Sunrise in Los Angeles
by Tarlan
Rated: A slash/het
Warning: m/m sex, some f/f and hetsmut and swearing. If this isn't your scene then don't bother reading on - you know where the DELETE key is. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Philip Paget belongs to someone else. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you haven't heard of before, are copyrighted to me.
Series: Third in series, after Sunrise on Delos, and Sunrise in Mexico followed Sunrise in New York
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
It was a fair walk down a dusty track to where he had left his rented car the previous day; he had deliberately concealed it, not wanting to advertise his presence at the mansion. The early afternoon sun beat down upon him mercilessly and yet he did not feel its sting. Still, it was a relief to clamber inside even though the upholstery was hot to the touch. Philip gunned the engine and then gave thanks to whatever god might be listening, for air conditioning.
He was tempted to drive down to the small village that was barely five miles from the mansion but he feared his reception. He was certain he had little to do with the villagers for they were a superstitious lot, and he had memories of them making the sign of the cross whenever he passed by. Somehow, he had the feeling they would be even more hostile should he reappear after his supposed death. He sneered. No doubt they were more than grateful with the turn of events, considering his death to be a blessing in disguise.
There was another village that he had once passed through, close to the border with the United States which would make an ideal stopover point for the night. It was a few hours drive, but that would be no hardship for him in an air-conditioned car. Also, stopping there would give him the chance to sit down and plan his next course of action.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The village was smaller than he remembered, boasting little more than a church, a saloon, a few stores and one seedy looking hotel. He pulled to a halt in the small parking lot and rubbed his hands over tired eyes before alighting. Philip was pleasantly surprised to find his room was far cleaner, and far more comfortable, than he had expected but then he *had* asked for the best room. He was pleased to note that he would not have to share the toilet facilities with the other patrons as the room contained its own private bathroom. It meant he could hide away here and not have to concern himself with the other guests.
An hour later he was tempted to go down to the saloon rather than allow the past to catch up with him once more. However, the thought of attracting company was not so exciting a prospect tonight. Instead, he lay down on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, and thought back to the strange encounter that morning. He sighed as he remembered those strong, coarse hands gliding across his body, effortlessly turning him before that thick cock had plunged into him. He could still feel an ache deep inside from where the man had pounded into him in passionate abandonment, and he could remember his own cries of pleasure as he was brought to the brink of annihilation.
What seemed so strange to him now, in hindsight, was the fact that not a single word had passed between them. The only sounds uttered were the guttural moans of passion. Of course, it could be that the man spoke no English, still it was strange, and yet Philip could not find it within himself to be too concerned. That encounter had eased away some of the terrible memories he had of the white mansion, bringing him a little peace.
His eyes traced the thin, spider-like cracks in the plaster above his head. The walls were thin so he could hear the sounds of the other guests moving about; the sound of a toilet flushing, of a closet opening. The drone of a television came from behind his head, filtered through the thin wall separating the rooms, but he ignored its siren call, preferring to retain some sense of peace within his own room.
His thoughts gradually led him down the path of half-forgotten memories, but it was not the frightening mistiness of the past seven years that caught up him this time, instead it was the months just prior to his arrival on Delos that called to him.
He remembered the bitter tears flowing freely down his girlfriend's face when he said what would be their last goodbye. She had been so angry when he told her his intention to take what money he had and travel the world. She had been stunned at first, having already arranged appointments with countless specialists. She had even been willing to use a little of her own savings if it would buy them a few more months together.
Selfish. That is what she had called him. He could still remember the rest of her words as she berated him for planning to desert her.
'After all I've done for you. You inconsiderate, selfish bastard.'
Had he been selfish? Was it inconsiderate of him to want to spend the last few months of his life making fantastic memories... actually travelling to the exotic places he had only seen before in films and advertisements?
He realised that he was still annoyed with her, having long since recognised her true motives for wanting to keep him in Newark - and it had nothing to do with love. She had been looking forward to playing the role of nurse and martyr, all ready and willing to accept the attentions from family and friends alike as they offered her condolences, telling her how brave and saintly she was for giving up everything to make poor Philip's last days more comfortable. He sneered. No doubt she had already picked out her mourning clothes... and wouldn't she have looked so elegant all draped in black.
