Chapter Text
“You have to go,” said Miss Potts.
“I am aware of that. I am just considering whether there is any way I could not go.”
“Mr. Stark, Prince Thor’s masquerade ball has been in the society papers every day for a fortnight.” Miss Potts held up a stack of the wretched things, two feet high, as evidence. “If Britain’s richest industrial magnate does not attend-”
“I am aware of that too, Miss Potts. The papers would report on my absence with almost religious fervor. The headlines would sell themselves and the journalists would make a mint. But, as usual, they are not in possession of all the pertinent facts.”
“Which are?”
“That Prince Thor is a werewolf and his brother Loki a vampire, and I have no desire to be eaten by either of them.”
Anthony Stark’s lady secretary smiled. “Well, if Britain’s richest industrial magnate were to attend the ball, and come to any harm in so doing, the papers would report with great fervor on that occurrence, too. The brothers Odinson would be run out of England, princes or not! Mr. Stark, I cannot imagine a safer place for you than at this very ball. Neither could lift a finger against you while you were their guest.”
“I am sworn to destroy such creatures, Miss Potts, not to eat their canapés and drink their wine.”
“Reconnaissance is never wasted. You have been studying them since they arrived. Only think of how much you shall learn from their own sanctum. They lose far more by this event than you do.”
Britain’s richest industrial magnate sighed heavily and looked over the invitation card again. It was quite old-fashioned, golden gilt and handwritten, better suited to the last century or the one before than the modern era. A nouveau-riche man like himself could never have gotten away with it; but when it came from royalty, even of a minor European house, the outdated became charming.
The Odinsons’ story, as picked up by the London gossip, was simple: their grandfather, Borr, was the present King of Norway. With two uncles and several cousins ahead of them in the line of inheritance, as well as any future sons of their elder sister, neither Thor nor Loki Odinson had much in the way of position to hope for. Fortune and title attended them, but no great destiny or fame, and so they had come to England seeking both. The London set received the self-exiled princes graciously: so sorry to hear of their troubles at home, they would surely find England far superior to Norway in every respect, they were most welcome to rent the grandest house in town and hire dozens of servants and host lavish parties at a word - and an enormous amount of money.
What Anthony, and his companions of the Society for Avenging the Wrongs of the Supernatural upon Mankind, had uncovered in their research was very different. Thor had been born a werewolf in Scandinavia, some time in the sixteenth century; Loki’s birth was a mystery, but he was certainly a fully-fledged vampire by the dawn of the seventeenth. They did not always appear in the historical records together, separating for a few years or - once - a few decades, but they always spent more time united than divided. The sympathetic story of nobility far from home was one they had repeated often: Slavic counts in Ireland, Irish barons in Germany, German dukes in France, French vicomtes in Norway… which brought them to the present ruse, Norwegian princes in England, and the masquerade their official debut - of sorts - to high society.
What a life! Traveling where and when they pleased, crossing a continent at their leisure, answerable to none but themselves. These days, Anthony never left London save if urgent business called, and he hardly had time to be feted by the local fine folk when it did. Thousands depended on him for their livelihoods, making him rich and influential, but less free than most to do as he pleased - and certainly less free than the werewolf and vampire he hunted now.
Whatever would the Odinsons be next, Anthony wondered, picking up the invitation card by the corners and spinning it between two fingers. English earls in Spain?
Assuming, that was, that they did not meet their end before they could move on to their next scheme. The Society had decreed that the Odinsons must be brought down as soon as possible, lest their highly visible success invite a flood of creatures to attempt the same bold infiltration of civilization, purchased with the blood of innocents.
Anthony sighed, almost regretfully. A fine life the Odinsons led, but the price paid was intolerable, and it was his solemn duty to bring it to a close - both brothers must meet their demise, at Anthony’s hand if the luck of the draw fell to him. He had been fiercely dedicated to the prospect since first hearing of their arrival, often thinking of little else for days at a time. He had spent uncounted hours studying the annals of history, hoping to find their tracks; hours more had been dedicated to reading the despicable society papers, learning of their habits. For the last month, he had accepted every invitation to a party where the Odinsons might be in attendance, hoping that finally meeting them would lend him clues to a winning stratagem.
