Scared Stiff

Scared Stiff by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon MLR Press, LLC www.mlrpress.com Copyright © NOTICE: Thi...

Author: Baumbach Laura | Black Sarah | Lanyon Josh

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Scared Stiff by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon

MLR Press, LLC www.mlrpress.com

Copyright ©

NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Scared Stiff Four ghostly stories to chill and thrill you A quartet of inspired stories from best-selling authors William Maltese, Josh Lanyon, Sarah Black and Laura Baumbach. SCARED STIFF offers four very different tales of m/m ghostly doings that'll have readers panting (in more ways than one) under the covers. Maltese offers chilling tales of sacrifice in his spine-tingling Rendering Souls while Lanyon adds adventurous ghost hunters in his A Ghost of a Chance. Black gives you horrors from the past in Wild Onions, and Baumbach rounds out the volume with a hot tale of second chances in Soul Desire. Laura Baumbach Josh Lanyon Sarah Black William Maltese Scared Stiff This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or 3


are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2007 by Laura Baumbach Copyright 2007 by Josh Lanyon Copyright 2007 by Sarah Black Copyright 2007 by William Maltese All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Published by MLR Press, LLC 3052 Gaines Waterport Rd. Albion, NY 14411 Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet www.mlrpress.com Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz 4


Editing by Judith David Printed in the United States of America. ISBN# 978-1-934531-46-4 First Edition 2008 Scared Stiff

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Table of contents Soul Desire A Ghost of a Chance Wild Onions Rendering of Souls

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Laura Baumbach Soul Desire The gentle grope at his leg was at once familiar and strange, the touch of an almost forgotten lover. But this caress was light and insistent, not the bold contact Mason was use to nudging at him in the middle of the night. Eric's demanding wake-up calls had always been smooth and heavy, full of need and passion. This fluttering, insistent pull to his thigh was in the old familiar spot, but it felt wrong, foreign, as if a stranger was in bed with him. It wasn't like Eric, but then it couldn't be. Eric was dead. "What ... Who's there?" Jerking awake with a start, Mason woke panting, heart thundering under his bare ribs, sheets clenched in his fists, a fine sheen of sweat making his pajama bottoms cling to his legs. His sleep blurred vision wavered a bleary focus, the deeper shadows in the corners of the room a pitch black, their edges reaching out like slender gray arms to embrace the other objects in the dark room. "Is someone there?" Mason squinted and brushed his bangs out of his eyes, a thin white haze blurring his sight more than usual for a few seconds. When still nothing in the room was recognizable, he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table, knocking into the lamp and shoving a book he had been reading earlier to the floor. Glasses on and eyes focusing in the shadowed gloom, Mason blinked several times to dispel what seemed like a 7


cloud of fog hanging over the bottom of the bed. A puff of chill night air seeped under the small window he had propped open a crack before going to bed. The tiny gust barely ruffled the curtains but the fog disappeared so fast Mason doubted it was there to begun with. A few embers in the fireplace on the wall opposite his bed glowed to life briefly then faded out as the breeze did the same. Heart still pounding, he took his glasses back off and tossed them on the stand, slipping under the thick down comforter as he did so. The first unnerving fight-or-flight response faded away as he lay back to the comfort of the thick pillow and warm blankets His thigh tingled where he'd imagined the hand touching him and he rubbed over it, his fingers automatically sliding to his groin to fondle his sudden erection. He always got hard when he was scared. Eric had loved watching horror movies with him naked on the couch. They rarely even got to see the end of the movie. He worked his hand faster determined to get some pleasure from the disturbed sleep. His cock was hard as nails, but the mental stimulus wasn't cooperating. He gave up after a few minutes, having achieved nothing but an aching wrist and a sore, chaffed cock. Even conjuring up images of Eric hadn't helped. The gloomy autumn weather here fit his mood and the barren sea cliffs and remote location made him feel secure and comfortable to be alone with his thoughts. Not that his thoughts were all that pleasant of late. He used to wonder if you could die from a broken heart if he should lend the 8


process a hand and speed it up. He had been glad these fleeting thoughts hadn't lingered or intensified. They had scared him. But now he had a new source to scare him—a haunted bedroom in a creaking old Maine estate. There wasn't any alcohol in the room, Mason hadn't had a drink in ages and yet he'd just caught a whiff of brandy on that faint, chilly draft. **** Rolling over to glance at the bedside clock, Mason grimaced at the bright red numbers. "7:10. Shit." Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he stared at the erection tenting his pajama bottom. "Lot of fucking good you do for me. Numb bastard. All you're good for is aggravating my carpal tunnel." With a flick of his fingers he thwacked his cock, then yelped when a bolt of pain punched his groin. "Fuck! I guess you're not so numb after all." He rubbed at his sore dick with one hand and his grit-filled eyes with his other. Deciding an unfamiliar bathroom would best be appreciated if he could actually see it, he grabbed his glasses off the bedside stand and stumbled to find the toilet. Contact lenses could wait until after he had showered. Right now he needed hot water and, possibly, once he more awake, he might give a handful of soap and a tight grip a try to ease his erection enough to take a piss. Steam billowed around Mason and rolled over the top of the shower door. The water pressure was delightfully strong for an old inn. Thick torrents of stinging hot water pounded 9


over his tingling skin, turning it a bright pink. The pulsing beat of the shower spray worked the tension out of his neck and loosened his lower back. Travel always made his back ache. Cramped airline seats, taxis with no shocks, and strange beds all added up to headaches and tight shoulders for Mason—although he had to admit his bed had been pretty comfortable for an off-the-beaten-path hotel. Not too hard, and the covers smelt fresh and clean like they had been hung outside on a clothesline. The pillows had been plump, and there were actually more of them than he needed. The whole inn was shaping up to be more pleasurable than he had expected. With pleasure on his mind, Mason lathered up his hands and blindly set the bar of soap aside. Turning his back to the spray, he ran both lathered palms down his belly and let them wander in the nest of dark hair surrounding his cock. His dick was still hard with his morning erection and his bladder strained a little with the need for release. He slid his cock through his soapy fist and used his other hand to fondle and tug his balls. His flesh was willing but his mind didn't seem to want to cooperate yet. He stroked and rubbed, fingering his scrotum and even easing a finger tip into his tight, long unused hole, but nothing helped pushed the faint pleasant sensation over the edge toward a more satisfying, needed climax. Tired of the lonely, unhappy numbness that had invaded his life and his body, Mason forced himself to relax back against the shower wall. He tried to conjure up a hot, erotic 10


vision. Nothing came immediately to mind so he concentrated on the smooth, icy tiles pressed to his back and ass. Hot water pummeled his chest and splashed down his thighs in tickling rivers. The steam filled the small cubicle and the air grew heavy, invading his lungs and penetrating his skin. Mason's breathing slowed. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift with the mist. Gradually, the hand delivering pleasurable strokes along his cock seemed to belong to someone else. The grip was tighter, the rhythm smooth, but with a little twist on the downward stroke that made him gasp and rock his hips into the beat. His other hand caressed his sac, a gentle pull and rolling motion that reached deep to the root of his cock. He hadn't slipped his hand near his opening, but it felt like a fingertip had entered him, just a little. He guessed it was the unfamiliar rhythm of strokes he was using—and that fact it had been months since he'd spent more than three minutes trying to bring himself off. The sensations almost seemed new, he thought. Without conscious effort, he found the slip-slide of soapy hand over slick, hard flesh increase. Sensation bombarded Mason as his climax built. Assaulting his sense and heightening his pleasure, his skin was alive with an almost electric sizzle. He was sure he heard the shower water hiss as it struck him. Even the fantasy seemed to become real. Although his back was plastered to the wall, the area under one shoulder stayed cool. But, the air seemed heavier and hotter on his neck just above the cold spot—almost like someone had a hand on his neck, standing next to him, breathing on his wet skin. 11