He pictured her in his mind. She had been everything he had ever wanted in a woman; tall, willowy, with ash blonde hair falling in waves to her waist. Her large eyes were an icy grey-blue peering out from an elfin face. She had the figure and the face of a supermodel - and, boy, did she know it. Of course, Philip was well aware that there was no real love between them, only great sex. However, he enjoyed having her on his arm for the looks of envy that he would see cross every man's face whenever they walked into a room together.
He often wondered what she had got out of the deal and realised that, probably, she had been no different to him. He knew that he was exceptionally good looking, perhaps she enjoyed seeing the jealous looks on the faces of other women. It was obvious that she took pride in her 'catch', her arm always possessively placed about him in company, the arch of her perfectly sculptured eyebrow often raised in arrogant contempt for others.
At first it seemed strange to Philip that the serpent god had not considered bringing her to Mexico. Its unhealthy desires had, most certainly, been aroused by his memories of Mary and yet it had made no attempt even to contact her. Perhaps it knew, as he did, that Mary was too strong-minded an individual to fall into the predatory trap that had ensnared all its other victims. All she could bring either of them was grief.
He had come full circle in his thoughts once more and had arrived back at the question that had haunted him since Delos. Who, or what, was the serpent god? Why did it choose him? And why did it give him a false name?
Another name crossed his mind; Monica.
The given name came to mind but, unfortunately, no surname came with it. However, he could picture her with her short, dark hair and lithe body. He tried to push passed the veil of mist that still separated him from those hazy memories, focussing on the woman who had been his right-hand. She was pretty and slim... and he seemed to recall that she had an insatiable sexual appetite that was equalled only by the serpent god himself. Her preference had also coincided with the creature inhabiting him, and he remembered how she had taken her greatest pleasure writhing on the bed with another woman while he looked on.
His mind supplied images of her coupling with Kelly, their soft flesh entwining, Monica's full, red-painted lips suckling on a dusky-pink nipple as her tiny hand cupped the small breast. Then she would turn, slinking down the bed until she was stretched out on top, her pointed tongue dipping between the soft folds to lap up the natural juices and suck on the small sensitive clit. Monica had been a pleasure to watch, bringing an unwilling partner to a slow, soul-destroying climax over and over as the serpent god within him revelled in the fear and sense of debasement emanating from their chosen victim.
Often he would join them on the bed, his hands parting the trembling thighs, tongue twisting and turning as it mimicked fucking, while Monica played and teased higher above, often straddling the face of their coerced partner and demanding her own satisfaction.
Other images came but these were remote in comparison and he realised that they were scenes from some of the porn videos he had watched avidly before Delos - before his sickness. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he remembered how enraptured he had been with his collection, how he would masturbate to the images on the television screen... how it had all been corrupted into something sordid and unwholesome by the serpent god. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at another naked woman and not feel nauseated by those horrific memories.
Quickly, he turned his thoughts away, focussing instead on Monica, his link to the past seven years.
She was a porn star.
Yes... it was coming back to him now. Monica had been one of those objects of lust in his porn collection and it, the serpent god, had enticed her to come and play in Mexico. He still had no surname for her, but he had a feeling that she would have returned to Los Angeles, and the porn industry so prevalent there.
At the very least, it gave him a starting place.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The morning came all too soon and, although he had fallen into a dreamless sleep, he did not feel well rested.
Philip placed his few belongings into the trunk of his car then paused. It made sense to pick up a few provisions for the drive ahead, just in case there was some delay. Across the dusty road he spied a small grocery store and headed towards it, ignoring the stares of the denizens of the village as they watched his progress with keen, inquisitive eyes.
He picked up bottled water, candy and sealed, ready-filled tortillas, paid for the goods and carried the small brown bag from the store.
She was so frail and bent double with age, and he missed seeing her as he stalked from the store intent on starting his journey back into the States. The bag dropped from his arms and the contents of her own small bag spilled across the paving.
