Desire Beyond Death (Anthology)

Desire Beyond Death Tales of Eternal Love

Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as ‘unsold and destroyed’ to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for this ‘stripped book.’ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Ink Copyright 2007 by Isabelle Rowan After the Storm Copyright 2007 by Chrissy Munder Revenant Copyright 2007 by Connie Bailey Seeing Is Believing Copyright 2007 by Abigail Roux Bittersweet Copyright 2007 by Madeleine Urban Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-0-9801018-4-3 Printed in the United States of America First Edition October, 2007 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-0-9801018-5-0

Table of Contents Introduction .................................................................................... iii Ink by Isabelle Rowan .................................................................... 1 After the Storm by Chrissy Munder.............................................. 71 Revenant by Connie Bailey ........................................................ 131 Seeing Is Believing by Abigail Roux.......................................... 333 Bittersweet by Madeleine Urban ................................................ 359

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Introduction "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 159–167 Ghosts. Spectres. Vampires. Monsters of every shape and size. Whether we want to exorcise them or lure them in, they're the stuff of fantasy and of nightmares, tempting us with a life – and a love – beyond this one… if we can keep from running screaming into the night. When we believe in them, when we enter into their world for a day or eternity, we find that the possibilities are endless, for good or ill. The spirits of the underworld, the demons of the night can torment us, or they can offer a love as boundless as their eternal hearts yet as fleeting as the moments when the walls between their world and ours grow thin. Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley, Victor Hugo, the Bard himself all used elements of the fantastic, the supernatural, to add depth and mystery to their stories, establishing a tradition of love that will go to any length to preserve itself. The five authors in this volume have followed in that time honored tradition, exploring those walls, those boundaries, by taking us from Melbourne to the Great Lakes, from Cornwall to Bristol and beyond. In each case, though, they bring us tales of love that overcomes all odds – even death. So sit back, relax, and enjoy takes both spooky and passionate, light-hearted and wrenching, as you join these men who make their dreams come true. Ariel Tachna November, 2007 iii

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Ink

Ink The Tale of a Vampire in Melbourne

Isabelle Rowan

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ANOTHER fractured line streaked across the skyline, followed almost immediately by drawn out rumbling. The air crackled with electricity. He could smell the first drops of rain as they hit the hot asphalt road and turned to steam. The humidity seemed to suppress the noise and subdue the normally exuberant inhabitants of Chapel Street. Dominic knew this street well; he had watched it change over many years. These days the geography of the street housed two very distinct cultures. Closer to South Yarra, Chapel was all trendy, up-market boutiques and sushi bars where pretty young things with glitter sprayed on their skin and too-high shoes hobbled their way into clubs and cocktail bars. Dominic always found the run-down Windsor end more interesting. Café culture was only beginning to intrude, and you could still see shop fronts with bondage corsets and adornments for the pierced next door to white orthopaedic shoes for lawn bowlers. A tramcar rattled past and gave its warning ‘ding’ to an errant pedestrian; Dominic looked up to watch its progress. Tonight, like many other nights, he sat at the outdoor table of a small café where he could see the passing parade of people coming out of the Tattooist with their small patches of cling wrap taped to arms or ankles. Even when it wasn’t visible, Dominic could smell the newly broken skin. It sent a wave of hunger through him, but he ignored it … not tonight, tonight was for other pleasures. He paid for his coffee that, as usual, sat untouched and walked to the painted windows of the little shop across the street. Nothing could be seen from the outside; the entire shop front was a

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montage of demonic creatures and skeletal dragons, the name ‘Ink’ taking up an entire glass panel. Dominic pushed the door open. Inside, a man flicked through a photo album while another checked out the designs on the wall; both glanced at him but quickly looked away. Dominic stood quietly at the counter until a woman came out from the back room, sporting a kaleidoscope of colour work on her arms. She smiled at him and asked, “Can I help you?” “I have an appointment,” Dominic answered quietly. She frowned, but reached for the appointment book. “I don’t think so. It’s almost closing. Scott is with someone and I’m sure Michael is finished for the night.” She opened the book and checked under each name that affirmed what she’d just said. “Look again,” Dominic said and pointed to a blank time slot. “There’s my name.” This time she could clearly see the name printed next to Michael’s, although the moment she looked away she had forgotten what it said. “Oh, I’m sorry … I’ll get Michael,” she mumbled in a confused voice and called out to the back room, “Mikey, you have a customer.” A young man walked through the curtained doorway. “Hey, sorry, I thought I was done for the night. Come through.” He turned and bid Dominic to follow him. The back room had obviously been part of a previous owner’s home at some stage in the distant past. The picture rail managed to cling to most of the crumbling plaster and the disused fireplace now housed an odd selection of movie action figures and battered lunchboxes. The walls of the room were painted a dark purple, although they were all but hidden by screen-printed posters advertising obscure industrial bands. The two work spaces were a sharp contrast to the carefully composed chaos of the décor; the bench space was organised and clean. Michael walked to the second workstation and sat on the small vinyl swivel stool. He indicated for Dominic to sit in what

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looked a lot like a dentist’s chair draped in a sheepskin. Michael usually made small talk at this point to put customers, particularly first timers, at ease, but there was something about this man that stopped him. Instead he just asked quietly, “What exactly is it you want?” Dominic almost laughed at the question. What is it I want? But he answered simply, “A design on my left arm.” Almost as an afterthought he turned his face, stared directly at Michael and added, “I’ll let you decide what.” Shaken, Michael looked down to the location of the intended tattoo and said a little too quickly, “No, man … are you sure? Um, maybe something tribal would look good, you know … black work.” His eyes flicked briefly up to Dominic’s before he swiveled the stool around to the workbench, where he could focus his attention on preparing his tattoo gun. His fingers fumbled with the elastic band and it took him several attempts to get it correctly placed and slot in the needle. He took a breath, deep enough to calm his nerves a little, but not enough to let the man see he was rattled. Settle down, Michael, it’s just another inking job. Michael’s reactions were obvious to Dominic, but he was used to people’s discomfort around him. He looked around to the other workstation, where a teenage girl’s skin was broken as her tattoo was started. Even from this distance Dominic could smell her blood, and his senses twitched at the sharp tang the ink added to the normally rich, earthy smell. He wondered absently how it would taste if he slid his tongue over the newly tattooed shoulder, red and black colouring his mouth. He felt the hunger rise, but denying himself felt good. The sudden touch of Michael’s fingers through the linen of his shirtsleeve pulled his attention back to the young tattooist. “I’ll get you to roll up your sleeve and you can show me how big you want the design.” Dominic carefully folded the fabric to the top of his arm and waited for Michael to begin. It had been a long time since Dominic had felt nervous and it surprised him that he could still

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feel the flutter of anticipation. He watched Michael closely, not willing to let any part of the experience escape unnoticed. So intent was his focus on the movement of Michael’s hands that he was startled when the fingers actually made contact with his bare skin. Over the years Dominic had grown accustomed to his heightened senses of sight and smell, but voluntary touch was almost forgotten. Generally people avoided any form of physical contact; it was as if a primal survival instinct made them cringe away when he was close. He closed his eyes. It was such a simple touch, just fingertips marking out the boundaries of the proposed tattoo, but it sent a deep shiver through Dominic’s long neglected body and sparked a different hunger. Michael felt Dominic shudder, but shrugged it off: more nervous than he looks. He lay his palm flat on Dominic’s arm and spread his fingers. “How about this for size? From the tip of my thumb to the end of my little finger?” Dominic didn’t look … he merely nodded and said softly, “Whatever you want.” Michael frowned. “Okay man, it’s your arm.” When there was no response Michael shook his head, picked up the black marker pen and began to sketch out a design directly onto Dominic’s arm. The cool tip of the marker skittered over Dominic’s skin. With eyes still closed he felt every slide and stop it made. He tried to see the image as it was drawn through touch alone, but was constantly distracted by the heat of Michael’s hand and the puff of his breath as he leant in to check his work. Dominic opened his eyes and looked down at Michael. The young tattooist was totally engrossed in his work. A slight frown of concentration creased his brow and he chewed lightly on his bottom lip. While he drew the gently curving lines, his thumb stroked absently over the sensitive skin of Dominic’s arm.

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It had been so long since he had been this close to someone that Dominic found the rush of sensations overwhelming; the warmth radiating from Michael’s unblemished olive skin, the smell of mint shampoo, cigarette smoke and sweat. Human smells without the sharpness of fear. Suddenly Michael felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and he looked up to meet Dominic’s gaze. As he stared into the pale blue eyes, his fingers wrapped around the cool skin of his client’s arm and tightened their grip. It was only when Dominic broke the connection and looked down at his arm that Michael was able to murmur, “Is this the kind of thing you want?” Dominic’s voice was soft, and Michael thought a little sad, as he said, “That’s what I want.” Michael sat and looked at Dominic for a lot longer than he intended, then gave himself a mental shake and turned to the workbench. He carefully finished setting up the gun and pulled on a pair of fine latex gloves. Dominic smiled at the care the young man was taking; unnecessary … I would catch nothing and pass nothing on. “The outline usually hurts a bit, but your skin soon gets numb,” Michael said while he gently laid a steadying hand on Dominic’s arm. The first touch bit the edges of his flesh. Dominic watched the point of the gun slide along a section of the hand-drawn outline while excess black ink bubbled out the edge. The pain was minimal, but it was enough to remind Dominic of sensations long absent. Michael lifted the needle and wiped away the ink to check his progress. He glanced up and asked, “You doing okay?” Dominic considered the question seriously and answered, “Yes, I’m okay, thank you.” Michael was a little surprised at how carefully Dominic had answered what was a standard question. He blushed a little when

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he realised he was smiling at Dominic’s response and dipped his head to get on with the tattoo. Normally Michael chattered in a continuous stream while he worked, partly to distract the client but mainly because it was his nature. With Dominic, however, he barely spoke … there was something about the man that silenced him. He was too aware of the smoothness of Dominic’s skin, the rise and fall of his chest and the way his eyes made him feel locked in place. Michael tried to keep himself focused on the task. Ignore the man; it’s just another inking. But when Scott finished his client and headed over to watch, Michael was irritated by his presence. Although it was normal practice for the two friends to check out each other’s artwork, tonight Michael didn’t want him there. He clenched his teeth and tried to push away the feeling that Scott was intruding on something intimate. When he finished the outline he stopped and looked up. “Listen, man, I’m gonna be a while yet … you head off and tell Abby I’ll lock up when we’re done.” Scott frowned; they didn’t usually operate that way, it wasn’t safe. “Nah, it’s fine, mate, I can hang around.” Michael was about to argue when Dominic said in a very soft voice, “He told you to go.” Something about the voice, rather than the words, convinced Scott that it was indeed time to go home. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael,” he said, but never took his eyes off Dominic until he was out the door. Michael was also watching Dominic; there was something about him he couldn’t define … clients usually fell into quite distinct categories, but this one was different. Once Scott had gone, Dominic gave Michael a small smile that instantly sent a flood of heat through his chest and down to his belly. “Um, yeah … the outline is done … it looks good,” Michael stammered while he gently began to wipe the excess ink and smudges of blood from Dominic’s arm. “Filling it in will feel a bit different.” He glanced up and smiled, but quickly dropped his eyes back to the skin. As he ran his gloved fingers over the raised and

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reddened outline, the burn in his belly spread and he felt his cock twitch within the confines of his jeans. Fucking hell, Michael, get a grip. Dominic could smell the change in Michael and closed his eyes. This can’t happen … why am I doing this to myself again? But he knew. There was a genuine curiosity about the effect of a tattoo on his inhuman skin, but the main reason was the desire to be touched … it had been so long. The pain of the colouring process was less ‘sharp’, it was more like a dull and constant burning on his skin, yet it was no less intense. Dominic let his head fall back against the seat, allowing the smell of the ink, his own blood and Michael to blur with the steady scratch and hum of the gun. He told himself to enjoy the experience, the sensations and his time with Michael, but remain detached. Dominic knew he was no longer part of this world. Michael forced himself to concentrate and although he took the necessary care, he frequently stole glances at Dominic. Knowing his eyes were shut, Michael took extra time wiping and cleaning the area so his gaze could flick to Dominic’s face and body. He could tell Dominic was older than he was, but other than that he could only guess that Dominic was maybe late thirties or early forties. His clothes were pretty conservative and there were no visible piercings, in fact he could have been one of those people who blend into the crowd unnoticed … except for those eyes. A trickle of sweat ran down Michael’s back as he filled in a swirl near the top of Dominic’s shoulder. He swapped the already soaked tissue for a new one and wiped away the last traces of ink from the unmarked surrounding skin. The tattoo was finished, but Michael hated to admit it. Even though it was well past their usual closing time, he didn’t want this man to leave. Finally he sighed and said, “It’s done.” Dominic opened his eyes and looked first at Michael and then the fresh artwork. There was a definite melancholy to his voice when he said softly, “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

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“Um, that’s okay,” Michael mumbled, suddenly a little flustered. “Here, I’ll, ah … I’ll put some of this on and get it patched up.” He fumbled under the counter until he found the tube of antiseptic cream and carefully smeared a thick layer over the raw inking. He held up the roll of cling wrap and taped on a square, ensuring it was completely covered while explaining, “There, that will keep it clean and protected. Try to leave it on for a couple of hours.” Dominic smiled at the way Michael had begun to babble and simply said, “Thank you, how much do I owe you?” Just another fucking job, remember, Michael cursed for letting this man get to him. He told Dominic the cost and they walked to the front desk. Dominic handed over the money, thanked Michael again and headed for the door. Shit, Michael panicked at the thought of Dominic leaving and called out, “Hey … um, I’m heading out for a drink if, ah, if you’d like to join me?” Dominic stopped and looked around, sadness evident on his face. He reached out to Michael and gently stroked his cheek before walking through the door.

THE sun was already high in the sky and streaming through Michael’s window when he began to stir. Actually opening his eyes was still too big a task, so he lay with them closed and tried to gather the little threads of consciousness. He’d dreamt about someone; his touch was still on Michael’s skin. He desperately wanted to hold on to the image, but it faded quickly, leaving him with just an impression of gentle fingers and pale blue eyes. Michael groaned and turned onto his side. He peered cautiously at the clock. Fuck, how can it be midday already? He rubbed his hand over tired eyes and stared at the peeling paint on the far wall for a few more minutes before hauling himself upright onto the edge of the bed. He sat, forearms resting on his thighs, and frowned; he was never a morning person, but this morning there was something different … something on the fringes of his mind that he just couldn’t get hold of. A bit like when you see something

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in your peripheral vision but you turn to look and there’s nothing there. He shook his head, stood up and wandered into the bathroom. His reflection grimaced back when he ran his hand over the patches of stubble, and Michael decided shaving simply wasn’t going to happen today. Something distracted him in the mirror … it was nothing that actually existed in the reversed image of the bathroom, but a recollection of another reflection in another mirror. He shook his head again in disgust and turned away to take his shower. Michael took his time getting to work; the rain of the night before had cleared the air and he enjoyed the gentle heat of the sun on the back of his shoulders. It helped dispel the cloud that had settled in his brain. By the time he’d ventured into the second-hand record shop, picked up a Nine Inch Nails CD and flicked through some comics in ‘Alternate Worlds’, Michael had all but forgotten the presence of the man in his dream. Abby was already unlocking the door of ‘Ink’ when he arrived. She looked up at him and grinned, “Hey gorgeous, been spending your hard earned money?” “Come on Abbs, how could I resist?” He smiled and flashed the CD. She rolled her eyes at him and pushed the door open. The moment Michael walked into the shop, the feeling of dread and anticipation returned. He hated his inability to pin down why he felt this way. Shaking his head, he went over to his customer book to see what he had on today while Abby checked the register. She frowned and pulled Michael’s book across the counter and then checked Scott’s. Michael watched her count the money again and asked, “What’s up? Scott been raiding the till again?” Abby shook her head and gave him a confused look. “No, quite the opposite … there seems to be $150 more than there should be.”

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Michael turned the book back towards him and cast his eyes over last night’s clients again … something didn’t seem right. How could there be money in the register, but nothing in the book? Michael walked into the back room and sat at his work station … there was something on the edge of his memory; he could feel it prickle just out of reach. He ran his hand over the sheepskin on the chair in front of him; it was as if his fingertips were looking for something. Nothing really came together; there were just little fragments of touch, smell, a feeling … nothing tangible. Michael huffed a sigh and leaned back against the workbench. “Hey Michael, rough night?” Scott threw the curtain back and flopped into the chair in front of him. “Nah, man … well, at least I don’t think so.” Michael shook his head and laughed at his own confusion. “You were still working on someone when I left.” Michael frowned and tried to remember his last client … it was a woman getting an owl on her forearm, but Scott was still there when she left. “Are you sure?” “Yeah, a man … shit, for the life of me I can’t remember what he looked like.” Scott hit his palm against his forehead, “Fuck! I hate that! I was working on a girl’s shoulder tat and her boyfriend was being a pain in the arse, breathing down my neck … I can see ’em clearly, but your guy just greys out… I’m smoking too fuckin’ much.” “Maybe the weed under your bench isn’t such a good idea after all,” Michael laughed and slapped Scott across the shoulder. “Come on, you wanker, get off my chair.”

DOMINIC didn’t sit at the café that night. He avoided the Windsor end of Chapel Street completely … he knew it was dangerous for him there, dangerous to be around Michael. The young tattooist brought back too many memories and needs that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But other needs had to be met. Tonight

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he would have to feed down the ‘other end’ of Chapel, even though he usually preferred to avoid the clubbers and their chemical cocktails. Slowly but purposefully, he made his way along the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the averted eyes and wide berth given him by late night shoppers and the last of the café culture. Dominic reached his destination a little before eleven. A long queue of youths waited to enter the already over-full club. There was the usual mix of coloured dreadlocks, screen printed T-shirts and pale skinned Goths sporting oversize crucifixes that could no more save them from his attention than the garlic that seasoned the pizza slices they consumed for dinner. All myth and legend. Dominic walked past the doorman, who suddenly found a chip in his fingernail a lot more interesting than the fair-haired man with the unnerving eyes. Most of the club was as dark as the music. Dominic scanned it carefully. He’d been here before and knew the layout; the bar was always crowded and noisy, the best lit area and therefore to be avoided. The dance floor changed as the night progressed with waves of the drunk, stoned or simply enthusiastic each taking their turn. Dominic always watched this with predatory interest, waiting for someone to drift towards the exit unseen by all but one. Occasionally, Dominic’s prey found him. While most listened to their primal instincts and avoided him, some were attracted to the very fears that kept the others away. These ones were more dangerous as they could sense what he was and wanted what he was always unwilling to give. He moved towards a small table at the back, its occupants quickly deciding they needed to be elsewhere. From his vantage point, Dominic could wait and watch for one to break away from the crowd, too drunk or heartbroken to realise his intent.

SCOTT was already well on the way to being drunk by the time they entered the club and leaned heavily on Michael while he

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joked with Abby. “Shit, man, how can someone so skinny be so fucking heavy?” Michael groaned and pushed him off. “Keep an eye on him, Abbs, I’m going to check out who’s here.” Abby gave Michael an indulgent smile; after a year together she was very used to ensuring Scott’s safety when he’d had a few too many. “Yeah, hon, I’ll keep him out of trouble. You go have some fun.” She winked and turned to Scott. “Come on, you, let’s find a quiet place where you can tell me how much you love me.” Michael moved away, a broad grin on his face, knowing that it was true. Michael didn’t usually frequent the clubs on Chapel, but Hunter’s had one night a week that the usual clubbers shunned … Hard and Heavy. The music was industrial and the drugs of choice tended to be more alcohol and weed than pills and lollypops. It usually meant a drunken sweaty night that often led to a pick up. The music roared in his ears and he felt his breast bone vibrate as he squeezed past one of the speaker columns to get closer to the bar. Dominic wasn’t sure what made him turn his head, but he quickly focused his attention on a figure in a dark red T-shirt pushing his way through to the bar. He watched Michael call out his order and then lift the mug of beer to his lips. He seemed at home among the clamour of sweaty bodies and ‘inadvertent’ touches. Others were drawn to Michael as he flashed them a welcoming look and genuine smile. Warmth and light, Dominic mused as he watched the ease with which Michael laughed and shared himself with the others. The intensity of his gaze grew and soon it was as if the other inhabitants of the club had faded out around Michael, leaving only the flash of red and the glow that seemed to emanate from the young tattooist. Despite the crush of bodies overloading his senses, Dominic could almost recognise Michael’s scent ... hear his heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t possible; just a residual sensation from the previous night, but the temptation was very real.

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It surprised Dominic how difficult it was to witness Michael laughing and drinking with new-found friends. The ever present loneliness that was regularly ignored took hold, and Dominic suddenly needed to leave the club and risk finding his quarry among the street dwellers. But another had already seen Dominic. When he stood to leave, a young man who Dominic assumed had entered the club on a fake ID approached him. The teenager was typical of the young Goths the place attracted; pale skin, blue-black hair, eyeliner smeared by sweat … another one who wears despair as a fashion accessory, Dominic sighed. He stood in front of Dominic and made to place a tentative hand on Dominic’s chest, but thought better of it. He stepped closer. Dominic recognised the need in the boy’s look, he’d seen it so many times before, and the hunger rose. Michael drained his glass, turned away from the bar and scanned the rest of the room. For no discernable reason his gaze fell on a man standing very still in front of a teenager. The club lost focus for a split second. I know him … Michael thought, although he couldn’t give him a name or reference point. It was just a memory of a touch and a look. Michael ignored the shove of those trying to take his place at the bar and stood transfixed, watching the man and the young Goth head out the rear exit. He had no idea why, but Michael needed to follow. It was hard going trying to cross the already manic dance floor … dancers pressed in around him and he was surrounded by the acrid smell of sweaty bodies blocking his progress. Michael normally enjoyed the frenetic energy of the near mosh on the tiny dance floor, but tonight he felt panicked when his path was cut off and he could no longer see the man. The night was humid and the teenager smelt of sweatsoaked velvet and patchouli oil. Dominic raised his hand as if to caress the smudged cheek, but moved it quickly to grasp a handful of hair and jerk it back to expose the pale throat.

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Dominic watched the tiny pulse point, needing to simply close his lips over it and drink, but he wanted to wait … smell the boy’s desire a little longer. It made it easier to pretend there was some possibility of a connection other than nourishment. A small moan brought him back to the moment and, without looking at either face or eyes, he bent the head further back. The delicate skin punctured easily and the first warmth of the blood hit Dominic’s tongue; he paused and licked the tiny wound, savouring the coppery sparks. The exit door was slightly ajar when Michael finally reached the outlying tables. He pushed it open and stepped out into the dark of the rear alley. As the door closed behind him, the noise from the club dimmed until it was just a muffled steady bass beat. His eyes took a few seconds to focus on the figures near the dumpster, but the man was there. Michael could make out his back and shoulders, head bent over the youth firmly held in his grasp … absently Michael lifted his fingers to his mouth, living the kiss through his own touch. He stopped and let them drift to his cheek … the man had touched him there, he was sure… Despite the rush of new blood pounding in his ears, Dominic registered the changes in volume when the door opened and closed. He felt the other one emerge, smelt his interest and arousal. The young man under his mouth whimpered at the pause and Dominic gently stroked his hand over the black hair, soothing him before turning slightly towards the door. Michael watched the figure straighten, his face now partially in view. Their eyes met and a chill hit Michael deep in his belly when the quiet voice came … “Go home, Michael.”

DUSK during the Melbourne summer was a haze of orange that would have rivaled any in the world except for its brevity. The dusk of Europe lingered… The small room faced west, which allowed the glow of nightly renewal and avoided the first rays of morning … a few

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extra precious minutes of sanctuary before resorting to the airless heat behind the heavy curtains. As the room darkened, the figure in the bed stirred. There was no dirt-filled coffin or abundance of black velvet and dried roses that typified the lair of a fictional vampire. The room was ordinary, although obviously furnished from an earlier era. Clothes lay over chairs, rather than finding their way to the heavy wooden closet, and a pair of shoes was left discarded in the middle of the floor. Dominic always found waking painful … he’d done it too many times and each night seemed to hold the same offerings. He rolled onto his back, leaving the white sheet behind, and watched the reflection of the red light fade on the floor below the curtains. Feeding was not needed tonight. Thoughts drifted to the tattooist, Michael. He knew this was dangerous; dealings with humans had to be kept to a minimum … but his fingers drifted to his now healed arm. The black of the ink was completely gone and Dominic’s skin was once again unblemished. The touch of the young man lingered, however. He could still feel Michael’s warmth and smell the blend of ink, blood and pheromones. He closed his eyes against the memory, but that only served to intensify the image. Dominic could feel his body stir … the tickle deep in his belly spread. He stretched, trying to release some of the building tension, but the fine weave of the sheets heightened the newly awakened sensitivity. Torn between denying the images settling in his head and the opulence of the sensations they were creating, Dominic allowed his hand to skate lightly across his belly. The scent of the young tattooist filled his lungs … fingertips danced through the trail of hair below his bellybutton, slowly moving down. He had forgotten the insistent burn of an erection and moaned at the first touch of his fingers … Michael … The word was no sooner given sound than Dominic stopped.

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Enough, he removed his hand and sat on the edge of the bed. He stood up and opened the curtains … it had been a long time since his body felt needs other than to feed. Dominic had only taken one human lover and knew he couldn’t go through that again. But Dominic also knew he would end up at the café opposite ‘Ink’, just as he knew he would walk through the door of the tattoo parlour before closing.

DOMINIC lay on his stomach while Michael’s pen softly marked out a new design on his back; he understood that it would fade again before the sun set so he could no longer blame curiosity for his presence in the parlour. Michael frowned at the smooth skin of the man on the bench. There were no visible marks, but Michael couldn’t shake an undercurrent of knowledge of this man. He rubbed his thumb over a pen mark dipping down over a shoulder blade and asked, “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” The question was expected. Dominic knew increased contact would leave an impression, similar to the indentations on the clean page of a writing pad left behind after the letter had been removed. He kept his face turned away and replied quietly, “No, you don’t know me.” Michael didn’t argue, but the answer felt wrong; there was a familiarity to the man’s skin that he couldn’t deny. With a shake of his head, he pulled his stool a little closer and focused on his drawing. Dominic closed his eyes and tried to block the connection that he knew was forming … every part of his conscious thought told him to get up and leave. Why am I doing this to myself? Every moment of contact with Michael was dangerous now … to both of them. What will I do when the connection is complete and Michael knows? Am I willing to impose a death sentence on him? He knew the effect he was having on the young man; his interest was obvious through both touch and smell.

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The song of pain and addiction that had filled the room came to a crescendo, signalling the end of the CD. The small purple room became silent to human ears. The felt tip of the pen continued to pass over the planes of his back; short deliberate markings morphing into long sweeping strokes. Never hurried, always considered and followed by a pause where Dominic could hear the slight change in Michael’s breathing as he contemplated the shape of his work. For once, Dominic’s senses were not that of the predator… possible dangers in his surroundings faded as his mind and body were filled with the swirl of touches. He took a deep breath and let himself drift… Michael hesitated and watched the expansion of skin at the intake. He laid his palm just below Dominic’s shoulder blade, fingers spread, feeling the contraction of the exhale. Without fully comprehending why he needed to do it, Michael rolled down the thin latex glove and let it drop to the floor. Dominic’s skin was cool despite the slight flush that seemed to rise when their skin met. The single touch vibrated through Dominic’s body … warmth and longing. It forced a memory of another time … a time when Dominic’s back was tanned and freckled from a European summer. He was stretched out on the grass … the smell of crushed vegetation rich and lush in his nostrils as James placed playful kisses across his shoulder-blades, tickling and teasing. The air was rich with insects and the steady hum vibrated through Dominic’s sun-warmed skin. He groaned as a blade of grass appeared over his shoulder to brush against his nose. “Are you just going to lie there and make me do all the work?” the voice whispered playfully next to his ear. “So I’m work, am I?” Dominic grinned and opened his eyes.

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The sun was so bright that Dominic’s eyes stung when he tried to turn his face up towards the man behind him. It created a halo of light around the dark head that laughed as he was pushed back to the ground. Dominic tensed and pushed the memory aside; that was the last time they made love before … before he changed and … No! Scott finished going through his appointment book and stretched tired muscles; he’d had a lot of customers and pulled a long shift. He glanced at Michael’s book; he should have finished an hour ago. Reaching over to the well loved and battered sound system, he reduced the volume and listened … there was no hum of the tattoo gun or standard conversation. He looked at Abby who was busy wheeling in the rack of screen-printed T-shirts and PVC ‘one offs’, getting ready to lock up, and asked, “Is Michael still out back?” She paused and tried to remember. “Yeah … I think he has someone with him.” Scott shook his head and wandered through the swinging door to the workroom. “Hey Mikey, you okay in here?” He stopped abruptly as soon as he entered the room; something was wrong about the whole situation. He watched Michael’s fingers trace his design, hesitating to repeat caresses over certain spots. Scott suddenly felt uncomfortable; the scene was too intimate and he felt like he shouldn’t be there. He looked into the mirror opposite and saw the eyes of the man watching him. A shiver passed through him and his skin literally crawled … he wanted to tell Michael to stop … tell the man to go, but Michael spoke quietly. “I’ll lock up, Scott. Everything is all right here.” He wanted to add that he was safe with Dominic, but for some reason he wasn’t willing to speak the name out loud. Despite the power Dominic radiated, Michael felt an unreasonable, but overwhelming urge to protect him. He felt so connected to the man that he didn’t even realise that his name had never been spoken.

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Scott’s eyes didn’t leave those in the mirror until he heard the voice give a command he couldn’t deny. “Listen to him.” He blinked and saw that the man’s eyes were closed. He shuffled a little towards the door and said in a slightly confused voice, “See you in the morning, mate; stay safe.” Scott turned and left the door swinging behind him. Barely aware that Scott had been in the room, a remnant of an image flitted briefly through Michael’s subconscious, leaving him hard and confused over the lingering scent of grass. He looked down at his fingers and frowned at their naked coarseness against the pale skin as they followed both his pen marks and lines yet to be drawn. Michael slowly removed his hand and stood up, unsure what had just happened. He rubbed the offending hand absently over the soft skin between the hem of his T-shirt and the belted waistband of his jeans. Dominic watched the reflected image of Michael as he wiped off his touch. He then saw the fingers pass over the small inking of a sun on Michael’s hip … warmth and light … and a new melancholy settled over him. Like the beautiful tattooist, these were things eternally denied him. At that point he knew he had to leave. With a single fluid movement, Dominic eased himself off the bench and reached for his shirt. Confused, Michael mumbled, “But, we’re not done … I, ah, just lost my train of thought for a minute.” His hand moved quickly down to cover his fairly obvious arousal and with a blush he said in a very flustered voice, “Shit, I’m sorry … this doesn’t usually happen … I …” With a sad smile, Dominic stepped closer and slid his hand slowly under the frayed edge of the T-shirt. He kept his eyes on Michael’s and gently caressed the warm black sun, feeling how the flesh trembled under his light touch. “I have to go, Michael,” he murmured and then stilled his fingers. Michael dropped his gaze to the pale hand … wanting more, needing more. “Please don’t go,” he whispered.

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A longing so strong it imitated physical pain hit Dominic … Maybe just tonight … the hope passed through his thoughts, but he knew the boy’s safety had to come first. He shook his head and said in a barely audible voice, “I have to go.” Dominic reluctantly pulled his hand away to let it drop to his side and took a step back. Michael could read the sadness in his eyes and was all but engulfed by the wave of loneliness emanating from the man in front of him. He lifted his hand and gently brushed his fingers down Dominic’s cheek. It was a small and simple touch, but one that almost broke Dominic’s heart… Not a word was spoken when Dominic turned and walked out of the workroom, but Michael heard them none the less … Thank you.

MICHAEL knew he was waiting for Dominic … he’d been waiting for almost three weeks. Each night around closing time the same anxious anticipation started to build in his belly. He would become distracted and begin watching the door … looking up each time it opened. Clients who requested late evening bookings were all declined because he knew he needed to keep that time free for ‘the man’ … for Dominic. Tonight, like every other night lately, Michael hovered around the workroom until Scott had had enough. He put down the tattoo gun he was cleaning, watched Michael’s incessant pacing and finally groaned, “For fuck’s sake, Michael, what is your problem lately?” Michael stopped. He stood and looked at his hands to see if there was any way he could explain how he felt … in the end he knew he couldn’t. There was no way he could give Scott a reasonable answer; what would he say? It was at that moment that Abby pushed open the swinging doors and walked into the workroom. The tension hit her. She looked first at Michael, who was standing with his back to her.

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Michael was the easiest going person she knew, but tonight his hunched stance was sending out waves of agitation. Abby spun around to Scott with what sounded very much like an accusation. “What happened?” Scott looked at her with obvious frustration and huffed, “Michael is driving me mad with his latest night time ritual.” Abby totally ignored Scott’s tone because she knew this was completely out of character for Michael, and in a far gentler voice asked, “What’s up, Mikey?” She noticed Scott roll his eyes and said with a shake of her head, “Ignore him; he’s just pissed off ’cos I’m making him cut back on his weed intake.” Disgusted, Scott tried to make a show of storming into the main shop, but unfortunately for him the drama was somewhat diminished by the inability to slam a swinging door. Abby pulled herself up onto the bench and whispered, “Tell me, sweetie … what’s this all about?” Michael turned to face her and opened his mouth to start; closed it to reorganise his thoughts and started again. “A man came in a few weeks ago … I’ve seen him a couple of times and…” Abby cocked her head and nodded to let him know she was listening. “…And, I dunno.” Michael stopped speaking. “Hey, hon, it’s not like you to get this worked up over someone,” she said gently. And it was true; Michael didn’t really have relationships … he socialised a lot and got laid regularly, but never reacted like this. Michael gave a frustrated shrug and sat heavily in the chair with his back to her. Abby jumped down off the bench and stood behind him, giving him a chaste kiss on his neck and then starting to knead his shoulders. She felt him relax a little into her touch and gave him a minute or two more before asking, “Have you tried to contact him?” Michael shook his head and said sadly, “I can’t. I don’t know where he is … I know he’s not far away.” He stopped and frowned … how do I know that?

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He looked up over his shoulder at Abby and said, “This is gonna sound really strange, Abbs, but I can feel him … you know, here…” He illustrated this point by pressing his hand to his chest. Abby sighed and kissed him lightly on the forehead. She put her arms around him and held him while she thought this through; finally she said in a very unsure voice, “Can you use that, Michael?” He pulled gently out of her embrace and, with a hesitant smile, asked, “So you don’t think I’m going mad?” “Oh, I don’t doubt that you’re quite mad, but hey, stranger things have happened.” She sat next to him and put on her best organiser voice. “Okay … I think you should finish early and go for a walk. Listen to the ‘feeling’ and see if it gets stronger anywhere.” He reached up and held her hand. “Thank you for not laughing at me, Abby,” he murmured. “I really started to think I was losing it.”

ABBY was right; there were areas where the feeling was stronger. Each night Michael tried a different section of Chapel Street. At times the frustration of sensing Dominic was palpable. It was as if he could almost reach out and touch him, but he wasn’t there. Other times it was like an afterthought … something on the edge of his consciousness that kept slipping out of his grasp. One area was very strong. Michael spent several nights sitting at the café near ‘Ink’; one table in particular. He had asked the waitress if she remembered serving a quiet, elegant man with sad blue eyes. She thought about it carefully and said, “There was a man … maybe … no, it’s gone, sorry.” Michael thanked her anyway and wondered how many nights Dominic had sat there watching the shop … did he watch me? Choose me, or was it simply a coincidence that he was my client? Michael sighed, drained his tea and left a little more than the correct amount of money on the table.

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THE South Yarra end of Chapel always grated on Dominic’s nerves … the noise and pretension irritated him. But it wasn’t safe in Windsor while the connection to Michael was so strong. Another late model car boomed past with its ‘techno’ thumping at an ear bleeding level. Dominic winced at the cacophony and tried to find refuge at the back of a small bar. Quickly the noise of the street faded to be replaced by laid back jazz and the intimate quiet of couples at nearby tables who, in the dim light and dark furniture, felt secure in the privacy of each other’s company. Dominic leant against the back wall and closed his eyes … he’d ‘fed’ last night and didn’t really need to venture out, but the solitude of his home had become oppressive. But once more his thoughts strayed to the young tattooist. He knew this would happen and had carefully avoided prolonged human contact; taking only what he needed and no more. Up until now. Dominic listened to the steady bass of the music and considered the possibility that this time he had needed more than the physical nourishment of blood. But the thought was quickly rejected as being too painful to acknowledge its truth. Michael’s touch, his smell, his essence had stayed with Dominic … but rather than being pleasurable, it tickled and scratched at him, reminding him of what he couldn’t have. Dominic’s stomach clenched at the mental caress of Michael’s presence … it was strong tonight. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to block it out, when he heard a soft voice … “Dominic?” This time Michael had decided to reject logical thought about search patterns and likely locations and just follow the pull in his subconscious. He walked street after street, occasionally backtracking when he felt it … or more to the point he felt him. By the time Michael reached the bar, the sensation was so strong that he hesitated by the doorway for several minutes, earning curious glances from patrons. He’s in there…

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Michael peered through the moody lighting, trying to make out a face he only had the vaguest recollection of. The features were still blurred in his mind, but he knew he would know him when he saw him. The back of the room was engulfed in shadow … Michael slowly wound his way through the tables, ignoring the increasing thump of his heart. A wave of panic slammed through him when he saw the solitary figure in the back corner. Dominic’s eyes were closed and Michael almost backed away … only almost, because he knew he couldn’t. He took a deep breath and murmured the name that had been haunting him. “Dominic.” Dominic sighed. Don’t do this, Michael. The silent message was strong in Michael’s mind, but he stood his ground and said, “I’ve been looking for you.” It was a simple statement, but one Dominic did not expect. Sensing the honesty of the words he opened his eyes, looked at the young tattooist and asked quietly, “Why?” The question confused Michael and he faltered for a moment before saying the only thing he knew to be true. “I needed to see you… ” Dominic shook his head sadly and murmured in a soft but commanding voice, “Just go home, Michael.” Before he realised what he was doing, Michael started to turn towards the door. This time, however, he stopped and looked at Dominic, his face a mixture of confusion and accusation. “You’ve done that to me before … haven’t you?” When Dominic didn’t answer, Michael pleaded, “Please, don’t send me away.” I want to keep you safe, Michael … this will not work, for either of us. I can’t do this again. Michael stood a little awkwardly for several minutes, trying to read some expression on Dominic’s face, and then sighed. “Do you want a drink? I think I need one.” Dominic shook his head, but

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a faint smile curled his lips when Michael said, “I’ll get two … I might need them both.” Watching Michael make his way to the bar, Dominic knew he could quickly and quietly slip out. Michael might feel something on the very edge of his senses, but it would be too late for him to follow. The only problem was this time he wanted to stay, he wanted to talk with Michael and enjoy his company … if only just for one night. The conversation started slowly; full of awkward silences and embarrassed smiles, but Michael persisted. He talked about his job, the people he worked with, the other bar patrons … anything to keep this man in front of him. Finally he seemed to run out of things to say and tried to encourage some words from Dominic. Dominic found it difficult to fall into the pattern of normal conversation. He couldn’t remember when he had last simply talked to someone, but Michael eased the way. Questions were asked about the normalities of daily life and when Dominic didn’t or couldn’t answer, Michael just shrugged and moved on to something he could. Even though he wanted to know about Dominic, ultimately all he needed was to be close to him. Dominic found himself smiling … a broad, genuine smile that led to a soft laugh. Again he silenced the little voice that niggled and warned how dangerous this was; how intoxicating it was to be around Michael. By the time the bar closed, Michael had drained both glasses and a couple more. The two were ushered to the door by a barman who kept his eyes on Michael and carefully avoided both physical and visual contact with Dominic. Chapel Street was now quiet, other than the faint rev of a persistent clubber in a nearby car park. They stood and watched a tram rattle by, its brightly lit interior housing inner city dwellers heading home to see out the remains of the night. Dominic watched it run by on the rails and said quietly, “You need to go now, Michael.”

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Michael’s gaze left the retreating tram and settled on his feet for a moment. Not yet … please, not yet. He looked up and asked hopefully, “I live close by, walk with me, please?” When Dominic didn’t refuse, Michael slipped his hand into Dominic’s and began to walk. Dominic knew how wrong this was, but the gentle touch threw him and he found himself focusing on the warmth of the young man’s palm against his own, rather than the inherent risk. He wanted this so much his body ached with the knowledge that the soft touch would have to end. As they crossed a small park, Michael led him to a picnic table and shrugged, “Just a little while longer, please.” Dominic smiled and sat, his elbows resting on the graffiti-carved table while Michael sat cross-legged right in the middle, still talking and asking until he knew he no longer had to. They sat quietly, finally accepting that the silences didn’t need to be filled. Michael watched Dominic closely and listened, not for physical sounds but the warm echo of thoughts he now knew were present since that first night … that first touch. “How can you put thoughts in my head?” he asked softly, and was not surprised when Dominic didn’t answer. “Okay, then at least tell me why you wanted me to leave?” Dominic looked at him, his expression sad … How can I explain to you that I will kill you, Michael? He shook his head and turned to watch the gentle sway of Eucalyptus leaves in the graying light and whispered, “Because I’m bad for you; bad for us.” He heard the rustle of Michael’s clothes and the faint creak of the table, but still did not expect the warmth of fingertips down his cheek and the voice near his ear saying, “I don’t believe that.” Dominic knew he could have stopped what happened, but he could not resist the soft press of Michael’s lips, his warm breath tinged with alcohol. When Dominic didn’t pull away, Michael deepened the kiss, his hand slowly moving over Dominic’s face. Dominic didn’t move, but let Michael touch him, taste him. The

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kiss barely lasted a minute before Michael reluctantly released Dominic’s lips and eased back. The loss of Michael’s touch hurt all the more for having had this moment; emptiness filled Dominic with the understanding the kiss dare not be repeated. The sadness on Dominic’s face was not what Michael expected, and it surprised him how vulnerable Dominic looked in the growing dawn. He reached to take Dominic’s hand and smiled, “You know, we just spent the whole night together.” Dominic frowned and looked down at their joined hands in the gentle pink first light. It was morning. His expression was stricken as he looked into Michael’s eyes … You’ve destroyed me, Michael. Dominic had felt the warnings as dawn approached, but systematically shut each of them down, so great was his need to be with Michael. But now he felt the heat; the burn of his skin and the searing pain in his eyes as the sun began to rise. Michael flinched as terror suddenly clutched both his heart and mind and white noise invaded his thoughts. He lifted a trembling hand to his face and uttered, “Dominic … what’s happening?” There was no answer as Dominic stood up and began a stumbling run across the park, only to fall to his knees before he could reach the nearby buildings. Confused, Michael jumped off the table and ran to him. “Dominic, what is it? What’s wrong?” he cried in panic as he watched Dominic’s desperate crawl across the brown summer grass. He heard a quiet grunt of pain, but no words, although he could clearly see the damage being done. An angry discolouration on Dominic’s exposed skin was spreading; small lesions were beginning to form and Michael understood the pain and fear he was feeling were Dominic’s. He knew the urgent need to find darkness. Michael quickly pulled his jacket off and draped it over Dominic’s head before hooking his arm around Dominic’s waist and half running, half dragging him to the alcove of the nearest doorway. “We’ll be okay, Dominic,” he gasped a little breathlessly, not really believing his own words as they huddled in

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the concrete doorway and watched the shade recede with the rising sun. Their tiny sanctuary shrank rapidly as the shadow line crept towards their feet, and Michael knew he had to get Dominic away from here within the next few minutes. “We have to make a run for it,” he said, trying to calculate the risk of getting to his apartment. “My flat isn’t too far.” Michael knew that wasn’t true and their chance of making it to the haven of his home was minimal at best, but it was all he could think to do to keep Dominic safe. Dominic clung to Michael; even though the growing sunlight was not yet touching his skin, he could feel it steadily approaching. His fingers tightened on the worn fabric of Michael’s shirt and he gave a slight shake of his head; then Michael knew their destination … Dominic’s house. Gritting his teeth, Michael made sure Dominic was firmly in his grasp and bolted out of the alcove. The pain was instant and searing. Michael faltered in his run, but muttered hoarsely, “Come on, Dominic … help me.” When the pain eased, Michael knew Dominic was concentrating on blocking as much of it as he could and took the opportunity to pick up the pace. Michael never questioned how he knew the way to Dominic’s home and didn’t stop until they rounded a corner and the rays of the rising sun fell behind a row of terrace houses. He slumped onto a low brick wall and assessed their surroundings. “Almost there,” he whispered, more than a little afraid at the growing harshness of Dominic’s breathing. Dominic barely registered the words, but leant against Michael, only moving when he was pulled to his feet. Their progress along the old tree-lined street was slow; each step taking its toll on both men. Michael didn’t look up from the sidewalk, concentrating on keeping Dominic moving. He murmured constant encouragement, his voice taking on an edge of urgency whenever he felt Dominic’s ‘presence’ slipping. Finally, he pushed open a slightly rusted gate and led them carefully along a narrow path to a

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covered veranda. The deep shade was cool and Michael eased Dominic to the floor, his breathing now a pained wheeze. Crouching beside him, Michael placed a gentle hand on his arm. “I need to get you inside, Dominic.” When Dominic didn’t respond, Michael tried to listen without his ears. He soon understood that someone like Dominic didn’t need to lock his door because no one would willingly enter his home. He quickly stood and opened the door before helping Dominic to his feet. “Come on, Dominic, you’ll be safe in here.” Michael didn’t know why, but he knew it to be true. Dominic leant heavily on him as they made their way up the stairs. Each step took an epic effort of will and Dominic only succeeded by drawing on Michael’s remaining strength. When they reached the first floor landing, Michael headed unwaveringly to Dominic’s bedroom and helped him to the edge of the bed before double checking that the heavy curtains were firmly closed. He carefully sat on the bed next to Dominic. In the darkened room, the panic and pain that had invaded Michael’s mind slowly began to subside, and his own thoughts resurfaced. He looked at the man sitting next to him and frowned; Dominic’s thoughts were now closed to him. Michael felt lost and more than a little frightened. Dominic was barely able to sit upright and he struggled to breathe. “Maybe I should get a doctor?” Michael asked quietly, wanting to reach over to touch Dominic, but afraid of hurting him even more. It was now a mammoth effort to move, but Dominic managed to shake his head and whisper a firm, “No.” Exasperated, Michael rubbed his hands over his eyes and asked in a voice full of fear, “What can I do to help? I have to do something.” Your blood, Michael … that would help, passed unbidden through Dominic’s mind, but he refused to acknowledge it. “Go

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home, Michael,” Dominic muttered without looking at him. “I need to sleep.” Michael sat quietly and looked down at his hands … it was only a voice; there was no internal command. With a frustrated sigh it was Michael’s turn to say, “No.” He stood up and began to unfasten the small pearl buttons of Dominic’s shirt, a little surprised that he met no resistance. He carefully eased it over Dominic’s shoulders and down his arms, dismayed that the skin beneath the fabric was raw and blistered even though it had not come into direct contact with the morning light. His fingers hovered over the broken skin, but he knew better than to touch. “I can’t feel it anymore,” Michael whispered, understanding that the pain must be unbearable. Dominic’s eyes flicked briefly at Michael before exhaustion closed them. He didn’t resist when Michael squatted to unlace old fashioned shoes and remove his socks; nor when given the softly spoken command to ‘lie down’ onto the white sheet. “You’ll be okay,” Michael whispered as he pulled the top sheet over Dominic’s now trembling body. He sat in the armchair near the bed and watched while Dominic gradually settled into a fitful sleep. For the first time in his short life, Michael felt very alone. It was hard to admit, but it frightened him, feeling only his own thoughts and needs. For what may have been an hour, Michael chewed on the frayed skin around his fingernails while he watched over Dominic. Gradually the shivering had eased and Dominic became still. Michael moved from the chair to the edge of the bed where he could see the steady rise and fall of Dominic’s chest and the gentle ruffle of the sheet where it rested near slightly parted lips. Relief began to replace fear and exhaustion finally overtook the adrenaline that had kept him going. He rubbed a weary hand over his face and realised for the first time how close to tears he felt. Just tired, he tried unsuccessfully to convince himself and pulled the edge of the sheet a little higher over Dominic’s shoulder. He crawled onto the bed beside Dominic, careful not to touch, and

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lay watching him through heavy lidded eyes. I’ll just rest here for a few minutes… The heat of early afternoon buzzed through Michael’s head as he fought to awaken through the drowsiness of the hot, airless bedroom. A small trickle of sweat made its way down his temple and he frowned, trying to shake off the vagueness clouding his thoughts. The ‘reality’ of the morning broke through and he was startled into full wakefulness, only to feel the soothing stroke of Dominic’s presence. He rolled over onto his back and lay there listening … listening both to the soft breathing beside him and the gentle hum of Dominic tickling the edges of his mind. There was no conscious thought; simply an ‘awareness’ of the sleeping man. Michael exhaled slowly and carefully sat up. The sheet felt clammy beneath him and he rubbed his hand through his sweatdampened hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken during the day to find himself in another man’s bed, but this was very different. He turned to check the still form beside him and gently eased himself off the bed. Aching muscles complained as Michael stood up; he hadn’t noticed any of the strain placed on his body that morning … all he’d felt was Dominic’s pain. He glanced at the closed curtains and wished he could open the window to let some air in, but he knew the risk was too great. “What are you, Dominic?” he murmured softly before turning to find the bathroom. The house was silent other than the soft pad of Michael’s feet along the wooden floor of the hallway. Framed pictures lined the wall; mainly sketches with the occasional black and white photograph … people and places, observances rather than intimate portraits of the subjects. Michael looked at each one in turn before grimacing at the pressure of his bladder and hurrying to where he knew the bathroom would be. Michael let the cold water run over his hands while he looked around the small bathroom. There were no toiletries visible and the only thing that adorned the marble vanity was a clear glass

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vase containing five bright daffodils. Frowning, Michael ran a still wet finger over a yellow petal, wondering if Dominic had picked them in the dark of night. The image saddened him and he quickly cupped his hands under the water stream and splashed it over his face. He straightened and closed his eyes while the cool water ran down his throat to soak the neckband of his T-shirt. He sighed and looked at himself in the mirror. What are you doing here, Michael? But the thought had barely passed when he glanced again at the daffodils and headed back to the bedroom. Dominic hadn’t moved and still lay with his back to the door, but Michael instantly felt more settled now that he was back in the room. He sat on the bed and carefully pulled the sheet away to see that the lesions on Dominic’s skin had cleared and only faint discolorations remained. His fingers hovered over Dominic’s arm … there was a physical memory there that Michael couldn’t quite grasp; he knew this skin. Slowly Michael’s fingertips touched the now cool skin and images of designs filled his head. He smiled and leant over to press his lips softly against Dominic’s shoulder before stretching out and letting his eyes close again. The last remnants of the pink sunset had faded when Dominic woke to the scent of human. He looked at the sleeping man who was totally unaware of his present danger. It hurt Dominic to see him, bringing home his own loss of innocence. Dominic lifted his fingers to Michael’s face, but stopped short of touching him … this can never happen again. The need to feed was very strong and that meant he must get as far from Michael as possible. Michael murmured softly when Dominic slid off the bed, but didn’t waken. Dominic dressed quickly, trying to ignore the allure of warm blood and the hunger that gnawed at him. He stood well away from the bed and sent a direct and urgent message for Michael to wake up and leave. “GIVE me a break, Abby,” Michael moaned and shook his head.

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“Well, what other explanation is there?” she retorted and slapped his thigh, indicating that he needed to shuffle a little further down the counter to give her room for the account books. Michael hopped off the counter and leaned against it, keeping his back to her. “Well?” she pushed. “Look … he is not Lestat and I’m not part of a fucking vampire novel,” Michael growled and folded his arms. “Sounds more like a Louis, actually,” Abby said with an indulgent smile and rubbed her hand over his back, well aware of the tension there. Michael sighed and turned around to face her. “I dunno, Abbs … there has to be a logical explanation. There are diseases that make you allergic to sunlight, yeah?” “Maybe?” she shrugged, but wasn’t convinced and pushed Michael’s hair back to touch his forehead. “But what about what’s in here? Can you still feel him?” Michael looked down at recently bitten fingernails and nodded. He lifted his hand to his chest and said quietly, “… and here.” Abby gave him a curious look so he continued, “I can feel it when he wakes up and if he’s close.” “So do you know what he’s thinking?” she asked, trying to understand exactly what Michael was saying. Michael sat and thought about that until he eventually shook his head. “Only if he wants me to, otherwise it’s just a sense of him … and now, today I can vaguely sense him even though I know he’s not awake yet. It’s getting stronger and I can tell that he’s sad.” “Sad? What’s he sad about?” Michael shrugged; there was a melancholy surrounding Dominic’s thoughts that he couldn’t adequately explain because he didn’t really understand it himself. “About me, I think.” He looked up at Abby and frowned as he tried to piece together what was

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sometimes just a general feeling. “He’s so lonely, Abby, I know that, but he’s frightened … frightened of what will happen to me.” “What will happen to you?” Abby repeated, concern entering her voice. “Are you in danger, Michael? Is he something to worry about … I mean, would he hurt you?” She struggled for the right words, not wanting to come out and say, ‘Is he going to bite you and suck your blood?’ But Michael was quick to reassure her. “No … no, he wants to protect me, I think. You know, Abbs, I really don’t know what I think.” Abby smiled, leant over to put her arm around him and said in a matter of fact voice, “If that’s the case, I think you need to find him again and figure this out.” “Yeah, I know,” Michael nodded but frowned, “You’re not serious about him being a vampire though, are you?” Abby simply shrugged and quoted, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

MICHAEL … images of the tattooist swam through Dominic’s first waking thoughts. He rolled onto his back but kept his eyes closed and groaned … he could still smell Michael in the room … on his bedclothes, even though he’d taken great care in washing them. It had been a week since Michael shared his bed, and not a morning had gone by that Dominic did not run his fingers over the empty space beside him before settling to sleep. He knew that every moment he thought about Michael risked them both, but it was getting harder and harder to deny his need … both emotional and physical. Decades had passed since Dominic had felt the stirrings of lust, but now he suffered the constant ache of desire. “I can’t do this,” he moaned into the empty room and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Dominic tried to ignore his

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growing arousal, but the red lights flashing behind his lids danced with the blood rushing through his ears. He needed this. Dominic’s hand rested lightly on his belly; then with only the barest movement of his fingertips, they slowly crept down. Michael gently wiped the excess blood and ink from the raw skin of a fresh tattoo. “Almost done,” he said softly to the young man in the chair who was desperately trying to look calm in front of his friends, while his grey colour betrayed his real reaction. The needle wove its way down the last of the design and gradually the remaining bare skin disappeared beneath the vivid pigment. Michael put the gun on the bench and crouched to check his work. He’s awake … the thought came unbidden to Michael’s mind, but he knew it to be true. Michael frowned and tried to focus on the skin in front of him. “Is it finished?” For a second the question was meaningless and Michael struggled to make sense of the voice. He glanced up to the mirror and saw the impatient eyes of his client. “Um … yeah, all done,” he nodded as he straightened and reached for clean tissues to wipe the surrounding skin. Focus, Michael, he mentally kicked himself and smeared a thick coating of antiseptic cream on the fresh wound before covering it with cling wrap. Taking a step backwards, he quickly turned away to start fiddling with the tattoo gun. “Just head out front and settle up with Abby … she’ll give you the sheet of instructions for aftercare, okay?” Michael mumbled, trying to fight the distraction of Dominic’s desire. “Okay…” the guy drawled, a little put out at his dismissal. But as they left, Michael could hear one of them chuckling about how the tattooist had a boner for him. Michael fell back against the bench and pulled off his gloves to run now trembling fingers through his hair.

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Dominic took his time and began to reacquaint himself with a body that had become an enemy over the decades. Slowly his fingers followed the line of his flesh and muscle, sliding over the slight protrusion of his hip bone down to the crease of his thigh. His head fell back against the pillow and Dominic let out a shaky breath between parted lips. The texture of his pubic hair was a confusion of silky and coarse under his fingers as they moved to the base of his erection. He held his breath at the heat in his palm now cupping the underside of his cock. With a slow exhale, Dominic allowed it to travel the length of the hardened flesh. The ridges created by veins were familiar from his youth and brought back memories of the summer sun and sensual touches. The power of the image startled him and he quickly withdrew his hand … don’t do this to yourself. But the thought had barely formed when he knew it was all right … Michael was with him. Dominic’s finger tip cautiously traced the slit, sliding softly over the drop of moisture, wondering briefly how long had it been since he’d felt that. Lifting his hand to his lips, Dominic tentatively touched it with his tongue, tasting himself. With a small moan, he returned his hand to his needy flesh. As he began to move, his own smell mixed with Michael’s and he whispered the young man’s name as his hand began a determined rhythm. Fingers roamed unseen over Michael’s body and he sat silently with his eyes closed … You’re not here … not here … he tried to reason, but the thought lacked conviction against the pleasure of the touch. His hand pressed hard against his crotch, pushing the buttoned fly down on his aching cock … This can’t be happening. Michael’s heart hammered against his chest as he opened his eyes and looked around the empty workroom; there was no doubt he was alone, but Dominic enveloped his senses … and it felt so right. Ignoring the debris of ink and blood stained tissues, Michael walked away from his work station. The sound of Abby

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chatting to his clients reached the periphery of his hearing, but none of it broke through the echo of Dominic’s faltering breath. Closing the bathroom door behind him, Michael ‘heard’ the whisper of his name and leant his forehead against the peeling paintwork of the door and whimpered. A small trail of sweat trickled through his hairline, making its way down his neck and beneath the frayed collar of his T-shirt. Despite the heat, he shivered. Hard-to-find breath forced its way between his lips and Michael slid shaking fingers along the brass studs of his fly, flipping each open as they passed. The other palm flattened itself against the door, where Michael could stifle his moans against the damp skin on the back of his hand as he took hold of himself. Dominic, please, Michael mouthed; his mind reeling at the dual assault of touch and smell. His hand moved with the other … both close … both needing. The spill of come over his fingers was almost unnoticed, so great was the wave that both shook and cradled him. But the warmth of what Michael could only identify as love was suddenly overwhelmed and overtaken by immense grief. Shaken, Michael slumped against the door and again moaned Dominic’s name, but this time he was met with silence. Tears of hurt and frustration prickled Michael’s eyes as he slammed his fist against the door. Pushing back, he gulped a few breaths of air; his gaze wandered around the room, taking in but rejecting his surroundings. He shook his head. “Mikey? What’s wrong?” Abby asked in a surprised voice when Michael stormed through the shop. Without stopping he muttered, “I have to see him.” Abby watched her friend disappear through the front door and frowned, hoping like hell she was wrong about Dominic and he was just a secretive man with a strange skin disorder. Michael had no idea what he wanted to do or say when he got to Dominic’s house, but he knew he needed answers. By the time he left the growing bustle of Chapel Street, Michael’s walk had become a jog that evolved to a run when he

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rounded the corner of Dominic’s street. But the house was in darkness as he stood almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. Michael strained to sense Dominic … there was nothing. Not knowing what else to do, he sat on the concrete step leading up to the veranda and looked at the small border of daffodils running down the drive. He thought about Dominic crouching in the moonlight planting the bulbs, tending the small garden and then picking the flowers, never to see their true yellow under the artificial light of his house. They are my sun, Michael… The words resonated around and through Michael’s thoughts. Jumping to his feet, he looked up at the house to see Dominic in the now illuminated bedroom window. They stood and watched each other for what may have been minutes until Michael murmured softly, “Dominic … please.” Longing and sorrow wrapped around Dominic’s heart. He slowly shook his head and walked away. A sudden fury filled Michael. He tore one of the golden heads from the flowerbed and shouted at the empty window, “Don’t you fucking do this to me, Dominic.” The crushed yellow petals hit the nearby fence and fell to the shadowy garden bed. Michael watched them fall and clenched his fist in frustration … I won’t be dismissed like that, Dominic. He turned and paced the length of the veranda, fuming both at the ‘man’ in the house and himself at needing him so much. Glancing up at the window, he hesitated briefly before slamming his fist against his thigh and storming into the house. Without letting thought or logic break through emotion, Michael bounded up the stairs two at a time towards the now darkened bedroom. Leaning against the wall next to the window, Dominic felt each angry breath and heard each footfall as Michael grew closer. I’m sorry, Michael, his mind whispered so softly that its intent would only curl around the anger of the young tattooist without penetrating.

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Dominic’s cool fingertips passed over the shredded flesh of his wrist … the blood had stopped flowing and the finer injuries were already beginning to knit. This is all I have to offer you and I can’t do that. Dominic sighed and closed his eyes, ‘listening’ to Michael’s approach. He knew he could drive Michael from the house even before he reached the bedroom, but Dominic understood Michael needed the confrontation. It was only when he reached the top of the staircase that Michael realised his progress had not been slowed and the bedroom door was open. He frowned and stared into the darkened room. It was several seconds until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Gradually he made out the back of a silent figure hunched miserably near the window and Michael felt his fury drain. “What have you done to me, Dominic?” he whispered to the back in the shadows. The question instantly brought back waves of pain and regret. “I’m sorry, Michael…” Dominic mumbled against the faded wallpaper, purposely using his physical voice. Michael wanted to be angry, wanted to rage and yell … but all he could feel was pain. He stood and watched Dominic, unsure of whose pain it was. Slowly Michael reached out until his hand rested on the back of Dominic’s shoulder. The tension under his touch was instant and he heard a quiet, “Don’t…” But Michael wouldn’t listen to the words and, taking a step closer, leaned against Dominic’s back. Dominic turned his face just enough that he could feel Michael’s breath against the cool skin of his cheek. It warmed him and he closed his eyes, living through each puff of air. The breath faltered and tentative lips touched him. “No, Michael,” Dominic whispered, his near silent voice heavy with sorrow. Michael stopped the kiss, but rested against Dominic, their cheeks touching. “I don’t know what to do.”

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Dominic winced and despair engulfed them both. We can’t do this … I will hurt you. Michael sighed and shook his head. His hand slowly slid around Dominic to caress and hold him. I’m already hurting, Dominic. I never meant this to happen and you’ll forget in time, Dominic lied, knowing what he had done to the young man was unforgivable. “I don’t want to forget you,” Michael said out loud, needing to hear it spoken in the quiet room. “Do you know what I am, Michael; what I can do to you?” Dominic murmured, loathing the truth behind the question. When there was no answer other than a sense of frustration and confusion, Dominic lifted his damaged wrist and held it for Michael to see. “I did this as I came, Michael … I would do it to you.” Michael tentatively touched the knitting flesh, feeling it cool beneath his finger tips. “Abby said you were like Louis,” he whispered, keeping his eyes down even when he felt Dominic’s confusion. Vampire… He couldn’t say the word, but the thought was out and Dominic could hear it. “I feed on blood and can kill … have killed.” Dominic’s voice held all the misery of centuries alone, but Michael shook his head. “You won’t do that to me.” “It is part of me,” Dominic whispered, “Your flesh would be torn like mine, but you wouldn’t heal.” “You won’t hurt me,” Michael said again, as if trying to convince both Dominic and himself. Dominic stared at the fingers still on his broken skin and closed his eyes against the sight, only to see the image of his past love ripped and bleeding on the warm summer grass. The lush green of crushed foliage mingled with the acrid smell of blood. He

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forced the memory away and pronounced, “I would kill you, Michael.” Michael only had the barest sense of Dominic’s vision and felt the love he had lost that summer night. He made to tighten his arms around Dominic, but was abruptly pushed away with a desperate cry. “This can’t happen again … get away from me.” Dominic stood with arm outstretched as if holding an unspeakable terror at bay. When Michael made a move towards him, Dominic sent the clear message … don’t touch me, Michael. The burst of energy in Michael’s mind blinded him for an instant before it seared through all conscious thought. Pain, overwhelming pain filled Michael’s head as he ran down the silent street, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. Run, Michael … As much as he wanted to stop, to argue, he couldn’t; the fear was primal and couldn’t be overcome by either logic or love. When he finally reached Chapel Street, it eased. Michael slumped, exhausted and shaking, against a poster-plastered light pole. He slid awkwardly down to squat, his face buried in his hands. A couple enjoying a late night drink at an outdoor café watched him warily before exchanging glances and getting up to see if they could help. “You okay, mate? Need a hand?” came the well meaning questions and a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Michael spat at them and pulled away as if the touch burnt him. “I’m okay … I’m okay…” His voice faded as he backed away and turned towards ‘Ink’. Dominic felt each step as Michael fled, but still he raged; driving him away to where he belonged. Please stay away … he begged when Michael reached those of his own kind, but as much as he hoped, he knew it wasn’t enough … Michael would return; their bond was too strong now.

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He stared out of the window at the now empty street and understood what needed to be done. Forgive me, Michael, but I have to keep you safe. Dominic wasn’t sure if the message would penetrate the fog of panic and despair in Michael’s mind, but the intent would surface later.

DOMINIC paced his room alone. The hunger gnawed at his belly but he would not leave to feed … never again. The sky paled. Dominic fought the lethargy daylight brought and moved to sit in the high backed chair near his bed. He was ready. Dominic watched the light slowly creep towards him across the floor. Even though it stopped a good six inches from his bare toes, he could feel the radiant heat begin to scorch his skin. For a moment he contemplated ending it quickly; simply walking naked into the tiny unkempt garden and finishing it in a burst of flame. He’d heard of it happening before. Although vampires rarely sought each other’s company – predators don’t tolerate competition – he knew of another and the screams when that one had suffered enough. But Dominic knew he wanted it this way. Although he could never suffer the slow degeneration of old age and the gradual inevitability of death, this was close. His body would become frail as it began to suffer the ravages of starvation and eventually he would die. Soon … echoed Dominic’s silent plea. “I will stay with you through nightfall Quiet kisses I will take I will never forget you but I’ll be gone before you wake…” “That was an old classic Goth outing from the now defunct ‘Soul Collectors’ and next up is the latest Melbourne weather…”

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MICHAEL had heard the song many times on the radio and thought little of its gloomy lyrics, but today it caught him off guard. When Abby walked through to the back room, she found Michael at his work station with tears tumbling down his face. She calmly moved beside him and, without saying a word, enveloped him in her arms. “I can’t feel him anymore, Abbs,” Michael said, so softly she had to strain to hear. “It’s been weeks since he sent me away and … and today he faded completely. I kept waiting to sense him waking up when it got dark and he’s not there.” “Maybe the connection is cut? You know, ’cos he wanted you to go?” Abby suggested as she eased back a little to shrug. Michael shook his head. “It’s not like that … I could tell something’s wrong … he felt wrong and now...” Dropping his face to Abby’s shoulder, Michael mumbled miserably, “I should have tried to go back.” “Maybe he won’t stop you now?” Abby offered as she gently rubbed her hand over Michael’s back, shooting a warning look to Scott who started to come in, then thought better of it. “I don’t know,” Michael whispered, “It feels like he’s not there and I’m empty somehow.” “You have to know for sure, sweetheart,” Abby said in a determined voice and sat up straight, pushing Michael’s hair back off his face. “Scott can close up … go now, but be careful, okay?” THE house was like any other house on the street. Nothing special. Nothing that was Dominic. Michael sat for a long time on the steps of the porch, digging his heel into the dirt of the overgrown garden bed. He knew he could go into the house; the sense of dread and warning was gone. It was just a house.

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The sun had been down for a long time, but Michael was still alone and it was a loneliness he couldn’t have imagined. It ate at him, leaving him lost in his despair. “I can’t do this, Dominic,” he whispered to the small moon-paled flowers near his feet. The front door was unlocked and opened with the faintest creak. Michael stood in the silent foyer and listened both with and without his ears … nothing. His fingers touched the old-fashioned hall stand and worked their way to the coat that hung on the brass hook. They closed around the sleeve and he leaned into it, smelling the faint scent of Dominic. With the near threadbare wool still against his cheek, Michael turned to look at the stairs leading up to Dominic’s bedroom. He knew he needed to go, but then it would be final … Dominic would be gone and Michael doubted he could cope with the emptiness of the room. You have to know for sure, sweetheart … Michael knew Abby was right and reluctantly he let the fabric fall back against the stand. The footfall of each step sounded with a dull thud as he climbed the stairs and made his way to the door. It was open. The bedroom was bathed in the silver blue of the moon that flooded in from the open curtains. Michael stood, the breath leaving his body at the sight of the naked form on the bed. “Dominic?” he whispered. No response. “Dominic … please,” Michael said a little louder, panic beginning to take hold when his words simply fell flat in the stifling room. Slowly he moved to the edge of the bed; Dominic was very still and Michael had no ‘sense’ of him actually being there. “What did you do?” he asked before his trembling fingers touched the cold surface of Dominic’s back. The unresponsive skin was smooth and cool like porcelain beneath his finger tips; Michael quickly withdrew them.

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He sat of the edge of the bed; the cold of the body crept through him despite the summer heat. I don’t know how to be without you any more. Gently so as not to jostle Dominic, Michael turned and crawled over the mattress; his body curled up against Dominic’s back as if to warm him. He had no plan, no logical steps to be taken; Michael simply knew he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Michael stayed with Dominic throughout the night, rising to close the curtains when the sun’s rays entered the room. Keep you safe … like last time. Although Michael knew this was very different from the burns Dominic had suffered, part of him wouldn’t believe he was gone. It was only when the demands of his bladder forced Michael to the bathroom that he moved away from Dominic. I won’t be long … I won’t leave you alone. The rest of the day was spent drifting in and out of a fitful doze, waking to talk to Dominic or run soothing hands over his body. It was late afternoon when Michael finally slept. “You can’t be here, Michael,” Dominic whispered as they sat together in the grass, the sun caressing their faces. “I can’t go,” Michael countered and reached out to hold Dominic’s hand, enjoying the warm pressure of his palm. Reality slowly replaced dream and Michael fought to stay in the bright field, but the darkened room bled through, pushing the other image away. “No … please,” Michael moaned, his face pressed into the soft strands of Dominic’s hair. Then he heard it. What he assumed was an echo of his dream became more … a whisper touched his mind, so faint it was barely there. But it was there.