He had hunted his fair share of supernatural entities before, but none had earned his fixation like the brothers Odinson. He seemed to have lost all passion or sensation but for this one pursuit, a restless, almost frantic impulse urging him onward. Others came to London to hide, to disappear, to sneak in shadows and attempt to escape notice. The Odinsons flaunted themselves openly instead, bold and shameless - they meant to outwit their foes, outwit him, and that he could not stand. Could he really pass up this chance to draw so close to them?
Of course not. Anthony knew that, and Miss Potts knew it too; she smiled patiently, waiting for him to come to the same conclusion she had already reached.
“Very well,” he announced. “Send my acceptance back and tell Jarvis to make whatever arrangements are needed for me not to disgrace myself. Dress, carriage, appropriately late arrival, the usual go-around.”
Miss Potts made diligent notes. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”
“Yes, that will be all, Miss Potts.”
~
On the surface, Prince Thor’s masquerade was everything such an event should be. The cream of London’s denizens mingled in the grand hall and the balconies above, masks and costumes carefully displayed, savoring the titillating promises of anonymity while still receiving credit where due for one’s appearance. Exquisite offerings of food and drink were circulated, and skilled musicians played tasteful minuets and mazurkas from just out of sight. Dancers swirled across the marble floor, skirts and coat-tails flying. The house was a convoluted warren, full of cross-corridors and connecting rooms, befitting an edifice of its age and grandeur. Only Anthony could see the signs of menace lurking beneath the scene: the unfashionable lack of mirrors on the walls, the absence of the newspaper photographers, the bouquets of wildflowers omitting the white blooms of allium buds or the purple-blue of aconite, heavy drapes ready to shut out the dawn, and the way every piece of silverware from the caviar spoon to the carving knife was not silver at all, but white gold.
Anthony nursed a glass of wine and watched the movements in and out of the hall from an isolated overview on the second floor. Despite Miss Potts’s optimism, he had gleaned little intelligence from his observations of the ball. There were too many eyes, and his name too well-known, for him to risk slipping away to explore the house more fully. He had not even spied his host, or his brother, amongst the crowd; werewolf and vampire could have been hiding behind any of the masks below. As for the party itself, it was just as dull as any purely human affair would have been, empty gossip and insubstantial business. His own mask, of moving clockwork in fine layers, was heavy and it itched. He was painfully conscious of precious, productive time slipping through his fingers with nothing to show for it. How much he would rather be properly armed and on the hunt, or drawing up some new technical blueprint! Instead he was held hostage here, rubbing elbows with the rich and useless, the vast majority of whom would bring most benefit to London by vanishing from its midst-
“Mr. Stark, I believe?”
Anthony turned about to face a man, tall, thin of frame and fair of skin; his hair was the shining black of a raven’s wing, the long length of it swept back over his head. His elaborate mask and attire were a glittering pale blue, shining with diamonds and whitest pearls, and what seemed to be a crown made of spun glass - an homage to all things frost and ice. His face, what was visible of it, and his dress alike were sharp and elegant, and he was taller than Anthony by a few inches, accentuated by his upright posture and regal bearing.
Anthony did not recognize the lilting voice, or the lines of the face beneath the man’s mask, but he was not opposed to the introduction. This seemed far better entertainment than anything else the night had offered.
Only an instant had passed since the man spoke - brief enough that the transition was seamless as he reached out to capture Anthony’s hand, and bow low over it to kiss his fingers in a smooth if forward greeting. Both the stranger’s hand and lips were cool, and combined with his appearance, Anthony’s instincts flared to life - this must be no man at all, but Loki Odinson, vampire, and Anthony’s sworn enemy.
