Morgan Fahr was hardened to the curiosity of strangers, insulated as carefully as he could be by the privileges of wealth. Money couldn't keep the world at bay. Morgan was bitterly aware that. Wealth, in fact, was the magnet that had drawn the very worst of the world to him. He used it now to provide as much of a buffer as he could for himself and his son, cocooned from strangers, in what was left of a life torn asunder. Their world was small, peopled by a few trusted individuals. The presence of doctors, detectives, and lawyers, people who'd overtaken their existence for a time, had gradually receded.

The men who'd killed his wife and tortured his son had been brought to justice. A meaningless legal term, thought Morgan. Nothing could balance the weight of evil.

He settled deep in the couch of the airport's VIP lounge, his long legs crossed, his arms around the pliant, small form of his eighteen year-old son, Marcus. The boy was tucked into the protective curve of his father's side, head resting on Morgan's shoulder, his face pressed familiarly into the warmth of Morgan's neck.

The man was so used to this physical intimacy, so constantly shadowed by Marcus's mute, cuddling presence that it felt as natural as the weight of his own hair at the back of his neck. Life had assumed its own flavor of normalcy, the shattered remains knitted together into a shape that fitted the father and son.

Morgan had accepted the reality of who Marcus was in the wake of what had been done to him. There were only two doctors left of the army of physicians and specialists that had swamped their lives when the twelve year-old kidnap victim had been found, physically and emotionally ravaged by his six-month ordeal. He'd been discovered, not by the police, but by a homeless man seeking shelter in the basement of a condemned building.

For close to two years Morgan had allowed his son to be subjected to a battery of medical and psychological treatments. The kindest and most effective of the physicians who'd treated Marcus were still part of their lives, though no longer an intrusive part. Marcus's body was healthy now, though he lagged behind his years in physical maturity. The effects of castration were carefully treated hormonally. There were mysteries that Morgan lived with, answers he no longer sought because the price of finding them was too high. Who Marcus might have become, what his life would have been, were part of the tapestry of the past. Morgan had learned to treasure his son for what he was.

Beyond the glass, snow was falling, tiny flakes visible where light pierced the dark, a shallow coating on the runways that wouldn't delay them long. Morgan nodded at the steward who set two drinks on the table beside him, a decent scotch for him, and for Marcus, a glass of juice with a straw. He was aware of the steward's gaze reading them, wondering. Indifferent to it, Morgan lifted his glass. The liquor's warmth blossomed down his throat. He saw his son's eyes follow the motion of the glass, head tilting to watch him drink. With endless fascination and devotion, those eyes attended his every movement. Sapphire eyes, fringed by long dark lashes. Constant witness to Morgan's existence. This too, was as familiar as breathing to Morgan, to be the object of his son's ceaseless attention. Even when the dark blue eyes were closed, Marcus kept watch on him with his other senses.

Morgan held the glass of juice, steadying the straw with one finger against the edge of the glass, and brushed it against Marcus's lips. The boy took it in and drank a little, indicating that he was finished by turning his face to his father's neck. It was the face of an angel, thought Morgan. He'd grown used to the feminine silk of his son's skin, the features a delicate, prettier version of his own face. He kissed the top of Marcus's head, a gesture offered a hundred times a day, as reassuring to him, he thought, as it was to the boy. Marcus's hair, like his own, was the deepest shade of brown, like burnt chocolate, and worn long like his. His son loved to have his hair brushed, and loved to brush Morgan's. Haircuts, beyond trimming, had become a thing of the past. Whatever pleasure he could introduce into Marcus's existence, he cultivated unstintingly.

Pleasure, indeed. In Morgan's pocket was a slim leather case. In the case was a key, slender, ornate, etched with stars. The key was a gift from Dr. Elizabeth Emery, Marcus's remaining psychiatrist, and increasingly, Morgan's therapist as well. It was the seed of the quest that had brought them to this airport on a cold winter night, their destination a place called the Palace, the Starlight key their entry.

Please God, thought Morgan, let this be right -- for him, for me.

The thought of entrusting his son's body to a stranger was frightening, but Morgan, accustomed as he was to Marcus's close physical presence, teetered with fear at the line between intimacy and sex. His own needs he satisfied as quietly as he could, while his son slept beside him. It had been surprisingly easy for him to give up the lifestyle he'd once lived, his behavior, like his wife's, a mockery of the vows they'd made.