Mason's eyes flew open and he glanced around, his blurred vision seeing nothing but foggy white while his mind chastised him for giving in to foolish, childish scares. Mason shook of the sensation he wasn't alone and concentrated on recapturing the erotic sizzle that had dampened with the scared rush of adrenaline. His mind drifted imagining a new lover, someone so different from Eric that his mind couldn't possibly confuse them. Someone dark, tall and ruggedly handsome someone who had strong hands and didn't mind a short-sighted, artistic geek with so much emotional baggage he'd considered hiring a porter just to carry it around. One more rough tug that Mason felt all the way up his gut made his hole clench and his eyes water, and he was suddenly coming. Thin ropes of cum blended with the soapsuds and disappeared down the drain with the shower spray. Mason wrung the last of the orgasm out of his body and sagged against the wall. He hadn't climaxed in so long he'd forgotten how limp his knees and his cock got afterward. He rubbed at the cool spot that lingered on his shoulder, vaguely disturbed by the chill that settled in the hot space. Once his cock went soft, he relieved his bladder, aiming for the drain with as much accuracy as his eyesight allowed him, then set about getting his morning routine underway. No matter how comfortable the inn was, this was still a strange shower and bath. Without his glasses on or his contacts in, Mason had to fumble around to find things. The shampoo he'd brought with him was a blur in the shower, identified only by the shape of the clear bottle and the 12


greenish-blue color of the soap inside. His bar of white handsoap melted into the white shower surround, and he had run his hands over the built-in shelves to find it every time he set it down. Thank God the hot and cold taps were always on the same sides. Reluctantly turning off the flood of soothing, liquid heat, Mason slid the door open and stepped out into the unfamiliar bathroom. "Fuck!" Misjudging the height, he hit his foot on the shower lip, but managed to steady himself with a hand on the nearby sink. He was surrounded by clouds of thick white steam billowing out of the open shower and hanging like storm clouds over his head. In a few seconds they thinned but a band of mist seemed to hang in front of him so dense that his senses lied to him, telling him he could reach out and touch it. Instead, Mason grabbed one of the thick fluffy towels off the heating bar and wrapped it around his waist. Moving to the sink, he walked right through the dense bar of mist, dissipating it. The movement stirred a breeze and a chill ran down his spine as his pink skin cooled. He shook off the shiver, finger combed his hair out of his eyes with one hand, and grabbed for his toothbrush with the other. All around him the strange little room was shrouded in a white mist that he couldn't seem to dispel. The room felt too close and the air too heavy suddenly. Despite the thickness of the steam, Mason had the impression he was being watched, but a quick glance around showed him he was alone in the small bathroom. 13


He shrugged off the concern and bent over the sink to brush his teeth. With a quick rinse and spit, Mason straightened and looked into the mirror to check the condition of his morning stumble. Even at twenty-eight, he only needed to shave every other day if he wasn't working. A quick glance into the mirror sent a new chill across Mason's overly flushed skin. In the glass, over his left shoulder, was what looked like a man's face. It was indistinct, like the face of the Man in the Moon, more caters, ridges and shadows than real features, but a face nonetheless, a pale smear of white and gray that stared back at him in the silvered glass. Even without his glasses, he knew facial features when he saw them. Mason gripped the sink's edge with both hands as his breath caught in his throat. He could feel his heart hammering under his ribcage. Despite the humidity and heat trapped in the small room, a sheen of cold sweat broke out over his entire body and his lips went numb. Eyes locked on the unmoving face, he slowly reached out and tried to rub it off the mirror as if it were just steam on the glass. When it didn't budge, he lowered his gaze and slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder. There was nothing behind him. Mason jumped and spun around, arms batting at the remnants of mist in the room. Once the steam had dissolved into the far corners and his heartbeat has returned to something close to normal, Mason turned back around and cautiously let his gaze dart to the mirror. With one hand, he rubbed at the surface with the hand towel, while he divided his attention between the glass and the room behind him. 14


Deciding against a shave, he left the bathroom, still wearing his towel, hair sopping wet and bangs in his eyes. He shivered at the coolness of the bedroom, but he had no intention of returning to the bath. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Mason slapped his glasses onto his face with a bit more force than was really necessary. He sat shivering and watching the steam drift out of the bathroom. **** Dressed in jeans, untied hiking boots, and a soft, beige pullover sweater, Mason decided to forget the contacts and stick with his glasses. They were horn-rimmed and geeky, but more comfortable than his lenses. He was here to relax. There was no one to impress or who gave a care about what he looked like anymore. So far, he'd met only one older woman who had manned the registration desk. Very nice, but not his type. Running both hands through his overly long, dark wavy hair, he checked his pants pockets to make sure he'd transferred everything from one pair of pants to the next and headed out the door to find breakfast. He didn't have much of an appetite anymore, but he guessed it had been roughly twenty hours since he'd eaten anything that could remotely be described as nourishing. It had to be the dim lighting in this old place. The pale, pinched face that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror this morning suggested he had better start taking better care of himself and soon. His peridot green eyes made 15


the pallor all the more alarming, especially when framed by his dark, now collar-length hair. Making time for eating or haircuts had been less of a priority over these last few months. It wasn't one now, but Mason didn't like the idea of fainting from malnourishment while in the company of strangers. He was geeky, small and slender, barely five-foot-seven and stretching to make the one-fifty mark, but he hated people thinking he was delicate or fragile. Emotionally numb best described him at present, but he wasn't delicate. He checked that the window was still open just a crack, cast am admiring looking around the spacious room decorated in comforting shades of light and dark blue. The furniture was dark cherry, sturdy with a four-poster bed and matching ornate side tables, dresser and armoire. The table lamp he'd almost knocked over during the night has a shade of jewel-tone stained glass in a dragonfly design. By the fireplace were two low overstuffed plaid chairs that shared an ottoman. A thick chenille throw was draped over the back of one chair. It was a cozy room made for a man, but with a light touch that kept it from being too overly masculine. Mason decided it would suit him well over the next few weeks. Storm Inn. It was a great name. Mason thought it suited him. His life felt like a building storm, disheveled and wind torn, with torrents of tears that fell like rainy downpours. Even the thunderous outbursts of rage ripped by jolts of lightning hot pain came without warning sometimes, startling even him. It seemed as if Mason was losing control 16