Odinson’s kiss lingered quite too long for propriety, attentive and seductive. The steady, smiling way Odinson held Anthony’s gaze as he straightened, bringing Anthony’s hand with him, told Anthony he knew exactly what impression he was trying to give. Vampire, enemy, and shameless flirt besides!
Anthony cleared his throat and repossessed his hand. Surely the vampire would not be so courteous if he knew Anthony intended his end - Odinson might know his name, but he did not know his business. Anthony’s secret was safe, and if he could play his cards right, perhaps the night would not be a complete loss after all. “Prince Loki, I take it?”
Odinson’s smile bared his teeth - humanoid, for now, but gleaming whiter than any mortal man’s. “The very one. How delightful to finally meet you.”
So, he knew Anthony by reputation, but which reputation… “You say that as if you have been waiting for it.”
“Indeed I have. One cannot be in London long without hearing of Anthony Edward Stark - genius, millionaire, dandy, philanthropist - son of the famous Howard Stark - the Da Vinci of our time, some say.”
Ah. “People say all sorts of things.”
“And if I said you were worth waiting for, and asked you to dance with me?”
Anthony racked his brains for excuses, preoccupations, and came up empty. Denial would have aroused suspicion instantly - Odinson clearly expected that Anthony would be flattered by his praise and eager to accept his attentions. It would certainly have been true if Odinson had been any other handsome, wealthy noble. There was no safer choice, and nothing to be gained by a risky one - save the preservation of Anthony’s dignity in refusing to dance with a vampire.
A necessary sacrifice to the cause. “That would be very kind of you, sir.”
Odinson bowed to him again, and then offered Anthony his arm. “The honor is all mine. Join me downstairs for the next?”
Abandoning his glass of wine on a nearby table, Anthony reluctantly placed his hand in the crook of Odinson’s elbow and permitted Odinson to escort him back to the main hall. The vampire clearly enjoyed having Anthony on his arm, lingering on the staircase to let the crowd see them, and his free hand atop Anthony’s as if to keep him close. The whispers rose swiftly, masked faces all turning to whomever was lucky enough to catch a prince’s eye.
“Ah,” Odinson said, pausing them before they reached the dance floor proper. “Thor has poor timing, as usual, but - Mr. Stark, allow me to introduce you to my brother.”
The elder of the pair was standing just to the side of the staircase. Thor Odinson was of a height with Loki Odinson, but there the similarities ended; Thor was broad in the shoulder and blond of hair, bearded, skin well-touched by the sun. His costume spoke of storms, honoring his pagan god namesake: dark grays and blues edged with flashes of gold and white; its cut was of riding-dress, fit for a hunt, as a werewolf would always be.
He nodded greetings to his brother, then turned his attention on Anthony with laughing eyes. “You have found a prize, Loki?”
“Perhaps,” Loki replied, smooth as oil. “He will have to be won, first. Mr. Anthony Stark, my brother and our host tonight, Prince Thor of Norway.”
Anthony made to bow; Thor surprised him by offering his hand to shake instead, in the modern fashion of gentleman equals. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Stark,” he said warmly. “And now I find you are most handsome besides. It is the greatest pleasure to meet you.” He squeezed Anthony’s fingers, making his presence felt, and winked from behind his mask.
Not one, but both were seducing him? Good grief! In all his expectations of the night, this had not made the list - that werewolf and vampire alike would not only desire him, but do so openly. Anthony had never wanted for lovers, and had always reveled in the fact, but at this moment he rather wished they did not gather around him so easily. If only charisma were like an electromagnet and could be turned off at will - he surely willed it now!
No - no, he must think clearly, and seize the opportunity at hand. Their fascination and attention to him could only serve him well; had he not regretted, earlier, not being able to see over more of the house? In their company - soon to be elevated to a private audience, if they had their way, Anthony suspected - he could learn far more than even Miss Potts could have anticipated.