"I'm so sorry."
Philip sank to his haunches and, quickly, he packed her meagre goods back into the little holdall. He looked up, offering the old lady her bag, his gaze meeting her milky-coloured, unseeing eyes. Something deep inside of him felt sorry for her and, without knowing why, he found himself reaching out to touch the paper-thin skin of her liver-spotted arm.
Philip fell back in stunned amazement as the cataracts started to dissolve, falling away to reveal brown eyes flecked with gold. Those eyes were widening in shock, tears brimming and falling down the seamed cheeks in realisation as she slowly stood up straighter, her clear eyes locking onto his own as her previously darkened world was filled with colours.
Words fell from her lips in a language he did not understand, but the tone was of pure wonder. She reached out and clasped his hand as he struggled back to his feet, her tone one of profound joy and gratitude. Philip tried to pull away from her tight grip, his eyes darting around at the crowd that was quickly gathering as her cries reached out to all who would listen. Hands started to reach for him, touching his arms, his body, his hair... his face, and in a sudden panic Philip pulled free. He pushed his way through the crowd, running hard as the sound of voices rising in awe followed him across the street to the parking lot.
He slammed the car into reverse as the crowd reached him, terrified by their hands reaching for the car bonnet and grabbing at the door handles. He hurtled backwards down the alleyway, oblivious to the screaming sound of metal sliding against brick, and the crunch of garbage under the wheels. The car burst clear of the alleyway and he spun the wheel then slammed the car into drive. A glance sideways showed the crowd was racing towards him, their faces alive with wonder, hands stretched out towards him. The stench of burning rubber filled the interior as the wheels tried to find purchase on the dusty back road, but then something caught and he was in motion, speeding out towards the main road... and America.
He drove hard and without respite for miles before he dared to slow, his heart still thumping in his chest from fear. As his heart rate slowed, so did the car, until they were travelling at an acceptable speed, one that would not attract the attention of the local police.
As he continued on his drive Philip steadfastly refused to dwell on what had happened back at the village. He knew he would have to think about it sooner or later, that he would have to try and make some sense out of what had happened. But not right now.
An hour passed and, with another glance in the rear-view mirror to convince himself that he was not being followed, Philip pulled over to the edge of the highway. He sank forward, pillowing his forehead on the soft leather of the steering wheel, hands still gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax, forced his hands to loosen their death grip, then he looked at the passenger seat for some bottled water - and groaned.
In all the panic he had left the water and food on the ground outside the store.
"Fuck.... Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck."
Philip stormed out of the car, too agitated to even notice the heat that slammed into him. He dragged his hands through sweat-slickened hair and screwed his eyes tightly shut, neck arched back so his upturned face felt the full impact of the hot sun upon it. The sound of a car pulling up on the opposite side of the highway brought him back.
"Are you okay, senor?"
Philip glanced across at the Hispanic driver, seeing genuine concern in the dark eyes.
"I'm fine... just taking a break."
The man nodded, his eyes sweeping the length of Philip's body in obvious approval of what he saw.
"Well, I passed a small gasoline station three or four miles back. Had a small diner attached... and a motel, if you're interested."
Philip found his eyes narrowing as the man made it obvious that he was more than willing to turn around and follow Philip back to that motel.
"I'm in a hurry... so I'll just be stopping to eat."
The man pursed his lips in disappointment and Philip could see him eyeing up his chances of taking what he wanted here and now on this isolated stretch of highway. Philip gave him no opportunity. He bade the man a safe journey and climbed back into the rental, quickly gunning the engine, getting underway before the other man could figure out a way to detain him any longer.
As he drove along, Philip realised it was not the man's looks that had turned him off. In fact, the man had been handsome in a rugged kind of way, with dark intelligent eyes and olive skin, and although he had a body that was on the verge of turning to flab, it was still firm enough to attract attention. No, it was not his looks but something far deeper. It was just a feeling that he did not belong with that man.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The diner was exactly where the man had said it would be and Philip, sipping a coffee, felt his fears slowly dissipating as the minutes passed with no sign of the other driver. The caffeine hit his system, bringing him back to a greater awareness of the world around him and, by the time he had finished eating, he felt more in control of himself, allowing his thoughts to drift back to the elderly woman.