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Michael’s pulse beat loudly in his ears and he struggled to hear. He sat up and looked down at Dominic’s seemingly lifeless body. Leaning over, Michael stroked the fine tendrils of hair from Dominic’s face and murmured, “Don’t go … you can’t leave me.” Michael clambered off the bed and moved around it to squat in front of Dominic. The face was passive and almost peaceful in its ‘sleep’, but the whisper still crept over the edges of Michael’s awareness. Almost bouncing on his heels, Michael ran through desperate scenarios. Blood… Adrenaline raced through Michael as he stood and began to pace. “You need my blood … I can do that,” he muttered. “I can do that,” he repeated, nodding and clenching his hands while glancing back at Dominic. Quickly he ran to the bathroom to scramble through drawers and cupboards looking for scissors, razors blades, even safety pins to puncture his skin. Nothing. “Fuck!” Michael cursed and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes fell to the button badge pinned to his lapel and he fumbled to unfasten it. The pin was slightly crooked from being forced through layers of fabric, but still sharp. Michael took a breath and stuck it into the pad of his finger. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered and squeezed it to watch the bead of blood form a slow trickle. Not enough. He glanced from the pin prick towards the door. With one hand, Michael carefully drew the sheet up over Dominic and tucked it in at his waist. He dragged the chair a little closer and gave his bloody finger tip another hard squeeze before reaching out. Dominic’s lips parted easily and Michael smeared the small trace of blood just inside. He frowned, not nearly enough. The kitchen offered no solutions and Michael knew time was running out. The faint echoes he’d felt earlier were leaving him. Michael forced away tears of frustration and fear as he lifted

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his finger to his own lips, tasting the trace of copper. He knew he’d have to leave, if only for a little while. “I won’t be long,” he said to the empty room and raced out the door. The pharmacy was only a street away, but Michael ran so hard he incurred a look of suspicion from the sales assistant when he skidded to a breathless halt. It took him a second or two to collect himself enough to ask, “Razor blades, please … or sharp scissors.” Instead of meeting his request, she glanced over to the pharmacist behind the prescriptions counter. “Can I help you?” the older man asked as he walked towards Michael. “I just need something sharp like razor blades or scissors … for work,” Michael asked again, trying to mask his growing agitation at the delay. “And maybe some sticking plasters … just in case,” he added as an afterthought, hoping it would settle their concerns. The man nodded and the young assistant directed Michael to the items. Thanking her quickly, Michael shoved some money into her hand and took off out the door. The blade hovered over the vulnerable skin until Michael’s frustration boiled over. Just fucking do it, you coward, he derided himself and swiped the steely edge across his palm. The pain was instant and Michael dropped the blade with a mental curse at all the TV shows he’d seen where the actor simply grimaced before the fake blood gushed out. But as the flash behind his eyes eased, he looked down to see the growing well of blood pooling in his cupped palm. The line of blood poured into the unresponsive mouth only to trickle straight out onto the pillow case. Come on, Dominic … please, Michael pleaded and tried to catch the blood, but only succeeded in spreading it over the pale skin around Dominic’s lips. His panic started to rise, but he stopped it short … That won’t help; he needs you to do this. Carefully he took the corner of the sheet and wiped him clean, then moved up the bed and sat at the pillow. With some effort Michael managed to move Dominic’s dead weight to cradle

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his head gently in his lap. This time the blood stayed and Michael stroked back Dominic’s hair while he clenched his fist, squeezing out as much blood as he could. Feel it, Dominic … feel it running down your throat, bringing you back to me…

DOMINIC watched Michael sleep. It was night and hunger ate at him, but lethargy born of his weakness kept Dominic in the bed. Waking had been difficult. It had slowly crept into his consciousness that the pain of every new breath was real. It hurt to come back … it hurt to sense the gentle soul of Michael as he lay beside him, knowing his blood had been given to the one who would ultimately take his life. Dominic gently touched Michael’s chest and felt the rise and fall of his contented breathing. Why didn’t you let me go? But Dominic knew the answer to his silent question; it was the same reason he chose Michael’s life over his own. He gently lifted Michael’s hand and examined the tortured fingers, touching the sticking plasters over some of the cuts and shook his head. Do you really understand what you have done, Michael? The young man moaned softly in his sleep and closed his fingers around Dominic’s. Michael sighed and a smile curled the edges of his lips. Watching him, Dominic’s thoughts were sad but maybe, just maybe, there was an undertone of impossible hope that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. Settling back against the warm body, Dominic closed his eyes, too tired to listen to the hunger cramping his belly. Gradually he drifted off into sleep; not meaning to eavesdrop on Michael’s dreams, but unable to resist their humanity. Dominic was still asleep when Michael awoke. Slowly he opened his eyes and allowed his vision to adjust to the darkened room. Even before he could see, Michael could feel Dominic there with him. Carefully he searched for Dominic’s hand, let go in sleep, and wrapped it in his own. Warm. He gave it a soft kiss and

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whispered, “I know you just woke up, Dominic.” Turning his face he met the pale eyes watching him and smiled. “We’re gonna be okay.” Dominic’s gaze lacked Michael’s optimism, but it also lacked the futility practised over many years alone when he stated softly, “Maybe.” Michael frowned. I can tell what you’re thinking, Dominic. It’s strong now … and clear. I know … Dominic’s thoughts mirrored the sadness in his eyes. I should never have let this happen. “You didn’t,” Michael said out loud; his words bouncing around the otherwise silent room. “This was my choice, my decision … my free will.” Do you have ‘free will’ after what I’ve done to you? Angered by the question, Michael sat up to glare down at Dominic. “Of course I do!” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. For the first time he noticed the throb from the multitude of cuts over his hands. “I could have let you die,” he fumed, not exactly sure why he was so angry. “The connection was gone … you were gone. I could have stayed away … gone to a club, got drunk and fucked someone, but I chose to come here. To you.” “You should have let me go,” Dominic murmured, not lifting his head from the pillow. “I did this to keep you safe.” Michael simply stared at Dominic, his fury and frustration at the statement making words difficult. “Keep me safe?” he eventually spat out. “Did you ever really consider what I actually wanted?” “Would you really know?” Dominic asked quietly. Michael was stunned by Dominic’s lack of awareness. He slammed his injured hand against his thigh, almost enjoying the bolt of pain that jarred his entire arm. Huffing out an exasperated breath, Michael resisted the urge to tell Dominic to ‘go fuck himself’ and stormed out of the room.

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Muttering angrily, Michael watched the stream of pee hit the inside wall of the toilet bowl. “I am not doing anything I don’t want to,” he growled as he hit the flush button … And I know you can hear me! I can hear you… The gentle thought seemed to wrap around him as he peeled off the sticking plasters and washed his hands. The cut on his palm was still raw and the skin separated, allowing a small trickle of blood to seep from the injury. I did this for us, Dominic. The thought was almost a plea and Dominic closed his eyes against it. Let me see your hand, Michael. Michael stared at his reflection for a moment, trying to see past the dark circles under his eyes to the find the strength of conviction he’d had the day before. “I’m tired, Dominic,” Michael mumbled and wandered back through to the bedroom. He stood silently at the bottom of the bed, his shirt crumpled and spotted with the now brown spatters of dried blood, his hand aching as it hung by his side. I’m so sorry, Michael, Dominic sighed, but held out his hand for the young man to join him. But there is no way we can be together. “Why not?” Michael countered, pacing a few steps passively, refusing to either return to the bed or leave the room until he got an answer. “Tell me this,” Dominic asked quietly, but with the barest hint of hardness to his voice. “Could you walk away now?” Michael went to give an instant and angry response, but stopped himself. He thought about the question … about leaving this house, leaving Dominic. It was pain and emptiness he felt, but not the mindless compulsion Dominic was implying. He walked over to sit on Dominic’s side of the bed. “I think I could if I had to,” Michael said softly and reached out with his damaged hand, to stop short of actually touching Dominic.

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“Then maybe you should.” It was said and Dominic knew it was for the best but his heart seemed to constrict a little with each word. He took Michael’s hand in his own and turned it over to see the bloodied palm. “You should not have to do this.” Gazing miserably at the mess of his hand, Michael whispered, “Give me a real reason why you deserved to die for me, Dominic?” Dominic sighed and leant forward to gently run his tongue over the injured palm. Michael frowned, not understanding the action until he saw the wound begin to knit … slowly the edges drew together until only a red line remained. Within seconds it faded and all traces of the cut were gone. Michael looked up to meet Dominic’s sad eyes. “I’m not human, Michael,” Dominic said in a voice that mourned the man he had been. This is what I do; not to heal victims, but to protect myself. With his hand still resting in Dominic’s, Michael screwed up his face in frustration and looked up. He shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand.” I want to understand… I feed on humans and while I feed we merge … their thoughts and memories are mine; mine become theirs. Dominic’s lips did not move but the misery in his thoughts was clear. It was hard to hold Dominic’s gaze when it held so much sorrow, but Michael had too many questions. “Does it last? After, I mean?” Dominic nodded. It would last, but I heal their wounds and make them forget. It keeps them safe and keeps me safe. Michael’s frown deepened as he let the concept sink in and turned his hand, pressing his palm to Dominic’s. “Do you forget?” Dominic gently pulled his hand from Michael’s grasp and whispered, “I don’t forget … I never forget. I still remember the fear and suffering every victim brings to me. Many come willingly … offer themselves to me in their loneliness and despair. I can’t forget.”

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“You wouldn’t get that from me,” Michael stated, already suffering the loss of Dominic’s touch. “You already have my blood in you; I can feed you, Dominic. It would be okay and you wouldn’t have to get blood from others.” Although his heart hammered as he offered himself, Michael knew it was a way they could be together. “No,” Dominic said simply, but the twitch of a muscle gave away how tightly his jaw was clenched. Michael met the denial with determination of his own. “You will be safe, Dominic … I need you to be safe.” Slowly Dominic reached his hand towards the young tattooist, the tips of his fingers gently brushing down the lightly stubbled cheek. “You don’t know what you’re offering, Michael.” “Don’t patronise me, Dominic,” Michael growled half under his breath before looking up to match Dominic’s eyes in an unrelenting stare. “I know exactly what I’m offering.” The attitude in both the voice and look made it clear to Dominic that Michael was not going to back down. He shook his head. “Do this, Dominic,” Michael said firmly as he took Dominic’s hand in his and drew the fingers down over his throat. Dominic could both feel and smell the pulse beneath his fingers. His breath quickened … he wanted this, but could he really feed from Michael? Slowly he slid his hand around to cup the back of Michael’s head and lowered his face carefully and reverently to the beating pulse. As brave as Michael had been when he offered, he trembled as the soft breath touched his throat. It tickled warm against his skin until soft lips formed a gentle kiss, drawing an involuntary shiver. He waited for the pain of penetration, only to feel the heat of Dominic’s tongue. Michael moaned; his fingers twined lightly in Dominic’s hair. Do it, Dominic. Michael was willing, but Dominic could smell his fear. His arms gently encircled his prey … Michael … and held him tightly as the sharp tips of fangs pierced the skin of Michael’s throat.

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Even though he knew the bite was coming, the primal need to survive took hold and Michael fought against Dominic’s arms. But Dominic had tasted blood. Michael’s blood was sweet as it flowed over Dominic’s tongue, but sweeter still were the images it brought. Sun … laughter … light. The essence of each thought and memory flooded through Dominic as he drank; swallowing each and wanting more. Then through the blaze came a warning … stop. The agony of letting go was greater than the starvation he’d so recently suffered, but Dominic knew it had to be done. Michael clutched blindly when Dominic pulled away. He was dazed by the rush of images and emotion still pervading his thoughts and whimpered, “Dominic … don’t leave me alone.” Grasping his wrists, Dominic dragged Michael against him. I’ll make it stop … make it go away. He raked his fingers through the mess of dark hair and whispered the same words, “I’ll make it stop.” But as he moved his lips over the weeping wound, Michael held a weak hand to Dominic’s cheek. “Don’t, Dominic … please.” “I can’t leave you with that, Michael,” Dominic murmured, knowing the damage of several century’s worth of darkness. Michael shook his head and settled against Dominic’s chest. “They’re yours. I want to remember with you.” That Michael was willing to hold on to even a fragment of Dominic’s memories was like sharing his loneliness and perhaps chipping some of it away. He rested his head against Michael’s hair and heard the quiet whisper, “You have to know I love you, Dominic?” Dominic nodded and closed his eyes, failing to stop his tears. “Please forgive me for that, Michael.”

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MICHAEL fought through the layers of consciousness; each one peeling back dreams until he reached something that felt no more real. “I’m in bed with a vampire,” he whispered. It sounded even more absurd when spoken out loud. With a small chuckle of disbelief, Michael turned his face to look at the vampire in question. I’m in bed with Dominic… He lay and watched him for several minutes, noticing the soft flutter of lashes and movement beneath the lids. Dream good dreams now, Dominic. With an almost chaste kiss to the sleeper’s cheek, Michael swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. It was day … late in the day, judging from the faint orange glow to the stripe of light beneath the heavy curtain. Rising, he checked the seal of the curtains, logically knowing it was safe, but needing to make sure before he left. Pulling on his low slung jeans and soiled shirt, Michael leaned over Dominic and told him, “I’m coming back. I just need to get something to eat.” He knew there wouldn’t be an answer, but he also knew Dominic would remember the message. The world of Chapel Street seemed to have tilted a little since Michael was last there. Can it only be a couple of days? He looked into the faces of passers-by and what he saw no longer held any meaning to him. I don’t belong with them anymore. The smell of a burger bar distracted him; the juices of his belly rebelled and growled loudly. With a grimace of hunger induced nausea, Michael ordered a burger with the lot then reached over the counter to grab a handful of ketchup packets. He grinned at the teenage girl about to tell him off, then ripped the packet open to squeeze its contents into his mouth. “Gross,” she giggled but simply shook her head and handed the order through the open hatch to the kitchen. By the time Michael reached ‘Ink’, the hamburger was just a faint grease smear around his lips that he wiped off with the back of his hand.

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The tattoo parlour was still closed, but peering through the gaps in the painted window, Michael could just make out Abby going through the bookings for the night. Rummaging through pockets filled with coins and sticking plasters, Michael located his keys and let himself in with a quiet, “Hey, Abbs.” “Where the hell have you been?” she berated but pulled him into a bear hug before he could answer. “You were with him, weren’t you? Oh man, I’m glad to see you. I was so scared.” “I’m okay,” Michael mumbled, still trapped in her arms. Finally she released him and shrugged. “I know you said you were going to him, and when you didn’t come back…” She shrugged again. Michael had the decency to look sheepish when he said, “I’m sorry, Abby. He was dying … I had to stay with him. I had to bring him back.” Abby frowned and shook her head, asking nervously, “What do you mean, ‘bring him back’?” Hoisting himself onto the counter top, Michael patted the spot beside him and waited for her to get settled before he told her almost all that had happened. Abby’s expression changed with each part of the tale; sometimes understanding and others shaking her head in disbelief. When Michael eventually fell silent, Abby looked at him and held his hand. “I know I said to listen to your heart and go to him … to Dominic, but you can’t keep him going with your blood.” Michael looked down at their clasped hand. His voice was very quiet but determined. “I need to … I love him.” “I’m scared for you, sweetheart,” Abby murmured softly, but Michael simply shook his head. “He doesn’t need to feed every day … I’ll be okay. He won’t hurt me.” Although Abby wasn’t convinced, when Michael looked up at her she knew there was no further room for argument and whispered, “Just be safe, okay?”

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With a nod and a grin Michael lifted their hands to give hers a kiss. “Okay.” Sliding off the counter, he glanced towards the back shelf and asked, “You wouldn’t have anything to eat back there, would you? Vampire maintenance is fucking hungry work.”

BENDING over a client wearing one of the store’s new Tshirts, Michael’s brow furrowed in concentration. The fresh line of black left behind bubbles of blood that slowly combined to form a small trickle. He lifted the gun and watched it. A hint of memory previously blocked returned to him. Michael smiled. You’re awake. I’m awake. The memory grew. Pale skin; broken by his needle … those blue eyes watching him wipe blood and ink from a growing tattoo. Michael felt the cool of Dominic’s skin beneath his latex covered fingers. A rush of heat at a remembered blush… Michael turned away from the young women in the chair on the pretence of getting a drink. Stop it, Dominic … you’re getting me hard, Michael grumbled in a thought tinged with the elation of sharing a joke with a lover. In a silent room several streets away Dominic lay on the bed and laughed. I heard that, Michael grinned. MICHAEL bounded up the stairs two at a time to find Dominic sitting at the old fashioned dresser, looking at himself in the mirror, illuminated only by the bright light of the moon. “Do you have any idea how old I am?” Dominic asked, glancing up to meet Michael’s eyes. “Yet I don’t grow old.” Moving closer, Michael stood behind the chair and looked at the Dominic in the glass. “I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection?” he asked, focusing on the pale blue eyes.

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“Myth and legend,” Dominic murmured and reached forward to touch the cold features of his face. Michael smiled gently and pushed the hand from the glass to climb between Dominic and his reflection. Perched on the edge of the dresser, Michael cupped Dominic’s face in his palms. A small shiver ran through the vampire at the voluntary touch. Michael dipped his head to capture Dominic’s soft lips and each time Dominic tried to speak Michael grinned and kissed him again. “You should know by now that I’m not letting you go there.” Michael rested his forehead against Dominic’s before sliding off the dresser and onto Dominic’s lap. The touching was tentative at first, as if neither was sure how to continue, but the kisses deepened and silent moans passed between them. Michael clutched at the hem of his T-shirt and dragged it over his head while grinding his crotch against Dominic, reveling in the feel of hardening beneath him. Slowly he slipped his hand between them and pressed against Dominic through the fabric of his trousers. Dominic’s forehead fell onto Michael’s shoulder as he canted his hips up into the hand. He could hear the hoarseness of his breath … it seemed deafening in the quiet of the room. “Need you,” Michael whispered. Dominic gulped a mouthful of air and moaned. It had been so long since he’d been touched in that way. Yet, along with the lust coursing through his body was the red haze. As his desire grew so did his need to consume. “Stop,” he gasped and quickly repeated the word with greater desperation. “Stop … we can’t do this.” “We can,” Michael murmured, nuzzling Dominic’s neck, his hand still moving over the aching flesh. No! Michael stumbled and almost fell as he pushed back from Dominic’s thighs. The ‘voice’ forced him away; forced him to break all contact.

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“Dominic?” he whispered as the echo cleared from his thoughts, but Dominic was already standing by the window, his back to Michael. “Dominic, please?” Michael tried again, still unable to move from his place a room’s length away. “I warned you, Michael … I warned you that this is what I am.” Dominic’s voice was quiet, but certain in the ways things had to be between them. Michael shook his head. “I know, but… ” “You don’t know!” Dominic shouted and turned towards Michael. “Look at me! Look at what I am.” His face did not have the grotesque physical transformation of a fictional vampire, but the predator was there. Dominic’s eyes held a sickly luminous glow and sharp points had replaced human teeth. Hunger … inhuman hunger faced Michael. “You see why we cannot do this,” Dominic said; the anger seeping from him to be replaced by shame for what he was. “Believe me when I say I will tear you apart only to see and despair at what I have done when it is over.” “There has to be a way … I can’t not touch you.” “There is no way, Michael.” Michael sat, their combined pain overwhelming him until he pleaded, “Make me like you.” The words were barely audible but they hung in the room; tempting and terrifying. “I couldn’t live without you and know that before you argue.” Michael’s jaw was clenched in defiance of Dominic’s resistance; but the invisible barrier dissolved. Michael stood slowly and walked to Dominic, his fingers barely touching the fair hair. “I will die without this,” he murmured. “You will die with it.” Michael shrugged as if it were a minor consideration. “But we’ll be together.”

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There was truth to what he said and Dominic grasped at the possibility as if it was a tiny bubble of air when his lungs were burning. He looked at Michael and took a shallow breath. “You could come to resent me … it is a long time to never see the sun.” Michael moved closer. It’s a long time to be alone. So alone. You have me now. The words resonated deeply because no matter how hard Dominic wanted to deny it, he knew he couldn’t. He had Michael and Michael had him. With a small nod, Dominic allowed himself to be led to his bed. They lay looking at each other a long time until Dominic stroked his fingers over Michael’s lips … You will have fangs like mine. I’ll wake at moonrise with you. The thoughts felt solid despite Michael’s mortal fear; fear that still pervaded the space between them until Dominic’s lips replaced his fingers. We’ll wake together or not at all. Gradually Dominic’s kiss moved over Michael’s jaw-line. When the points of his fangs pierced the skin of his throat Michael was ready. The first taste of blood was sweet. It contained so much hope and promise of love that soon the savagery of the act diminished as memories and hidden thoughts flowed between them. Their embrace tightened; Dominic’s arms held the rapidly weakening Michael. Dominic? The thought was small … lost. Let it go … we’re almost there. The brief flash of panic dissolved as Michael’s awareness became distant. The room was gone, he was cold … colder than he’d ever felt. I’m still with you, Michael.

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In the dark of dying, Michael searched for Dominic, barely feeling the warmth seeping through his lips. Take me into you, Michael. Copper slid down Michael’s throat, slowly at first, but he clung to the taste of Dominic and began to draw at the blood. Dominic’s eyes were closed when Michael finally started to feed. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Take all you need.”

AM I alive? As much as I am. Michael didn’t move, but felt the humid air of the still room press against his bare skin. He frowned at its touch, then realized that each moment brought a new awareness. The dusty smell of the old curtains, the hum and flutter of a moth’s wings against the window, the pages of an unread store catalogue catching an occasional warm breeze in the letter box far below. All this before he opened his eyes. Was it like this for you? Some… Carefully Michael cracked open his eyes and saw the smile he could already feel. “Hey,” he said, his voice sounding dry and cracked. Dominic smiled and asked the impossible question, “How do you feel?” Letting out a long huffed breath, Michael shook his head. “Like me, but not. It’s like I know who I am but my head is full of other stuff too.” “A lot of other stuff,” Dominic acknowledged quietly. Like the man with the green eyes? The image was very strong in Michael’s mind yet he didn’t feel it could be spoken into their room. I saw him in your memories when you fed me. He took my life. But he gave you a new one.

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It was Dominic’s turn to frown. Those memories were always of anger and regret; remembered in terms of taking, not giving. Dominic looked at Michael who simply smiled, “You would have died long before I was born without that new life.” There were no words, but Dominic seemed to release a long held sigh and Michael’s smile grew. His hand moved up to Dominic’s face, taking in so many sensations at once. So new… Dominic smiled and whispered, “You feel the same.” But Michael shook his head. “You, you’re … I dunno, more.” He laughed and watched his fingers reach up to touch Dominic’s eyelashes as if he’d never really seen them before. “So much more… ” “More…” Dominic grinned but remembered well the initial rush of information that previously just hinted at the edges of his consciousness. Silently he lay and let Michael explore his skin, only responding when the touches became more intimate by closing his hand over Michael’s. “It’s okay now, Dominic,” Michael murmured, lifting both hands to Dominic’s lips, all the while watching the reluctant hope in those pale eyes. “You won’t hurt me now…” We can be together. Words of reassurance were spoken between gentle kisses until there was no room left for them. Slowly Michael ran his hand down the length of Dominic’s body. The fingers left fine trails through the hair of his belly and followed it down. A small sound escaped Dominic’s lips when the hand closed around him, but he knew that this time it was all right. Michael traced the veins and ridges beneath the silken skin of Dominic’s erection, his mind reeling at the mingling of Dominic’s need with his own. He glanced up briefly before shuffling down the bed to slide the tip of his tongue over the weeping slit. The pre-come was sharp against Michael’s changed taste buds and he frowned at the near feral hunger it aroused.

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With his fingers fisted in the sheet, Dominic watched Michael and recognised his confusion. Releasing the tortured sheet he held his hand out and murmured, “It’s something you can’t deny now, Michael.” Crawling back up the bed, Michael let himself be wrapped in Dominic’s arms, their tongues finding each other between needle sharp fangs. The hunger will take us … Dominic warned silently under their increasingly urgent breaths as he rolled them over to settle between Michael’s thighs … you can’t fight it, it is part of our nature. A faint hint of fear passed through Michael, but he could feel the change in him. He needed Dominic and all that brought with it. Hooking his thighs over Dominic’s hips, Michael whispered, “I … ah, I don’t have anything with me.” Dominic paused and looked down at Michael with a warm smile. “We don’t need anything.” The words were soft as was the brief kiss that followed. Dominic licked a broad swipe across his palm and slid it along his cock. Human disease won’t touch us… He nudged the head against Michael’s puckered entrance and began the slow push in … and our bodies need only each other. Michael moaned as Dominic entered him, but not in pain. He arched up while pressing hard against Dominic with his crossed feet, forcing him closer. He’d had many partners in his short life but it was never like this. He clung to Dominic as if he was a tiny thread of reality in the swirl of sensations threatening to unbalance him. They moved together; rising and falling … snatches of thoughts, memories, desires, passing between them. When they came it was with the muted gasps and broken skin of vampire need. But it was also with a love that Dominic believed had died with his humanity. The remainder of the night was spent in embraces … time enough to feed when they were sated with each other. They slept in the summer warmed room behind the heavy curtains, sharing dreams until the strip of light beneath the window faded.

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Michael woke first, hunger niggling, but not yet urgent. His finger tips traced lightly around a nipple, then flattened to rest his palm over Dominic’s chest where his bite marks were now healed. He frowned slightly, surprised at the slow rhythm he felt. More myth and legend. Michael grinned at the silent voice and looked up at Dominic. Our hearts still beat. The sound of Michael’s laugh echoed around the room; his joy lingering after the sound stopped and Michael’s head dipped to kiss Dominic’s chest. Dominic watched, a little bemused, and ran his fingers through Michael’s dark hair, still overcome by the long denied intimacy of the touches. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him, but beyond the gentle caresses Dominic could feel Michael’s fledgling hunger. Giving the soft hair a light tug he whispered, “I will hunt tonight … that is something you can learn later.” Michael nodded and eased back, understanding it was a new reality he still had to face.

MICHAEL stood naked in front of the mirror. I don’t look changed… The thought was a private one that would not reach Dominic while he hunted. He knew communication was blocked … Dominic had blocked him with a warning that he wasn’t yet ready to cope with the need of his prey as they begged to be taken. Although he tried to hide it from Dominic, both knew the act of taking another’s blood frightened Michael. He sighed; his hand moved over his lightly rumbling belly, stopping when it came to the small inked sun. Michael looked away from the reflection and focused on his coloured skin … Dominic’s faded? Closer inspection proved that the tattoo was just as dark and clear as the day it was inked. Swirling a finger around the circumference of the sun, Michael started to plan.

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He knew he’d have to be quick so he’d be back when Dominic returned. “MICHAEL?” Abby frowned as her friend slipped quietly into the store. She hurried towards him, but stopped short a few feet away. “What have you done, Mikey?” “It’s okay, Abbs,” he said and tried to step forward, only to see her back away. “I won’t hurt you … you know that.” “I know … logically I know, but…” She shook her head, not able to describe her instinctive fear. “It’s still me, Abbs,” Michael tried again. “No matter what, it’s still me … and I can be with him now.” “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, fought every impulse to run, and closed the gap between them. Sinking into her hug he sent her a silent thought, I’ll never hurt you, Abbs.

DOMINIC’S fear was a white noise in his head by the time Michael had convinced him he was safe and almost back to the house. I’m here, I’m safe, Dominic … you blocked me, I couldn’t let you know… “See, I’m…” Michael stopped in the door of the bedroom and stared. Dominic radiated power that shone like a halo. Where were you, Michael? But Michael shook his head. “Is that because you’re angry?” When he saw the confused look, Michael moved forward to take one of Dominic’s hands. “You’re so hot … and you’re, I dunno, kinda glowing.” “I’ve fed. More than usual,” Dominic muttered, still agitated. “Is … is the person okay?” Michael asked, not sure if he wanted an honest answer. He will be.

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“Good…” Michael whispered and stepped closer. That was when he noticed the smell. Warm, earthy … Michael moaned and nuzzled against Dominic, dropping his bag to the floor. It’s the scent of prey, Michael. Dominic gently rubbed the back of Michael’s neck. Slow down your need … control it. Michael fought to hear the advice over the red haze and clutched at Dominic. Take it slow… Gently Dominic moved Michael’s face, positioning the trembling lips over the vein. Slowly… Dominic resisted the instinct to tense beneath the urgent bite and cradled Michael with soothing caresses as his blood passed between them. Warmth flooded Michael’s body and gradually he became aware of more than his hunger. Dominic’s thoughts and touches mingled with the nourishment, totally open and honest. All encompassing love bathed them both as Michael eased back from Dominic’s broken skin. Carefully, Dominic moved them to the bed where they lay quietly in the dark room. “I’ve had an idea,” Michael eventually spoke aloud as he ran his thumb over the healing puncture wounds. “Should I be worried?” Dominic smiled, not quite willing to move yet. “Nah,” Michael grinned and sat up to raise the hem of his T-shirt. “I still have my tattoo … see.” Dominic nodded and looked at the little sun. “So,” Michael began as he slipped from the bed to fiddle in the bag he’d retrieved from the store. “I want to try something.” With a small shrug, Dominic watched Michael set up his tattoo gun and ink. “It will fade again,” he said a little sadly. “Maybe not,” Michael grinned cryptically and lay open the fly of Dominic’s pants. “You willing to try?”

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“I’m willing,” Dominic agreed and settled against his pillow while Michael etched an outline on the white skin of Dominic’s hip. It didn’t take long before the final traces of ink and blood were wiped clear of the image of a crescent moon. Dominic started to speak, but Michael held up his hand, “Not done yet.” He put the gun down and leaned over the raw tattoo. With a cheeky smile Michael ran the flat of his tongue over the design, making sure to cover it all. His eyes sparkled with delight as the healing process began. “Look, Dominic … look. Maybe it will be there when we wake up now.” Hoisting himself onto his elbow, Dominic looked from the small black moon to Michael’s stained lips and tongue. Laughing, he reached down to pull Michael up next to him. Even if my tiny moon fades I’ll awaken to my sun. They slept as dawn approached, too wrapped up in each other to sense the presence of another in the street. Waiting just out of the beam of the street light, a figure with green eyes felt them.

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A black cat for a witch may be a cliché, but add a whole bunch of tribal tattoos and an intolerance to garlic (seriously) and you have Isabelle Rowan. Having moved to Australia from England as a small child Isabelle now lives in a seaside suburb of Melbourne where she teaches film making and English. She is a movie addict who spends far too much money on traveling… but then again, life is to be lived. Visit Isabelle’s Blog - http://isabelle-rowan.livejournal.com/

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After the Storm 71 Chrissy Munder

After the Storm

After the Storm Chrissy Munder

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Prologue “… and so with a burst of fire and brimstone the evil spirit snatched Obadiah from the lip of the well and the brilliant light of day and life that lay before him, so close he could almost touch it, and dragged him back down into the deepest pit of hell.” The speaker held the last syllable, letting the words hang heavily in the chilly night air. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the sound of the water hitting the shore. The small group of boys shivered with morbid delight as they sat in the damp sand and huddled closer to the flames before breaking the silence with their excited demands. “Tell us another one.” “Do you know one about the lighthouse?” Their storyteller hesitated before leaning closer to group of boys. “Plenty of dark tales about this lighthouse. Full of death and danger on the big lake. Ghosts, too.” The boys clamored as one, eager to hear more, the lure of the unknown calling to them from the darkness as the storyteller held up his hand to catch their attention before giving in and beginning another tale. “It was in the mid-1800s, lumber was king and fortunes were made ripping the pine from Michigan’s forests and shipping it to Chicago and Wisconsin.” He swept his eyes around the group

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of boys, making sure no one had wandered off, drawn by instinctive fascination to the surf. “The lighthouse here at White River was an important one, manned by one keeper and one keeper only. It was a hard and solitary life with only a local crew of volunteers that would come to aid in rescue and recovery efforts. Captain Cason was a stranger to this land, exiled from his native England. He’d been a ship’s captain and had sailed most of the known world before he retired young. “No one really knows why. Some say his wife had just given birth and wanted him on dry land.” The storyteller’s voice lowered ominously. “Others say he committed a deed so foul that the sentence was banishment from his ship and the life he loved and he was left stranded here on the Michigan coast; alone in the windswept tower of the lighthouse.” “Oooooh,” the boys breathed as one, each speculating as to what foulness could have been the Captain’s base crime, suitable to earn such a terrible punishment. “Still others say he fell in love and here is where he and his lover retreated to spend their lives together; outcast and adrift from Society. Whatever the reasons, Captain Cason was a braw man. Hard as the stone the lighthouse is made of they said, and just as fearless. He saved more men from this Point than other Keeper and on his watch the lighthouse burned brighter and clearer than either before or since.” “So what happened to him?” one of the bigger boys called out from the darkness. The low flames flickered, casting scant light on the face of the storyteller as he continued. “Well, not a soul really knows for sure but ’tis said he and his one true love fought and his love left the lighthouse, leaving Captain Cason alone. A great storm blew in; gale strength winds and waves strong and deep, high enough to swamp the best of them. “Too late the Captain’s love had realized they couldn’t be apart and had taken passage aboard a schooner called the Titan,

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which was caught out in the storm. The ship foundered and split clean open, mayhap by lightning, mayhap by God’s wrath. “The storm was so fierce the local volunteers couldn’t make it to man the rescue boat and Captain Cason took her out alone against the elements. He battled with great might, but couldn’t reach the vessel in time and all aboard were lost. They say he found his one true love washed up on the shoreline. Hair dark as night, tangled with weeds from the lake bottom and stirring softly in the current, skin cold and pale. “The Captain cursed God, they say, and swore he’d never save another soul since he couldn’t save this one. The Captain drowned that day as well, holding close the corpse of his love and refusing to let go even when the tide rose, kissing the lips that could never warm to his again. But no one really knows for sure and their bodies were never found. “And so for his sin he haunted this lighthouse, God’s punishment for his curse, unable to join his one true love in heaven until he saved another soul.” “Aaaaahhhhh.” The group of boys looked up at the abandoned lighthouse as one, straining to see some sign of the Captain’s haunting spirit in the darkness. “So he’s still here?” “Well, now.” The storyteller began again, satisfied with the results of his tale. “Let me put a bit more wood on the fire and I’ll tell you another tale of the old lighthouse. One more recent and more strange. You see, there was an artist…”

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Chapter One VINCENT stumbled as he climbed the stone steps to the main door of the old lighthouse, watching with detached amazement as his hand shook, making it difficult to fit the oldfashioned key into the lock where it turned grudgingly. He was weaker than he’d thought. The short hike from the end of the lane, where the local taxi had dropped him off, left him trembling and gasping for air, but it didn’t matter. He had made it, and that was enough. The door was stiff, resistant even, and he shouldered it open as the warped wood stuck slightly to the frame, seemingly determined to deny him entrance. He dropped his pack down in the middle of the floor, listening as the assortment of medications rattled in their plastic bottles. His nose twitched at the stale and fetid odor he attributed to disuse. A few open windows would take care of it. Vincent walked over to the front room and tried to open the rusted locks in the casements with no success, tugging before he just shrugged and gave up. He’d figure it out later. What mattered was that finally he was alone. He knew there would be a small uproar when it was discovered he’d left the hospital, but he couldn’t seem to make himself care. Vincent had discovered that a chronic illness didn’t make him a nobler individual; not even close.

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Instead it had left him angry and discontent, selfish and introverted. He cared, he still cared deeply about those he loved, but right now he needed all his energy, all his emotional strength just to get through each day and he didn’t have any to spare. Tired; God was he tired of the hugs and the suppressed tears of those around him, platitudes that were voiced because no one knew anything else to say. Vincent wanted to scream and yell and wallow in what lay ahead and he couldn’t do that when he was expected to be strong for everyone else. Those that he loved each had their own perception of how he would face the end, one based on their own immediate needs and he found that he simply couldn’t bear it any longer. What about his needs? What about his wants? Why was he constantly torn between doing what was best for those around him and doing what was best for himself? Vincent needed to do what he had always done; he needed to immerse himself in the moment. He needed to paint and write and find a way to cope with the end of this life. He couldn’t do any of that surrounded by the hushed voices, with the demands that he rest and save his strength. Rest, he’d be resting soon enough. Luckily his doctor had strong views on the rights of the dying and with his help, Vincent had readied himself. He’d gone over his decision with both a counselor from the recommended hospice and his physician. They had given him a timeline of what to expect and enough pain medication to hopefully see him through it. Even taking residence at the old lighthouse station had been at the suggestion of his doctor. He knew the Preservation Society had been renting it out for the last few summers but there were few takers at this time of year. Now here Vincent was, on his own, crawling off like a wounded animal, every instinct within telling him to find a place to die alone. He was afraid, he wouldn’t deny that, but at least in

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solitude he could face his fear without distraction, absorb it and let it consume him until he could hopefully emerge on the other side – ready. Vincent joined his pack on the floor of the hall, placing his head on the bulky surface and closing his eyes for just a moment. He’d look around soon enough. His tiredness made it easy for him to drop into an uneasy slumber and he never noticed the shadow that crept over him and hovered, motionless, watching as he slept. As one, the sealed windows on the first floor opened, shutters slamming against the stone sides of the old lighthouse as the cold breeze off the lake blew in one side and out the other.

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Chapter Two IT was a knock on the door that finally woke Vincent. He stared groggily about; he didn’t remember opening the windows but the fresh lake air had removed all but the worst of the mildewy smell. He rose unsteadily to his feet, calling out to whomever was at the door. “Hold on.” He ran his hand through his hair and opened the door. It was the delivery service with the rest of his things. Not much, just enough for the next month or so. Supplies for painting and a few of his cameras, clothes and some personal items he’d carefully chosen to have around him during his final days. The delivery man just stared at him, and Vincent knew he must look strange, hair too long, too thin and pale, bruises from the IVs and injections visible, his clothes that had fit him when he’d entered the hospital the last time hanging from his frame. He hugged his arms around his waist, self-conscious at being caught off guard. “You can just set the boxes there,” he said softly as he averted his eyes. “I’ll decide where everything goes later.” Vincent tipped heavily. He didn’t know when he might need the fellow’s help again and knew the extra money might go far toward making up for any apparent strangeness. He was a bit more refreshed after his nap and excited to investigate the rest of the building.

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As promised, the renting agency had left the small fridge filled with food and there were some canned goods in the cupboard as well. Vincent just grimaced. The pain medication took away his appetite and made what he did eat taste strange, but the doctors had told him that he would need to make sure to eat if he wanted to stay independent. The kitchen was small, but like the rest of the building, the overabundance of windows made it seem larger. He wandered through the rest of the station, a few small rooms on the main floor with a bathroom so old-fashioned it certainly qualified for the ancient term “water closet”. Judging by the faded wallpaper, it had apparently last been refurbished in the 1930s. Vincent found it eerie the way the place was still furnished with the belongings of a bygone era. He knew it had been used as a museum during the ’70s but had somehow expected the artifacts to have all been cleared away. It was sad to think that no one cared what happened to these leavings of another’s life. His mind drifted to his house and the clutter left there. Would it be the same when he was gone? He opened a closet off one of the small bedrooms, noticed the men’s clothes still hanging on the rod and shut the door, grimacing at the creak of the stiff hinges. Vincent turned away and then heard the creak again. Surprised, he saw the door to the closet had opened. He must not have shut it all the way. It took only a moment to push it shut, this time making sure he could feel the catch before walking towards the desk in front of the window; a pipe and a hand-held telescope sat next to a writing pad and some pencils. Vincent could only shiver; everything looked like it was waiting for someone to come home. He just didn’t feel that the house was waiting for him. He picked up the telescope, feeling the heavy weight, marveling at the craftsmanship. There was a small brass plate screwed to the side. Vincent held it up to the light of the window and squinted at the small engraving. His lips moved as he read the

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words inscribed over a century ago. To O. from C. Look for me and to your side I shall always return. Vincent carefully put the telescope back down and stared over the desk, out the window toward the lake. He wondered what kind of man it took to live here alone and isolated from everything but the elements. He guessed he was about to find out. The noise interrupting his thoughts was soft, but it registered nonetheless, bringing him back to the present as he stared at the open closet door. Closing the door with a snap, Vincent shook off his fancies and wandered further; there was a small cellar where he assumed the oil for the big lamp had been kept and from it a spiral metal staircase led up to the tower that housed the actual light. He climbed carefully, feeling a sense of vertigo the higher he rose through the tower until he arrived at the top. The view was spectacular and for a moment, caught between the clouds and the sound of the water below, Vincent had a sense of smallness, of his place in the world around him. There was a bigger picture; there was purpose. He just needed to expand his horizons to see it. It was with a lighter heart that he clambered down the spiral stairs before the alarm on his watch chimed and he realized it was time for his medication again. For that brief, tantalizing moment he’d forgotten. He swallowed the pills dry and picked up his cell. Easy to ignore the waiting messages and he called his doctor’s voice mail instead, letting the man know that he’d arrived safely and thanking him for recommending the isolated location. No one would think to look for him here. Brushes and paints called him to try and capture the feeling at the top of the tower, but he contented himself with taking a sketchpad and some pencils to the bedroom where he flopped down on the bed. Thankfully, the linens were fresh and he knew he wouldn’t stay awake much longer.

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This would be a good place, a true place to find the meaning of these last days and he was thankful.

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Chapter Three THE first several days passed quickly. Vincent busied himself by unpacking. Hardest was deciding where he would get the best light and he debated before finally setting up easel and canvas. He was feeling more at home, more at peace in the old station. Other than doors that refused to close properly and windows that blew open when he least expected, it was a fine, sturdy structure. Vincent found some notes on its construction, details of the native limestone and yellow brick that had withstood the test of both the years and the elements. There was a history here that he found soothing, a sense of timelessness that called to him. On one of the shelves, there was a biography of one of the Lighthouse Keepers he set aside to read. A Captain Oliver William Cason was the subject and the book had been published by a small, local press. There were some old photos within its pages and Vincent stared at the stern face of the Captain, standing beside a dark haired man in one stiffly posed portrait that appeared to be a parody of the wedding portraits common to the time. There was something about the eyes staring back at him… The same eyes stared out from the walls of the station, photo after photo of times and lives past. There were photos of some of the boat crews, the so-called “angels” of the surf, as well as photos of the station in all types of weather and stages of

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construction. It was fascinating to Vincent, a glimpse into another world, but even more so was the face of the man that always, in all the photos, could be found beside the Captain. Vincent looked closer at one of the ancient prints, seeing some kind of marking on the man’s cheek area that he couldn’t decipher. At first he’d thought it was a flaw in the photo, but then, as he wandered through the station really looking at the photos that covered the walls, he realized it was there in all of them. Another curiosity. He’d tentatively started painting, unsure of what he was expressing but trusting that it would reveal itself. It was an exploration of sorts, a way to bring his feelings into the light. The pain hadn’t been bad, just more of the gnawing feeling, like something inside was trying to claw its way out, but the medication helped. Vincent didn’t like to take it, but knew he didn’t have much choice. The beach and rocky coastline called to him, and he’d carefully strolled both, not wanting to go too far in case he got tired, but eager to see the beauty of the dunes and the wildlife that inhabited them. There were shells to be found, different from those of the ocean but interesting, as well as bits of wood and debris that washed ashore. And the tower. Always, Vincent would return to the tower, climbing the spiral staircase and letting the wind cleanse away his confusion and fear. The nights had been the worst as he adjusted to his new surroundings. Objects he found fascinating in the light became surreal and distorted in the long hours of the night, with only the sound of the waves and the wind to keep him company. The old structure had more than its share of creaks and groans, and every ghost story he’d ever heard came back to haunt him at three in the morning. Tonight was no exception, and accepting he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, he let his toes touch the chilly wood floors and lead him to the kitchen. Vincent yawned as he turned on the

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light and decided to try making some tea, but as he reached for the pot to fill it with water, the lights suddenly went out. Vincent felt like a child, fumbling his way back over to the switch and flipping it again; he didn’t think a fuse would have blown but what did he know? He was relieved when the light came back on and went back to the sink, only to stand dumbfounded when the lights went out again. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath before filling the pot anyway and placing it on the small stove, turning the burner on high before he went back to the switch. Vincent flipped it once again and then held it this time, not sure what he was expecting. When nothing happened, he grunted and walked back towards the stove. Where the burner was out. Vincent grunted again and turned the burner back on, watching as the gas caught and lit from the small pilot. Even as he did so the lights went out again. “Damn it!” he exclaimed, not sure why this was flustering him so much, just knowing that his emotions were closer to the surface now. He strode back over to the toggle switch and watched as the lights blossomed overhead once more and then turned back to the stove, knowing this time that the burner would be off. Which it was. Vincent just stood there; perhaps there was some unwritten rule in houses this old? Tea after three but only in the dark? Deciding to do without the light, he went back to the stove and turned the burner back on, silently observing until the kettle screamed and he could pour it into the mug ready and waiting. It was a shame there was no real tea, only a few bags of a standard brand, but that was to be expected when he’d just asked for tea and hadn’t thought to specify “loose”. Mug in hand, he walked back over to the light switch and flipped it once again, staring up into the glowing bulbs until the lights distorted his vision into a series of brightly colored spots. Then there was the sudden darkness once again. Vincent stood

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quietly in the blackness; he swore he could almost hear laughter, deep and rich. Meds. Had to be the meds. He held the switch up once again and this time he felt a sensation, a pressure on his fingers that urged the switch downward. Feeling silly, he resisted, only to be startled when the pressure increased. He could hear the laughter again and for a moment, he almost felt warm breath on his neck. Vincent whirled around but there was nothing there. Letting go of the switch, Vincent stood in the night, hairs standing atavistically on his arms and his neck. He thought he was alone; maybe he wasn’t. He’d never actively counted or discounted the supernatural. Things simply were or they weren’t. Here though, surrounded by the past in the long abandoned lighthouse, the very air heavy with weight of the years that had passed, wasn’t it almost comforting to think that when he died a part of him might remain?

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Chapter Four OH God, but it hurt. Vincent lay on the floor beside the bed, curled around the agony in his belly. It was his own fault, the voice babbled in his head; he’d gotten distracted and forgotten to take his pain pills. He knew he needed to keep a certain level in his bloodstream at all times, the doctor had warned him. This is what everyone had worried about; this is what they said. They knew him, they knew he wouldn’t take the trouble to wear his watch, he couldn’t remember an appointment, a call – how would he remember to take his pills? He would lose focus like he always did and he’d pay for it. That’s what they told him. Well, fine. It was his mistake. He’d pay for it. He’d writhe on the floor and gasp until either the pain burned itself out or it drove him crazy. Vincent almost managed a grin; it was more of a rictus, the lips peeling back from clenched teeth as he began to crawl his way to the kitchen and the promised relief. He’d always been told he was a bit crazy. It had been such a good day, clear sky and sun; wind with just a hint of rain. He’d lain in the warm sand outside the station and watched the mosaic of clouds overhead. At first, he couldn’t see any images in the sky and he was afraid, wondering if the disease had stolen that childlike innocence, the ability to believe in what-if.

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But Vincent continued to lie there, until the fear finally left him, until there was only the heat of the sun burning through his flesh, warming deep in his bones and then streaming out through his back to the Earth below. Vincent tried to imagine the rays were a laser, searing through the cancer within and leaving him healthy and healed. The imagery had taken hold; sweeping away all common sense, and positive he was healed by the visualization, he’d deliberately not taken his pills. Overconfident, then, not distracted. Fine. He’d take it. It was his choice. All of this, except the disease that had started it, would only be his choice. You had to be willing to pay if you wanted to play. So now he paid. The hallway that at times seemed so small loomed before him. Each inch was an exercise of will. He crawled, leaving a river of tears and sweat in his wake as he inched his painful way towards his goal. Vincent reached the doorway kitchen and beat his head on the wooden floor. He’d never imagined such pain was possible. He could hear the noises he was making – grunts of pain, whimpers. Screams. At first, he wondered who was making the noise, why wouldn’t they just shut up? Then he realized it was him and it was ok. He was alone. This is why he wanted the solitude. There was no one here to judge him, no one to tell him to be strong or suck it up. No one to comfort him. He looked up at the light switch on the wall and thought of the imaginary pressure he’d felt on his fingers, the breath on his neck. God, but it hurt! “’Stead of fuckin’ around with the light switch, why don’t you do something useful and bring me my meds?” he gasped out, not sure if it was prayer or a plea as he looked at the distance remaining between him and relief. Almost there now.

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Suddenly the windows of the kitchen flew open and a cold wind blew through the kitchen. Vincent curled up on the kitchen floor and panted and groaned and screamed his way through the wave of pain that seemed to ride the wind. He’d move a little farther when it passed. Just a little farther. He could remember when his ex had given birth to their son; the contractions had come and gone in similar waves. She’d panted and screamed and cursed and he’d just laughed with his lack of understanding. So now she had her revenge and here he was, giving birth to a dark malignancy. The wind increased in strength and Vincent wasn’t sure if he couldn’t hear because of the pain, the noises he was making, or because the wind was so loud. As the gusts swirled, the plastic containers on the counter moved towards the edge. Just a little more, Vincent pleaded, not sure what or who he was pleading with. As if in answer, the bottles scooted closer to the edge, and then Vincent watched as they fell to the floor in what appeared to be slow motion, the securely-sealed, child-proof lids popping off and a rainbow, a wonderful, numbing rainbow hit the floor and skidded towards him. It was his turn to move in slow motion, reaching out as far as he could and wiggling his fingers to grab and stuff and he lay there on the floor, crying weakly as he waited for the magic. He closed his eyes and felt a rough hand softly brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Easy, lad.” Was it a voice? Was it his imagination? “Thank you,” he mumbled gratefully as he felt the numbness take over. “Thank you.”

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Chapter Five VINCENT did a better job of remembering his meds after that night. He couldn’t remember much of it really, just the pain and the sense of forever it had taken to make his way to the kitchen. Waking up on the tile floor, surrounded by the pills he must have knocked off the counter, had been strangely surreal, reminiscent of his wilder days. The irony was unmistakable. As a young man, the future stretched endlessly before him, and he’d done everything possible to both accelerate and avoid it. Now, Vincent was reduced, struggling to keep each moment alive. He’d carefully picked up each individual little giver of surcease from the floor, putting them back in their proper containers, and contemplated the vagaries of his life. He did choose to learn something from that night –– he was smarter, he planned. There were now a small amount of his meds in every room of the small station. Vincent didn’t think he had the strength to go through that a second time. He lost himself again, attacking his painting, working at a frenzied pace, vision colored by the events of that night and the living, breathing entity he’d finally understood the pain to be. There was a haze of green through the work now, a rich color that swirled through the darkness of the sky. He didn’t understand. Time. He was running out of time.

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Words came slowly, the medication a barrier between the outside world and the place in his head where he spent so much of his time. There were letters to his son and to his friends, a few feeble attempts at verse to define his feelings without success. He’d made arrangements with the deliveryman from the first day, Brian, that was his name. Brian would take Vincent’s letters with no return address and post them from the different towns on his routes. Strange to listen to his voice mail and feel … nothing? No, there was sadness deep within, a response to the panic in the voices he loved and their tearful demands that he stop being so selfish and come back where he would be safe and cared for. But anger washed over him as well. Didn’t they understand? Didn’t they know? If this was all that was left, he didn’t want to spend it cocooned in safety. He couldn’t see himself strapped to a bed in some airless hospice, just lying there waiting. Here there was light and life, water and sky and the amazing feeling every time he climbed to the top of the lighthouse. Perhaps walling himself off in isolation was just as bad in their eyes, but it all came back to his right to choose. Vincent did leave a few messages in return. They were nothing special, just an excuse to extend his love. Did it make things worse when he did that? He’d tried to talk with his son at least once a week, but it was harder now. Words buried beneath the weight of wind, water and sky. Vincent thought he told his son he loved him and to remember that living beat being safe any day. In the end, he just let the battery of the cell run down. It was easier than hearing the words that tugged at him. He thought he’d charge it closer to the end, but maybe not. Maybe he’d just have to let his last work here speak for him. His sense of another presence grew stronger. Shapes seen from the corner of his eyes, movement when there shouldn’t be and a comforting feeling whenever he gave in to exhaustion and

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closed his eyes for few minutes. Vincent knew that his therapist would just call it a manifestation of his fears, or a combination of his meds, and he could accept that. Until the night he sat up and looked towards the writing desk in front of the window. Another trick of the night, the telescope was floating, held up by some invisible force, pointing out towards the big lake. Vincent thought of the engraving, the plate on the side of the telescope and wondered who he was looking for. “Why don’t you stop playing games and show yourself?” Vincent asked the darkness. Breath stopped as the shadows coalesced, a form emerged and a face looked back at him. He wouldn’t call it a handsome face; there was too much character for that generic phrase. The moonlight clung to stark cheekbones, washing over the jaw and the thick blond hair carelessly cropped and thrust back from the wide forehead. A lit pipe was clenched between strong teeth and the aroma wafted over towards Vincent as the specter flashed a wicked grin, eyes crinkling up in a manner that made Vincent want to grin back in found joy. “Aye. No more playing around.” Rough and accented. A voice from the past, a voice from the sea. Vincent blinked and then blinked again. He knew his meds were strong, but still… “Come on, then, I did what yeh asked.” The stem of the pipe gestured in his direction. “Cat got your tongue?” “Who are you?” An exhale. Vincent found he could breathe again. “Why are you here?” The figure turned and looked out the windows at the big lake, waves dancing to the melody of the night wind. “Cason, Cap’n Cason is my name and I live here.” “But … what do you want?”

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Fiery green eyes pinned Vincent where he lay; he’d seen that color somewhere before. “Want?” The specter snorted. “I want yeh to leave. ’Tis my home yeh be disrupting.” The hand with the pipe punctuated his words. “All yer stuff, paints and the like. Smelling up the place, getting in my way.” Vincent settled back against the pillows. Interesting. It was a familiar argument. One he’d had with everyone he’d tried to live with. Why did his subconscious choose to bring it up now? “Too bad.” “That’s all yeh have to say on it?” An eyebrow cocked as Captain Cason scowled at the interloper. “What else is there?” “Do what the rest of your sorry lot always does.” The pipe shifted, scraps of an old children’s story rising to Vincent’s mind – oh, what big teeth you have. “Scream, yell, run out of the house in the middle of the night wearing only yer night clothes.” “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Vincent yawned slightly, tiredness creeping up on him suddenly, like it always did now. “I can make your life miserable, don’t doubt it. Those few parlor tricks I’ve shown yeh is only the beginning.” The ghost looked at him fiercely but Vincent didn’t feel threatened. “Not very hospitable, are you?” Vincent smiled bitterly before he voiced his next thought. “Besides, you’ll have the place to yourself soon enough.” “Hospitable? I’m a cursed haunt. What the blazes does that have to do with being hospitable?” Vincent smiled at the indignation evident in the rich voice before his breath caught. Oh, this was new. The pain spiked for a just a moment, twisting his guts with a vice-like grip. He whimpered. “What is it, then?” The voice was closer, the rough hand gentle on his forehead.

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“The pain.” Vincent grimaced, panting until the moment passed. He looked up into the green eyes. Recognition. “You’re not in my imagination, are you?” “No, lad.” The rough voice was softer, gentler than Vincent might have imagined it could be. “Let me stay?” Vincent pleaded, even as he felt himself slipping away, eager to escape the pain. “Just for a while longer?” “Aye then, a while longer.”

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Chapter Six IT was a better morning for Vincent when he next awoke. He moved cautiously, testing to see if the pain was still with him or if it had left. Discovering that the latest bit had left him as suddenly as it had come, he gratefully swung his legs to the side of the bed and pushed himself upright, wobbling a bit before he caught his balance. Tea or coffee. Something with caffeine to clear the fuzziness from his head. That would be welcome. The pain pills helped, but they sure gave him some weird dreams. Vincent yawned as he padded down to the kitchen in his bare feet, shaking his head as he remembered his vivid dreams of last night and a sea captain’s ghost. He must have forgotten to close the windows in the kitchen again, and fresh air and sunshine streamed in. Vincent was in awe of the view; the lake and sky seemed to dwarf everything around them. How lucky he was to have been sent to this place. Perhaps, even though he was having difficulty seeing it, everything truly did happen for a reason. Vincent leaned against the counter as he waited for the water to boil and bent over the sink to splash cold water on his face, enjoying the shock to his nerve endings. He ran his hand over his closed eyes to wipe it off and felt some of the fog lifting. He filled the mug, added a bit of honey for energy and turned to sit at the kitchen table.

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“Jesus!” he exclaimed, stumbling back out of the way of the hot liquid as the mug broke against the floor and the tea splattered everywhere. There was a man sitting at his kitchen table. But not just any man. This was the same apparition he had dreamed last night, right down to the piercing green eyes and the pipe, even now, clenched between the white teeth bared in a wicked grin. Avoiding the mess on the floor, Vincent circled the table slowly. He rubbed his eyes to see if the figure would disappear, but the man just regarded him steadily and with amusement, before taking the pipe out of his mouth and knocking it against the edge of the table. Vincent could only watch in a daze as ash fell from the bowl of the pipe to the kitchen floor. “What did I tell yeh?” Ignoring the pile of ash he’d just made, the stranger gestured to the mug and tea on the floor. “Yer making a mess.” “Who are you?” Vincent asked slowly as he looked around to make sure this was his kitchen. He really needed that caffeine now. “What are you doing here?” His visitor just sighed and shook his head at Vincent’s puzzlement. “Didn’t we go over this last night?” he enquired in his deep voice. “Last night?” Vincent parroted. “Yeh remember, don’t yeh?” The green eyes fixed back on Vincent. “I introduced myself to yeh then. Isn’t it time you returned the courtesy, by the way?” “Right,” Vincent muttered as he sat carefully down at the table across from the man in the rough clothing. There wasn’t anything necessarily strange about them, a pair of pants, some type of shirt and a jacket. It was just the materials and cut looked different, somehow. “I’m Vincent Poulsen, I’m renting this station house for a few months, until…” His voice tapered off and Vincent gave up

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and just stared at the other man. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream last night; maybe this fellow had broken in and was just taking advantage of his confused state. Stranger things could happen, right? “Poulsen, huh? That’s a Scandinavian name. I used to have a sailor under me named Poulsen. Man couldn’t speak a lick of English, but he could work from sunup to sundown without a word of complaint.” There was that grin again, Vincent thought. “Perhaps he did, and I just didn’t understand him, eh?” There was that hearty laugh. “Too bad for him.” “So you’re in the Navy?” Vincent tried playing along. His visitor just laughed again. “Not for a long while, and not in the way yeh be meaning. I told yeh, I was a ship’s captain afore I was Keeper of this lighthouse.” “Right,” Vincent repeated. So who could he call? The police? The Preservation Society? Where would be the best place to call and find out if there were any escaped mental patients in the area? “So, I agreed to let yeh stay last night, against my better judgment, mind yeh. But yeh seem to have caught me at a weak moment.” The man shrugged and the end of the pipe jabbed in Vincent’s direction. “But if you’re to stay, it’s best we set up some ground rules.” “Right.” Vincent struggled to unscramble his thoughts. “First of all, don’t be playing any of that rackety noise yer lot call music. I’ve not heard anything in the last 90 years or so that even came close to the title, can’t listen to the stuff.” The pipe stem jabbed in his direction again. “Next, yer a slob, man. Yeh’d never make it aboard my ship. Can’t yeh pick up after yerself just a bit, help keep things ship shape around here? All that paint and papers and such strewn around here is a distraction.” Vincent watched amazed as his unwelcome visitor actually shuddered.

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“Finally, no carousing or fornicating with strange women. Having been rid of me own wife for many a year, I cannot abide women and their chatter, and I absolutely won’t have them around the station.” At this point, the arms crossed decisively across the broad chest. “Does that mean familiar women are fine?” Vincent finally found his voice. “Eh?” There was that fierce glance again. Vincent cleared his throat. “You said ‘strange women.’ Does that mean familiar women are fine?” “Are yeh daft?” The Captain looked Vincent up and down carefully. “Is that why yer here? Are yeh a harm to yerself and others?” “Would it matter if I were?” Vincent couldn’t help but ask. He didn’t know whether or not to be insulted – the man was asking him the same question Vincent was thinking. The Captain just shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time the village sent an idiot up here to live. The last one was rather a nice fellow even if he didn’t bathe regularly. Do yeh bathe?” That was it. “Look,” Vincent began distractedly, “I’m sure you’re a nice enough guy, whoever you really are. And I’m sure you’d be fine company. But I came up here to be by myself and since I’m paying the rent you’ll have to just go … away … somewhere.” There was that pipe stem again, gesturing in his direction for emphasis. “Why should I go? This is my home, yer the one intruding.” “And another thing, that damn pipe! How can you complain about me making a mess when you’re dropping ash everywhere? Don’t you know smoking will kill you? Besides, how can a ghost smoke when they’re dead?” Vincent’s voice rose louder as he listened to his own faulty logic.

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“What difference does my blasted smoking make when I’m already dead?” the Captain just thundered back as he slammed his fist down on the kitchen table. “Right.” What was it about this man that made his vocabulary totally disappear? Vincent wondered as he blinked and stared back into those green eyes. “Been dead for years.” The Captain’s voice lowered to Vincent’s level as he questioned, “Are yeh always this irritating? It’ll make yeh hard to live with.” “Yeah, yeah, talk to my ex.” Vincent waved his hand in disregard of the man’s words. “You’re a cursed haunt. I think I remember that part. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t … shit.” Vincent sat in stunned amazement as the man sitting across from him disappeared and the only reminder of his presence was the pipe floating in mid-air. Just as suddenly the man reappeared and Vincent could only look at him in silence. “No matter how many times I do that, it’s still a lot of fun to see the reaction.” The blond grinned again at Vincent. “So you’re a ghost,” Vincent said slowly. “Aye.” “And you haunt this place.” “Aye.” “And you haunt this place because…?” The Captain looked at him reproachfully. “That’s a bit personal, yeh ken?” Vincent looked back steadily. “Because this was my last earthly abode and I died right out there on yon beach.” The Captain rattled off the words quickly. “Just how did you die?” Vincent asked with sudden curiosity. “Ah no, enough about me. What’s your story, eh?” “What?” Vincent was caught off guard by the sudden change of subject.

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“Yeh heard me plain enough. What are yeh doing here by yerself?” “I’ve been sick,” Vincent said slowly, not sure how much he wanted to reveal. “I came here to get away from everything.” “From looks of things, seems like yeh brought everything with yeh.” The green eyes had softened a bit with sympathy and Vincent just shook his head at the apparent contradiction. “I’m dying.” Vincent said the words softly, barely audible even to himself as he acknowledged the truth out loud for the first time outside the offices of his doctor.

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Chapter Seven “WHAT’S that mess there supposed to be?” the rich voice boomed into the quiet space. Vincent finished the sweeping stroke before he put the brush down, wiping his hands on a cloth before turning to face his interruption, no longer startled by the Captain’s comings and goings. “I don’t know yet.” There was an audible snort. “Daft.” “That’s hardly polite.” Vincent looked around for his glass of water only to find he’d stuck his brushes into it earlier. With a sigh, he started down toward the kitchen, knowing he’d be followed. “A painting is supposed to represent something, isn’t it? What’s the bloody use of painting if yeh don’t know what it is yer representing?” “That’s the whole point.” Vincent smiled. They’d had this argument before. Actually, they’d had several arguments since the Captain had revealed himself to Vincent. “Daft,” the spirit seated at the kitchen table repeated as he tapped his pipe against the wooden surface, knocking the ash out on to the floor. “Don’t make a mess. Isn’t that one of your rules?” Vincent reproved, grabbing a towel to wipe it up. How was it he was cursed

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with a messy ghost? Vincent still hadn’t figured out all the rules for the tangible/intangible aspects of being haunted or exactly what the Captain could and couldn’t do. And for all the complaints the ghost had about Vincent and his habits, the being still managed to add to the clutter. “It’s my bloody kitchen.” The green eyes flashed at Vincent. “And my bloody table. I’ll make a mess if I bloody well please.” “Technically, it’s not your kitchen anymore, it’s mine. And I’ll thank you to not dump your ashes all over.” Vincent found it amusing the way they had settled into a companionable truce after their slightly rocky beginning. The fierce Captain hadn’t tried very hard to scare Vincent off, and Vincent privately wondered just which one of them enjoyed the novelty of company more. Also amusing was the fact that Vincent hadn’t talked to anyone so much in years. Their conversations covered each and every topic that crossed either of their minds; it was obvious that the Captain enjoyed the stimulating battle of wits and, to his surprise, Vincent found he did as well. The days took on a simple routine. Vincent would paint or walk the beaches, accompanied by the surprisingly verbose Captain who pointed out the local flora with a discerning eye. Sometimes in the evening, Vincent would fall asleep in the middle of a discussion, the combination of lack of sleep and medication overcoming him more easily now, only to wake and find his companion quietly waiting, the ever present pipe at hand, and they would continue as if the flow of words never stopped. Perhaps this apparition was merely the sounding board for this last period of his life, Vincent thought as he shared parts of himself that he hadn’t thought of in years. A way to clarify things at the end. It was interesting to reflect back on the sum of his life experiences and thoughts, to turn them over in his mind once again and come to terms with the man he’d been.

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Which made more sense; that he was spaced out on morphine and the other drugs or that he was telling the story of his life to a nosey old ghost? He supposed it didn’t make any difference. As had been his way, Vincent tried to never label his thoughts as “good” or “bad”, he simply accepted what rose to the surface and let the stream of consciousness find its own way. It was enough that in return the Captain shared with him firsthand accounts of a life lived full and rough. Some of the tales recounted were simply astounding. Vincent enjoyed the gentle mix of romance and poetry that were woven into the Captain’s tales. As much as the old sailor tried to deny it, Vincent knew they were a reflection of the same qualities inherent in the man the ghost had once been. Qualities the Captain tried, but failed, to hide from Vincent under his crusty exterior. The stories of men, places and times at sea when it seemed all hope was lost were a glimpse into another world for Vincent. He found himself sketching the images as he tried to envision the harsh realities behind the fanciful tales, and wondered at the strength that allowed the Captain to keep his caring soul despite the hardships endured. Only once had Vincent seen his haunting spirit angry, but perhaps angry wasn’t the right word. He’d been wondering and finally, unable to hold back, he took advantage of a quiet time, a time when the Captain had just finished a fantastical tale of shipwreck and rescue and was looking out at the lake in quiet contemplation. Into this moment of stillness, Vincent blurted out his question. “All of your stories are from before you came to the lighthouse,” Vincent prodded. “What was it like here?” His words tumbled out in his eagerness. “I’ve seen the pictures, who’s the dark-haired man beside you?” The pain that gnawed almost continuously at Vincent’s guts now was nothing compared to the look of utter anguish that crossed the Captain’s face at the rush of words. He scowled at

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Vincent, eyes bright with emotion as he snarled savagely before disappearing. “Nowt that yeh need to know.” It was a full day before he showed himself to Vincent again, gruff and secure once again in his Ship Captain’s persona. Vincent tried to apologize for touching on the obviously painful subject and was gruffly told to simply let it be. But his curiosity grew. He picked up the biography of the Captain from the shelf, trying to fill in the blanks of the life that so fascinated him, but couldn’t find the answers he sought. The dark haired man wasn’t even noted in the small book, odd, as he was so noticeable in the pictures. Vincent began to search the lighthouse for clues to his identity. As time shortened, it became more and more imperative that Vincent find the answers to this puzzle. He painted less and wandered more. There was a parallel somehow in his mind, a link between the identity of the Captain’s companion and the remaining time allotted to him. It was a rainy day that found him down in the Station’s cellar, opening boxes and trunks shut and sealed a lifetime ago, marveling at the items he found. He looked at some of them in puzzlement, holding them up and twisting them around in his hands, not even sure what they were. At the bottom of one of the trunks was a wooden box covered with strange and wondrous carvings. Vincent settled himself to the floor, letting his artist’s fingers caress and appreciate the workmanship before him. The wood was soft and cool, seeming to caress him back, happy to see the light of day once again. He opened the latch and looked inside. “Oh.” He breathed in wonder at the objects before him. Vincent poked one finger into the box and gently lifted out what he thought was a necklace, a bit of bone carved and knotted onto a strand of leather that had rotted with the passage of time.

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The rest of the contents were just as interesting; a feather, a stone, a shell that gleamed with the richness of a stained glass window. There was a harder object beneath and he set the box on the floor as he eagerly fumbled to bring it to the surface. “Careful with that!” The Captain’s voice was rough and wistful. Vincent looked up in surprise. “Do you know what it is?” It seemed to be a tube of glass, jagged in some parts and coated with sand on others. The coloring was a varied mix of dark green and brown and some other color that Vincent, with his artist’s knowledge, struggled to name. “’Tis a fulgerite.” The Captain settled himself on the lid of the trunk and looked sadly at the other objects in the wooden box, reaching in and touching the carved bone necklace gently. “Caleb was forever bringing them home.” Vincent paused, trying to decide which question to ask. “A fulgerite? What’s that?” The Captain looked up with a tired smile, appreciating Vincent’s restraint. “Captured lightning. As rare and hard to find as true love.” With a sigh, the blond began to pace the small cellar. “If you’re feeling up to it, we should go look after the next storm. I was never any good at finding them, but Caleb, well, he had the touch. Maybe you do as well.” Vincent could see the faraway look in the Captain’s eyes and didn’t dare move or breathe, afraid the wrong word would close this door that had barely begun to open. The Captain continued to pace about the small cellar, too restless to sit. “During a storm, lightning will strike the dunes, and if the conditions are right, the heat will fuse the sand into glass. You can dig into the dunes after a storm and find the bolt, trapped forever beneath the earth.”

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Vincent ran his fingers delicately over the surface once again. “It’s beautiful.” After a further moment of self-debate, he continued. “Who’s Caleb?” He looked up when there was no answer but the Captain had already gone.

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Chapter Eight THE jagged teeth of pain had grown sharper and came more often. It wasn’t a good morning. Vincent lay sweating in his bed, unable to drag himself down to the kitchen just yet. There was no rhyme and little reason to the mosaic of pain. Some days were simply better than others now. The days he was trapped, held captive by the gnawing inside him, were increasing. He didn’t know if he could call what he felt fear anymore. On the bad days, the very bad days, he just wished it were all over. On the better days, he longed for time to extend, to stretch out before him in the same unceasing road he’d glimpsed in his youth but hadn’t known how to appreciate. “Going to be sluggard today, are yeh lad?” The Captain’s rough voice was a welcome distraction and Vincent looked up in surprise. “Fuck you.” Vincent groaned his welcome. Amused, the Captain snorted. “A century or so ago, I might have taken yeh up on yer offer. I’ve been alone here a long time.” Vincent could only manage a small smile at the jest before the pain grabbed him again. “Talk to me,” he demanded, as petulant as any small child. “Tell me a story.” The Captain settled down on the end of the bed, pulling out his pipe and inspecting the stem. “What do yeh want to hear about?”

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“Something, anything to distract me.” Jabbing. Stabbing. The pain was growing in strength. He was really going to have to give it a name, Vincent thought as he clenched his teeth again. But at least he wasn’t alone. Fleetingly, he wondered just why it was that he found more comfort from this departed spirit than from any of his living friends. “Tell me about Caleb.” The Captain sighed. “’Tis a one track mind yeh have. What do yeh want to know?” “How you met. Who was he?” Even in his current state of mind, Vincent sensed the Captain wanted to tell his story almost as much, if not more, than Vincent wanted to hear it. “Well, now.” The Captain settled back against the metal footboard. “That were a long time ago. 1840 it was. I was a passenger on the Aurora. A fine vessel; bound for New Zealand, a wild country I’d only heard about, a place I’d never been. I was to bring another ship back to England; her Captain had died of a fever or been killed. Who knew for sure?” “I just thought it to be a fine adventure. My wife was against it, but we’d had our differences out long before and made some manner of peace with it. In the end, our lives were so separate she was happier when I was gone at sea, as was I.” Vincent watched as a dreamy look came over the craggy face before him. “I’d never seen the like in all my travels. The land was spectacular; the closer we got, the more it called to me.” Here he looked sheepishly at Vincent, as if daring him to comment. But Vincent was caught in the emotion behind the words and gestured for more. “We came to land at Port Nicholson. Well, they call it Wellington Harbor now. But then it was Port Nicholson. The local population rowed out to meet us in these amazingly crafted boats. All fierce they were, half-naked and skin marked with strange designs; none of us had known what to expect.”

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“Caleb was there in one of the boats, they’d brought him along to translate. That were the first time I saw him, there on the water. It were January 22, 1840.” The Captain paused to take a breath, lost in his memories. “But he doesn’t look…” “Maori, they’re called. No, he wasn’t. His parents were missionary folk. Come a few years before to save the heathens. They died.” The Captain shrugged. “The Maori let Caleb live, adopted him. Gave him whakapapa.” Vincent was fascinated. He could picture in his mind the dark-haired man, Caleb, rising half-naked from the turquoise waters, skin glowing like honey, beguiling the blond man beside him. He could only imagine how the image had taken hold of the romantic and poetic soul of the Captain. “What’s that?” “Eh, well it’s basically genealogy, or family, or history, I was never sure how it all worked. Don’t know who ever thought the Maori were simple creatures. Damn complex way of life they had if yeh ask me.” “So you saw each other and…” Vincent prodded. “And what?” The Captain’s voice grew rough. “What do yeh think?” Vincent ignored the harshness, finally having some understanding of how different this experience must have been to a man of that time. How difficult the realization must have been. “How did he end up here, at the light house with you? What’s that mark on his face in the pictures?” The Captain sighed. “I’d never … I’d … well, I’d never met another like him. He touched my arm in greeting and I kept looking at it all that night, looking for the scorch, the burn marks I knew he’d left behind on my flesh.” There was wonder still evident in the Captain’s voice, and Vincent felt tears prick his eyes at the thought of being the recipient of such deep emotion, even after all these years.