Testing the waters, Anthony returned Thor’s gesture and injected warmth into his tone. “The pleasure is all mine, your highness. I hope to speak more with you.” With a deliberate look at Loki, he added, “But your brother has claimed my time first.”
Thor finally permitted their hands to separate with a last caress of Anthony’s wrist and a lingering look. “Enjoy your dance.”
Loki did not need a further word, reclaiming Anthony and drawing him away. They gained the center of the floor, and other pairs flocked to form up around them, bees surrounding a flower. Loki surveyed them, waiting until the number suited him, before making some signal to his brother; it was he who called to the musicians, “Play a waltz!”
Well, well, Thor did not seem to be the jealous sort, if he willingly set the stage for a romantic dance for Loki. Could Anthony keep both of them interested in him? He had bedded two women at once before - two men would be new even for him, but the Greeks and Romans had made it work often enough.
Loki turned to him with an impish grin. “Shall we?”
The music swelled before Anthony could reply, and in an instant he was caught in Loki’s embrace, his right hand in the small of Anthony’s back, left hand holding Anthony’s right aloft. Commandingly, Loki set them into motion, his steps smooth and elegant, his hold on Anthony not hard, but forceful, permitting Anthony no path but to follow him exactly. This close, Anthony’s trained eye could see the way Loki did not breathe, and neither their closeness nor the exercise put a blush into his pale cheeks.
The vampire danced excellently, every step in the perfect place, positioning textbook, flawlessly in time. Fluid grace permeated his whole body, tempered by a restraint that only heightened the display of his technical skill. Anthony, meanwhile, had to make a show of enjoying himself; but he found it easier than anticipated to keep up with such a partner, Loki leading so well that following seemed natural. If he forgot who Loki was, the dance was pleasant, even pleasurable; never before had Anthony danced in such synchronicity with his partner. Behind his icy mask, Loki’s piercing gaze never left Anthony’s, and it was no great feat to hold those verdant eyes - Anthony almost felt the opposite, that he would have been hard-pressed to look away.
“Your mask is a masterpiece,” Loki murmured at length. “Your own creation?”
“It is.”
“What an exceptional mind you possess. Gears and wires and metal, all crafted into nothing less than artistry. What else lies within, I wonder?”
Anthony could not deny his ego was flattered by Loki’s appreciation - Loki was over two centuries old, and for Anthony’s work to make an impression upon him was something. But that way, madness lay; Anthony could not afford to find his foe charming, or to be touched by his sincerity.
Yet, he must make sure to give the appearance of it. “You may examine me at your leisure, your highness, though I cannot say you will find anything to surprise you. As you have observed, I am known quite well.”
“Oh, yes - in fact, I forgot to mention, earlier. There is one other thing people say of you, Mr. Stark.”
“And what is that?”
It was no trick of the light, though Anthony dearly wished it were: Loki blinked, and his deep green eyes opened bright and purest red. “Hunter.”
Chill dread sank through Anthony’s body like a stone as he realized the precarious position in which he found himself. Anger followed it, so deep and fierce there could be no concealing his true feelings. Loki was toying with him, and had been all along - had set the trap and watched Anthony walk into it with eyes open - wanted to gloat, and wanted Anthony to know it.
The nerve!
“People say all sorts of things,” Anthony said, holding to bravado in lieu of any shield enough to save him now.
Loki laughed, a cold, malicious sound. “Oh, yes! You, for instance, have said several very unpleasant things about my brother and I. Murderers, malevolent, soulless… Rather impolite of you, considering we did not meet until tonight.”
Anthony glared even as his feet continued moving through the steps of the waltz, now a mere mechanical necessity. “You know well they are all true.”
“And I suppose you cast such epithets thinking yourself above them. Oh, my dear Mr. Stark - I must call you Anthony.”
“You must not, and I certainly am above you and your brother added together.”