A loveless marriage between the troublesome heirs of two wealthy families. He and Renee had married barely out of their teens and it had never been more than an alliance of wealth and power. The conception of an heir ended their physical relationship. Morgan's life had reverted to what it had been before the marriage, revolving door to a constant parade of male lovers. He was hardly impinged upon by the duties of fatherhood, while Renee devoted herself to a similar existence with a steady stream of female lovers.

He thought back on his life as if it had been lived by someone else. Overnight, Marcus had become the center of his existence. Lovers had fallen away, unable to cope with the transformation of Morgan Fahr from light-hearted, self-centered sensualist to grieving father.

Nothing mattered to him but the safety and care of his son. Morgan would have been content to live out his life with his hand for a partner; his need for intimacy filled to overflowing by the innocent presence of Marcus. The boy had seemed to be rendered sexless by castration, content with the pleasures of cuddling and petting that were the heart of his life. But this was changing. Whether it was the gradual result of hormone treatments, or a healing wrought by time, Marcus had begun to exhibit much more sexually explicit behavior, to attain erections and look to his father for relief.

"A whore?" Morgan had demanded in disbelief, outraged by Dr. Emery's proposal. "You want me to hand my son over to a whore?" The gentle doctor had quietly weathered the outburst of anger. "Never! What we talked about for him was a therapist, a professional, not some pleasure slave. Do you have any idea what they're like? What the Palace is? They're prisoners, Emery. They'd as soon kill you as fuck you. I can't believe you would even consider such a thing." His heart had been hammering, his anger so palpable that Marcus had burst into tears, cowering beside him on the floor. The room that had been devoted to work with Elizabeth Emery was a place without formal furniture, the setting where she met with them three times a week. The man, his son, and their doctor, faced one another on a thickly carpeted floor, strewn with pillows.

"Good Lord," Morgan had reached for his son, forcing himself to breathe deeply, to calm himself for Marcus's sake. The mute boy, whose only sounds were chimes of laughter or whimpers of crying, had folded up tight with his knees to his chest, staring at Morgan through tears.

"Morgan," the psychiatrist said, softly, "I am personally acquainted with Shaun Vidar and I do not suggest that you hand Marcus over to him, literally. I think you should see him, together. He is far from the angry slave you envision. If anything, he is overly grateful to his masters for providing him with a home and people to give pleasure to. Believe me, Morgan. I don't take your son's welfare lightly and I've been considering this for some time."

Breathing more normally, feeling his son's body relax in his arms, Morgan continued to rock Marcus gently in his lap, gazing into the now content deep blue eyes.

"Is it for me, Emery?" he asked at last, knowing her concerns. She did not fully approve of him closing himself off to lovers and had raised the subject from time to time, testing the waters.

"It's for both of your sakes, Morgan." After a short silence, she added, "I must admit, that I also have Shaun's welfare at heart. He's either completely, or partially, non terrestrial, a very sensitive and loving creature. He's humanoid, but free of the prejudices that even you harbor. Your physical closeness to Marcus will delight him, not disturb him. I think all three of you could benefit from each other."

This actually brought a smile to Morgan's lips.

"Your strength and your weakness, Emery, to love your clients."

"Maybe," she admitted, with an answering smile. "Shaun is more than worthy of a caring patron, and you and Marcus have reached an impasse."

As she spoke, Marcus was playing with his father's hand and carried it between his legs, pressing Morgan's palm against a budding erection.

"Yes, sweetheart," Morgan murmured to his son, suppressing the flare of anxiety this gesture evoked in him. He turned their joined hands so that Marcus was caressing himself. He gazed up at the doctor who'd been their emotional support for close to five years. "We'll meet this Shaun of yours. When can he come here?"

"He can't. You have to bring Marcus to him, to the Palace."

"Isn't there something about keys?"

"Indeed there is. My gift to you both," she said, producing the slim leather case. "The Starlight Key. It's yours for the month, Morgan. Speaking of time, be patient with them both, and yourself. No stranger will be easy for Marcus to touch. You have to help him. You understand?"

"Of course," he had answered, but now he wondered if he really did.