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“When it came time to head back to England, he sailed with me.” “He left his entire life behind? His adopted family?” Vincent was amazed more at what was left unsaid than what was told. “That took courage.” “Aye,” the Captain agreed. “He had more than enough courage for the both of us.” “Your wife?” “She weren’t none too pleased, I can tell yeh that.” The Captain grinned at Vincent; that unfettered grin that made Vincent’s heart lighten at the sight. “Thought I was just being spiteful, falling in love with another man, yeh ken? Another woman she could understand. It would have made her life easier, given her help around the house.” There was a brief pause before he continued. “Maybe she was right. She was scared of him, didn’t like his moko, didn’t want him around the children.” “You took Caleb home with you?” Vincent laughed incredulously, shaking his head at the man’s insensitivity. And he’d been told he was clueless! “What else was I to do with him?” The Captain scowled before grumbling, “You sound just like her. Anyway, it made Caleb uncomfortable as well, so I needed to find us a place. As luck would have it, this opportunity came up, so we came here.” The Captain was silent again, lips turned upward in a faint smile as he remembered happier times past. “What did you say earlier? A moko?” The word felt strange on Vincent’s lips and he knew his pronunciation was off. “That’s the mark yeh were asking about, on his face. She thought it were the mark of the devil; or so she told me.” “Oh, it’s a tattoo?” “Of a sort.” The Captain extended his pipe to tap it against the footboard before Vincent caught his eye and gestured towards

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the wastebasket beside the bed. With another scowl, the ghost just put it back into his pocket. “They did it different there. It’s not just marks on the skin, that’s what they call kirituhi. Moko is actually grooves cut in the skin with small chisels they called ‘uhi’. First they cut the grooves into the skin, and then the uhi are dipped into a type of pigment and tapped into the skin with small mallets. There’s different types of uhi to make different types of grooves and designs.” Vincent was impressed. “You know a lot about it,” he enthused, his interest pushing the pain aside. “Aye, well. It was a very important part of Caleb’s life.” The Captain looked out the bedroom window. “It was important for me to understand it.” There was such contrast to be found here, Vincent thought. Here was a man who had thought nothing of bringing his male lover into his wife’s house, yet the same man spent time learning obscure, native customs to please the one he cared about. “So what did his moko mean?” Vincent felt the area of his wrist where his son’s initial, a small initial “J”, was one with his skin. He had never forgotten the rush of emotion when he’d had it done and could only be in awe of the significance behind the involved process the Captain was describing. “A facial moko is generally divided into eight sections. It’s kind of an identity card. There’s a lot behind it, more than I know. Rank and family and status all determine the placement and design. You could piss a bugger right off if you didn’t recognize his importance from his moko.” The Captain could only grin at some far off memory. “Caleb’s, on his cheek, represented Taiohou or his work.” Despite his fascination with it all, and his interest in just what Caleb’s work had been, Vincent could feel his body sliding into sleep as the pain finally released its grip on him. “Did you ever think of staying there, with him?”

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“Aye, we discussed it. But my children weren’t there, and to Caleb that was important.” The Captain looked down with a sigh. “By the time we discovered my wife wouldn’t let us be a part of my children’s lives … well, going back just didn’t seem to be an option. I always wondered if he had regrets, but he never said.” Vincent’s eyes were drifting closed. “He sounds special.” “That he was,” was the quiet, unheard reply. “That he was.”

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Chapter Nine IT was a beautiful morning. A simply spectacular morning. As he looked out the kitchen window, Vincent could only stare with amazement at the smoothness of the lake’s surface. He’d never seen it like that and the day’s possibilities suddenly seemed endless. Feeling both hunger and a level of energy that had escaped him for the last few weeks, Vincent was unable to keep from happily humming as he poured some cereal into a bowl. Something about the morning made him want a little breakfast to go with his tea. He raised the spoon to his lips, milk and flakes spilling as his attention was caught by the color of the sky. There was a beautiful haze that seemed to tint everything it touched. A wondrous pink hue, tinged with a hint of green. Vincent didn’t think he’d ever seen that color sky before and he wanted to remember it, to capture it and put it on canvas to share with everyone he knew. But it was too amazing a day to stay inside, even to paint. Vincent decided to pack a small lunch and walk down to the beach. It could only do him some good. It had been a few weeks since he’d felt well enough to risk the distance, and the thought of fresh air sweeping in off the lake and clearing the stale clutter of his mind was enough to override any misgivings he might have. He was still humming as he bent down to rummage through the small fridge, and made a mental note to call Brian and give him

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a list of groceries and other sundries he needed. There were also some letters, sealed and ready to go on the kitchen table. They could be taken care of at the same time. Vincent looked around but couldn’t remember where he’d last left his cell phone. He poked about the clutter on the kitchen counters, finally opening up the empty flour container and grinning in triumph when he found the small electronic device trapped inside. To his surprise, there still appeared to be a charge, and ignoring the number of missed calls and voice mails that it tried to flash at him, Vincent decided to dial his son’s number. He wanted to share the amazing optimism of the day, only to be disappointed when he went straight into voice mail. The sound of his son’s voice on the greeting was enough to lift his momentarily dampened spirits, and he smiled manically as he rhymed and laughed and sang his hello’s to his son. “It’s a beautiful day, today. It’s a good day, a great day and I’m heading down to the beach to experience it. I love you and I hope you seize the opportunities the day will bring.” Almost twirling, he pressed the disconnect, filled with joy at hearing the sound of his son’s voice and the energy that seemed to surge through him. Forgetting his intention to call Brian, he picked up the small pack and thrust his food into it before practically bounding out the door of the station into the sunlight. His bare toes wriggled in the sand, diving through the heat of the surface to the coolness hidden below. Vincent felt he would be able to touch the sky if he only reached his arms up over his head. It was truly an amazing day. He settled back on a small grouping of rocks, close enough to the shoreline to be misted by incoming spray, but not enough to worry about getting soaked. The small stretch of beach was deserted. Just the old overturned lifesaving boat, paint flaking from the hull that faced the sky as it had for unused years. He lay there, dozing in the sun,

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dreaming about the images he could see in the clouds overhead and feeling happy and free of the self-doubts that usually plagued him. “What are yeh doing?” The gruff voice was a welcome distraction and Vincent smiled sweetly upwards without opening his eyes. “I’m enjoying a beautiful day. And now I have the pleasure of your company.” “Some pleasure. It’s going to storm, yeh daftee. Best be heading back up to the house.” Vincent sat up and threw his arms wide. “How can you say that? Look at how beautiful everything is. There’s no storm in sight.” “Doesn’t have to be in sight. It can be in smell. And I’m smelling a storm. A bad one, by the look of that sky.” Squinting upward, Vincent tried to see what the Captain saw. “Are we looking at the same sky?” he finally enquired before chuckling at his own humor. “No use trying to talk sense into yeh, I see.” The Captain settled down on the rocks beside Vincent with a sigh. “Take too many of yer little rainbows today, did yeh?” “No, I just woke with the most amazing feeling. Everything’s going to be ok. You know?” Vincent squinted a bit into the sun, noticing the small boat sitting motionless on the still lake and admiring the colorful sails. “How can everything be ok?” the Captain countered with his usual streak of ghostly realism. “Here yeh be, out in the middle of nowhere, sicker than a goat, yeh can’t even take care of yerself half the time.” “Do goats get sick easily?” Vincent interrupted, intrigued by the comment and amused by the worry. “Don’t change the subject. Why aren’t you with those that care about you? Why don’t you have someone special in your life to watch out for yeh?” There was urgency and concern evident in

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the Captain’s voice, and Vincent wasn’t able to ignore it like he usually did. “Someone special?” Vincent smiled sadly. “I’ve tried, you know? First with my wife and then later, when I understood myself better, with men. There’ve been times when I’ve thought I found that person, but he always turned out to be looking for someone else.” Vincent picked up a small stone broken off from the larger piles and tossed it out into the lake as he shrugged. “I just got tired of trying.” He turned on his side and faced the Captain. “And now, it’s not such a big deal. I’ve had my son and my work. Those are the high points in my life. Besides, now that I’ve heard about you and Caleb, from what you’ve described, well, nothing I’ve ever experienced has come close to that.” “It doesn’t seem right.” It was the Captain’s turn to sigh even as he frowned at the sky. “Well, what’s right about anything in this life? You’re dead and I’m dying. None of that strikes me as particularly right.” Vincent sat back down. “Does this mood you’re in mean you are finally going to tell me the rest of your story?” “What are yeh on about?” the Captain blustered. Vincent just folded his arms and gave the Captain back one of the very same looks Vincent’d been on the receiving end of lately. “What happened with Caleb? I just want to know the rest of the story.” “The story, aye. It shouldn’t have happened.” The Captain looked past Vincent and, as always, his gaze went out to the lake and looked beyond, searching. “Just one of those things.” “One of those things?” Vincent repeated slowly, hearing but not understanding the emphasis the Captain gave the word “story”. “’Twas the damn lens. A Fourth Order Fresnel shouldn’t give any trouble. But it appeared there were problems with the

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light signature and it was decided to order new frames and flash panels to change the character.” “What?” Vincent interrupted. “I don’t think I understood half of that.” “Hmmm,” the Captain sniffed. “They don’t teach yeh anything at them fancy schools yeh went to?” “Art schools … and no, 19th century lighthouses weren’t on the curriculum.” “Well now, Augustine Fresnel, he were a Frenchy, a physicist, invented a lens in 1822 that revolutionized the lamps used. Did yeh know that before then an open flame used in a tower lamp lost nearly 97 percent of its light, and even a flame with reflectors behind it still lost 83 percent? But a Fresnel was different. That beauty would capture all but 17 percent of the light. Positioned correctly, it could throw its light 20 or more miles to the horizon. And, just so yeh know, the type or “order” of the lens is determined by the distance of the flame to the lens” “Impressive,” Vincent admitted, respecting the passion and knowledge so evident in the Captain’s voice. “But how about a signature, was that it?” The Captain grunted. “A lighthouse has to do more than just shine a light. For it to be truly effective, it not only has to been seen so its warning can be read, but it also has to identify its location. That way, a ship’s Captain could identify his own position and avoid potential hazards.” “That makes sense.” “So a signature, or a characteristic could be the color of the signal, or it could be the timing of the flashes. Each one up along the coast needed to be different. They decided to change the one here, were putting in red panels to make the signal a different color. Had to come all the way from France. Anyway, the blasted things finally came in and Caleb went to pick them up and well, the ship he was on got caught in a storm on his way back.” The Captain’s voice was calm, too calm.

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“I’m sorry.” Vincent was stunned; he hadn’t expected this. The Captain ignored him, still searching the nothingness before him. “It were a bad one, she blew in without any real warning. The ship he was on, the Titan, was ill prepared. Half the crew was sick and the other half plain lazy. They foundered and that was that.” Vincent sucked in his breath, his good mood dampened by the bitterness in the Captain’s voice. He shivered, so caught up in the Captain’s recital that he didn’t notice the clouds that were rolling in off the lake, the darkening of the sky overhead or the cooling of the air. “None of the men on the rescue crew here could make it in, the storm were that bad. I had to try, yeh ken? He was out there, waiting for me. I took the lifeboat out alone, but it was hard going.” The Captain looked down at his palms, seemingly amazed that they weren’t blistered and bleeding as they had that night. “That storm, it was one of the worst I’d seen. Waves as high as anything. The lake, she fought me the entire way, her roar so loud I couldn’t hear my own voice, but I had to try.” He repeated the words as his opened hands clenched into sudden, painful fists. “I couldn’t save a one.” His voice had lowered to a whisper. “Not a single soul off that ship. Not even Caleb. We’d argued about him going, yeh see. I never felt right when he was away. Never felt myself.” Vincent’s chest tightened with emotion as he listened, all the Captain’s stories he’d found so fascinating suddenly becoming real to him. This was real life, and real death. It always had been. “I found him the next morning, floating near shore and caught under some debris. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful.” Vincent could hear the break in the Captain’s voice as the ghost

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closed his eyes, whether to block the images out or to remember them better, Vincent didn’t know. “But I was so angry. He’d left me and I was alone. I cursed God and I cursed him for leaving me.” The green eyes opened again, holding Vincent captive with the raw pain in their depths. “How did you die?” Vincent finally gathered to courage to ask; finally beginning to understand. “I couldn’t let him go.” Vincent thought his heart would break at the childlike tone to the Captain’s voice. “I couldn’t get him free, but I just couldn’t let him go either. I held him and I kissed him and I stroked his hair and I just couldn’t bear to let the lake have him. So I stayed with him, and in the end she had us both.” They sat there on the rocks, both men looking out over the lake, quiet and lost in their own thoughts.

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Chapter Ten HOW long they sat, Vincent didn’t know. He could feel the Captain’s pain as if it were his own, picturing again and again the Captain’s final moments as the grieving man knelt in the rising water, refusing to leave the cold body of his lover even as the frigid water covered them and he drowned. Did he gasp for air or had he simply kept his lips pressed to Caleb's, sharing his last breath? Vincent embellished the details with his artist’s eye until he didn’t think he could bear the horrible image any longer. How long they would have continued to sit, lost in thought, it’s hard to tell. What finally caught Vincent’s attention was the low rumble of thunder, and the sudden flash of light in the sky. His entire body jerked, startled, and he looked up into a different sky than the one he’d woken to. This sky was colored dark blue and green, filled with clouds as dark as the sorrow that now resided in Vincent’s heart. The lake surface was no longer smooth and glass-like, but wild and unruly. The waves were agitated and were unable to reflect the streaks of lightning. Wind whipped around him, blowing sand and small debris to abrade him. Vincent tried to push his hair out of his face with his hands as he looked over at the Captain, who was staring out at the storm with a vengeful face, remembering.

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“You were right.” Vincent had to yell to be heard. He could see when the Captain came back from his memories, conscious once again of the storm. “Best be heading back up to the station house, before it really lets go.” Vincent could feel the first drops start to fall slowly from the sky, fat and cold against his skin, and he shivered from the bite of the wind. He couldn’t help looking one last time out towards the water, finding a surreal beauty in the destructive power of the storm, and his attention was caught by the small sailboat he’d noticed earlier. No longer motionless, the small craft was tossed from one high wave to the other. Vincent strained his eyes and yes, he was sure he saw a person lying in the bottom of the boat, clutching the sides to keep from being tossed out. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. “Look at that.” Vincent pointed excitedly and the Captain followed his gaze. “Poor soul. He’ll never make it.” “We have to help him.” Vincent yelled to be heard over the oncoming storm. “Nothing to be done,” the Captain intoned solemnly. “The lake will have ’im, she always does.” For a moment, Vincent stood stunned and silent at the Captain’s words, then a towering rage swept through him. This was because of what had happened so long ago; this was because of Caleb. “I’m sorry Caleb’s dead,” he yelled, uncaring at the harshness of the words. “I’m sorry you’re dead, but that boy’s still alive and we have to try to keep him that way.” Vincent tried to grab at the Captain’s arm in frustration, trying to shake some sense into him, trying to find some remnant of the humanity the Captain had showed him over the last several weeks. Only his arm passed through nothingness as the ghost began to retreat from him and the bitter reminder of his past.

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“I have to try,” Vincent yelled above the roar of the winds. “You, of all people, know I have to try.” He stumbled through the wet sand, feeling the rain increase, his hair and clothes plastered to his body. Vincent panted a bit for air, coughing as he leaned against the small wooden boat. It was a struggle to flip it over. He couldn’t believe it when he found the oars safely stowed inside and began to push and tug it to the water’s edge. He struggled against the wind and the weight of the boat, trying to find the strength within to do this one thing. “Don’t be a fool, man!” The Captain’s voice was loud in Vincent’s ears. “Yeh can’t do it alone.” Vincent ignored him, continuing to struggle, cursing his weakness as he bent a thumbnail back, tearing it until it bled. He was almost at the water; the Captain was wrong, he could do this. The sucking pull of the currents took him by surprise, ripping the boat out of his grasp and leaving him stranded on the shore, sinking into the retreating sand. Vincent threw himself inside, grunting as his ribs hit the wooden seat, almost swamping the craft until he found his balance. The lake had become an alien landscape, wild now, something to be feared; he wrapped his hands around the unfamiliar shape of the oar handles and began to pull. At first he couldn’t find a rhythm, a synchronization of strength and will that could propel him through the fierce wind and waves, but he just grunted and strained until something clicked within and he began to make small but discernable progress towards the sailboat. Vincent was soaked, both from the waves crashing over the bow of the small dingy and the rain that continued to pour down from the sky. He was shaking with the cold, teeth chattering, and he couldn’t feel his feet after a few moments as the water collecting in the bottom of the boat soon covered his ankles.

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That was a good sign, right? he asked himself. If there wasn’t any water in the bottom of the boat it meant the boat was leaking. Lots of water meant no leaking. He tried to laugh at his fears even when another wave swept over the sides and hit him in the chest, the force knocking him back off the seat for one brief and scary moment. His hands felt warm and he looked to where they continued to grip and move the oars without his conscious direction. Rivulets of diluted crimson ran down the wood to mix with the churning water of the lake. Was that enough of an offering? His blood for a life spared? Or would the lake demand more? So this is what the Captain felt that horrible night. This was just a small part of the agony he went through. Vincent could only imagine how much worse it would be to know that the only person you loved was out there, waiting for you –– their only hope. What was a blister or two compared to that? What was any measure of physical discomfort worth against their life? His legs were cramping, his back screaming at the unexpected strain, and he was having a hard time catching enough breath to power each painful sweep of the oars. He hadn’t imagined this when he’d listened to the Captain; he could never have imagined this. Vincent could only wonder where the men of that long ago age had found the strength to go through this time after time. Looking up into the driving pellets of rain, closer to the sailboat now, he could see the fear in the wide eyes of the sailboat’s lone occupant and it gave him new impetus in his efforts. The youth didn’t look any older than his son. What was he doing out here by himself? Finally he was close enough to yell, to get the young man to try and grab the side of the dinghy. Vincent couldn’t spare a hand from the oars as he battled against the water. The Captain was right; the lake really did have a life of its own.

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Just like the pain that roared through his gut and tried to sap his focus, the water had its own agenda, its own plans. They didn’t include the hopes and fears of a puny human or two. With the young man in the small craft there was a little more balance to be had, even if the extra weight made it harder to maneuver. Vincent rested the oars in the locks for a moment, ends held close as he tried to inhale through the fire in his chest, gasping through airways lined with what felt like cut glass. Was it easier heading back to shore? The waves helped push him along, but those same swells also tried to push him sideways and back out, away from safety. Vincent tried to smile reassuringly at his passenger, but he knew it was more of a grimace. The scared eyes just stared up at him. Shock. The young man had to be in shock. Vincent couldn’t tell if it was tears or rain running down his face, but whichever, it was frozen now. He was so cold; sweat ran down his back and chest, freezing before it could warm him. He began to think his whole body was encased in ice. Just when he thought they was going to make it, a series of swells ripped one of the oars from his numb fingers and out of the lock. Vincent made a futile grab for it, rocking the small craft and leaving it off balance. The next wave took care of the rest, somehow getting under the already disturbed center of gravity and pitching him and his passenger into the bitterly cold water. It wasn’t fair! Vincent wanted to scream through the choking mouthfuls of water. They’d almost made it. There was no time to think, just reacting and reaching out, somehow grabbing hold of the jacket of the young man and pulling him close. A searing rush of pain tore through his guts and he instinctively tried to curl up, the move to a fetal position pulling his head under the water and relaxing his grip. No! Vincent flailed, spitting and swallowing as the water tried to pull him down, reaching out again and trying to see life in the small, pale face before him. Despair rushed in like the next wave; the Captain was right, he couldn’t do this alone. And here,

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in the lake with only the storm as company, he was more alone than he’d ever imagined being. It was then, in his darkest moment, accepting his failure, that Vincent suddenly felt himself supported, lightly bobbing like a cork instead of being pulled down into the depths. “I’ve got yeh. Just hold on.” The rough voice made Vincent want to cry but he knew he was already, the tears mixing with the spray and the rain. The Captain had come back for him. He wasn’t alone. Vincent almost smiled; if anyone could save the young man’s life, it was this cursed spirit who had saved so many in his time before. “Take the boy,” Vincent called out to the ghost who had spent his life battling this lake. “I can’t save yeh both.” The words were harsh and despairing, angry at the choice being forced. There was a sudden silence. The roar of the storm and the sound of the waves vanished before this strange new calm that swept through Vincent. His voice was soft when he spoke, yet he knew the Captain was there, somehow in the bubble of silence within him. “We know I’m gone. If not now, then soon enough. For Caleb’s sake, for my sake, save the boy.”

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Epilogue THE storyteller took a deep breath, pushing aside his emotions to continue the tale. “After the storm, they found the young man on the beach, safe and alive. He didn’t remember what had happened or how he’d ended up there. The only thing he could remember was being terrified and alone in his little sailboat, watching as the artist struggled across the storm-tossed waves to reach him.” His voice lowered once again to a somber hush, barely audible over the soft brush of the lake against the sand of the shore. The cool wind blew over the boys, making them shiver and move their small group closer to the dying fire. “They never did find the body of the artist who had rented the old Lighthouse Station and rescued the young man in the sailboat from the wrath of the storm, even though they searched for days. What they did find, though, continues to mystify the residents of this small coastal town to this very day…” Here he paused once again, swallowing before he continued, his voice throbbing with feeling. “No one knows how they got there or where they were from, but washed up on the shore were found the bodies of two men dressed in rough and old-fashioned clothing. In each other’s arms they were, locked together with a grip that defied death and refused to be broken or let them be separated. One of the men had

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hair as dark as the very lake depths and carried a strange marking on his cheek, the other man had hair as gold as the sun.” One of the smaller boys sniffled and his friend nearest to him nudged him in the ribs, earning a piercing glance from the storyteller who reached out and brought the younger boy closer, patting him on the back as he did so. “They were buried together, and if you go into the town cemetery you can see their grave there still, marked by a simple stone paid for by the young man’s family. They didn’t know what names to put on the stone so they settled for an inscription. It simply reads “and the greatest of these was Love.” No one really knows why. “The artist had a few friends and family that came looking for him, once the story got out. They visited the station and collected the works he’d left behind, a legacy of sorts, not of his life, but of the way he chose his death.” The storyteller reached out with his stick to prod at the fire and convince it to flame once again. The young boy sitting closest looked at his wrist, squinting in the firelight to see the small mark better. “Is that a ‘J’?” he asked. The storyteller touched the marking softly with his other hand and smiled. “Well, now that’s another story…” Before the boys could plead to hear it, the sound of a mother’s voice could be heard, calling them back to the campsite for the night. They rushed towards her, eagerly telling her of the storyteller they met on the beach and the stories he told them as they sat around his fire. With a mother’s concern, she spoke to her husband, and he and another man went down to the beach, looking for the stranger who sat by a campfire and told tales to the children that wandered past.

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But no stranger was there and all that they found was the remnants of a fire long smothered and cold. But then, that’s yet another story.

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The joke in Chrissy Munder’s family is that she was born with a book in her hand. Even now, you’ll never find her without a book or seven scattered about. Forced to become a practicing realist in an effort to combat her tendency to dream, her many years of travel and a diverse assortment of careers have taken her across most of the U.S. and shown her that there are two things you can never have enough of: love and laughter. Visit Chrissy’s Blog - http://chrissymunder.livejournal.com/

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Prologue CILLIAN stepped out of the small rowboat into the cold nighttime waters around Ynys Gwarchodwr. Pulling the light craft up onto the rocky shore, the young Welshman staggered up the steep incline, cursing under his breath. At least it wasn’t far to Castle Guard; the medieval pile of stone took up most of the small island it crouched on. Across the sound, the young man could see the paltry lights of the village of Drws Cefnforoedd on the mainland. Deliberately, Cillian hawked phlegm and spat in the direction of the home he couldn’t wait to leave. This clandestine meeting with his lover was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him in his seventeen years on Earth, and he went eagerly through the dark fortress gate. He moved swiftly across the bailey and into the main building until his foot caught on a piece of loose masonry in the great hall and he went sprawling. Calling on the saints to witness the malicious intent of the obstacle that had tripped him, Cillian made sure that the bottle Morgan had procured for him wasn’t broken. Rising to his knees, he dug a disposable lighter from the pocket of his worn jeans and flicked it. The tiny flame and the scant moonlight that found its way through gaps in the ceiling did little to dispel the oppressive gloom of nine centuries and thousands of tons of ancient stone. Cillian tried drowning his nervousness over the trysting place in a few inches of whiskey, but his anxiety refused to die for a few good reasons.

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Chief among them: Cillian was trespassing. The island and fortress of Caer Gwarchod belonged to Lord Turcotte, and though the peer lived in London, Cillian knew the man wouldn’t take kindly to prowlers on his property, whatever their purpose. Cillian didn’t know the lord personally, not the likes of him, but Turcotte’s reputation for being a hard and unforgiving man was well known in the village. If Cillian were caught here, he didn’t think that even his lover’s high position in the community would confer any mercy. “Fuck Lord Turcotte and all his ancestors,” Cillian shouted with drunken bravado, as the lighter grew too hot to hold. “Bunch of toffee-nosed gits thinkin’ you’re better than me.” Giggling at his daring, the boy took another drink. Cillian’s man, Sean, didn’t like it when he drank, but damned if he would wait in this haunted place without a drop of something to stiffen his spine. He didn’t believe in ghosts as a general rule, but here in the old castle after dark, it was hard not to imagine ghouls in every corner. Cillian took another pull at the bottle and willed his lover to hurry. Thinking of Sean and what they’d be doing in a little while made Cillian’s half-a-hard-on pulse eagerly. Setting the whiskey aside, he slipped a hand down his flat belly and under his waistband. Eyes half-closed, he fondled himself idly, lulled by the rhythmic crash of the surf against the rocks. He was starting to get serious about having a wank when an odd noise stopped him in mid-stroke. The ringing sound, like a fingertip rubbed lightly along the rim of a crystal wine glass, came from the direction of the sweeping double staircase, but Cillian could see nothing in the welter of deep shadows. It occurred to the young man that his lover might have arrived before him and was watching him toss off. “Sean?” the boy called softly. “Is that you, love?” Behind Cillian, the grainy moonlight began to thicken. Minute motes of argent charged by some arcane force flew together like iron filings in a magnetic field, forming a column of shimmering silver. Feeling a sudden chill on the back of his neck,

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Cillian turned. He leaped to his feet and stared wide-eyed as the fragile radiance coalesced into the shape of a man. The ghost, for what else could it be, fixed its pale gaze on the young man. The strong, aquiline features looked tantalizingly familiar to Cillian, but he was too stunned to identify the phantom. His astonishment metastasized to rank fear as the spectral stranger reached out a hand to curse him – or worse. The nameless dread of being touched by the thing was instantaneous and overwhelming. “Fuh-fuck off!” Cillian stammered as he spun away from the ghost. The apparition swooped forward, snaking its arm around the young man’s neck. Cillian was yanked back and up, his feet dangling several inches above the ground, as his breath was choked off. He struggled, but his flailing limbs met nothing but air. Only the arm that held him aloft and the cold lips on his throat seemed to have any substance. Cillian ceased thrashing and went limp as he struggled to drag breath into his burning lungs. Instantly, the pressure on Cillian’s windpipe eased, and he was lowered until he could stand. He felt the ghost behind him gain solidity with each passing moment until he was pressed against a broad chest by two muscular arms. Cillian closed his eyes, shivering from terror and the wintry chill that the spirit exuded. “Whuh-what do yuh-you wuh-wuh-want?” The ghost made no answer, reveling in the rising spiral of its victim’s horror, relishing the mortal’s blind fear of an unknown fate. Yes, the fear was good, sharp and intoxicating as that whiskey. However, there were sweeter delights to be sampled when the victim’s terror had provided enough sustenance to make the phantom whole. The fuel provided by strong emotions was bread and water compared to the feast of energy produced by human sexual activity. Licking at the tears that flowed down Cillian’s smooth cheeks, the specter savored them like some exotic liqueur. The young man cried out and fought back as his pants were shoved down his hips, but the ghost held him as tightly as a spider until all struggling ceased.

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When Cillian gave up, the apparition grasped the young man’s wilted shaft and stroked it firmly. Though Cillian’s cock remained stubbornly limp, a dark smile twisted the ghost’s translucent features. When he was stronger, he would be able to control humans without much more than a thought, but for now he must do it the slow way. Cillian squirmed as a moist finger crept along his crack, but stilled again as the icy digit pushed into him. Without subtlety or finesse, the phantom found the bump in the hot sheath of flesh. Cillian whined in protest as the stimulation took effect. Diaphanous fingers tightened around his rising cock and pumped insistently. As the apparition manipulated him to release, Cillian prayed he had fallen asleep and into a nightmare. He promised the God that he’d only last month decided didn’t exist that he would never sin again if he could just wake up with naught worse than a hangover. But the only supernatural power in the room had no love for Cillian – only for the essences that the young man’s body produced: essences that would give the ghost life … of a sort. Like a cow being milked, Cillian spurted a healthy amount of cum into the phantom’s fist. The milky stream evaporated in mid-air, disappearing completely even as it broke into fat droplets. The ghost sighed, and Cillian felt the puff of a weak breath against his cheek. The faint exhalation, redolent of seawater, frightened Cillian more than anything that had happened thus far. Shaking off his lassitude, he struggled against the phantom’s newly fleshed-out grip. He might as well have tried to move one of the thick columns that held up the roof. The energy that flowed into the specter surged as it absorbed the endorphins the boy secreted. Spiked with adrenalin, the essence of the chemicals spread quickly through the ghost’s incorporeal form, vitalizing and thickening the wispy stuff of which it was composed. With a hiss, the phantom pressed closer to its victim, and Cillian cringed away from an unmistakably male organ, aroused and of impressive proportions. The shaft was as cold as the rest of the ghost, and Cillian’s mind retreated, refusing to accept what was happening. He was jarred back to harsh reality as he was

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breached. Without mercy, his attacker drove into him, tearing delicate tissues. Blood steamed in the frigid air as it trickled down Cillian’s thigh, vanishing before it could drip to the floor. “Ahhhhh, virgin blood,” the ghost whispered. “I told you he was untried. I’ve not led him that far down the path of corruption.” Cillian’s eyes snapped open as a man walked from the shadows by the stairs. Relief rinsed through the boy at the sound of his lover’s voice. “Sean,” the young man choked out. “Help me.” “Shhh, Cillie,” the man said, stopping in front of the boy. “You’re being given a great honor. Your life force will allow the man who built this castle to rule it again.” “Help me, Sean,” Cillian pleaded. “Of course,” the man said coming closer. Cillian sobbed harder when his lover knelt and kissed his manhood. “Hush now, lad. You’ll be coming many, many times tonight, and each time His Lordship will grow stronger. You’ll be drained, of course, but there are a lot more strong young men out there. When I’ve brought enough of them to this castle, the real Lord of Gwarchodwr will return, as potent as he was before he went to the Holy Land.” Cillian screamed as the ghost entered him again. Warm lips closed around Cillian’s resurrected erection as the ghost basked in the mortal’s horror of the ravishing. The boy’s exhilarating fear was laced with the pain of his lover’s betrayal, like a mouthful of dark and bitter Arabian coffee. The phantom drank it all in, his power swelling exponentially. “You may go,” he told his minion. “But I can help you, my lord,” the man said in surprise. “You have served me well, but I need no help in this. Go, I tell you, until I bid you return.” Sean obeyed resentfully even as he rejoiced to hear his master’s voice so strong and commanding. He had been looking

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forward to watching cocky young Cillian broken and humbled by the phantom’s lust. But even more, he longed to see the expressions on the sheep-like faces of the townsfolk when Lord Alun came into his own again. Sean was respected; people considered him an upstanding, decent man, but he was a fixture they took for granted. That would change when he was revealed to be the instrument of Lord Alun’s return. Then they would see what lay beneath his everyday mask. Soon the ancient ritual would be complete, and the conjury would be worked. Then the villagers would know what power had slept unsuspected in their midst for all these years. Until then, he must keep his eyes on the goal and ignore small disappointments … for it would work. He was sure of it. All that the spell required was suitable donors. And Sean would supply them. “HAVE we reached an agreement, Sir Rhys?” Lord Turcotte yawned. “It would seem so, Mr. Red Dog. Once Mr. Andressen signs the contract you’re holding, Red Recovery can begin work on the castle.” “Mr. Andressen will be glad to hear that,” Sean Red Dog said, eager to leave his host’s condescending presence. With a nod that could be interpreted as a gesture of respect, Sean rose from the leather wing chair and showed himself out. Once he was in the hall, he flipped open his cell phone and stabbed the top number. “Bo? Hey, pard, stop your grinnin’ and drop your linen. We’re in. Hey, have I ever let you down? You sure got that right. Now get your bad ass to Wales and bring the boys. We’ve got a treasure to find.”

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C

Chapter One “WELL this is just dandy,” Bo Andressen said, crushing his Styrofoam cup and tossing it accurately at a bin with the legend ‘cadw Drws Cefnforoedd cryno’. “I can’t get onto my own job site. I can’t get a decent cup of coffee. I can’t even read the trash cans to be sure that’s what they are. Gryf?” “It can’t be helped, boss,” Hywel Gryffudd answered. “And that is indeed a rubbish bin. The sign says Keep Oceandoor Tidy. That’s a translation of the town’s name. You see the people that settled here in…” “Can’t be helped?” Bo interrupted in exasperation. “Ardie wouldn’t say that.” “As big a waste of my breath as it is, I’ll point out the very obvious fact that Gryf is not Ardie,” James Weir said. “You sent Ardie on a mission, remember? ‘With your usual lack of forethought,’ said the little interior voice that had plagued Bo Andressen all his life. The leader of the salvage team known informally as Red Recovery and formally as the Andressen-Red Dog Recovery Company cocked an eyebrow at his colleague. He’d been taking a lot of heat for sending Ardie off before the unpacking had been finished, but Ardie was their scout and knew this place better than any of them. “I think you should stick to ancient languages, James,” Bo said. “You’re irritating in all the modern ones.”

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“You’re not annoyed with me,” James said, pointing with his chin. “It’s himself that’s under your skin.” All three Red Recovery employees turned to look at the big man talking to representatives of the Welsh news media. The ancient castle across the narrow strait on its rocky isle made a dramatic backdrop for the tiny press conference, not that Gavin Gilroy needed set dressing to look impressive. Tall, well built, with red-gold hair and the wolfish features of a Saxon raider, Gilroy drew notice. Bo eyed the handsome policeman sourly. The salvage team had a contract and all their equipment had arrived, but they’d been cooling their heels in this sparsely populated corner of Wales for almost the entire day. “Shit!” Bo muttered. “Where the hell is the owner? You’re a native, Gryf; can’t you do something? Did you try calling Lord Turcotte again?” The engineer shook his head. “His secretary said he would call us.” “And you believed her?” Bo was incredulous. “Him,” Gryf corrected. “And yes, I believed him. I think we should go to the pub. Hanging around here is going to give you an aneurysm.” Bo’s fists clenched. “It just pisses me off. The body was removed yesterday. The police have been all over the damned place like ants. Why can’t we get started?” The flicker of James’s eyes behind his rimless glasses warned Bo just before Gavin Gilroy spoke behind him. “I explained it to your man Red Dog yesterday,” Gavin said. “But if you want to have a chat with me, you can come along to the pub.” Bo blinked, and then held out his hand. “Robert Andressen,” he introduced himself. “Folks call me Bo, and I’d appreciate a chance to make my pitch.”

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“Gavin Gilroy,” the policeman returned the pressure of Bo’s hand. “And you don’t have to thank me. I’m doing interviews, and I’ll want to talk with you.” Bo started to protest that he wasn’t even in Wales when the murder occurred, but changed his mind. Instead he issued a few orders. “Gryf, go over the equipment one more time. I want to be sure everything’s in optimum working order. James…” Bo racked his brain and ended with, “help Gryf.” Without waiting to see if Bo was following, the policeman walked up the steep main street of the village of Drws Cefnforoedd. He strode into the Briny Rose public house and slammed a hand on the bar as though it weren’t several hours until opening. After a moment, a stout man appeared in the kitchen doorway. “And what can I be doin’ for the local constabulary at this hour?” the publican asked. “I left you ’til last, Sean Dymock,” Gavin said mocksternly. “Out of respect for the high position you hold in this community.” A white smile split the pub owner’s dark beard as he laughed merrily. “Aye, there’s no one more essential to a Welsh township than the purveyor of strong spirits. Sit, Gavin Gilroy, and introduce me to your new friend.” “I’ll have a half-pint of whatever you have tapped,” Gavin said. “One for Mr. Andressen here, and treat yourself, as well.” “That’s a capital idea, boyo,” Sean said, but he didn’t move. “Sorry,” Gavin said. “Sean Dymock, meet Robert Andressen. Mr. Andressen’s the Yank you’ve been hearing so much about.” The publican nodded. “Goin’ t’ find the treasure of Castle Guard, are you?” he grinned.

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Bo pursed his lips. “Going to give it my best shot,” he answered. Sean laughed. “Can’t say fairer than that. I’ll be right back with our drinks.” Not until they had all sampled their mugs and declared the dark brown brew delicious would Sean agree to answer questions. Even then, he wasn’t happy about it. “I have to ask you,” Gavin said. “Where were you the night before last?” “You know where I was. Right here at the Rose.” “After hours?” “I closed up. Sent the girls home and had a drop, all on me own. Then I dragged me wee ass off t’ bed, all on me own.” “You didn’t go anywhere near the castle?” “Gavin, man, why would I do that? Get in a boat and cross the channel at night? For what?” “I swear I don’t know,” Gavin said. “But I have to ask.” “No, you don’t,” Sean disagreed. “Not me you don’t. You’ve known me since you came here, boyo, and you know what sort o’ man I am. I’m bein’ as courteous as I may, but I have t’ tell you, I don’t much like bein’ questioned like this. Particularly in front of guests.” “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Gavin said equably. “But I do have to ask, whether it suits you or not, Sean Dymock. It’s my job and all.” “And a damn fine mess you’ve made of it, haven’t you?” the publican said, his face deepening in color at a rapid rate. “Calm yourself,” Gavin said as Bo stared into his mug. “Don’t be tellin’ me to calm myself in me own bar, ya Northern bastard!” Sean said as he rose from his chair. “You’re making far too much of this,” Gavin said. “Pretend it’s a business meeting and just try to be professional.”

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“Heartless git,” Sean said. “I was the one that stood by you when you got sent here and no one else would so much as spit in your direction. Who was it introduced you ’round the pub to the lads with influence in Drws? And this is my thanks? I’m a suspect?” “I never said you were a suspect,” Gavin said. “You might as well have,” Sean said. “Comin’ in here with your questions. Where were you, Sean? And what time might that have been, Sean? Oh, by the way, Sean, did you rape and murder young Cillian Pryce and leave his body hangin’ from the castle wall? How dare you, Gavin? How dare you!” “Ahhh, ye gods and little fishes. What’s all the bloody racket?” The three men looked in the direction of the groan. Bo glanced quickly at his companions and saw weary disgust on Gavin’s face, but the publican’s expression was more complicated. Bo saw recognition, relief, and fondness, as a pile of clothing in a corner shifted and reconfigured into a young man in shabby garments. Though obviously hung over and in need a wash and a shave, he was strikingly handsome underneath the layer of grime. Feeling a stirring south of his navel, Bo reflected that it had been some time since he’d slept with anyone. The salvager’s thoughts veered sharply away from the glowing afterimage of his last lover: Chris, beautiful, golden Chris, so hard and yet so brittle. Chris was one of the things Bo had traveled so far to forget. Resolutely, the salvager banished the luminous image. “I forgot Morgan was sleepin’ there,” Sean said. “I’d best get him a drink before he shouts for it and gives himself a worse headache.” Gavin shook his head. “You cater to him too much, Sean. It doesn’t help him.” “That would be my business and none of yours,” Sean said as he moved away.

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“It’ll be my business when I have to lock him up or scrape him off the hood of someone’s nice new auto.” The publican didn’t stop walking, but Bo could tell by the man’s posture that he’d heard the policeman’s warning. As Sean was filling a mug, Morgan rose to his feet in stages. With a tomcat’s ramshackle grace that allowed him to narrowly avoid the obstacles in his path, he meandered toward Bo and Gavin. “Gigi,” Morgan said, putting his palms on the table and leaning toward Gavin. Gavin pulled back slightly from Morgan’s boozy breath, which only made the amiable drunk lean closer. Morgan caught sight of Bo and turned to smile warmly at him. Bo returned the smile, feeling as though he were making a mistake. “Who’s your friend, Gigi?” Morgan swayed slightly as he waited for an answer. Gavin ignored him and addressed Bo. “One of the charming local folk,” the policeman said. “Morgan Idris, town drunk, meet Bo Andressen, visiting Yank.” “I prefer to be known as a disgrace to my family,” Morgan said. “What’re you doin’ here, Bo?” “I’m excavating Castle Guard,” Bo said. “I got permission from Lord Turcotte to search the entire island for artifacts.” “You’re the one lookin’ for the treasure o’ Caer Gwarchod!” “That’s the rumor,” Bo said. “Any tips on where I might look?” Morgan grinned and lit the room like a gigawatt bulb. “Oh, I like this one, Gigi,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink, Bo.” “Do you have any money, Morgan?” Gavin asked. Sean arrived with a mug of beer and set it in front of Morgan. With a look at Gavin that said things were far from settled between them, the publican went back into the kitchen. Gavin let him go in favor of interviewing Morgan while the Irishman was awake.

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“And why would I be needin’ money when I’ve friends like Sean?” Morgan said. Bo smiled, but the policeman looked far from amused. “You think Sean’s your mate because he doesn’t cut you off though you’ve a tab as long as my willie. Ah, why am I wasting my breath on you?” “I haven’t a clue, Gigi,” Morgan said. “Now Bo, as I was sayin’, if you were to come to this pub on any night o’ the week, you’d find me here, and I would be glad to stand you a drink.” Bo nodded. “I appreciate that,” he said. “If you’re through flirting?” Gavin said. “Morgan, do you remember where you were the night before last?” “I’m sure I was here, but maybe you’d better ask Sean.” “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Gavin said. “All right then, you can go back to what you were doing.” “You’re an unsociable man, Gigi,” Morgan said. Gavin Gilroy was out of his chair and had Morgan by the throat before the drunk knew what was happening. Bringing his face close to Morgan’s, Gavin spoke softly. “I wasn’t sure if I liked you calling me Gigi or not,” he said. “But now I’ve decided and wanted you to be the first to know. I don’t.” Morgan’s eyes said he got the message, and Gavin let him go. Bo was impressed by the cop’s speed, strength and knowledge of pressure points. Morgan reeled back when released and caught himself on the chair behind him. Looking down at his spilled drink, Morgan shook his head sorrowfully. “That’s a sad sight to be sure,” the Irishman said. “You’re a sadder one.” A new voice joined the conversation. Morgan looked up at the doorway and grinned sheepishly. “Mornin’, Vicar,” he said. “We don’t see you in here often enough.”

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“Mock me all you like, but your days of laughter will end, and soon, if you don’t take better care, Morgan Madocs Idris.” Gavin turned in his chair and half-rose to greet the man that approached the table. Bo was surprised that the black-clothed minister looked like a college student. The rich mahogany hair pulled back in a long ponytail added to the youthful appearance, but the clergyman’s demeanor had all the gravity of Jupiter. “Constable,” the young man greeted Gavin. Gavin nodded respectfully and gestured toward Bo. “Father Sean Carnes, this is Bo Andressen, the man that…” “The treasure hunter,” the minister said. “I’ve heard about the excavation. How interesting your work must be, Mr. Andressen. I’m pleased to meet you.” Bo took the young man’s warm, dry hand, looking into eyes as wide and guileless as a child’s. “What does that rather sly smile portend, Mr. Andressen?” the Vicar asked solemnly. “Sorry,” Bo said. “I wasn’t aware that I was smiling slyly. Just being cordial.” ‘Cordial?’ said the dry voice in Bo’s head. ‘Since when do roughnecks use words like cordial? And by the way, is every other person in Britain named Sean?’ Ignoring the voice, which was usually right but seldom agreeable, Bo continued to smile at the clergyman. “Very cordial indeed,” the Vicar said. “One hears such terrible stories about Americans, but you’re quite charming. Do you suppose I could have my hand back?” Bo didn’t quite blush, but he did drop his eyes for a moment. “Sorry again. Still think I’m charming?” “Of course I do, and I’m quite used to touching others. Minister is also a verb, you know. Now, if you’ll pardon my rudeness, it was Constable Gilroy I was actually looking for. I need to have a word, if you’ve time, Gavin.”

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The policeman’s eyes flicked to Bo as Carnes hurried to speak again. “I don’t mind if Mr. Andressen hears what I have to say.” When Gavin nodded, the Vicar folded his pale hands on the table. “My work is concerned with spiritual matters,” he said. “And in my research, I have had occasion to look into certain books that the Church would probably prefer I didn’t. In fact, I’m sure the Church would prefer these books didn’t exist at all. Be that as it may, when I saw the boy’s body displayed on the wall, I…” “Displayed?” Gavin said. “Why did you choose that word, Vicar?” “Because the poor soul’s body was left as a sign, an announcement of sorts, and a warning, or so I believe.” “And how do you interpret this sign?” Gavin asked, keeping most of the sarcasm out of his voice. “It lets us know that a particular type of predator is prowling our area,” Carnes said. “And it serves notice that an unholy hunt is in progress. I don’t wish to be right about this, but I think you’ll see more bodies like young Pryce’s.” Gavin paused, clearly coming to a decision before he spoke. “It’s about to become public knowledge anyway,” he said at last. “So I’ll tell you that Cillian Pryce was not the first victim to be found like this.” “I’ve heard nothing,” the Vicar said. “The bodies weren’t discovered anywhere near here,” Gavin said. “And thus far, I seem to be the only one that has noticed the pattern.” “Then we shouldn’t dally,” the minister said. “I’ve a suggestion, and I’d like for you to hear me out before you laugh in my face.” “You want to perform an exorcism, Vicar?” Gavin asked with a half-smile.

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“No, indeed, not even if I were trained for such a thing. I urge you to contact the people at this number.” The Vicar passed a piece of notepaper to Gavin. “I think they can help you.” “What is it?” “The Ceridwen Institute,” Carnes said. “One of the world’s foremost paranormal research facilities.” “Paranormal?” Bo put in. “Isn’t that supernatural stuff a bunch of horseshit?” “The people at the Institute don’t think so,” the Vicar said. “Listen to me, Constable Gilroy. You think you’re looking for a serial killer, a man that can be hunted down and brought to justice, but you’re wrong. There is no flesh and blood monster out there living a routine life while he waits for the right phase of the moon to take the life of another young man.” “What is it then?” the policeman asked. “A revenant,” Carnes said. Gavin and Bo looked at one another with raised brows. It was clear that neither was familiar with the word. “A revenant is a kind of ghost,” the Vicar said. “Sometimes a person dies under such circumstances that the spirit is tied to the place where they passed over. Sometimes the manifestation is no more than the semblance of the departed, which might appear at certain times with no untoward effects. However, there are restless spirits who feel they have been taken untimely and unfairly. These ghosts are the souls of those who were strong-willed in life, and they can sometimes reach into our world.” “And kill people?” Gavin asked incredulously. “Please,” the Vicar said. “I’ve not quite finished, and you did promise to hold your scorn until then. Whether you believe me, it would be a good idea to call the institute and get someone here who can deal with this phenomenon. If not, you’ll have more bodies on the wall and a panicked village.”

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“I’m surprised you would make this suggestion, Vicar,” Gavin said. “I know my flock,” the young man said. “Father Brendan, bless his soul, taught me well before he passed on. If they see a medium walking around, they’ll feel a lot better about all of this.” “Superstitious buggers,” Gavin muttered. “Aye, to be sure,” the Vicar said. “They’re mostly fishermen, as you know, Gavin Gilroy. They live close to and at the mercy of the elements. Forgive them their little good luck charms and hexes. I do. The talismans are harmless, and they give the folk peace of mind.” “You’re the most reasonable religious person I’ve ever met,” Bo said. “I can’t get over the fact that you believe in ghosts.” Carnes smiled. “A Holy Ghost is one third of the tripod that holds up the Church, Mr. Andressen.” Bo did blush this time. “You must think I’m a complete idiot,” he said. “No, indeed. I think that you’re probably just a little jetlagged.” “Thanks for the excuse. I’d like to invite you out to the dig for a tour.” Bo glanced at Gavin. “When Constable Gilroy says it’s okay.” Gavin looked at the telephone number the Vicar had given him. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said to Bo. “You call the institute, and I’ll let you onto the island.” “What? Why?” Bo asked. “So I won’t be the laughingstock of the shire,” Gavin said. “And so you can pay for it, if there’s a fee involved. My psychic resources budget is rather small.” Bo narrowed his eyes, but it seemed a small concession, and he reached for the business card. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

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“Thank you, gentleman,” the Vicar said as he rose. “I hope I shall see you both on Sunday.” “Hope is a wonderful thing,” Gavin said. “Thank you, Vicar.” “Nice to meet you,” Bo said. “Don’t forget; you have an open invitation for a tour.” “I won’t forget,” Carnes said as he walked away. Bo watched the clergyman until he was out the door. When Bo turned, Gavin was watching him with interest. “A darling man, our Vicar,” Gavin said archly. “Very nice.” Bo refused to be baited. “Let’s talk about something else, then. How did you hear about the treasure?” “One of my team members, Hywel Gryffudd, spent part of his childhood here with his grandparents. They told him the story of the Crusader’s Trove.” “Gryffudd,” Gavin said. “I know the name. Guess I’ll be having a word with him as well then.” “Whenever you like,” Bo said. “Anything else you want to know?” “Not at the moment. Go ahead and take your equipment to the castle, but stay away from the entry hall.” “You got it,” Bo said. “We’ll be in the dungeons for the most part. Of course, we’ll be camping on the ground floor, but we’ll stay out of the crime scene area. Scout’s honor.” “You have a reputation as an honest man,” Gavin said. “Don’t look surprised; I made a few calls when you arrived. At any rate, I’m going to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.” Bo stood. “Thanks. I sense you could’ve been hard-assed about this and kept us off the island until we couldn’t afford to hang around, so I appreciate your fairness.” “I see; I’m not doing you an enormous favor, only what’s fair. You must be the world’s worst arse-kisser, Andressen.”

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Bo grinned. “My friends call me Bo,” he said. Gavin nodded. “Okay, Bo. If I had any friends, I assume they’d call me Gavin.” “Goodbye for now, Gavin,” Bo said as he left. As he walked outside, Bo took out his cell phone and flipped it open. Punching a number on speed dial, he continued walking. “Hey boss, what’s up?” “Listen up,” Bo said and read out the institute’s number. “Hang on just a … Got it. Ceridwen Institute for Paranormal Studies. Interesting. Thinking of holding a séance?” “Damn, you’re good!” Bo said. “Maybe we don’t need this institute after all.” “I don’t get it, pard. What’s the punchline?” Bo smiled, picturing Sean Red Dog’s slim fingers hovering over the keys of his laptop. “No joke, Ardie,” he said. “Where is this place?” “Canterbury.” “Great. On the other side of the country,” Bo groused. “It’s not that big a country, Buckwheat.” Bo could hear the other man’s smile in his voice. “Right. If you’re finished with your current project, take the chopper over to this psychic place and get me one.” “Say again?” “Look, Ardie, I don’t want any crap about this, at least not on the phone. The local cops won’t let us dig until we get a psychic out here. Oh, and we’re supposed to let everyone think that this was our idea. Comprende?” “No, not really, but if you want a fortune teller, I’ll get you one.” “Never doubted it. See ya later.” “Not if I see you first.” Bo’s partner completed their goodbye litany and hung up.

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Bo flipped his phone closed, happier than he’d been in forty-eight hours. Things could finally get under way, and, if they were lucky, it would go a lot smoother from now on. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ the voice in Bo’s head remarked.

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Chapter Two SEAN “ARDIE” RED DOG got out of the vehicle and stood looking at the front of the Ceridwen Institute as the taxi sped away down the wet, leaf-strewn road. The 14th century estate home of pale ochre stone was not large, but managed to be impressive nonetheless, with its moat, crenellated parapets, and square donjon tower rising above the walls. There were three expensive-looking cars in the small gravel lot, and one beater with its hood up. Seeing a mechanic leaning over the engine, Ardie approached to learn what he could before going in, forewarned being forearmed. As he reached the car, a hose came loose, spraying the workman’s hands and face with some sort of viscous fluid. “My timing could be better,” Ardie murmured. The grease monkey straightened up in surprise and knocked his head hard on the underside of the hood. “Sorry,” Ardie said, wincing in sympathy as the young man rubbed his head. “I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions.” The face under the mask of oil didn’t look happy, but the mechanic answered mildly. “No worries. I’m not having much luck anyway.” “This is the psychic institute, right?”

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“I’m not sure if the entire building is clairvoyant, but they train what they call gifted people here.” “Gifted, huh? What sort of gifts?” “The usual: telepathy, teleportation, telekinesis, all the telesomethings, prescience, prognostication, dowsing...” Ardie nodded, listening with half an ear to the stream of words. A vague sense that he’d met this kid before kept scratching at the door of his memory bank, but it was impossible to tell what the mechanic looked like under the grime. “Are you keen to find out if you’re gifted?” the young man asked. “Me? No way,” Ardie said firmly. “They give all sorts of tests. I hear they don’t hurt at all.” “No time. I just need to hire a psychic and get back to work.” “You should take some time,” the young man said. “Before it takes you.” A faint line appeared between Ardie’s eyebrows. “Thanks for the advice … I think,” he said. “So what’re these doctors like? Arvel and Davies. Ever meet them?” “Dr. Davies is blond and beautiful and brainy,” the kid said. “Dr. Arvel is an ogre, and not the bumbling cartoon kind.” Ardie smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I know what you mean. Do you think they’ll rent me a psychic on the spot?” “Do you have a lot of money?” Ardie pictured the company’s expense account dwindling like sand running through an hourglass, but there was still plenty at this stage. “A fair amount,” he answered cautiously. “You’ll need it. And don’t hesitate to make a point of it right away. The administration really respects wealth.” “Thanks,” Ardie said. “Good luck with the car.” “Thanks. Same to you.”

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Ardie walked into the foyer of the building and heard a chiming, clear and remote, announcing his arrival. In seconds, a man appeared at the end of the hall and hurried toward him. “Good afternoon. I’m Garry Arvel, one of the directors of the institute.” “Sean Red Dog,” Ardie returned the handshake. “We spoke on the phone.” “Yes, I know,” Garry said. “Come with me.” Ardie followed the man into an office decorated with stark elegance. A tall woman stood from her desk and smiled a welcome as they entered. “Hello, Mr. Red Dog. I’m Alicia Davies. We’re quite informal here so you may call me Alicia, if you like.” “Thanks. I prefer Ardie to my given name.” “Ardie?” the lady repeated. “R, D,” he said. “For Red Dog. Childhood nickname that stuck, but I’m not here to waste your time. I need a psychic, a medium, I guess, or gifted person, if you prefer, and I’m willing to be quite generous,” Ardie winked subtly. “Can we make a deal?” Alicia’s lovely face reflected her genteel shock as Garry spoke. “We’re not pimps, Mr. Red Dog. You can’t just walk in here and wave cash at us and buy whatever you want. This institute is dedicated to discovering and nurturing those who are a little farther along the evolutionary journey than the rest of mankind, and that is all we care about. Money means nothing to us.” “I see,” Ardie said slowly as he realized he’d been had. “Please forgive me being crass; I’m an American. May we still talk about the possibility of hiring one of your people?” “Sit down, and let’s begin again,” Alicia said. “Thank you, ma’am,” Ardie said, on his best behavior now.

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“I sense you’re on your best behavior now, Mr. Red Dog,” Garry said. “And you have the demeanor of a man who has been made the butt of a practical joke.” Watching warily as the other man sank into a chair on his left, Ardie said, “Impressive. So you don’t just teach, you’re gifted yourself.” “No, I’m just a really good guesser.” “Garry, please,” Alicia said. “Can we do this without the thinly veiled contempt?” Ardie smiled at Alicia. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I’d feel the same way if some stranger walked into where I work and started acting like a jackass.” “Why don’t you tell us why you’re here?” Alicia said. Ardie cleared his mind and began the speech he’d fabricated on the ride from the airfield where he’d left the chopper. Bo had given him precious little to go on, but with what Ardie knew of the dig site, he’d come up with something plausible. “I’m part of a research team called the Andressen-Red Dog Recovery Company. We obtained permission from Lord Turcotte to excavate Caer Gwarchod in Wales. It may not be news to you that the castle is haunted. What we need is someone with the expertise to come to Ynys Gwarchodwr and, uh, channel this spirit, or whatever you call it.” Garry snorted. “This isn’t ‘Ghostbusters’,” he said. “We’re a school, Mr. Red Dog, not a temp agency. Alicia?” “Caer Gwarchod,” she said thoughtfully. “It means Castle Guard,” Garry said. “Built by a Crusader, if I’m not mistaken.” “You’re not,” Ardie said. “Sir Alun was a Crusader. His father was retainer to Lord Monmouth and was knighted for bravery when he saved his liege’s life. Sir Alun joined the Second Crusade and came home with enough loot to build a fortress. He chose an islet off the Welsh coast that can only be approached by boat.”

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“Thank you for the capsule history lesson,” Garry said. “What does it mean to us?” “Don’t you investigate hauntings, or paranormal activity, or whatever you call it?” “You watch a lot of films, don’t you?” Garry remarked. “Okay,” Ardie said. “I can see that you’re reluctant to deal with me. Let me go back to being blunt. If I don’t bring a psychic back with me, we can’t dig. If we can’t dig, we have to go home and absorb the loss of capital outlay while we seek alternate employment. That represents a major setback. I don’t know how you’re funded, but I can add a substantial amount of cash to your budget. All you have to do is go to the castle and pronounce it safe.” “I’ll go.” Ardie recognized the mechanic’s soft accent and turned toward the doorway. The young man was wiping his hands on a rag, but his face was still smirched with grime. “Tris,” Alicia said. “We’ve spoken on many occasions about the rudeness of eavesdropping.” The boy shrugged. “Some things can’t be tuned out,” he said. “I want to go to Wales.” “Absolutely not,” Garry said. “You need a lot more training before you’re ready to…” “I’m twenty-four,” the young man said. “Not twelve. I know you’ll never admit publicly that I’ve grown up, but you’re going to have to stop coddling me some day.” Alicia smiled warmly. “To Garry you’ll always be the little boy who took his hand so trustingly the day you arrived.” “This is not the time for sentimentality, Alicia,” Garry said. “Then we must make time for it,” she answered. “These are the moments that count, Garry. Something you men too often forget. Tristan is about to take an important step in the journey of his life.”

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“No, he isn’t.” “And how will you stop him?” she asked. Garry’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shaking his head, he turned to Tristan. “I’m going with Mr. Red Dog,” Tristan said firmly. “I owe him one.” “Don’t be absurd. Tell me why you really want to go.” Tristan looked down at the rug and back up his mentor. “Because I’m ready to tackle something without you there to bail me out.” The two directors looked at one another, and then Alicia spoke. “Very well. When did you expect Tristan to arrive in Wales, Ardie?” “I was hoping he could come with me. I have a helicopter at that airfield down the road.” “Tristan,” Alicia said. “Run along and have a shower, dear, and put together your kit. As soon as you’re ready, you can come back here.” Tristan was gone almost before she finished speaking. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Garry said. “I feel this is right for Tristan,” she answered. “If it were up to you, he’d never leave this institute, but safe doesn’t always equal happy, Garry. Ardie, would you like to have a glass of some very nice single malt and some facts about the psychic you’ve hired?” “I’d love that,” Ardie said, stifling his dislike of scotch. “But you dislike scotch,” Garry said. “Cut that out.” Ardie turned in his chair to face the other man. Alicia laughed. “Garry’s not reading your mind, Ardie,” she said. “He really is a very good guesser. Even I could see the little curl of your lip when I mentioned the drink.” “Sounds a lot like the way mentalists and magicians work,” Ardie said.

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“My, you are on your best behavior,” Garry said. “Weren’t you going to include con men and grifters in your list?” “I thought it was implied,” Ardie said. “Gentlemen,” Alicia interrupted. “Can you exchange more than ten words without insinuating something about one another? What would you prefer to drink, Ardie?” Ardie smiled. “I would’ve declined the alcohol anyway since I’m going to be flying. If it’s no trouble, do you have coffee? Or water would be fine.” “I’ll fetch it,” Garry said. “I fancy a cup myself.” “Tristan’s gift is quite spectacular,” Alicia said as Garry left. “He’s by far the most sensitive psychic we’ve ever tested. By the way, we refer to those upon whom this gift is bestowed as liaisons.” “I’ve always thought that was a pretty word,” Ardie said. “I love the sound of French, but please go on.” “Tris has an affinity for spirits,” she said. “Or rather the other way ’round. The spirits are drawn to him. If there are ghosts in your castle, he’ll soon have them out of hiding, and then he can determine what it is that’s holding them on this plane.” “And the ghosts will go away?” “Once the conflict that anchors them is resolved,” she nodded. “Couldn’t we just have an exorcism?” Ardie asked. “Do you have a demon there as well?” she countered. Ardie chuckled. “I’m showing my ignorance again. If I could ask a practical question: Tristan’s kit, how big is it?” Alicia tried to hold in her laugh, but it burst free. “Sorry,” she said. “I have quite the gutter-brain as Garry is often pleased to remind me, and kit probably doesn’t have the same slang meaning in America. To answer your question, I imagine Tristan will bring one or two bags with clothing and essentials. Why?”

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“Well, the chopper’s not really designed to carry cargo, and if he has a lot of equipment, I should probably call for a truck.” “No machines, no computers,” Alicia said. “Just Tristan and his clothes. That’s all you’re taking with you.” “And that’s quite a lot,” Garry said as he entered with a tray. “If anything happens to him…” “We will accept it and remember that he was doing what he wanted to do when it happened,” Alicia interrupted. “That coffee smells lovely; did you bring three cups?” “I brought four,” Garry said as Tristan appeared behind him. “Tristan,” Alicia said. “You couldn’t possibly have had a shower and packed in that time.” “I could’ve,” Garry said. “Me, too,” Ardie said, taking the cup Garry offered him. “It’s a guy thing.” Tristan dropped his backpack and overnight bag and grabbed a cup. He added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream before tasting it. Ardie ignored the desecration and sipped the excellent black coffee as he observed the prankster over the rim of his cup. It did not escape Ardie’s keen eye that Tristan in cleaned-up mode was quite a revelation. The psychic had the sort of face normally seen framed on the bedroom walls of adolescent girls and the feeling that Ardie had seen those delicate, appealing features before tugged at the hem of his awareness. “We haven’t discussed a fee,” Ardie said. Alicia glanced up at Garry. “I think we’ll discuss the fee after the job is done,” she said. “I assure you it will be fair. You will, of course, pay Tristan’s expenses while he’s with you.” “Of course,” Ardie said. “Well, if that’s settled, I’ll call for a cab.” “We can take my car,” Tristan said. “I can park it in one of the hangars; Ralph won’t mind.”

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“I thought yours wasn’t running,” Ardie said. “Oh no,” Tristan laughed. “That heap belongs to Alicia. I’ve begged her to buy another car, but she loves that one. It has a name, you know. She calls it John Thomas.” “Tristan!” Alicia admonished, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Why don’t you take your bags to the car now? That way, Garry can have a few words with you alone, which I’m sure he’s anxious to do. Ardie and I will finish our coffee, and then he’ll join you.” The two men did as she bade them without argument. Ardie was impressed. “I’m impressed,” he said when Tristan and Garry had gone. “You have a very light touch on the reins, but your control is masterful.” “I’m sure I’ve no idea what you could mean by that analogy,” Alicia said. “Drink your coffee, Ardie, and listen. Tristan Edwards is a very special young man in many ways. He’s never attended a public school, for instance; it’s been private tutors and academies since it was noticed that he was ‘difficult’. He’s always seen the ghosts, even in his cradle. When he was very small, he didn’t know they were spirits and took them for granted as part of his world. However, when he learned to speak and began talking about the ‘shiny people’, as he called them, his parents couldn’t deal with what seemed like madness. They took him to specialists, and at a very young age he was diagnosed as schizophrenic.” Ardie shook his head. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like to have no one believe you. You’d begin to doubt your own senses.” “That changed when he came here,” Alicia said. “He’s very bright. He knows he’s different and that he’ll never have what we refer to as a normal life. However, I would like him to see that he can have a life outside these walls. Am I being clear?” “Every time you open your mouth,” Ardie said. “And for the record: I like him already. He’s smart, direct and has a sense of humor. He’ll fit in with the rest of the crew.”

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“Oh, I do hope so,” Alicia said. “It would be nice if he could just be an average twenty-four year old man with a job to do and mates to have a pint with when it’s done.” “Lady,” Ardie said respectfully. “Even if he wasn’t psychic, that boy could never be an average anything. His looks alone would set him apart.” “He’s not…” Alicia began, but changed her mind in midsentence. “Tris sees beauty differently than most people,” she said. “Not all people, but most.” “Who are the others?” Ardie asked. “Those born without sight,” she said. “The blind must feel to see, and that’s akin to how Tris perceives beauty.” “That makes sense; I think,” Ardie said. “Anyway, it’s not his looks I’m interested in.” Alicia gave him her Sphinx smile. “I’m not going to threaten you, as Garry would no doubt like to do, but I will say that I am quite fond of Tristan, and I’d not like to see him harmed. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d keep an eye on him.” “Absolutely,” Ardie said, setting down his cup as he stood. “Anything else I should know?” “I would just stress once more that Tristan comprehends things differently and to ask that you remember that and have patience with him if he seems to behave in an odd manner.” “As long as his head doesn’t spin around,” Ardie said. “Goodbye, Alicia. I’m glad to have met you, and I hope I’ll see you again.” “Who can say?” She stood and offered her hand. “But I hope that as well.” Ardie took her cool fingers in his and resisted the impulse to brush them with his lips. She’d think him either juvenile or smarmy, and he’d end up feeling foolish. “Well … goodbye,” Ardie said.

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“Goodbye,” Alicia said as she touched her knuckles to his lips. At a loss for words for the first time in his life, Ardie nodded to her and left. Garry was walking in as Ardie was walking out of the building, and they passed one another with only a glance of acknowledgment. Ardie continued on to the parking lot, looking for Tristan. The sound of a powerful engine drew his eyes, and a moment later a sleek bright yellow car stopped beside him and Tristan rolled down the window. “Well, come on; get in,” the young man called. Ardie put his laptop case between his feet and buckled his seat belt. “Is this a Lotus?” he asked, as Tristan let out the clutch. “Yeah,” Tristan said with a delighted smile. “It’s the new Exige. Cool, huh?” “Pretty expensive, aren’t they?” “Bloody expensive,” Tristan agreed. “How much for this one?” “I’ve no idea. I don’t write the checks, the foundation does.” “So the foundation is…” “Well-endowed?” Tristan asked innocently. “Ceridwen doesn’t need my company’s money, does it?” Ardie asked. “Not really, no,” Tristan said. “Sorry about the prank.” “No hard feelings,” Ardie assured the boy. “So … how fast is this car?” “I thought you’d never ask.” Tristan shifted up quickly, and Ardie looked over at him. “This is a country road,” Ardie said. “Know it like me own willie,” Tristan said. Ardie sat back and watched the trees whip by until they reached the grass airstrip. Tristan waved at the man in the door of the small office and continued down the row of hangars. Pulling

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into one, Tristan locked the car and put the keys on one of the front tires. “In case Ralph needs to move it,” Tristan explained as they exited the structure. “You’re very trusting,” Ardie observed. Tristan shrugged. “Might as well be,” he said. Ardie let that one go. “Okay,” he said briskly. “Shall we take to the wild blue yonder?” The young man grinned. “I can’t wait.” Ardie got the kid into the chopper and took off. In a relatively short time, they sighted the rugged coast of Wales with its many smuggler-friendly inlets. Tristan seemed fascinated by everything and spent the trip swiveling his head from one sight to another, exclaiming over each new marvel. “That was fantastic,” the young man said as they were climbing out of the chopper. “Yeah, I guess it was,” Ardie admitted. “This is a beautiful country when you take the time to look at it. Now grab your bags, and I’ll take you to meet the boss.”

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Chapter Three “I don’t think we should be doing this here,” Billy said. The boy was nervous for more than one reason. The first being the stated one: his anxiety over the location of this tryst. The second reason was the tongue that was currently dipping into the slit of his aroused member. He gasped as a spit-shiny finger slid up his crack. “By all the Saints, I’ve never felt nothin’ like what you’re doin’ to me.” In a very short time, the young man came, spurting a stream of seed that was avidly consumed. His trembling knees gave out, and he collapsed backward onto a pew as his lover rose to sit beside him. With a big sigh, he leaned against the man’s shoulder. “Merciful Mother Mary! I came so hard I thought I might black out. I was that worried that someone would walk in on us.” “Adds to the thrill, doesn’t it, Billy?” “My heart nearly jumped out of me chest,” Billy said. “I still think it’s … blasphemy or something to be doin’ it in the choir loft.” “No one’s going to catch us. The church is always empty this time of day, and it really is exciting, isn’t it?” “Well … yeah ’tis,” Billy grinned slyly. “And the word you want is sacrilege, not blasphemy.”

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“You’re so wise, Sean,” Billy said. “When are you goin’ to take me all the way?” “Do you think you’re ready?” “You’ve had your finger in me bum, and I liked that,” Billy said. “I want you to shag me for real, though.” “If you can ask for it, you’re ready. Is tonight too soon?” “No, that’s great,” Billy answered. “I don’t have to work tomorrow. Where will I meet you?” “I want to christen a new place. Can you get hold of a boat?” “Of course I can. What do you have in mind?” “The castle.” Billy looked surprised and then grinned broadly as he rose to the dare. “We’ll have to get past the coppers. That’ll be a real thrill.” “Aye,” his lover smiled back. “I’ve no doubt it will. Say midnight?” “Perfect.” Billy turned in the man’s arms and nestled a hand in his lover’s crotch. “Now what can I do about this swelling, I wonder?” In another moment, slurping sounds and soft moans charged the silence of the loft.