over his emotions and his life. Storm Inn sounded perfect for him. It even looked perfect when he checked in last evening. The leaded glass windows only let scattered sunlight it, muting it to soft shades of dark blues and green. The yellow, brown, blue and beige paint on the clapboard exterior, though in good repair and recently painted, looked weather-weary and dull. Barren trees surrounded the house on all sides with a forest of pines a few hundred feet back around three sides of the perimeter. The main lobby was thick with oriental rugs and dark cheery furniture. Wine and sapphire blue over-stuffed cottage chairs and loveseats spread out over the huge area, crammed into corners and nooks around the space. A massive fieldstone fireplace dominated the room and several deep, cushioned chairs were drawn up close and cozy to it. Mason looked forward to spending time there in the evenings. At the top of wide-open staircase that ran up the very center of the inn, Mason paused to scan the organized clutter of the lobby. It contained the ancient, dark oak registration counter and mailboxes on one side, but the majority of the room was the cozy salon. A fire already blazed on the hearth, pushing back the early morning fall chill. Mason shrugged his shoulders against the chill and charged down the stairs, gaze wandering from corner to corner, looking of the woman he'd met the night before. "Hello? Ruby?" Looking behind the desk, he found no evidence of another person, but the fire and the steaming cup of coffee on a stand 17


beside a fireplace chair told him he wasn't the first one awake. "Hello? Anybody around? Ruby?" A snap and thud yanked his attention to the fire. A log had toppled off the fire grate and rolled precariously near the edge of the stone hearth, just a few inches from the carpet. Mason hurried to the raised stone, grabbed a poker from the stand and awkwardly struggled with the crumbling log as it shattered in a shower of hot rolling embers. He'd never worked with a real fire. His apartment in NYC only had a gas fireplace for looks. He batted at the largest of the chunks with the poker but only managed to send a shower of sparks up to land on his inner thighs, exposed as he crouched. "Shit!" Mason jumped back, ash-tipped poker flailing in the air. He stumbled on the edge of the oriental rug, his untied boot slipping part way off and tripping him all the more. One hand batted out the sparks on his jeans as he lost his balance and landed on his ass hard enough to jar his glasses askew, back shoved against a heavy wine-colored ottoman and matching chair. A new ember tumbled from the fire. Instinctively, he jumped forward and reached for it with his bare hand. Suddenly Mason was lifted back from behind by a steel band that scooped him up around his waist. He was molded against a hard chest, his ass comfortably tucked into the crook of a thick, bent thigh. The wildly waving poker was plucked from his hand. A deep voice chuckled softly in his ear. 18


"Hold up there, torch. You're going to set yourself on fire and poke someone's eye out at the same time." Panicked, Mason fought the restrictive hold until the man spoke, the warm, amused voice sending shivers of another kind down his back. Mason twisted around in surprise, as the hands on his waist became more of a steadying hold than a restraining grip. His body hadn't responded like that to another male voice in a long, long time. Nose barely inches away from a square jaw, Mason looked up into a face that made him automatically reach up to push his crooked glasses back into place to make sure he was seeing things correctly. He got a swift glance at dark, cheerful eyes, at dark hair and broad cheekbones, together composing a very handsome face. Then, the steel arms heaved him into the ottoman beside the hearth chair and out of the secure embrace. The man moved closer to the fire, exchanged the useless poker for long-handled shovel. He expertly scooped up the spattered, glowing coals and dumped them back into the crackling fire. It took him about ten seconds. "Not much good around open flames, are you?" It was said with a grin and a wink so captivating Mason couldn't work up the steam to be mad. He sighed and picked at a tiny scorch spot on the leg of his jeans, trying hard not to gaze for too long into the stranger's dark eyes. He felt the man watching his every move, assessing him. He reached down and tugged his boot back into place. "Not much, no. I opted out of the Boy Scouts." He inexplicably wished he'd taken the time to put his contacts in 19


after all. Mason shoved at the bridge of his glasses then readjusted them when they moved too snuggly against his face. "I got picked on enough for being smaller than the rest of the guys at school. I didn't think joining a group that concentrated on developing he-man skills was a great way to avoid more of the same." The man chuckled again, the sound warm and rich. It made something unfurl in Mason's belly, deep down in the pit of stomach. "I think they teach a few more things that he-man skills, but it's just a guess. Didn't have them where I grew up." He sat down on the edge of the chair closely facing Mason's seat and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Eli, by the way." "Mason Everett." Mason clasped the callused palm and watched his own hand disappear in the mighty grip. The heat from Eli's palm was intense. Mason actually thought his own would come away reddened, but his hand only tingled and his fingers twitched. He rubbed them on his jeans to lessen the sensation. Then, to stop his own gaze from lingering too long on the man, he glanced around the sitting room. Eli's charming smile might be catching, and it won't do to be chipper this early in the morning on a day he had promised himself he'd sleep in and hadn't. "I was looking for Ruby. Is she the housekeeper? I thought she could tell me where to find breakfast." A fifty-something, cheery woman with smooth skin and gray-streaked hair held in a loose bun by antique bone sticks had registered him on his arrival late last evening. She had chattered non-stop once she shook his hand in greeting, her 20


own grip firm and lingering just a little longer than Mason had expected. By the time she had shown him his room, he'd realized that Ruby punctuated her gentle and reassuring presence with small touches and fluttering pats. Ruby made him think of an old maiden relative, Aunt Sophie, the one everyone whispered was slightly off, but whose appreciation and lectures about art had inspired mason to try his hand at it. He never told her before she passed on, but she had put him on his career path. Slightly off her rocker or not, he had a soft spot for Aunt Sophie that colored his assessment of Ruby. Mason had instantly liked her, especially when she had told him breakfast was served until 10:00 a.m. "Kitchen's that way. We're going to be informal here for the next week or two." Eli pointed to an archway to their left. "No one else works here at the moment. Maid service comes in from town once a week." He gave Mason a thoughtful, appraising stare. "Not usually many visitors this time of year. The leaves are gone and the snow hasn't come yet. Too cold and dreary for most people." Eli hadn't pried, just left the door open for discussion if Mason wanted to elaborate on why he'd isolated himself out there. But Mason wasn't in the mood to talk about it yet. He switched to a more neutral subject. "But ... there was a Ruby here last night when I arrived." Mason knew he had been tired but he didn't think he'd been hallucinating, as well. "She checked me in. She was a little eccentric, but I didn't think she'd walked in off the street. Kind of hard to do that way out here anyway. I'd assumed 21