There was no doubt in his mind that *something* had happened between them. He had seen the milky cataracts vanish from her eyes, had watched those dead eyes come to life, focussing on him in awe... and he had seen her frail, stooped figure pull upright.
Had he done this? Or was the serpent god still inside him, lying dormant, waiting for the right opportunity to strike him down again?
It seemed more imperative than ever that he found the answers to his questions, for how could he best this creature if he did not even know its name?
Philip pulled out the book of Greek Mythology and turned back to the entry for Asclepius, hoping it might give him some clue.
Hades, the god of the underworld, was jealously possessive of his subjects and was incensed that they could be snatched from his realm by this lover of mortals. He took his complaints against Asclepius to Zeus, who listened and found them acceptable. Zeus took up a thunderbolt and hurled it, killing Asclepius instantly. In a rage at the loss of his beloved son, Apollo slew all of the Cyclops who laboured in the volcano forging thunderbolts for Zeus. Then Apollo pleaded with Zeus to recall Asclepius to life. He pleaded with such eloquence that Zeus relented and, in return, Asclepius brought back the Cyclops so that they could continue forging their thunderbolts.
It seemed ludicrous to be trying to find a villain out of this book and yet everything that had happened to him seemed bound, somehow, to these old myths. If this particular myth were true, if the gods had - did - exist, then Hades had a grievance against Asclepius. He had asked for justice and had been thwarted by Apollo... and everything he had ever read told him that Hades was a resentful being.
Could Hades be trying to sully the name of Asclepius?
He checked the entry for Hades in the book but found very little information beyond what he already knew. He sighed deeply. He could read this book from cover to cover and still not find the answers he sought. His one hope was that the serpent god had confided in Monica.
Philip paid for his meal, bought a few extra items and returned to his car. A full stomach, and the knowledge that the border was barely an hour's drive away, gave him the enthusiasm he needed to continue on with his journey.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Although money was not a great problem any more, not since learning of the Swiss bank account, Philip kept his outlay to a bare minimum - without compromising on his safety. He found a small but comfortable hotel in Los Angeles, one used by the tourist trade due to its closeness to Disneyland and other attractions. What he had to figure out next was how to find Monica in this heaving mass of humanity.
One option, distasteful as it seemed, did come to him and he made his way down to the nearest video store. His memory of the time before Delos was strong and clear so it did not take him long to track down several titles that had dwelled in his former porn collection. His finger stroked over the face of one of the women gracing the cover of the box - Monica.
Unfortunately, there was little else on the box to help him so he was forced to purchase the film in the hope that there might be credits at the beginning or end that might lead him to Monica - or to someone who knew where she might be.
Back at the hotel room he loaded the tape into a rented VCR and sat back to watch, remote control held tightly in his hand.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Armed with the name and address of the studio that had produced the porn film, Philip made his way across Los Angeles. He paused outside a very plain, innocuous looking building and rechecked the address. With a shrug, Philip entered, his eyes widening at the tasteless opulence within. Plush black and white carpets in an elaborate zebra style stretched from wall to wall, the walls were lined with artwork of a very dubious nature being neither erotic nor pornographic, and yet they only seemed to add to the general tackiness of the place. A woman in overdone make-up, with long, scarlet fingernails, glanced up from a desktop PC, her bored expression quickly changing to interest.
Her eyes raked across his body, settling on his groin for one long moment before gliding back up to his face. She smiled, lasciviously.
"How may I help you?"
"I'm looking for..."
He was interrupted by the door opening behind the receptionist. A man in his early fifties, with balding, grey hair stepped out, his piercing blue eyes fixed upon Philip. He approached slowly, gradually circling Philip with the eagerness of a cat cornering a very tasty mouse. The man moved closer until he was standing directly in front of Philip.
Philip gasped, eyes widening in shock as he felt the man's hand cover his groin.
"Please tell me you're looking for work."