THE sun was setting rather spectacularly as Ardie and Tristan crossed the strait. After thanking the constable that ferried them over, Ardie led the young man up the rocky path to the castle. The sound of music grew louder as they approached the top of the path, and the smell of cooking meat filled the cool evening air. On a square of Astroturf, the members of the salvage crew sat on lawn chairs, drinking from dark green bottles. “Ardie!” shouted the man at the grill. Everyone turned to watch Ardie and Tristan negotiate the last few feet of the track. Tristan caught his sneaker on the edge of

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the faux grass and would have fallen but for the hand under his elbow. The young man dropped his bags and caught his balance, turning to look at his savior. Warmth spread from the fingers on his arm to encompass his body in a pleasant glow. A liquid pulse behind his pubic bone made Tristan’s eyes widen in surprise as he stared at the stranger. Ardie turned to see what was keeping the kid. “Oh, I see you’ve already met the boss,” he said. “Here’s the psychic you ordered, Bo. How’d I do?” “Bo thought the lad was your date for the party,” Gryf said, brandishing a long fork. Ardie dodged the tines as the Welshman embraced him warmly. “Hey, careful,” Ardie said. “So what’s cookin’, good lookin’?” “Don’t you worry,” Gryf said. “James remembered to pack the sawdust steaks.” “Soybean steaks,” Ardie corrected. “Whatever,” Gryf said. “So this is the swami, ay?” “Hywel Gryffudd, this is Tristan Edwards,” Ardie said. Tristan heard his name, but he couldn’t look away from Andressen. Neither it seemed could Bo break the odd spell that had them locked in a benign staring contest. ‘Well, he certainly is a pretty one,’ said the dry voice in Bo’s head. Bo smiled; as usual, the voice was right. The psychic was a definite looker. ‘So was Chris.’ Bo’s conscience reminded him that his ex was young and drop-dead gorgeous as well. “Thank you,” Tristan said smiling at a point slightly to Bo’s right. The spell broken, Bo held out his hand. “Careful on those wet rocks,” he said. “I’m Bo Andressen. What are you thanking me for?” Tristan’s pretty face reflected bewilderment for a moment before his smile returned, and he focused on Bo. “I’m Tristan

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Edwards,” he said. “And I’m thanking you for saving me some scrapes and bruises, of course.” “No problemo. Come on and meet the boys,” Bo said, pulling Tristan along by the elbow. Ardie and Gryf followed, stopping at the cooler for beer. By time they caught up, Bo had introduced Tristan to James. Gryf handed Tristan a beer, and the liaison looked closely at the label in the fast-fading light. “I’ve never had this,” he said, taking a sip. The team members laughed at the face the boy made. “It’s the local stout,” Gryf said. “A little much until you get used it. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to. It’s not a test of your manhood or anything.” Tristan smiled. “That comes later, does it?” The young man received another round of laughter and in that moment became, if not a part of group, at least its mascot. They ate and drank and exchanged little excerpts of their life histories by the light of a couple of Coleman lanterns until the moon rose. Then the artificial lights were turned off, and the men sat watching the moon climb the star stair out of the sea. “I’d like to see the castle now, if that’s possible,” Tristan said quietly to Bo. Bo stirred and tossed his empty bottle in a bin. “Sure. We have lights strung up in the work areas. You understand this place hasn’t been inhabited in a couple hundred years.” Tristan nodded. “I just want to go inside and see what it feels like.” Bo grabbed a lantern and said a few soft words in Ardie’s ear, before gesturing to Tristan. “Come on; I’ll give you the tour,” he said. When Gryf wandered off in the opposite direction, Ardie raised an eyebrow at James. “Chess?” Ardie inquired.

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“Actually, I think he’s going for a wank,” James said with a straight face. “Good one,” Ardie acknowledged as soberly as James. “Do you want to play some chess or not? I can always play on the computer.” “I think I’d rather just sit here, have another beer and look at the castle in the moonlight,” James said. Ardie started to get up and find the cable for his laptop, but instead sat back down and opened another beer. For a brief moment, when he raised the bottle to his lips, he felt Alicia Davies’ knuckles instead. The feeling that she would be happy to see him sitting and doing nothing was so strong that he looked over his shoulder. “What is it?” James asked. “Nothing. I’m being silly, that’s all. I know we’re the only people on this island.” “I suppose the police might have planted someone here as a sort of stakeout without telling us about it. Speaking of the police: Gavin Gilroy. Never thought I’d meet another man like the boss, but Constable Gilroy reminds me of Bo. Know what I mean?” Ardie nodded, remembering his interview with Gilroy when the cop told him Red Recovery could not begin operations. It was never a pleasant prospect, relaying to Bo the news that he couldn’t do something he wanted to do. Ardie had been glad to do it by radio from the helicopter. He’d not like to be caught in the middle if Gavin and Bo ever clashed. “Wonder how the psychic’s getting on with the boss,” James said in the silence. Ardie shook his head. “Wouldn’t want to make a prediction.” Taking the other man’s terseness as a cue, James kept quiet, sipped his beer and studied the fortress by the light of the moon. Ardie sat back in the lawn chair and watched the black waves dash themselves on the rocks in explosions of crystal and quicksilver.

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Despite Ardie’s avowed disinterest, he, too, wondered how Bo and Tristan were getting on.

BO was surprised when Tristan Edwards threw an arm around his neck and sought his mouth before they’d gone thirty feet into the main hall, but he responded instinctively. Tilting his head, he aligned their mouths better and cupped the back of Tristan’s skull in his hand. Boldly, Bo drew his tongue along the curves of the boy’s sweet upper lip, and Tristan surrendered his mouth. Bo’s tongue delved deeper as he slipped an arm around the psychic’s back and drew him closer. Receiving nothing but positive signals, Bo slid a hand down to squeeze a firm butt cheek. He knew he was acting like a teenager copping his first feel, but he couldn’t seem to slow down. The salvager’s deprived manhood hardened quickly, and Tristan made a small sound as the eager erection pressed against his thigh. Bo grabbed both the young man’s lower cheeks, kneading firmly as he rocked his pelvis into Tristan’s. The psychic’s startled whimper became a drawn out moan that triggered something primal in Bo. Tristan gasped as Bo bit down on his nipple through the sweatshirt he wore. Tristan’s fingers dug into the hard muscles of the man’s back as Bo pushed a hand under the waistband of his track pants and boxers. Bo wasted no time grabbing hold of the liaison’s arousal and stroking it ardently. Beneath the storm of pleasure that barraged his nervous system, addling his senses, Tristan still managed to think clearly. He’d recognized that a paranormal force was present when he stepped over the threshold, but even after giving it free rein, he still couldn’t get a sense of the manifestation, other than its desire for erotic energy. So this was it then; this was his chance to prove that he could handle himself. Cautiously, the liaison opened a bit more and a blast of Saharan heat swept through him, searing away rational thought. Feverishly, the liaison groped the American’s crotch until he found the man’s hard shaft. Wrapping his fingers around the

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thick length, he squeezed the resilient flesh. Bo groaned as his balls tightened almost painfully in response. Grabbing Tristan’s wrist, he shoved the psychic’s hand down the front of his worn jeans. With no undergarment to deal with, Tristan immediately encountered hot, silken skin, and he caressed it eagerly. With a sound of exasperation, Bo unzipped and pushed his pants to his ankles. It dimly occurred to him that his conscience was awfully quiet, but he was thankful that he wouldn’t suffer the usual blowby-blow review of his lovemaking technique. Turning Tristan sideways, Bo pumped the young man’s quivering shaft as his tongue explored the soft mouth. Something like a sob ripped out of Tristan’s throat as his cock pulsed in Bo’s fist and coated the scarred knuckles with cum. The noise entered Bo’s ears, picking up resonance as it coiled in his brain stoking his pleasure centers. With an impatient growl, Bo shoved Tristan’s pants down and bent the limber young man over the stone balustrade. He fondled the liaison’s sculpted buttocks as he worked the tip of a saliva-slippery finger into the psychic’s puckered opening. Tristan trembled and panted as Bo added a second finger, scissoring the digits, holding open the small port, as he spat and used the saliva to slick the head of his cock. With a short, sharp thrust, Bo drove the first couple of inches into the tight passage. Tristan cried out softly, and Bo reached around to take hold of the psychic’s drooping shaft. Unnoticed by either man, a drop of blood splashed onto the ancient stone of the floor and was absorbed. Angling down as he pushed in, Bo gave his hips a roll as he shunted his hard flesh forcefully, but precisely, in the yielding sheath. As if guided, the blunt tip of the thick shaft dragged solidly across Tristan’s prostate on the first stroke and each thereafter. Tristan clutched desperately at the cold marble as the tide of ecstasy swept back in, threatening to pull him under. His body had been commandeered, and all Tristan could do was try to stay relaxed and hope that Andressen was quick. Whatever lonely spirit walked these halls was powerful as well as spiteful, and Tristan couldn’t wait to study the phenomenon. This near rape was

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disturbing, but ghosts often sought physical contact with the living, and he could handle it. I won’t panic, Tristan thought, as the man thrust deeper. My body is being used as a vessel, a channel. Bo shifted his balance, changed the tempo of his stroke, and all of the sensations coursing through Tristan’s body melded into one. The sexual tension spiraled higher with each pass of the hard cock, each stroke of the hard fist, until it reached its peak. The liaison cried out and shuddered through a powerful climax that lit up every cell in his body and blazed like a beacon for those with eyes to see such things.

UNTIL the light in his eyes died forever, Billy fixed them despairingly on the man who had professed to love him and then abandoned him to this horror. The revenant dropped the drained husk of flesh to the cold stone floor and rose into the air. Throwing his arms above his head, the ghost of Sir Alun Turcotte exulted in the waves of energy he absorbed from his victim, energy that allow him to mesh with the other stronger source such a tantalizingly short distance away. The revenant’s tame Eastern Magus had taught him the spells that compelled the boy-witch to rut with the yellow-haired man who resembled the Teuton mercenaries of Alun’s time. Using the Arab’s formulae, the phantom accelerated the natural attraction between the two souls and induced them to couple so he could feed. Alun sucked greedily at the flow of potent sexual energy from the aroused medium until he could contain no more. The revenant froze, translucent arms and legs flung wide, muscles and tendons standing out in rigid relief. Transfixed by the powerful burst of energy as the liaison climaxed, the ghost of Lord Alun cycled between transparency and solidity for several long moments. “By all that is holy,” Alun laughed as he alit upon the flagstones. “I have never felt such power. He is here, my minion:

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the one who will make me whole. Prepare him well, and when he is ready, we shall see whose will is the stronger.” “You will best him and take him, my lord,” Sean said. “And when you have absorbed the life essences of the witch, you will take your natural form again.” Alun tilted his chin up in an arrogant mannerism, looking down at his devotee with hooded eyes. “And what shall be your reward when I am incarnate?” the revenant asked. “I live to serve you, my Lord. That is reward enough.” “Come closer.” Obediently, the man crossed the space that separated him from his deity. Looking up, he waited for whatever uses it pleased Lord Alun to make of him. “You have served me well,” the ghost said in a voice that had regained some of its rich resonance. “Never fear that I will forget that.” “Thank you, my Lord.” Alun drew a finger down his minion’s forehead and nose, tapping the man’s lips thoughtfully. “I will need at least one more sacrifice before I will be whole enough to do battle with the witch,” he said. “It grows more difficult now that the corpses cannot be carried off. Blast these arcane restrictions. I don’t see why we cannot pitch the bodies into the sea.” “That is beyond my knowledge,” the revenant said. “But it is folly to stray from the formula of the Eastern necromancers.” “It will be as you say. I wish we had the book itself, but I’m sure we may rely on your memory, my Lord, and that of the Magus.” “The boy’s essences must be stirred to a peak before I consume him. I will need the help of those under my dominion. Tonight you will say the incantations that will call them forth from their long slumber.”

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“I will, my Lord,” Sean said eagerly. The ghost began to fade like breath from a windowpane. “Now go. I must conserve my strength for the battle.” The glowing revenant rose to the ceiling and passed right through it as his servant watched in awe. Only when the soles of Lord Alun’s boots had vanished from sight did the minion leave the hall. After arranging Billy’s body, he made his way unseen to the water and the kayak hidden among the rocks. Paddling strongly, he made landfall in a few sweaty minutes, avoided the police patrol and hurried home to perform the ritual.

BO let go of Tristan’s sated shaft and smeared the slippery seed on his own hard flesh. His cock slid much easier, and Bo allowed it to sink deeper. Tristan’s knuckles were white where they gripped the railing as the man drew back to the brink and plunged in, sheathing his full length. The revenant gloated from the shadows of the vaulted ceiling as more blood trickled down the witch’s thigh. The smell of the potent, crimson liquid along with the heady scent of the creature’s seed was a sore trial to Alun’s willpower, but he must wait until the most propitious moment or risk losing all. Satisfied that all was proceeding as he wished, Alun dematerialized before he did something rash. Tristan found his voice instantly. “Please,” he panted. “Please just finish.” Jarred from his sensual trance, Bo slowed his hammering stroke. Easing his grip on the young man’s hips, he thrust until he passed the point of no return. As he came, Bo pulled his arousal from the tight passage and spurted into his hand. The sweet, slow spill of afterglow was just starting when he realized the kid hadn’t moved. “Everything okay?” Bo asked. Tristan turned, swiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to worry you. It was a rather intense experience.”

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“No shit. I was a little surprised.” “Yeah, me too, but I’ll have to explain later,” Tristan said. “Right now, I need to…” Bo grimaced when the psychic’s voice broke and tears spilled down his cheeks. “You’re not okay. What’s going on here?” Tristan shook his head as he pushed past Bo. Bo yanked his jeans up and followed the boy, taking him by the arm. “Hold on,” Bo said. “Don’t go running off. You don’t know the terrain.” “Please let go,” Tristan said softly. Bo released the young man’s arm and took a step back. “Something weird just happened,” he said. “I can see you’re upset. Why don’t you let me call one of the other guys to show you where you’re sleeping, okay?” “I can find my…” Tristan stopped and stared over Bo’s right shoulder. “Where did you go?” he said abruptly. “What are you talking about?” Tristan focused on Bo. “Sorry. I’m a little punchy. Just show me my bunk. I’m not afraid to be alone with you. It wasn’t your fault.” “Fault?” Bo repeated. “Look, you came on to me.” “I know,” Tristan said. “I’m sorry.” “I’m not, at least I wasn’t ’til now,” Bo said as they walked. “Look, I’m not generally the type of guy who jumps into bed after a handshake.” “I can see that.” Tristan yawned. “Tomorrow, okay?” he said. “I’m absolutely drained.” Bo got the young man settled in the lesser hall where the team had set up sleeping quarters. Tristan was out as soon as he lay down on the cot. Bo pulled the kid’s sneakers off and turned down the lantern. With a last look at the delicate features smoothed out in sleep, Bo walked away. It had been a hell of a day, but it looked like his sexual drought was over; in fact, it was raining men.

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‘Never satisfied, are you?’ Bo’s conscience chimed in. He shooed the little voice away like a pesky mosquito and went to his own bed.

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Chapter Four LORD ALUN’S minion came to himself on the cold floor and groaned as his muscles complained. Sitting up, he disturbed the convoluted figure drawn on the plastic sheeting in black wax. The milky light told him it was still early, and he set about cleaning up before anyone arrived. After all, it was Sunday, and the church would be busy today. If he had timed this right, he should be able to join the worshippers as they came in. Without bothering to don his clothes, the man quickly and efficiently folded the tarp and packed it away with the black candles. When he pulled on his long-sleeved shirt, the slices on the insides of his arms were not visible. They had stopped bleeding and would soon heal. His pact with Lord Alun was not entirely one-sided; there were certain benefits. The man pulled Lord Alun’s token from his finger. Kissing the heavy ring, he placed it in an inner pocket. He left the sacristy as though he had every right to be there, pulling the door closed behind him. No one locked doors in Drws Cefnforoedd. During the sunrise service, his thoughts returned again and again to the ceremony, wondering if it had been successful. He had done everything correctly from the cemetery to the sacristy where the holy objects of the church were kept. However, no matter how certain he was of his skill, he would not know if the summons had been answered until he met with Lord Alun again. As the words of the sermon droned on, the minion reflected that it

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was going to be a long day. Reaching for the inner serenity of a zealot who knows his cause is going forward, he looked around at the flock and smiled tranquilly.

BO looked up from the set of blueprints. Ardie and James were speaking softly, their heads almost touching over what the team called The Bigass Book, the artifact Ardie had flown to London to retrieve. The Book had been the most difficult resource to procure for this job. It had cost many hours of Ardie’s inestimable time, a promise of a share of any profit made from the excavation, and they had to put up with the presence of the owner, the present titleholder and direct descendant of the founder: Rhys Turcotte, prick extraordinaire – to quote Ardie. Bo chastened his wandering thoughts. He was sure there were those who held the same opinion of him. Checking his watch, he saw it was seven already, and that the site was due for a visit from His Haughtiness in less than an hour. His mind cleared of upcoming business, Bo’s thoughts returned to the encounter with the young psychic. To call the episode bizarre would be to damn it with faint praise. Bo still couldn’t understand what had come over him. Sure, it had been a while since he’d been intimate, but that didn’t excuse the frenzy that had possessed him. Bo looked guiltily around as though expecting to see Tristan standing behind him, but the boy was off exploring the approved areas of the castle. As anxious as Bo was to talk to the kid, he felt relieved that he didn’t have to do it just yet. He was a little embarrassed by his Stone Age behavior and hoped the psychic didn’t think he was always like that. And why the hell was he wasting time thinking about this right now? “Ardie,” Bo called, and Ardie looked up. “What do you need, bud?” “Just taking a break. Anything interesting there?” “All of it,” James answered, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “The penmanship is lovely and very clear. The

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Arabic is in dialect, of course, but fortunately it’s one I’m familiar with: the Magus variant. Those who called themselves magicians used it to keep their spells secret. The first half is a catalogue of ancient spells, formulae, and other arcana. The rest is an account of the experiments of a Magus called Aqil with later additions by Lord Alun. Whether Aqil was a name, a title, or an alias, we may never know, but he wrote very neatly.” Bo smiled at his ancient languages expert. “And what does Aqil have to say in his tidy handwriting?” “I’ll let Ardie tell you,” James said, his gray eyes already straying to the text. “I want to find the part that deals with the building of the caches in the castle.” “Don’t let me stop you,” Bo said. Ardie came around to sit at the other end of the long folding table with Bo. “Freaky stuff,” he said, pulling out his cigarettes and Zippo lighter. Bo frowned, and Ardie put the smokes back in his pocket. “Seems our Crusader buddy dabbled in the black arts. Unless he acquired The Bigass Book as an investment.” Bo smiled at Ardie’s sense of humor. “What’s it got to do with the treasure?” he asked. “The bulk of Lord Alun’s treasure was reputedly stolen from a temple, and not a Christian, Jewish, or Muslim one.” “Mysterioso,” Bo remarked. “Good thing we’ve got a medium.” Ardie’s full lips curved in the smile that had made Bo’s heart beat faster when they had first met, before Bo found out Ardie was straight. “Is it skill or luck, and does it matter?” Ardie recited the Red team’s informal motto. “At any rate, Lord Alun used The Book as a sort of manual. It seems the knight became obsessed with Eastern mysticism, reincarnation, that kind of thing. When he came home from the Crusades, he had this castle built to a specific design and… Am I boring you?”

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“You’re soothing me,” Bo returned his wandering gaze to Ardie. “I’m jumpy as a long-tailed cat in room full of rockers this morning.” “You’re just excited because His High and Mightiness arrives today. Now don’t embarrass us by asking for his autograph or trying to kiss his feet in public.” Bo’s lips twitched. “I’d like to laugh,” he said. “But I don’t think you find His Lordship amusing.” “He’s a tool,” Ardie said flatly. Bo chuckled. He had only talked to Lord Turcotte once on the phone. Poor Ardie had negotiated with the bastard for weeks, and he still had to go back to get The Book after they’d obtained permission to excavate. It was beyond the understanding of a rational person. Turcotte had known from the outset they would need all artifacts pertaining to the castle, but he seemed to delight in keeping them dangling. “You’ve already earned your share of the treasure,” Bo said. “Man, it’s too early for visits from aristocrats with sticks up their asses.” “Tell me something I don’t know,” Ardie answered. “So how’d you get on with the psychic?” Bo flinched, and he knew Ardie saw it by the way his friend’s dark eyes narrowed. “You know I’m not a kiss and tell kind of guy, but the kid came on to me last night and…” Ardie’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “No way.” Bo nodded, his eyes on the blueprints. “Yes, way,” he said. “You hound,” Ardie said in an ambiguous tone. “He was all over me,” Bo said defensively. “It was like a wet dream where you’re irresistible to all the babes.” “And they can’t get enough of your huge cock?” “Yeah, that’s the one. It was like that.”

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Ardie pursed his lips. “Doesn’t add up,” he said. “I believe you, pard, it’s just that I don’t see that in him, and I’m usually a pretty good judge of character.” “I rely on your judgment,” Bo agreed. “But it happened. Don’t tell the others, okay? They wouldn’t be able to resist ragging on me, and I get the feeling Tristan wouldn’t appreciate our sense of humor.” “Not a word,” Ardie said. “It’s weird, though.” “I wasn’t going to say anything until I talked to the kid again, but I’m not sure he’s all there,” Bo said. “His porch light’s on and the phone’s ringing, but nobody’s home. ” “You’re describing someone completely different than the boy that flew out here with me,” Ardie said. “At the institute and during the flight, he was definitely all there.” “You didn’t notice any wild mood swings?” Bo asked. “He went from friendly to firecracker hot to weepy to detached in the space of a few minutes.” “Virgin,” Ardie said succinctly. “What?” “You heard me. What you described is classic behavior for a…” Ardie broke off as a shout for help echoed off the walls and high ceilings. Bo was out of his chair and running toward the sound of distress before it faded. Ardie was on Bo’s heels, with James a few steps behind. The three men pelted down the stairs to the first underground level of the castle. Moisture glistened on the rough stone in the harsh light of clear bulbs strung on concrete screws. “Who called for help?” Bo yelled as they reached the bottom. “In here.” Tristan Edwards’s voice was shaky, but loud enough to be heard. It led the men to the room they had dubbed the Privy for the four large holes in the floor near the west wall. The psychic was

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kneeling in front of the opening on the far right with his arm inserted to the elbow. At first Bo couldn’t understand what was wrong with the picture, and then he realized the white thing sticking out of the hole was a hand. Bo’s normally strong stomach rolled over queasily as Ardie pushed past him. “Who is it?” Ardie was saying. “Can you see?” “No,” Tristan said. “I was trying to uncover his face. I wasn’t sure if I should try and pull him out since he’s obviously … not alive.” “What happened?” Bo asked in his boss voice. Tristan looked up and saw Bo. Several emotions flashed across the boy’s face like windows on a passing train. With a visible effort at pulling himself together, he spoke. “I was just wandering around, getting a feel for the place, and when I walked past this room, I looked in and saw the hand. It didn’t look real at all. I came in to look, wondering which one of you was playing a joke on the rest of the team, but the closer I got…” Ardie put a hand on Tristan’s arm. “It’s okay,” Ardie said. “You haven’t moved him, right?” “I just tried to move the shirt away from his face. For all I knew it could have been one of you stuck in there.” “It’s an oubliette,” James said from behind Bo. “The trap doors are missing, but you can see the discolored holes where the iron bolts rusted away.” “Go ahead, James,” Ardie said. “You know you want to.” “The oubliette,” James said, talking in an effort to stave off his nausea, “is a special sort of cell. The only way in or out is through the ceiling, which is covered by a grate. The typical oubliette is a shaft with just enough room to stand up in. The root word is French, oublier, to forget. An oubliette was where you put someone when you wanted them forgotten.” Bo flipped his cell phone closed and joined the conversation. “Cops are on their way,” he said. “We’re to clear the area.”

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Tristan stood and swayed slightly. Ardie steadied the young man, looking into Tristan’s face to gauge the boy’s condition. “You look a little shocky,” Ardie said. “Bo, give me your jacket.” Without argument, Bo took off his beat-up brown leather jacket and handed it over. Ardie slung it, still warm from Bo’s body, over Tristan’s hooded sweatshirt. “You’re fine,” Ardie said calmly. “You hear me?” Tristan’s gaze was fixed on the middle distance, his head cocked as if listening to a phone in another room. Ardie turned, and saw Bo directly behind him. Tristan was staring over the man’s shoulder. Peering down the liaison’s line of sight, Ardie tried to see what had the kid so riveted, but there was nothing. “Tristan,” Ardie said sharply, shaking the boy by the arm. “He did that last night,” Bo said. “Zoned out. Gave me the creeps.” Bo waited for the little voice in his head to comment on his cowardice, but his conscience had been quiet today. Taking Tristan’s other arm, Bo helped move the boy out of the dungeon and up to the indoor camp in the great hall. “I’ll make sure the kid’s all right,” Ardie said. “You go deal with the cops, boss.” “Wouldn’t it be better if you…” “Not at this point,” Ardie shook his head. “You and Gilroy connect on a basic level, and as far as I can see, the man can’t be finessed.” “How should I handle it so we don’t get thrown off the island?” “Just be you. I figure we’re fucked already, so why not be honest?” Bo nodded and hurried out to meet the police who were even now coming through the enormous front entry. Gavin spotted Bo and veered in his direction.

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“This way,” Bo said without preamble and led the way to the oubliette room. Gavin went to one knee and peered into the hole. “Billy Nye,” he said sadly. “What on earth are you doing here, lad?” “It’s Billy Nye, sir?” Gavin looked up at the policeman standing next to him. “Yes, Constable Ifans. You sound surprised.” “Well, sir, I saw young Bill as he got off work last evening. He was sharin’ a drop with that worthless sot, Idris. They were sittin’ on the bench in front of the grocer’s; Billy still had his apron on, but was sittin’ there, bold as brass, passin’ the bottle with Idris. I gave ’em the talk on public drunkenness and told ’em to take it elsewhere.” “And what time was that?” Gavin prompted. “Well, you know the grocer stays open late on Saturday night. Lots of folks come in for ice cream. I’m partial meself.” Ifans noted the look on his superior’s face and got to the point. “It was half-past ten,” he said. Gavin stood up. “Call that forensics team from London and tell them we’ll need them after all,” he said. “Morgan Idris. Interesting. He somehow neglected to tell me that he bought a bottle of whiskey for Cillian Pryce the night Cillian was murdered.” Gavin looked around and abruptly stopped talking about the case. He ordered Ifans to stand guard and pulled Bo from the room. Not until they reached the top of the stairs did Gavin speak. “Who found the body?” he asked. “Our psychic,” Bo said. “He arrived last night, and he’s right over there.” Gavin looked in the direction Bo indicated as a pale Tristan took a bite of the chocolate bar Ardie was holding. Bo turned back to Gavin and had what he was sure was a rare opportunity to see the constable caught off-guard. Gavin Gilroy was gazing at the

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liaison like a man expecting deer and seeing a unicorn in his garden. “Gavin?” Bo prompted. “You want to talk to Edwards, right?” “Yes,” Gavin said slowly. “Tristan Edwards, isn’t it?” “You know him?” “Not really,” Gavin said as he walked toward Ardie and Tristan. Tristan looked up from his lawn chair as Gavin neared, and the psychic’s eyes focused. For a moment, Tristan sat frozen then rose to his feet, staring at the big man in astonishment. “It’s you,” he said as he threw his arms around the policeman.

RHYS TURCOTTE looked out the window at the sullen, lowering clouds and knew just how they felt. Chris Lukos, Rhys’s new secretary, inadvertently pulled a hair and the noble lord smacked the handsome man’s ear with the inside of his knee. Chris paid more attention to what he was doing, and Rhys settled back. The driver had a clear view of the action in the rear cabin of the limousine, but he kept his eyes on the road for the most part. As much as Sam enjoyed seeing the arrogant assistant humbled, he wasn’t going to risk Lord Turcotte’s wrath by hitting another bump. “Wales,” Rhys said. “I hate coming here. Why did I let you talk me into this?” Since he’d been asked a question, Chris let the thick shaft slide from between his lips and wrapped his fingers around it. “Because of all the money,” he reminded his employer. “I’m not sure it’s worth coming back here,” Rhys said as a light rain began to fall. “My uncle used to drive me to the castle every other Sunday. How I hated it. And him. Still do.” “Your uncle’s dead, Sir Rhys,” Chris pointed out.

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Rhys looked down with a sneer of contempt. “Do you really think I don’t know that? The old bastard took his time about it, too. God, the way he used to beg for his scotch and cigars.” “Which you took great pleasure in denying him, I’m sure,” Chris said. “I took great pleasure in watching him beg the way I begged not to be taken to the castle. I took even greater pleasure in paying the valet to accept my uncle’s small bribes in return for supplying him with his vices.” Chris looked surprised. “Why, sir?” “So he’d die faster, of course. You were sharper than this at your interview, Lukos. Instead of talking, why don’t you do something useful with your mouth?” Knowing the bloody working-class chauffeur could see everything, Chris resumed fellating Lord Turcotte. Rhys looked out the window again, the tint making the skies look even darker. A scowl marred his lordship’s face despite what Chris was doing for him. “He changed in the castle,” Rhys murmured. “In that wet, dark dungeon. And we weren’t alone. Oh no, never alone. I could feel them, crowding around, watching, licking their lips and longing to join in.” Chris sucked harder, bobbing his head like a heavy metal musician, desperate to distract his boss from his nascent dark mood. Whatever had happened to Sir Rhys, and Chris thought he had a fairly good idea, it had marked the man deeply. Lord Turcotte was unfit for human company when he descended into memories of his childhood. “That’s how I knew I was mad,” Rhys said, even more softly. Sam turned on the radio, and the big car rolled on toward Drws Cefnforoedd and the ancient pile of stones that still loomed large in Rhys’s nightmares.

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Chapter Five “I take it you two have met before,” Bo said wryly, watching Tristan hug Gavin warmly. ‘Brilliant deduction,’ Bo’s conscience commented. Gavin turned his head to look at Bo as Tristan raised his head from the constable’s shoulder. Gavin’s nose cracked against the boy’s forehead, and the big man’s eyes blurred with instant tears at the sharp pain. “I’m sorry,” Tristan said to Gavin. “What a way to pay you back for saving my life.” “I knew I knew you,” Ardie exclaimed. “Tristan Edwards, I can’t believe I forgot your name. You were the victim of a kidnapping a few years back.” “More than a few,” Tristan said. “I was twelve.” Ardie nodded. “That’s right. Your guardians offered the largest reward ever posted in Great Britain. An off-duty cop saw you with one of the kidnappers. He followed you and called for back up. But he didn’t wait for it. He went in without a gun and saved you.” “You’ve a good memory,” Gavin said. “Yes, I do,” Ardie replied. “I collect stories of true heroism. I’d like to hear yours sometime. From your P.O.V. And Tristan’s, too.”

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“Perhaps,” Gavin said. “Tristan, I need to ask you about finding Billy.” “Billy,” Tristan repeated, as though it were the name of some country he’d never visit. “Yes, William Nye,” Gavin said. “He moved here about three years ago, I think it was.” “He looked very young,” Tristan said. “He was,” Gavin answered. “But no younger than you. What are you doing here?” “I’m still with the institute,” Tristan said. “I came here to…” “Of course, you’re the bloody psychic,” Gavin interrupted, smacking his forehead and instantly regretting it. “I’m as dense as wood this morning.” Gavin’s radio demanded his attention, and he excused himself. When he returned, he informed them that the forensics team was on its way and that they should stay well away from the area Constable Ifans was taping off. He also told them they could stay as long as they remained in the big hall until given permission to resume work in the dungeons. James happily went back to The Book, joined by Ardie. Gryf returned from his expedition to the nearest hardware store and set to building more temporary workstations. Bo picked up a hammer and helped Gryf while Gavin questioned Tristan further. “I was going to go up to the battlements,” Tristan said. “But I went down instead of up. Not because I wanted to, but…” The young man looked shyly up at the big policeman and received an encouraging look. “This castle is haunted,” Tristan said. “There are such strong presences here. I went into the dungeon because one of them herded me. And then I saw that hand.” “Still seeing ghosts, Tris?” Gavin said softly. “I know you don’t believe in spirits that don’t come in a bottle,” the boy said. “But they’re real. As real as anything else. And most of the ones that linger on this plane don’t like us. They

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envy us, and they lust after our energy, but they’re not disposed to do us favors.” “So there aren’t any guardian angels like those New Agers want us to believe?” “Sure there are, but they aren’t ghosts.” “What are they then?” “Spirits, just not ghostly ones. They’re composed of energy of a different wavelength.” Gavin sighed. “Let’s talk about the murder.” “Murder!” “Billy was killed. He didn’t stumble into that hole and break his neck.” “No, of course not. I guess I knew he was murdered all along.” “I’m sorry you had to find him,” Gavin said sincerely. “You’ve had enough trouble in your life.” “Hasn’t everyone?” Tristan asked. “Too true,” Gavin sighed again. “I wish you weren’t here,” he said frankly. Tristan met Gavin’s eyes squarely. “I looked for you,” he said. “Garry didn’t want me to, but I got Alicia to help me. We found out you’d been transferred a couple of times after you went back to work. I sent you a lot of letters and never got a reply. Finally, I realized you didn’t want to see me. That hurt.” “I’m sorry,” Gavin said. “But I couldn’t contact you. I would’ve only dragged you into the shit with me.” Tristan’s eyebrows drew up in the middle. “What are you talking about?” Gavin’s mouth twisted. “Your hero, am I? You want to know what went through my mind when I saw you crossing the parking lot behind that bar with a man you obviously didn’t belong with? I thought, bugger it! Why’d this have to happen on my night off? Now I’ll have to call this in.”

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Tristan stared silently at the man. “Lad,” Gavin said. “It was a gay bar, and I wasn’t on a stakeout with the other guy in the back seat. As soon as my superiors realized where I spent my nights off, the whitewash began. There was no more publicity over the rescue, and they moved me into the country. They didn’t quite dare retire me, but they put me in the closet and locked the door.” “I’m sorry,” Tristan said. “I’m not. I’m glad I went after you. If I hadn’t, it would have eaten at me all my life.” “Because you’re a good man,” Tristan said soberly. Gavin changed the subject. “So you think ghosts killed Billy?” “Perhaps,” Tristan answered. “But not without the help of a human agent.” “Oh good,” Gavin said sardonically. “Something for me to do: hunt down the lackey.” “You’ll find the killer,” Tristan said. “And you’ll take care of the ghost?” Gavin said the first words to come to mind. Tristan held out his hand. “It’s a deal,” he said. “I think you should all leave here, but it seems Lord Turcotte has powerful friends who want this project to continue. I suspect a great sum of money is at the bottom of it.” “I’m just here for experience,” Tristan said. Gavin’s radio chirped again, and he rose with an apologetic glance at Tristan. “Excuse me. The crime scene people are here. I’m not a detective or anything, just an ordinary constable, so I’ve got to run when they call, but I’ll talk with you later.” “I’d like that,” Tristan said. “I’ve never thanked you properly.” “How you doing?” Ardie said at Tristan’s elbow as Gavin walked away.

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Tristan craned his neck to look up at the man. “A little shaky, but I’ll live.” “Oh sure, you’ll live, but will you enjoy it?” Tristan smiled. “You have a real knack for lightening things up. Some might even call it a gift,” he said. Ardie sat down next to Tristan and turned sideways in his chair. “So … what exactly happened twelve years ago?” Tristan looked up and began speaking without preamble. “The people who kidnapped me never intended to return me. They kept me alive with the intention of cutting parts off me to send to the police, but they were going to kill me whether they got the money or not. Gavin overheard one of them tell me that as I was being led into the building where they were going to hold me. After calling his friends, Gavin went to his car and got the lug wrench. He climbed to the roof and swung in through a window, taking out one guy when he landed, bashing his skull in. He threw the tire iron at the second guy and knocked him out cold. It was the woman who gave him trouble. She came out of the bathroom with a gun. I was tied to a chair by then, a sitting duck. Gavin grabbed me, chair and all, and covered me as he ran. He took two bullets before we crashed into the door and out onto the sidewalk. All I could see were flashing lights, and then the police opened fire. I heard a rumor that the medical examiner took over one hundred fifty rounds out of the kidnappers’ corpses. Gavin got a medal, but I recently learned that he also got the shaft. No good deed ever goes unpunished, does it?” Ardie shook out a cigarette and caught Tristan’s involuntary grimace. Sticking the butt behind his ear, Ardie pocketed his Zippo. “That’s quite a story,” he said. “Doesn’t surprise me though. Gilroy’s the hero type.” “What type are you?” Tristan asked. “I’m a scoundrel,” Ardie smiled. “You’ve told that story a few times, haven’t you?”

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“It defined my life for years,” Tristan said. “Alicia and Garry helped me see that it didn’t have to, any more than seeing spirits has to. Garry’s stern, but he really does want the best for me. I wish I could convince them I’m happy.” “Are you?” Gavin’s tone was dubious. “Yes, I am. Not all the time, but enough.” “This can’t be one of the happier moments.” “It’s strange,” Tristan said. “It was terrible finding the … Billy’s body, but it was wonderful finding Gavin. I’m not sure how I feel.” “Forgive me for mentioning this, because Bo will never be able to. If he finds out I even hinted to you that he told me, he’ll be pissed. If that made sense, nod your head. Okay. I’m going to ask you a question. You can answer it or tell me to fuck myself, but I have to ask because I’m what passes for a medical presence in this motley crew. If you were injured, if you were bleeding, say, you’d come to me, right?” Tristan looked perplexed for about two heartbeats before he answered. “I’m fine,” he said. “Any injuries I might have … sustained recently are slight and already healing. I appreciate the concern for my welfare. That sounds sarcastic, I know, but it’s sincere.” “And you won’t…” “Say anything to your boss?” Tristan finished for Ardie. “Of course not.” “You don’t have to discuss it with me, but you do know you should be using condoms, right?” “I’m not…” Tristan began before he changed his mind. “Yeah. Thanks, I will.” “Thank you,” Ardie’s smile faded as he caught movement on the periphery of his vision. “Fuck me! Here’s trouble,” he said under his breath.

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Tristan turned on his chair and eyed the tall man who had entered the hall like visiting royalty with a waspish attendant buzzing in his wake. “Excuse me,” Ardie said. “I have to meet and greet Lord Turcotte. See you later.” Tristan smiled as Ardie walked away from him. The liaison glanced at Lord Turcotte, and his spirit recoiled from the bleak bitterness in the gray eyes. Tristan looked away, and his gaze met that of the companion. The psychic flinched away from the disdain in the other man’s expression. Turning quickly, Tristan wondered what he could have done to make someone who didn’t know him despise him on sight. Were his differences somehow visible to certain people, the way spirits were to him? He shook his head, physically shaking off the negative thought. He was a gifted liaison. Alicia and Garry thought so and the tests proved it. Tristan could communicate with spirits. He could determine what their anchor was. He could break the bonds that held them chained to this plane. He helped them move on and find peace. He silenced the reminders of his odd possession the night before and the way Andressen’s guardian had vanished and reappeared only after the manifestation was over. Rising from the chair, the young man draped the leather jacket across the back of it, walked to the impressive sweep of the double staircase, and began ascending. “WHAT sort of operation are you running here? Your usual cowboy-style barely controlled chaos?” Chris snapped at Ardie. Ardie raised an eyebrow and decided it was not a day for diplomacy when Bo’s ex showed up at a work site. “What sort of operation are we running here?” he repeated. “I’m sorry, did I hear right? Did you actually utter that banal and vapid cliché? What’s next? I’ll never work in this town again?”

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Rhys’s gaze was as unperturbed as an iguana on a sunny rock as he broke off his visual cataloging of the room and looked with interest at the man who had cooled Chris’s jets so effectively. “Lord Turcotte expected that you or someone suitable would be waiting with a boat to bring him over to the island,” Chris complained. “Instead, the police accosted us, and our business was inquired into. We had to rely on them for transportation.” “I fully intended to be there to meet you,” Ardie said. “Unfortunately, a dead body turned up this morning, and I was detained by the police myself. Can you give me some idea how much more time we’ll have to waste in the browbeating and requisite groveling before your boss’s dignity is restored?” “Once a prick, always a…” “Chris, heel!” Rhys interrupted. Ardie’s heart was warmed by the quickly veiled look of wounded malice in the secretary’s eyes as he stepped back. He was over his surprise at Lord Turcotte’s very recent addition to his staff and was spoiling for a scrap with the gorgeous waste of protoplasm who had broken Bo’s heart. This satisfaction had been a long time coming. “Lord Turcotte, what a pleasure to have you visit,” Ardie said smoothly. “Not much to see. We’re just getting started, of course. Those inconvenient murders have really set us back.” “Save your sarcasm for people like Chris who can still feel the sting,” Rhys said. “Fuck, I hate this rotting pile of rock.” “Actually, this structure is in very sound shape,” Gryf said as he joined them. “The builders did an exemplary job. Some of the techniques used were very uncommon, unknown even, in 12th century Wales.” “Family tradition says the blood of virgins was mixed with the foundation,” Rhys said. Gryf was temporarily rendered speechless by this mental image, and James Weir arrived to take up the baton.

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“How very Arthurian of your ancestor,” the medieval expert said. “Although I believe in that particular tale, King Vortigern needed the blood of a child with no father to mix with the foundation of his sinking castle. I suspect your family tradition is the same sort of superstitious nonsense.” “Superstitious nonsense? That would be nice,” Rhys said.

TRISTAN walked out onto the battlements and leaned in one of the notches meant for archers. To his left, the jewel-case green velvet land of Wales, to his right, water like a burnished sheet of beaten silver. He could hear the plaintive cries of the gulls that drifted along the face of the cliffs, and his nose was full of the lachrymal tang of the sea. The sun was very warm on the top of his head as he leaned farther out into the updraft of air. As he gazed toward the village, the wind played with the ends of his hair like an unseen lover. On the road to the castle, Tristan could see two men on horses, dressed for a Renaissance Fair in tunics, leggings and cloaks. One was dark, hawk-faced and handsome, astride a gray Arabian, his hair like ink against his red tabard. The other rode a chestnut charger, but was of a size to make the warhorse seem a mount of ordinary stature. Though neither wore armor, it was plain they were knights by their bearing and the broadswords strapped to their saddles. Leaning farther out, Tristan realized he could see some of the landscape through the riders. He drew back, as a pair of large hands clamped around his hips, a heavy body pressed him against the merlon, and a rich voice spoke in his ear. “Sir Richard and Sir Odilon have answered the call.” The deep, vibrant voice sounded like Lord Turcotte’s, but Tristan had only heard his lordship from across the hall. The psychic could feel what was unmistakably a hard cock pressing against his buttocks, but he was held fast, however hard he tried to struggle. He shuddered when the big hands left his hips to pinch his nipples through his sweatshirt. Cold lips moved against the nape of his neck, raising goosebumps over his whole body.

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“How I wish I might take you now and spill your blood on these stones again.” Tristan moaned in distress as he was rocked hard against the crenel. Cruel fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat like a sacrifice on an altar. A sullen heat built in Tristan’s groin as he was held down and caressed against his will. Get a grip, he told himself angrily. You’re possessed again. Tentatively, the liaison unfurled the link that was his gift. As soon as the conduit was open, Tristan felt the presence pounce and lock on. Expecting this reaction, he did nothing that would feed the ghost. Serenely, Tristan waited for the spirit to act again. Instead, it rose and dissipated like mist when the sun comes up. Tristan braced himself against the cool stone, waiting out the shaky stomach and jelly legs, before he opened his eyes and looked down again. As he expected, there were no horsemen. They belonged to the very distant past, as did the persistently randy spirit who had assaulted him again. The next time they met, Tristan was determined to gain the upper hand and discover the revenant’s purpose. He would start actively hunting the ghost as soon as he got his breath back.

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Chapter Six TRISTAN walked carefully down the steps to the first underground level, intent on luring the revenant. The rock was damp down here, and sometimes patches of wetness accumulated, making footing treacherous. The only light was provided by strings of bare bulbs temporarily attached to the walls, and the pathways were bordered by swathes of impenetrable shadow. The liaison was relieved when the tapping noises turned out to be one of the crew chipping at the seam between two stone blocks. Gryf nodded cordially, but didn’t stop working as Tristan passed by, taking the narrower set of stairs that led to a lower level of dungeons. According to James’s research, it was here that prisoners were interrogated, and traces of ancient devices of torture could still be found. Tristan touched a hesitant finger to a flaking iron ring bolted to the wall and shivered at the thought of some unfortunate chained in the dank darkness, suffering and despairing. A tear overflowed and ran down Tristan’s cheek to drip from his chin and hang suspended in the flaring torchlight. Tristan stood still as stone, caught between one moment and the next as a big man in a cloak like shadows caught the shimmering droplet on his forefinger. Raising it to his lips, the ghost sucked the salt water from end of his finger. “There is no vintage so fine,” the specter murmured. “And you are such a fool.”

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The vibrant voice sent a shockwave though each cell of Tristan’s body, jarring him from his trance. It was definitely the presence from the battlements, the same spirit that had commandeered his body on his first night in the castle. The manifestation was the most tangible the liaison had ever encountered, and he saw now that he should have been more cautious. He had come down here like a schoolgirl going to pick daisies, but the ghost now displayed power to rival his own. This was not going to be a simple matter of outlasting the pranks and ploys of a petulant home-haunter until he had a good enough metaphysical grip to deploy the link. In fact, Tristan wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with this. Already, the revenant had taken control of sections of his psyche like a virus in a hard drive. Memories of a past that was not his own barraged him. Long vistas of burning sand rippled beneath a sky with the color baked out of it. Hordes of dark-robed enemies screamed the name of their deity as they ran forward. Flesh yawned open to spray his face with a red fountain as his sword clove a path through the slaughter. The incense-laden gloom of a holy place. The din and clangor of battle outside the door. Gauntleted hands held a slender struggling figure on an ancient altar. The thrust and the spilling of blood. Torchlight glinted redly on wet walls of rough rock. Iron chains clanked rhythmically against stone. A captive groaned in utter travail of flesh and spirit. Tristan’s vision cleared, and he saw that the rock walls of the vision were those that surrounded him now. The ruddy light of torches in bronze cressets replaced the stark electric illumination. The manacles looked freshly forged, eager to sink their cruel clutches in soft flesh. Ugly, blackened metal implements lay across a brazier that glowed with red-hot coals. Steady on, Tristan thought. None of this is real. No more real than the vision you saw from the battlements.

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However, he remembered vividly the cold weight of the body pressing him against the sun-warmed stone of the parapet. The sensation of being dry-humped had been quite convincing, and the earthy euphemism helped Tristan get a leash on his runaway imagination. He had been in similar situations before, albeit with Garry or Alicia at his side, and he had a fair amount of practical experience. He knew that many apparitions were strong-willed enough to make a psychic see things as the spirit wished them to be, their longing for the past so fierce it had a life of its own. In each of those cases, however, there had been only one scenario, and it never varied. It was always the ghost’s idealized image of the past or an endless re-creation of the apparition’s death. Whoever was haunting Caer Gwarchod was powerful and cohesive enough to create multiple mirages, and Tristan was simultaneously apprehensive about confronting a spirit of such potency and excited at the prospect of learning more about it. As far as he knew, this was the most impressive manifestation in history. Reassuring himself of his own esoteric gifts, Tristan conquered his fears and exerted his will. The horrible tension of the ‘on hold’ feeling broke like a rubber band stretched to its limit. Having released himself from the odd paralysis, Tristan deployed a method unique to him; the one Alicia dubbed ‘quicksand’. Allowing his link to bloom outward, Tristan let the arcane energy settle to cover him like a mist. When he visualized it, he pictured tiny motes of silvery-purplish light in a dancing fog. Cloaked in his gift, Tristan waited for the ghost to make another move so he could draw it in. He had time. He could be patient. The important thing was that he wasn’t afraid. “RIGHT here.” James tapped a spot on the blueprints. Bo rubbed his chin, calluses catching on two days’ worth of golden stubble. “Of course it would be in the dungeon,” he said lightly. “Where else?” “I didn’t say that this was the trove,” James cautioned. “Just that something was hidden here: an object that the Magus

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considered a token of great power. I’d wager my share that it’s the key to finding the treasure. Aqil refers to it as Al Clavo, an amalgam of Arabic and Spanish that means The Nail. Loosen your sphincter, lad, it might not be an actual nail and probably not one from the True Cross. It’s even possible I’ve mistranslated since clave means key, but I don’t think so.” “Shit, another dream of glory stomped on. What do you think it is, Jamie?” “Probably a dagger, stiletto or misericordia, something of that nature. The sort of blade that was used to give the coup de grace to the mortally wounded or afflicted, and if you persist in calling me Jamie, I shall procure one and use it on your pathetic manhood.” Bo shrieked in a comic falsetto and covered his crotch with both hands. Lord Turcotte looked over at the group around the table and said something to Ardie. Bo caught sight of Turcotte’s companion, did a double take and spoke quickly. “Someone should go check this out right now,” Bo said. “Is that the map of the location?” James looked surprised when his boss snatched the paper from his hand. “Yes, it’s on the second level. The map isn’t perfectly accurate. Make corrections while you’re there.” James looked after his boss in puzzlement at Bo’s hasty departure until he made the acquaintance of Lord Turcotte and his secretary. His respect for Bo’s knack of avoiding unpleasantness went up several notches. “CLEVER witch,” Alun said, using some the precious power he’d stored up to make himself more solid. “I have never encountered one such as you. You are not afraid of me, are you?” Tristan almost answered, but remembered to hold his tongue. Let the spirit declare itself and reveal as much as possible before giving the ghost any power over oneself by imparting knowledge. Garry had cited this guideline on more than one

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occasion. If Tristan had followed procedure, instead of thinking he could make his own rules, this would probably be over now. “It does not matter,” Alun said. “Speak or stay silent as it pleases you. I shall still take your essence to give me the strength to break the bonds of death. The rightful lord of this place shall once again hold sway here. ” A cold finger ran the length of Tristan’s spine. He had been threatened before, but always he had known the threats to be empty of serious danger. This ghost exuded such menacing selfconfidence that Tristan’s faith in his ability to banish the revenant was shaken. He should have realized right away that it was the ghost of the Crusader who built this castle. “Tremble, little one,” the phantom lord said. “Though it does not show on your face, your insides are quaking. Did you like what I did to you on the parapet? Do you yearn now for my touch, slut that you are?” Tristan steadfastly kept his lips closed and drew his gift around him like a blanket to keep out the cold evil that radiated from the apparition. “You burn to feel my touch again,” Alun said. “I can see it in your eyes, as I saw it then: the same heat that burns in the black eyes of the Saracen houris. You were born to bear a warrior’s lust and take him with you to paradise.” Alun moved purposefully forward, and Tristan took a step back. Realizing how far he’d gone into the ghost’s fantasy world, Tristan tried to see the dungeon as it really was, but no matter how hard he concentrated, the torches still burned stubbornly bright. Though he knew that none of this could possibly be real, Tristan found he was retreating until his back was against the wall. “Pretty one,” Alun said, looming over the boy. “You cannot escape your fate.” In sudden panic, Tristan focused the mist into a shieldshape and pushed it at the ghost. Lord Alun was flung across the dungeon, passing through the far wall and out of sight. The young

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liaison stood with hands braced against the damp stone behind him, staring, wide-eyed and panting, at the spot where the phantom had disappeared. Tristan had sworn not to use his gift offensively, except as a last resort, and though he’d felt threatened, he wondered now if he hadn’t over-reacted. When nothing happened for several heartbeats, Tristan drew a deep, shuddering breath and stepped away from the wall. A ghost with the face of a Bedouin prince appeared in the doorway. “Forgive me,” the phantom said. “I cannot allow you to leave.” Tristan was slow to react as the dark-cloaked figure flowed into the room. Cobra-quick, the ghost snaked out his hand, gripped the young man’s throat and applied firm pressure. The spirit’s fingertips sank into Tristan’s flesh, and the liaison stopped moving. Tristan fought panic as his gift went dormant and refused any attempt to rouse it. “Again, I must apologize,” the ghost said. “It is not by my will that I do this, but that of Lord Alun, may his name be forever cursed.” “Aqil is not a very respectful servant,” Alun said as he rematerialized. “But it would be impossible to do this without him.” Tristan stared at the Crusader’s ghost in dread. The situation had changed dramatically. There was no longer a buffer between him and the Unseen World. “You may as well speak, witch,” Alun said. “Your powers are checked by the Magus’s magic. Aqil, bring him here to me.” Aqil released his chokehold and marched Tristan to Alun. Two more ghosts appeared at Alun’s shoulder, both as tall as he and with the same martial mien. The three knights stood over the liaison like tigers surrounding a staked lamb while the Magus hung back. “Why are you doing this?” Tristan spoke at last. “To prevent brigands from taking my treasure,” Lord Alun said.

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“You’ve remained on this plane for nine hundred years to guard your treasure?” Tristan asked. “Surely you have a stronger reason than that.” “His soul is bound to the precious things he took from the temple,” Aqil answered before Alun’s glare silenced him. “I will take you, witch, and consume your essence,” Alun told Tristan. “And I shall be reborn into flesh. Then I will taste the wonders of this new world. ” “Impossible,” Tristan breathed. Alun laughed and leaned back against the broad chest of the ginger-haired knight. “I do not care what you believe to be possible, little one. ” “He is a toothsome morsel,” the big man said. “When may we sample him?” “Patience, my lusty lion,” Alun grinned. “The feast is not yet prepared, but since he was foolish enough to invite us, we may enjoy certain delicacies while we are waiting.” Aqil’s kohl-rimmed eyes burned with contempt, but his soul was in thrall to the lord, and he could not disobey. Reluctantly, the Easterner prepared the gifted one, salving his qualms with the knowledge that it would make the ordeal easier for the boy, as well as serving Alun’s purpose. “Softly, Doe-Eyes. I will not cause you pain,” Aqil told Tristan. The liaison whimpered as a strong pulse of erotic electricity galvanized his groin. He felt his cock rise like a magic rope trick, stretching the crotch of his track pants. The slight pressure of the fabric on his erection was maddening as the waves of pleasure ratcheted ever higher by the second. He felt as though he were going to climax when Aqil spoke. “The offering is prepared.”

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BO gave vent to a vicious curse and slammed his fist against the wall at the top of the stairs. The skin of his knuckles broke open and began to bleed, but he didn’t notice. Chris. What the fuck was Chris doing here? ‘Tormenting you, of course,’ the little voice said. ‘After all, it’s all about you, right?’ Chris is working for Turcotte, Bo argued with himself. He knew I was here. This is deliberate. Bo’s conscience seemed to have no answer for that. It was unfathomable to Bo that Chris would come home to England and accidentally take a job with the man who owned the castle where Bo was working. It had to be a plot to torture him further. It was almost a year since Bo had last seen gorgeous, exciting, and very skilled Chris, and it appeared as though none of Bo’s wishes had been granted. Hideous boils had not erupted all over lithe blond man’s face and body, nor was he walking as though a surface-to-air missile was lodged in his ass. Chris was just as gorgeous as the day he walked way from Bo, and he probably had Turcotte wrapped around his pretty cock. ‘Why me?’ Bo wondered. ‘Because you’re cursed by the Gods,’ his conscience said. ‘Must I keep reminding you?’ ‘Shut up,’ Bo suggested darkly, as he continued down the stairs. SHIVERING with unbidden lust, Tristan sagged and was caught by the biggest knight. The liaison was appalled by the solidity of these ghosts; even in their shadow realm they should not be capable of such physical acts. The arm around Tristan’s chest and the big hand that ensnared both his wrists felt all too real as Lord Alun peeled Tristan’s pants down his hips far enough to expose the rosy head of his arousal. The Crusader’s ghost squeezed and a pearl of fluid welled from the tip. Alun painted the

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red-haired ghost’s lips with the viscous essence, and Richard’s tongue flicked out to savor the taste. “What of me?” the third ghost inquired silkily. “Come, Odilon,” Alun invited, moving aside. Odilon removed Tristan’s pants and lifted the liaison’s calves to his shoulders. Wrapping his arms around the long thighs, Odilon buried his face in the young man’s crotch. Tristan jerked spasmodically when the ghost’s cool, slippery tongue slid into his anus. The slick muscle felt longer than it should have, as it probed into Tristan’s sheath in a manner that could only be described as prehensile. The rough/soft tongue tip nudged Tristan’s prostate and swirled around the sensitive bump. Aqil watched in disapproval, his tattooed lips moving in a silent incantation that sustained the boy’s unnatural arousal. It was an unworthy use of the magic, but the Magus could not disobey his master. When the corrupt Crusaders had slaked their thirst, Aqil would give the favored one the solace of forgetfulness, wiping this rape from his memory. “How does he taste?” Lord Alun asked his minions. “Like life,” Odilon answered. “Like victory,” Richard declared. Tristan shuddered as Alun took hold of his aching manhood and pumped it firmly. Richard leaned over the stiff rod of flesh and lapped at the salty liqueur it produced. Tristan squirmed between them, moaning helplessly in the throes of a terrible bliss as the knights absorbed the emanations of his distress. “Sublime, ” Odilon commented, licking at Richard’s lips. Alun nodded a command, and Richard took Tristan’s length down his throat without hesitation. Odilon tongued the young man’s tightened scrotum as he pressed the tips of his thumbs to the furled rosette below. Richard engulfed the boy’s pulsing rod to the root, swallowing as he let it slide between his lips. Rubbing another talisman in his fingers, the Magus magnified the arousal spell, speeding the build up of release. While

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connected to the youth by the spell, Aqil let the waves of energy radiating from the gifted one wash over him and revitalize him. It was not strictly honorable, but he needed to stay strong. Tristan twisted in the grip of overwhelming sensation. Richard’s teeth scraped at the swollen vein on the underside of his cock while his mustache tickled the drawn up sack below it. Odilon’s tongue teased the sensitive skin around the liaison’s opening while he massaged the tingling nub of his prostate with two fingers. Tristan gave a muffled cry as the first precursor of his climax pierced his groin with a dart of intense pleasure. Richard sucked harder, savoring the delicate flavor of the hot, silken flesh. Odilon stabbed his tongue into the psychic alongside his fingers, and Tristan cried out again as his cock twitched against the back of Richard’s throat. Lord Alun poised himself to receive the outpouring of energy when Tristan reached his peak. Aqil touched a silver charm at his neck and prayed to a Goddess who had long ago turned Her face from him. ‘Dark Mother, keep this innocent child from harm.’ “Who’s fucking around down here?” Bo called out. “Damn the man!“ Alun cursed, lifting his head. “Aqil! Have we time? ” “He is very close, Lord, ” Aqil said ambiguously. “Saracen trickster,” Odilon said, rubbing harder at the boy’s trigger. “Make him spurt.” “You know I can only influence him, lord,” Aqil said with satisfaction. Tristan groaned loudly, and Bo called again from outside the door. Lord Alun made an inarticulate sound of rage, and Odilon pulled his fingers from Tristan’s sheath. Grabbing a fistful of his knights’ hair in either hand, Alun pulled them with him as he ascended. “Learn to suck a cock, ” the Lord snarled at his minions as they faded in mid-air.

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Aqil rose to join them, and they disappeared from sight as Bo entered the torture chamber.

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Chapter Seven MORGAN IDRIS, nobody’s favorite son, was dead drunk and snoring loudly with his head on a stout oak table in the Briny Rose. Ah, but in his dreams he rode across the velvet hills of Eire on a giant stag as white as snow with a rack of many points. His tunic was so richly dyed it glowed red as poppies even in the moonlight. Thick, dark hair was held back from his face by a golden band and gathered into a braid that reached to his belt. In the crook of his left arm he cradled a harp and with his right hand he coaxed sublime melodies from the silver strings. As the stag ran, Morgan sang in ancient Celtic of a land where poets and warriors were honored and mead flowed like water in halls of gold. The mythic animal brought them to a chalky path between two parallel rows of tall flame shaped trees. The narrow, dark green leaves were crushed beneath cloven hooves, releasing the ancient perfume of sandalwood. Ahead was a fountain of black marble, before which stood a tall woman clothed in white. She lifted her head, tresses as red as Morgan’s tunic flowing like blood down her alabaster breasts and shoulders. Beckoning to the harper, the lady crowned with apple blossoms smiled in welcome. Morgan began to dismount when she held up her hand. “You must go back, my champion,” she said, in a voice sweeter than the scent of honeysuckle. “I bid you return to the Waking World and defend your brother.” “I have no brother, Lady, as you know.”

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“Not a brother of the flesh, but of the spirit. Go now in sweet forgetfulness, my hawk. You may return when your task is finished.” Morgan woke and sat blinking blearily at the convivial crowd that filled the pub. Out of habit, he picked up the mug in front of him and brought it to his lips. “Strewth! Watch it, mate!” a passer-by exclaimed as Morgan spit out a mouthful of beer and a cigarette butt. Ignoring the annoyed patron, Morgan surged to his feet. From behind the bar, Sean Dymock watched his most loyal customer lurch for the door like he had a purpose. A frown corrugated Sean’s forehead as he glanced at the clock. It was nearly closing time, and he called for last orders so he could be about personal business.

BO entered the dungeon just as Tristan’s limp body struck the floor, and the boy yelped in pain. Stuffing James’s map in his pocket, Bo hurried across the room. As he knelt beside the liaison, he took out his radio. “Hey Ardie, what’s shakin'?” he said in code for, ‘is anyone with you?’ “All clear,” Ardie said. “Scraped Sir Rhys off on Gilroy. Fuck, can you believe Chris’s nerve in coming here? What a piece of work.” “Ardie, I need you to come to the torture chamber right now. Bring your first aid kit; we might need it.” Bo’s second in command didn’t stop to ask a lot of questions. He merely gathered some essential facts as he walked over to his partitioned area and grabbed his bag. Who was injured? What was the nature of the injury? Was he conscious? Bo answered, but Ardie didn’t know much more than he had before he asked the questions. Bo put his radio down as Tristan started to shiver. Putting his wrist to the boy’s forehead, he felt for

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inordinate heat, but even though Tristan looked like he had a fever, his skin was cool to the touch. “What the hell were you doing?” Bo murmured, assessing the psychic’s pants-less state. “Pulling your pud in the dungeon?” Having been granted forgetfulness, but still under the spell of arousal, Tristan moaned at the man’s touch. Blindly, he reached out and grabbed a handful of male crotch. Having found what he craved, Tristan squeezed enthusiastically. “Oh shit,” Bo breathed. “Not again.” “Please,” Tristan whimpered. Bo swallowed hard. He cut his eyes to the door and then back to the young man pitifully begging him for release. ‘What the hell are you thinking?’ Bo’s conscience spoke up. ‘You know this is wrong.’ Bo ignored it. The echoes of the Saracen’s erotic magic resonated in his groin and shut down the rational parts of his brain. “I’m probably damned already anyway,” he muttered as he gripped the boy’s arousal. Tristan did all the work, thrusting quickly into the man’s hand until he shot a powerful stream of seed into the stale air. With a sigh of relief, the young man settled to the floor and closed his eyes. Focused on the psychic, Bo didn’t see the cum evaporate before it could fall to the floor. ‘Feel good about yourself?’ Bo’s little voice began to berate him. “Bo!” Ardie called, drowning out Bo’s guilty conscience. “In here,” Bo called back. By the time Ardie came through the door, Bo had pulled up Tristan’s pants and was taking his pulse. “Let me,” Ardie said, gently but firmly pushing Bo aside. Tristan immediately latched on to Ardie’s crotch. Ardie recoiled so fast he landed on his butt. “Whoa!” he remarked. “What the hell was that?”

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“I tried to tell you,” Bo said. “He does that.” Ardie eyed Tristan warily as the young man whimpered and stretched out a hand in supplication. “Uh, this is weird,” Ardie said. “Is there a male form of nymphomania?” “Why are you asking me?” “Just wondering out loud,” Ardie said. “Man, look at him.” “I don’t dare,” Bo said. “It’ll make my dick hard.” Ardie glanced at Bo’s crotch. “Too late,” he said. “Want to hear something really weird?” “Weirder than this shit? No, thank you. This is plenty weird enough for me.” Ardie’s lips twitched. “I’m not gay, a fact you’re wellacquainted with, but right now I’ve got a raging, throbbing hard-on right out of cheesy piece of paperback smut.” “Now I am worried,” Bo said. “Should we call a shrink?” “Call me crazy,” Ardie said, “but I think your best bet is a priest. This kid believes in possession; let’s get the local witch doctor to cast the devils out.” Bo ran his thumb along the angle of his jaw. ‘This is the worst idea you’ve had yet,’ said his little voice. Bo took out his phone and flipped it open. He punched in Gavin Gilroy’s number and waited for the man to answer. “Hi. Yeah I know. Well, I don’t care. Tell Sir Rhys’s flunky to blow him. That ought to keep them both busy. I need a favor.” Bo was quiet for a few moments and then spoke again. “Point taken; I realize I’m not in charge. Now here’s what I need. Can you get the Vicar over here? Or would that be against policy?” Another silence from Bo, and then, “I appreciate it. As soon as you can wipe present company off your shoes, get Gryf to bring you down to the torture chamber.” Bo listened and then replied. “No, we just call it that because that’s where we party down with the whips and chains. Of course, it’s a real torture chamber. Or was. Hey, Gavin? Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

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“You’re a real people person,” Ardie remarked when Bo hung up. “Fuck you, Ardie,” Bo said cordially. “Shit, look at him. It’s enough to make you believe in Spanish fly.” “His motor is definitely turning over,” Ardie said. “Wonder who switched him on?” Bo glanced at his watch without answering and Ardie looked curiously at his oldest friend. “No comeback?” Ardie asked. “Sorry, just a little worried.” “That’s usually when you start bantering,” Ardie said. “What’s up?” “I told you. The kid acted like that before. So hot for it he couldn’t even talk.” “What about you?” Ardie said, taking Tristan’s hot dry hand in his. “What?” “You don’t jump in the sack with just anybody,” Ardie said. “You’re not like that. So why did you do it? Why didn’t you push him away?” “I … couldn’t.” “I’ll believe anything you tell me and swear it’s the truth under oath, but this is Twilight Zone material, you know?” “You don’t believe in ghosts anymore than I do,” Bo said. “If we did, we’d have to admit there’s an afterlife.” “And change our evil ways,” Ardie completed the litany. “This is very weird, though.” “I know.” “As long as we’re in agreement,” Ardie said. “Everything else will be cake.” Bo squeezed Ardie’s shoulder, and the two men shared a smile. Suddenly, Tristan’s back arched, and the boy cried out sharply. Planting his feet against the floor, the boy lifted his pelvis

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as though meeting a lover halfway. Little mewling noises escaped his throat as his legs pumped, and he rocked as though taking some man’s hard length into his sheath. “Sweet Jesus!” The mild curse was loud in the silence. Ardie and Bo turned as Morgan Idris slogged into the room, soaking wet. “Where the hell did you come from?” Bo said getting to his feet. “Ah, merciful Heavens, make it stop!” Morgan sobbed as he stared at Tristan, tears mixing with the salt water on his face. “Get it off the poor lad!” “Hey, Morgan,” Bo said with forced brightness. “How are you tonight? Why don’t we go have a drink?” “Let me help him,” Morgan insisted. “I can make it go away.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bo said. “Don’t ya see it?” Morgan’s eyes were still locked on Tristan. The Irishman could clearly see the ghost ravishing the pretty lad on the floor of this terrible place. The apparition had the seeming of a well-built man with pale skin, eyes like onyx and dark hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. With wild abandon, the revenant thrust into its victim. Morgan fell to his knees weeping as the assault continued. Sir Alun turned from his pleasant task and smiled at Morgan. “He’s so full of life,” the ghost said. “Monster!” Morgan sobbed. “Why are you tormenting that poor lad?” “We must feed,” the apparition said, never missing a stroke. “The other hosts were … weak, but this youth bursts with energy, and he invited me.”

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Morgan had no doubt what the ghost meant by these words. “Cillian,” the Irishman gasped, looking heavenward. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to harm you.” “What the devil’s going on in here?” Gavin Gilroy asked as he entered. “Constable,” the Vicar shouted from behind the policeman. “I insist you remove that drunk immediately.” Morgan looked around wildly as Ardie started toward him. Bo held his arms out as if herding a stray sheep and Morgan swerved away from him. “No,” Morgan yelled. “Let me be. Let me help the poor lad.” “I think you’ve helped enough poor lads from what I just heard,” Gavin said, grabbing Morgan’s wrist. “You’d better come along with me and spend the night in the lock-up. Tomorrow when you’re sober, you’ll be answering a few more questions for me.” Morgan flung himself away and crashed into Bo. Both men went down, and Bo held onto the Irishman as they fetched up against Ardie. Morgan wrenched around and stretched out his hand. “Don’t let that madman touch the boy,” the Vicar called out. Ardie grabbed Morgan by the shoulders and rolled him away from Tristan. Gavin lunged and snapped a handcuff around Morgan’s wrist. Hauling up on the steel bracelet, Gavin pulled Morgan farther away from the writhing victim. “No,” Morgan sobbed. “Let me touch him. I must touch him.” “Filthy pervert,” the minister said. “I pray for you, Morgan Idris.” Morgan stared wild-eyed at the priest. “Help me, Father,” the Irishman pleaded. “Tell them. I have the Sight. I can see the

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evil creature havin’ its way with the lad. The glanconer will ravish him until it drains him.” “You poor soul,” the Vicar said. “Poor deluded soul. Constable, I think it would be wisest if Mr. Idris underwent a psychiatric examination rather than being put with the more common criminals. For his own safety.” “That’s a good idea,” Gavin agreed. “Come along now,” he said, pulling Morgan’s arm. “No!” Morgan screamed, frantically trying to pull away. “Brigid! Lady, help me do your bidding.” The Irishman succeeded in breaking Gavin’s grip, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he promptly fell on his face. With Bo’s assistance, Gavin hauled Morgan to his feet and steadied him. Gavin dragged Morgan away, the Irishman cursing all the way down the hall and up the stone stairs. The Vicar ignored the shouting and came to kneel beside Tristan and Ardie. As the priest reached for Tristan’s hand, Sir Alun faded like an old Polaroid. “Poor child,” the minister said. “He suffers. Satan’s hand lies heavy on him.” Ardie held his tongue out of respect for the uniform. Sean Carnes was a man of the cloth, and though Ardie was not a believer, he was not a scoffer, either. The Vicar touched Tristan’s cheek, and the liaison quieted. “Do you think I might have a moment to pray with him?” Carnes asked. “Sure,” Ardie said, getting to his feet. Ardie joined Bo, and they watched the Vicar take one of Tristan’s hands between his and bow his head. Without a word spoken, Ardie and Bo turned and gave the minister privacy. “The kid seems to have settled down,” Bo said. “Yeah,” Ardie said. “I know it was my idea, but I’m not sure now that a priest…”

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“Ardie, some day you have to put the reservation behind you. Not all clergy are like the monks who taught at your school.” “I know, Bo. I probably just need some rest.” “We all do,” Bo said. “Let’s hope we get it.” “Gentlemen,” the Vicar said. “I think your young friend is feeling better now.” Bo and Ardie turned to see Tristan sitting up and looking around like a child who falls asleep at granny’s house and wakes up in his own bed. The boy’s eyes touched Ardie’s, and then Bo’s, before focusing on the Vicar. “I know you, don’t I?” Tristan said. “Like any pure soul, you respond to the power of my God within me,” Carnes said. Tristan frowned. “If you say so, Father,” he said. “Thank you for waking me. I was having a very disturbing nightmare.” “My reward is in my service to my Lord,” the Vicar said. “But I accept your thanks. If you would care to talk about your nightmares, my door is always open.” “I’m absolutely done in,” Tristan said. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to lie down more than I need answers.” The Vicar stood and offered his hand, but Tristan got to his feet on his own. Combing his disheveled hair with his fingers, Tristan started for the door. Bo caught the young man as his knees gave way. Putting the boy’s arm around his neck, Bo encircled the slim waist and half-carried Tristan out of the dungeon. As they passed a gaping doorway on the next level, Tristan contrived to throw Bo off balance, and they fell into the room. Bo landed on his shoulder and rolled to a stop with Tristan atop him. Tristan’s face was centimeters from Bo’s, his eyes melting with lust. Bo’s cock hardened as the young man ground against him. “Tristan,” he said reasonably. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” “Why? Because I’m a nut case?”

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Taken aback by hearing his thoughts spoken aloud, Bo answered quickly. “No! Well, yeah, kinda. This is all a little crazy.” Tristan’s stiff shaft rolled over Bo’s. “Is this crazy?” he purred. “Ahhh,” Bo groaned. “Yes, it’s insanity. Stop that.” “You mean this?” Tristan asked as he shifted his hips again. “I said stop.” “I’m not deaf,” Tristan made a subtle humping motion. “Why are you doing this?” “I’m hot and horny, and you’re hung and hairy.” “Dirty talk,” Bo said. “You’re not fighting fair.” “I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck. I want you to put your cock in me, thrust and repeat until we both cum like geysers.” “Normally, there’s nothing I’d like better, but I think you might be a little vulnerable right now. You should go to bed, by yourself, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.” “I want to fuck now,” Tristan said petulantly. “Well, I’m not playing along anymore,” Bo said. “You caught me by surprise the first time, but it won’t work again. I like sex as much as the next guy, but this is too weird.” The boy’s eyelids drooped, and his lower lip protruded in a pout. “But I really want to.” “Stop,” Bo said sternly as the lap dance resumed. “Make me,” Tristan taunted in a throaty voice as he mashed his cock against Bo’s. “Son of a bitch!” Bo cursed as the boy rocked against him. Tristan laughed softly as he held Bo pinned and mimicked thrusting against him. Bo struggled to throw the young man off, but Tristan was quite a bit stronger than he appeared. Bo’s attempts to free himself only created greater friction.