she worked here, owned the inn maybe." He shrugged his shoulders, glanced around the comfortable, warm sitting room and shyly added, "The place has a homey feel to it, like a woman's touch. My apartment doesn't have that." Eli smiled and gave a pleased chuckle. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment. My mother did all of the decorating before her death a while back. I've kept it pretty much the same since then. She had good taste." Eli ran one of his palms over the fabric of the chair he was sitting on. Mason found himself wishing it was his skin under the hand instead. The thought startled him and he jumped when Eli's smooth, deep voice spoke again. "Ruby's just a friend. I had a town board meeting last night and couldn't be here myself. So she filled in. I should have given you my last name earlier. I'm the innkeeper. Eli Storm." Mason's eyes betrayed him. Faced with seeing this man everyday for several weeks was going to be a challenge. Besides good looking, Eli was intelligent and hard working. This cozy, well-maintained inn showed that. Just his luck, Eli was turning out to be a nice guy as well. His gaze flickered over Eli's features and he swallowed past a dry throat. He hadn't been interested in another man for so long he forgotten how it made him flush. Dating had always been difficult for him and now a twinge of guilt choked off the pleasant feeling of attraction. "She was nice. I'd hope to see her again. She kind of looked familiar to me." He shrugged again and readjusted his glasses. "Must be because she reminds me of someone I used to know." 22


"You'll see her. She stops by a lot, especially during the slow season. Until next week, you're the only guest staying here." Eli leaned closer and said in an amused, conspiratorial whisper, "She doesn't think I should be alone in a haunted house." "What? Haunted? You're kidding me, right?" Mason knew his eyes had gone wide behind his glasses by the way Eli's gaze was drawn to them. Eric had always said his glasses looked dorky, but they made his eyes appear bigger and their crystal green color hypnotizing. He tried to squint to counteract it, hoping Eli didn't think he was flirting with him. Even if his body was telling him he was attracted to the man, he wasn't ready for anything, including harmless flirting. He thought he'd seen a look of interest on the guy's face earlier, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't think it was a good idea to explore it. He'd just keep his newfound fascination with the innkeeper confined to his daydreams. "You don't actually believe in that, do you?" Mason couldn't help glancing around the room. It still held the gray edges of morning light. He could tell it was going to be a dreary, dark day. Perfect for introspection. And ghost stories. He shifted a bit closer to the fire and tugged his sweater sleeves down to the tips of his fingers. "Ghosts? Who is it?" "Reported to be my great-grandfather, Eugene Storm. The man that built this house." Eli glanced around the room, too, but Mason couldn't tell if it was more for effect than an effort to find anything otherworldly. "Never seen anything to completely convince me of it." "Not completely?" 23


Eli tilted his head to one side and shrugged, his dark eyebrows raised and then lowered once, very quickly. The smile dimmed a little, but a sparkle of mischief shone in his eyes. "No, not completely." "Give! What?" "Not much. Maybe a shimmer of white out of the corner of my eye, or wind that seems to call my name on the cliffs, but I'm told I'm not very sensitive to the paranormal vibes. Too practical and closed-minded." He smiled wider. "For a gay man, I rate low on the touchy-feely meter." Heart beating a little faster at that last revelation, Mason pretended not to let Eli's sexual orientation register as important to him. Not quite knowing how to read the other man, Mason narrowed his eyes and persisted. "But Ruby believes the house is haunted?" He jumped slightly when his stomach suddenly rumbled, adding a disembodied growl to the gloomy conversation. He placed a sweater sleeve-covered hand on his stomach and cast an embarrassed grimace at Eli. "Sorry. No ghosts or goblins, just me. It's been a long time since lunch yesterday." "Yes, Ruby believes in ghosts but she calls them spirits." Smile still intact, Eli shook his head and stood. "She also believes in three meals a day, starting with breakfast." His tone was brisk and crisp, making the whole room seem less dark and eerie to Mason. Eli's voice had a power to it that made it a one-man PA system if he pitched it just right. It made Mason's stomach flutter like the drums in the marching bands did. 24


"I've only made coffee so far. Why don't you join me in the kitchen and I'll make us both something. Like pumpkin pancakes and sausage?" "Pumpkin pancakes? Ah ... Do you have any cereal?" **** The walk to the cliffs only took about ten minutes. The path was winding and long so Mason decided to take a more direct route up the hill through rock and scrub grass. The grass grew in clumps so thick and raveled that it nearly tripped Mason on several occasions. He stopped after the first twenty feet to ties his boots tighter. At home he preferred sneakers. The hiking boots he packed for the wilds of northern Maine were heavy and restrictive. He always wore them loosely tied, but he could see it being hazardous to his health. He'd have to remember to take the time to tie them properly. He persisted in taking his makeshift route, but by the time he reached the point Eli had described over breakfast as having the best view of the ocean, Mason was panting and his thighs burned. City walking and apartment elevators hadn't prepared him for hiking up a rugged hilltop. At the edge of the narrow cliff, Mason threw himself down on the ground. He lay back to watch the gray clouds gathering while he caught his breath again. They didn't move with any real speed, but they were growing in number and density. The air was heavy with moisture, scented by grass and the ocean. His sweater and jeans had become damp to 25


the touch. The sand and grass under him molded to his body and stayed that way, firmly packed. It was peaceful, if a little storm-swept. Mason rolled over onto his belly and wiggled closer to the edge so he could see both the blue-green ocean and the gray sky. Breathing back to normal, Mason propped his chin on his hands and listened to the sound of the water and wind mixed with the occasional sea gull cry and the faint rustling of the tall grasses around him. He couldn't hear the waves breaking against the bottom of the cliff from this position, but he saw them in his mind, crashing on the rocks below, beating uselessly against an unyielding surface. It reminded him of his pain over Eric's death. He felt as if he was riding a wave, always trying to reach the safety of dry, stable land, but the rocks, like the harshness of Eric's death, constantly loomed in his way, forcing him back into the water, back into the cold, pointless hollow his life had become. He hadn't meet anyone new he was interested enough in to consider getting to know better. That is, if he didn't count the new innkeeper. Eli Storm had definitely made his cock sit up and take notice. Eli did funny things to his stomach, too. And, here he was—lying in wet scrub grass on the edge of a tall cliff in dreary Maine, listening to the ocean, watching the storm clouds gather and getting sand in his underwear and hair. A particularly dark cloud pushed its way into the gray gathering overhead and Mason decided if he was going to get a look at the rocks below it was now or never. The wind was 26


whipping his hair in his eyes and the air had a biting sting to its chill. He crawled the last few feet to the edge of the cliff and poked his head out over the drop. The huge, white rocks along the shoreline stood up out of the whirling, foam-peaked waters. They were battered and dowsed by waves of frothy white that left behind shallow black pools on their pitted and worn surfaces. There were hundreds of them all along the cliff's edge where rugged land met unyielding ocean. It made Mason dizzy to look at them. "Whoa! Where's a guard rail when you need one?" His voice was lost in the wind. Mason propelled himself backward on his belly for a couple yards before standing up. He didn't mind heights, but the spongy wet sand and earth under him didn't fill him with confidence that close to the edge. Once on his feet, he realized just how much sand had made its way into his boots and clothing. He shook out his sweater, dusted off the outside of his jeans, wiggled and shook his butt trying to dislodge sand from inside his pants, and then looked for a clean, dry place to sit down to work off his boots. Several feet away a six-foot long outcropping of earth and rocks jutted up from the otherwise unbroken plateau. The rocks were white and worn smooth on the surfaces, like the shoreline rocks below. Someone had carried them up from the base of the cliffs, rescuing each one from the punishing ocean waters. 27