Where was Thor, now? Anthony turned his head to catch sight of him - the werewolf stood where they had left him, watching them closely. A smile crossed his lips when he saw Anthony looking at him, and he raised a glass of wine in his hand in acknowledgement of the unwound deception.
Smug prick! Anthony refused to look at him any longer; inevitably, his gaze fell back onto Loki. “Are you?” the vampire asked, smiling, resuming their conversation as if uninterrupted. “Let us examine the charges. Soulless - if you have a soul, a man of science such as yourself disregards it. Malevolent - admit yourself no great lover of the vast majority of those with whom you share this earth. And as for murderer, well.” Abruptly, Loki’s tone lost all levity. “We both know the ledger of your enterprise is dripping - it gushes red.”
Rage flowed like molten steel through Anthony’s veins, shutting out danger and common sense. “That was an unkind comparison.”
Loki grinned, reveling in having seized the upper hand. “Industry is a dangerous business, Mr. Stark, and your looms and mills and smithies are no exception. How many lives have been lost to them? Are not your dreams haunted by the ghosts you kill?”
“That is not the question you need to be asking.”
“No?” Loki jerked them together, chest to chest, hands like shackles around Anthony’s wrists pinning his arms to his sides, and let them stand motionless. In a blur, the other dancers continued around them, seemingly heedless of the conflict at the center of the floor. “What should I ask, then?”
“You should ask how you can hope to equal what I have bought with that ledger.” Anthony raised an eyebrow coldly. “Every industry - metalwork, fabrics, construction, weaponry, electricity, chemistry - there is nothing in this country’s ambitions I have not touched. They call this time the industrial revolution, and it is my hand turning the wheel. When I spend lives, it is not cheaply. I doubt you or your brother can say the same.”
With savage joy, Anthony watched Loki’s expression jar, like an engine sticking while changing gears. The vampire had clearly not expected that response - had planned to shame Anthony and drag him down into iniquity, only to find Anthony proud of his darkness, fully aware he had fallen from grace long ago.
“If it is legacy you want, you are a few centuries behind us,” Loki said, recovering his composure.
Anthony grinned in challenge of his own. “Give me time.”
“Oh, yes. I would like to see that.”
What? Anthony’s head spun, trying to find footing on shifting sands. The world outside rushed past likewise, Loki twirling Anthony in a full circle before moving them back into the dance. The music had shifted, a volta this time, and just as Anthony realized what that meant Loki had both hands on his waist and had lifted him into the air.
With prodigious strength, Loki held him dizzyingly high for what seemed like an age. Anthony stared down at him, vulnerable and at Loki’s mercy, and yet…
Anthony’s hands found Loki’s wrists, felt the power there that balanced him instead of crushing him. His pulse raced, burning with fury and threat, but perhaps not those alone. In this position, Loki’s head fell back to look up at Anthony, just as it would were he kneeling at Anthony’s feet instead - Anthony shuddered at the image. Loki’s red eyes grew heated, and a hungry smile played at his lips, knowing far too much of Anthony’s private thoughts. Anthony raised his head, unable to hold that expression-
And found Thor instead, still watching, eyes a stormy sea from across the room. Mask and beard could not hide his desire, or the parting of his mouth to exhale a heavy breath. After what seemed many moments, Thor pressed fingertips to his open lips, and blew Anthony a kiss from them; it seemed to land in Anthony’s chest as a bolt of lightning.
Another bolt struck, stability disappearing - Loki lowering Anthony down his body and sweeping him off his feet again.
Anthony grasped to snatch back control of the conversation. “You are being exceedingly civil towards a man who wants you dead,” he said. “What game are you playing?”
“And you are being exceedingly harsh towards those who have done nothing to earn it,” Loki returned. “Predators we might be, but we hardly leave a sea of corpses in our wake. What difference does it make to the harlot if she spreads her legs or bares her neck? Why can I buy a day’s backbreaking labor, but not five minutes’ bloodletting? Do you believe, truly, that none of your peers have beaten a servant to death or forced one to their bed? Why should we die while they live?” Loki’s eyes shifted, green, then red, then green again. “You have done us no ill, and so my brother and I mean you no harm, Mr. Stark. Pray extend us the same courtesy.”