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“Fuck,” Bo groaned as his eager cock twitched and disgorged sticky fluid inside his jeans. Tristan got off the man and grabbed his own cock through the silky track pants. Rapidly, the boy fisted his hard length, eyes closed, white teeth embedded in his lower lip. Bo lay catching his breath, his heart racing as he watched the beautiful boy masturbate. What Tristan had just done to him was tantamount to rape, but it was one of the most powerful climaxes Bo had ever experienced. As he tried to sort out his feelings, the wink of gold on the fingers moving against soft navy fabric lulled Bo into a near-trance state. He lay on the stones of the temple floor, his life running into the cracks in a red flood. With his dying sight, he watched the invader lift the avatar to the altar. In horror, he saw the unbeliever expose his manhood and ravish the Goddess’s servant. The armored intruder wore a cross upon his back and took the virgin avatar like the cheapest whore. Tears blurred Bo’s vision as he lay helpless, racking sobs filling his ears. A cry of fulfillment jarred Bo out of his reverie, and he watched the fabric of Tristan’s track pants darken with moisture. The tip of the liaison’s tongue showed between his teeth as he sighed and released his sated shaft. “What the hell just happened?” Bo asked, getting to his feet. Tristan lips curved in an impish smile, but he didn’t speak Bo stared at the young man for a long moment. “Is this really how you want to play it?” he asked. “Because I don’t care much for games.” “You are not required to enjoy it,” Tristan said. “But you must play.” The young man walked away from Bo, leaving the salvager staring after him with an incredulous expression on his face. Bo had been with more than one young man that his friends had termed “users,” Chris being the most recent example. However, none of the previous poisonous beauties had possessed anything like Tristan’s breathtakingly brutal honesty. Bo realized that nine of ten men probably wouldn’t understand his hesitation. They’d

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tell him to get some while the getting was good and get out before the heartaches started, but Bo had never been able to do that. He always hung on. Tristan had rocked Bo’s world, making him do things against his better judgment. Bo didn’t believe in ghosts, and he was leery of psychiatry, but there had to be some explanation for the way he was behaving. He would rather believe he was possessed or crazy than that he just couldn’t keep it in his pants. He got to his feet and dusted off his hands, no closer to understanding than before, but determined to get a grip on this situation. And until he did, there would be no more fooling around with Tristan.

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Chapter Eight “I’M calling the Institute,” was the first thing Ardie said to Bo at their five a.m. meeting. “They said the kid might behave oddly, but I don’t think this is what they meant. I admit; I don’t understand exactly what it is he does, but I think this situation is too much for him.” “Good idea,” Bo said. “Sir Rhys will be here soon for his official tour. I’m going to have a walk around and check on Gryf. Are you okay?” “Have you known me not to be?” Ardie answered. “Point taken. Don’t hesitate to use the radio if you need me.” “Have I ever?” “That’s my boy,” Bo smiled. “Nothing fazes you.” “That’s what it says on the men’s room wall,” Ardie replied. “Go on now, pard. You’re keeping me from working.” Ardie pointedly took out his phone and flipped it open, stabbing at the buttons. “It’s okay that you’re worried about the kid,” Bo said softly. “I am, too.” Ardie rolled his eyes and pointed to the phone. Bo shook his head. “Tough guy,” he muttered, but he was smiling fondly as he turned away and headed for the double staircase.

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“MY lord,” Richard said, his voice as hollow as a bronze bell in the cavernous room. “Aye, my lion?” Alun raised his head, surfacing from a narcotic memory of the harem he’d kept in the Holy Land. “You are still too weak, my lord. You must feed again before you attempt this, but it seems as though some power favors this witch. Each time we begin the ravishment, something happens to prevent completion.” “Only from you will I accept a gainsaying of my will,” Alun said, his eyes flashing. “I love you well, Richard; you are my right arm. But I will not hesitate to cut off that arm if it should betray me with disloyalty.” “I am loyal,” Richard said. “I am not bound to you by spells like the Saracen or by greed like Odilon. I gave you my blood oath in life; I will not fail you even in death.” “I do not doubt you,” Alun put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “And you are right. I must increase my strength before I can utterly consume the witch.” Aqil appeared in answer to Alun’s silent summons. “What do you require of me, lord?” “I need to feed again,” Alun said. “That damned mortal intruded in a most untimely manner. Aqil, may I feed without calling my minion?” The Magus bowed his head, masses of ebony hair sliding forward on his shoulders. “Aye, lord. It is being arranged. Now that the witch wears your token, it will be easier to influence him from afar.”

BO walked the upper reaches of Caer Gwarchod, inspecting all of the areas that Gryf had tagged as suspect. He examined the stone carefully for signs of stress fractures. They would be blasting in the dungeon very soon, and Bo would prefer

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it if the whole pile of rocks didn’t come down on their heads. Satisfied with his inspection, he walked out into the blowing day. The sun was bright, but the air was chilly up here on the battlements. The bruise dark clouds were stacked so high, Bo knew they had to topple soon and drench the earth below. The ocean was riddled with divots, each wave crested with a cap of creamy foam. A great and nameless longing pierced Bo’s heart, and he walked forward to stand in an embrasure. He stared out at the line where the sky collided with the water while the capricious wind crept under his clothes, running cold fingers over his skin. “It’s beautiful in an uncompromising sort of way, isn’t it?” Bo didn’t turn at the sound of Tristan’s voice. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that the psychic had found him here. It was as though Bo had come here to wait for him. The moment hung suspended like the gulls soaring the cliff face. It had always been thus. The man was drawn to the sea, and the boy was drawn to the man. That never changed. ‘What’s this nonsense?’ Bo’s conscience nagged. ‘Get hold of yourself.’ Bo tried to concentrate, but everything seemed to be receding at a rapid rate. The small, dry voice seemed to come from some unimaginable distance out past Pluto. Then the boy spoke, and Bo heard nothing but that sweet voice. A soft hand was laid over Bo’s where it rested on the stone. Bo turned his hand palm up and interlaced their fingers. He did it deftly and without thinking, like an action performed so many times the muscles have a memory of it. The cool, slim fingers fit perfectly with his callused, capable hand. Yes, they were perfectly balanced: the earthly with the mystical, the warrior and the priest, the guardian and the treasure. Without the other, neither would need to exist, nor could. They were two halves of a perfect whole and the name of that wholeness was Love. The man turned, not caring if they should be seen, and took the lithe body of his lover in his arms. Temple law said that the

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avatar must remain virgin, but there was much they could do to pleasure one another without penetration. Lust flared as bare skin slid against bare skin and mouths met in a warm, wet collision of lips and tongues. “What do you see?” Tristan whispered into Bo’s ear when the kiss ended. “You, only you,” the man said fervently, kissing his way down the long neck, pulling the odd tunic over the boy’s head. “And who am I?” “You are…” Bo’s fingers tightened around Tristan’s biceps as he looked up to meet the boy’s eyes. “You are desire,” the man said. “And your beauty outshines Her stars.” “What’s my name?” “You know it is forbidden to speak it. Why do you tease me?” Tristan fought the compulsion to give in and let the enthralled treasure hunter make love to him again. The liaison recognized the ghost’s inimical will at work, but that didn’t quell the rush of heat that lit his loins. Though it would be easy to surrender to the spell, Tristan resisted. He didn’t want to feed the revenant the sexual energy that would add to its strength. However, when he tried to shake off the compulsion, he found himself struggling against his own attraction to Andressen magnified one hundredfold. No matter how Tristan struggled to raise his gift, it remained stubbornly quiescent. The power that normally flowed through him was dammed, and he had the maddeningly elusive notion that he should know why. Tristan had to admit that he could not get free of the ghost’s sway, and unlike previous encounters, he was sharply aware of all that was happening. Thus far, he had taken everything in stride, assimilated it, and kept moving forward, but the dead Crusader was so powerful that Tristan found he was wishing that Garry were here.

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‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ Tristan concentrated on the wry voice as the bespelled Bo lavished caresses on him. “Help us,” the liaison requested. Bo ignored the conversation as he coaxed the boy with light touches and wet kisses. ‘He looks to be enjoying himself.’ “He’s under an inimical influence,” Tristan said. “Oh… oh, shit, ohhhh, that’s nice.” The boy moaned as Bo nuzzled the hollow between his clavicles. ‘Inimical influence? Is that a special gifted term for evil spirit?’ “I don’t like to categorize spirits,” Tristan’s words ended on a gasp. ‘How politically correct of you.’ Bo licked the nipple he had just bitten as he kneaded Tristan’s buttocks. “You’re supposed to look after him,” Tristan said accusingly. ‘Am I?’ Tristan groaned as a hand slipped under the drawstring waist of his pants and cupped a bare buttock. Rough fingers crept into the boy’s cleft, massaging and probing. “Are you going to help or not?” Tristan asked. ‘I don’t fancy being snuffed out like a firefly in a jar.’ “You’re afraid of the spirit that haunts this place?” ‘You should be, too.’ “Why? He’s very powerful, but in the end just a ghost. I’ll eventually get the upper hand,” Tristan said bravely. ‘A tiger is just a cat. You won’t heed me, but I’ll warn you anyway. You have something he wants very, very badly, and he will break you open to get at it.’

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“He won’t break me with sex,” Tristan said firmly. “I know my body’s limits.” ‘I said you wouldn’t heed me.’ Tristan was having great difficulty ignoring what Bo was doing to him. Standing sideways, with a hand down the front and back of Tristan’s pants, Bo fisted the boy’s arousal and nudged delicately at his rear entry. “Help us,” Tristan tried again to link with the acerbic presence. The liaison’s gift touched nothing but the pervasive force of the revenant’s will like a miasma rising from a stagnant swamp, growing thicker by the second. Accepting that they were facing this alone, Tristan tried to talk to Bo again. Perhaps Tristan couldn’t break the ghost’s control just yet, but he could learn more about the adversary. “Who are you?” Tristan asked softly as the man nuzzled his neck. “I have the honor to be your beloved,” the man murmured. “Beloved,” Tristan said as the man licked the rim of his ear. “Aye?” “Where are we?” The man sighed. “I know we should not do this in Her sacred temple, but I do not believe that She truly disapproves. It is only the Elders that frown upon it.” “Whose temple is this?” Bo chuckled, as the tip of his finger eased into Tristan and the boy gasped. “It is your temple, my love. At least it is when you wear the seeming of She Who Made Us.” Tristan’s eyebrows went up as he searched his brain for ancient Eastern cults that worshipped a Mother Goddess who was served by transvestites. It was extremely difficult to think with Bo sucking his nipple and stroking his cock.

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“And what are you to me?” Tristan panted as his balls tightened. “I am sworn to protect you with my life,” Bo said against the smooth skin of the boy’s chest. Tristan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rapidly dropping temperature. The dark clouds had reached them, blocking out the sun. A spectral light filtered through the thunderheads, leaching color from the world and causing anything white to glow like an afterimage. Tristan felt the ghost’s will come to bear, and lust took him over. Bo groaned as his arousal was grabbed and stroked through his cargo pants. Tristan’s breath caught in his throat as his cock was pumped to a faster pace. Bo’s finger sank deeper in the tender opening. With a choked-off cry, Tristan coated the man’s fist, and in the dungeon far below, the revenant exulted at the influx of raw energy. “And I thought I made a funny face when I cum,” Chris said as he stepped from the tower doorway to the parapet. Tristan jumped guiltily away from Bo and snatched his sweatshirt from the ground. Pulling the garment over his head, Tristan walked away without a word. The salvager blinked in the strong sunlight, feeling as though he’d just woken from a very pleasant dream to the clanging of an alarm. Let Tristan go, he thought. Why subject the kid to Chris’s acid tongue? For the life of him, Bo couldn’t remember how he and the psychic had gotten into such a compromising position again, but he wished like hell Chris hadn’t seen it. “What are you doing here?” Bo asked before his ex could speak again. With Chris, the best defense was a good offense. “I go where my employer goes,” Chris said coolly. “Don’t change the subject. Who was that luscious dish of delish that scampered off, clutching at his pearls with such school-girlish mortification?” “I’m not inclined to talk to you about him,” Bo answered. “What are you doing here?”

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“I … work … for … Sir … Rhys,” Chris explained slowly. “For how long?” Bo ignored the sarcasm. “Immaterial.” “Bullshit! You’re here to torture me. You got a taste for it, and now you can’t stop. You’re an addict, Chris, and my pain is your drug of choice.” “You’re so fucking arrogant,” Chris said. “Of course this is about you. I’ve nothing else to do with my time but plan my revenge on a man that I dumped.” Bo’s laugh was an ugly thing that contained no humor. “Dumped. You do have a way with words. You flushed me like a piece of shit. I don’t think that rent-a-twink stopped sucking your dick for a second while you were tossing me out of the flat.” Chris rolled his eyes. “He was nothing. A piece of fluff that stuck to me when I left the club. That wasn’t what you objected to, and we both know it.” “You don’t know shit,” Bo said coldly. “You tried to break my heart, Chris, and you damn near did. I don’t know why you’re the way you are, and frankly, I no longer care. I just want you to take your show on the road.” “Yes, you looked quite broken-hearted when I walked out here,” Chris said. “I told you, don’t talk about him.” “Oh please! Like he’s too good for me to sully.” “That’s right,” Bo said. “You taint everything you touch.” “Oh, Bo,” Chris said archly. “Where’s your sense of drama? Why have a boring old love affair with a ruggedly gorgeous guy when you can make a play for his equally gorgeous best friend and drive a wedge between them? I love soap operas, don’t you?” “What did I ever find attractive about you?” Bo wondered aloud.

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“If memory serves, it was my arse,” Chris said. “I was wearing very tight, very white pants with no knickers. You fucked me against the wall of the glass elevator in that sexily expensive hotel at four in the morning.” “You had lube and condoms in your pocket.” Chris shrugged. “You thought it was cute.” “I was hammered.” “You still got it up for me.” “I’ll never win a battle of words with you, Chris,” Bo said. “Convince your tame nobleman to take you home. Tell him you’re having Harrods withdrawal pains or something.” “We’re not leaving until you find that treasure, my wellhung friend,” Chris said, all the honey extracted from his voice. “Sir Rhys the Colossal Cunt wouldn’t have come near this place if not for me. He’d prefer to forget it exists.” “Okay, now I know your agenda. You’re fucking for profit rather than entertainment this time. Now get the fuck out of here. I’ll mail you His Lordship’s share.” Chris smiled winsomely, but his voice was cold as a razor against your throat. “When did you grow the balls to think you could give orders to me? I’m a counter-puncher, Bo. You know that. I’ll take whatever you throw at me and throw it back harder.” “I won’t trade hits with you,” Bo said. “I’ll turn Ardie loose on your ass. He’s aching for a chance at a rematch.” Something akin to fear flickered in Chris’s pale green eyes. “We’ll be staying in rooms above the pub in Drws,” he said. “We won’t be here at the castle all the time.” “I’m not being clear,” Bo said. “Stay the fuck away from me and everyone associated with me. If you don’t, I’ll acquaint Sir Rhys with some of your less reputable history.” “He won’t care.” “Right,” Bo said. “I’ve forgotten just how good you are at sucking cock.”

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Chris leaned closer to Bo and smiled. “Best head you’ll ever get,” he said. Turning on his heel, Chris walked away. Descending the winding stairs of the tower, he tried to erase the vision of Bo pressing that beautiful boy to the wall. Who was the annoyingly stunning young man who excited Bo enough to snog outdoors in broad daylight where anyone, including ex-boyfriends, might see them? Chris couldn’t imagine anything more erotic than having it off in front of other people and had begged Bo to make love in public on many occasions, only to be rebuffed. It was a kink that Sir Rhys was more than willing to indulge, but Chris chafed in the role of submissive subordinate. He liked being the one to crack the whip, so to speak, as Bo had allowed him to do for a while. Chris had known he would have trouble with the man eventually. Bo was indulgent in the bedroom, but out of it, he couldn’t be backed down by an inch. However, Chris wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t think he could handle Bo. Chris knew all of Bo’s soft spots, thanks to the man’s habit of speaking honestly and openly to his lover. Chris reached the second landing and left the staircase. As he stepped into the hall, he had the feeling that this was the wrong floor and turned to go back to the stairs. His eyes widened, and he stopped in his tracks. “You are very fair,” Lord Alun said, glowing faintly with the energy given off by Tristan’s orgasm. “Let me fulfill your fantasies.” “Fuck off, you role-playing geek,” Chris said. Chris walked purposefully toward the big man in the medieval costume. The fellow was handsome and reeked of virility, but he probably lived with his mum. Lord Alun moved into Chris’s path. “Don’t make me tear you a new one, mate,” Chris said. Lord Alun smiled.

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Chapter Nine THE sound of a harsh gasp was loud in the empty tunnel. “Ahhh, I love it when you’ve just trimmed your nails and ohhhhhhh,” James’s words trailed off in a long groan. Gryf took his lover’s hard length down his throat again, running his fingernails over the insides of the Scot’s thighs. James’s knees trembled as he sagged back against the 12th century wall they were about to blow a hole in, literally as well as figuratively. “Ah, Gryf, you make me so hard I could take down this wall without the bloody explosives,” James groaned, glancing over at the package attached to the wall. Those were his last coherent words for a few moments as his lover did all the things he loved at once. As soon as Gryf swallowed, he got to his feet and went to inspect their work for the last time. “James love, put your willie away and have a look at the remote charges, before you go back to the Bigass Book. And don’t pout, or I won’t shag you later.” “You’re cruel and inhuman,” James said, as he zipped up. “That’s why we get along so well,” Gryf said unconcernedly. “Go on; we’ll take up right where we left off, as soon as we’re off the clock. Then you can get me off, so to speak.”

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James looked at his watch. “Let’s stop wasting time with bad puns then,” he said and started down the tunnel with his flashlight. “James,” Gryf called, and his lover turned around with a scowl. “I love you.” A smile bloomed across James’s boyish face. Blowing Gryf a kiss, he walked off. “Cheeky bugger,” Gryf said fondly. “Prepare for the big bang, because that’s what I’m going to give you tonight.” With pleasant thoughts of James stripped naked and riding him like a Derby winner, Gryf looked down at the connections he was checking.

CHRIS stood his ground, as he had ever done, as the big, handsome devil advanced on him. Chris had extensive experience with big, handsome devils and didn’t doubt that he could handle this one in the same fashion. Tilting his face up, Chris gave the stranger an opportunity to be impressed by his looks. “Do you have permission to go wandering around up here?” Chris asked. “Why should I need anyone’s leave to walk here?” Alun asked in surprise at the young man’s tone of authority. “It’s really not safe,” Chris said. “The treasure hunters are…” “The treasure is mine,” Alun interrupted fiercely. Chris took another look at the stranger in the extremely authentic-looking costume. Was it possible that Chris had run across the local crackpot? Crackpots were not usually so well groomed. This robust fellow wasn’t wild-eyed or disheveled. In fact, the odd stranger was the very picture of a medieval lord of the manor in fur-trimmed velvet. “I think you’d better tell me your name,” Chris said, giving the interloper his patented cold, superior face.

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Alun smiled in a quicksilver change of mood. “My name, fair one? I will give you that and much more besides. What will you give me?” Chris paused again before answering; the stranger hadn’t responded in a way that Chris had predicted, and he had no ready reply. In the silence, Alun moved closer. “Neither the salvagers, the police, or the owner will take it kindly if they find you here,” Chris blurted out. “The owner?” Alun’s smile grew wider. “I think he will not mind.” “Is that right?” Chris gave the nutcase a preview of what his real sneer was like. “Well, as it happens, I know the owner, and I can tell you unequivocally that he would mind very much.” “How well do you know him, fair one?” Alun asked leaning toward Chris. For the first time since puberty, Chris became flustered. “I … I work for him,” he stammered. “Are you a liege man or a serf?” Alun said in a voice so freighted with innuendo that Chris knew his answer was important. “Well, I’m certainly not a serf,” Chris answered. “That’s like a peasant, right? I’m His Lordship’s secretary.” “And I am certain you know well how to wield a pen, but tell me: who is this imposter that calls himself lord of this land?” Chris felt that odd frisson of wrongness again. The intruder in the wine-dark tabard didn’t seem like someone playing dress up. The stranger wore the clothing as if he put it on every morning. There was a worn look to the rich fabrics that stage costumes didn’t have. And there was something teasingly familiar about the design stitched large in gold across the breast of the long surcoat. “It’s a manticore,” Chris said abruptly. “You have a manticore on your tabard like the one on Sir Rhys’s crest.” He stopped speaking as suddenly as he had started. His eyes widened as they traveled up from the stranger’s broad chest to the handsome face. “Oh my God.”

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“BO!” Ardie called out as he caught sight of the man. Bo met his partner at the bottom of the sweeping double staircase. “What is it? I want to check with Gryf before the blast.” “Have you seen Chris? Sir Rhys’s ready for a nap or a diaper change, or maybe he just needs something to suck on,” Ardie said. “Or somebody to suck on him,” Bo took the straight line Ardie handed him. “I just had a run-in with the spawn of Satan up on the battlements.” Ardie cringed comically, and then pretended to check Bo’s neck for puncture wounds. “So what did the Prince of Darkness want?” he asked. “I don’t know if he was looking for me or not,” Bo said. “But when he ran into me, we had a little boundary-setting session.” “Right on,” Ardie said. “He was probably up there trying to avoid me or his boss.” “Sorry you have to deal with Turcotte, Ardie,” Bo said. “But you know him better than we do. And here’s another sin we can lay at Chris’s feet. He talked Turcotte into coming here.” “Bitch!” Ardie exclaimed. Lord Turcotte entered the hall behind Ardie and Bo. “I believe it’s the first time I’ve ever been called a bitch,” Rhys said. Ardie made a face. “I wasn’t talking about you,” he said. “I was referring to Chris.” “Oh,” Lord Turcotte said. “Yes. I had noticed that tendency in him, but he doesn’t indulge it with me. I find, gentlemen, that a quick and severe taste of discipline at the first sign of temper will usually discourage repeat performances.” Ardie and Bo exchanged an incredulous glance. “Sounds like you know how to handle your employees,” Bo drawled, winking at Ardie.

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“Not so different from your style,” Ardie one-upped his friend. “Maybe you and Sir Rhys can compare whips sometime.” Lord Turcotte looked from one man to the other. “That was sexual innuendo, wasn’t it?” “I must be losing my touch if you didn’t recognize it,” Ardie said. “If you’ll excuse me,” Bo said. “I need to get downstairs.” “What’s it like now … down there?” Rhys asked. Something in the lord’s tone made Bo take the time to answer him. “We’ve got lights in the lower levels,” he said. “They push the dark back some, but you can see the shadows just waiting to reclaim everything when the generators are switched off. Tell you the truth: we don’t turn ’em off. They’re power efficient, so why not let ’em stay on?” “Yes, I think that’s probably a good idea,” Rhys said. “In the dark, anything could happen.” Bo didn’t think that Lord Turcotte was speaking of liability or lawsuits, but he didn’t know the man well enough to follow up the remark. “Besides the dark,” Bo said, “there’s the moisture and that dank smell, part wet rock and earth and mold and something else I don’t have a name for, worms maybe.” “Worms,” Rhys repeated in a faraway voice. “Yes, something that crawls in the dirt and feeds on flesh.” Bo looked over at Ardie as Sir Rhys continued to speak. “Big fat white worms that come out in the dark and…” A thunderous boom followed by a concussive wave of air from the dungeon stairwell interrupted His Lordship. Oblivious of the danger, Bo turned and ran for the stairs with Ardie right behind him. After a momentary hesitation, Sir Rhys followed them.

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CHRIS flinched when he heard the blast and felt the vibration. The stranger took no notice whatsoever of the disturbance. “You remind me of someone,” Chris said, nonchalantly ignoring the explosion as well. “In Sir Rhys’s home in London, there’s a portrait of his ancestor, Sir Alun. It’s not particularly good, but I can see a likeness.” “I am Sir Alun,” the ghost said. Chris nodded. Lunatic, time traveler, or poltergeist, Chris didn’t need to know which one the soi-disant Sir Alun was in order to manipulate him. Alun was an alpha male, and that’s all the information Chris required. “My lord,” Chris said, lowering his eyelids. “You know of the intruders in your fortress?” Alun smiled. “They’re looking for your treasure,” Chris said. Alun raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet no one knows where it is but you, am I right?” Chris returned the ghost’s smile. Alun nodded, and Chris moved closer to the phantom. “They want to take what’s yours,” Chris said, looking up into Alun’s eyes. “I could help you stop them.” Alun cocked his head, looming over the slender man. “You would take my part in this? What of your master?” “You are the true lord of Caer Gwarchod,” Chris said. “The usurper is a weak man.” “You feel no loyalty to him?” Chris spoke carefully, warned again by Alun’s attitude that the answer was important. “I didn’t take any oaths. He pays me a salary to do his bidding.” “You would do my bidding?” “Yes, my lord.”

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“Why? And do not tell me it is because I am the rightful lord. I will not believe you.” Chris favored Alun with his charming sheepish expression. “I assume my lord would reward me,” he said. “Swear to serve me,” Alun said, drawing himself up to his full height. Chris took a deep breath, reminded himself of what he stood to gain, and said the words. “I swear I will serve you,” he said. Chris’s expression of resolve didn’t waver as Alun reached out to place a hand on his head. As fast as thought, Alun’s other hand flew forward to pierce Chris’s chest, sinking into the flesh to the wrist. Chris’s face twisted in agony as an acute, galvanizing wire of pain froze a path from his heart, down his left arm and back to his heart. It was over in a moment. Alun withdrew his hand, and warmth rushed back into Chris’s limbs in a burning, prickling tide of sensation. The young man looked up at his new meal ticket with profound respect dawning in his eyes. This Alun was the real deal, more than a man, a powerful creature with unknown power. “Tell me what you want,” Chris invited in a soft voice. “The witch must be mine,” Alun said. “Witch?” Chris repeated in utter surprise. Alun’s chilly fingers curled around Chris’s long neck in a gesture at once tender and threatening. “You know him,” he said. “You spoke with him on the bastions. A youth with the sort of beauty that doomed Troy.” “Bo’s revenge fuck?” Chris exclaimed. “A witch? Ah, of course, he’s the psychic. I understand whom your lordship means.” “What do you know of him?” Chris smiled up at Alun. “The witch’s name is Tristan,” Chris said. “He speaks to spirits, I understand. And evicts them from their homes.”

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“I will drink his soul like warm milk,” Alun said fiercely. “And fill his sweet flesh with my essence, and he will give me life everlasting.” Chris blinked, assimilating this madness before he replied. “I will do what I can to help you, my lord,” he said. “What is … your bidding?” “My minion has placed upon the boy a token that is bound to my essence,” Alun said. “Through it, I may influence him and feed from his energy, but he has become wary, and I cannot bring him to me. You must do this.” “How?” “When the time is propitious, you will know,” Alun assured Chris. “Now there is another service you may do me.” “My lord?” “I hunger,” Alun said. Chris didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Here, my lord?” Alun’s sinister smile reappeared. “Wherever you like, fair one. Open your thoughts to me,” the revenant answered. Chris gasped as the dark walls wavered, melted and became brocade curtains of cream and gold. He floated rather than fell to his back on a mattress like a cloud covered in vanilla velvet. Rose petals, pink, yellow and white drifted through air heavy with ancient perfumes. The softly glowing lamps were ivory and gold, no less beautiful than Chris’s naked flesh. “It’s gorgeous,” Chris breathed, looking at the big man lying beside him on the bed. “It is your domain, whenever you wish to visit,” Alun said. Chris boldly placed a hand on the revenant’s arousal. “You are generous, my lord,” he said with a leer. “And you are very fair,” Alun said as Chris’s mouth covered the head of his shaft. In this half-world between waking and unconsciousness, Lord Alun was as solid as he wished to be. He was quite solid just

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now and hard as the stone of his castle, as Chris could attest. The young man blocked out everything but the thought of the treasure and let his well-trained body do what it did best as the ghost lay indolently back against the pillows. As Chris straddled the revenant and lowered himself onto the long shaft, Lord Alun moved at last. His large hands went around Chris’s waist, helping to support the young man. Chris looked down with the beginning of a smile when Alun’s grip tightened. Holding Chris’s eyes, Alun forced him down onto the hard length until it was sheathed. Chris’s conflicting emotions were a banquet of diverse flavors that Alun sampled at his leisure. The lord ran his hands across the young man’s lightly furred chest, down the trembling inner thighs, to the drooping stalk of Chris’s manhood. At the revenant’s touch, Chris’s cock quivered and rose like a trick of time-lapse photography. Chris’s pretty mouth fell open, and he drew in a great breath. Before he could release it in a cry of mingled pain and pleasure, the ghost put a finger to his lips. Chris nodded, biting at his lower lip as the thick shaft moved in his passage. Bracing himself on hands and knees, crouched over his new master, Chris began to rock, impaling himself to the rhythm of a music only he could hear. As his new minion writhed with seeming bliss on his staff, Alun tested his control. An intense orgasm bloomed in Chris’s groin, and he swallowed his cry of pleasure as he bore down on the shaft that stretched him. Alun rose from the mattress to float above it, and Chris clutched at the revenant’s shoulders as they levitated into an upright position. Alun cupped the young man’s buttocks, and Chris quickly wrapped his legs around the phantom. Bearing Chris’s weight as if the young man were inflatable, Alun thrust up into the wet heat that hugged his length so tightly. Intoxicated on Chris’s fluids and endorphins, the ghost exerted his will to keep his minion aroused. To his delight, Chris was much more susceptible and responsive than Sean. Chris’s head swam with the sensory overload his system was experiencing. He’d never had the nerve to take hallucinogenic drugs and was reasonably sure this was not a flashback. He had to

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accept that he was floating somewhere near head-height, being thoroughly ravished by the spirit of a Crusader knight. The world changed for Chris in that moment; it seemed to pause in its rotation, tilt slightly, and then begin spinning at a faster pace. Reality fell out from under him in the same way the bed had. He was adrift in space, and the revenant was a black hole that was slowly but inexorably drawing him in. Chris groaned as he came again, and his seed evaporated as it left his body. Before his cock could begin to soften, Chris felt another climax building in his groin. “You have much more to give, fair one,” Alun murmured in Chris’s ear. “Hold on to me.” Chris did as he was told, lacing his fingers behind Alun’s neck and hooking his ankles behind the ghost’s thighs. Alun’s head tilted, and his body followed suit until he hovered face down with Chris clinging to him. Digging his fingers into Chris’s ass, Alun thrust hard and fast into the snug socket until Chris came again, clenching his jaw to hold in a wail of pleasure. He could do this. He could take whatever this spook dished out. I ain’t afraid a no ghost, he thought, smothering a giggle. Alun looked into his minion’s eyes, saw the seeds of madness take root and knew that this one would break quickly. It mattered little, and he returned his attention to extracting as much energy as possible from his victim. “NO, please God, no,” Bo Andressen uttered the desperate little prayer over and over without realizing it as he ran toward the blast site. Ardie stopped behind Bo and stared at the destruction. Dust hung in the air over the rubble of stone blocks that had stood there since the eleven hundreds. The east tunnel no longer existed; it was completely filled in. The target wall had collapsed as planned, but so had the passageway. It shouldn’t have been possible, but they were staring at indisputable evidence that it was. Ardie pulled out his cell phone. “I need to speak to Officer Gilroy,” he said. “I don’t care what he’s doing; interrupt him. Tell

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him… Tell him there may have been more deaths at the castle, and don’t tell anyone else.” Rhys arrived as Bo and Ardie began inspecting the wreckage. Ardie knew this was going to be harder on Bo than anyone else, the same way he knew that a search would find no one alive in the debris. Some things were self-evident. Resignedly, Ardie intercepted Lord Turcotte before the man could accost Bo and steered the nobleman back into the hall.

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Chapter Ten “YOU see them, don’t you?” the Vicar encouraged Morgan. The pale green walls of the hospital room were closing in on Morgan Idris. He tried not to look at Sean Carnes for fear the young clergyman could see all his sins. The narcotics that swam in the Irishman’s bloodstream made time as inconsequential as water dripping from a tap. They also made him extremely biddable. “Try and focus on me, Morgan,” the Vicar said. “I don’t want to administer more drugs, but I will if I must.” ‘Brigid,’ Morgan called silently. ‘Help me, Lady.’ Carnes smooth brow creased slightly. “I’m here to help you,” he said. “But you must trust me. Be truthful, Morgan. You see them, don’t you?” “Who?” Morgan finally spoke. “The things that go bump in the night, of course,” the Vicar said. “The ghosts. You see them; I know you do.” “That’s mad,” Morgan said slowly. “No such thing as ghosts.” “Is there anything more obstinate than an Irishman?” the minister muttered. “Morgan, you must know that terrible things are happening at Caer Gwarchod. Don’t you want to help?” “I want a drink,” Morgan said.

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“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a good idea right now,” Carnes said. “I have a doctorate in psychiatry as well as divinity, but I need neither one to know that narcotics and alcohol are a killer combination. Why don’t you just talk to me? We’ll have a nice chat, and then you can have a rest with some more of those very nice drugs.” Something sparked in Morgan’s dull gaze. “You wouldn’t put me away, would you?” he said. “I’ve told you I don’t believe in ghosts, and I don’t see ’em either. Don’t send me to the loony bin, Vicar. I don’t like it there.” “You’re not leaving us much choice,” Carnes said. “Public drunkenness, vagrancy, supplying liquor to minors; I could go on, but I think you know your sins better than I. The police want to lock you up, Morgan. I’m suggesting you be sent to a facility where you can receive care instead of abuse.” “What do you want me to say?” Morgan asked. “Just tell me. Only don’t send me back there, please.” “You see them, don’t you?” the Vicar asked again. “Aye,” Morgan answered wearily. “I see the ghosts. And I see the guardian spirits. Of people. Of animals. Of bloody trees. They’re all around us; the fuckin’ air is thick with ’em. I’ve always seen ’em. Used to drive me Ma mad when I’d go on about the pretty folk. She’d take a strap to me, but it did no good. I still see ’em.” “And that’s why you drink so much,” the clergyman said. “I have to do something to drown them out,” Morgan sighed. “If I lived in London, maybe I’d be on smack. Who bloody knows?” “It’s all right, Morgan,” Carnes reached across the space that separated them and touched Idris’s shaggy hair. “I’m going to take care of you.” “You don’t believe me, either,” Morgan said. “You’re going to let them drug me and strap me down and run electricity through me like a bloody toaster. Please, Vicar, help me.”

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Carnes stood and Morgan looked up at him. The Vicar smoothed the tangled hair back from the Irishman’s fearful face with a look of compassion. “Poor thing,” the minister said soothingly. “The Sight’s not an easy gift to bear, but you have my promise that you will have peace.” “Thank you,” Morgan said, his eyes filling with tears. “Saint Brigid, forgive me.” “You pray to Brigid?” the Vicar said. “Did you know that she was a pagan heroine that was adopted into the church centuries after her death? It was easier to just absorb her than to try and stamp out her worship in ancient Ireland. A tenacious goddess.” “I dream about her sometimes,” Morgan said. “I like those dreams. In them, I’m a hero with a harp and a spear, and I do the Lady’s bidding, fighting injustice and protecting the weak from harm.” “That’s a lovely dream,” Carnes said. “Are you on a mission right now?” “I’m so tired,” Morgan said. “Do we have to talk now?” “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, just a few more questions so I can help you with the police, and I’ll let you sleep. Are you protecting someone now?” “The one at the castle,” Morgan said, beginning to slur his words. “He’s like me.” “Are you speaking of the psychic?” Morgan frowned. “Poor thing, they’re all around him, the ghosties and hobgoblins. He’s like a sun, and they’re the flowers, you see? No, wait, he’s a blossom, and they’re bees.” The Vicar nodded. “I understand the concept. Tristan radiates something that the spirits find attractive. Have I got it?” Morgan slumped in his chair, his eyelids at half-mast. “They feed,” he mumbled. “Who feeds, Morgan?” “The Lord of Caer Gwarchod.”

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“Sir Rhys!” Morgan shook his groggily. “No, the first one.” “You’re not making sense,” Carnes said. “Tell me, Morgan; did Saint Brigid give you a weapon to defeat this evil spirit?” “She told me a secret,” Morgan smiled dreamily. “Would you like to confess it to me?” “I’d like a drink,” Morgan mumbled. “It’s all right if you tell me,” the Vicar said. “I’m a holy man. Please, Morgan, if you know anything at all helpful, tell me.” “Dagger,” Morgan whispered as his eyes closed. “Morgan?” “Aye, Vicar?” the Irishman responded slowly. “Tell me about the dagger.” A short time later, the Vicar walked out of the regional medical facility. He smiled pleasantly at the charge nurse, the security guard and the constable that was playing chauffeur at Gavin Gilroy’s behest. However, beneath the pale, smooth-ascream features and clear blue eyes, the Vicar was anything but tranquil. In fact, he was terrified. As the police car pulled away, a taxi took its place under the hospital’s covered drive, and Sean Dymock got out. After a brief conversation with the nurse, who knew the publican well, Morgan’s friend was allowed a brief visit. “GOD save us,” Gavin Gilroy said wearily as he dropped into a chair in the castle’s main hall. The group waiting silently around the coffee urn eyed the policeman with expressions ranging from apprehensive to impatient. Gavin looked up and thanked Ardie when the man handed him a cup of black coffee. Lord Turcotte cleared his throat and took it on himself to speak for everyone.

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“Are you going to tell us what happened?” Rhys asked. “Aye, Sir Rhys,” Gavin said. “It’s your castle; you’ve a right to know. I assume you don’t mind if these gentlemen listen?” Rhys swept his eyes over Ardie, Bo, Tristan, and lastly, Chris. The peer’s eyes paused for moment on his secretary who’d gone missing all morning. Chris stared blandly back, and Rhys turned his attention to Gavin. “I’m sorry,” the policeman said, looking at the other men. “Remains of your team members have been found. There’s no need for anyone to make identification. We’ll do that with blood and tissue samples. I … I’m sorry.” “Can we see them?” Ardie asked. Gavin closed his eyes briefly. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he said. “Remember your friends as they were. We’ll be taking them out soon. That area is cordoned off now; no one goes down there. Am I understood?” “You’re letting us stay?” Bo asked. “This appears to be an accident,” Gavin said. “A terrible accident, but unintentional nonetheless. You can stay.” “Thanks,” Bo said to Gavin. Gavin nodded and rose, setting his cup on the table. “I’ll be accompanying the bodies,” he said. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of them.” Gavin stood and held out his hand. Numbed, Bo didn’t react for a moment. When the policeman took the salvager’s hand, the warmth of the simple human contact undid Bo. His face crumpled along fault lines of sorrow, and tears overflowed his eyes as he turned away. His own eyes brimming, Ardie pulled Bo into an embrace. Bo hugged his best friend briefly, but fiercely, before letting him go. A moment later, they heard the forensics team enter the hall. The uniformed men walked solemnly to the front entrance carrying various bags and cases, none of them large enough to contain a human body. No one at the table wanted to

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dwell on the fact that Gryf and James hadn’t merely been killed; they had been obliterated under tons of rock. Gavin turned back before he reached the big doors. “Mind the storm,” he said. “It’s going to be nasty one.” “We saw it building, and we’re prepared,” Bo assured him. “This castle has stood here for over nine hundred years. I think it’ll make it through the storm.” “This is killing him,” Ardie moved to Bo’s side as he watched the policeman depart. “Gilroy’s a good man,” Bo said. “He’s tough. He’ll weather this shit the same way Caer Gwarchod will weather the storm.” “And you?” Bo turned to meet Ardie’s eyes. “I’m numb. I can’t fucking believe that happened. How could it happen? Gryf was one of the ten best explosives experts in the world. He was so anal that if you fed him a lump of coal, he’d shit a diamond.” “I know that, Bo,” Ardie said softly. “He loved James,” Bo went on. “Gryf loved that boy, and he would never, ever in a million years do or not do anything that would cause Jamie harm. It couldn’t happen.” “I know that, too.” “Then what the fuck happened?” Bo demanded loudly. Tristan looked up at the sound of the raised voice and saw Ardie put his arms around Bo. For a second, the boy experienced a curious doubling of the image he saw. Bo and Ardie stood about thirty feet away in a stray shaft of weak sunlight, leaning on one another’s shoulders, weeping for their lost comrades. However, Tristan saw them in other guise. As he watched the grieving men, the tableau was overlaid with another one. Bo’s sun bleached hair was in two long braids framing a scarred face. A sword and an ax hung from the gilded leather that belted his thigh length tunic of natural linen. The cuirass of overlapping bronze scales and elaborately tooled boots declared his

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status as an upper echelon warrior, captain of those hired to defend this temple. Next to him stood the high priest, his black tresses ornamented with gold, pearls and rubies, his clothing naught more than a loincloth of the same linen as the warrior’s tunic. Swirling arabesques of henna followed the contours of his sculpted face and flowed down his neck to spread across his pectorals. Viewed from a distance, the fluid design was clearly a tree in full flower with long branching roots anchoring it to the earth. Tristan knew in his bones that once before he had sat, as he was sitting now, having heard some dire news, watching his two most trusted counselors argue, and then comfort one another. He did not doubt the veracity of the vision for a moment. He was not hallucinating; he was remembering something that happened to him in another life. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, Tristan rose and left the hall. Chris listened absently to Sir Rhys as he watched the boy walk away. Noticing his aide’s inattention, Lord Turcotte gripped the other man’s shoulder with a large hand. “What’s going on behind those big pretty eyes, hmm?” Rhys asked. “Nothing at all, sir,” Chris said smoothly. “Except how I’m going to comply with your wish to be out of this cunting castle, off this bloody island and the fuck out of Wales as quickly as possible. I’ve paged the driver. I’m sure he’ll answer at any moment.” Chris touched the phone in his pocket that hadn’t been used in hours. There was no way Chris was going to leave the castle now, and that meant Sir Rhys would be staying as well. If the chauffeur were blamed for it, Chris wouldn’t cry. Rhys held his secretary’s gaze for a long moment before releasing him. “Who is he?” the nobleman said. “He?” Chris prompted. “The man you’re fucking. Which one is it? Gilroy? Red Dog? Andressen? Ah, I seem to have struck a nerve at last. And I wasn’t sure you had any nerves.” Sir Rhys raised an eyebrow. “So you’re fucking the boss treasure hunter. I needn’t wonder

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why, I suppose. Strictly a mercantile arrangement? Or do you fancy him?” Chris got himself under control and answered blandly. “I’ve no idea what Your Lordship is talking about. It’s true I knew Bo in the past, but I’m not sleeping with anyone but the lord of this castle. And I’m not sure you can refer to it as fucking, but I’m no expert.” “Aren’t you?” “May I go about my duties now?” Chris replied. “One more question,” Rhys said, as he leaned closer to Chris. “Do you think the blast might have driven the monsters out of the dungeon?” Chris remembered the terrible pleasures he had received at the hands of the phantom, and a shiver ran down his spine. “I’m sure it did, my lord,” he said. “Can I get you some tea or coffee before I start making calls?” “No, I need to talk to Andressen about the future of this project,” Rhys said, glancing over at Bo and Ardie. “Give him a few minutes, and remember what we have to gain by continuing the operation, sir,” Chris said. “I’ll keep it in mind,” Rhys said. “Somehow the tragic deaths of two men keep pushing aside the thought of treasure.” “There have been more than two,” Chris pointed out softly as he turned away. Pulling his cell from his suit jacket, Chris strolled off in the direction Tristan had taken. Sir Rhys glared at the young man’s back; he was going to keep Chris on his knees for a long time tonight.

TRISTAN rose from the stone step as he heard footfalls. Dragging a sleeve across his eyes, he faced the intruder. “Oh … hi,” Chris said with a creditable counterfeit of surprise. “Sorry if I’m…”

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“No,” Tristan interrupted. “I’m just … It’s all a bit much, you know?” Chris nodded. “Tragic,” he said. “If you want to be alone, I certainly understand.” “Wait,” Tristan said. “I’m fine. I just had to have a cry where none of the other boys could see. I haven’t spoken much to you.” “His Lordship keeps me busy,” Chris said. “He seems like a difficult man to work for,” Tristan said. Chris grinned. “He’s a proper bastard,” he said. “But I don’t plan to make a career of it.” “Do you live in London?” Tristan asked with interest. “Why don’t we take a walk?” Chris suggested. “And I’ll tell you anything you want to know about babysitting a lord.” Tristan smiled tentatively. “All right,” he said as he followed Chris upward. “I will not let Gryf and James’s deaths be for nothing,” Bo told Lord Turcotte. “If I withdraw my consent, you’ll have no choice but to leave,” Rhys said. “Um, that’s not quite true, sir,” Ardie said. “We have a contract. That contract allows you to visit the job site as a consultant, but nowhere does it give you permission to exclude us. I’d hate to bring lawyers into this. You know how those sharks are; all they’re interested in is their cut. They’ll drag this out as long as possible to keep the fees coming in.” “Aren’t you a lawyer, Mr. Red Dog?” Rhys asked. “Yes, I am,” Ardie said. “And you’re making my point for me.” One of the big front doors banged open, forestalling Rhys’s reply. They looked up from The Book as a cold draft of wet wind bullied its way into the hall. Gavin Gilroy, soaking wet in an

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oilskin slicker, pulled another man in from the driving rain and struggled to shut the door. Bo ran over to help as Ardie’s companion sagged against the wall. “Thanks,” Gavin said, as the door locked into place. Bo nodded. “Back so soon?” he asked. “Found this fellow wandering around the station and brought him over,” the policeman said. “We won’t be going back across until this squall blows itself out. Got a spare bunk?” ‘Why don’t you ask him to share yours?’ asked the little voice in Bo’s head. “We’ll find room for you,” Bo said, as Ardie stopped beside him. “Dr. Arvel,” Ardie said in surprise. “What are you doing here?” “I discussed your call with Dr. Davies, and she agreed that I should be here,” Garry said as he pulled back the hood of his raincoat. “It’s possible you’re dealing with a very nasty breed of ghost.” “Can’t say I’m sorry you’re here,” Ardie said. “Though given a choice, I would have chosen Dr. Davies.” “Welcome to the club,” Garry said wryly. “Now tell me in detail what you told Alicia on the phone.”

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Chapter Eleven GARRY hung the now damp towel on the back of the chair and gratefully accepted the steaming cup that Bo held out. “Thank you,” Garry said. “I’m chilled to the bone.” “I’m sorry you had to come out in this weather,” Ardie said. “I wasn’t really expecting you. I thought you’d give me a call back with some information or something.” “You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?” Garry said. “Why don’t you tell us?” Bo suggested. “Mr. Andressen,” Garry said. “From what Mr. Red Dog told me on the phone, you’ve got a revenant here.” “And just what sort of thing is that?” Lord Turcotte asked. “Give them the short course you gave me at the station,” Sean advised Garry. Garry nodded. “Ghosts are drawn by human emotions and can absorb the resonance of very strong ones such as fits of rage or acts of love. The vibrations of powerful feelings are like fuel or food to them. Given enough raw emotion to feed on, incorporeal spirits can become capable of physical acts such as knocking sounds, cold spots, slamming doors and the sort of incidents one associates with the term ‘poltergeist’. But what you have here is nothing as innocuous as a poltergeist.”

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Garry paused, but his audience didn’t seem disposed to interrupt with questions. “Revenants are rather more serious than your generic house-haunter. They consume human essences to keep them anchored to this plane and give them strength. They cannot suck blood from the veins, but they can absorb any that leaks out. Released chemical essences, such as pheromones and endorphins are their drugs, corresponding roughly to alcohol and heroin. Sweat is good, but tears are better, and sexual fluids are highly prized delicacies.” Ardie raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling us we’re dealing with uglies that go bump in the night?” Garry looked up at Ardie. “Revenants are vengeful ghosts,” he said. “They always have an agenda. The fact that the present lord of the manor is in this castle does not bode well. It’s possible that whatever spirit haunts this place is one of Lord Turcotte’s ancestors who doesn’t like how he’s let the place go. This ghost may have designs on His Lordship’s life.” Gavin looked up from studying the floor between his shoes. “It sounds just as daft as it did back in my office, but I’m willing to listen to almost any theory. The head medical examiner can’t find a cause of death for Cillian or Billy. They just stopped living.” “Scared to death?” Rhys ventured a guess. “In that case, they would have had elevated levels of adrenalin at least,” Ardie said. “Not if the killer is a revenant,” Rhys disagreed. “Dr. Arvel just told us they feed on our … secretions.” Lord Turcotte looked around at the circle of eyes suddenly focused on him. “But I’m sure that I’m just pointing out the very obvious,” he said. “Not at all,” Garry said. “That’s a very astute observation. And it’s possible the killings were just a ruse to lure his lordship here.” Gavin shook his head. “I’m sorry; I just can’t bring myself to believe in ghosts. At least not the sort that can kill someone by

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draining them. And while we’re talking of it, are we laying the deaths of the salvage team members at the door of this ‘vengeful ghost’?” “It would be a very powerful revenant indeed that could drain someone of life,” Garry said. “However, it’s possible that the ghost might have tricked one of the men into doing something careless. Where is Tristan?” “I haven’t seen him for a while,” Ardie said. “I’ve been trying to keep an eye on him, but it’s been a hell of a day.” “A revenant would be irresistibly attracted to a liaison with Tristan’s gift,” Garry said. “So what?” Rhys said. “As long as the lad’s not off having a wank, he should be all right.” Bo winced at the nobleman’s lack of tact as Ardie tried to make contact with Tristan’s radio. The foreman stopped when they realized they could hear the radio beeping from Tristan’s cot across the hall. “Can’t rationalize it, but I have a very bad feeling about this,” Ardie said to Bo. Bo nodded. “We’ll start searching right now, and nobody goes alone. No explanations, no arguments, okay? Ardie, if you’ll search this level with Sir Rhys, Dr. Arvel with me, and Gavin with… Where’s Chris?” “He went to make some phone calls,” Lord Turcotte volunteered. “Then we’re looking for him, too. Gavin, team up with Ardie and his lordship. Ready, Dr. Arvel?” Bo asked. Garry put down his cup and followed Bo up the stairs. “I don’t think I’ve been in this room,” Tristan said as he leaned in the empty doorway. “You can barely hear the storm in here,” Chris said.

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“We must be near the core of the building,” Tristan said. “How’s your torch?” Chris turned his flashlight on and it emitted a strong beam of yellow-white light. “Seems good.” “I’m going to turn mine off, then,” Tristan said. “It needs charging.” “That’s a somewhat ironic statement considering,” Chris said. “Considering what?” Tristan asked. “Why we’re here.” “You’ve lost me,” Tristan said. Chris’s gaze shifted from Tristan’s face to a spot just above his head. Tristan felt the vague pins and needles sensation that sometimes presaged the arrival of a spirit and a spot on his right hand was growing warmer by the second. The young man looked down and tried to focus on his ring finger, but he couldn’t see anything unusual. Chris, however, could clearly see a large gold ring set with a red stone that glowed like an ingot in the forge. Tristan took several calming breaths and ignored the burning pain in his hand. He felt the presence of a vastly powerful spirit, and it was important that he be collected when he faced it. “You should go,” Tristan said. “It could get dangerous in here.” “Not on your life,” Chris smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” “You don’t understand,” Tristan tried again. “And I don’t have time to explain, but the turmoil of the storm makes this a good time for the revenant to attack. So far he’s been content to siphon energy, but…” “I shall need much more of your energy, little one,” Alun said as he materialized. “I did as you asked, my lord,” Chris said.

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Alun glanced at the blond man. “You have done well, my minion, and you shall be rewarded. Serve me again by rousing the witch.” Chris looked into Tristan’s eyes and smiled. “That will be my pleasure, my lord,” he said. Tristan didn’t waste any more time being shocked. He spun and sprinted back down the corridor. He could feel the ghost’s will hammering at his and knew he didn’t dare open up and try to learn more about the revenant. Wisdom dictated a retreat until the weather calmed down. Chris leapt after Tristan, his outstretched fingers snagging in the boy’s hair. Tristan yelped sharply at the sudden, excruciating pain as Chris hauled backward. Pulled off-balance, the liaison went down hard on his side, cracking his elbow and skull on the stone floor. Chris hooked his other hand under Tristan’s armpit and dragged the stunned psychic back into the small chamber. Quickly, Chris pulled Tristan’s pants down his hips, exposing the dark-pelted groin. Tristan fought, but couldn’t dispel his grogginess. Alun took advantage of the liaison’s semi-conscious state to stimulate the pleasure centers of his brain. For as long as the psychic’s barriers were down, the revenant’s influence was nearly as limitless as it was in dreams. Tristan groaned as his blurred vision swam into focus. The herbs the high priest had thrown into the Flames of Prophecy had left him with a worse than usual headache. He had no recollection of his visions, other than an impression of dark, damp stone walls, but a dull foreboding possessed him. He tried to rise and saw a golden-haired man in the chamber with him. The temple made a practice of buying the most exotic slaves the market offered, but the avatar had not seen this one before. He drew breath to inquire when someone spoke from behind him. “Are you ready for your reward?” Alun asked his minion. Chris nodded. “Yes, my lord.” “Very well,” the revenant said, moving closer.

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As Alun thrust his hand into Chris’s chest and wrapped his fingers around the young man’s heart, Tristan’s distorted vision saw a Crusader plunge a dagger into a slave’s heart. Chris fastened his eyes on Alun’s in wounded reproach that rapidly became utter horror as he felt his soul being drawn from him. The young man’s knees failed, but the revenant kept him upright. “You swore to serve me,” Alun reminded. “Your energy will give me the strength I need to take the witch. When I have filled him with my essence, nothing can stop my rebirth into the world of the living.” Chris’s eyes went glassy as the last of the ineffable energy that animated him bled out into the revenant. The Crusader knight tossed aside the husk of his minion and fixed his glowing gaze on the paralyzed liaison. “TELL me more about these revenants,” Bo said as he and Garry entered the second floor’s main corridor. “I sense that you have a specific question in mind,” Garry said. ‘Isn’t he the clever one?’ Bo’s little voice commented. Bo ignored his conscience and answered Garry. “Okay, I admit it: the sex stuff is fascinating. Call me a pervert; I’m sure I deserve it.” “Actually, your curiosity is quite normal for a mammal,” Garry said. “Do you want to know if ghosts can have sex with the living?” Bo smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said as he shone his light into another bare windowless chamber. “Most people are curious about that. Documented instances are so rare that I’m tempted to say no, but I believe it to be possible,” Garry said. “Spirits are capable of planting erotic notions in our thoughts. Sometimes they can even impart a suggestive warmth to our flesh.” They reached the end of the hall, and Garry faced Bo.

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“As far as actual penetration, which I’m guessing is what you really want to know, I’ve never heard of an authentic occurrence of intercourse between a human and a ghost. Ancient tales of incubi and succubae were mostly to cover up out of wedlock pregnancies.” “I always suspected that was the case,” Bo said as they started up the next set of stairs. “You said the revenants feed on our fluids, that it makes them stronger.” “That’s right,” Garry said. “You also said a revenant would be attracted to someone like Tristan.” “Let me put this in layman’s terms,” Garry said. “Tristan’s energy field is to a revenant what the radiation of a yellow sun is to someone from the plant Krypton.” Bo’s sandy brows rose at the comic book reference. “And what would happen if…” “If what?” Garry prompted as they reached the next level. “If Tristan had sex in the castle, what would … what would the effect be?” Garry gave Bo a sideways glance. “That’s an interesting question. If my theory were correct, a revenant would want that more than anything. If a liaison as powerful as Tris were to climax within a revenant’s sphere of influence it would impart considerable energy to the ghost. Along with all the attendant feelings of pleasure, magnified tenfold.” “Shit,” Bo muttered. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Garry stopped and met Bo’s eyes.

THE earthly representative of the Goddess rose from the floor, wearing nothing but his long hair and henna tattoos. The Crusader took in the avatar’s lissome form and appealing face. Purposefully, the big man strode across the room. The avatar

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wondered where his bodyguard was as the knight neared him. When no one appeared to help him, the young man shouted for it. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the Crusader drew his sword and turned toward the door of the chamber.

BO and Garry looked in the direction of the desperate call for help and began moving toward it immediately. “That was Tristan,” Garry said unnecessarily. “Bo!” Ardie shouted as he reached the top of the stairs at the other end of the hall with Rhys and Gavin behind him. Tristan screamed and the four men broke into a run. Bo and Garry reached the room the shout originated from a step or two ahead of Ardie and Rhys. Ardie’s gaze caught a tiny gleam in the dark doorway, and the feeling of danger was so strong that Ardie reacted without stopping to question it. Flinging himself forward, he plowed into Bo, throwing his friend off his feet. As Bo fell against Rhys, the keystone of the arch dropped from its place with a loud crack. The wedge of stone swung forward, striking Ardie in the back, propelling him across the hall and pinning him there. The sickening sound of bones breaking was clearly audible, and blood began to pour from Ardie’s nose and mouth. Bo was on his feet and at his partner’s side in less than a heartbeat. “Oh no. Oh fuck,” Bo breathed. Ardie cut his eyes at Bo, and Bo felt as though he’d grabbed hold of a wire with one hundred and ten volts of electricity running through it. Bo couldn’t have looked away if he had wanted to. Putting a hand on Ardie’s hair, he moved closer. Garry had run through the ragged gap left by the doorway’s collapse. Rhys was staring at the handle of the stone pendulum that had swung from the arch and crushed Ardie. The nobleman looked from the ruin the booby trap had made of Andressen’s second-in-command to the inside of the chamber. Garry was with Tristan, speaking softly to the boy. Lord Turcotte looked back at Ardie and cleared his throat.

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“Dr. Arvel? Are you any sort of medical doctor or just … um, metaphysics?” Garry took Tristan’s hand and drew the boy with him from the chamber. “Watch him,” the parapsychologist said tersely to Rhys. Garry moved to Ardie’s side and looked the situation over before he spoke. “There’s nothing to be done. I’m sorry.” “I kinda figured that, doc,” Bo said. “Ardie, why can’t you just tend to your own business?” Ardie winked, and then he focused on the air to Bo’s left. Bo’s tears fell faster as Ardie tried to smile. “Hey,” Ardie wheezed. “That’s … weird. There’s a guy…” “Stop trying to talk,” Bo said. “You’re just making it worse.” Ardie lifted an eyebrow. “It could hardly be any worse,” Garry spoke Ardie’s thought with uncanny accuracy. “And this is the last chance he’ll have to say anything.” Tristan came to stand beside Garry. The liaison was shattered by what had just happened, but he gathered the shards of his courage and extended his gift. At once, he saw the silvery glow of Ardie’s aura swirling about the man like a snow globe made with powdered stars. Tristan linked easily to Ardie’s consciousness, absorbing some of the overwhelming pain and fear of death that the man was feeling. Their spirits meshed comfortably, if not perfectly, and Tristan was able to bring more solace to the mortally injured man. As Tristan had suspected when they met, Ardie was gifted. “None … of this … is your fault,” Ardie gasped out, his eyes on Bo. “Shut up,” Bo whispered stroking Ardie’s soft, dark hair. “I wanted … this job, re … member?”

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“Fuck the treasure,” Bo said. “Just don’t die.” “Can’t be helped,” Ardie said. Bo knew for certain then that his best friend was not going to be all right. Leaning heavily against the wall, Bo got as close as he could to Ardie. “I love you,” Bo said. “I hope you’ve never doubted that.” Ardie shook his head slightly. “Same … goes for you,” he said, a red bubble bursting on his lips. “Jesus, Ardie,” Bo said miserably as Ardie sagged. “See you … later,” Ardie breathed and the light in his eyes went out. Bo pulled Ardie’s forehead to his. “Not if I see you first,” he whispered brokenly, and stood that way for a long time before he could let go of the dead man. Gavin put away the radio that would bring no help; no boat, plane or helicopter would be coming out in this storm. He moved to Bo’s side and gazed at Ardie’s body, his sharp eyes assessing every detail of the tragic scene. Without a word, he took hold of Bo’s arm and turned him away. Rhys watched Tristan as he’d been asked to do. The boy was gazing into the middle distance with the dreamy smile of an opium smoker. Rhys glanced at the group around the body and caught Garry’s eye. The parapsychologist came to stand in front of the boy, looking deep into the limpid stare. “Tristan?” Garry said softly. “Are you with us?” There was no answer, and Rhys filled the silence. “Is he in shock?” “Quiet,” Garry said peremptorily. “And no, he’s not in shock; he’s … on his way back.” Lord Turcotte raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment as Garry took Tristan’s hand and deliberately bent one of his fingers back. The nobleman winced, but the psychic didn’t react at all. Frowning, Garry turned and called out.

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“Mr. Andressen, would you come here, please?” Bo shook off Gavin’s support and walked over. Without being told, he reached for Tristan’s hand and held it between his. “Good,” Garry said. “Now call him home.” Bo didn’t ask questions, but did as directed. “Tris? Hey, kid, come on back now.” Lord Turcotte had counted to seven when the liaison’s gaze sharpened and focused on his mentor, Arvel. Immediately, the young man threw his arms around his mentor like a child clutching its mother’s skirts. “Garry,” Tristan gasped. “It’s a revenant.”

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Chapter Twelve “WHAT happened here, Dr. Arvel?” Lord Turcotte asked. “If you have an explanation, I’d very much like to hear it.” After caring for Tristan, Garry escorted Rhys back into the main hall. Gavin and Bo took care of wrapping Chris Lukos’s body in a blanket and plastic sheeting, everyone still thinking about Ardie’s remains still trapped between the giant stone hammer and the wall upstairs. With the castle isolated by the storm, there was no hope of moving the massive stone to free the remains. Garry poured himself a coffee from the carafe, but Turcotte declined. The nobleman sat like a little boy in a doctor’s office, back straight, both feet flat on the floor, and hands folded neatly in his lap. “It’s a bit hard to explain,” Garry said. “And it will sound more than a bit far-fetched, I’m afraid.” “Was it the ghosts?” Rhys asked bluntly. Garry took a sip of the strong coffee. “I believe so,” he said. “One ghost in particular.” “Thank God,” Rhys said, as Garry’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “I suppose that sounded a bit callous. I meant, thank God I’m not crazy. There really are monsters.” “I’m afraid there are,” Garry nodded. “Terrible things they are, too, some of them. Did you have a bad experience here?”

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Rhys’s eyes slid away from the other man’s. “It was a long time ago,” his lordship said. “I was a child.” “I’d still like to hear about it,” Garry said. “Think of it as professional curiosity.” “What about your … protégé? Doesn’t he need you?” “Tristan? He’s been telling me for some time that he’s grown-up, and as it turns out, he’s right. It’s a hell of a thing though. He was just a wee curly-locked boy such a short time ago, and now he not only has power, but some of the maturity necessary to wield it.” “I see,” Rhys said, though it was obvious that he didn’t. “He’ll be all right on his own then?” “He’s sleeping,” Garry said, standing up. “Come on, Sir Rhys. We’ll just go across this grand hall and over to the other side of that magnificent staircase. We’ll be out of the line of sight of the others, and if we keep our voices low, no one will hear us.” Lord Turcotte hesitated, but Garry’s calm, interested manner was soothing, and the nobleman really did want to talk about it. He nodded and followed the parapsychologist away from the center of the hall. Tristan pulled back from the railing of the gallery on the right side of the great hall. He was glad Garry would be occupied for a while. There was something Tristan needed to do, and he knew his mentor would not approve. With quick, light steps, the boy returned to the scene of Chris and Ardie’s deaths. He didn’t avert his gaze from the pitiful ruin of a beautiful, special man. The shell was empty; Ardie didn’t live there anymore, and Tristan needed help to find his soul. “There you are,” the liaison said. “I thought I’d find you here. Time to stop slacking.” For a split-second, Tristan saw an illusory vision of the hall as it had been centuries ago, with torches flaring on walls hung with jewel-toned tapestries, but it winked out of existence like a soap bubble bursting when the spirit spoke. ‘I was just taking a break.’

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“Bullshit,” Tristan said. “You’re ducking out on your responsibilities like you’ve been doing all along. No wonder you still haven’t moved on.” ‘Fuck you, go-between.’ “You might be the worst guardian I’ve ever seen.” ‘Report me.’ Tristan could feel the waves of smugness coming from the spirit and annoyance gave him the impetus he needed. Pushing aside all of his anxiety over his latest brushes with the supernatural world, Tristan summoned his gift and extended the thinnest of tendrils. “It might be worth passing over to inform someone of the cock-up you’ve made of guiding your ward,” Tristan said. “You wouldn’t be with him if he wasn’t meant for a special purpose, a purpose which has probably been balked because of your negative attitude.” ‘Negative? I have only ever told him the truth.’ Tristan sent another tendril to join the first, and then another, and another stretching toward the guardian like streamers of light. The spirit watched them come without concern as they twined together, becoming thicker and brighter. “You only ever criticize him,” Tristan said. “You never encourage him.” ‘And how would you know?’ Like a net of light, Tristan’s gift enveloped the spirit, but it did not stop there. The shimmering motes of argent light passed through the surface of the translucent figure, becoming part of the guardian. When the liaison lifted his hand, each separate spark flared with a brilliant radiance that merged until the spirit was visible. “Now,” the young man said. “Look at yourself.” With the power of his gift, and the strength of his will, Tristan forced the guardian to remember every damaging,

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destructive comment made to his charge. In the space between two heartbeats, the proud being stood with head drooping in shame. “I know it’s hard,” Tristan said. “You’re so superior to mortals in so many ways, and yet you’re set to guard one like an indentured nanny. I don’t have any answers for you. All I can tell you is that you’ll be happier if you do your task well.” The guardian’s shoulders were bowed and waist-length hair curtained the noble face. ‘I shall never become.’ Tristan moved forward, his gift rushing back to him like a film of a fireworks explosion run backward. “You’re being negative again,” he said. “Did you take a mortal name?” ‘I call myself Jude.’ “Jude, at the risk of making a bad pun, I can see right through you. You’re more than capable of completing your task. You won’t be here forever in this form. You’ll do what you were meant to do and move on. You’ll become; you’ll be born.” The spirit lifted a beautiful, sorrowing face. ‘You have seen inside me. You know of my great longing.’ Tristan smiled. “Like all guardians, you want a body so you can affect the mortal world directly. You would right all the wrongs of this planet, if only you had a physical shell. Whispering in one man’s ear is too slow a method of changing things.” ‘Yes! Exactly!’ “Jude,” Tristan said. “I’m going to tell you a terrible secret. Everything you know is forgotten when you’re born. It isn’t lost, but it isn’t accessible to the conscious mind.” ‘That isn’t logical.’ “I know. I wish I didn’t know, but we all have our crosses to bear, if you’ll forgive the expression.” ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’ “I know,” Tristan repeated. “But when you’re born you’ll be a blank slate with a whole new life as a thinking, feeling being to do with as you wish. And you might have a little voice

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whispering in your ear. Someone frustrated, perhaps, that their assigned mortal won’t listen to the wisdom they have to impart. Who knows? Maybe you’ll listen.” The guardian straightened broad shoulders and met the liaison’s eyes with new resolve. ‘How can I help?’ “I need a favor,” Tristan said bluntly. Jude perceived instantly what the liaison wanted. ‘I am forbidden.’ “But not bound,” Tristan pointed out. ‘No, not bound, but if it were known… ’ “You’d be righting a great wrong,” Tristan said, glancing at Ardie’s remains. “That’s what drew you here, isn’t it? You know this man’s innocent soul is in thrall to the revenant. Free him. Let him move on.” ‘What if he doesn’t move on once he’s free?’ Jude voiced the obvious flaw in Tristan’s plan. “Then I’ll deal with him,” the young man said. “Vengeful ghosts are my specialty.” ‘I’ll do as you ask,’ the guardian said. ‘And I’ll give you some advice. Have as much care for yourself as you do for others.’ With that, Jude was gone. Tristan’s shoulders slumped as though a heavy weight had fallen on them. He stood thus for long moments absorbing the enormity of what he’d done, and then his head came up. He let his gaze circle the stone walls as the certainty that what he was doing was right settled on him like sunlight on his skin. “I will not be afraid,” he whispered as he waited.

BO felt a breeze against his cheek that didn’t smell of brine. He identified the faint scent as patchouli and fresh tears overflowed. Ardie habitually wore patchouli oil instead of cologne. It was a scent at once exotic and down to earth, like the man himself. Rising, Bo looked aimlessly around. He couldn’t

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seek solitude outside in the storm, nor did he wish to enter the dungeons. The higher reaches could only be accessed by the hall where Ardie’s body remained. Left with few options, Bo entered the deconsecrated chapel. He walked up the short nave to the chancel and sat down. The fragrance of patchouli followed Bo into the sanctuary, evoking memories of his lost friend. It would be impossible to forget his first sight of the halfbreed kid whose test scores had won him a ticket off the reservation and into the accelerated program at Bo’s high school. It wasn’t so much the ragged clothes or the bad haircut that made him memorable, but the war paint smeared defiantly over his cheekbones. It became appropriate in less than an hour when Ardie punched a kid for calling him squaw boy. The taunter’s friends joined in, and Bo had tried to even the odds a bit. He and Ardie had both got their asses kicked. Some hero I was, Bo thought. Sorry, Ardie. He conjured a happier Ardie in black leather with silver skull beads braided into his long dark hair, choking the neck of a Fender guitar as feedback poured from the speakers. Bo on his knees in front of his lead guitarist, blond mane disheveled, bare chest gleaming with sweat as he howled the lyrics to a heavy metal anthem of the early eighties. The small crowd of college kids danced and screamed their heads off, fueled by beer, pot, and their love of the local cult band Cowboys and Engines. Bo shook his head in wonder that he had ever been that young. What had made him think that he could write original songs and have a recording career? Just as well that he had given it up when he did. Bo sighed and moved on to mental snapshots of Ardie silhouetted against the Himalayas, a Bangkok temple, and the banks of the Ganges during the year they traveled the East. They had talked about returning and using their new skills and the degrees conferred upon them at graduation to help the people of the primitive regions they passed through. The dreams they built together around campfires in the middle of nowhere had been abandoned as they fell into careers. Had he ever really been that idealistic? How could they believe that two men could make any

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significant dent in the poverty-stricken conditions of the slums of India or Thailand? It had been a hash-pipe dream. When Bo had grown sick of the construction business and conceived the romantic notion of hunting for treasure, he’d called Ardie. Ardie had left his Houston law firm, six-digit paycheck and golden parachute to become Bo’s partner. Even in the lean times, and there had been lean times, Ardie had never expressed a regret. With his head in his hands, Bo sat, bereft and in despair, and recounted all his failures. He was a salvager, but he was damned if he could see what could be salvaged from this disaster. Drawn by the depth of Andressen’s pain, the revenant coalesced in the shadows to absorb the emanations of a soul in utter distress. Bo slumped farther, crumpling in on himself, folding under a weight too great for anyone to bear alone as the ghost greedily gobbled his despair. Lord Alun was about to summon his knights when he was interrupted. ‘Back off, asshole.’ The revenant stopped feeding as he was challenged. ‘You are in my thrall,’ he said. ‘You may not defy me.’ ‘Fuck you and the Horse of the Apocalypse you rode in on, pard. Touch that man again, and I will waste you.’ The revenant frowned in confusion at the other ghost’s continued insubordination. ‘This mortal’s soul is most potent. When I have absorbed his energy, I will be strong enough to take the witch and implant my essence.’ ‘Which means fuck-all to me, Jack. We’ve laid our cards on the table. We already know what the stakes are. Do you want to up the ante again, or shall we see who’s bluffing?’ ‘Interloper!’ the Crusader’s ghost warned. ‘Begone, or feel my wrath again.’ ‘Bark, bark, bark! I hear a lot of barking, but I don’t feel any biting.’ Using some of the energy siphoned from Bo, the revenant released a ravening bolt of withering power that should have

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blasted the impudent apparition to floating rags. The look of surprise on Alun’s noble features was almost comical when he beheld the other spirit still smiling cockily at him. ‘Nice try, dicksmack,’ said the ghost of Sean Red Dog. ‘But I’m still standin’.’ ‘Do not stand between me and my prey!’ ‘It’s “my prey and me”,’ Ardie corrected. ‘And anytime you want to tango, I’m ready.’ ‘How is it you still defy me?’ Alun demanded to know. ‘That’s for me to know, and you to find out,’ Ardie taunted. ‘What you can be sure of is that if you even think of sucking off my friend again, you’ll find me standing between you. And before you mention it, I know I can’t beat you in a fair fight, so I’m not going to fight fair.’ ‘I do not know how you escaped my thrall,’ Alun said. ‘But I will make you regret it, you insolent little…’ The revenant ceased blustering as Bo’s guardian materialized at Ardie’s side. ‘So … whatta ya think of me now?’ Ardie cocked an eyebrow at Lord Alun. Alun saw Tristan in the doorway and a slow smile curved his lips. ‘Then let it begin,’ he said.