The largest stone was long and thin, almost like a park bench. Mason sat on it, shivering at the cold that immediately seeped into his bones through his damp jeans. Moving with as much haste as he could with cold, numb fingers, he worked loose the leather ties on his ankle-high boots and shook each one out. He was brushing the last of the clinging sand from his sock when a hand pushed at his back, nudging him forward. He lost the grip on his boot. It tumbled to the sandy grass. "What the hell?" Mason jumped and twisted around, surprised he wasn't alone. Then ... astonished that he was alone. There was no one at his back. He spun around on the rock and checked in all direction, but only a lone seagull flew overhead. There was no other living soul near him nor could one have advanced on him without his knowing unless the route had been over the cliff's edge, and he knew that was impossible. The beach had been deserted when he had looked down only a few moments ago. The cold, building wind whipped his too-long bangs into his eyes, catching them on his glasses, and blinding him until he swiped them out of the way with an impatient hand. Heart pounding from the momentary fright, Mason glanced around one more time, convinced himself it had just been the wind or his imagination and sat back down to retrieve his boot. He spread his legs to reach down between them to grab his boot, tugged its heavy leather back into place and tied it in record time. Still bent low working the ties, a dark shadow passed over him and he jerked his face upward. 28


He laughed out loud, a nervous, out of place sound, as he realized he had overreacted to a pair of snowy egrets as they flew by, low and large. So much for this calming nature shit. A soul-searching, solitary walk on the cliffs is not as relaxing as the movies lead everyone to believe. I need to get a grip. Closing his eyes, Mason took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He squared his shoulders and let his chin drop to his chest, attempting a relaxation technique a yoga instructor had shown him once. The tension eased from his back a bit, and he felt his arms loosen up slightly. The wind became irregular, a siren's song, lulling him into a calmer state. A tingling pressure blossomed at the back of his neck, the spot that always felt so good when Eric rubbed it after Mason had spent a long hard day hunched over his drawing table. Mason concentrated on the pressure, expecting it to spread down his back and travel through his body. But, no. The pressure didn't move, didn't slide down his body. Instead, it rested there, at his neck, growing colder, growing heavier. The visual of an ice bag popped into his mind, then morphed into the image of a bloody, refrigerated dinner steak lying on his neck before turning into the white, icy, cold hand of a dead man. "Fuck!" Leaping off the rock, Mason stumbled away from the outcropping, one hand massaging the back of his neck, trying to restore warmth into the cold flesh. His eyes frantically searched the empty land around him. He started to run without conscious thought. 29


By the time Mason was half way to the inn he had lectured himself twice on the need to focus on something beside death from now on. Death was the stronger conclusion. He'd even managed to remind himself that nut cases were rarely attractive as dating material. He had better put a stop to all the morbid thoughts and jumpy behavior if he had any interest whatsoever of finding out if Eli Storm was flirting with him in earnest or just for the hell of it. He was a little old to be influenced by ghost tales and haunted houses. Wasn't he? **** Feeling the exhaustion lift a little each day, Mason spent the next week exploring the shoreline, reading books from the shelves in Eli's library, eating bits of the man's cooking and talking away his afternoons with a visiting Ruby like today. "So why did you come here, Mason? Isolated Maine inns by the sea are great getaways for moody writers or love-struck couples, but not single young men. At least, not alone. What do you do for a living?" She smiled and slipped two freshfrom-the-oven cookies onto a plate in front of him. "I work for a large advertising firm in New York City. I'm a graphics artist." "Artist! Really? How interesting. Do you paint? I love watercolors." "I can but in my work I create designs and art for advertising campaigns and fundraisers mostly. Big business lots of pressure, but I like being able to see my work on 30


billboards." The smell of oatmeal, cinnamon and raisins filled the air. He could barely keep from touching them while they cooled. He had a fleeting memory of his mother baking cookies for him after school. He returned her smile with a crooked one of his own, clasping his coffee mug tighter. "I thought the name of inn fit my state of mind. Storm Inn by the stormy sea." He chuckled but he could tell by the look on her face, Ruby wasn't buying the offhand explanation. "Really? That's the only reason to travel all the way out here alone?" He supposed he should feel offended by her gentle prying but kitchen was cozy warm from the oven and her cablesweatered, smiling presence was comforting. Maybe they were right when they said it was easier to talk to strangers about a problem than it was to talk to friends. The heavy earthenware coffee cup was solid in his hands, its heat seeped all the way to his chest, loosing the constricting band of numb ache that had held him its grip for so long. For the first time since Eric's death he felt free to talking about it. Here, in stormy Maine with a stranger who baked him cookies and believed in ghosts. "Okay, that's not the only reason but it is one of the reasons I pick here." He picked up a cookie and broke of a small chunk, popping it into to his mouth to chew silently for a moment to have time to form his thoughts. It was new getting ready to say it out loud for the first time. "What's the other reasons?" 31


Mason sighed and swallowed savoring the flavors of oatmeal and spices. "My boss, David. My work was slipping. I've had trouble concentrating. He said it was time to get my head on straight. Big believer in 'tough love'." Mason grimaced and gave a grunted half-laugh. "The man has teenagers." He sighed and shifted in his seat. "He said I couldn't mourn forever." A deep frown marred Ruby's round face. "Did you lose someone, Mason?" He nodded, made to sip his coffee than stopped. He needed to talk not more caffeine. "Two years ago." He stopped to clear his throat but the words came easier than he thought they would. "I was with Eric for eight years, since I got out of college. I was twenty-two. Eric was twenty-seven, established in his career, tired of the dating scene already and looking to settle down. I never got into the dating thing and we just kind of meshed. I was devastated when he was gone." "You broke up?" He shook his head and took a deep breath, letting the words flow out as he exhaled. They seemed take the numbness in his chest with them. "Eric fell asleep at the wheel one night after working late and when off the road. Hit a tree. They said he died on impact." A soft, strong hand grasped his wrist. He instantly tried to pull away but the fingers gently forced its way down to his hand. Ruby gripped his finger, while her thumb made soothing circles over the back of his hand. Tears sprung to Mason eyes when he realized how long it had been since 32


