes narrowed. "When we get to that curve, I want you to take the wheel and do a hairpin turn to go up that ridge so we can take the high ground. As soon as you do, I am going to turn around and start shooting."

"Ready when you are."

When they reached the curve, Dorian seized the wheel and turned it fiercely. Klaus turned in the driver’s seat, holding to the back of the seat with his left hand as he swiftly unholstered his Magnum with his right. He fired three shots, not fazed when Dorian floored the gas to take them up the ridge. The car swerved wildly as Dorian steered it from his awkward angle.

"Right here," Klaus barked several yards up the ridge. Dorian stopped the Jeep at once. They were at a high point that allowed them some cover — only a bit, but the low cropping of rock could make all the difference. Klaus stepped out and crouched behind the Jeep. "Get out," he snapped at Dorian.

Dorian did, stealing a glance over his shoulders at their pursuers. Another Jeep was stopped below them, this one dirty and some years older than Klaus’s and three hard-faced South Americans were gathered around it, glaring in their direction. Klaus had shot one of their tires, and from the look of things, they w