RHYS pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and straightened his shoulders. His talk with Dr. Arvel had exhausted him emotionally, but he felt amazingly serene. Rising to his feet, he started to leave the gallery. Lord Turcotte found his way blocked by a handsome man whose garments were centuries out of date. The stranger didn’t move an inch, and Rhys stopped before colliding with him. The scant light reflected up from the great hall glowed in deep dark eyes as the strange man raised his face to meet Rhys’s gaze. ‘Where are you going?’

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“Who are you?” Lord Turcotte asked. “And where did you come from?” ‘My name is Sir Odilon, Sir Rhys. So you know you are dealing with an equal.’ “What on earth are you babbling about?” ‘What on earth?’ Odilon grinned. ‘That’s funny, Sir Rhys.’ “I’ve no time for your nonsense,” Lord Turcotte said. Odilon laughed, a sound both merry and sinister. ‘Time? You don’t have anything else, my lord,’ the man said. “Very well, then,” Rhys said. “If you won’t talk sense to me, come along and we’ll let Inspector Gilroy sort you out.” ‘You are going nowhere.’ “Your lips don’t move when you talk,” Rhys said accusingly. “Your pardon,” Odilon said. “Is that better?” “Who the hell are you?” “I am Sir Odilon D’Aubigne, retainer to Lord Alun Turcotte.” Rhys’s gaze narrowed as he turned the name over in his mind. “You’re a ghost,” he said. “Aye, to be sure,” Odilon said. “But we can still have fun, your lordship.” “What makes you think I want to ‘have fun’?” “I thought a high sex drive might be a family trait,” Odilon grinned. “You’re going to be staying right here for quite long time, Sir Rhys, so we may as well pass it pleasantly.” Rhys’s eyes widened as the ghost seemed to grow until he was twice Rhys’s height. However, when the man glanced around, he realized that it was he who had shrunk. He was no taller than a child of nine or ten. Rhys focused on the surroundings, and his heart began to beat faster. He was back in the dungeon, and the monster was here with him.

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GAVIN woke, and his aching back told him he’d fallen asleep in the chair next to Tristan’s cot. Looking about, the policeman realized he was alone despite the agreement to stay in sight of one another. He felt the unpleasant tickle of uneasiness and walked toward the staircase, looking for any sign of his companions. As he started up the left hand steps, he caught a glimmer of light in the remains of the castle kitchens. Changing course, he snapped on his flashlight and followed the elusive glow. ‘You shall not pass.’ Gavin stopped dead in his tracks and goggled at the giant in his path. Gavin was used to being the biggest man in any room, but this fellow was easily six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders and long limbs. The policeman went for the handgun that he was never without since his rescue of Tristan all those years ago. “I don’t know who … or what you are,” Gavin said. “But I will put holes in you if you don’t start talking right now.” ‘I am Sir Richard of Alford, and I have the honor to be Lord Alun’s champion. As such, I have the right to challenge you to single combat.’ Gavin noted the way the beam of his flashlight streamed through the figure of the knight and how the big man’s lips didn’t move when he spoke. “You’re not even real,” Gavin said. “Why should I fear you?” ‘My lance is long and made of good English steel,’ Richard said, dropping his eyes. Gavin followed the ghost’s gaze and saw that the codpiece was missing from the suit of armor. Sir Richard had removed one gauntlet and stroked his manhood with a leather-gloved fist. As he had boasted, the shaft was long and hard. Gavin would have found the entire tableau a comic burlesque, but for the dread freezing his blood.

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‘You have the spirit of a warrior,’ the Crusader’s ghost said. ‘I will take great pleasure in subduing you and bending you to my will.’ “You may find that more difficult than you think,” Gavin replied. ‘That is my wish, also,’ Richard said with a smile. ‘There is no sport in taking women or silken harem boys. Thrusting my spear into an enemy who is doing his utmost to avoid the impaling is a challenge for a man.’ “Bo! Dr. Arvel!” Gavin called. “Lord Rhys!” There was no answer. ‘They are otherwise engaged,’ the ghost said. ‘Have at you.’ Gavin blinked in astonishment. The ghost, the kitchen, in fact, the entire castle was gone. He was standing in a horribly familiar alley, looking in a grimy window as a scarred thug terrorized a bound boy. Outrage flared in his blood, and he raised a fist to smash the glass.

GARRY became aware that someone was standing at his shoulder. Assuming it to be Lord Turcotte or the policeman, he ignored the presence for some time as he studied a page of the Book. Finally, it impinged on his senses that he was inhaling the fragrance of myrrh, and his curiosity roused him. ‘I beg your forgiveness,’ the ghost said, touching a translucent finger to the top of the page. ‘So it was here all along. I cannot understand how I did not sense its presence.’ Garry took in the voluminous robes of black silk, the masses of sable hair and the inky eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in wonder. ‘I am Aqil Abd al-Aziz, the author of this particular passage.’ Garry’s eyes widened. “This is incredible.”

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‘Of course, I am in truth only the essence of the one that was called Aqil,’ the ghost said. ‘But it makes little difference what you call me.’ “You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to talk with someone like you, and now that I have the opportunity…” Garry shook his head. “Are you in league with the revenant?” ‘Do not let that concern you,’ Aqil said, as several shots rang out. ‘Let me show you some of the mysteries you have been so curious about.’

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Chapter Thirteen BO shook off his grief as Tristan came into the chapel. “What’s going on?” the salvager asked, jumping to his feet. Tristan ignored Bo. “You were supposed to move on,” he said to the middle distance between the other man and himself. “Move on where?” Bo asked in confusion. Tristan focused on him. “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. We don’t have a lot of time for explanations. Anyway, you’ve had them already from Garry; you just don’t believe them. Would you just take my word that you’re in great danger?” “From who or what?” Bo asked skeptically. “There are ghosts in this chapel with us.” “Really?” Bo said. “And I suppose there’s no way for you to prove it.” “Of course there is, but to make them visible I would have to give the bad ones more power.” “You make it sound so plausible,” Bo said. “I surely do want to believe that my friends didn’t die just because Fate was feeling capricious. But…” Bo stopped speaking as a warm wave of passion swept through him. He saw Tristan’s lips moving and heard words, but they were as meaningless and soothing as waves lapping the shore. With a kindling smile, Bo moved toward the young man.

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Tristan easily divined Bo’s intentions as he watched the man walk through Ardie’s spirit without seeing or feeling it. “Are you going to do something about this?” the liaison asked Bo’s guardian. Jude shrugged. ‘He likes you. I think loving you would be a positive thing for him.’ Before Tristan could retort, the guardian turned from him to face Sir Alun. ‘You know my power,’ the revenant sneered. Jude nodded. ‘I know. I just don’t care anymore. I am a guardian; I shall guard.’ ‘So be it.’ Lord Alun gestured imperiously, and Richard and Odilon materialized from thin air to stand before him. ‘What is your will, my lord?’ Richard asked, glowering at Jude. ‘Have you done as I commanded?’ Alun asked. ‘Aye, my lord. The other mortals will not trouble you,’ Richard answered. ‘They are wrapped in dark dreams,’ Odilon smiled. ‘And the Saracen, where is he?’ ‘I know not,’ Richard said. ‘He spoke of finding the grimoire, my lord,’ Odilon said. Alun frowned. The book of spells would be theirs along with everything else in the castle once they completed the ritual. He had given Aqil no orders to search for it. For the first time, he seriously considered the possibility that one of his minions would betray him. It had never occurred to him that the Saracen would act against his own interests, no matter how much he resented the Crusader. Aqil stood to gain as much or more than Alun when they rejoined the world of the living. Alun would regain all his possessions, but Aqil would return with all his arcane knowledge intact. And with the grimoire…

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‘What would you bid me do now?’ Richard said, seeing the sudden change of his liege’s expression. ‘Rid me of these gnats that plague me,’ the revenant commanded, pointing at the guardian and Ardie’s ghost. ‘Gladly, my lord,’ Richard said. Jude took Ardie’s metaphysical hand. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ the guardian said. ‘I’ll take care of you.’ Ardie nodded. ‘I don’t care what happens to me. But I won’t let that smug asshole use Bo again. And I don’t care how long this Alun character’s been around. There’s a limit to respecting your elders.’ ‘Agreed,’ Jude said. ‘Let them come. Though we will surely be destroyed, we shall make them regret it.’ “Always the optimist,” Tristan said softly past the tightness of his throat. Bo reached for Tristan, and the liaison did nothing to resist the man’s amorous advances; there was no point. The revenant held them in his power for now. However, that power would have to wane eventually, and Tristan would be able to break free. All he had to do was keep from panicking and trust in his allies. ‘Excellent,’ Alun said as Bo nuzzled at Tristan’s collarbone. ‘When this warrior has brought you to release, I will have the power I need to finish the ceremony that was broken all those centuries ago. This is not as I had planned, but in a campaign one must sometimes be bold and seize the opportunity.’ “I’ll never surrender to you,” Tristan said. ‘Then I will take you by force,’ Alun said matter-of-factly as Bo’s hand slid under Tristan’s shirt. Tristan could no longer ignore his body’s responses to Bo’s caresses. His warm flannel shirt was peeled up, and Bo paid court to his nipples, licking and sucking ardently. Tristan gave a soft groan as teeth came in to play. ‘Yes,’ Alun purred. ‘Catch fire, my beauty. Tonight you will know delights that few mortals are privileged to taste.’

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“My power and my will are as great as yours,” Tristan said in a clear, steady voice. “I’ll send you from this plane so you can find rest.” ‘You are a formidable opponent,’ Alun said. ‘But flesh is so fragile, so easily bruised, or torn, or smashed to jelly.’ “Bastard!” Tristan said. Alun’s black look reminded Tristan that his insult had been more serious in the Crusader’s day. ‘Proud fool,’ the revenant replied. ‘You think you know the rules, but you are playing the wrong game. It is not my will that holds you powerless; you are bound by the Saracen’s spell. You can do nothing to hinder me, and soon your allies in my realm will be gone as well.’ Tristan’s gaze didn’t leave the revenant; he could feel the truth of the specter’s words. The ghost knights were slowly consuming Ardie and Jude’s essences. The two brave spirits bought time for Tristan, but they were diminishing fast. Tristan’s gamble would doom them all if he had been wrong in even one of his calculations. Clutching desperately at his eroding selfconfidence, the liaison tried once again to connect. ‘Soon,’ the revenant gloated, as Bo’s hand slid under the waistband of Tristan’s loose pants. ‘You cannot resist this man’s touch now anymore than you could nine hundred years ago. You were willing to risk your life to be in his arms then, but this time you shall not die. You shall live, and you will be my bridge back to the Waking World.’ Tristan experienced the curious sensation of his blood running hot and cold at the same time from Bo’s attentions and the revenant’s intentions. The psychic wanted to pass the ghost’s words off as delusions, but the revenant had caused Ardie’s death, and who knew how many others? Lord Alun’s threats were not empty ones. For the first time in a decade, Tristan felt the bleakness of despair. He couldn’t do this alone; he needed help. Garry entered the chapel and looked around. “I had the strongest feeling that you needed me,” the parapsychologist said,

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and then his eyes fell on the revenant. “I can see you clear as day,” he exclaimed. Lord Alun’s ghost was patently not expecting visitors. ‘Who are you, mortal?’ the revenant demanded. “I’m the invisible man,” Garry said with a sardonic smile. “Your sort can’t sense me from a distance. I’m as nonexistent to you as you are to most mortals.” The revenant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Richard, my lion, finish what you are doing and fetch the Saracen, damn his black eyes.’ “I think we may agree to a temporary truce, Sir Alun,” Garry said as he slid a look at Tristan. “I can see you’re busy, Tris, but would you mind telling me why you’re allowing this bed sheet to make you perform a live sex show?” Two patches of rose appeared over the young man’s high cheekbones. “This isn’t extraordinary considering the level of manifestation we’re dealing with here. There’s something more at work here than a simple emotion-generated haunting.” “Perhaps if you didn’t look like you were enjoying it quite so much,” Garry said dryly, “it would be easier to believe that you’re outmatched. I assume Mr. Andressen is unaware of our conversation?” “I think he’s unaware of pretty much everything but me,” Tristan answered. “What’s the scenario?” Garry asked. “It involves a temple. I don’t know the deity, but the setting is vaguely Persian, Eastern anyway. Bo’s a Teuton barbarian hired as a guard. I’m a figurehead of some sort, as far as I can tell, a sort of priest who’s also a proxy for the Goddess. Mr. Red Dog, Ardie, was the high priest of this cult. The revenant…” Tristan gasped as Bo sucked hard on his nipple while firmly stroking his lengthening shaft. There was a slight tremor in the liaison’s voice when he resumed speaking. “The revenant is the ghost of Sir Alun Turcotte. He’s the knight sacking the temple in my vision.”

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Garry looked askance at the tableau of his protégé being fondled by the enthralled treasure hunter. He didn’t understand why Tristan didn’t break the malicious spirit’s control over him. The revenant was powerful, but Tristan was, too, and he knew better than to play into the ghost’s game. “Tristan,” Garry tried again. “Why are you still submitting to the delusion when you’ve recognized it? It has no power over you. Snap out of it.” Tristan didn’t answer. It was hard to talk with two tongues in your mouth. Bo wrapped his arms around the young man and lowered him to the chancel floor as the kiss continued. Going to his knees, Bo worked Tristan’s trousers down his hips freeing his arousal. “All right, that’s quite enough,” Garry said. “What’s the revenant’s hold over you, Tris?” The apparition’s smoldering gaze followed Garry as he approached the pair rutting under his influence. Lord Alun had not agreed to a truce, but he could get no sense of this wizard’s powers and was loath to risk attacking him without Aqil there. Bo bowed his head over Tristan’s shaft as Garry leaned down. Tristan wove his fingers into Bo’s straw-colored hair and moaned his approval of the man’s technique. Doing his best to ignore what was happening under his nose, Garry searched for a talisman on Tristan. Tristan’s soft moans became cries of pleasure as Bo lavished attention on his balls, his perineum and his quivering erection. The young man clutched fistfuls of pale hair as Bo drove him delirious. The red gem on his finger gleamed like fresh blood in the dim light, catching Garry’s eyes. Garry had never seen the ring before, and the only jewelry Tristan ever wore was a necklace Alicia had given him. Tristan was not given to adornment, and Garry doubted the ring was a gift. The gem was cabochon cut, suggesting antiquity, and appeared to glow with its own light, hinting at arcane tampering. ‘No!’ the revenant roared as Garry reached for the signet.

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Certain now that he’d found the amulet that hampered Tristan’s ability to link, Garry tugged at the gold circlet. The liaison took no notice as a wet tongue entered his sheath. “Hang on, Tris,” Garry said. “I’ll have this evil thing off you in moment.” Tristan heard his mentor’s voice as an echo of thunder from the storm outside the castle and the one that raged within him. Grain by grain the malachite walls of the ancient temple materialized around him. He felt the cool solidity of Her altar beneath him. The mouth and hands of his barbarian lover drew him further into reckless abandon. Garry’s words were the cawing of storm-crows as Tristan was subsumed by the past. Too late, Garry heard a stealthy footfall behind him and started to turn. A wooden oar slammed into the side of his head, dropping him to his knees. The first blow was swift and brutal, and the second was no different. Garry measured his length on the flagstones and didn’t move. Satisfied, the attacker rose from a feral crouch and faced the ghost. ‘Welcome,’ the revenant said. ‘You come in good time. I need to be elsewhere.’

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Chapter Fourteen DROPPING his shirt to the floor, Bo lifted his lover to the altar. He felt no sacrilege in the act. They were going to celebrate life with their joining. Surely the Goddess could not be displeased. The warrior gazed with longing on the lean-muscled body of the avatar sprawled wide-legged on the black stone. He leaned forward to take the lips offered up to him, but stopped a breath away. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “We’re in the past,” Tristan said. “Or at least a version of it. Mine, yours, the revenant’s, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a composite. But we’re trapped in it, sure enough. I’m a little surprised that you’re aware of the regression. You weren’t before.” “And you were?” “Of course.” “And you didn’t tell me what was going on?” “Don’t get angry, please.” “How could I not be angry? I had a right to know if … if ghosts were … were … doing whatever it is they’re doing to me.” Tristan cocked an eyebrow at Bo and sat up on the altar with his feet dangling. “And if I had told you, you would’ve believed me? I don’t think so. And the reason I want you to stay

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calm is because the revenant feeds on emotions as well as sexual energy.” Bo took a deep breath. “I happen to think I’m incredibly calm considering the circumstances.” “You have a point, but I don’t have time to go into detail right now. I’ll wager anything you like that Sir Alun comes through that archway very soon with nothing but bad intentions. You, being my guard, will draw your weapon, but too late. The knight will run you through and ravish me on this altar.” “And that was supposed to happen last night but Ardie got in the way,” Bo guessed. “I believe so,” Tristan said. “It’s what the revenant is trying to relive. I wish we’d had the chance to get to know one another before this Dark Ages Darth Vader hijacked us. Believe it or not, I respect you, and I think that, well, under different circumstances, we’d be…” Tristan paused and then spoke again. ”For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. If I had it to do over again, I like to think I would trust you.” “Is that what you gifted people call an apology?” Bo said wryly. “So what happens after I die, and you get…” Bo found himself incapable of uttering the word rape. He was abruptly sick with rage at the very thought of Tristan defiled by some vicious attacker. It would not happen; he would not allow it. He would slay any who dared… “You feel it,” Tristan said. “I felt like someone else for a second, if that’s what you mean,” Bo said. “Someone used to settling things with violence.” “It helps if you think of yourself as a channel,” Tristan said. “Most people can’t fully access the memories of their past, they only get muffled echoes, but when I’m linked to a spirit, I sometimes experience a memory from a past life of mine from the same era. I wish I could make you understand how amazing it is that you’re aware of this memory.”

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“I find it more amazing that we knew each other in the past and met again,” Bo answered. Tristan smiled fondly at the man. “You’re incredible,” he said. “You’re taking this all in stride, and you’re using your brain instead of waiting for someone else to think for you.” Bo snorted. “Are you hitting on me again?” he asked. Tristan laughed, the merry sound echoing off the malachite walls of the temple. “If we live through this, I definitely want to know you better,” the psychic said. “Suits me. We’ve already got that awkward ‘when do we sleep together’ thing taken care of. Might as well get engaged.” “Americans,” Tristan said. “Always in a hurry. I’m going to court you, so brace yourself.” “Good advice,” Sir Alun said as he strode into the chamber. “Shite!” Tristan cursed. “He’s early.” Bo put his hand on his sword as Alun lunged.

PIVOTING in a circle, the injured man took in the seam of the ceiling and walls of the room, trying to figure out just where he was. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but he could feel a lump the size of a Volkswagen on his forehead, and his memory was a sometime thing. He was on the verge of going back out into the gloomy corridor when his gaze flickered once more over the smoke-blackened frieze that ran around the top of the walls. He frowned at the repeated pattern of a hunting scene. Surely, the carvings depicting a stag brought to bay by horsemen and hounds were an odd choice for a dungeon room, more suited to a banquet hall or audience chamber. Standing in the space between the onrushing horses and the kneeling stag was an archer with an arrow nocked, four identical hunts frozen in time, one per wall. He examined each of the tiny hunters, but nothing caught his eye until he looked again and saw that one of the archers had already loosed his bolt.

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With the strong feeling that this meant something, he scanned the walls again, but the throbbing in his head would not allow him to form complete thoughts. His frustration mounting, he pressed his palms to the sides of his head and shouted just to hear a voice. At sound of several running footsteps, he spun toward the entrance. Gavin Gilroy appeared in the arched opening and stared in shock. “James!” the policeman exclaimed as Lord Turcotte pushed past him to get to the injured man. James blinked, and the recent past flooded back. “Oh my God. Inspector Gilroy. How did you find me?” Gavin hurried over to took at the linguist’s injuries as well. “You were presumed dead,” he said with a grimace as he gingerly touched the goose egg on James’s forehead. “I feel like I’ve just crawled out of my grave,” James said. “I was in the dark for so long, I thought I must be in hell, and I can tell you that an eternity of wandering lost through dank tunnels is enough to convince me to live right from now on.” “That’s the damnedest thing,” Gavin said. “I was also lost in the dark. I had a nightmare about an old case, at least I think it was a nightmare, but it felt like I was really back there in the past. Only this time, it happened differently. Instead of me rescuing the victim, the kidnappers captured me and… Well, it was downhill from there. Let’s just say they found some very inventive ways to make me suffer before I passed out. But a dark man dressed like an extra from the Arabian Nights woke me up and told me to come here. And then, laugh if you like, he disappeared. In a puff of smoke.” “Me too,” Rhys put in. “I had a … different nightmare, but the same fellow woke me and directed me here. I met up with Constable Gilroy at the top of the stair.” “I don’t understand,” James said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do you know about Gryffudd?” Gavin asked hesitantly.

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James’s eyes filled with tears. “I remember the explosion. Is Gryf gone?” “I’m afraid so, lad,” Gavin said. “He’d have felt nothing, if that gives you comfort.” James nodded jerkily, and there was silence for several long moments, before Rhys spoke. “Shouldn’t we try and find everyone else? It seems logical that if we were attacked, the others are in danger, too.” “Yes, of course,” Gavin took hold of James’s arm. “Lean on me,” he said. “Wait,” James resisted the pull toward the doorway. “Who are we in danger from?” “Don’t laugh,” His Lordship said. “But it seems as though the ghost of my ancestor has taken exception to our presence here.” “I’m not laughing,” James said. “And until someone proves differently, I’m going to operate on the theory that this is a haunted castle.” Gavin shrugged. “I’ll not hinder you,” he said. “Then give me a few more minutes here. I’ve reason to believe we’ll find something that will be a weapon against the … evil spirit,” James answered. “There was a passage in the Book about a dagger, a dagger important enough to have a name, Al Clavo. It’s my theory that the knife was sacred to the temple that Sir Rhys’s ancestor plundered to amass his fortune. It was bound with spells and hidden away somewhere in these dungeons. The Book gave instructions for finding it again, but, of course, they were in code. Arrows were…” The linguist broke off as Sir Rhys went to the west wall like a sleepwalker. Turning to face the room, he put his shoulders against the damp stone and slid down to a squatting position. “I was a lot shorter then,” the nobleman muttered as he turned his head to the left. James crouched beside the wall and followed the direction of Lord Turcotte’s gaze. In between the stone blocks of the fifth

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row up, a series of arrows was scratched like a dotted line. James duck-walked forward to put his palm on one of the rectangular stones. As he touched it, a smile lightened his face. “Watch this,” the linguist said and pressed hard against the bottom seam where the block rested atop another. The stone pivoted inward and upward, permitting light to enter the cavity beyond. No chamber full of treasure lay beyond, however. The depression was little more than a handspan deep and contained one object a little over a foot long. “Aren’t you clever,” Gavin whistled. James carefully lifted out the narrow, oblong cedarwood box. The linguist finessed the twists of gold wire out of the hook and eye closures and opened the coffin-shaped casque. Inside was an oiled leather pouch laced with thongs of waxed sinew. “Heavy,” the linguist remarked. “If this isn’t a dagger, I’ll eat it.” “You’re going to feel awfully foolish if that’s a crucifix,” Gavin remarked. James unwrapped several swaddling layers of rotting silk and bared a needle slim blade with an ornate hilt and a crossguard shaped like a crescent moon. The handle was ivory, wrapped with gold wire and set with large dark red stones. “It’s a poignard,” James said, holding up the dagger. “You can see the blade would be triangular in cross-section. A weapon meant for one purpose: to punch through something.” “Skulls or breastplates, one assumes,” Rhys said. “Now we’ve found it; what exactly do we do with it?” “We slay the dragon,” Gavin guessed. “Manticore,” James corrected. “Sorry, but as Sir Rhys can attest, the family crest has a manticore on it, not a dragon.” “You intellectuals will quibble in the path of a lava flow,” Gavin said. “How is that important at the moment?”

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“It isn’t really,” James said as he stood. “But why be ignorant?” “I know I’m just a plodding constable,” Gavin answered. “But how do you kill someone that’s already dead?” “I don’t know,” James admitted. “But if my friends are in trouble, I’ve got to try and help them.” “Good lad,” Gavin said. “I’m with you.” Lord Turcotte hesitated only a moment before throwing in with them. It was the first time in his life he felt part of something; these men treated him as an equal, not a superior, and he found that he liked it. With a sense of purpose he’d not felt before, the nobleman followed his companions up the tumbled stairs.

THE revenant Crusader’s broadsword thrust at Bo’s unprotected side, but the steel never found its target. A spear with a leaf-bladed tip caught the sword and flung the weapon back. Lord Alun stared in amazement at the Celtic warrior facing him. “Your minion made a wee mistake in killin’ me,” Morgan’s ghost said. “He didn’t stop to think how much power he was givin’ me by freein’ me from that whiskey sodden sack o’ flesh. Now, you lingerin’ bad odor, I’m goin’ to freshen the air a wee bit.” Alun glared at Morgan. “Begone,” the revenant said. “You have no power here.” “You wish,” Morgan replied. “I will not let you harm either of these men without it costin’ you dear. So you decide, your lordship.” Morgan planted himself squarely in front of Bo and Tristan and raised his shining spear. As though he’d been blown out like a candle, the Crusader vanished.

JAMES, Gavin and Rhys strode into the chapel and froze like children walking in on their parents having sex.

Bo and

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Tristan, half-clothed and entwined, lay on the floor. Garry lay a few feet away, bleeding from a head wound. Standing in the middle of the nave, watching the oblivious couple was a darkcloaked figure. “Vicar!” Gavin exclaimed. “How did you get here?” “With great difficulty,” Sean Carnes answered, his gaze lighting on the dagger. “My, that’s a remarkable example of medieval Moorish craftsmanship. Do I assume you’ve found the treasure?” The sight of his boss making love to the young psychic as if they were the only two people in the room transfixed James. Rhys stared as well, rendered speechless. It was left to Gavin to question the priest. “You haven’t answered my question,” the policeman said. “Why are you here, Vicar?” “You asked how I got here,” Carnes observed. “Which is it?” “I’ll have both,” Gavin said without a trace of humor. “Oh dear,” the Vicar said. “Someone’s moody.” “I have good reason,” Gavin said. “I want answers from you, and, clergyman or not, they had better be good ones.” “Open your eyes, Gavin,” the Vicar said. “There are miracles all around you. I’m here to be present at one of them. Tonight, my lord will be reborn.” Rhys joined the conversation. “When you say ‘my lord’, are you speaking of Jesus Christ?” The Vicar chuckled. “Hardly. I have never worshiped the Shepherd. The Christian faith is for weaklings. I am a pagan, and my gods don’t turn the other cheek.” “You played us all for fools,” Gavin said. “Tell me; how does a person live in a community and act as its minister while carrying out a series of murders? I’ve always wondered that when I read about men like Dahmer or Bundy. How do you do it and live with yourself?”

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“He doesn’t have a conscience, obviously,” Rhys said flatly. “I don’t need one,” Carnes said. “The past is gone; the future doesn’t exist. It’s only what I do right now that matters.” “That’s very nice for you,” Gavin said. “What about everybody else?” “Only those with great will and courage can follow this path,” the Vicar said. “And what’s waiting at the end of it?” Rhys asked. “In my case, immortality,” Carnes answered. “I’ll never be sick, and I’ll never look any older than I do now. What would that be worth to you, your lordship? If it only cost a few lives, you’d pay the price, wouldn’t you? Countries spend lives for mere commodities like oil. How many would you spend if you could live forever?” “You’re asking the wrong man,” Rhys said. “Eternal life sounds awful to me.” “That makes you one of the sheep,” the Vicar said. “There’s no shame in it. Everything in life has a purpose.” “What a load of shite!” Gavin exclaimed. “Vicar, you’re under arrest for the murders of William Nye, Cillian Pryce and Chris Lukos to start. You can be sure it won’t end there.” “How did I kill them?” Carnes challenged. “That’s for the forensics people to find out,” Gavin said. “And no doubt some psychiatrist will find out why you sacrificed these young men to your pagan idols. All I have to do is arrest you.” “It isn’t me,” the Vicar said. “I didn’t kill anyone. Well, no one except for Morgan, but he’ll hardly be missed, and his end was peaceful and painless.” Gavin’s jaw dropped at this candor. “I believe that’s what people in your line of work call a confession,” Rhys said to Gavin.

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“Yes, thank you; I actually heard him say that,” Gavin said. “If you didn’t kill the boys, Vicar, who did?” “You’ll see,” Carnes said with a superior smirk. “He’s busy with the lovebirds right now, but you’ll meet him, never fear.” “You’re stark raving mad,” Gavin told the Vicar. “You’d like to believe that,” Carnes said. “But you and Sir Rhys have already met two of the ghosts. You should’ve succumbed to them and been put neatly out of the way, so I’ll assume the wizard finally turned coat as I told my lord he would.” “Wizard?” Rhys repeated. “Would that be the Harry Potter or the Gandalf type wizard?” “Mock me,” the Vicar said. “I don’t care. When Lord Alun returns…” Everyone turned to stare as a large man materialized between them and Bo and Tristan. “My lord,” Carnes called out exultantly. The revenant glowered at his minion. ‘Why did you slay the Celt?’ “For you,” Sean Carnes said. “To remove an obstacle from your path.” ‘Fool! You have given him the power of a guardian. I must waste precious energy to subdue him, and I shall require more.’ “No, my lord,” the Vicar screamed as the revenant flowed over him. “I did it for you. You would not punish me for serving you?” Alun snarled. ‘You are a tool, nothing more, and right now you can best serve me by feeding me.’ “No!” Carnes shrieked as the revenant sank translucent fingers into his skull. The Vicar dangled from the ghost’s hold, twitching feebly as Alun sucked every scintilla of energy from him. Letting the limp, lifeless shell fall to the floor, the brightly glowing revenant swept the room with his gaze.

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‘Flee or stay,’ the Crusader’s ghost intoned. return, you will all die.’

‘When I

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Chapter Fifteen ‘SURRENDER!’ Sir Richard’s ghost raged at the stubborn spirits of Ardie and the guardian. The battle invisible continued unabated. There was no swordplay, no punches thrown, only the unrelenting struggle of will against will, fueled by precious life force energy. ‘Bah! This is exhausting our reserves,’ said the ghost of Sir Odilon. ‘We need the Saracen.’ ‘I do not think we can count on the Magus’s help,’ Richard said sourly. ‘Let us destroy these two as our Master wishes. The guardian is weak, and the other is a novice.’ ‘It’s over,’ Jude the guardian said quietly. ‘I can no longer shield us; they are strong with the energy they stole from your friends. When my will fails, they will consume us.’ ‘Isn’t there any other way?’ Ardie asked. ‘When we’re gone, these two spooks are going to go for Bo and the kid.’ Jude looked deep into the eyes of Ardie’s ghost, and then dropped his gaze. ‘What?’ Ardie prompted. ‘You thought of something, but you don’t want to do it, right? Yeah, I’m right. If you know something that could help, you’d better tell me what it is.’ The guardian bowed his head. ‘I could give up my post here. It’s within my power to relinquish guardianship and return

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home. But if I do I might wait a long time for another chance to prove myself worthy of being born.’ ‘You’re a guardian,’ Ardie said. ‘So guard.’ Jude looked past Ardie at Tristan and Bo and returned his attention to the ghosts of the Crusaders. The guardian did not see how abandoning his charge helped him live up to his responsibilities, but he would have to go on faith now. He had nothing else left. ‘Ardie,’ the guardian said. ‘Take my hand, and I will try to draw you with me.’ ‘Screw that,’ Ardie said, throwing his arms around Jude and holding tight. ‘Do what you gotta do, and don’t worry about me. I’ll hang on and try not to cramp your style.’ ‘I’ll wait for them to link completely with me,’ Jude said. ‘It’s my hope that I can pull them away from here.’ ‘Sounds good to me,’ Ardie said, glancing over at Bo. ‘I’m going to miss a few things here though.’ ‘Say farewell,’ the guardian advised him.

NO time at all had passed in the ancient temple between Lord Alun’s departure and his return. The glowing ghost, replete with the Vicar’s energy, appeared in the shrine and moved toward the other three souls. ‘So you’ve come back,’ Morgan said. ‘And I thought you’d run off with your tail between your legs. I warn you; I’ll not let you desecrate the Goddess’s sacred altar.’ ‘You don’t possess the power to stop me,’ Alun sneered. ‘I’ll have a go at it anyway, if it’s all the same to you, boyo,’ Morgan answered. ‘You cannot change what happened in the past,’ the Crusader said. ‘I already have just by bein’ here,’ the Morgan told him. ‘And this isn’t exactly the past, now, is it? It’s just your memory

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of it, you big bastard. Take another step toward the altar, and I’ll spit you like a goat.’ Bo stood at the Celt’s shoulder, his short sword in one hand and the long blade in the other. Tristan stood just behind the shrine, sweeping aside the altar cloth to get at the coffer where the ceremonial objects were stored. ‘Go,’ Morgan said to Bo. ‘Take the avatar and flee this place. Keep him safe; the Goddess loves him well.’ ‘I’ll not run from a fight,’ Bo declared, his eyes kindling with berserker fury. ‘You will,’ Morgan said, his eyes on Alun. ‘For Tristan’s sake. You must take him far from here and leave this shite in a tin can to me. I’m a guardian, too, you know.’ Bo felt Tristan’s light touch between his shoulder blades, letting him know the young man was there, but out of the way of the warriors’ weapons. The contact triggered a frisson of premonition that jarred Bo back to awareness of his present self. Sheathing his short sword, Bo reached back and grasped Tristan by the wrist. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’re getting the hell out of here.’ Alun sneered, resting the point of his sword on the floor and leaning on the hilt to illustrate how confident he was. ‘As I told your friends, flee or stay; it makes no difference. I will kill you and plunder this place. An army of knights is sacking this city as we speak. I was canny enough to find this heathen temple with all its riches, both tangible and intangible.’ Bo edged to his right, pulling Tristan with him. ‘No,’ Tristan said. ‘We can’t let him defile Her temple.’ Bo risked a look at the psychic. The young man’s eyes were almost all pupil. In one hand, he held a needle-bladed dagger encrusted with jewels. ‘It’s only a building,’ Bo said carefully. ‘You’re an avatar. I’m not sure exactly what that is, but I’m willing to bet it’s more important than any pile of rocks.’

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‘Listen to Bo,’ Morgan told Tristan, as Alun raised his sword. ‘You are the Goddess’s altar, not this cold slab of stone. It will never quicken with the spark of divinity, but you will. Go and keep Her worship alive.’ Bo shook his head, as confused as one man could possibly be. Was it now? Or then? Was Morgan’s ghost in the past? Were any of them sane? Was this a chemically induced hallucination? Was he still asleep on the plane to Wales? ‘Go,’ Morgan commanded, keeping Alun at bay with his spear. Bo tugged on Tristan’s arm, but the boy wouldn’t budge. ‘The three of us can defeat him,’ the avatar said. ‘He’s wearing a full suit of armor,’ Bo pointed out. ‘And his friends are on their way.’ ‘I will not leave so that this can happen again,’ Tristan answered. ‘Help me, please.’ Bo hefted the weapon in his hand. He’d never had occasion to hold a real sword and was pretty sure there was more to it than just swinging it around. He felt far from confident about his chances against a battle-hardened Crusader. ‘Go!’ Morgan shouted furiously, as he parried another hammering blow of the big knight’s broadsword. ‘Or do I risk my soul for nothing?’ ‘Not for nothing,’ Tristan cried. ‘Together we will slay this monster that would trample everything the Goddess represents.’ ‘Stubborn git, this is why you always die,’ Morgan growled as he fended off a flurry of strikes. Tristan turned his head, pulled Bo sharply toward him and welded his mouth to the other man’s. A rush of heat like dragons’ breath burned away the thin veneer of civilization that separated the salvager from the savage. For the sake of defending love and honor, Bo consciously surrendered to the traces of the mercenary warrior that remained in his genetic code. Pulling the buckler from its sheath again, Bo held both blades competently. Instinctively,

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his posture changed as he resettled his weight, coming on guard. With a glance, he herded the boy behind him. Tristan crouched in the warrior’s shadow, one hand resting lightly on his defender’s back. Alun got a look at the dagger in the boy’s hand and called for his vassals.

STANDING spellbound in the ancient chapel’s nave, James held the ancient dagger in a white-knuckled grip. He stared raptly at the couple on the chancel floor where the altar used to be as he listened intently. Maybe he was going mad, but he could swear he heard Ardie’s voice. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, James turned to Gavin. “Do you hear anything strange?” James asked. Gavin moved from his kneeling position beside Garry’s body to the Vicar’s still form. “Everything here is strange,” Gavin said. “Looks like these two are past help. Is anyone going to say anything to them?” The policeman pointed his chin at Bo and Tristan. “Useless,” Rhys reported as he rose from his crouch beside them. “They don’t hear or see anything but each other. Whatever they’ve been drinking, I need a shot.” “Quiet!” James hissed. “Listen.” The chapel fell silent save for the small sounds made by the lovers. Several seconds went by before Rhys spoke again. “That’s the wind,” Lord Turcotte said. “It sounds like voices sometimes as it blows through the castle. Used to scare flaming hell out of me when I was a lad.” “No, it’s not the wind; it sounds like … Ardie,” James said and waited for the ridicule. Neither of the other men laughed. Gavin met James’s eyes and cocked his head like a curious hound. Rhys looked from one to the other, waiting for someone to do something.

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“Goodbye, Ardie,” James murmured. “Safe journey, Ardie,” Gavin said solemnly. “I wish I’d known you better.” Sir Rhys bade Ardie farewell also, feeling more than a little foolish. ‘How touching,’ Odilon said to Richard. ‘Perhaps we should show ourselves so they can see what befalls their comrade.’ Richard frowned. ‘We should not waste the energy to become visible. Come, brother; let us destroy these upstarts once and for all.’ Richard and Odilon battened upon the two weakened spirits, binding the guardian and Ardie’s ghost in tendrils of their corrupted essence. The two Crusaders merged with their victims as the revenants drained them to the dregs. All that remained on this plane was a transparent semblance as Jude wrapped his arms protectively around Ardie and rested his cheek on top of the other spirit’s dark hair. ‘It is over,’ the guardian said. ‘I hope I will be stronger next time.’ ‘Skip the mushy stuff; just do it,’ Ardie said. Jude cast his eyes heavenward and relinquished his flawed guardianship of the shining soul known on this turn of the wheel as Robert Andressen. The Creator called the guardian home, and the essence of Sean Red Dog was carried up as well. Unable to separate themselves, the revenants were pulled along like the tail of a comet. Rhys, James, and Gavin looked up as the air left the chamber in a sudden rush. For a moment, the men stood as though petrified, holding their breath, and then a fresh breeze ruffled their hair. The rogue zephyr smelled of salt water with an elusive note of patchouli. When it soughed out, Rhys looked at his companions and raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you felt that, too,” he said. Gavin nodded numbly. He had felt it and no mistake. There was no doubt in his mind that Sean Red Dog’s spirit had just

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departed this plane. He didn’t know how he was so sure, but he was, and that was that. He didn’t explore the notion any further, just accepted it and moved on.

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Chapter Sixteen SIR ALUN’S triumphant sneer sagged when Richard and Odilon did not materialize right away. Again, the revenant summoned the ghost knights, but they did not answer. Casting the net of his arcane senses wider, Alun felt the last faint stirrings of the holy wind that had swept the chapel. With a roar of cheated rage, the Crusader’s ghost turned his burning eyes on those arrayed against him. Swollen with the life force of his minion, he charged his foes. Morgan leveled his spear and braced himself, as though facing a wild boar. Bo stood his ground in front of Tristan and looked for an opening as the Crusader rushed toward them. At the last moment, the knight swerved and engaged Bo. Pivoting on one heel, Alun put the bodyguard between himself and the Celt. Morgan swore as he maneuvered for a strike at the towering warrior in full armor. Tristan moved nimbly backward, staying behind his defender as Alun wielded his broadsword in a relentless attack. Bo caught the big sword in the crux of his crossed blades and sought to pull it from the knight’s gauntleted hands. While the Crusader’s weapon was blocked, Tristan darted out from cover to stab at the knight. Alun ripped his sword free and swung it in a great arc. Tristan froze, swallowing hard as the point of the broadsword pricked his throat. Sir Alun smiled and opened his mouth to tell the others to drop their weapons, but he never uttered

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the words. The Crusader’s breath left his lungs in a rush as Morgan’s spear took him under the armpit. His arm paralyzed, the knight dropped the heavy blade with a ringing clatter. Bo sprang forward to finish their foe when a shimmering curtain of light enveloped Alun. The knight disappeared, and Morgan stumbled forward at the sudden lack of resistance. Bo stared at the empty space for a long moment before turning to Tristan. Gently, Bo touched the line of blood on the young man’s neck. ‘I’m fine,’ Tristan said. ‘Why did the revenant give up so easily?’ ‘Easily?’ Bo said. ‘Were you watching? Morgan skewered the tin man pretty good.’ Tristan shook his head. ‘No, that wouldn’t do it. Did you see him? He practically radiated power. He’d fed, and recently.’ ‘Why don’t we return to … the real world?’ Bo asked. ‘Or am I being extremely ignorant?’ Morgan looked at Tristan. ‘He doesn’t know?’ the Irishman asked. ‘Bo,’ Tristan said, taking the man’s hand. ‘We’re on the other side here; do you understand what I mean by that?’ ‘We’re dead?’ ‘Not dead, but … dormant I guess is the best word. Our spirits, or souls, if you like, are in the unseen realm.’ ‘Where exactly is this unseen realm?’ Bo asked, sure he knew what Tristan was going to say next. ‘It’s everywhere,’ Tristan said. ‘It’s around us and in us. It’s the place in between places.’ ‘Like the Force?’ Bo said. ‘Just like the Force,’ Tristan affirmed. ‘This is no time to be discussin’ Star Wars, even if it is a grand film. We must free your spirits from the revenant’s control.’

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Tristan reached toward Morgan with his free hand. ‘Thank you,’ the liaison said. ‘You have fulfilled your destiny. You can move on.’ Morgan hefted his spear, stained with the knight’s evanescing blood. ‘I could get used to this guardian job,’ he said. Tristan smiled. ‘There’s only one place to apply,’ he said. ‘Take my hand, Morgan.’ Morgan put his hand in Tristan’s. ‘Morgan Idris in Heaven,’ he mused. ‘I hope the place doesn’t self-destruct when I walk through the gates.’ Tristan’s smile broadened. ‘You’re not so bad as you like to believe. Before you go; do you have any lingering regrets or grudges?’ ‘I was angry with the Vicar for doin’ me in,’ Morgan said. ‘But that turned out all right. I guess the bastard didn’t see what a hand he was dealin’ me when he killed me.’ ‘Be at peace then,’ Tristan said softly. Morgan grinned and raised his spear in salute as he faded to a shimmer on the air and winked out. Glory took him, and the back-blast washed through Tristan and into Bo through the link of their joined hands. For several long moments, Bo stood blinking like a man that has lived in a cave all his life standing in sunlight for the first time. ‘Um, don’t we need him?’ Bo interrupted hesitantly, shaking his hands to rid his fingers of the mild pins and needles tingle that moved through his entire body in a wave. ‘He can’t help us anymore,’ Tristan said. ‘And I’m beginning to think that we don’t need anything but each other.’ ‘You just made some connection, didn’t you?’ Bo said. ‘I see it in your eyes.’ ‘There must be a reason the tides of fate keep washing us up on the same shore.’ ‘Like bottles with messages in them?’

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‘That’s a very nice analogy,’ Tristan said. ‘Tell me honestly; do you feel anything for me, beyond lust, I mean?’ ‘How do I know that what I feel is real and not what the … ghost wants me to feel?’ Tristan’s eyes widened. ‘Shit!’ he said succinctly. ‘You’re right. Can you remember when we first met? Before we went into the castle together?’ Bo closed his eyes. He saw the young man climb with coltish grace from the boat and… ‘God damn! When I first saw you, there were a few minutes when it was all so familiar that it didn’t even strike me as odd that I was expecting you. You. Not some psychic I’d never met. I was waiting for you.’ Bo’s eyes opened and met Tristan’s. ‘And then it was gone. Ardie was introducing you, and then you slipped and I caught you, and…’ Bo said. ‘Show me,’ Tristan said. ‘Show you what?’ ‘What you saw when you first touched me.’ ‘How? I don’t even remember.’ ‘Just don’t be afraid,’ Tristan said bringing their foreheads together.

THE hunter reached the stony brow of the mound and approached the crude ring of stone cromlechs. He had never seen such a structure before and stared curiously at the paired menhirs with their massive capstones forming an airy temple around a central altar. The stranger in a strange land walked through the phantom portal of one of the square arches and continued walking boldly toward those gathered within the circle. Though he was not prone to seek out other humans, he was intrigued by the mystery. The man in the kilt of spotted fur who stood before the altar stone looked nothing like the folk that watched him so intently. Where they were short and stooped and shaggy, he was upright

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with slender graceful limbs devoid of hair. He lacked the prominent brow ridge and heavy jaw; indeed his features were as fine as a woman’s of the hunter’s clan. As the traveler watched, the strange one raised a bone knife and made a cut on his smooth brown forearm. Bone ornaments rattled as red rain fell on the thirsty stone of the altar and sparked the crude miracle the newly converted faithful had gathered to witness. The small crowd of naked near-humans roared a welcome as the Mother’s avatar appeared on the sacred slab of stone that had fallen from the heavens. Dark of hair and eye and lithe of limb like the priest, with a sweet beauty that pierced the heart as well as the eye, the Goddess’s representative on earth opened graceful arms in a gesture of greeting and benediction. A sigh rippled through the crowd as they felt the warmth of the Goddess’s benison stir their loins. The sun-haired hunter made his way to the front, and the tribe fell silent. The priest waved the hunter closer, but the wanderer had eyes for none but the avatar that beckoned to him in clear invitation. “Come, man,” the priest said in the hunter’s language. “Come and take your pleasure. Scatter your seed upon this fertile offering.” The hunter frowned, golden brows drawing down over bright blue eyes. “I am a stranger. Why would you include me in your rites?” “You have traveled far to be part of this ceremony,” the priest said. “Do not be troubled; I traveled even farther. We are all in service to She Who Brings Life.” “Nay,” the wanderer replied with bitter honesty. “I was cast out of my tribe as unworthy. I came here by chance.” The dark-eyed priest laughed, the small stones braided into his hair clicking together. “And I was cast out of my home when it was engulfed by the sea. I came here by chance, and these people have taken me into their hearts, despite my differences. In return, I share my knowledge that they call magic.”

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The stranger’s frown deepened at this speech. “I want no part of your ceremonies,” he said. “Ah, but you do,” the priest said, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth. “For if you consent to lay with the avatar, you will be given a place of honor here. You will be a king and want for nothing. You will live out your days in such luxury as these people can provide.” “Why me?” the hunter asked as the crowd began to murmur at the delay. The priest’s eyes closed briefly as though he were unutterably weary. “I could tell you that your coming was foretold and it would be true for I foretold it. I could tell you that it is your destiny, and that would also be true as I am a true prophet.” The strange shaman leaned close, his obsidian eyes, outlined heavily in charcoal, glittering with deep emotion. “The plain fact is that we need your essence to quicken the avatar. These primitives are not suitable, but you are much more evolved and marginally compatible.” The hunter blinked at the unfamiliar words. “You are mad,” was his judgment. “Please,” the avatar said in the sweetest voice that the wanderer had ever heard. A soft hand lit on the hunter’s forearm, and he turned to look into dark liquid eyes. “Please?” the young man asked again. The stranger frankly assessed the slender body with a halfsmile on his face. “You are very desirable,” he said. “But I shall get no children on you. You are a man like me.” “Not exactly like you,” the priest said. “Though Tris looks like a young man, he is more. He has the power to reach into the spirit world and speak with those who have passed over. If this tribe sees him as a god, I will not disenchant them. And if the worship of the Goddess survives, our exile here will not be a complete tragedy.” “Please,” the boy repeated.

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It was not until then that the traveler realized the young man was speaking another language. And though it was a language he did not know, he understood. “The avatar has not the gift of tongues,” the priest said. “Come, man, do not be afraid. It is not so much that we are asking.” “What is my part in this?” “The avatar has never coupled for to do so would quicken the dormant seeds of his power. This was an event greatly feared by the high priest of my…” the shaman paused. “This can have no meaning for you, but I think my superiors were wrong; I believe that an empowered avatar would do Her will, not use the power to subjugate others.” “You are right. Your words have little meaning for me, but you do not feel like a liar.” “Help us. You can provide Tris with a source of compatible life energy,” the priest smiled at the hunter’s expression. “Do not fear; this energy is born of pleasure each time you bring satisfaction to the avatar.” “Your luck god must be smiling today. I was cast out of my tribe because of my love of my own sex.” “You believe it is luck?” the priest raised an eyebrow. “I have much to teach you, if you wish to learn. My land is drowned, but Her knowledge need not perish. Though you cannot beget children with the avatar to carry on our race, you can protect him and make sure that the worship of the Mother spreads and brings Her blessings to all men.” “Tell the boy you’ve found your stud,” the wanderer said. Tristan pulled back from the melding of his mind with Bo’s. “So that’s how it started,” he said.

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Chapter Seventeen BO stared at Tristan in stunned disbelief. ‘Did that really happen?’ he inquired incredulously. ‘Because it sure felt real.’ ‘Those were your oldest genetic memories of the two of us,’ Tristan said. ‘We don’t just die, you know; we go on, or at least that which animates us and makes us unique does. God, I sound just like Garry.’ Quickly, Tristan pushed his concern for Garry aside. He had no time now, if he hoped to salvage anything from the debacle he’d made of this situation. If he was ever going to prove he was a capable adult, this was the moment. ‘But people don’t keep meeting up down through history. Do they?’ Bo said. ‘Don’t,’ Tristan said, squeezing the man’s hand. ‘Don’t doubt; don’t regret; don’t despair. Those are the revenant’s weapons. He doesn’t want you strong, because he knows that you can defeat him.’ ‘We, you mean,’ Bo said. ‘We can defeat him.’ ‘I will certainly be a part of the equation,’ Tristan said lightly. ‘But you are the answer to this problem.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You really don’t see it? You and Sir Alun are opposite sides of the same coin. If you turned to the dark, you would be him. If he fought for the light, he would be you.’

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‘Why do I get the feeling there’s more at stake here than I can appreciate just now?’ ‘Because you’re a very perceptive man. Are you ready?’ ‘For what?’ ‘To go back, of course.’ ‘We can do that?’ ‘I’m not saying it will be easy.’ Tristan smiled. ‘We come from the great well of the unseen realm when we’re born, and our essences return to it when our bodies expire. In the waking world, the physical shells we left behind are animated now by the revenant’s will. Our soul, our consciousness, is what we are here,’ Tristan paused. ‘I get it,’ Bo said. ‘Our bodies are back there walking and talking?’ ‘Not at the moment, but they are breathing and performing instinctive functions.’ ‘That’s freaky,’ Bo said. ‘Yeah,’ Tristan agreed. ‘Gives me the willies whenever I see it.’ For some reason, the liaison’s admission of fear made Bo feel better. ‘Zombies,’ he whispered spookily, making a bug-eyed face. Tristan’s looked stupefied for a half-second and then smiled widely. ‘Flesh-eating zombies from Mars,’ he countered. Bo shook his head. ‘For somebody that’s an expert on the supernatural, you don’t know much about zombies. They only eat brains.’ Tristan nodded sagely. ‘So I guess you’d better watch your arse,’ he said. Bo looked at the young man for a long moment, trying to decide if Tristan was making a joke or not. Tristan gazed blandly back, but a sparkle in his dark eyes gave him away.

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‘So that’s how it’s gonna be,’ Bo said. ‘Then allow me to retort that you might want to put on a cup, since you do all of your thinking with your little head.’ Tristan snickered, his nose crinkling and his dimples dancing, and Bo’s heart told him in no uncertain terms that the boy owned it now. No, please, Bo thought, not again, not another drop-dead gorgeous young thing with the sexual agenda of an alley cat in heat and an appetite for my suffering. Not after Troy and Jared and Chris, he couldn’t do it again. He had vowed to Ardie that he’d break the pattern, and he would. ‘It’s broken,’ Tristan said. ‘I’m who you’ve been seeking in all those failed relationships. You’re a hunter, Bo, a seeker, but your search is over. Be now what you were always meant to be.’ Bo lifted his eyebrows. ‘Do what you most want to do,’ Tristan said softly. ‘Do what your heart tells you.’ ‘This reminds me of our first meeting,’ Bo said, as he took Tristan in his arms. ‘It always does,’ Tristan murmured as the man’s lips covered his. “DO you hear me?” James shouted again. “I don’t think he heard you,” Rhys said unhelpfully. James steeled himself and pressed the point of the ancient dagger against Tristan’s throat, playing his desperate hunch. “You listen to me, you evil bastard. You let my friends go, or I’ll take away your power supply.” Gavin lifted an eyebrow, but refrained from comment as Tristan ceased rocking against Bo and turned his head toward James. Awareness seeped back into the psychic’s eyes as they focused on the linguist. Then his gaze dropped to Bo’s head, busy in his lap. “Get him off me,” Tristan cried out.

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Gavin didn’t hesitate. Grasping Bo by the shoulders, Gavin pulled the man away from Tristan. Bo did not react well to the interruption. “Shite!” Gavin exclaimed, as he tried to subdue the salvager. “Give us a hand.” Rhys stood like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he waded in and grabbed one of Bo’s arms. “Fuck!” Lord Turcotte grunted. “He’s a strong son-of-a-bitch!” “Can you reach my cuffs at the back of my belt?” Gavin asked. “I’m afraid to let go of him.” Rhys nodded and did as the policeman asked. Andressen fought like a berserker until the handcuffs were fastened around his wrists. As soon as the locks clicked shut, Bo fell unconscious. “Oh God, he’s not dead, is he?” James gasped as he moved forward. “Tell me I didn’t kill Bo with that stupid mumbo-jumbo from that cursed Bigass Book.” “He’s just passed out,” Tristan answered as he finished straightening his clothing. “He’s not as used to dealing with spirits as I am.” James sighed with relief. “That’s the last time I dabble in black magic,” he said. “Do you think I got rid of the ghost?” “I think you gave him something to worry about,” the liaison said, as his glance skipped over the bodies on the floor. “I feel like I might pass out as well.” “Come and sit down in the main hall,” Gavin said. “James, can you and Rhys manage Bo? I don’t want to leave him here.” Rhys and James lifted Bo between them and carried him to the treasure hunters’ indoor camp. Depositing the unconscious man on a cot, the other four gathered a short distance away. Tristan’s gaze was drawn to the dagger hanging forgotten from James’s hand. He touched his throat, and his fingers came away painted with red. “Sorry,” James said, offering a paper towel.

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“You did what you had to,” Tristan said, turning his gaze to Gavin. “So, are you ready to admit that there are more things in the world than you can prove with science?” “I’m at a loss,” Gavin said. “I don’t know what to believe, or what to do next.” “There’s nothing to be done until the storm’s over,” Rhys said. “And at least people have stopped dying for the moment.” “I hope Bo’s okay,” James said, looking guiltily at his boss and friend. Gavin looked toward the chapel, his gaze intent. “Quiet for a minute,” he said. “Hear that?” Rhys nodded and walked toward the sound. In the generator-powered electric light, he saw something dark moving low to the ground near the chapel arch. Peering at the creeping shadow, Lord Turcotte made out a hand reaching in supplication. “It’s Garry,” Rhys said. “He’s alive.” As he knelt beside Garry, Rhys realized he had no idea what to do. The nobleman looked up in appeal and met Gavin’s eyes. “Easy, Dr. Arvel,” Gavin said as he knelt. “That’s a nasty gash you’ve got in your skull. Don’t try to move or speak, please, until I can have a look at it.” Garry’s coal-black eyes burned with the need to communicate as they fastened on Gavin’s gaze. Garry’s blue lips moved, but no coherent words came out. Gavin frowned and delicately parted the wounded man’s thick hair. “It’s too matted with blood,” Gavin said. “I need water.” James set the dagger down on the table and grabbed two jugs of distilled water from underneath another table. Popping the cap off of one, the linguist offered it. “Pour it slowly over the wound,” Gavin instructed. With steady hands, James directed the stream of water onto the gash and Gavin’s hands. Everyone was intent on watching the policeman clean the wound as Garry continued to struggle to

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speak. Garry’s eyes fixed on something over James’s shoulder and grew wide with horror. “Hold him, please, Sir Rhys,” Gavin said as Garry moved restlessly. “I think you might call me Rhys, considering present circumstances,” His Lordship said as he tightened his grip on Garry. Tristan sank to his knees next to James. “Poor Garry,” he said. “He looks as though he has suffered some brain damage.” “Quite possibly,” Gavin said as Tristan reached out to touch Garry’s shoulder. Garry tried to pull away, and Gavin looked up at Rhys in mild irritation. “Sorry,” Rhys said meekly as he held Garry still. “Shhh,” Tristan soothed. “Do not fight so, Garry.” The parapsychologist’s gaze locked onto his protégé’s, trying desperately to communicate. The jagged bolts of pain that sawed into his brain had become one all pervasive seizure of agony that was grinding away at his consciousness. The blackness yawned, and he was tipping into it, but something waited at the foot of the shadow gate. Something that hungered, something that would swallow his soul before it could cross over. “Easy,” Gavin said. “We’re trying to help you, Dr. Arvel. No one wants to hurt you.” Garry shook his head, and Gavin cursed as he lost his grip on the man. “Maybe there are too many strangers around him,” Rhys said. “Perhaps Tristan can calm him, and then you can do your exam.” Gavin considered. “Makes sense,” he said, as he rose. Rhys started to get to his feet, but Garry held onto him. Lord Turcotte bent down as Garry’s lips moved frantically. Tristan stroked Garry’s hand, pulling it from Rhys’s forearm.

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“Poor devil,” Gavin said. “Wonder what he wants to tell us.” “All he said was ‘not Tristan’,” Rhys reported. “The benighted bugger is more worried about the lad than his own life.” Gavin nodded and then cursed again. “I don’t believe it,” he said. Rhys turned and was surprised to see Bo Andressen, hands cuffed behind his back, moving along the floor like an inchworm. His vacant eyes were fixed on Tristan as he made his way determinedly forward. “Single-minded fellow,” Rhys commented. Tristan turned his head and saw Bo. “Gavin,” the young man called. “Keep him away from me, please.” Gavin stepped into Bo’s path and gestured to Rhys to give him a hand. Both men grabbed one of Bo’s elbows and hauled him up from the floor. They carried the writhing treasure hunter back to his cot and deposited him on it none too gently. “Are we going to have to restrain him?” James asked. “I’ll sit with him,” Lord Turcotte volunteered unexpectedly. “I’ll call one of you if he gets to be too much for me.” “Thanks,” Gavin said in relief. “Gavin, Lord Turcotte,” the linguist called. “Did you move the dagger?” Before either could answer, Tristan cried out for help. Gavin, Rhys and James hurried over to where Tristan sat with Garry’s head in his lap. Garry’s eyes were fixed, and his chest was still. Gavin felt for a pulse in the man’s wrist and neck, and bowed his head in failure. “I’m afraid he’s gone,” the policeman said. Tristan looked up from his mentor’s pale face. “What happened?” the young man asked. “He was trying so hard to tell me something, and then he just stopped breathing.”

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“I’m sorry,” Gavin said. “Let Rhys and James take care of Dr. Arvel, all right?” Tristan held tightly to Garry’s jacket for a long moment and then let go. “I guess there’s nothing I can do for him now,” the liaison said. Gavin held out a hand and pulled Tristan to his feet. The psychic swayed slightly, and Gavin steadied him with an arm around his back. Tristan leaned against the big man’s strength, and Gavin wrapped him in a comforting embrace. Gavin had comforted Tristan before, during the hours when a traumatized twelve year old refused to let go of his rescuer until Dr. Davies arrived. The constable had cuddled and soothed the lanky boy with the face of a Renaissance angel and found he was thinking how pleasant it would be to father a child. Small chance of that if his sexual orientation were known. He would have had to jump through every hoop in existence to adopt, and he hadn’t the temperament to interview surrogate mothers willing to be impregnated with a homosexual’s sperm. It was just another Joker that the hand of Fate had dealt him. Gavin surfaced from his gloomy thoughts and heard the odd noise that had brought him from his depressing reverie. Why on earth had he dredged up those old disappointments? “Tristan?” Gavin said, taking the strange noise for a suppressed sob. “It’s all right if you want to cry.” Tristan raised his head from Gavin’s shoulder and looked up at the man. For a moment, Gavin felt as though the floor was falling from under his feet at rapid rate and his stomach fluttered queasily. He focused on the boy’s dark gaze as a hand cupped his crotch. Gavin became hyper-aware that he was not holding a child as Tristan deftly handled his soft cock through his trousers. “Steady on,” Gavin said, taking hold of the liaison’s wrist. “I need you, Gavin,” Tristan pleaded. “I need you to help me forget.” “Stop it, Tris. This is not the time or place for this.”

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“Kiss me once,” Tristan begged, massaging the policeman’s stirring shaft. “If you still don’t want to fuck me, I’m sure I can find someone who will.” Gavin recoiled as Rhys and James came back into the hall. “You’re not yourself,” the policeman said. “Why don’t you go and have a lie-down while I talk to Lord Turcotte?” Tristan’s sweet mouth curled in a barely concealed sneer. “Thank you for nothing,” he said as he walked away. The corners of Gavin’s eyes tightened, but he gave no other sign of how much the words hurt him, as he turned toward the other two men. “Would you like me to go back and sit with Mr. Andressen?” Rhys asked. Gavin glanced over at the bunkhouse area, where Tristan was just sitting down on a cot near Bo’s. “He seems quiet just now,” Gavin said. “And Tristan can call us if anything changes. “Are you all right?” James asked Gavin. “You look exhausted.” “I imagine we all do,” Rhys commented. “Gavin didn’t have those circles under his eyes before,” James said. “He looks drained.” “Drained?” Rhys repeated as Gavin’s head whipped toward him in sudden apprehension. Gavin spun around and Rhys and James followed suit. All three men froze at the bizarre tableau across the hall. Tristan knelt beside Bo’s cot. He had unbuttoned the blond man’s shirt and bared the golden-furred chest. In his hands, Tristan held the ancient dagger poised to plunge into Bo’s heart.

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Chapter Eighteen ‘BO,’ the young man whispered against his lover’s lips as the man crushed him in a fierce embrace. ‘You know what we need to do?’ ‘I want to,’ Bo replied. Tristan smiled. ‘I’ve always thought it was a good thing that our salvation is linked to doing this. We seem to be reasonably proficient at it, and we don’t mind the work.’ ‘So we love each other because we keep meeting down through the ages?’ ‘You’ve got it backward,’ Tristan said. ‘We keep meeting because of our love. We unite two branches of early mankind that gave birth to modern man.’ ‘So psychic powers are…’ ‘Recessive Atlantean genes surfacing,’ Tristan finished for him. The young man paused before continuing. ‘I want you to know that I’m not a slut,’ he said. ‘Not that it should matter, but I was… I had never made love with anyone until the day I arrived at Caer Gwarchod and the revenant possessed me.’ Bo lifted the boy’s chin on his fingers and looked into the velvet eyes. ‘I admit that in my mind, I called you slut and worse, but I can see that we were both manipulated.’ Tristan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Everything’s okay, then. Come on, Bo. Let’s generate the power we need to kick this bed sheet’s arse.’ ‘Bed sheet?’

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‘That’s what Garry called ghosts,’ Tristan said. ‘I used to think it disrespectful.’ ‘It’s time for some disrespect,’ Bo said. ‘What do we do?’ ‘What you do best,’ Tristan smiled. ‘Since Alun didn’t kill us this time, we can complete the quickening ritual. We’ll rub against each other until we spark the fires of creation. And then…’ the boy’s words trailed off. ‘And then?’ Bo prompted, nuzzling Tristan’s ear. ‘I don’t know. It’s never gotten this far before. I don’t think.’ Bo met the young man’s gaze resolutely. ‘Let’s not think,’ he said. ‘Let’s take your advice and just be what we were meant to be.’ Tristan raised his eyebrows and Bo grinned at him. ‘Two people that can’t stay away from each other,’ Bo clarified. ‘Amen,’ Tristan said, just before Bo took his breath away with a passionate kiss. Tristan responded eagerly, reciprocating every caress, pressing as closely as possible to the man that set him ablaze with a touch. Bo possessed his lover with lips, teeth and fingers as the boy clung to his strength like a flowering vine on a granite cliff. Without breaking the kiss, Bo lifted Tristan to sit on the altar. Tristan opened his legs and wrapped them around Bo’s hips. Bo leaned forward, grinding his groin demandingly against the young man’s, grasping the firm buttocks, kneading them as he made thrusting motions. ‘You don’t need to warm me up,’ Tristan gasped. ‘I’m ready for you.’ ‘What about some lube at least?’ ‘This isn’t real life, Bo,’ Tristan reminded. ‘Oh. Okay then.’

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Bo ripped the cloth from Tristan’s body, leaving the young man’s sculpted physique draped in tatters. Pushing his trousers to his knees, Bo took hold of his aching arousal. In the purest rush of lust he’d ever felt, Bo seated his manhood and slid easily into the wet velvet. Tristan pressed his heels into Bo’s lower back, urging the man on. Bo thrust again and buried his length in the pulsing tightness. Welcoming heat envelops his spear as the barbarian sinks into the avatar’s sheath. A warrior-slave of the Mameluke Empire steals a moment of bliss with the Caliph’s cherished dancing-boy. A lovesick Elizabethan playwright writes a sonnet for his dark-eyed leading “lady” and is sweetly rewarded. A Danish archeologist dallies with an Egyptian laborer while seeking a Pharaoh’s tomb. A soldier finds comfort in the arms of the Navajo codetalker he guards. A 21st Century treasure seeker stakes his claim on a young man who speaks to spirits at the same moment as a Pleistocene hunter merges with the last living link to a lost way of life. Their lips meet and meld as surely as their hearts and souls. They move as one in a ritual that transcends its physical origins, connecting the ephemeral to the eternal. Together they reach the peak of sensual stimulation, and critical mass is achieved. Ecstasy explodes in every cell in a barrage of bliss, a dancing white light that blows through them like a tornado of silver static charged with erotic electricity. Mere flesh could never withstand the inundation of power engendered by their union, but in this realm, it is absorbed until it leaks from every pore in a pearly glow. ‘You look like an angel should look,’ Bo thinks just before overload takes him.

BO blacked out and when he opened his eyes, he was severely disoriented. He felt as though he’d gained four hundred

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pounds, and his arms hurt. He focused on Tristan, who was leaning over him. It struck him then that he was back in the waking world, as the psychic called it. He was lying on his back with his hands bound behind him. Suspended above him was an ornate dagger, clutched tightly in Tristan’s trembling fingers. “What’s going on?” Bo said as lightly as he could. “Bo!” James shouted, as Gavin and Rhys ran over. “Stay where you are,” Bo called back. “Tristan’s trying to kill you.” “Yeah, I can see that,” Bo said. “He’s … possessed, and the only reason he hasn’t killed me yet is because he’s giving the bastard the fight of his life. I’m going to try and help him, and I’d appreciate it if you guys don’t do anything, no matter what you see.” James held up a hand to Rhys and Gavin. “Give Bo a chance,” the linguist said. “I’ve seen him pull off one or two miracles since I’ve worked for him.” Bo rose slowly, until the point of the blade was almost touching his skin. Gingerly meeting the liaison’s eyes, Bo searched there for the soul of his mate. “Alun,” Bo said in challenge. “For millennia you and others like you have tried to destroy the last vestiges of the Mother’s worship. You’ve come close many times, but you’ve never been able to stamp it out completely. Your faith is intolerant and inflexible. Anything different is an abomination. Any argument is heresy. Those that do not conform to your beliefs are damned. You aren’t a torchbearer any longer; you’ve become the enemy of the light.” Gently, Bo kissed Tristan’s wrist, and the tip of the dagger drooped. “Tristan,” Bo called. “I know you’re in there, and I know you’re strong, but if you need my help, tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” “He is not strong enough,” Tristan said, an odd timbre in his light voice. “I thank you for the energy, though. Forgive me if I use it to destroy you.”

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“Tristan won’t let you hurt me,” Bo said confidently. “He’s stronger than you think.” Tristan’s merry laughed pealed out, but it had a manic sound. “He is already defeated. Did you really think a mere boy could stand against me? Look into my eyes and know the truth.” Bo swallowed as the dark eyes captured his gaze and held it. The revenant was not lying. Bo could see no trace of the gentle psychic in that hostile stare. ‘Bo.’ Bo held himself in complete stillness, hoping he hadn’t imagined the small voice in his mind, and praying it came again. ‘Bo. I love you,’ Tristan said. ‘Never forget that.’ “Wait! What does that mean?” Bo shouted. Bo felt a soft breeze on his face like a ghostly kiss redolent of cinnamon and musk and the faint briny scent of the sea. “No,” Bo said, his heart pounding in suspicion. “He is gone,” the revenant said. “And this fine young body is mine.” Bo quickly pulled his knees up and brought his cuffed hands around to the front. Alun yanked Tristan’s hands back as Bo reached out. Bo grabbed at the dagger, opening a cut along the edge of one palm, as the revenant pulled it free. Bo snatched at it again, heedless of the damage to his hands. Alun moved back and put the blade to Tristan’s throat. “Don’t,” Bo said reflexively. “I like this body,” Alun said. “But I will bleed it dry if you take another step.” “Easy,” Bo said. “I’m not movin’. Everybody stay back.” “Mortals,” the revenant sneered. “So enamored of these husks of flesh.” “I’m particularly fond of that one,” Bo agreed. “And you know what? You don’t get to use it anymore. Go ahead. Use that fancy steak knife. I fuckin’ dare ya!”

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“Bo!” Gavin said, coming forward with the key to the cuffs. “Have you lost your mind?” “Just started using it,” Bo said. “If the ghost trashes Tristan’s body, where will he go?” “I can easily oust one of you,” Alun claimed. “Then why didn’t you do that to start with, instead of going after Tris?” On the last word, the treasure hunter launched himself at his enemy, tackling the slender body. The sharp edge of the dagger scored a line across Tristan’s collarbones before Bo immobilized his wrist. Alun fought back, and the two men traded blows until the ceremonial knife flew out of the slim fingers and skittered over the stone floor. Tristan’s body twisted in an impossibly supple move to grasp at the flying steel, but it skipped away from him. He crawled after it, and Bo tackled him, stopping the revenant’s forward progress by pinning him beneath superior weight. “Get the god-damned knife!” Bo yelled. James was already on it. Gavin changed course and knelt beside the struggling men on the floor. Rhys stood rooted to the spot, his head lifted in a listening posture. Bo and Gavin dragged the thrashing revenant incarnate to his feet as James approached with the dagger. The ghost fought harder as the linguist drew nearer, and the two men could barely keep a grip on the willowy body. James raised the poignard, and Alun grew still. “Kill me,” the revenant said. “And lose any hope of getting the witch back.” “I don’t believe you,” James said. “You’d say anything to extend your miserable life.” “You dare call me a liar? I am the lord of this place.” “No, you’re not,” Sir Rhys said over James’s shoulder. “I am.”