someone had touched him like this, how long since he'd let anyone touch to comfort and hold him. God, he missed being touched. He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, then curled his fingers around Ruby's, loosely at first, just to feel the warm and strength in her grip. "I grieved when Eric died, experienced all the classic stages of grief from denial when the police had informed me they'd found Eric's body at the crash site all the way to righteous anger over his falling asleep at wheel." "I even tried to mentally bargain with the 'powers that be' to let me wake up and have the whole ugly mess be just some twisted nightmare. But I didn't need to wake up and it didn't go away. By the end of the first year I'd stopped listening for Eric's key in the door in the evenings and stopped hearing his voice in crowded rooms or on the busy streets. He doesn't even visit in my dreams anymore." "It's hard to let go sometimes, sweetie, but you're a young man. You need to get on with your life. Don't you think Eric would have wanted that for you? I'm sure he loved you that much, to want to see you happy even if he was gone." "Yeah, he would." His throat tightened stopping his next sentence, the pressure in his chest forcing the tears sitting in the corners of his eyes to brim. He felt them run under his chin and drip off but he made no move to wipe them away. There wasn't any point, more followed. "I've felt like I was just going through the motions lately. It's scary. I'm not ready to stop living. I'm not cut out to be alone, I know that. I came here because this is someplace Eric would never have 33


come. No memories here, no reminders ever time I turn around. I think I'm ready to get back to living again." "Sounds to me like you need a little rest and maybe a distraction or two." "A distraction?" Mason wiped at one cheek and popped a piece of cookie in his mouth, trying not to sniffle too loudly. "Yeah, I could use one of those. Got any suggestions?" "What about Eli?" Ruby smiled and winked. "I think he's pretty distracting. How about you?" Mason snorted in disbelief but his mind was asking him the same questions. **** While his nights were spent in restless dreams filled with white mists and cold caresses under the thick, down comforter, his evenings were spent wrapped in a lap quilt in front of the fireplace, chatting with Eli. It didn't hurt any either that Eli did appear to be interested in him as more than a guest or friendly visitor. Either that or Mason really had forgotten all the signals and feelings associated with flirting. He had a fluttering in his stomach when he glanced up and found Eli looking at him with that affectionate, hungry look. Eli was giving him that look right now. It was late afternoon and Ruby was sitting at his side. Suddenly, the comfortable sitting room and the flickering fire seemed unusually warm. Mason shifted in his seat and blushed at the amused wink Eli sent him when he noticed him squirm. 34


"You're not dating anyone right now?" Mason couldn't help it. He had to know if there was some guy off fishing for the last week who would pop up as soon as Mason decided to get serious about letting Eli get a little closer. The man was too good a catch not to have someone around. "Not many gay men in this tiny village, Mason. Least not ones I have any interest in. I'd rather be alone than leave my home and the family's business to relocate in a more populated area." With another teasing wink and roguish smile, Eli claimed, "Good things come to those that wait." That hungry, wanting look hit his eyes again. "You're proof of that." Feeling a heat rise to his cheeks, Mason flashed Ruby a sheepish look. Her wide smile and rolling eyes made him chuckle out loud, but a sudden rush of nerves made him changed the subject. "I thought I'd go see the cliff at dawn tomorrow. Get the full effect of it the way it was meant to be seen. Do you know what time that'll be at?" He'd been experiencing an increasing and indefinable, almost eerie pull to the rocky, cold cliff. "What's dawn got to do with it?" Even with a perplexed look on his face, Eli was handsome, his gaze gentle. "That whole cliff face is shrouded in mist that early. You won't see anything." "I'm confused." Mason felt more on the spot than when Eli had been flirting with him. He hated feeling dumb. "I thought that would be the best time of day. You said it was called Morning Cliff." 35


A deep frown furrowed Eli's brow. He stared at Mason for a moment, then the frown vanished. He gave a small grunt that sounded like restrained laughter and shook his head. "Not mo-r-n-i-n-g cliff, Mason. M-o-u-r-n-i-n-g. As in 'sorrow over a loss'. Mourning Cliff. It was kind of like a lover's leap a few decades back. More than one depressed, grief-stricken person has jumped off that cliff." He paused then confessed, "Hell, my own great-grandmother did it." "Seriously? Why?" Mason stared into his cup, his fingers idly tipping the mug up and down just a little, making the liquid slosh from side to side, as if looking for the answer in the rich brown depths. "I mean, I can understand missing someone..." He had to take a deep breath to steady his voice, "...so much every part of your whole body aches from sheer loneliness." He closed his eyes and willed the tears he felt brimming behind his them to fade. "And I can see thinking death would be a quick escape..." Mason swallowed hard, thankful he had his glasses on. It made it harder for Eli and Ruby to see his face. "When every morning fills you with a kind of debilitating dread." He opened his eyes, sniffed into the fist he rubbed over his nose and blinked over at both Eli and Ruby. "But getting smashed to bits on a graveyard of rock in a freezing ocean is kind of a harsh way to go, don't you think?" Suddenly selfconscious under Eli's silent, appraising stare, Mason pushed his glasses back up his nose and shrugged, grimacing at the mental picture he had just painted. "That's gotta be messy." Wordlessly Ruby reached out and rubbed Mason's arm. Her touch was consoling and it lingered, the warmth of her hand 36


radiating through his sweater and relaxing his tense muscles. He realized his cup had been shaking while he talked, but her soothing grip eased the strain in his trembling arm. Mason transferred the cup to his other hand and set it down on a nearby table, inexplicably loath to move his other arm from her reach. It was weird, but Ruby made him feel calmer and more unscrambled than he had in months. She was like Valium in human form. On the other hand, Eli excited him. Glancing up, Mason's gaze meet Eli's and he felt a slight flush color his face. He wasn't embarrassed by Ruby's attention, but knowing he had almost cried in front this man was embarrassing. He mentally sighed and chalked up one more mess up on the negative side for him as potential dating material. Christ, he really had forgotten how to do this. These last two years it had been acceptable to come across to other guys as a nerdy flake because he really hadn't wanted to date any of them, but now that he'd literally fallen into the arms of someone he was attracted to, he didn't have a chance of succeeding if this kept up. Hell, he wouldn't date a guy as screwed up as he was! "I'll bet it was messy, but I wasn't born when it happened." Eli's smile eased a little of Mason's stress. "Heard plenty of stories about it over the years, but most were just gossip and rumor." "Why'd she do it? Or shouldn't I ask?" "I don't have a problem talking about it. In fact, it's part of the folklore about the inn being haunted." 37