Philip took a step back, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment.
"No, I'm..."
"Come now. I can make you famous - and rich. With a body and face like..."
"No." Philip cleared his throat. "No. I'm not looking for work. I'm looking for Monica."
"Monica?"
Philip pulled out the video cassette box and showed the picture of Monica to the man. He watched as the man's eyed narrowed in speculation.
"What's it worth to you? Finding Monica."
"What's your price?"
The man pursed his lips, his beady eyes flicking up and down Philip's body in appreciation.
"A few photos, maybe a little film."
Philip swallowed hard, feeling a sense of helplessness, and he realised, for the first time, how it felt to be on the receiving end of another's sordid intent. Up until now he had felt sorry for girls like Kelly and Rebecca, but he had not been able to identify with the true horror of their position. He found himself in a quandary. He *needed* to find Monica, but was that information worth seeing himself degraded, his naked body flaunted to satisfy the sexual appetites of strangers?
Then he remembered that he had once been one of those strangers, all hot and heavy, masturbating to the images of naked men and women playing out their fake orgasms in their contrived fantasies.
Philip backed away, his sense of self-worth plummetting in remembrance of what he used to be. He turned and started to walk away.
"Wait!" The man caught his arm. "Look, you can't blame a man for trying. You're a good looking kid." He gave Philip a friendly smile but the eyes remained cold and calculating. "Ike Stephens is holding a party tonight. Anybody who's anybody in this side of the industry will be there. There's more than a good chance that this Monica will be there too."
The sleazy photographer scribbled an address onto the back of a business card and held it out, his smile broadening when Philip took it from him.
"At the door, just tell them you're with John Franks."
Philip nodded, wondering why the fine hairs on the nape of his neck had risen. He left the tacky office without glancing back.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Philip paced around his hotel room for hours while he considered what to do. The business card was propped up on top of the cabinet, beckoning to him.
"Dammit."
He reached forward and snatched it up, shoving into the back pocket of his jeans. Philip shrugged into his jacket and made his way down to the hotel's lobby. Five minutes later he was seated in the back of a cab heading for the scribbled address.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
The house was very plush with cream carpets and furnishings, and the walls held modern prints that gave a splash of colour to the otherwise bland rooms. Philip was unsurprised that the majority of women present wore dresses that left little - or nothing in some cases - to the imagination, their large cleavages spilling out over the top of skimpy pieces of sparkling cloth. In contrast, the men fell into two categories. The first group were probably the directors and producers, flaunting their air of superiority as they caressed anyone who came in contact with them. The other males paraded about as if they were still performing in one of those poorly plotted excuses for a movie. What did surprise Philip was that these male porn stars were fondled just as freely by those executives.
Philip tensed as a hand trailed over his hip then lower to cup one asscheek.
"I don't believe we have met. My name is Ike. Can I get you a drink?"
"Ike Stephens?"
The man smiled but it was not that kind of welcoming smile that gave Philip any comfort. There was something very sordid behind those pale blue eyes, a feeling of being slowly undressed and feasted upon. There was also a slyness, a calculating look, as the man turned away searching the room for a tray of drinks. Philip's suspicions increased when the man ignored the most convenient tray-bearer, instead, making signs to another man who responded with a sly grin of his own.
Philip was handed a crystal flute filled to the brim with champagne.
"A toast... to new friends."
The man eyed him over the rim of his own glass as Philip was forced, through etiquette, to take a sip. He only hoped that the man was only intent on getting him pleasantly drunk rather than drugging him, having heard enough about certain 'date' drugs that could free the inhibitions leaving the victim open to suggestion - any suggestion.
"I'm looking for Monica. Will she be here..?"
"Philip?"
He turned swiftly, a smile of relief falling from his lips as he saw her move towards him. She was as beautiful as he remembered her to be, and yet he no longer felt anything for her. As she made her way through the crowd towards him he recalled all the terrible things they had done together.
"Monica."