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Tristan’s eyes narrowed as Sir Alun hesitated before speaking. “We shall see,” he said at last. “If you think you can challenge me, throw down your gauntlet.” “All right then,” Lord Turcotte said and recited the words James had found in the Book. “As rightful master of Caer Gwarchod, I call upon all that have been wronged within these walls to present themselves for justice should they wish it.” “No!” the revenant thundered in Tristan’s refined tones. “Stop. Do not speak the words.” “Even the spirits of those wronged do I call upon,” Sir Rhys pronounced in his vibrant baritone. “Any who have grievance against the bloodline, stand forth and receive justice. I call you once.” “Stop!” the ghost bellowed. “I command you!” “I call you twice,” his lordship said. “No. Do not finish, or I will tear your beating heart from your chest.” Rhys calmly met Tristan’s blazing eyes. “I call you thrice.” A boiling mist appeared behind his lordship and sprouted pale tendrils that broke off from the numinous source. The fog became several distinct columns of vapor that coalesced into vaguely human forms. In a few seconds, they resolved into the translucent figures of handsome young men. “Cillian!” Gavin gasped. “Billy.” “Gryf,” James breathed. “Where is Chris?” Sir Rhys said doubtfully. “Fool. You cannot be of my bloodline,” the revenant said. “That one chose his fate, as did my other minions.” “As did you,” Rhys retorted. “I feel not one scrap of sympathy for you, either. You deserve your fate. Let the wronged come forward and claim justice.” Slowly, the wan spirits of the young men that the revenant had drained lifted their pale heads. The Crusader’s ghost had

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absorbed their energy, and naught remained but the signature wave on the ether that was their unique code. In this state, they were powerless, but welded together by a liaison they were a formidable presence. Sir Alun’s fear overtook his fury as he was smothered in an eldritch cloud of spent souls. These blighted spirits denied their rightful rest, cleaved to the one that had snuffed them out like fireflies in a jar. Desperate to escape the cold, clinging ghosts that were drawn irresistibly to his spurious life energy, the revenant left Tristan’s body and rose up to the ceiling. Gavin and Bo supported the liaison’s limp frame, as they stared in stunned fascination at the wisps of vapor that rose from his body, twining about the form of the long dead Crusader. Lord Alun fought, tearing at the mist, only to watch it reform to curl about his limbs. His shrieks were silenced when the diaphanous shroud covered his face, sealing him in with his victims to be consumed. “Fuck me,” Lord Turcotte breathed as the revenant disappeared in the roiling cocoon. In a few moments, the last tatters of fog had dissipated. Nothing remained of the revenant, except for the havoc he had wrought among the mortals within the walls of the castle. Outside, the wind began to drop dramatically, as though the ghost’s defeat were a signal. The survivors looked around at one another in patent disbelief that it was over. Bo moved first, looking into Tristan’s still face and feeling for a heartbeat. “Shite!” Gavin said. “Let’s lay him down on a cot.” Bo knelt, clasping the liaison’s cold hand as Gavin checked for a pulse. The policeman looked up and met Rhys’s eyes, his face grave. James stopped in his tracks, the bloodstained dagger forgotten in his hands. Bo took Tristan’s limp body in his arms and kissed the pliant lips as Gavin stood. Tristan’s eyes opened, and his fingers moved weakly in Bo’s grip. Bo laughed through his tears. “You scared the crap outta me,” the treasure hunter said. “You do care,” the psychic answered.

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“I thought you were dead,” Bo said. “Don’t ever do that to me again.” “I was dead, but now I’m back.” “What are you saying?” Rhys asked. “That you’ve been resurrected? What does that make you, then?” “Someone very special,” Bo answered. “I should say so,” the nobleman remarked. “Am I bearing witness to the Second Coming?” “This has nothing to do with Christianity,” Tristan said, his voice becoming stronger. “Though it has a little to do with Jesus, since he was like me, or vice versa. It’s so strange how things get twisted around after a few centuries.” “Such as?” Rhys prompted. “Come on,” Bo broke in. “The kid just rose from the dead. Give him a break.” “Sorry,” His Lordship said humbly. “Maybe Tristan will explain it to me later?” “Is it really over?” Gavin wanted to know. Tristan nodded and lay back, safe in Bo’s arms, Bo’s cheek resting on top of his head. Gavin grinned in relief and hauled them both up into a fierce embrace. James hesitantly held out a hand to Rhys. His Lordship moved into the offered hug, and Gavin pulled them both in. The five survivors huddled together in the warmth and comfort of simple human contact. There is a lot to be said in favor of such comfort, but the linking of their spirits, through the physical connection to the reborn liaison, added a dimension of such richness and intensity that they were transported briefly above the crude matter that housed them. A silent accord was reached, and this band of brothers knew their paths would lie side by side for a long time to come.

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Epilogue “GRAND opening,” Sir Rhys pronounced in his rich tones. “Grand opening. Lovely words.” James came close to rolling his eyes. “I fully realize that you’re attempting to bait me with puerile euphemisms, but somehow I can’t be angry with you when you’re filling me up in such an agreeable manner.” Rhys came close to smirking, then replied with exaggerated modesty. “I did have a little help,” he said, glancing at Gavin. Gavin smiled equably and rose from his sated sprawl to smack Rhys’s ass hard. “Oh God, yes!” Rhys groaned. “Your sense of timing is impeccable, as usual.” James moaned with pleasure as Rhys’s thick shaft moved almost imperceptibly in his sheath, rocking to the rhythm of Gavin’s swats to His Lordship’s bottom. The linguist’s starkly handsome features were transfigured by bliss when Gavin leaned over to suck strongly at the head of his arousal. Rhys groaned his approval as James’s interior muscles rippled along the length of his aching shaft. James slid his fingers into Gavin’s mane as the man took him deeper, and Rhys increased the speed of his stroke. With his other hand, the linguist took hold of Gavin’s revived erection and pumped it enthusiastically.

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Gavin stopped the spanking and gently, but insistently, prodded Rhys’s rosette. “A grand opening,” Gavin purred in his thick North Country accent. James snorted with unexpected laughter and then convulsed with pleasure as Gavin went down on him again. The blunt head of Rhys’s arousal brushed against James’s prostate, and the linguist erupted in Gavin’s mouth. Gavin swallowed, shunting his finger deeper into Rhys’s passage, searching out the sensitive spot. “Shite!” Rhys shouted as Gavin rubbed in figure eights. James whimpered as the big cock sank into him to the hilt and withdrew briefly only to plunge into him again. Gavin took hold of the young man’s thigh and pulled his legs farther apart. Tenderly stroking the silky skin where James’s limbs joined his torso, Gavin took the linguist’s lips in an ardent kiss. James moaned into Gavin’s mouth as Rhys’s stroke stimulated his sweet spot with each forceful thrust. Once again, James’s lovers were taking him to the limits of bliss and then pushing him over the edge. Helpless against the adoring onslaught, a willing vessel for this rough, human magic, James responded eagerly with an abandon never seen in him outside the bedroom. “I’m going to come again,” Gavin murmured as he relinquished James’s mouth. “Me, too,” James said. “Touch yourself,” Rhys requested, and James complied with alacrity. In a few strokes, James came again. Rhys pulled his twitching rod from the linguist’s sheath and rubbed it against James’s as he spurted. James pulled Gavin forward by his pulsing arousal as the big man gave a cry of release and covered James’s hand with seed. A knock at the bedroom door froze all three men in a Mapplethorpian tableau. “Lord Turcotte?” a feminine voice called out. “What is it, Kate?” Rhys called out. “Your guests are early.”

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All three men scrambled from the enormous bed, searching madly for clothing shed in the heat of the moment. “We’ll be right down,” Rhys said. “You needn’t wait.” “Why would I, sir? I’m not curious,” Lord Turcotte’s chief of security replied. “I’ve seen the surveillance tapes.” Gavin chuckled at his colleague’s dry wit as he tossed Rhys’s shirt at the nobleman. “Sharp lass,” he said. “Disrespect is what passes for cleverness now?” Rhys asked. “Kate’s honest,” Gavin corrected as he opened the door and went through it first. As well-guarded and provided with alarms as the castle now was, Gavin still took the time to look up and down the hall before beckoning to His Lordship. Rhys strode briskly into the corridor, followed by James. Gavin looked critically at his charge and fixed the collar of Sir Rhys’s creamy linen shirt. “Will I do?” Rhys asked. “Admirably,” Gavin said warmly, his glance straying to James. “Are you going to wear that tie?” the bodyguard asked. “No,” James said. “I’m going to use it in an assassination attempt later, and I wanted to keep it handy.” Gavin rolled his eyes. “I think I liked you better when you were a mousy bookworm.” “A mousy bookworm?” Rhys asked. “I’m trying to picture such a creature: half mouse, half worm. I feel vaguely ill.” “What the hell’s taking so long?” called the man just reaching the top of the stairs. “They’re probably going at it like famished sailors,” someone answered from lower down. “Bo!” James shouted and sprinted down the hall. “Tristan!” Rhys looked at Gavin. “He’s completely forgotten us,” Lord Turcotte said.

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His Lordship’s personal bodyguard smiled fondly at the insecure nobleman. “You’ve still got me,” Gavin said, leaning to kiss Sir Rhys on the lips. “You were right, Tris,” Bo called. “Looks like they just got out of bed.” “Bo!” James reached his former employer and enveloped him in a warm embrace. Bo hugged James back, trying to express with the fierceness of the gesture all that he could never put into words. These men had survived a unique and horrifying experience together, and there were some things that never needed to be said aloud again. Things that were understood: like the bond of love and purpose that united the five. “My God!” James exclaimed, holding Bo at arms-length. “How long has it been?” “Not that long,” Tristan said as he finally reached the top of the stairs. “It was hard enough getting the man to agree to any time off at all.” “So Bo,” James said. “When are we going to dig up Atlantis?” “We’re not in the salvage business anymore, pard,” Bo said gently. “The hell we aren’t,” Rhys disagreed. “What would you call this place?” “He’s got you there,” Gavin said. “Rhys may be graceless and temperamental, but he’s also right a shocking percentage of the time.” Tristan smiled radiantly. “I like that,” he said. “I like the idea that we’re in the recovery business. But instead of ancient artifacts, we’re salvaging people.” “Well, we will be,” Rhys said. “The school is ready; all we need are some Atlanteans.”

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“I spoke with Alicia just this morning about the candidates we selected,” Tristan said. “You’ll not have a shortage of students. I like what I’ve seen of your staff, by the way.” Gavin’s sharp ears noticed the ragged edge to the young man’s voice. “Why don’t we all go into Sir Rhys’s sitting room and use it for its intended purpose?” “I should meet Kate downstairs,” Rhys said with genuine regret in his voice. “I’d rather be here catching up, but there are still a lot of things to coordinate.” “I’ll help,” James said. “Bo and Tristan love Gavin best anyway.” Tristan saw the look Rhys directed at James, a glance that mingled gratitude with adoration. It seemed the troubled aristocrat was mending well in the care of his loving therapists. James was smarter than a whole college of professors, and if there was something Gavin couldn’t fix, Tristan didn’t know about it. Rhys looked startled when Tristan caught him by the wrist and kissed him softly on the cheek. “What was that for?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.” “Because you’re handsome,” Tristan said. Rhys raised his eyebrows. “Just for being handsome?” “And you smell good,” Tristan added. “Come on,” James said, taking Rhys’s hand from Tristan’s. “Stop fishing for compliments, your lordship. Kate is waiting.” “And I’d rather see the nursery than all the rest,” Tristan said. “That’s not a problem,” Gavin said. “I thought of something else I want,” Tristan said. “What’s that?” both men turned attentively. “Two husbands,” Tristan said, flashing his dimples. “You’re just an avatar, not an actual deity, you know,” Bo told the young man. “You’re not above the law yet.” “Says you,” Tristan grinned. “Can we go now?”

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Gavin escorted Bo and Tristan back downstairs and they passed into the welcoming ambience of the nursery. Though there was room for forty infants, only one crib was occupied. The liaison made straight for the bed and leaned over the sleeping child. Gently, he touched the small, vulnerable head, stirring the silky curls with his fingertips. The baby’s aura was as unmistakable as sunrise, but Tristan was still in awe of the banked power residing in this tiny, fragile body. “Shame about his mother,” Gavin said sincerely. “She was so full of hope when she came here.” “I remember,” Tristan said, silently mourning the thin girl unaware of what she had carried to term, but knowing nonetheless that her baby would be special. “It was nobody’s fault, though I should have seen…” “Hey, you just said it was nobody’s fault,” Bo interrupted. “So this little guy has a lot of Atlantean blood, huh?” The psychic touched his lover’s hand. “Genes,” he corrected. “Wonder who his father was,” Gavin said, not for the first time. Tristan looked up, meeting Gavin’s eyes. “We don’t know this child’s biological father,” the liaison said. “I’ll find out when he’s a bit older, but for now I like to think that we’re all his fathers. And I hope with all my heart that he’ll have the benefit of guidance from each of us as he grows up.” Gavin had to force his words past a sudden tightness in his throat. “Even His Lordship?” the bodyguard asked facetiously. Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Sorry,” Gavin said. “I felt like I was going to cry. Had to say something fast.” “Because the big, bad caveman can’t cry,” Tristan said sardonically. “My God, Gavin, you’re gay; act like it!” Bo laughed, and the baby woke, blinking up at the blurry forms looming over him. His small face crumpled, and his mouth

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opened on a wail of displeasure. Tristan scooped the child up and put him to his shoulder, rubbing his back and making soothing noises. The crying stopped as though a switch had been thrown, and the infant goggled at Bo with a wide toothless grin that caught at the man’s heart. “He seems to like us,” Bo said. “That’s convenient since we’ll be his teachers and his family for the next twenty years or so,” the liaison said. “We’re not starting right now, are we?” Bo teased. “I already have,” Tristan said softly, turning the child to look into his eyes. “He says his name is Jude, by the way.” Bo and Gavin exchanged a look, but in the last three years they’d become accustomed to that sort of remark from Tristan. They’d seen enough evidence of what the psychic called the unseen realm to take the young man at his word. If Tristan said the baby’s name was Jude, then that’s what they’d call him. With a fond glance at the liaison, Gavin told Bo he’d meet them in the dining hall and went to take up his duties. “Guess we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” Bo said, putting his arms around Tristan from behind. Tristan smiled as the man nuzzled the back of his neck. “A lot behind us and a lot ahead of us,” he agreed. “Some of it will be in vain, and most people won’t understand what we’re trying to do, but you know that already. As long as we’re together, as long as our faith in one another is strong, we won’t fail. We’ll make a better world.” “I’m behind you all the way, kid,” Bo said, nibbling at an earlobe. “You want to go have a look at our accommodations?” “In a few minutes.” Right now, Tristan wanted nothing more than to hold this child in his arms and feel the strength of the spirit that animated him. The liaison vowed that he, with the help of the other fathers, would provide Jude with everything he needed to grow up strong, healthy and safe. And in the fullness of time, this small life would change the world.

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Working from the Arvel Institute at the refurbished Welsh castle, Jude would use his knowledge and powers to free his fellow men from the shadow of death’s dark pinions. People would still pass away, for no one was meant to live forever in one body, but they would no longer fear it. They would learn and believe that death was not an end, just as the old faiths preached. For all religions were but pale echoes of the truths discovered in Atlantis. Jude would show them proof, and Jude’s offspring would spread the message. In two generations, Tristan knew, the dread of dying would become non-existent. Freed from the fear of the unknown, mankind would awaken from the long nightmare into a dream that not only promised another life, but also gave corroboration of it. Released from these shackles, human beings would devote themselves to the improvement of life for all. Tristan kissed the top of Jude’s head as he placed him back in his crib. Jude whimpered, and the liaison whispered in a tiny perfect ear. “It’s all right. We’ll muddle through somehow until you’re old enough to take charge.” Tristan took Bo’s hand and led him back upstairs to share the glory to which all who love are heir.

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Connie Bailey I was born on an Air Force base and I’ve been in flight ever since. My father took the family with him wherever he was stationed; Spain, Morocco, Turkey, and Alaska were among his postings. While studying commercial arts, I married a musician who turned out to be a pilot in disguise. Having no burning ambition of my own at the time, I devoted myself to his dream. His job as aircraft designer and competition pilot has taken us all over the world. I have now set foot on almost every continent (a personal life ambition), but I don’t hold out much hope for Antarctica anymore. I have always loved to read. Since I was four, reading has been my favorite diversion and books my best friends. A few years ago, with my husband’s support, I set out to become a writer. I wrote every day and posted what I wrote at various Internet groups and later on livejournal. I cannot recommend this school of writing highly enough. The candid feedback I received was invaluable to my development. I kept working at it, and one day I received the most exciting e-mail ever. A publisher wanted to talk to me. That’s pretty much it so far. There are a few fun facts like: my only child is a rescued Greyhound named Lizard, I live at a small grass airfield with a hang gliding school, I have what’s commonly referred to as a “photographic memory”, I collect words as a hobby, and my only nickname is “The Judge”. Visit Connie’s Website - http://www.conniebailey.com/

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Seeing Is Believing

Seeing Is Believing Abigail Roux

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DO you believe in ghosts? Some people don’t, I know. Some people are so adamant about their certainty in the world that anything unexplained just doesn’t register with them. And some people are simply too scared to think about it. Some people don’t believe in ghosts, and that’s fine. I’ve never tried to convince anyone or explain my beliefs before, not unless someone expressed interest in hearing my opinions. And that, quite frankly, is a discussion that rarely comes up, save for around this time of year. Why people think Halloween is the only time ghosts come around I don’t know. But hey, whatever works. Some people don’t believe in ghosts, but I do. If you don’t, you may just want to skip this because you’ll probably think I’m mad. A ranting, raving lunatic who has serious delusions and who needs to be given a valium or two. If you don’t think that already, that is. But you don’t even know me so …well, just bear with me, yeah? If nothing else, you can sit and have a nice laugh. Anyway … I’m not going to go into the specifics of how or why because, honestly? I don’t know how or why. So why am I here? What do I know? I know that I firmly believe that some people are more sensitive to such things than others. And I know that I’ve heard them. And I’ve felt them. And I’ve seen them. And I know that what I’m going to tell you is the God’s honest truth. I consider it a gift. Some people … some people don’t. Some people don’t even believe it’s real. And that’s fine.

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I can’t really tell you how I got into doing what I do. I wish I could remember, but since I don’t, I’m sure it’s not really of much interest. I do recall that it was a very gradual type of thing. You know, the typical kind of climb to success that some people have, it started with family ringing you up and asking you to come ‘get this damned ghost out of my shower, I need to wash my hair.’ And then it spread from family to friends. Then to friends of friends. To casual acquaintances. To strangers in the pub. And then before I knew it, it was my life. It was what I did. I’m the first to admit that I’m not a very good storyteller. I tend to ramble a lot. And I get easily distracted by what we’ve taken to calling ‘Shiny Things.’ But see, Andy’s not really the storytelling type, he thinks it’s all bollocks anyway, and he’s not likely to be friendly. Leo … well, you just don’t want Leo telling a story, know what I mean? He’s worse than I am. Anyway, that’s Andy and Leo over in the opposite seat. They’re both great guys, they really are. A little rough around the edges when you first meet them, granted, and Andy tends to like to pick me up and toss me around when he gets in a tizzy because I’m the smallest, but he’s really just a big teddy bear. Who growls. With, you know … weaponry. And Leo … well, how does one go about describing Leo? You’ll really just have to see him in action, I think. Words don’t do him justice. Anyway. Like I said, I can’t really tell you how I got into this business, nor can I tell you how the three of us fell in with each other. But we’ve been together for quite a while. Quite a while … days like this it seems like fifty years, to be honest. They’re having a tiff right now, you see. They’re lovers, in case I didn’t make that clear. Yeah. I know you wouldn’t think it to look at them, what with them being big, huge, manly men and the scowling and the growling at each other and the hitting when they think I’m not looking, but they are. They’re really very cute, if I may be permitted to use the word. When they’re not trying to kill one another again and all that rubbish.

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But that’s not really the point. See, I’ve decided that some of our jobs are worthy of sharing. And this is my first experiment in doing so. A nice, calm job. Something that sounds as if it will be easy. So here we are, winging our way across the Atlantic to the States. Private jet. See? We can be credible, too. Classy like. Try not to laugh too much, okay? “ARE you the ghost people?” the man asks as he comes out to meet us. We’re tired. Our asses hurt from too many hours on a plane and then too many hours in a car on a bumpy dirt road, and we are not in the mood for the ‘aw shucks’ routine. But the man is good-looking, I’ll give him that. About six feet tall. My height, thank God, I’m tired of being the little one. And he seems to be genuinely pleased to see us. Some clients still have that sour-faced aura of disbelief about them, as if they’ve been forced by someone to call us. This man, however, is all too pleased to see us. “We are indeed,” Leo answers cheerfully as he tromps up to the front porch of the cozy little ranch house and sticks his hand out for the client to shake it. “Leonard, Leonard Gallant, nice to meet you. Call me Leo. This is Andy Talbot. We haven’t quite got him fully trained yet, he still just growls and grunts, and that’s Zacharias Blake. Call him whatever you want, but you’ll want to be nice to him, he determines the payments. Sorry we’re a bit late. We got lost as fuck getting out here. When you said turn at the horse by the road, you weren’t kidding, huh?” Leo’s still talking, but I’ve long since learned to tune his rambling ass out and filter for the important things. Like ‘duck’ and ‘run’ and, my personal favorite, ‘oh, holy hell!’ You’ll learn too, if you stick around long enough. “Scott Cunningham,” the client responds, nodding to each of us in turn. His smile is nice. It’s kind, in a worn sort of way. He looks like the type who’s had a hard go of it at some point. I like him.

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I nod back at him, smiling as I hitch my bag higher. “Do you want us to get started right away?” I ask. “Or can we –” “No, no,” he says quickly. “Come in. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Won’t be dark for another eight hours at least. Don’t you need it to be dark and all that?” “It helps,” I respond with an easy smile, although no, it doesn’t usually matter. I follow Leo and Andy up the front steps. I stop as I reach the top and hold out my hand to him, and he takes it in a firm grip and smiles as he shakes my hand. “Zach,” I tell him with a small, cheeky smile. “Scott,” he responds in the same tone, and he gestures for me to come in with the hand that’s not still gripping mine. “Come on in, and I’ll fill you in on my … problem. And in return, you can fill me in on what exactly it is you do.” “We’ll be delighted, sir,” I respond cheerfully, and I’m thinking … I’m thinking I’m going to like this one. “SO … you can see them? Talk to them, even?” Scott asks as we sit at his kitchen table. I’m sitting here hunched over my mug, trying to stay out of the way of the woman in the ruffled white apron who is bustling around the kitchen, cooking all kinds of things that smell good, and I simply nod distractedly in answer. Scott frowns at me with that half-smile I get sometimes, it’s a sort of amused confusion, I guess you could call it. I smile at the woman as she whisks by with a pie plate, and then I look back at Scott apologetically. “You’re weren’t kidding when you said you had a lot of activity, huh?” I ask him before taking a sip of the hot chocolate he’s made us. I don’t much like coffee, and it’s cold enough that hot anything is just fine. I love hot chocolate. Andy growls wordlessly at the woman as she brushes the back of his head with her elbow, and Leo snickers at him as Scott looks at us all with that same amused confusion.

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“What, you can see them now?” he asks in an impressed voice. “One of them anyway,” I answer as I watch the woman cooking. “She’s making an apple pie,” I tell him as I lean my elbow on the table and prop my chin on my hand, watching the woman with a small smile. Andy and Leo can both see them, too, though often not as well as I can. For me it’s just … natural. “Wow,” Scott says as he sits back and shakes his head. “They said you were good, but I didn’t expect … I mean, I thought you’d be using high-tech equipment and seeing orbs and shit like they do on those television shows. I didn’t expect … can you see her clearly?” he asks with a wave of his hand in her general direction. “I certainly can,” I answer with a smile. “See, they’re just like we are. They vary in their levels of sensitivity. This woman can probably sense us here. Maybe even see us in wisps or ... she seems to be dutifully ignoring us, though,” I say as I lean forward and point to her. “Her shoulders are hunched, sort of stiff,” I tell Scott in a lower voice. “She’s humming to herself, trying to fill the silence that she knows is not quite silence, and she keeps glancing to her side as if expecting to see someone there. She’s very nervous with us here.” Scott nods his head, leaning back up to the table to place his mug down. His mouth is slightly parted, and he looks quite fascinated now. I grin at him. I adore it when people not only believe, but are genuinely fascinated. I can’t get over how much I like him. “So … she’s just as scared of us as I was of her, huh?” he asks in a slightly amused voice. “Fascinating.” “She is, indeed. See, it goes both ways,” I explain. “The majority of them either don’t know or believe in us, just like most of us don’t believe in them. And only a small percentage of them can see us. More can feel us. And a lot of them can sense us. Most … well, most don’t mind us here, so long as we leave them alone.” Scott is smiling now, shaking his head slowly. He seems to be

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enjoying my little lecture. “But some of them … some of them are out to hurt us,” I go on regretfully. “And I assume that’s why you’ve summoned us?” I venture. Scott’s smile fades, and he looks down at the mug he holds in his hands, a finger tapping against the ceramic nervously. “I can smell the apple pie,” he tells us with a quick look up around at all of us. “And I can hear the children giggling sometimes, see the swings outside swaying when there’s no wind. But usually when I can hear them it’s crying. Sobbing. Like … like whoever it is, their heart is breaking.” I realize that I’m frowning sympathetically as he speaks. His sadness is almost palpable, and I wonder about a man who can feel for someone who’s not even on the same plane of existence; someone who is living in his house and keeping him up at night with their noises. I like him even more now. “Every once in a while … I walk through this space that’s just…” he trails off and shivers uncontrollably. “It’s just pure evil,” he says softly as he looks up at us with wide blue eyes. The sincere belief in his tone makes the hairs on my arms raise up, and I inhale deeply as I sit back in the wooden chair. It creaks as I move, and the woman who has been cooking whips round suddenly, a rolling pin in her hands held out like a club in front of her, her eyes wide and alert and terrified. “Who’s there?” she asks shakily. I put my finger to my lips in a shushing gesture, and we all remain very still. The poor thing, she’s terrified. No point in trying to make contact just yet. “I – I’m not afraid of y-you,” she declares. I smile softly at her. Sure you’re not, doll. We sit in a tense silence, even Andy and Leo remaining still and silent as we wait for her to calm a little. She lowers the rolling pin finally, looking around warily before turning very slowly back to her dough. “Shall we take this outside?” I suggest softly.

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Scott nods, stands, and leads us out the door to the back porch. Andy lets the screen door slam as he leaves the kitchen and snickers gleefully as the cooking woman shrieks within. “Andy!” Leo shouts as he smacks Andy upside the head, and they proceed to bicker and swat at one another as Scott leads us out into the yard. “You said in your contract that you’re a photographer,” I say to Scott as I look back at Leo and Andy disapprovingly. “Yeah,” he answers as he stuffs his hands in his jeans and shrugs his shoulders. “Man, have I got pictures to show you. I like to take pictures of the landscape, you see. I used to be a photographer,” he explains as he turns to me and flashes a grin. “Now I’m just … well, I just take pictures to amuse myself. But every now and then I get flashes of the kids playing. The woman gardening. And the man…” “Man,” I interrupt as we stop walking and look out over the land. It’s beautiful. Indescribable really, in a very wild, untamed way. It reminds me of how Europe used to be, all forests and dirt roads. Wilder, though. Not likely to be overrun and tamed like the land back home. “This is beautiful,” I murmur as I hear either Leo or Andy hit the dirt behind us with a grunt. “Isn’t it?” Scott murmurs as he looks over the landscape. His blue eyes have gone wistful, and he’s smiling softly. I really, really like him. “It looks like a great place to live out the rest of your life,” I comment as I watch him. He turns and looks at me with a small grin. “And your death, huh?” he asks with a twinkle in his eyes. I grin and nod, laughing in agreement. We turn just in time to watch Andy straddle Leo and thwap him a good one, and I simply sigh and turn my back again. Let them go at it. “He’s good for protection,” I explain flatly as I gaze out over the distant mountains.

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“I see,” Scott responds in the same tone as he watches for a little longer and then turns to stand shoulder to shoulder with me again. We smile together, stuffing our hands in our pockets simultaneously, and we listen to the sounds of bludgeoning as we gaze out over the distance together. Yeah. This should be a good one. “SO tell me about this man,” I request as we sit outside on the old wooden picnic table. Andy and Leo have taken possession of the swing and are fighting over how high it goes. I sigh at them in long-suffering amusement and then return my attention back to Scott. “You said you’d never seen him, but you’re certain he’s here.” “Yes. I’ve … felt him,” Scott tells me tentatively. I can tell that he’s probably told others this and been met with skepticism, if not outright disbelief or mockery. I cock my head and wait, smiling softly. He smiles back and flushes slightly, and he chuckles at himself. “I’ve also caught glimpses of him with the camera. But he’s … I think he knows I’m here, and he wants me gone.” “Hmm,” I respond, thinking now and looking back at the house. “And you say you’ve walked through spots, what did they feel like?” “Cold. Evil,” Scott answers immediately. It didn’t take him but a split second to come up with that opinion, and I don’t doubt that he’s right. “There are evil beings in the world,” I tell him with certainty. “It’s possible you’ve got one here. If you do, we’ll do our best to drive him out.” Scott grins widely and nods a little, and I can see the relief spread through him. “That will have to wait ’til dark, though,” I add as I look over at Leo and Andy to make sure they’re not destroying anything. “I’m a patient man. I can wait a few more hours to be rid of him,” Scott says with a gruff, cowboy zen quality that I find

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intriguing. I watch him as he watches the other two, and I realize that I’m in trouble. Big trouble, people. The kind of trouble that will make me do stupid things and get ragged on by my mates and possibly end up with a sore ass for the return trip. Oh well. Can I keep him, do you think? “Would you care to show me around the house?” I ask Scott after a few moments of companionable silence. “Take me to the places you usually hear the sounds you say you’ve heard?” “Of course,” Scott says as he scoots off the tabletop where he’s sitting and wipes at the seat of his jeans. He gives Leo and Andy one last look before gesturing with his hand towards the house. “Hey,” I call over to the other two as they swing and poke at one another. I get no answer, and so I shout, “Hey!” “What?” Leo asks distractedly as Andy grabs his finger and latches onto it with a bite that makes Leo yowl. “Must I request that you behave?” I ask with a sigh and a roll of my eyes. “Stay!” I order as if I’m speaking to a pair of dogs, and just as I expect, Andy growls at me and Leo barks in return. Scott and I turn and troop up to the house, Scott barely able to hide his smirk after witnessing the idiocy of my partners. When we get back to the screen door, he’s snickering and sputtering almost uncontrollably. I grin, amused at him. For me, Leo and Andy are normal. I forget how unusual they are as a pair. He walks me through the house, pointing out spots where he’s encountered what I’m beginning to think is an entire family. Mother, father, and two little girls. He says he meets the cold spot that is likely the man in the hallway most often, though sometimes they vie for the leather recliner in the front room. Scott says he always gets up and goes to bed when that happens. I don’t blame him, really, being sat on is an unpleasant experience. And then we make it to the front room, and the two little girls are there. I stop and watch them playing, and I grab Scott’s arm and hold him back. We stand in the doorway, and the girls link

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arms as I watch, and they begin to skip around in circles before flopping down on the floor and giggling. They’re precious, that’s the only word I can think of. Little blonde ringlets bouncing as they skip, cheeks flushed with smiles. “Can you hear them?” I whisper. Scott nods slowly, his expression one of amused awe, and he whispers, “Giggling.” To my shock the girls stop suddenly and turn to look directly at the both of us, and their eyes are suddenly full of fear as they crawl away from us and hang their heads. I frown and shake my head, unable to imagine that they can see either of us well enough to be so very scared, and then I feel the cold breath on my neck. I whip around and find myself confronted with two angry, bloodshot eyes. I rarely cry out on these jobs. One, because it’s highly unprofessional, obviously, and two, because I’m not easily frightened. But this man has managed to sneak up on me, and I cry out in shock as I wheel backwards, my hand reaching out to grab Scott again to catch myself from falling. “What? What is it? Is it him?” Scott asks in a tumble of words as he catches me and I stare at the shadowy man in shock. “He drinks,” I breathe to Scott as I straighten and try to get control of myself, stepping closer to look at the dark figure finally. I can’t see him well, just an outline of shadows and an imprint of clothing. An evil one, most assuredly. “He drinks, and the little girls are terrified of him,” I go on breathlessly. The man glares through me for a moment at the little girls behind me, and I instinctively bristle protectively. But then his bloodshot eyes refocus, and he’s looking directly at me. My entire body goes cold, and I swallow heavily as fear floods me. He can see me. Likely can’t hear me, but he can see me just like I can see him. “Drinks?” Scott asks in confusion. “I didn’t know they could … eat and drink and…”

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The man gives one last pointed glare and then turns, disappearing from the doorway and back out into the hallway. I hustle to follow, and I poke my head out the door to see the man trundling down the hallway, weaving slightly, and pushing open the door at the end of the hall. “Is the bedroom at the end of the hallway the one you sleep in?” I ask Scott. “Yeah … why?” Scott asks with a sort of dread in his voice. “You’ve been sharing it, looks like,” I tell him quietly. “Ugh,” Scott responds as he pokes his head out and looks down the hall with me. “Yep yep. He’s got to go,” I say finally as we step back out into the hall, and I turn back to look at the little girls who are now sedate and no longer giggling. Andy and Leo come up the hallway towards us, and I turn to them with a slight flush. “Okay?” Leo asks with a frown. “Yeah,” I answer ashamedly. “Bastard startled me is all. Snuck up behind me.” “Wow,” Leo comments as Andy walks by us and stares at the door at the end of the hallway. “He’s a sneaky one, then?” Leo asks as we both watch Andy curiously. He gives the impression that he doesn’t believe in all this, but he’s actually got one hell of a sense for the evil ones. It makes him mean, I think, only being able to sense the bad ones. He can feel the good ones, though, like being knocked on the head and brushed on the shoulder and all that, but he can’t sense those. Can’t see them. But a bad one … an evil one … he can point you to one of those like a bloodhound. “Yes. And I think he could see me,” I tell them grimly. It’s harder to get rid of them when they can see you, obviously. Andy is still staring at the door, his eyes narrowed and his upper lip set in a silent snarl, and Leo is suddenly serious and grim. This … this is going to be a tough one.

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WE’VE taken over the kitchen. The woman fled not long ago because she just couldn’t take it any longer, having us around and banging and creaking, but this is more serious now than trying not to scare the locals. No wonder Scott resorted to calling us in, that man is just scary as fuck, if I may be permitted to say. He can see us. Probably can see me more so than the other three, and likely he can sense Scott in the same way that Scott has been sensing him. But Scott was right, that man wants him out of the house. And he’s evil. Well, now you know, this is our job. We mostly just try to help our clients understand and get along. Barring that, as is the case here, we get rid of the unwanted. By drastic means, if necessary. But there are still hours until we can put anything into motion, and so here we sit, talking quietly. We’ve had to physically restrain Andy, he’s so keen on getting to that man in the back bedroom that he doesn’t seem to care that we don’t have a plan yet. Not that Leo is opposed to restraining him. I think he quite likes it. Possibly even gets off on it, but let’s not go there, yeah? Scott is full of questions, too, and so as we wait for the sun to sink, he and I are talking quietly. The more I speak with him, the further I find myself enthralled with him, and quite frankly, I’m in no hurry to stop the feeling. I want to take him home with me. He’s eager to learn about what we do, and from what I can see in the photos I’m flipping through, he’s got a talent for catching things on film. I don’t really need to tell you how rare it is to find someone with that kind of talent. I perk up as I realize that I may have a legitimate reason to take him home with me now. I’ll just offer the bastard a job! “Well, there’s really not much difference between us and them,” Leo is saying as he keeps a tight grip on Andy’s forearm and sips more of Scott’s hot chocolate. “Some misconceptions are that they can’t feel. They can. They can feel pleasure and pain.

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Fear, sadness, glee, lust. The whole myriad of human emotion, just like we can. And to some extent, they feel it more than we do. When the woman cries, do you ever feel sad?” “Yeah, yeah I do. Wait, lust? Pleasure? So the moaning I hear in the middle of the night is those bastards having sex in my bed?” Scott asks in horror, and I can’t help it, I laugh at the look on his face. I try to answer, but I’ve been caught with the giggles and Leo is left to explain that yes, they do have sex just like we do, only the consequences of such couplings are far greater for them. I’m still laughing, holding my side and trying to apologize for laughing when Leo finishes an unnecessarily long explanation, and Scott is torn between being amused with me and horrified with what Leo’s telling him. He keeps repeating, ‘but in my bed’ and sending me into fits. He’s just fucking adorable. I’m definitely keeping him. You’ll see. I’ll figure out a way. I’m making too much noise, I realize. The chair I’m sitting in is creaking against the wooden floorboards, and I’m wheezing, trying to catch my breath, and I finally manage it just as one of the little girls appears in the doorway to the kitchen. She is peeking, her little blue eyes and nose the only things visible as she tilts to the side and looks around the room warily. I quiet almost immediately and watch her, as do the others, and Scott seems to be aware at least that there is someone here. After a few moments she comes forwards a little more, her mouth now showing around the door jam and displaying perfect little baby teeth that are biting nervously at her lower lip. I might take her home with me, too. Suddenly another little golden head peeks around the doorway, and they look at one another, the taller looking down as the shorter looks up, and it reminds me of one of those cartoons they used to show. “Can you hear it?” the little one asks.

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“It’s stopped,” the older one answers. I say older, but she can’t be more than six years old. “I think he was laughing.” I turn and smile at Leo and Andy, who are both watching raptly. Leo can see them, probably, he has a special knack with innocents. Small children and animals mostly, but adults as well, sometimes, the innocent ones. Andy has his head cocked, watching myself and Leo, knowing that there’s something around but not quite knowing where or what. Scott is looking at me in fascination, and when I meet his eyes I flush a little. Damn, there aren’t many who can make me flush like that. I knew this would be an interesting job. “What are you doing in there!” a voice suddenly booms out, and I almost topple out of my chair as the voice echoes through my head and down my body. The little girls scramble out and cling to one another, and they are framed by the doorway as I watch in horror. The shadowy man swoops down on them from out of my sight, and he grabs them each by an arm, lifting them off the ground until their little bare toes are pointed down and swinging, trying to find purchase. I stand quickly, as do Leo and Andy, both their chairs sliding out from under them and crashing to the floor, and the man drops the girls and straightens, turning to glare into the kitchen. “Go!” Leo bellows out, and the two girls shriek in terror and run, scampering away holding each other’s hands. The man growls at us, and Andy is moving, growling and snarling back at the man before we can stop him. He leaps on the man and sends them both crashing into the wall, trying to tear him limb from limb right here and now. That’s another of Andy’s talents. He can actually touch them. Hurt them, if need be. Leo and I manage to pull him off with a great deal of effort, and the man is rolling away and crawling towards the front door. The woman, who has since lost her apron, flashes her head around the corner as we drag Andy back into the kitchen, and I don’t get a very good glimpse of her before she is gone once more.

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IT took us a good ten minutes, all three of us, to drag Andy outside. But he’s calm now, sort of. As calm as Andy gets, anyway. “So, tell me, Scott, how old are you?” I ask curiously as we sit around the table, going over our plan of battle as the sun finally starts to go down. It won’t be long now, another thirty minutes, maybe. And then we can go back in and take that bastard down. This will be the last day he terrorizes those little girls or that poor woman. I was wrong before. She isn’t scared of us. She’s scared of him. “Hmm? Oh … oh, I’m forty-three,” Scott answers distractedly as he watches Leo and Andy assemble some of the equipment we may have to use if Plans A and B don’t work. I smile and laugh a little, watching Scott affectionately. I am smitten, I think. Yep. Smitten like I’ve never been before, and I’ll take him home with me. I no longer need a reason, other than ‘I want him.’ “No, I mean, how long has it been?” I ask as I lean forward and look at him curiously. He turns and looks at me with wide blue eyes, and I smile and cock my head. He doesn’t understand, so I smile and seek to clarify. “How long has it been since you died?” “Oh,” Scott responds softly. “Oh! Oh, it was about, uh … five years ago,” he answers with a slow, steady nod as he speaks. “Got thrown from my horse,” he explains with a jerk of his head out towards the distant sunset. “My family always told me not to ride alone out here in the wilderness, but I was an expert; on a horse since I was five years old. Never thought I’d get thrown.” I watch him as he tells the story, taking in how expressive he is and how … yeah, I’m smitten. But I also love to hear stories from others, too, so I listen raptly. How they died, when they lived, what they did. What it is that’s keeping them here.

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“I’m still out there somewhere,” Scott’s telling me with a melancholy smile. “The horse came back without me, they searched for three days and nothing,” he goes on, his knuckles rapping on the wooden picnic table as if to accentuate the shame of that. I watch him for a moment, considering. Let me just share this with you. I am a selfish, selfish ghostie. I can offer to help his family find his body. I can offer to help Scott get his business here done and let him carry on to whatever afterlife he believed in when he was alive. But I’m sitting here considering whether I should, because I’m attracted to him. Now, is that not the most selfish thing you’ve ever heard? I sigh and reach across the table, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it. It’s warm, and I love touching for that reason. Nothing else in our world is warm, you see. Not like this. The hot chocolate is warm when it hits your tongue, and then it cools. The sun on your face is mellow and comfortable, but never quite warm like this. Touching each other is the only thing that feels like this. Just each other. “We can help you, you know,” I tell him, not quite able to keep the dread out of my voice. I don’t want him to want to leave this world. I want him to stay … which is silly really, I’ve only just met him. He looks at me in surprise for a moment, his eyes drifting down to our hands, and then he looks back up with a small smile. “You’re warm,” he says in a shocked, pleased voice. I laugh and nod. “Have you never touched another one before?” “No … no, actually,” he answers as he takes my hand in his and looks at it as if it’s some rare creature he’s never seen before. Of course, we shook hands earlier. But that was the briefest of contact, not really noticeable. Not like this. He takes my hand and brings it up to his face, closing his eyes and nuzzling into my palm as I sit there and laugh. “I’m content here,” he answers finally as

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he sets my hand back down and rubs it gently, as if he’s petting it. “But I appreciate the offer.” “Scott,” I go on hesitantly. “Whatever it is keeping you here, it won’t always be here, you understand? You won’t always have the chance to attend to it and move on.” He looks at me calmly for a moment and then nods. “How did you die?” he asks curiously. “How long have you been dead?” I smile softly and lick my lips as I look over at Leo and Andy. They’re both watching me now, having stopped what they had been doing in order to listen to us. I nod at them. “Andy’s on his tenth month,” I say as I look at Andy affectionately. “I don’t know if he doesn’t remember or if he just won’t tell us, but we don’t know who he was or how he died. Only reason we know his name is because of the wallet he had on him when we found him wandering around the streets of London. He was fresh, had no idea he was dead yet.” “Is that why he doesn’t talk at all?” Scott asked in interest. I nod in answer as Leo’s hand comes up to run affectionately through Andy’s hair, and Andy turns and smiles at Leo as we watch them. Neither of us can help but smile in return, and I sit back and sigh contentedly. “He’ll start eventually. Probably even be coherent when he does,” I tease as Andy smirks at me and shakes his head. “Leo is on year fifty,” I tell Scott as I prop my booted heels up on the table. “Forty-eight, actually,” Leo corrects me with a finger pointed in the air. “Right,” I respond with a nod of my head and grin. “Leo was a moonshine runner.” “Ahh,” Scott responds with an inclination of his head. “Little too speedy, were we?” he teases Leo with a grin. “I may have missed a critical turn somewhere,” Leo responds haughtily and sniffs, and Andy begins to snicker and giggle, which … do I really have to point out how unbecoming that

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is of him? I’m laughing, too, though, because Leo can get very huffy when you mention his driving skills, as it were. “He didn’t just miss a turn,” I tell Scott with a laugh. “He missed a mountain turn, careened off the cliff, actually lived through the initial crash and then, as he lit a celebratory cigarette and sat down to wait for help, lit his stock of moonshine on fire and blew himself to kingdom come. Best part of it? He wasn’t even running from the authorities. He was just late for dinner.” “I was going very fast,” Leo explains innocently as Andy begins to outright laugh, and I look over at Scott to find him chuckling. “And what about you?” he asks me with sparkling blue eyes. “How did you bite it? How long ago?” I shrug and smirk a little. “I’ve stopped keeping count,” I tell him carelessly. “Oh, come on,” he urges me as the sun sinks lower below the horizon. In the darkness Leo begins to glow, his skin looking as if it is licked by flames. He’s great at night, like sitting by a fire without the danger of setting shit aflame, especially since we don’t feel warmth. Like one of those television screens that mimics a fireplace. “Well…” I sigh and roll my eyes upwards, trying to calculate in order to answer Scott’s question. “Let’s see, it’s 2007, yeah? So from that ’39 would be … uhh … sixty … sixty-eight?” I nod in answer to myself. “Yeah, two hundred and sixty-eight years,” I tell him with a small smile. “Fucking Christ!” he shouts. “Eighteenth century?” Scott asks with a higher pitch to his voice that indicates he might be impressed. “My God, the things you must have seen,” he muses as Leo laughs, and I look at him fondly. “Well, that does explain your … cape,” Scott finally snickers. I roll my eyes and grin. One thing about being dead. You’re forever stuck in the clothes in which you died, unless, of course, you take them off. You can be naked. You just can’t change them. See, I could take

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my cape off and switch with Scott’s denim jacket, but as soon as the new clothing met our bodies, it would begin to morph and turn into what we previously wore. It’s kind of cool, for the first hundred or so years. It’s my opinion, personally, that capes never go out of style, though. At least my hat with the big long feather in it got knocked off before I was killed. My advice to you? Don’t die naked. “Well?” I say as the sun finally casts its last rays of light on the house and disappears beyond the mountain range in the distance. “Shall we, gentlemen?” Andy is up and bouncing, already snarling and growling and looking towards the house with that gleam in his eyes. I step up to Scott and put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently. “Plan A?” I say to him with a smile. “Andy. If that doesn’t work, we regroup and try again in a few hours,” I say with a wink. “Leo? Let him go.” Leo does just that, and Andy is stalking towards the house determinedly before I can even look back at Scott. I’ve never particularly enjoyed watching Andy do what he does. But sometimes it’s necessary. See, even I can’t touch living people very much, nothing more than a brush of air by them anyway. But Andy … Andy can touch just as if he were touching one of us. He can hit. And kick. And bite and scratch. And he can wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze the very life out of you if he so chooses. He never has, though, Leo won’t allow that. But he can, and that’s what matters. This is the last day that man will ever abuse his wife and girls like he has been. We’ll make certain of that. And then … then maybe Scott can be convinced to come use that magic camera of his elsewhere.

THE screaming could be heard for miles, as they say. It was beautiful.

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Usually we’re very subtle. We come in, we start moving things, poking people, moaning in people’s ears. It works very well. But seeing as how Andy had already jumped the guy and tried to bite his ear off, I judged that the time for subtlety was over. I’m observant like that, you see. That man didn’t hang around but for an hour after we set Andy on him. Now, I rarely allow that, understand. Andy’s not quite right yet, he’s still in that stage where a ghost doesn’t quite know what’s up and what’s down, though he’s further along than most because of Leo and myself. He’s still right at that trained attack dog stage. But I made an exception this time. And it was fun. We had every light in that house blinking, chairs rocking, rugs spinning, Andy following that drunken bastard and hitting him, biting him, scratching him, Leo sitting with the two little girls and holding them so they wouldn’t be scared … it was a perfect piece of haunting. Perfect, I tell you! I do regret that the mother was quite frightened at first. When we approached the house the man was bearing down on her, bottle in one hand, fist raised to hit with the other, and I suppose it would scare anyone when someone suddenly starts to beat the shit out of themselves in front of you like Andy had that man doing. Using his own bottle to hit him with, that’s just brilliant. She ran and hid with her girls, and Leo is pretty sure she could sense him there with them. Leo, you see, is possibly one of the most comforting, gentle presences on this or any other plane of existence, and it’s a wonderful feeling to have him near. He is, I’m sure, the only reason Andy hasn’t gone batshit. Anyway… I’m wondering how much convincing it will take to get Scott to come with us now. He seems to be leaning with us as we leave. What do you think? Should I go for it?

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Scott smiles and clears his throat, looking down and kicking at the dirt in the same ‘aw shucks’ kind of move that I now recognize as genuine. I give Leo a look, and he grins back at me and raises an eyebrow. I give Andy the same look, and he rolls his eyes and shrugs and starts walking away. See, and I know this is going to be the scariest part of this story, but in all the years I’ve been hovering around and all the things I’ve seen come and go, I never learned to drive a car. I can float, you see. I don’t need a car. And we don’t let Leo drive. Ever. Because even ghosts can get the transparent shit scared out of them. So Andy drives when we steal a car. And yes, we steal cars. Also the whole being able to touch things, that goes a long way for Andy being able to drive. Since I still pretty much float when I’m in a car. Freaks Leo the fuck out. Some ghosts float. Some don’t. I don’t know why. I know that I like it. Anyway… I shake my head and grin, and I reach out to grab Scott and pull him close. And I kiss him. Kiss him hard. We’re standing here now, still kissing, and yeah, Scott’s coming with us. He’s mumbling about getting his camera as he gropes me, and Leo is snickering, and Andy is laughing and, yeah … I’m taking Scott home with me. Told you I would. The girls are playing outside, happily squealing and giggling as they run circles around where Leo stands, and the mother has been standing at the window watching them with a smile. She’s been crying tears of relief and joy ever since the police left around dawn. You see, her husband drank himself into a rage last night, and somehow he managed to get himself tossed down the old well and break his neck. We have it on pretty high authority that the fall didn’t kill him. He drowned down there in that murky, thick scum that passes for water. And it was slow. And it was painful. I stood down there with him for a while, making sure of that.

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And miserable people like that, they don’t usually have much to hang around for after they’re dead. I asked him, just before he died, if he believed in Hell. See, if you believe in Heaven and Hell, you go there. If you believe in reincarnation, you come back as whatever it is you deserve. See, all religions here? They’re right. They’re all wrong, too. It just depends on what you believe. He happened to believe in Hell. The truly evil ones usually do. They fear it more than the righteous ever will. And I stood down there and watched. Looked him in the eye and made that man see Hell in my eyes. Right up until the second he died and went to see it for himself. He died as scared as his little girls had lived. And as appalled as you may be? I’m proud of it. What can you expect, though, really? No matter how long we linger as ghosts, we are always what we were in life. I was a killer. A highwayman. And I was good at what I did. I still am. Good at what I do. We all are. You’ll see. If you stick around long enough.

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Abigail Roux is a whimsical girl who likes her beer cold and her sex hot. A past volleyball star and current rabid Braves fan, Abigail has a husband, one dog, six cats, a crazyass family, and a cast of thousands in her head. Her stories often feature love, lust and manly men. Visit Abigail’s Blog - http://abigail-roux.livejournal.com

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Prologue HARRISON entered the hospital, walking over to the same nurse’s station he had approached all those months ago. “Excuse me?” The nurse looked up. “Mr. Holden! It’s great to see you again.” Harrison smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. Would you help me?” “Of course.” “I need to get copies of the treatment statements from my stay here for insurance purposes,” Harrison said. “We’re not allowed to give out that information without a direct request from the insurance company, but I do recall something about your injuries, treatment and recovery regimen in your own file – and I can give you a copy of anything in your file,” she answered with a smile. Harrison brightened a bit. “That’s great, thanks.” “Let me find the file. I’ll be right back.” The nurse headed back into the office, leaving Harrison to his thoughts. His eyes closed as if staving off pain. Get a grip, he told himself. No reason to break down. No reason to be upset. Everything’s fine. His internal pep talk was interrupted by the nurse’s return. “Okay, let me just find … oh, bloody hell…” Harrison looked over the desk as the papers slipped from the nurse’s hand,

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scattering on the floor. His mouth quirked as she gathered the file’s contents. “What’s this? Oh, well, it’s good you’re here. We forgot to give this to you.” Harrison froze, looking at the scarily familiar envelope with his name handwritten on the front. “Who’s it from?” he asked, voice faint. “A gentleman left it for you a few days after you were here. We were supposed to give it to you as soon as you woke up. I’m sorry; it got put in your file and forgotten. Here you go, take a look and I’ll make the copies you need.” It was a letter, just like the one he’d found in his hospital release papers at home that next morning… Harrison shook his head. It was simply coincidence, he told himself, although he couldn’t stop the shiver that traced his spine. He nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he answered softly as he carefully accepted the envelope, steeling himself to read what the letter inside said. He took a steadying breath as he unfolded the crinkled paper, shaking off a feeling of déjà vu. The nurse watched him read, frowning as his hands started shaking. She blinked in surprise when tears started running openly down his cheeks. He looked absolutely devastated. “Mr. Holden?” the nurse asked, concerned. But before his name was even out of her mouth, he was running out through the sliding doors.

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Chapter One PIERS tossed the bags into the back of the small sports car, grinning at Gerard, who looked very nervous. “Piers, are you sure we can’t just take the train? I mean, really. There’s no need to drag out the Lotus. It would only take a half day or so to get to Bristol,” Gerard rambled, running his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. The younger man suppressed a grin and turned to Gerard with a confident smile. “Gerry, don’t worry about it. It will take us a few hours to drive to Bristol and give us that much more time for our vacation,” Piers said. “You’re the one who said I needed to get away for a while.” Gerard swallowed, nodding, almost wringing his hands. Piers put a hand on his shoulder, concerned about how pale his friend was getting. “Gerard, are you afraid of my driving? I’ve never noticed you this upset about riding in a car.” “Not afraid, really,” Gerard said, gritting his teeth. “I just really don’t like riding, and this bloody car of yours is so low to the ground. It’s not at all safe.” Piers sighed. “You could have mentioned this anytime in the last several weeks, you know. I could have had the Bentley brought over.” Gerard groaned and covered his face. Piers just steered him toward the passenger side of the low-slung vehicle, opening the door. “Get in, you big lout. Too late to change our plans now.”

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Gerard lowered himself in and started to hook his seatbelt as Piers shut the door firmly. Shaking his head in resignation and repressing the urge to curse aloud, Piers tossed their duffle bags behind his seat before climbing in. “So, are you ready?” Piers asked. He spared a look at Gerard. The older man sat in the other seat, stiff as a board, eyes closed and lips moving in what Piers was sure was a prayer. The younger man rolled his eyes and turned the key, smiling as the engine purred smoothly. He couldn’t wait to get to Bristol.

THE Boxster took the curves on the winding road up the hillside, Harrison giving most of his focus to the road, just reveling in the escape. He’d left the London townhouse in anger and despair, leaving behind Kristina and her screams and recriminations to drive out to the country and seek solace. She said she’d had enough of him and the way he took her for granted, and that she’d be happy to leave him alone. But she wasn’t leaving without her due. A divorce. Harrison gritted his teeth. It would be a very messy affair, complete with accusations and fights for every red cent. He’d never denied Kristina anything, and now she was going to take him for everything she could get. She wanted all her effects, the condo in New York, her cars, an exorbitant monthly support payment and even a percentage of his business’s profit annually in perpetuity. Then she’d announced that since they’d been married when he’d bought Failand Forests, he should have to sell his precious country manor, including the stables and breeding business there, and give her half the proceeds. That was the last straw. He’d been willing to give her all the material things – those meant nothing to him. He didn’t care for the New York condo. He could more than afford the monthly settlement. The future business profits he would have paid just to be rid of her. But Failand Forests and Serenity Stables were his.

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His lawyer, Ian Manchester, had looked at the paperwork and shrugged. Kristina was British and something of a celebrity, whereas Harrison was an invading American who bought out British businesses and sold them in pieces. The lawyer wasn’t too positive about Harrison’s chances in British court, predicting that with any sort of proof of neglect on Harrison’s part, the judge could force him to sell off his assets so Kristina would get her share. Harrison swiped at the wet trails on his face, tears escaping in anger and frustration. They’d never been in love, Kristina and he, a fact they had both always acknowledged, but he’d thought the marriage was convenient for them both. He had a gorgeous socialite to hang on his arm when business demanded, and enough money to keep her occupied while he worked. His work was his life. Having Kristina at home saved him the trouble of finding companionship on the rare occasions he wanted it, and she’d always welcomed his attentions. She’d never made a peep of protest about anything until just a few weeks ago. He was, for lack of a better word, blindsided. Harrison slowed the car as he entered a darker patch of woods, steering the vehicle around the sharper cuts into the hillside. He’d never been much of a husband. And now he’d pay for it. His heart broke at the thought of losing his home here in England. Here, he’d finally found peace. A place to get away from the business that pervaded every bit of his life, from the frustration and anger, from the deep loneliness and despair he fought more and more frequently. Without Failand Forests, Harrison thought he might as well just be dead. A loud snap and exploding sound shocked him, and he had to jerk the car back toward the road as a tire blew out – nearly sending the Boxster careening down into the ravine. He managed to slow the car down, coming to a stop just around the next curve.

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Harrison swallowed hard after putting the car into park and raised his eyes heavenward. “Is this a sign?” he murmured despairingly. When no answer was forthcoming, he groaned and got out of the car into the dusk to check the tire. It was completely shredded and would have to be replaced before he could go anywhere. Annoyed, he went to the trunk to pull out the spare tire and jack set, as well as a large flashlight. He could call into town and have the office send a car, he knew, but it would take longer than changing the tire himself. “It would be getting dark. It’s been such a perfect day.” Half an hour later he squatted next to the replaced tire. He shook his head, looking down at the mess of rubber on the road lit by the propped-up flashlight. Hearing an engine, he glanced up only to be blinded by oncoming headlights – knee-jerk reflexes had him throwing himself against the Boxster. He bashed his head against the door as the passing vehicle swerved wildly, sending the flashlight skidding, and missing him by less than a foot before disappearing around the corner into the dark. Holding his head, Harrison looked up at the sky where the moon was shrouded in clouds. “Okay, okay! I get the message! Really!” As if in direct answer, he heard the shriek of tires and a muffled crash. Harrison’s eyes grew wide as he fought the dizzy spell from hitting his head. But the sharp pain echoing in his skull sent him into darkness, and he slumped against the car.

HARRISON groaned as he came to. It was dark, and he was disoriented, so he lay still on the cold ground, trying to remember what had happened. It all came back to him in a flash – the upset, the flat tire, the car that almost hit him, the noise of the crash… Harrison managed to get to his feet and leaned on the car as his dizziness passed. He saw the flashlight out in the road, still

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beaming, so he grabbed it before climbing into the car. “I hope whoever they are, they’re not having as bad a day as I am.” In just a couple minutes and three hairpin curves, Harrison found one vehicle sideways in the road. He pulled out his cell and made a call to emergency services, reporting the crash. While on hold for a triangulation, Harrison left his car and approached the mashed one. The headlights cast into the trees, and more lights flickered inside. He could hear the muffled “ding dong” of the open door warning. When Harrison leaned over to check the driver, he pulled back fast. The man stank of alcohol and was snoring loudly, apparently unhurt. Harrison swore colorfully. “Bastard. If he killed somebody…” He turned around, looking. “Where’s the other car?” Then he saw the gaping hole in the guardrail. “Jesus Christ,” Harrison whispered. He ran over to the side of the hill and looked down into the ravine to see skewed headlights and the dark form of a car nose down the hill, caught against some hardy trees. Swearing again, Harrison skidded back toward his car to grab the flashlight and started down the steep hill into the ravine. Still hanging onto the cell phone, he clung to the trees with the crooks of his elbows along the way to keep from falling over and sliding down through the brush. The driver’s side of the sleek sports car was up in the air. That door was gone, and as Harrison carefully climbed around, he saw the shattered windshield broken out of the frame. “Damn, they got hit hard,” he whispered before making his way around to the passenger side. Using the flashlight and peering into the car, he saw a blond man slumped over in the seat, blood on his temple from an impact blow to the side. The airbag was deployed, propping the man up despite the hard angle of the car. Harrison pulled open the door and touched the man’s chest, feeling a slight rise and fall. When the responder came back on the line, reporting that a rescue

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truck and police were on the way, Harrison told him about the man he found alive and that the driver appeared to be missing. Harrison left the man in the car and climbed laboriously back up the hill before setting down the cell phone, leaving the line open as instructed. Glancing around, he saw an emergency pack spilled out across the road, likely from the drunk’s car – it looked like he had hit the sports car head on and bounced back against the hillside, popping the trunk and sending things flying. Grabbing the first aid kit, Harrison headed back down into the ravine, planning to use some gauze or something to try to stop the bleeding. Even with the flashlight and moonlight filtering through the trees, he lost his footing partway down the hill, thumping to his side with a rush of air and starting to slide. He caught a glimpse of flashing lights as he turned and tumbled. The rescue had arrived – only now he was going to need help, too. Hissing painfully as he fell a good hundred feet past the car in a rush, Harrison careened on his side and splashed into a hidden, cold stream that ran through the bottom of the crevice. He managed to sit up, sodden and groaning. “Need a hand?” Piers stepped out of the woods after following the sound of something crashing through the brush. He emerged from the branches just in time to see Harrison hit the water, and despite his earlier fright, he smiled a little. He had chuckled slightly before speaking. Harrison started violently, turning in the water to look behind him, seeing a slim, light-haired man not too far away. “Where? Who? Hey, are you from the car?” Those flashing lights seemed awfully far up the hill. Piers nodded. “Yeah, I was trying to get out of the woods to find some help. I lost my mobile in the wreck.” He shrugged, hoping this man would know the way to town. Gerard needed help.

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Harrison nodded, noting the other man’s cultured British accent. “I called emergency services; the other man’s still breathing.” Piers relaxed visibly before closing his eyes tiredly. “Thank God. Gerard’s hurt. I’d have a fit if he died. I feel bad enough about him getting hurt as it is.” He remembered his friend’s palpable cry as the car came out of nowhere. There had been no time to react, much less anywhere to go. Harrison raised his eyebrows. “You’re both alive. That’s the important thing. Are you hurt?” Piers shook his head, looking down at himself. “I don’t think so.” Harrison nodded. Both men looked up into the darkness as they heard the engines trundle away. “That was fast. I hope that’s good news. Come on, I’ll take you to town so you can see your friend,” Harrison said. “You should probably get checked at the hospital, too, just in case.” Piers wrapped his arms around himself and nodded. “All right. Thanks.” He thought better of his action and offered the man in the water a hand up. “What’s your name?” “Harrison Holden. You?” he replied as he clambered to his feet. Piers looked at the American before him. He almost looked like a British businessman in his suit, although it was very mussed after his trip down the hillside. “Piers Claybrook. Nice to meet you, especially considering.” Harrison snorted. “Come on.” They took their time climbing up the hill, and Piers stopped to stare at the broken windshield before continuing after Harrison. “How far to town?” Piers asked. He thought about Gerard, who’d hit his head in the crash, and his heart sped up with worry. “Well, town is about 20 miles south, and the hospital is beyond that. It’ll take a little while because of the narrow road.”

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Piers went quiet. He knew about the road. Before long they were in the Boxster, and the light-haired man watched the woodlands pass by as the car wound toward town. Harrison was quiet next to him, although he knew the man was stealing occasional glances. Probably afraid you’re going into shock, Piers told himself as he fought down the shakes. He’s probably right. Piers took in a deep breath, trying to get events from the crash right in his head. He’d have to tell the police what happened, he was sure. He closed his eyes, but then he saw the ground and trees rushing up to meet him as the car had crashed down. He opened them with a short gasp. Harrison watched Piers carefully, concerned about him. He’s a beautiful man. Messy blond hair hit his collar, and he had high cheekbones, full lips, bottomless brown eyes… Harrison blinked and pulled his attention back to the road as a wave of desire hit his gut. He took a breath, shocked. He hadn’t been attracted to a man for many years and the bald fact of it in this crazy situation was even more shocking. Here the man’s been through a life-threatening event, and all you can think about is how well he fills out his jeans? He gritted his teeth and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. Get ahold of yourself, man. Harrison didn’t get a chance to further pick apart his response to the young man as he turned into the hospital lot, parking the car. It had been almost an hour. The two men climbed out and headed inside the emergency entrance. Piers walked toward the nurse’s station, Harrison following. He stopped at the desk, but the nurse didn’t look up from her computer. “Excuse me? I’m looking for Gerard Brison? From the car crash up in the woods?” Harrison frowned when the nurse didn’t answer. He glanced at Piers, who looked as if he were about to start yelling. “Hello?” The nurse looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

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Piers simply gaped at her, and Harrison’s frown grew deeper. He shook his head. “We’re looking for Gerard Brison. From the car crash? I’m the one who called it in.” The nurse stood, nodding. “The police told me you might show up. Mr. Holden, is it? Follow me.” Piers sighed in annoyance, and Harrison raised an eyebrow as the nurse walked by. They trailed along behind her through white hallways and stopped in front of a door. “Here you go.” She left quietly. The two men looked at one another, then Piers looked in the door, nodding. “It’s Gerard’s ex-wife and daughter in there. I’ll wait until they’re done, they seem to be talking.” Harrison was confused when a doctor walked out, brushing right past them with a muttered “Excuse me” to Harrison. Piers didn’t seem to notice, intent on watching the women in Gerard’s room. Piers’s heart was pounding, but he already felt better. Gerard was okay – at least it seemed like it. Annie and Lacey aren’t crying or anything, so he must be okay. Harrison watched the doctor walk about 20 yards down the hall and open a door, calling out, “Samantha Claybrook?” Piers’s head snapped about quickly. “Sam?” “Who’s Sam?” Harrison asked, as he walked up behind Piers, thinking he hadn’t seen a ring on the other man’s hand. Then he silently berated himself for having noticed the lack. “My older sister,” Piers said, walking down the hall. A dark-headed woman followed the doctor further down the hall before disappearing through another door. “Sam!” Piers called, jogging down the hall to catch them. Harrison followed, not sure if he should intrude. “Sam?” Piers walked through the open door and stopped next to his sobbing sister. He pushed down growing anger when she didn’t say anything, looking at her just standing there, redfaced and crying, as the doctor pulled back the sheet on a draped table.

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Harrison reached the door soon after. The first thing he saw was Piers’s stunned face. Then he saw the crying woman and the stoic doctor. Then he looked at the table. And saw Piers there. White and still. Then all Harrison saw was darkness.

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Chapter Two HARRISON woke slowly, wincing when his first movements reminded him of his aching muscles. He laid an arm over his eyes, mind stuck in sleep like wet fingers in cotton candy. He groaned as memories came flooding back. He hurt because Kristina was divorcing him. He hurt because he could lose Failand Forests and Serenity Stables. He hurt because he’d tumbled ass over teakettle down a damn hill and landed in an icy brook. He hurt because he’d hallucinated helping a very handsome young man get out of the woods and driving him to the hospital, only to see said young man’s dead body laid out on a table. He hurt because he’d passed out cold from the shock and hit the linoleum floor hard. He hurt because he’d slept three days straight. Harrison groaned. He was so messed up. He dragged himself out of bed and wandered across the hall to his office, where he found some ibuprofen and chased it with whiskey. Upon reflection, a second glass seemed like a fine idea. Harrison snagged the decanter and carried it with him over to the leather lounge, sprawling over the supple cushions. I think it would be just lovely to get good and drunk. Lord knows I deserve it. He chuckled a little oddly. He shifted on the couch, frowning at the crumpling noises. He reached down and pulled the paperwork from the hospital out from under his ass, groaning again. After passing out, he’d been treated in the emergency room for a minor concussion, including a

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CAT scan. He tossed the papers to the floor, noticing an envelope that fell apart from the other pieces. He leaned over to snag it, seeing his name handwritten on the front. Frowning, he pried open the seal and opened the crinkling paper inside. Dear Mr. Holden, I wish you had been awake when I had to leave, but I had to fly to the London hospital to see a specialist about my back. I hope this letter finds you awake and healed soon. You deserve all the thanks I can give you. Please come and see me when you can, the address is below. I want to thank you in person. Sincerely, Gerard Brison Harrison raised his eyebrows. Gerard Brison, Piers’s friend. He shook his head, muttering aloud. “There isn’t a Piers.” “There most certainly is.” Harrison’s head shot up and his eyes bulged at the young man who leaned against the door jamb. “What the hell?” Harrison scrambled up off the couch, looking around wildly for … he had no idea what. He calmed a bit when Piers didn’t make any sudden moves. Piers frowned as Harrison almost freaked out, and then admitted he wasn’t sure he’d react much better if he were talking to a ghost. He shivered. Yes. A ghost. His eyes flicked back to Harrison, who had moved behind the couch and was watching him warily, albeit unsteadily. “You all right?” Piers asked. “You look a bit wobbly.” “All right?” Harrison exclaimed. “I’m hallucinating, and you ask if I’m all right?” “You’re not hallucinating.” “But you’re dead.”

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“Well, yes.” Harrison had no reply, so he just stood with his mouth gaping. He glanced down and saw the open decanter. “I need another drink.” Piers watched Harrison settle back on the couch, pouring the whiskey into his glass. “Looks like you’ve had a few already.” Harrison turned a glare on him, watching Piers over the rim of his glass, and Piers raised both hands to ward it off. A question occurred to him. “Where have you been?” Piers looked away from the bookshelf. “With my family, mostly. They’re not taking it well. I went to my funeral.” The young man wrapped his arms about himself, an unconscious habit. Harrison froze again. “You went to your own funeral?” Piers shrugged and nodded. The American blinked. “Was it nice?” Piers shrugged again. “As funerals are, I guess. Just very odd to hear people talking about me.” “So how did you get here?” Piers walked into the room slowly, looking around. “I just thought of you, and I was here.” Harrison nodded and filled up his glass again. If I’m going to hallucinate, I’m going to hallucinate in style. “I’m really here, you know.” Harrison looked up at Piers, narrowing his eyes. “Right.” Piers sat across from him with a frustrated groan. “You’re drunk.” Harrison grinned and looked at his glass. “Yep. And well on my way to getting trashed.” After a short pause, Piers asked quietly, “What for?” Harrison looked at him, his eyes glazing. “Well, let’s see. An idiot in my office blew a big overseas deal I’d worked on for almost a year in five minutes. My wife is divorcing me and taking my money, my assets, my son, and my security away from me. She’s even claiming a percentage of my not insignificant business

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profits.” Harrison waved the glass around in the air, not caring as whiskey slopped over the sides. “She’ll wrest my home and my passion away from me and sell off the breeding stock for a pittance, because she knows it will kill me. Then she’ll rape the manor of anything of value and donate it to the Crown so it will sit empty and rot. I was almost hit by a car – a car that right after hit another car; I fell down a ravine into a stream, got a concussion and saw a dead man walking.” He looked into the glass, stopping as his voice started cracking. Piers looked at him sadly, leaning his elbows on his knees. He shook his head, blond hair sliding around his face. “That’s terrible.” Harrison nodded. “I got you one better.” Harrison looked up, incredulous. Piers held his arms out. “Hello! Dead here!” Harrison blinked, then blew a raspberry in dismissal. Piers fell back into the chair with a groan. “Christ.” Harrison poured himself some more whiskey, then in a peace gesture, offered the decanter to Piers, who shook his head. “Look,” the younger man said, “you’re the only one who can see me. I don’t know why. So you’re the only one who can help me.” “Help you?” Harrison snorted. “I can’t even help myself.” Piers studied the man who sat dejectedly in front of him. Solid figure, stylishly cut sandy hair, dead eyes – more dead than his own. That bothered him. He pondered this situation for several minutes while Harrison continued on his quest to demolish the bottle of whiskey. Finally, a thought crystallized, and Piers spoke. “That’s probably why I’m here.”