Anthony shook his head. “It is far too late for that. One corpse is enough, when it is one of my workers.”
“Ah.” Loki moved them through a complicated sequence, turning around each other; Anthony suspected it was an excuse to hide his face for a moment. As Anthony emerged from under Loki’s arm, Loki said, “Well, I would never do it again.”
“No, you will not. I am sworn to destroy the unnatural.”
Loki merely scoffed. “And what is natural about the steam engine, or glass? About gas-lamps or the telegraph? Did your factories grow out of the ground, without design? Your life is nothing but unnatural things, Mr. Stark. You covet them, you embrace them. What is one more? Or two, since I must slip in a good word for my brother?”
Loki spun them apart, their arms outstretched and fingertips the only point of contact - yet the gravity of that point was so immense that Anthony could not break away. With the slightest, inexorable, pressure of his touch, Loki drew Anthony back in, winding them together until Anthony’s back was to Loki’s chest, Anthony’s arms crossed at the wrist and Loki’s hands taking his. It was worse than facing him all through the waltz, worse even than the lift of the volta, for Anthony could feel Loki’s lips hovering above his neck but could not even see a bite coming if Loki decided he had had enough.
“And what do you have to say for Thor?” Anthony asked. Much as Anthony did not wish to hear it, if Loki was talking, he could not fill his mouth with Anthony’s flesh instead. “I know where you spent the full moon - that country manor of yours has not escaped my notice.”
“Of course it has not, you clever thing,” Loki murmured. “Hunting on one’s estate is a perfectly seemly occupation for a gentleman, is it not?”
“That depends on what, or whom, the gentleman is hunting.”
Loki laughed like a gunshot. “The local deer live in terror, no doubt, but one extra wolf on the moors is hardly going to trouble the farmers. Show me a wolf who can open a locked and bolted door - especially a wolf as stupid as Thor - and I will give your scorn its due. No, they have not even noticed his little nighttime pursuits.”
“I have only your word for that, or anything you have said tonight.”
“So you do.” Loki shifted their positions through the dance once more until they stood facing each other, a hand indecently low on Anthony’s hip and the other, even more indecently, settling on the side of Anthony’s neck, thumb claiming the soft spot behind his jaw. “It is yours to do with as you wish. I hope you will value it highly.”
Why did the Odinsons care so much what Anthony thought of them? Why were the creatures, who had convinced all of London they were royalty, so concerned with Anthony’s good opinion?
Unless… it could not be that their trap had gone unseen because each word - delightful, worth waiting for, the greatest pleasure, my dear - was truth?
Anthony had spent weeks obsessing over the Odinsons’ every movement, their history, their interests. Had they been doing the same, all along, from the moment they heard his name - for a very different purpose?
It was a theory worth testing.
Loki lowered his other hand to Anthony’s hip to lift him again, and this time, rather than resist or obey unfeelingly, Anthony leapt into it. Loki caught him up high once more, pleased surprise showing behind his mask.
Anthony was not finished. Deliberately, he hitched one knee to rest on Loki’s shoulder, holding himself there, and braced his other foot on Loki’s waist. Performing his part of Loki’s spectacle, he raised his arms to the sides in dramatic fashion, outstretched, and then slowly above his head, as if given in to the music. Loki turned them with steady gait, promenading Anthony before the assembled crowd - or was that, before Thor, the werewolf’s eyes never leaving Anthony’s face and his hands flexing in and out of fists, craving something he could not take. Anthony met his gaze and granted himself the touch that Thor wished to give - one hand sliding down the other arm, then caressing his face and throat in erotic mood, and ah - Thor visibly tensed, whole body like a plucked string.