"I thought you were dead." She shook her head, still stunned by his reappearance in her life. "They said you were dead, an accident. That you fell and hit your head." Her eyes narrowed in appreciation, her mouth pursing beautifully. "It seems death becomes you, Philip. I must say you look... different, younger... exactly as I remember you on our very first meeting. You must let me in on your secret."
"Monica? Perhaps you could introduce me to your... friend."
"Oh, Ike. This is Philip. Philip Paget."
"The Philip Paget. You never told me he was such a prize catch. I hope you will stick around for the floor show later, Mr Paget. I believe the entertainment will be to your liking."
"Yes. I'm sure it will be. Now, if you wouldn't mind excusing me... I need to talk to Monica - in private."
Although the lascivious look was still there, Philip noticed how Stephen's attitude had changed towards him when his name was revealed. Philip had ceased to be merely a piece of tasty flesh, now, he had a higher status in that man's eyes. For a moment he wondered what Monica had said to the man about him. Perhaps she had told him all about Mexico - and the sexual appetite of his possessed body. It was apparent that Ike knew something of his 'likes'. Philip put all thoughts of Ike Stephens and the other party-goers out of his mind and turned his attention to Monica.
"Is there somewhere private we could talk?"
"Sure." She licked her lips. "It's a warm night and there is a lovely little gazebo part way through the grounds."
Monica linked her arm around his and gave him a knowing smile that he had no clue how to decipher. However, the important thing was, she was here and she was willing to talk to him.
"Lead on."
The garden was lit at intervals by old fashioned, pseudo-street lights, casting a golden yellow glow that pushed the shadows back. Ahead he could see the gazebo; a small, elegant feature. The sweet perfume of honeysuckle filled the night air, mixed with the heady scent of roses. Philip waited until Monica had made herself comfortable and then he sat down opposite. They talked of inconsequential things at first but, eventually, the conversation steered its way around to their joint past.
"Please tell me that you plan to reopen the sanatorium."
"No. But what I need to ask you is connected to that place."
He paused, unsure where to begin. Something she said came back to him, that he had hit his head when he fell, and he decided to use it as a starting point.
"I lost some of my memory, because of the accident. I need you to fill in some of the gaps."
Monica's eyes widened in interest - and speculation. She pursed her lips.
"How much is your memory worth?"
He had a nasty sense of deja vu, remembering the creep who had given him the invitation to this party, but this time he knew what was wanted - and it had nothing to do with his body.
"Two hundred."
"Five."
"Three - and then only if the information is good."
Monica licked her lips, her eyes still holding a calculating look but then she sighed.
"What do you need to know?"
"Did I ever talk about myself? Where the healing power came from? Did I ever use another name?"
"Asclepius... and on one or two occasions, Podilarius."
Podilarius, son of Asclepius and master of diagnosing and curing disease. He and his brother, Machaon, the great surgeon, went to Troy where their skill allowed thousands of the wounded to survive. Towards the end of the war, Machaon was killed by an arrow shot from the bow of Penthesilea, Amazon princess and daughter of Ares, who was fighting on the side of the Trojans.
Of Podilarius, there is no further reference except that he grieved heavily for his beloved brother, begging his ancestors for their intercession, but gaining no response.
"That's all you ever said, Philip."
"Nothing else? No explanations of where the serpent came from? No reasons for my actions? No boasts or brags?"
She shook her head slowly, then paused, a frown deepening the fine lines on her forehead.
"You once mentioned seeking vengeance for your grandmother - and for her family. I remember it was just after you..."
"There you are! The floor show's already started... and I am certain you don't want to miss it."
Startled, Philip looked as Ike Stephens appeared out of nowhere. He felt his arm being taken but decided against making a scene, allowing himself to be guided back to the house. He could hear Monica following on behind, her light footfall crunching softly upon the gravel path.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Philip's eyes widened in shock at the sight before him. There was nothing remaining of the semi-formal party he had left but twenty minutes earlier. The room had been darkened but the strobing white, red and blue light left little to the imagination as naked bodies writhed and twisted in a single mass that seemed to move in time to the heavy, thumping beat of music playing at a deafening volume. It was impossible to tell where one person began and another ended. He turned to Monica, questioningly, only to find she was already half naked. She wriggled and her blue sequin dress slid over her hips, dropping the rest of the way to her feet, leaving her clad only in stockings and suspenders. Quickly, she disappeared as hands drew her down, willingly, into the press of heaving bodies.