HIS mouth felt like it was full of cotton. His eyes felt like they were full of sand. And the light was awfully bright for his bedroom, where he always kept the blinds closed. Harrison

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cracked open an eye, blinking against the bright sun that slanted through the cut-glass doors to the patio. Recognizing his office, he groaned and felt around the couch, grasping the empty crystal decanter he half lay on. He sat up, groaning again at the rush of pain in his head. “Christ,” he muttered, grabbing his head, blinking at the carpet. A short glass of fizzy liquid appeared in front of him. Without question, he took it and drank it down with a grimace. He looked up and blinked. Piers stood there in the sunshine, waiting. Harrison just looked at him for a few silent moments. He’s real. You could have dismissed last night as a drunken dream – but not this. Not him standing there, clear as day. The American soaked in the knowledge, studying the other man. Piers was dressed in tailored black trousers and a white dress shirt covered with a rust-colored sweater that looked very soft. He must have worn the light leather jacket because of the weather, Harrison thought. The soft brown leather fell past Piers’s hips, the ties hanging at the sides. They were the same clothes Harrison had seen him in days ago. Piers stayed silent, hoping Harrison would acknowledge him. What else can I do? he wondered, watching as the other man looked him over. He fought the urge to shuffle his feet nervously, his hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket. The silence seemed to stretch time into slow motion. Harrison was momentarily entranced by dust motes in the air between them that turned to glitter in the golden glare. The sparkles just enhanced what was suddenly a frozen moment. He’s really beautiful, Harrison acknowledged, realizing distantly that he was staring. He’s really real. Piers’s attention was pulled away from Harrison as the light grew brighter. He looked to the doors and suddenly felt an almost overwhelming urge to walk through them. The light grew brighter, turning white with its power, until the doors disappeared in an incandescent flare. His eyes widened, and he shifted his weight – almost ready to take a step – when Harrison spoke.

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“Thank you. That really helped.” Piers looked back to Harrison, surprised. He jerked his head back around to look at the doors, only to see yellow sunshine pouring dully through the glass. The impulse was gone, and for a moment, Piers felt a pang of loss. “Piers?” Harrison looked at him questioningly. He relaxed and took back the glass, now empty. “You’re welcome,” Piers muttered, grasping the glass with both hands as he watched the other man stand unsteadily. “I have work to do,” Harrison said, stumbling against the low table in front of the couch. Piers’s eyes widened. “You’ve got a hangover, and you’re going to work?” Harrison frowned and looked over at him. “Someone’s got to keep things going.” “It’s Sunday. A day of rest,” Piers pointed out. Harrison stopped and blinked slowly before he eased into an overstuffed chair. “Sunday.” Piers nodded and smiled, repressing a chuckle. “You’re out of it. Best to take it easy.” Harrison leaned back and frowned. “Right. Do I remember listing off my problems to you last night?” Piers nodded. “Then you know why I needed help to ‘take it easy’,” the older man said, waving the empty decanter. Got me there, Piers admitted silently. “Quite,” he agreed aloud. Harrison snickered. Piers looked offended. “What?” “Quite,” Harrison parroted, leaning over one arm of the chair. Piers narrowed his eyes. “You’re making fun of the way I talk?”

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“Quite,” Harrison repeated with a fake British accent, chuckling in earnest now. Piers crossed his arms and sat on the couch, a petulant frown marring his face. “I’m glad I can provide such amusement for you.” Harrison laughed aloud, earning a darker stare. He tried to stifle the laughs, which were quickly turning into giggles. “You just sound like such the British gentleman.” Piers’s face grew pained. “I am a British gentleman, I’ll have you know.” Harrison laughed harder. Piers sighed. “I don’t think you’re hung over. I think you’re still drunk.” “How do you get to be a proper British gentleman?” Harrison asked suddenly. “Why do you want to know?” “Humor the depressed drunk man and answer the question.” Piers heaved a sigh. “Born to it, I suppose. Lots of land and money in the family, so I don’t have to work, per se. I like to do charity work, and people seem to think I’m fashionable.” “The fashionable and charitable Piers Claybrook,” Harrison intoned in a television reporter’s voice. Piers got that pained look again. “Quite.” He sighed as soon as he said it, shaking his head as Harrison pealed off into giggles again. “Well, at least I wasn’t somebody important who went and got himself killed in a stupid, bloody car crash,” Piers huffed. Harrison calmed, looking at him evenly, thinking of the charity work Piers mentioned. “I’m sure you’re somebody important. To somebody.” Piers met his eyes. After a few moments of silence, he said a muttered thank you, and Harrison nodded in return. “What about you?” Piers asked. Harrison looked at him questioningly. “What do you do?” the younger man elaborated. Harrison turned the decanter in hand. “I’m a broker. I buy companies, break them up, and sell them off to other companies.”

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“You don’t sound too enthused.” Harrison shrugged. “It lost its appeal some years ago.” “So why stay with it?” Piers studied the American, stubbly and scruffy, dressed in jeans and a white cotton undershirt. He didn’t seem the type to let himself be pigeonholed. He mentioned this to Harrison. “I can’t change. It’s easier not to rock the boat,” Harrison said. “But it’s not fulfilling.” Harrison shook his head. “That’s why I bought this place and the stables. I love horses.” Piers smiled as Harrison’s eyes brightened, and his heart warmed. He tried to think of something Harrison could talk about that would keep that spark shining. “What else do you love?” A smile touched Harrison’s lips as he relaxed in the chair. “I love my son, Joshua. Did you know I have a son? I love taking pictures. I love traveling. I love being creative.” He sighed, the smile slowly dying. Piers watched the spark fade from Harrison’s eyes, and he felt sad. “I just don’t have time for those things anymore,” the older man said. “Even your son?” Piers murmured. “Joshua’s at college. Too grown up to need his father on a daily basis anymore, I guess. He calls when he needs something, and I try to call at least once a week,” Harrison admitted. “I miss him. He used to come out here with me.” Piers sat quietly. “Maybe if you spent more time doing things you enjoy, you’d be happier.” Harrison glanced to him, a quick retort on his lips. But he stifled it when he saw the serious set of Piers’s eyes. Instead, he sighed. “I’ve thought about remodeling an upstairs room to use as a studio. I just never seem to find the time to get around to it.” Piers’s lips quirked. “You ought to make time before it’s too late.” Harrison’s eyes narrowed, and the blond met his gaze, eyebrow lifting. “I should know, shouldn’t I?” Piers asked.

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Harrison pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. The man’s dead. I guess he has regrets. “Don’t pass up on happiness if you can find it, Harrison,” Piers said. “One day there will be a car crash, and it will be too late.”

IF the groom thought it was odd for Harrison to saddle two horses for a ride, he didn’t say anything. He simply did his job, offered a smile for the boss he respected and tipped his hat when Harrison led Shallot and Dancer out of the stable. Harrison walked up to the gate where Piers waited, leading the two horses. “This is Dancer,” Harrison said of the white stallion. “He’s beautiful,” Piers said, petting the horse’s neck. Dancer snuffed and bumped Piers lightly, then whinnied and nodded his head. Piers flushed, thrilled. “He can see me!” Piers exclaimed, throwing his arms about Dancer’s neck in a hug. The horse allowed it with a short snuffle. Shallot whickered as Harrison mounted. “Well, I’ve always thought horses had extrasensory perception,” he said, looking over at the grinning man with a small smile. “Let’s go, then.” They rode for the better part of the morning. Harrison showed Piers about Failand Forests – the craggy hill the manor stood upon, the creeks that crisscrossed the land, the green fields the horses grazed in, the virgin stands of wood. Eventually, Harrison pulled Shallot up at a copse of trees when the sun was high, dismounting and untying the basket from his saddlebags. “Bring your blanket. Let’s eat,” Harrison said as Dancer approached with Piers. Piers raised an eyebrow as Harrison started unloading the basket. “There’s a lot of food there for one person,” he mentioned. Harrison looked up at him sharply, hands stilled. The younger man looked edgy. “I don’t think I need to … eat. Haven’t been hungry,

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anyway,” he murmured, feet scuffing the edge of the blanket against the grass. Harrison studied him for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, help yourself, if you want.” He gestured for Piers to join him on the blanket. Piers sighed, looking over the food but shook his head. Nothing looked at all appetizing. “Well, I guess that’s one drawback of being dead.” Harrison chuckled out of the blue, surprising him. “Guess it depends on your point of view. I’ve met people who’d gladly accept being dead so they wouldn’t have to eat.” Harrison snorted as Piers looked at him like he’d gone off his rocker. Maybe I have. After all, I’m talking to a ghost. He swallowed another bite of sandwich and clarified. “Women, specifically. Who want to maintain their figure?” Seeing understanding on Piers’s face, Harrison continued. “My wife, especially. No junk food in the house. No bread, no cookies. No pasta. Just yogurt and granola and lettuce. Rabbit food.” He turned up his nose. “Tell me about her?” Piers asked quietly, also leaning back against the big, old tree they sat under, their shoulders brushing. Harrison sighed, pushing some potato salad around with his fork. “She’s beautiful, I think. Too thin, now. That’s the style, you know.” Piers nodded. “Beautiful on the outside, I guess I should say. Not so pretty on the inside. But I knew that, even before I married her.” “So why marry her?” Harrison shrugged. “Seemed to be a good situation. I needed a wife on my arm, she needed a bank account.” His voice was eerily even and calm. Detached. “So what went wrong?” Harrison stared out into nothing, his food forgotten. “I’m not sure, really,” he murmured. “I guess she got tired of me taking her for granted.”

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Piers frowned. “But you both knew it was a marriage of convenience from the start?” Harrison nodded, looking over at Piers, face pained. “I know it’s not the best reason to get married, but it worked for us.” “I’m not judging you, Harrison. I’m just trying to understand.” A harsh laugh ripped out of Harrison’s chest. “Good luck with that.” Piers shifted to face him and laid a hand on Harrison’s arm. “I’m sorry.” Harrison closed his eyes for a bit, then nodded and looked up at him. “Honestly? I think she’s found someone else and just wants to get rid of me. And keep as much of my money as she can, of course.” Piers nodded, distaste written across his face. “She doesn’t deserve you.” Harrison looked at him impassively. “You’re right. I’ve not been a good husband.” “That’s not what I meant,” Piers retorted angrily, moving to his knees. “Don’t try to sugar coat your vision of me, Piers. I’m not the wronged one here.” “Maybe not. But you’re not the villain, either.” “I don’t want to fight with her.” “Harrison, if you don’t fight, she’ll ruin you and take everything you have. You said so yourself,” Piers argued. Harrison just shrugged. “It’s just money.” “But Failand Forests isn’t.” Harrison’s face turned stony, his eyes cold. “I’ll find somewhere else to live.” “To exist, you mean. Not to live.” “What do you know about it?” Harrison asked harshly.

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“I know that you love that manor house. I could see it on your face when you showed me the outlook,” Piers said. “I know you love the land, you’ve shown it to me with obvious pride. I know you love the horses and the stables and the people who work there, and I know they love you, too.” A single tear escaped Harrison’s eye, and Piers reached up to wipe it away. His other hand took Harrison’s, their fingers sliding together, fitting perfectly. “I know that when you told me about it last night, your voice cracked when you spoke of her taking your home away. I’m afraid you’d never be the same if you lost this place,” Piers murmured, his fingers lingering on Harrison’s cheek. Harrison drew an unsteady breath and met Piers’s eyes. “You’re right,” he whispered, lightly covering Piers’s fingers with his own.

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Chapter Three PIERS sighed happily as the hot water washed over him. He’d been half afraid he wouldn’t be able to feel the water or something similarly weird. He stood under the spray, letting it pound at his tensed shoulder muscles. Big surprise that you’re tense, Claybrook. What with the whole getting dead and all. He chuckled morbidly, grabbing the bar of soap and running it over his chest as the bathroom filled with steam. He let his mind wander as the steam enveloped him, and it wandered directly back to Harrison. Piers sighed as his hand settled on stroking his half-hard cock idly, smiling at the warm tightness in his midsection. He thought about how they’d sat silently under the tree, inches apart. How he had wished for the courage to lean forward and kiss Harrison. How he’d thought for a moment that Harrison would lean forward and kiss him. But the other man had eventually pulled away. Harrison was courteous, gallant and kind, Piers thought, suppressing a sigh. And sexy. Don’t forget sexy. He remembered the warm flush of his body as he’d watched Harrison astride Shallot, clad in well-worn jeans and a chambray shirt. I wish we could have met when I was alive. I would have… Piers paused. Would have … what? He shuddered as his cock tightened and throbbed, following his train of thought even while his mind shied away. I would have loved him.

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Harrison sat out in the bedroom at the small dressing table, digging through the drawers for something Piers could wear. He wasn’t sure how the whole ghost thing and his sweats would work, but he had picked up Piers’s clothes and saw the dirt and grime from the woods and decided to wash them. He tossed the clothes he’d chosen for Piers on the bed, glancing over at the bathroom door that stood ajar. He could hear the water running and thought about setting the sweats just inside. “Dad?” Harrison jumped in surprise, turning around. “Joshua?” “Who else calls you Dad?” his son asked, amused. “Uh, nobody. You just caught me by surprise.” Harrison smiled genuinely at his son and glanced back to the bathroom. Joshua’s face turned quizzical and he glanced toward the bathroom. “Is someone here?” Harrison shook his head quickly. “No, I was just going to take a shower.” “Well, can it wait? I need to talk to you.” Harrison glanced again at the door, and Joshua mistook the action. “I’ll turn off the water.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Joshua was already pushing the door open and walking in. He followed close behind, stopping in the doorway when Joshua jerked back the shower curtain. Piers gasped as he fisted his soapy cock, feeling the eruption coming from deep in his gut, and a whisper of a name falling from his lips. “Harrison…” When the curtain was thrown back, he jerked in surprise and stifled his howl into a groan, the cool air hitting his overheated skin and throwing him over the edge, his cock pumping in his hand. Harrison watched with wide eyes, stuck in place, as Joshua leaned unknowingly past Piers’s arching body and turned off the water. His blood pounded in his ears as his brain told him exactly why Piers was bracing himself against the wall, why his back was

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arched like that, why he was gripping his spasming cock. He flushed when he heard Piers’s groan and swallowed hard, looking up to see Piers’s face, but Joshua stood and blocked his view. “Dad?” “Bloody hell, Harrison.” Harrison smiled awkwardly, hearing the strangled whisper from the shower. He woodenly turned in place and walked out of the bathroom, Joshua close behind. Piers sagged against the wall after they left. He was unable to sort out the feelings – the wild embarrassment of Harrison seeing him mid-wank, the utter thrill of the amazement in Harrison’s eyes, the crashing pleasure that mixed the two. He stood there for a bit, then climbed out and wet a washrag to clean off before wrapping up in a towel and peeking out into the bedroom. They were gone. Harrison led Joshua down to his office, trying to calm his breathing and drive the blush from his cheeks. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck… Harrison wasn’t having any luck calming his thoughts. Did I really hear my name before Joshua opened the shower curtain? “Dad? Are you okay? You’re awfully … distracted.” Harrison disguised his snort of laughter as a slight cough and sat on the couch. Joshua joined him. “Dad, Kristina’s told me about the divorce…” All lewd thoughts fled Harrison’s mind, and he suddenly felt cold. “Joshua, let me explain…” “… and I think she’s being a total bitch.” Harrison blinked, then his mouth quirked. “Really.” Joshua nodded soberly. The older man chuckled and leaned over to hug his son. “I suppose you know a lot about women now that you’re in college and all.” Joshua shrugged. “Not really. But I know Kristina, and I know you. This has never been the Cleaver family. You and she made life really nice for me – even if she won’t let me call her

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Mom, now – and I know you both love me.” He paused and looked seriously at his father. “Just like I know you never loved each other.” Harrison didn’t know what to say. He clasped his hands and closed his eyes for a moment before looking back up. “What is it you want to talk about, Joshua?” “I think you should fight her to keep Failand Forests and Serenity Stables. They’re your life, and you know it,” Joshua said, almost vehemently. Harrison’s face was pained. “Joshua, I can’t control what the judge decides.” Joshua took his father’s folded hands in his. “Yes, you can. And I’ll help.” “I don’t want you to get into the middle of all this.” “Too late, Dad,” Joshua sighed. “Mom … Kristina has already been at me to testify about what a shitty father you’ve been.” Harrison drew back in shock. “I may have been a shitty husband, I’ll give her that. But I’ve always tried to be the best father I could be.” “And you have been. You are. But you see, she’s not going to play fair,” Joshua sighed. “And I don’t think you should, either.” Harrison nodded slowly and listened.

PIERS stood at the window, looking out at the moon and stars. Nighttime is so dark out here. Nothing like Portsmouth, where it’s never really dark. He sighed and crossed his arms, shivering a bit, although he didn’t feel the cold coming through the glass. “Are you tired?” Piers turned his head to see Harrison standing in the doorway. “Yeah. But no sleep for me, I’ve discovered.” Harrison frowned, walking into the room. “I’m sorry.”

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Piers shrugged, turning from the window. “Can I ask a favor?” Harrison paused a few feet away. “Sure.” “I want to go see Gerry.” Harrison nodded slowly. “Gerard? I have that letter. He wants to thank me in person.” “I’d really like to know that he’s okay,” Piers said, hands gripping his own arms. “We can go tomorrow night. I’m meeting Joshua at four, with my lawyer, to talk about the divorce.” Piers tried to repress a slight blush. “This afternoon … that was your son?” “Yes. He came to talk to me about his mother.” The awkward events from that afternoon flashed through Harrison’s mind – including the sight of Piers in the shower – and he swallowed hard against the wave of desire that threatened to swamp him. He turned quickly and walked to the bed, picking up the sweats he’d gotten out for Piers. Piers relaxed a bit when Harrison didn’t bring up the interrupted masturbation session. “Is everything all right?” Harrison nodded, trying another drawer. “Actually, yeah. He wants to help me.” He paused and smiled, looking over to Piers. “He said I’ve been a great father.” A smile transformed Piers’s face, the brightness reaching even his eyes. Harrison was glad to see it. “Well, I do feel a little better. About that at least,” Harrison added. “Ian – he’s my lawyer – doesn’t have the best of hopes for my luck with the divorce. But Joshua’s help may make a difference.” “See, things are working out already,” Piers said. Harrison clasped the sweats against his chest. “I wouldn’t say that. There’s just so much to deal with.” He moved and sat on the end of the bed, head in his hands, suddenly feeling the weight of all his problems on his shoulders again. I’m exhausted. I can’t deal with this. It’s too much.

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Piers’s heart swelled. At that moment, he couldn’t deny it. Christ. I’m falling in love with him. Just seeing Harrison sitting there in pain hurt him. The bed dipped slightly as Piers sat down next to him. “You need to rest, Harrison,” he murmured. He resisted the urge to cover Harrison’s hands with his own, to run his fingers through the dark blond strands. Harrison looked up at him, and Piers felt like he’d been hit in the gut. There were tears in those glorious eyes. He couldn’t help but put his arms around Harrison, pulling him close, trying to comfort him as the sweats fell to the floor. “I’m scared,” Harrison whispered against Piers’s chest. There were no words. Piers just bowed his head, lips pressing ever so lightly in Harrison’s hair, holding him as Harrison cried silently. Finally, the older man relaxed, and Harrison couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed for his tears. He just looked up at Piers’s luminous eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. The barest hint of a smile curled Piers’s lips. Harrison slowly nodded and moved out of his arms, standing to shuck off his trousers, tossing them to the floor, leaving on soft cotton boxers. The shirt came off next, revealing wellmuscled arms and a lightly furred chest. Piers swallowed hard, frozen and unable to avert his eyes. His mind locked up as it summarized the immediate possibilities of the situation. Harrison pulled back the covers and climbed into the bed, shutting off the lamp. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness. Moonlight bled in through the windows, and he could see Piers’s profile where he sat on the end of the bed. I wonder what he’s thinking. Piers’s racing pulse calmed a bit when Harrison shut off the light, although he didn’t feel relief. He was undeniably aroused. Not helping the situation, Piers groused silently, trying to decide what to do. Stay here? Go downstairs? Visit the horses? “Piers?”

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The younger man blinked, thoughts interrupted, and turned his head. Harrison sat up slightly. “Will you come here, please?” Piers took a sharp breath, hands gripping into fists. He doesn’t mean for that, you idiot. Just calm down. He stood and walked slowly around to the side of the bed. The moonlight lent enough illumination that he could make out Harrison’s face against the white of the sheets. He stopped there, looking down at him, nearly transfixed. Harrison grabbed hold of his courage. He reached out for Piers’s hand and pulled the other man down toward the bed. Surprised, Piers let himself sit down on top of the covers. He didn’t protest when Harrison wound an arm about his waist and pulled him down to his side, his head meeting the pillow next to Harrison’s. Harrison slowly pulled Piers back against him, spooning behind him. As he laid his head down, his lips brushed Piers’s shoulder and he felt comforted. He sighed, body relaxing, arm tightening slightly about Piers’s waist. Piers blinked in the darkness, then with a release of breath, relaxed back against Harrison. He almost smiled when he felt the arm tighten about his waist. Harrison reviewed their conversation, and Piers’s mannerisms when he talked about Gerard caught his notice. Taking a calming breath, he figured he didn’t have anything to lose by asking. Except Piers in my arms. “Gerard is a good friend of yours?” The soft question caught Piers by surprise. He nodded. He considered telling Harrison more and decided it was a good way to find out something he wanted to know anyway. “We were lovers for a few years, while I was at Eton.” Holy shit. Harrison was so surprised to hear his question answered so quickly that he couldn’t formulate a response. “Oh.” Piers stiffened, a tiny bit of dread pooling in his stomach. “Does that bother you?”

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Harrison immediately squeezed his arm about Piers’s waist. “No … no, not at all. Explains why you’re concerned.” Piers took a breath as relief flooded him. Thank you, God. “It was casual and played itself out after awhile. Now we’re best friends, and we do a lot of charity work together.” He caught his breath as Harrison’s hand splayed across his abdomen before relaxing. “We’ll go see him tomorrow,” Harrison murmured. Piers laid his hand over Harrison’s, stroking the skin lightly. “Thank you,” he whispered. “CHRIST, Gerry, you look like shit!” Harrison just closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to react to Piers’s minor explosion. He looked back up at the haggard man standing in the doorway, offering a hand. “I’m Harrison Holden.” Gerard smiled tiredly, shaking his hand and gesturing him inside. “Come on in, Mr. Holden. It’s really great to meet you.” Piers darted in ahead of Harrison, who stepped slowly across the threshold. He paused inside the door as Piers disappeared into a room down the hall. “Thank you. Sorry I didn’t come sooner. Spent three days sleeping after the hospital’s loving care for a concussion.” Gerard chuckled and led the way into a sitting room, walking right past Piers. “Well, life-threatening injury will do that to a man.” He waved a hand at the sideboard. “Help yourself to a drink. I’m afraid I’m not feeling up to being much of a host.” He collapsed onto a large leather couch, propping his feet up on a low table. Harrison nodded and sat down at the other end of the couch. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured, looking over the other man. He was obviously torn up. Harrison glanced to Piers, who looked stricken.

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“Mr. Brison, are you sure you’re all right?” Gerard waved a hand. “Please. Call me Gerry.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “And I’m … making it.” Harrison leaned back, watching as Piers moved to crouch at Gerard’s feet, studying his friend. “He’s not eating. He’s lost weight.” Piers stated. “Is there anything I can do?” Harrison asked. Gerard just looked at him for a while, eyes unfocused, before snapping back to the present. “I’m … sorry. I guess I’m not fit for company,” he murmured. “Don’t worry about it,” Harrison repeated. “Want to talk?” Gerard’s breath hitched. “Talk? About the … crash?” Harrison shook his head. “About Piers.” Silence reigned for a full five minutes as Harrison watched Gerard grapple with overwhelming emotions. “God, I wish it had been me to die,” Gerard finally let out in a broken rush, shoulders shaking. “Gerry,” Piers whispered. Harrison’s lips pressed together. There wasn’t anything he could say. “He was so … full of life, you know? He loved life. Loved living. And he was so young. God, I wish it had been me,” Gerard said, voice thick with tears. Harrison couldn’t stop his own tears from falling, watching both Gerard and Piers. That’s been happening so much lately. So many tears. “Tell me about him,” he prompted. Gerard drew in an unsteady breath. “I met him while he was at Eton. He’d taken a break one semester to organize a big event for orphans, and he called and asked me to help. So I met him soon after for lunch. We just … clicked.” Harrison nodded, trying not to look at Piers, who was sitting on the floor at Gerard’s feet. “We didn’t have much in common except money and free time. But we were friends. And more,” Gerard paused, stealing a glance at Harrison. When the other man didn’t react, he continued.

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“I was lucky. He was my best friend, even when we weren’t … together … any more. Everyone who met him loved him. He was gorgeous and didn’t mind flaunting it. But his heart was pure and in the right place. He was … too good … for this world, I see that now.” Harrison closed his eyes when he heard Piers’s choked sob. “He worked relentlessly for charity, especially for children. He worked himself into exhaustion. So I’d been after him for weeks and weeks to take a break. I invited him up here to Bristol,” Gerard’s eyes glazed in memory, his face ravaged with sorrow. “I even agreed to let him drive us up here, even though I hate that damn sports car. Anything to get him to take a break! And then…” Harrison scooted over on the couch, taking Gerard’s hand. “And then this happened. And I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault, somehow,” Gerard finished, choking out the last few words. “No! It’s not your fault! I almost got you killed!” Piers cried out to unhearing ears. Harrison flinched. “There’s nothing you could have done,” he murmured, knowing Gerard wouldn’t really hear him, either.

GERARD stood in the kitchen, waiting for the water in the tea kettle to boil. Harrison sat at the table while Piers hovered in the corner. “Tell him I’m here.” “What?” Harrison asked in surprise, before he could stop himself. Gerard turned to look at him questioningly. The American grasped for something intelligent to say. “Um, what do you think you’ll do next?” Gerard shrugged. “Haven’t really thought about it.” He turned back to the stove. “Harrison. He’s hurting so badly. Please. Help me talk to him,” Piers moved to his new friend’s side, touching his arm. Harrison looked at Piers in disbelief. “Please, Harrison. Please.”

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Please, Lord, give me strength. “Gerry, I need to tell you something.” Gerard carried the kettle and mugs over to the table, looking up at his visitor, face expectant. Harrison quailed. “Maybe you should sit down.” The Englishman did, pouring the hot water over tea leaves, opening the sugar canister. “I saw Piers that night.” Harrison started. Gerard’s hands stilled, and Harrison could see the shudder that rocked through the man’s frame. “They said they found him quite a ways down the ravine,” Gerard whispered. “He’d been … thrown through the windshield upon impact. His seatbelt snapped.” Piers stilled as Harrison looked at him again. “I mean, I saw Piers that night. Alive.” Gerard looked up at him, pain clear in his eyes. “You mean, he wasn’t…” his voice broke, eyes bright with more tears. Harrison’s eyes widened as he figured out what Gerard was thinking. “Gerry, this is going to be difficult to understand. I saw Piers that night. I talked with him and brought him to the hospital.” Gerard shook his head, not understanding. “He’s here with me now.” Gerard just stared at him. After a minute, a disbelieving laugh ripped out of him. “Are you sure you’re recovered from your own hit on the head?” Harrison nodded. “Really. He’s here. He’s sort of … haunting me.” Gerard’s lips pressed together into a white line and his back went rigid. “That’s not funny, Harrison. Not funny at all.” “Gerry, you have to believe me. Piers is very concerned about you.” Gerard looked up from stirring his teacup, anger growing in his eyes and making his voice harsh. “You expect me to believe Piers is a ghost? And he’s haunting you, a total stranger?” Harrison spread his hands. “I can’t explain it. I guess it’s because I found him that night.”

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“Call him Sonny. That’s my nickname for him,” Piers instructed as he sat at the table in the chair between the two men. Harrison sat back, hoping Gerard wouldn’t take a swing at him. “He says he called you Sonny.” Gerard stilled, confusion clear on his face. Piers continued. “He loves footie, which I couldn’t stand.” “You love football, he hates it.” “I once stole his car and wrecked the front end.” “He wrecked your car after stealing it.” “And I caught him shagging a girl a couple weeks ago, the bastard.” “He says he caught you shag … I’m not repeating that!” Gerard set down his mug, watching as Harrison turned to tell off thin air. His eyes were already wide, and his mind was whirling. “There’s no way you could have known about that last. Nobody knows. Except Piers.” Gerard paused. “He’s … really here?” Harrison nodded slowly. “Where?” Harrison inclined his head to the chair between them. Gerard looked there uneasily, swallowing, before taking a painful leap of faith. “Does he … look okay?” Harrison smiled softly. “He’s beautiful.” Gerard bit his lip. The American looked back at Piers, who was gazing at him with an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. “Anything else you want to tell him?” Harrison asked the man Gerard couldn’t see. “Tell him I don’t blame him. And that I love him,” Piers requested softly. Harrison sighed. “He said to tell you he doesn’t blame you. And that he loves you.” Gerard stared at Harrison, a single, agonized tear trailing down his cheek.

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Chapter Four PIERS sat on the couch in Harrison’s office, paging through a book of artsy photographs he’d found on the shelf. He glanced up in surprise when a black-haired woman stalked into the room. A fussily dressed man followed her, leisurely, hand in one pocket, a bored look on his face. “Kristina, do you have to do this now?” The well-dressed socialite looked up from where she was rifling through her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s desk. “Yes, it has to be now. Harrison’s at the office today, meeting with that senile lawyer of his again. I’ve got to find the deed to this monstrosity.” What the fuck? Piers set the book aside, walking over to the desk, anger flaring in his chest. The man stopped at her side, an arm sliding around her waist. “Well, you’re right about that.” He cast a disdainful look about the room, and Piers felt the urge to punch him. “This place is a dump. Why did you ever go along with buying it?” Kristina snorted as she slammed another drawer shut. “I didn’t. He bought it on his own. That’s why I need the papers. I need to get my name on them before we go to court. Otherwise I won’t have a claim.” The man chuckled, dropping his mouth to lick at her ear, his hands covering her breasts and groping them suggestively. Piers drew back, repulsed. Kristina just smiled. “Francis, this is

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serious. I can get enough money out of him to support us in style, but most of it is tied up in this manor and those bloody stables,” Kristina said, turning in the man’s arms. Francis smiled darkly and lifted Kristina onto the desk, pushing her dress up to her hips and moving between her legs, hand burying itself in her panties. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find them.” Piers stared in disbelief for a few seconds before fleeing the room, leaving behind the grunts and breathy cries.

HARRISON found him some hours later in the stable, sitting with Dancer. “Hey, you okay? I’ve been looking for you all over.” Piers looked up, both relieved and shaken. “Well, no. And neither are you.” Harrison frowned, sitting next to Piers on a hay bale. “No shit.” Piers didn’t laugh. “You had visitors today.” “Visitors? Here?” “Yeah. Your wife dropped by.” Harrison raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Kristina never comes out here. She hates Failand Forests.” “Yeah, that was obvious.” Harrison wondered at the bite in Piers’s tone. “You said visitors, plural.” Piers winced. “Yeah. She had some bloke named Francis with her. They were looking for papers. Came into your office and rifled your things.” Harrison sat silently, considering. “Is that it?” Piers swallowed. “They shagged on your desk.” As soon as he said it, he flushed. The older man stood abruptly, walking a few steps in agitation. “I’m sorry, Harrison.”

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Harrison’s hands gripped the gate, knuckles turning white. “Did they find the papers?” he ground out. Piers stood and walked over to him, placing a calming hand on Harrison’s arm. “No. They were royally pissed about it, too.” Harrison relaxed a bit and let out a short bark of a laugh. “Do you know this Francis guy?” Piers asked, turning to lean back against the gate. Harrison nodded, lips twisting in foul humor. “Yeah. Francis Grant. He’s a Cardiff lawyer. Member of our polo club.” Piers stuck out his tongue. “Slimy git.” Harrison chuckled, turning his head to look at Piers. “Yeah, he is.” He sighed, his chest rubbing the gate. “So … you got an eyeful, hmmm?” “I left pretty quickly,” Piers murmured, nose wrinkled. “Hey, Kristina’s not too bad too look at,” Harrison protested half-heartedly. “Not my type, you know that.” Harrison nodded slowly, studying Piers’s profile. “Yeah, I know that,” he said softly. Piers turned his head and their eyes met. After a few shaky breaths, Harrison leaned over and lowered his head slowly until their mouths barely touched. He lightly brushed his lips over Piers’s, a part of him screaming in delight – God, yes, perfect! – another cringing in fright – What if he pulls away? Piers was afraid to breathe. He didn’t want to do anything to scare Harrison away. Please, please, please, kiss me. He moved his lips just slightly, tilting his head to press closer to Harrison’s. Each touch of skin set off sparks. Harrison moved his hand to cup Piers’s face as his lips pressed harder, making it a real kiss. The sparks burst into a mini firestorm, and he moaned against Piers’s mouth. The younger man turned and wrapped his arms around Harrison’s waist, wanting to be close to him, anchoring himself in the flurry of heat brought on by this one kiss. His eyelashes fluttered shut as he gave himself over to sensation.

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Harrison explored Piers’s lips slowly, his tongue tracing the lines of his mouth, and Piers opened his mouth with a sigh. Their tongues stroked each other slowly, the heat and wet spreading through each of them until Harrison pulled away, shaking. Piers opened his eyes in question to see Harrison staring at him, eyes soft. “Harry?” Harrison just smiled and took Piers’s hand, pulling him through the gate he pulled open so they could walk into the soft grass. “Want to hear something crazy?” Harrison asked softly. Piers smiled and nodded. “Out of all this going on … the divorce, the office troubles, the stables being at risk, the car crash … and everything else … you’re the most real thing in my life right now.” Piers’s lips quirked, and his eyes danced. “That’s wrong on so many levels, Harry,” he murmured, poking the American in the ribs. Harrison chuckled, heart warming even more. “Such is my life.” “It’s so clear out here. You can see layer after layer of stars,” Piers said as they walked along the paddock railing. “Yeah, that’s why I love it out here so much. It’s natural,” Harrison said. “There’s nothing fake to it. No lies.” “Unlike your work and your marriage.” Harrison’s chin snapped around to Piers, but he saw nothing but concern in dark eyes. He had to look away. After another minute of silent walking, he nodded. “Harry, why won’t you fight for this place?” Piers asked quietly. Harrison paused mid-step, eyes closing in pain. “Piers.” The younger man pressed his lips together. “Please, Harry. You have to talk to someone about this. It’s not like I can tell anybody.” Harrison snorted. He started walking again, taking in a breath of crisp winter air, shivering a bit in his heavy woolen coat. He glanced at Piers who had rejoined him, hand trailing along the

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rough wood of the fence railing. “I guess I think I don’t deserve it.” Piers opened his mouth to protest, but Harrison kept on talking. “I bought this place to get away from Kristina. Literally. And she knows that. I figure that’s why she wants to take it away from me,” Harrison mused. He heard Piers muttering under his breath. “What’s that?” he asked, smiling a bit. “I said she’s a bloody heartless bitch, and you’re better off without her.” Piers’s expression was fierce in the dim light. Harrison stopped and pulled a warm hand out of his pocket, lightly touching Piers’s face. The older man’s eyes gleamed with tenderness. “Defending me? You’ve not even known me a week.” Piers felt like time came to a stop, and his heart had to be thumping loud enough for Harrison to hear. “You’re worth it,” he murmured. Harrison gazed at him, and Piers thought he could see starshine in his eyes. After a few moments, Piers decided he wasn’t going to let this go. “So, work?” Harrison grimaced and sighed, the tender moment gone. He started walking again. “My staff is falling apart, I’ve let two contracts lapse because I didn’t care enough to pursue them, and I think my head accountant is selling information to a competitor.” Piers stopped in place, shocked. After a few steps, Harrison turned to look back at him. “What?” “I expected … work force issues. Or money flow problems. Christ, Harry – those are real problems,” Piers exclaimed, wideeyed. Harrison shrugged. “I guess so. I can’t seem to care.” “You have to do something about it. You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you.” Harrison took in a deep breath, looking at Piers, considering. “You think?” he asked seriously, wondering why it suddenly seemed to matter.

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Piers nodded. “You need to sort it out, Harry.” He paused and then plowed forward. “Then, if you’re not happy, you should sell the business and come out here and run the stables.” Harrison chuckled. “Got it all figured out, huh?” Piers bounced a little as they started walking again, back toward Dancer’s stall. “Yes. You said you love the horses and the breeding stock, so why not make Serenity Stables a full-fledged business?” Harrison looked up at the stars as Piers continued to ramble about the horses. Actually, that would work. Hell, it would be heaven. It’s not like I need to make more money. He looked fondly at the animated man still talking next to him, but then he remembered the divorce, and his eyes darkened. Piers stopped mid-sentence and blushed when he saw Harrison looking at him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s a great idea, Piers, really,” Harrison said, shoulders hunching, as his voice grew solemn. He closed the gate behind them as they re-entered the darkened stables. “But it won’t work if I don’t have Failand Forests.” Piers’s hands clenched into fists. “Bloody hell, Harry! Grow a fucking spine!” he exploded. The American spun around, voice full of anger. “It isn’t that easy! The lawyers have pretty much flat out told me I don’t have a chance!” “Then you have to change their minds! God, Harry, you can’t just give up without a fight! You can’t throw your life away!” “Hell, Piers, what do you know about it?” As soon as the words left Harrison’s mouth, he froze in horror. Oh fuck me, my fucking mouth… He watched anger and grief flit across Piers’s face before it settled in grim determination. When Piers began advancing toward him, Harrison took two steps back without thinking, right against the barn’s outer wall. Piers didn’t stop until he was practically on top of Harrison, their chests bumping, his face close as he whispered, “I know that

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you only have one chance.” He couldn’t think of any other way to get across his point. Before the other man could even take a breath, he crushed his lips to Harrison’s, silently imploring him to live for the now. Harrison sagged against the wall, his arms wrapping about Piers tightly as all his senses flared, wild desire coursing through him and leaving him shaking. He felt like he’d been lit afire by Piers’s touch and tongue. Piers groaned against Harrison’s open mouth as their chests rubbed, then their groins, obvious erections knocking together. Any thought of embarrassment was forgotten as pure white pleasure and want spiked through him. “Harry, Harry,” he chanted at a whisper against the other man’s lips. “You have to live. Not just exist.” A ragged cry ripped from Harrison’s chest as Piers dragged their cloth-covered cocks together, the heat and the friction exacerbating his memories of Piers’s perfect body, nude and wet, jerking, arching… “Christ, Piers,” Harrison breathed, voice broken, almost begging. His hands grasped Piers’s hips under the leather jacket, forcing them against his own. “I’m ... you’re … fuck…” Piers continued his onslaught, although he felt like he was going to explode out of his trousers. I love this man. He slathered himself over Harrison’s body – their chests, arms, hips, and thighs touching and bumping, pressing, grinding toward ecstatic release in the darkness. “You have to live for me,” Piers whispered harshly as he jerked his hips up against Harrison, then dragged himself down, drawing a howl and answering jerk out of Harrison, who bent over in reaction as he came hard. The knowledge alone of what he’d done was enough to set Piers off, and the sound of Harrison’s pleasure made him shake even more as he sank to his knees, hands trailing down Harrison’s hips as his trousers turned hot and wet. “Harry,” he whispered Harrison collapsed to his knees, the shortened version of his name from Piers’s lips making him shiver. He wrapped his

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arms about the younger man, almost desperate as he held him close. Chests heaving, they held each other for some time, with no words spoken aloud.

PIERS stood across the wood-paneled room, eyes narrowing as he watched Kristina and her lawyer whisper at each other. Harrison and Ian sat a few feet away, also deep in discussion. Despite misgivings, he was glad that Harrison was here. It had taken all his strength last night to convince Harrison to give living a chance and here he was, doing his best. Pride swelled in Piers’s chest. He smiled as he watched Harrison’s bowed head, unaware of the adoration that poured from his eyes. That was what Harrison saw when he glanced up, and for a moment, he was shaken by it. “Harrison?” Ian asked, trying to catch his attention. Harrison tore his gaze away from Piers. “Yes, she can have the condo in New York.” Piers tuned out the specifics as each sided prepared for the next stage of this paper battle, each side tallying death lists and treasure points. He sighed. Harrison had told him in the car that he wasn’t going to give Failand Forests up without a fight. Although Piers had been thrilled, at the same time he felt a cold chill. Kristina’s lawyer stood and started talking again, but Piers wasn’t listening. He stood behind Harrison and Ian, between them and the etched double doors that led out into the sunny foyer. A growing light caught his attention. He looked to the doors, which brightened until they were blazing with white light. Alarmed, Piers glanced at the others in the room. They weren’t reacting. Then Piers felt the pull. He gasped. It was nearly irresistible. His eyes locked on the shining gate and for a moment he yearned to pass through it with everything in him. But vague words in Harrison’s voice penetrated the haze about him.

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“No, Kristina, I’m not selling Failand Forests.” Piers twisted to smile encouragingly at Harrison, but the other man’s face was turned away. As soon as he looked away from the light, Piers felt a wrenching loss, and he staggered as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him. He turned back to the doors, which were again normal glass. He tried to calm his breathing, not wanting to worry Harrison if he happened to turn this way. Almost scared to look, he turned back to the doors, jumping in fright when they opened. Francis Grant strode into the room, impeccably dressed. He swung a superior smile in Harrison’s direction and sashayed across the room to join Kristina. Harrison watched him with narrowed eyes. “Oh, it’s just so wrong for a straight man to walk like that,” Piers said aloud, lips pulling into a sneer. Harrison snorted in laughter, getting an odd look from Ian, who let it pass. Francis finished talking to Kristina and left her with a slobbery kiss. He was walking out when his cell phone rang. Out of morbid curiosity – Piers snickered at his own pun – he followed Francis out to the foyer, listening. “Hello, there.” … “Yes, dear.” … “I suppose I can do that.” … “No, it’s no trouble.” … “If that’s what you want…” Piers felt nauseated. Apparently Francis had someone else on a string. He almost felt a pang of pity for Kristina. Almost. But not quite. He was ready to go back to the conference room when the phone call suddenly changed. “What? What do you mean, she’s coming here?” … “No, she can’t come here. I’m far too busy. Far, far too busy.” … “So take her shopping! I can’t have her here this week.” … “Bastard, what are you good for then?” … “No, I’ll have to find my bloody wedding ring, I’ve got no idea…” … “Yeah, right, lucky me, married to Southampton’s angel, Sybella Stanson.”

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Piers’s eyes grew huge when he heard the comments about the wedding ring and a wife. He walked right over to Francis and looked at his left hand. No ring. “Fuck, if she finds out about Kristina, I’m done for.” … “No, I’ve kept Kristina out of town, until now.” … “Sybella’s not called the ‘Darling of High Society’ for nothing. All the biddies and old bastards dote on her.” … “Money, that’s why I married her. Even easier that she’s worse than a nun in bed.” … “More money, that’s why I’m fucking Kristina.” … “Doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.” He could barely believe his ears. Francis was playing Kristina, just like Kristina was trying to play Harrison. That rat bastard! Piers crept closer as Francis’s voice dropped to a hushed mutter. “Lover, you know I’m only doing it for us.” … “Nobody compares to you.” … “Shit, Colin, you think I’m fucking pussy for a reason other than money? You’re cracked!” Piers’s jaw dropped. Holy shit! “Yes, lover. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” … “Yes, I know.” … “Yes, Colin.” … “Yes, lover, you can punish me all you want. Got to go. Cheers.” Piers watched wide-eyed and flabbergasted as Francis strode away. “I knew that son of a bitch was swinging!” Piers swore aloud, still incredulous. He hurried back to the conference room, scooting through the mostly closed door and approaching Harrison. “I need to talk to you. I just heard something you need to know about.” “…that’s right. She can have the condo, she can have the car. Hell, she can have the alimony she’s asked for. But I’m not selling Failand Forests or Serenity Stables.” Harrison stood. “I need a few minutes. I’ll be back.” Ian nodded, jotting more notes on a legal pad as Harrison strode away. Piers followed Harrison to the men’s bathroom down the hall. Once inside, Harrison checked to make sure they were alone.

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Piers started to babble. “So I followed that slimy git Grant out into the hall. He is such a piece of shit! He was talking on his mobile. Out and announces that he’s married – did you know he’s married?” Harrison started in surprise. “No, I didn’t.” “Does Kristina know he’s married?” “I don’t know,” Harrison allowed, face turning thoughtful. “And get this: He’s married to Sybella Stanson.” Harrison’s eyes widened and he whistled in amazement. “Well, now, Kristina, what have you gotten yourself into? The scarlet woman tearing up the saintly Sybella Stanson’s marriage.” Piers grinned. “Oh, it gets better. He’s talking about all this, and then starts being all lover-like … and it’s a man! He called him Colin!” Harrison’s jaw dropped as he whooped with laughter. “I always thought he was way too pretty to be totally straight. My, my.” Piers laughed aloud, clapping his hands. “You have to use it. After all the trash Kristina has been throwing out about you, you have to do something about it!” Harrison chuckled. “That’s awfully low, Piers.” Piers sobered. “So is what she’s trying to do to you, Harry.” Harrison looked at him evenly for a full minute, and then nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

PIERS stood in front of the office’s fireplace, soaking in the warmth, knowing he would never really be completely warm again. He closed his eyes against the tears that watered there. He was happy for Harrison. Failand Forests and Serenity Stables were safe. When Kristina got ugly during negotiations, Harrison had resorted to hardball and dropped a few select bombshells. Kristina had folded when presented with certain

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salient details of Francis’s life. She’d signed the papers without another word about the estate or the stables. After leaving the lawyers, Harrison marched over to the office, froze the acquisitions department, and fired the informant and another member of his senior management team before ordering Ian to advertise the business for sale. And he’d had a huge grin on his face the entire time. Piers couldn’t have been more pleased. Except… Piers stifled a sigh. I’m not a part of Harrison’s life. I can’t be. Now, when he should be happiest, he felt empty and cold. He knew, somehow, that his task was completed. He no longer had any purpose here. No reason to stay and bask in the warmth of Harrison’s regard, no reason to hoard Harrison’s love when it should go to someone living and breathing. He shuddered, feeling very faint. He reached out to touch the mantle, not noticing when his hand passed through the stone. He felt like he was being sucked into a vortex of darkness. “Piers?” Harrison asked quietly from where he stood in the doorway. The young man opened his eyes, the dizziness fleeing as Harrison’s spark of life drove it away, the solidity of life rushing back into his awareness. Piers shook his head and relaxed a bit as Harrison crossed the room and lay a supportive hand on his shoulder. Minutes passed as they stood there together in the room lit only by firelight. Harrison ached to pull Piers into his arms, to assure him that everything would be okay. But something in the other man’s eyes made him hold back. Piers’s gut clenched. He felt as he though he had reached a very definitive end and that he would face the blank unknown ahead alone. He would leave behind Harrison and the unquestioning love he’d found. He’d never discovered such a treasure when he was alive, and only fate would be so cruel as to let him find true happiness after death. He moaned in pain, eyes

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clenched shut. The silence was finally broken as Piers made a final decision, one he hoped Harrison wouldn’t regret. “Please, Harry,” Piers whispered as he looked up at him, his voice thick with the unshed tears that glittered in his eyes. “Please, make me feel that I’m still alive. Make me feel that I’m really here. With you.” Entranced by the vision in front of him, Harrison raised a hand to trail his fingers down Piers’s cheek, his hand shaking from the sparks he felt when he touched skin decorated with tears. “You’re so beautiful,” Harrison whispered. Piers’s skin seemed to glow with unearthly light, shimmering in the reflection of the firelight. Harrison moved to cradle Piers’s face in his hands, their bodies touching, and without looking away, he leaned down to take his mouth. Piers whimpered when Harrison’s kiss sent him up in flames, desire sparking through him. One hand pulled Harrison against him at his waist, the other grasping the back of Harrison’s neck, frantic to keep him close. Frantic to feel. Harrison almost groaned in relief. He finally felt complete, with Piers in his arms, and his soul cried out in pure happiness. Their kisses consumed them and soon they lay on the thick rug in front of the fire, bodies pressed together, hands shaking, breath catching. Harrison was determined to worship this beautiful creature, to show him just how very real he was to him. “Let me love you,” Harrison murmured, his lips tracing Piers’s collarbone. He propped himself up, slowly unbuttoning Piers’s shirt, pushing aside the soft material to expose the golden skin and taut nipples hidden beneath. His head ducked as he searched out the nubs, lightly laving them with his tongue. He groaned quietly when Piers’s breathy sighs made his cock tighten. His head was swimming at the onslaught, but Piers kept enough control to interrupt long enough to push Harrison’s shirt up and over his head, his hands sliding against the firm muscles, tracing down his biceps and then back to his chest, fingers lightly following Harrison’s ribs.

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Harrison unfastened Piers’s trousers and pushed them down as he licked and kissed his way slowly downward, nuzzling the warm flesh here and there, determined to cover Piers with his regard. Piers’s hands were sure as he caressed Harrison’s hair, his fingers tumbling through the loose strands. His breaths came faster as Harrison stripped him, the desire soaking through them until they both floated free. Then their clothes were scattered, and they urged each other to higher arousal. Harrison cried out when Piers stroked his cock to an impossible hardness; Piers screamed aloud when Harrison used his tongue to prepare him. When they could stand it no more, their bodies joined, both shaking uncontrollably as Harrison seated his cock deep inside his lover. Piers reveled in the feeling of possession, shamelessly begging for Harrison to move as the other man fought for some semblance of control. Harrison thrust into him, and Piers’s breath caught as he keened through white-hot pleasure. He struggled for breath, clutching Harrison to him. “Close, so close, Harry,” Piers whimpered, his lips red from being bitten. “My love,” Harrison gasped as he thrust again into Piers’s encompassing heat. “Come with me.” They thrust against one another, reaching, yearning, crying out as they found completion, the pleasure exploding through them. Harrison saw starbursts behind his eyelids; Piers’s name a mantra falling from his lips. Piers sobbed as he felt Harrison come deep within him, his own body convulsing in wave after wave of red, prickly sensation.

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Chapter Five SOME time later, Piers blinked, coming to his senses. He lay curled on the rug with Harrison – they hadn’t moved after making love. Even now he tingled all over. A sad smile touched his lips. He sat up, trying to figure out what awakened him, trying not to jostle Harrison. His eyes cast about the room and came to settle on the double glass doors across the room. As Piers watched, the light from the dull, late afternoon sun that barely passed through the glass grew stronger, glittering as it hit the cut glass. The light grew brighter and brighter until it filled the room with an incandescent flare. It’s time. The pull toward the light was too much to deny. He could not refuse again. Piers looked down at his lover, and his heart broke, tears spilling over as he reached out to touch Harrison’s face, pulling back at the last moment. His whisper barely broke the silence. “I love you, Harry.” Piers stood up and stepped to the doors that were swallowed by the light. Opening them, he felt a soft, warm breeze rather than the harsh winter wind. He paused to look back with dark, glittering eyes at his lover sleeping peacefully. Then he was gone along with the light.

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HARRISON shivered, waking quickly as he felt cold air blowing over his bared skin. He sat up from where he lay on the rug in front of the fire, which had died down. The cold air was coming from the open patio doors. Harrison frowned and grabbed his jeans, standing and pulling them on as he walked over to look out the doors. “Piers?” He peered out into the overcast sunset, looking up at the sinister, cloud-covered sky. He shivered again and shut the doors firmly, looking around the office. Nothing. No Piers. A faint fear spiraled in Harrison’s gut and he tried to push it away. He walked out of the office and across the hall to his suite, throwing open the door, calling for his lover. No answer. He searched the rest of the manor, part of him glad that he’d dismissed the staff for the weekend. They’d think I was crazy, Harrison thought, panic growing, his breaths rattling harshly in his chest as he stumbled back to his suite. Maybe I am. Harrison spun in circles about his room, growing more agitated. Oh God, no. No, don’t take him. He dressed quickly and ran out to the stables. Please, Piers, don’t leave me. I don’t want to live without you. “Piers!” Harrison searched the stables, growing more upset as a tiny part of his mind tried to tell him that he knew Piers was gone. Harrison painfully pushed the thought away, running to the mud room for his keys. Maybe he’s at the crash site. Maybe I can still find him. He practically threw himself into the car, revving it as he sped out of the garage and down the lane. Harrison paid no mind to the encroaching darkness and the terrain, to the cloud-covered sky that threatened to make the roads dangerous. His mind whirled with grief and loss and all he could think about was Piers. “Please, God…” Harrison said aloud as he steered the car around the tightening corners. “Please, Piers … don’t go.”

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Frantic, he pushed the gas pedal down, careening dangerously around the hillside. Almost dizzy, his eyes clogged with painful tears, he flinched and yanked the steering wheel to one side when he thought he heard the fateful squeal of tires. The sickly, greenish sunset illuminated the woods around him as the hillside dropped off on the other side of the guardrail. It nearly matched the day of the crash as the light died, sending Harrison into a swamping vertigo of déjà vu. Harrison shook his head, more disoriented as the vegetation flashed by, and he heard the crash … so close. So close. “Piers!” Harrison stomped on the gas pedal heading into a particularly dark curve, and without any warning, he was blinded by the lights of an oncoming car. That car sheared off to the left, hugging the hillside with a loud scream of metal on rock. Harrison yelled as he hit the brakes, and after a loud explosion, the car was filled with the smell of burnt rubber. The vehicle slid crazily to the side as he tried to keep it on the road. Harrison’s eyes grew wide as he fought for control, his head full of the remembered noise of the crash mixing with the scream of the car’s tires. The car spun and spun, and for a moment his entire chest was gripped with fear as he saw the guardrail coming at him way too fast. Too fast to stop. As the car pitched over the side to crash down into the crevice, Harrison closed his eyes.

THE pure platinum was so dazzling when Harrison opened his eyes that it hurt. He blinked several times, confused and disoriented. “Harry.” He spun in place, feeling somehow solid in all the consuming light, and a cry of relief tore out of him when he saw Piers a few feet away. He moved and swept his lover into his arms, holding him close.

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“Piers, Christ, I thought I’d lost you,” Harrison murmured into his hair. “Harry … please … you have to listen to me.” Harrison pulled away, the alarm in Piers’s voice grabbing his attention. He looked at Piers’s face and sank into his shining eyes. “Harry, you can’t be here. You’re not supposed to be here. It’s not your time,” Piers’s features were creased with worry, and his hands were shaking with his distress. Harrison shook his head, glancing around the burnishing gold. “No. I’m supposed to be with you.” When Piers almost sobbed and shook his head, Harrison’s stomach dropped out. “Harry. You’re supposed to live. You have things to do with your life. You can’t stay here. I can’t let you stay here,” Piers said, taking Harrison’s hand, their fingers sliding together perfectly as the light around them continued to darken. Harrison looked at him, pain growing in his eyes, the emptiness already gnawing at his heart. “Piers, I love you.” Piers’s eyes closed, pushing a line of crystalline tears down each pale cheek. “If that’s true, you’ll go back.” Aghast, Harrison stiffened. “How can you say that?” he demanded, his voice reflecting his agony. Piers grasped at his arms, fingers clenching. “Listen to me. You are meant to live. You’re going to put your life in order. You’re going to be successful, and you’re going to be happy. But it won’t be with me.” Harrison shook his head. “No, Piers…” “Harry, I am dead!” Piers’s voice rang out, breaking on the last word with a sob. Then, at a whisper: “Please … make it worth something.” Understanding dawned in Harrison’s eyes, mixed with horror, followed quickly by grief. “Why?”

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Piers shrugged, helpless. “I was meant to help you turn your life around. I died to make that happen. Don’t throw it away. I beg you … if you love me at all, don’t throw it away.” Harrison’s throat was clogged with tears. Please, don’t make me leave, he screamed inside. I need you, I love you. He raised his hand to Piers’s sweet face, stroking the skin there one last time, seeing the truth shining in Piers’s eyes as the gold turned shadowy around them. His head dropped in resignation. “I love you. Please know that.” Piers’s face brightened with a beatific smile. He turned to place a kiss on Harrison’s palm. “I know. And I will love you. Forever. I will always be with you.” “In my heart,” Harrison choked out in a whisper. “In your heart,” Piers whispered, raising his face to meet Harrison’s lips with his own one last time just as the light disappeared… Harrison’s eyes snapped open as he reflexively drew in a deep breath in a hurried gasp, and he just as quickly squinted at a bright white light shining down on him. The flustered personnel visibly relaxed, some of them stepping away, others working to unhook now-unneeded shock paddles and life support equipment. A doctor leaned over him. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Holden. We’re glad to have you with us.”

HARRISON drove across the countryside, taking his time on the drive back from London. It was over. After three long months, it was over. The divorce was settled, signed and approved by the judge. He’d stood his ground, fought for Failand Forests and Serenity Stables and won. After hinting at some suspicions about Francis, a horrified Kristina had shut up rather quickly and settled – although she’d not been happy when she found out that Harrison intended on selling his brokerage lock, stock and barrel.

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He’d been back to the office and straightened out several messes that had exploded during his absence, and then he’d contacted Ian to put the sale in motion. He’d signed the sale papers today, as well. The biggest part of the rather mind-boggling sale amount was going into several stock funds, a nice percentage was going to a particular children’s charity, and a hunk was going to buy himself a house in Tuscany. He was free to devote himself to his painting, his horses and his bittersweet memories. Harrison gritted his teeth. Dreams, he reminded himself. He’d awakened from the life-draining coma to see the nurses gathered around him, chattering happily. He’d been unconscious for three weeks after his car crashed down into the ravine to avoid hitting another vehicle. None of his memories had ever happened, although many of his suspicions – about work, about Kristina – had been true. He’d lain there in the hospital bed as the nurses fluttered around him and hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. Harrison had wanted so badly to change his decision, to go back to the haven of death and his beloved – because living without Piers was going to be pure hell. His free hand tightened into a fist as he reminded himself that his life had changed because of Piers, who apparently had been created out of the depths of his own stressed mind. Harrison frowned and forced away the fresh tears in his eyes when he realized he didn’t even know what the man actually looked like. They’d never even met. Harrison hadn’t met Gerard, either. After the coma, he’d just chucked all the newspapers in the trash, not wanting to read over the stories telling about the tragic death of the fashionable and charitable Piers Claybrook. Another spike of pain slashed through him – he didn’t even know if that was true. All Harrison knew was that he’d been driving on the dark hillside, was surprised by another car and drove off the hillside to avoid hitting it. For all he knew, Piers Claybrook didn’t even exist. It was a dream.

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He took a deep breath, trying to push away the crazy circling thoughts. For whatever reason, he’d decided to live, and he’d decided to turn his life around. He was going to stick with that. And his so-called memories of his beloved Piers? They’ll be enough to last the rest of my life. Harrison sighed as he pulled into the parking lot at the hospital. Now that the dust from his life’s upheaval was settling, he was finishing up the paperwork for his insurance settlement and needed to pick up his treatment papers. He entered the hospital, walking over to the same nurse’s station he had approached months ago. In my dream. “Excuse me?” The nurse looked up. “Mr. Holden! It’s great to see you again.” Harrison smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks. Would you help me?” “Of course.” “I need to get copies of the treatment statements from my stay here for insurance purposes,” Harrison said. “We’re not allowed to give out that information without a direct request from the insurance company, but I do recall something about your injuries, treatment and recovery regimen in your own file – and I can give you a copy of anything in your file,” she answered with a smile. Harrison brightened a bit. “That’s great, thanks.” “Let me find the file. I’ll be right back.” The nurse headed back into the office, leaving Harrison to his thoughts. His eyes closed as if staving off pain. Get a grip, he told himself. No reason to break down. No reason to be upset. Everything’s fine. His internal pep talk was interrupted by the nurse’s return. “Okay, let me just find … oh, bloody hell…” Harrison looked over the desk as the papers slipped from the nurse’s hand, scattering on the floor. His mouth quirked as she gathered the file’s contents. “What’s this? Oh, well, it’s good you’re here. We forgot to give this to you.”

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Harrison froze, looking at the scarily familiar envelope with his name handwritten on the front. “Who’s it from?” he asked, voice faint. “A gentleman left it for you a few days after you were here. We were supposed to give it to you as soon as you woke up. I’m sorry; it got put in your file and forgotten. Here you go, take a look and I’ll make the copies you need.” It was a letter, just like the one he’d found in his hospital release papers at home that next morning … Harrison shook his head. It was simply coincidence, he told himself, although he couldn’t stop the shiver that traced his spine. He nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he answered softly as he carefully accepted the envelope, steeling himself to read what the letter inside said. He took a steadying breath as he unfolded the crinkled paper, shaking off a feeling of déjà vu. Dear Mr. Holden, I wish you had been awake when we had to leave, but we had to fly to the London hospital. I hope this letter finds you awake and healed soon. You deserve all the thanks we can give you. Please come and see us when you can, the address is below. Piers and I want to thank you in person. Sincerely, Gerard Brison The nurse watched him read, frowning as his hands started shaking. She blinked in surprise when tears started running openly down his cheeks. He looked absolutely devastated. “Mr. Holden?” the nurse asked, concerned. But before his name was even out of her mouth, he was running out through the sliding doors.

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HARRISON made the drive to Portsmouth in record time, pulling up at the townhouse and parking, trying to clamp down on nerves gone wild. Piers. Piers. Alive. Piers. Alive. And waiting for me. Harrison thought for a second his heart would burst and then his euphoria crashed down around him. Piers would not remember him – wouldn’t even know him – what Harrison had dreamed while in his coma never happened. Piers doesn’t know me. Harrison’s forehead fell against the steering wheel as he fought off the nearly overwhelming wave of despair. “He’s alive,” Harrison whispered forcefully. “He’s alive and that’s what matters.” What really happened? Did I truly dream it all? Or … did time … rewind? Harrison’s mind whirled, contemplating the meaning of impossible and the strength of love. Through the whirlwind one thought became crystal clear. I love him enough for anything to be possible. He made himself climb out of the car and knock on the door. An older man answered. “May I help you?” the man asked. “Yes, I’m looking for Gerard Brison? Or Piers … Claybrook?” The man smiled, eyes twinkling. “You’re that Holden fellow, aren’t you? I recognize your photo from the newspaper. Please come in, they’ve been expecting you.” Harrison flushed a bit and stepped inside as the man indicated. “Gerard’s in town on business. He’ll be back soon. Young Mister Claybrook is in the garden. It’s back that way.” Harrison swallowed hard and nodded, saying a soft thank you as the man left the visitor to find his own way.

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Each step toward the glass doors seemed to slow time, and as Harrison watched, the sunlight refracted in the cut glass, making the doors glow with heavenly platinum white light, dazzling light that filled him with warmth and hope. Harrison reached forward, his hands seeming to move ever so slowly, and pushed open the doors. He walked out into the bright spring sunshine, feeling the warmth soak into him. He stopped to look around at the garden that was bursting with riotous color. A cobblestone walk wound through the raised beds. He stepped down to follow the path, walking about the side of the house into a rose bower. The rich scent of the roses was heady in the crisp air. Harrison stopped to admire the blooms, his attention drawn away by a soft gasp. Harrison turned to see a figure highlighted by sunshine – a very familiar figure. His stomach clenched and his heart started racing as Piers walked toward him on the cobblestone path. His Piers – his striking image was exactly the same – the blond hair that swung about his face, the high cheekbones, the lanky body. And when Piers stopped three feet away, the American could see his lover’s soft brown eyes brimming with sparkling moisture. “You’re late.” Harrison blinked. Even Piers’s glorious voice was the same. For a second he told himself he must be hallucinating. Then Piers reached out and took his hand, their fingers sliding together as they had several times before, fitting perfectly. “Harry,” Piers whispered, love shining in his eyes. In a sudden rush, their lips met, desperately, Harrison’s hands in Piers’s hair, Piers wrapping his arms around Harrison, hauling him close. Harrison leaned back to take a frantic breath, his hands framing Piers’s face. It’s real. It’s real. He’s real. A teardrop escaped Piers’s eye as he laughed lightly, swooping in to kiss Harrison again, pulling back just as fast to soak in the sight of him.

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Piers, alive and smiling in the sunshine. “I didn’t know … I didn’t know that you were … here,” Harrison said, explaining his absence the three months past. His hand sifted through Piers’s soft hair. “I didn’t get Gerard’s letter until today.” Piers gasped in relief, pressing his forehead to Harrison’s. “I was afraid you didn’t remember,” Piers whispered brokenly, tears welling up and he held Harrison to him. “I remember, Harry, I remember it all. And I love you.” “I didn’t know if you’d be here, but I had to try. All I had was that damn letter.” “I’ve been here since the accident, waiting, really. Told Gerry I didn’t want to leave him alone, since he had that concussion,” Piers paused. “I didn’t want to leave in case you came.” “Thank you, Lord,” Harrison breathed, dropping his head to Piers’s shoulder. “I love you, Piers. You are my life.” His light-haired lover smiled brilliantly and winked. “Sure, you say that now … wait until you live with me.” Harrison chuckled, unwilling to let go or tear his eyes away. “Say the word. Whatever you want.” Piers took his hands and started pulling him down the cobblestone walk back to the house. He stopped after a few steps to steal another kiss, his eyes simmering. “I love you, Harry. And I need you. Terribly.” Harrison just nodded, smiling as Piers captured his lips again and again on their shuffled path. He didn’t open his eyes until his back hit the patio door and then only long enough to fumble with the handle. The patio door flew inward with a bang, and Piers launched himself at Harrison, smashing him into the door, their mouths meeting hard. Harrison did his best to keep a grip on Piers and stay on his feet. His control wasn’t going to last much longer if his young lover kept up this assault. Harrison seriously considered

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pulling them to the floor as Piers grabbed his head, fingers clenching in his hair, kissing him passionately. From far away, Harrison’s brain registered the sounds he was making – soft grunts and growls of pleasure interspersed with gasps and panting. When Piers started pulling his shirt out of his trousers, his cock went painfully hard. “Uh, sorry to interrupt…” Piers almost squeaked as he snapped around, looking for the intruder. “Gerry!” he said breathily, eyes wide. Surprise was clear on Gerard’s face. “Piers. I’m sure you didn’t know I was here. Sorry…” He looked past Piers at the man leaning heavily against the door. Fuck all, Piers swore silently as he tried to get a hold of himself. “Ah, Gerry, this is not what … well, it is … but…” he cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say. Gerard chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, Piers. Do I get an introduction before you drag him upstairs?” Harrison raised an eyebrow and looked at Piers, who blushed. He couldn’t help but laugh softly. Piers stiffened and turned to poke Harrison in the ribs. “This isn’t funny,” he hissed. “Yes, it is,” Gerard and Harrison chorused, which set off more laughter. Piers leveled narrowed eyes at both of them. “Sorry. I’ll leave you two alone,” Gerard said, gathering the mail off the desk and stepping toward the door. “Uh, Gerry, this is Harrison. Harrison Holden.” Gerard stopped, surprise again covering his face. Harrison straightened up and stood behind Piers, watching Gerard closely. The man seemed to be at a loss for words. “He just stopped by, got your letter today,” Piers rushed to explain. “I told you there must have been a mix-up at the hospital with it, and that he would come.” Gerard projected disbelief. “So, ah, this is your way of … thanking … a man you just met?”

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Harrison blinked hard and drew a breath to speak, but stopped suddenly, averting his eyes. Gerard had a point. Piers blushed again, shuffling his feet. “Um, not really.” Gerard set his jaw, looking at Harrison. The air was turning chilly in the room, and fast. “Not really?” “I mean, I didn’t just meet him,” Piers fumbled. “I mean I’d met him before.” “What?” Gerard asked, incredulous. “You never said anything about that before.” Harrison just looked at Piers with wide eyes. “Um, yeah, I just didn’t match the name with the face. We met some time back … at a horse auction!” Piers continued, sounding very forthright. Harrison had to bite the inside of his mouth as he fought off a laugh. Gerard just looked at the two of them, as if he couldn’t decide what to believe. Don’t blame him there, Piers thought. I think a calculated retreat is called for. “So, I’m going to show Harrison around, and we’ll see you at dinner,” Piers said, taking his lover’s hand and literally dragging him from the room. “Bye!” Harrison regained control of his feet long enough to climb the stairs behind Piers, following him to a suite of rooms. Piers shut and locked the door, leaning back on it with a sigh of relief. They met each other’s eyes and dissolved into laughter. The older man gasped for breath as he collapsed on the end of the bed. “I think he was about to demand that I explain myself.” Piers waved a hand. “He’s a big teddy bear. He wouldn’t have hurt you. Much.” “He cares about you. That’s clear enough,” Harrison replied. Piers walked over to the bed, straddling Harrison’s legs to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms about Harrison’s neck. “Yes. He does. But I don’t want to talk about Gerry right now.”

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Harrison swallowed as Piers’s husky voice reminded him of how hard he’d been not too long ago. The press of Piers’s legs against him reminded him of how hard he’d be very soon. Yanking Harrison’s shirttails from his trousers, Piers made quick work of the buttons, pressing the shirt back over strong shoulders, dropping a kiss on the exposed skin. Harrison hissed as Piers nipped lightly, leaving a soft red mark. “God, I love what you do to me,” Harrison murmured, pressing the fabric of Piers’s shirt up to reveal his chest. The shirt was soon on the floor and Piers moaned as Harrison caught a bared nipple between his lips. His blond head tilted back, neck arching as Harrison licked and kissed his way across the expanse of flesh. The motion pressed his cock into Harrison’s, and they both groaned. “Please, Harry, please, I need you. So badly,” Piers murmured, suddenly pulling away and standing to kick off his shoes, then pull off Harrison’s. “I love it when you call me Harry.” Harrison unbuckled his belt, letting Piers pull his pants and boxers off. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. Beautiful. “My Harry.” Piers quickly shed the rest of his clothes and climbed onto the bed next to Harrison, settling in his arms, hands exploring. Harrison wasted no time, rolling Piers over on his back and covering the long body with his own. Their trapped cocks pressed together and Piers whimpered. “So beautiful,” Harrison said, fingers tracing the line of Piers’s chin. He’s driving me mad. Piers growled and reached between them, grasping both cocks in one hand, pushing them together. Harrison’s breath immediately caught and he nodded. Making use of the bottle Piers pulled out of the nightstand, Harrison watched his lover’s eyes spark and melt as he pushed a finger in and out of him, stroking until Piers pressed his hips up, trying to get more. It wasn’t long before they were both too aroused to wait any longer – Harrison’s hands were shaking, and Piers was begging aloud, his sweet whimpers music to Harrison’s ears. The

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older man pressed slowly into his lover, the incredible heat and pressure consuming him. Sweat broke out on Harrison’s brow as he struggled not to jerk forward. “Harry, look at me,” Piers implored, hands clutching at Harrison’s arms. Their eyes met and Piers spoke again, gasping. “I love you.” With a shudder and a low cry, Harrison began thrusting forward, the press of Piers’s body around him catapulting him toward a shattering orgasm. Piers cried out in pleasure, Harrison’s name echoing in the room, as his cock erupted between them. Harrison’s back arched and stiffened as he slammed into completion, hips pressing forward and pulling back erratically, his stunned cries ripping harshly from his throat. He fell into Piers’s welcoming arms to stay. Their kiss was anything but bittersweet.

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Madeleine Urban is a down-home Kentucky girl who’s been writing since she could hold a crayon. A longtime science fiction and fantasy fan, she loves to mix those genres with romance to get explosive, satisfying results. She lives with a partner and two canine kids, visits Disney World twice a year, and still believes dreams can come true. Visit Madeleine’s Blog - http://madeleineurban.livejournal.com/

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