Anthony lowered his arms again and Loki lowered him to the floor in alignment, both Anthony’s hands coming to rest on Loki’s shoulders while Loki did not release his waist. Anthony’s breath was caught in his chest and he was distinctly hot under the collar. Loki was smiling faintly, not the malicious trickster’s satisfaction of before, but something pensive, somehow unfinished. And it was Loki who stepped back as the music faded, bowing with exquisite courtesy to Anthony.
“Consider my words,” he said. “I will be at your service should you wish it.”
Then he turned on his heel and was gone, folded into the crowd, leaving Anthony to hasten for a quiet corner to make sense of himself.
He snatched a tumbler of Scotch whisky from a passing waiter, and sipped at its rich warmth to steady his nerves. Perhaps Loki’s seduction was genuine, perhaps it was not, but did it matter? Loki’s actions were a calculated - and frighteningly convincing - attempt to make Anthony abandon his hunt of them, and not through chicanery or force, but by his own choice. And Loki’s arrows had found their mark, for Anthony could not simply put aside his words.
No, he was turning the logic over and over and finding few faults; he did not want to give Loki’s arguments credence, but it seemed what he wanted mattered little.
If they did not deserve to die - no more than anyone, Anthony included, who rose high upon others’ backs - then what did Anthony gain from their deaths? Vengeance would not bring back his lost man, whereas there might be much to be said for allying with them - could Anthony turn the tables, and make the Odinsons choose to leave those under Anthony’s hand be?
Why did his heart quicken when he remembered Thor looking at him with eyes of fire, or Loki’s cunning wit? Why was it compelling to think of them learning of Anthony’s reputation, as hunter and as industrialist, and seeking him out - why had he enjoyed exceeding their every expectation?
If he did kill them, others would take their place soon enough, and what good would Anthony have done? Yet lives were lost to them, Anthony’s countrymen and women - were those people not owed his protection? Could he let himself fall to the Odinsons’ desire for him, stand aside, and still look himself in the eye while they preyed upon London as they pleased?
In this state, could he stop them even if he tried to?
He had nothing but questions, and no answers to give himself. Perhaps the best approach was to follow through with his original plan and permit no alteration: take what he had learned and escape with his skin and honor intact. Put aside this night and its disturbing unorthodoxy, forget his dance in Loki Odinson’s arms under Thor Odinson’s watchful eyes, and return to his duty, easy and unthinking…
“My brother had words with you, I see.”
Too late.
Anthony threw back the last of the whisky, and bid it give him the strength to face his other foe. Out of place, sympathy was written on Thor’s face behind his mask, and he proffered Anthony a replacement glass, filled two fingers deep.
“Loki is too clever by half, and you should never trust him, but his intentions are honest, I assure you.”
“Oh, you do? And why should I trust you?”
Even so, Anthony drank what Thor had brought him.
“Because I have no reason to lie to you,” Thor said. “Deception will not succeed with you. What I want, what we want, you must give freely.”
“Well, I am no stranger to being wanted.”
Thor tilted his head to one side, examining Anthony, and took a step closer. “No, I imagine you know it well. A man of your gifts and graces. I am sure half of England wishes to be in your bed.”
Anthony lifted his glass in a toast. “And the other half has been.”
Thor barked a laugh, surprised and gleeful. Something warm lit in Anthony’s chest, a struck match flaring to life, at the sound.
Just as quickly, he smothered it. It was far too easy to talk to Thor - blunt and straightforward and comfortably crass, rather than Loki’s twists and turns of razor-sharp logic. Where Loki undercut and maneuvered three, four, five steps ahead on a chessboard, Thor spread his cards on the table at the first hand. Anthony could not forget that both were an attack with the same outcome: the end of his hunt, and the Odinsons free to run riot.