"She's the ghost?" Mason started, thoughts of the misty face in the bathroom mirror jumping to his mind. It hadn't looked to him like a woman. If it had been anything at all. "I thought it was supposed to be your grandfather?" "It is. Unusual things started happening about ten years ago, after we had a fire. The entire kitchen burnt, down to the basement. When we were rebuilding, we found a hidden wine cellar that had been sealed off from the rest of the house. Still had a number of wine bottles in it, too. Like it had been sealed off in a hurry. Good wine, too." "That's kind of weird." Eli shrugged, obviously at a loss for an explanation. "I had it opened back up and we use it for the inn. We serve dinner here twice a month and on holidays. It's been great to have a wine cellar in the place." "And? Tell him, Eli." Ruby lightly smacked the man's broad shoulder. She turned to Mason and eagerly added, "This is where the story gets interesting again." Rolling his eyes, Eli grudgingly acknowledged, "And ... that's when things," gestured to the empty air all around them, "started getting ... oddaround here." Ruby nodded and rephrased Eli's meaning for Mason. "Hauntings." "Happenings." Eli enunciated the word carefully and gave Ruby an admonishing look that she blithely ignored. "Folks say it's my great-grandfather Eugene mainly because he's the reason his wife killed herself." "Stories have it they had a terrible argument one night." Picking up the thread with gusto, Ruby leaned close and 38


dropped her voice to a hush. "Seems May Storm suspected her husband of being unfaithful to her. The servants told anyone who would listen about it. Lots of bric-a-brac got broken that night." She cast a glance around the room. Mason noticed both Eli and Ruby tended to look up the stairs when they talked about the ghostly happenings. "May had a temper when she got riled. They say that was one of the reasons her twin brother, Jeb, practically lived at the house with them." Eli sipped his coffee, distracting Mason momentarily by letting his lips linger on the edge of the mug. They looked full and flush with the heat of the liquid. Mason felt a stirring in his jeans and glanced away quickly. "He was the only one that could calm her down." "Then others say Jeb Dahl was the reason Eugene and May fought as much as they did." Ruby gave Eli a knowing glance, and he grinned back at her. "Her brother?" Now Mason was confused. He knew extended families lived together a lot during those years, and it wasn't unusual for in-laws to settle with a married couple for economic reasons. But May's and Jeb's family has been well-off for the times. "What was he, an ugly, no-good moocher?" "Not at all. He was a handsome man. That was part of the problem." Admiration shone in Ruby's voice. Mason glanced at her. "I've seen pictures of him the society pages of the old newspapers. A real cutie." She winked at him and smiled. "Like you."

39


Mason heard a scraping under the table, then Ruby yelped and jumped, giving Eli an evil glare. "Well, he is. And you think so too, Eli Storm. You said so." Mason dropped his head a bit and looked at Eli over the top of his glasses, pleased at Ruby's comment—but more pleased by the lack of denial and the bold interested look now on Eli's face. Hell, maybe the guy has a thing for screwed-up, artsy nerds! Eli glared back at Ruby but she deflected it with a satisfied smile. "Jeb Dahl was a well-known artist in these parts, a painter. One of his paintings is in your room, Mason. That was his bedroom while he lived here." "The seascape. I noticed. It's lovely. It's got ... emotion in it." Mason smiled and admitted, "I'm an artist, too. Mostly graphics art, but I do some drawing too." He gaze lingered on Eli's handsome, bold face and strong, athletic body. "I notice gorgeous things." His cheeks burned just a bit at the double meaning he had intended to convey, but it was worth it to see the interested light in Eli's eyes heat up. Score one for the inept flirter! "I've got photos of Jeb I can show you." Eli pushed back from the table. "This one was taken shortly before he left town that night." "And never came back." Ruby was getting into the story now. "May threw herself off Mourning Cliff at dawn a week later." Eli rose and went to a glass curio cabinet to the left of the fireplace. After removing a slender silver frame from it, he came back and handed it to Mason as he sat down. The faded 40


sepia picture revealed a dapper young man in casual clothing of the times, light-colored hair plastered down with something heavy and glistening to keep unruly waves and long strands under control. His pale complexion and light eyes made Mason think he was a redhead. He was an attractive, slight, young man, with a handsome face lit by a contagious smile. "She killed herself because he left town?" Mason shook his head in disbelief. "Why did he go? I thought you said he and his sister were close." When Eli took more than a few seconds to answer Ruby took up the thread. "She killed herself because she drove him away. She was irate because she accidentally found out her brother had taken a lover. One he had been seeing for a long time." "She killed herself over another woman?" Jeb hadn't been upset when May married his best friend, but he wasn't allowed a lover? "Wow, that's taking the close twin thing a little far." Sitting back down at the table, Eli wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and Mason couldn't help admiring how the long fingers engulfed the wide cup and dwarfed it. Nice, strong, worn and experienced hands. Mason had to shift in his chair to give himself a little room to expand in his jeans. He wasn't erect, but this was more interest his cock had show in the mere act of watching another man in a long time. Mason had forgotten what position was the most comfortable to be in when his cock stirred to life in public. He moved his gaze up to Eli's eyes, avoiding his moist, parted lips on the way. The playful light in Eli's eyes were a little subdued. 41


"No, she killed herself over the fact that Jeb's lover was her husband." There was a small wry smile of reluctant acceptance of the facts on Eli's face. "May felt betrayed by the two men she loved most." Nodding in sympathy, Ruby spared a consoling pat on the arm for Eli before turning back to Mason and the tale. "It was the talk of the town for years afterward. We all grew up with the gossip and tales about it all. There was a huge, drunken argument among the three of them that ended down in the cellars. No one knows exactly what happened, but that very night Jeb suddenly up and left. Folks said he did it to save his sister's marriage." "Sadly, it was all for nothing." Eli sighed and refilled all of their mugs from the pot on the table. Mason clasped the warm cup with both hands, a sudden shill racing down his spine. "A week later May killed herself and left her husband with their only son to raise." "What happened to him? I mean he lost his wife and his lover." "He never remarried, never took another lover as far as anyone knows. He had a long, lonely life. He died alone during a seizure down in the cellar years later." "That's so ... sad. I can understand grieving for them, but to be alone forever ... that's just ... sad." Mason felt a bit of the grief for Eric he had been clinging to ease away from his heart, letting it beat a little stronger. The tight band of grief that had bound his heart had been loosening lately. He didn't want a similarly empty life spent longing for someone he'd 42


never have again. "I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life." "Eli's dad used to say he saw his grandfather's ghost wandering out on the cliffs in the evening, talking to Jeb like he was there with him." Ruby glanced off to the windows that faced the direction of the cliffs. "Servants said it was Jeb's picture he stared at when he was in a melancholy mood, not May's. Seems Jeb had been his sole desire, his only love, even if it had been in the closet." "Dad just said those things to scare us kids away from playing too close to the edge." Eli scoffed and shook his head. Mason could tell by the expression on his face he didn't believe in the ghost stories, at least not much. Eli playfully pulled at the ends of Ruby's long, graying hair. She batted away his hands but he grabbed her and hugged tight, not releasing her until she squealed in mock protest. They looked comfortable and at ease with each, like longstanding friends. Mason found himself wanting a piece of that same close camaraderie. He'd like to be in Eli's embrace, teasing or otherwise. He wanted to know more about the man. When the two parted, Mason asked, "Are your parents still alive, Eli?" "No. They died in the fire that took out the back section of the house. Yours?" "No family. I'm adopted. Both my parents were in their late forties when they adopted me. I'm an only child. Neither of them had any siblings. My grandparents all died before I was ten. With Eric's death, I'm kind of ... alone." 43