A hand snaked around his own body, tugging the T-shirt from his jeans. He pushed it away but more hands joined in, pulling at his pants and shirt. He felt the T-shirt rip, felt himself topple as he was dragged down. His shoes and socks were stripped from his feet, someone was undoing his fly and he struggled as those hands began to pull the denim over his hips. Other hands were grabbing at him, pinching his nipples, fondling his ass and his genitals. Fingers clawed at his hair, dragging his face first one way then another as mouths, both male and female, sucked and licked and kissed a path across his throat and cheeks. A mouth latched onto his and he felt a sting as teeth raked across his lower lip, drawing blood. Panic gripped at him as he was swallowed by the undulating mass of bodies. He tried to kick out at the weight pinning him to the floor. He gasped when he saw, then felt, a woman bury her face into his groin, his whole body tensing in revulsion as her bright red lips encircled his flaccid cock, her hair falling like a curtain around her face. Somehow, he managed to buck his hips and dislodge her but another took her place. This time it was a man who raised his eyes to meet Philip's - and Philip found himself looking down, in horror, at Ike Stephen's lust-crazed eyes. No amount of twisting could remove the hands and legs that pinned him beneath the writhing bodies. Then, suddenly, he felt himself being dragged out from under the others - and then he was free.
A blanket fell over his shoulders, and he pulled it tight around himself as he was guided through the throng of naked bodies and out of the house. Philip took a deep, ragged breath as he left the chaos behind, breathing in the clear night air. Strong arms grabbed him as his knees buckled in delayed shock, and he felt himself being raised until he was cradled in those arms.
"My clothes!"
The man shook his head and sighed, and Philip realised that it was not worth trying to find them, grateful that his earlier feelings of unease had made him leave everything of any importance back at the hotel. Despite the sudden embarrassment when he realised that he was being carried like a baby, Philip felt a strange reluctance to be released from this man's arms. All too soon he felt those arms letting go, then found himself being aided into a dark sedan.
Philip stared out of the passenger window as the lights of the city went racing past in a rush of rainbow bright neon. The car pulled to a halt and Philip blinked in confusion when he realised he had been taken back to his hotel. For the first time, he looked across at his saviour and found large green eyes, so similar to his own, gazing back at him from a handsome, unfamiliar face. Tousled blonde hair flopped across the tall forehead adding a touch of boyishness to the more mature features.
The man reached out towards him, his finger touching Philip's torn lip, lightly but Philip felt no pain, just a tingling sensation that swept from his lips to burn, like liquid fire, through his body.
At this time of night the hotel lobby was fairly deserted, even so there were a few staff and guests milling about, and yet no one so much as glanced in their direction as they moved across to the elevator. In his state of undress, wrapped only in a blanket, Philip had expected to be gawped at.
Philip never questioned the blond's entrance into his hotel room and, even if he had any thought of polite hospitality, it was given no opportunity to present itself. As soon as the door closed behind them, Philip found himself being taken back into those arms. He threw back his head as soft, firm lips sucked and kissed at his vulnerable throat, the blanket falling unheeded to the floor as the mouth latched onto the sensitive sunburst tattoo. Philip heard someone groaning in pleasure and, with a shock, realised it was himself. His will seemed to dissolve as the man bent him backwards, that knowing mouth travelling down his torso, tongue swiping across one hardened peak of a nipple. He was falling, in slow motion, but the bed seemed to come up to meet him, cushioning his body as he floated down to the soft mattress. His lover followed him down, covering him with urgent kisses, the long fingers stroking Philip's overheated flesh. Philip's hands reached out, fingers carding through the tousled hair as the man moved down his body until he was poised between Philip's parted thighs.