Anthony shook his head and moved away. He had chosen his retreat poorly; with Thor standing between him and the main hall, he could not leave without passing him closer than he would have liked. The best Anthony could do was could put enough distance between them to breathe. It left him staring out of a wide window facing the street, gas-lamps and the lights of the houses opposite turned to streaks of gold by a heavy rain that had started falling since he arrived at the masquerade. “You ask a great deal of me, you and your brother. Even to hear you out is betrayal of at least three oaths I have taken. To give you more is… wrong.”
In the reflection of the windowpanes, Thor shrugged his great bulk. His costume included a thick gray fur - wolf, Anthony suspected - wrapped around his shoulders like a barbarian king, and it rippled with the movement. “Right and wrong are words for priests and lawyers. We need not concern ourselves with them.”
Anthony scrubbed a palm over his face. He felt as though he needed to wake up, though the hour was not that late and the whisky not that strong. “I thought you said that Loki was the clever one whom I should not trust.”
Thor chuckled; it was a low, rolling sound like the rumble of distant thunder. He followed Anthony to the window, and stood beside him. Numbly, Anthony could muster neither the panic nor the urgency to flee again. “You mean well in your actions,” Thor said. “But tell me, what harm is done if we three share pleasure? None of us will hunt the other tonight. Why should we not enjoy what else happens?”
“You tie me in knots.”
“Gladly, if that is your taste.”
Anthony drew a sharp inhale, mastered himself, and withheld from his first impulse to throw his drink in Thor’s face. “Why me? No, I retract that - I am not a modest man and I know damn well why me. Why like this? You clearly know who I am and why I came here. You and your brother have made a great effort persuading me to take you willingly, and bestowed me with a truly painful degree of honesty in so doing. There were easier ways to get me into your bed, we both know that. You want me, well and good - but you want me to want you, too, and that is what I cannot understand. Why waste your time on the longer route?”
Thor opened his mouth to speak; another voice beat him to it. “Time, we have in abundance, Mr. Stark.”
The window reflected nothing, but that did not prevent Loki from standing there when Anthony spun around. He had abandoned his mask and glass crown, and the full sight of his visage did not disappoint; cheekbones, nose and brow were as well-wrought as promised by the lips and jaw that the mask had left exposed, carven as if from marble. His expression was sober, no longer the gloating or teasing mood of before, and there was no telling how long he had been in earshot or what he had overheard. He approached slowly, joining Anthony and Thor until the three stood together, points of an equilateral triangle.
“Yes, we could have forced your company - tricked you, or mesmerized you, or threatened you. A hollow victory, to win at a rigged game. There can be no satisfaction, no triumph, in that.” Loki spread his hands, laying out a logical proof. “But what a prize it would be to earn your regard, England’s brightest mind and fiercest hunter, after a fair fight!”
Thor nodded. “As Loki said earlier - you must be won.”
Had they won? He always tried so hard to make the right decision, to be worthy, to come to London’s defense at great personal risk - and for what, if he could not draw upon his good credit from time to time?
If they had truly been princes of Norway, Anthony would have let them seduce him far earlier, or set out to seduce them himself. Did their inhumanity really tip the scales? Or was it his humanity that the choice hinged upon?
“What if I say no?”
Vampire and werewolf looked at each other for a long moment. “You will not,” Thor said.
For some reason, Anthony believed them. It was no stranger than anything else the masquerade had brought - and if he was in error, and his life forfeited to his mistake, he would not need to live with the consequences. That optimistic nihilism gave him the surety needed to speak again. “And what if I say yes?”
Loki grinned wide, cold features animated, taking Anthony’s question for an answer. Thor removed his mask; the face beneath looked like the hero of a romantic novel, worthy of Adonis or Apollo. “Then the night is ours,” he said. “And you will be well rewarded for it.”
Anthony expected his hands to shake, but they did not as he reached up to lower his own mask and bare himself to them. Being relieved of its weight seemed to relieve him of other burdens besides; he had made his decision, seen it through, and now merely had to continue as he had begun. Alea jacta est.
“Shall we?”