Philip's memory returned to the sight of that woman with her scarlet lipstick coated mouth burying herself in his groin, she morphed into Ike Stephens with his lecherous eyes and obscenely thick tongue, but the revulsion was swept away by the beauty of this new moment. Luscious, full lips, darkened in the heat of passion, bestowed a soft kiss on the tip of his straining erection before parting to take in the head. Philip gripped the blond hair tighter, a groan falling from his own lips as the man's tongue twisted and rubbed against the sensitive glans sending spikes of energy flowing through his nerve endings. Philip arched up, accepting the saliva-slicked finger that stroked and begged admittance to his body. He cried out for more as he was slowly driven to the edge of madness between the teasing finger, which had found the incredibly sensitive spot deep inside, and the gently sucking mouth.
With a desperate cry he fell over the edge into oblivion but found himself floating back to earth in the arms of his lover, his head was pillowed on the lightly sweating chest, the soft repetitive murmur of a strong heart so comforting as all the fear from this night was driven away. Philip felt a moment of anxiety when he realised his lover had not been satisfied. It was a new feeling for him, having never been too concerned in the past whether his bed partner had gained as much satisfaction as himself. He tried to pull out of the arms that held him so securely, wanting to give this man as much pleasure as he had felt.
"Let me..." "Sshh."
The man held him fast and Philip relaxed. He was so tired, he felt so drained. His eyes closed as body, mind and soul fell under the enchanting spell woven by that strong heartbeat - and he slept in that comforting embrace.
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When he awoke, the light of a new day was seeping around the edges of the curtain - and his lover, his saviour, of the night before had gone as if he had been part of a beautiful dream. His body still felt the warm touch of another body, as if the man had left but a moment before his eyes had opened.
Philip sighed and pulled himself up to sit with his back against the headboard. A jumble of images from last evening flowed through his mind but he focussed on only one; Monica. Her final words floated back to him.
"You once mentioned seeking vengeance for your grandmother - and for her family."
Philip reached into the beside drawer and pulled out the book of mythology.
Apollo forced his attentions upon the maiden Coronis but, when pregnant with their son, Asclepius, she rebelled and returned to her first love. Artemis, twin sister to Apollo, who was ever watchful of her brother's honour, was enraged. She slew the rebellious girl with silver arrow. Asclepius was born during her death throes, watching the details of his own birth with profound attention.
Her father, Phlegyas, a king of Lapiths, was so enraged at the death of his beloved daughter that he attacked Apollo's temple at Delphi - and destroyed it. For this crime he was killed by Apollo and condemned to spend eternity bound hand and foot in perpetual fear of being crushed by a large rock suspended in mid air above him by an invisible thread.
Philip stared at the text. It was all so confusing. Certainly, Podilarius had reason to want to take revenge; for the death of his brother, for the death of his grandmother, for the eternal damnation of his great-grandfather... but Podilarius was not a god despite the divinity of his grandfather, Apollo. He had great powers of diagnosis and healing but he was still just a man - and certainly not a serpent. And, even if it was him, who was he trying to take revenge upon? Asclepius, who had the power to bring his own son, Machaon, back to life but did not? Or Apollo, who had caused such misery in his grandmother's family? There was one more question. Why had he, Philip Paget, been chosen as the instrument of this revenge?
Philip let the book fall into his lap and he buried his head in his hands. There were other unanswered questions; questions that had formed since his 'rebirth'. Why had he been given this power of healing? And who were the men who came to him - and loved him?
His thoughts returned to the blond stranger who had appeared out of nowhere to rescue him from the writhing mass of lust-driven bodies at the party. The man had not spoken to him, except to hush him like a mother with a small child, and he had left without a word giving Philip no opportunity to thank him.
That small sense of selfishness reared itself as he remembered doing nothing to give that man any pleasure in return. It was another new feeling that was clambering the walls of what had once been a stone-cold heart. Selflessness and compassion were melting the void in his soul and, with sudden insight, Philip knew what he had to do next was appease those new feelings.
It was far too late for Kelly but, just maybe, he could use this new power to give back to the others what they had paid dearly for, and what had been cruelly snatched away by the serpent god's evil - true healing.
Something deep inside told him that the answers to his questions lay along that path.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
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