"You must be turning guys away at your door. As Ruby said," Eli smiled a smile that was full of charm, sexual interest and a touching understanding, "you're a very attractive young man, Mason." "Thanks." He dropped his gaze for a moment and selfconsciously pushed his glasses back into place. "It's been a little ... rough. I-I thought Eric and I would be together until we were old and gray. It's been hard letting that idea go. I haven't felt like dating ... until ... until just recently. But not the guys my age who keep asking." He glanced up at Eli and straightened in the seat. "I like older guys. One's with stable lives and careers who know what they want in life. I'm kind of focused on my art, my job. I don't want to spend time with a guy whose only interest is parties, poppers, and his prick." He glanced to his left, suddenly mindful of the third person in the room. "Sorry, Ruby." "Don't worry. I've heard worse, Mason. Said worse!" She patted his arm again. "Hell, every time I'm here and I smell brandy in the air when I know darn well there isn't any thing but wine in the whole place, I get a chill and I think much worse than that." She sniffed the air and subtly looked around at the growing shadows in the subtly lit, furniture-filled room. "It always makes me wonder if May isn't haunting the place. Folks say she took to drink quite a bit before she died. Was probably drunk when she jumped. I'd have to be." Unable to stop himself, Mason glanced around and hunched deeper into the couch and lap quilt. The flickering glow from the hearth made the shadows dance with long legs over the walls. A chill slid down his back as Mason 44


remembered the face in the bathroom mirror and blurted out, "The ghost's a man." "What? How would you know that, Mason?" Eli's voice sounded normal, like he was asking how he knew Eli's favorite color—which was green if the color of the great cashmere and wool sweaters the man wore everyday was anything to go by. Mason defended the personal observation by reassuring himself artists were supposed to notice things like color and texture, especially if it brought the green flecks in dark brown, hungry eyes. "In the mirror ... upstairs. I thought I saw a face in the steam. It wouldn't rub off the glass, not even with a towel, but when I turned around and then back, it was completely gone like it had never been there. I know it sounds crazy, but ... it was a man's face." "Are you sure?" Where there was disbelief in Eli's face, Ruby's was full of eager interest. "Is it Eugene Storm? I bet it is. I've been trying to make contact with him for years but he never wants to talk to me." Ruby's eyes darted back and forth while she scrutinized every pore on Mason's face. "You he would like, Mason. You look a lot like Jeb. I can see him choosing you to contact." "Ruby, stop it." Eli was firm, even a little harsh. "Mason came here to rest and sort things out. He's still getting over a big loss." He ran a sympathetic gaze over Mason. "Don't fill his artistic head with dead lovers' ghosts and suicide." He looked away, a little reluctant when he added, "He doesn't need any help imagining things here." 45


Eli's lack of support hurt him more than Mason thought it could. They had known each other only a few days, but Mason was comfortable in the man's presence; he even felt a certain security being with Eli. But, now, it was painfully obvious that Eli thought of him as some fragile, potentially suicidal dork. For the first time in ages, Mason had the energy to let his temper flare. He tossed aside the quilt and stood up. "I'm not imagining it. The face was there." He started to tell them about the hand touching him in the middle of the night and out at the cliff, but stopped himself. He could tell Eli didn't believe him as it was. "Excuse me. I'm going to read in my room. Mind if I borrow one of these?" He pulled an old, clothbound book off one of the library shelves and hefted it, not even looking at the title. Eli stood up but didn't approach him. He shrugged his shoulders, a look of regret on his face. "Sure. Go ahead. They all belonged to my grandfather and his father. I've never had time or inclination to do more that glance at them. I don't even know what's up there, but help yourself." Grudgingly, Mason nodded his head, clutching the book hard to help stem his feelings. "Thanks. Don't hold supper for me, okay? I'm not hungry." Humiliated and hurt, Mason strode to the staircase and fled to his ghost-infested room, the last place he really wanted to be. **** He'd read for a short time but the book he'd randomly grabbed, The Perennial Bachelor, a 1925 edition by Anne 46


Parrish, told the tale of a wealthy bachelor and the decadence of the elite society that he represented. The story was unedited and the characters lacked depth. Mason quickly lost interest. But the artist in him admired the book's beautiful binding, and he leafed through the unread pages. He stopped short at the inside front cover. In the same instant, he felt the prickle of the blood draining from his face. The marbled paper bore an inscription, written in fading peacock-green ink, in the flowing script of the day: To Jeb, who means the most. Most fondly, Eugene. Mason stared dumbly at the page for a moment, then set the book aside with a silent vow to check the other books on the shelves downstairs for similar dedications. The discovery had brought a shiver and slight quake to Mason's hands and body, and the warm comforter on the bed beckoned. Depressed over the conversation with Eli, chilled by the note from a dead man's hand, Mason turned in early. His alarm clock barely rolled over to show 7:00 p.m. on its glowing, red face when he stripped, pulled on a pair of flannel sleep pants, and fell into bed. He was asleep within minutes of crawling under the covers. For the first time since sleeping in this bedroom he had closed the window all the way making sure no misty breezes could disturb his sleep or fuel is imagination. He halfway believed in ghosts before coming here. Or maybe it was just his loneliness that make him start in the middle of the night thinking he had felt the mattress dip as Eric rolled into bed long weeks after Eric was alive to do that. The sensation had faded overtime, but this inn was bringing it all back. And it 47


wasn't Eric visiting him. That face in the mirror hadn't looked anything like Eric or felt like Eric. It was definitely a stranger to Mason, if not to this room. He bet Eugene Storm had been here many a night if he and Jeb had been secret lovers. Burying his head in a pillow and pulling the cover up over his shoulders for good measure, Mason blocked out the faint beams of moonlight that filter through the curtains and the sounds of the choruses of peepers. The warm, engulfing comfort of the quilts and soft mattress appealed to him on a number of levels, but mostly for the opportunity to be wrapped in the snug embrace of flannel and down and let his worries drift away on the soothing void of sleep. Since he didn't have a warm, loving body beside him anymore and none in the foreseeable future, he'd learned to find substitutes for comfort. A warm fire and Eli's company had been doing a fine job of it until the last few moments. He couldn't that Eli thought he was suicidal. What he couldn't believe even more was that he'd been crazy enough to blurt out he'd seen a ghost. Looking back at it he really couldn't blame Eli but the man's response had still stung. Every reason he hated dating came rushing back to him and along with it came a bitter ached over the loss of Eric, his own self-appointed short comings and a loneliness that he desperately wanted to have banished, at least for a little while. His dreams came like wisps of smoke, elusive and faint. They slowly increased and wrapped around him like tendrils from a campfire, reaching out to smother him with the scent 48


of brandy-dowsed flames and scorching caresses to his chilled skin. The strands of smoke turned into flesh and blood arms and the heat on his body became hard palms and even harder thighs. A heavy weight pressed Mason into the mattress and he sighed at the sensation, having gone too long with the pleasure of another's solidness against his chest, his belly, parting his thighs and nestling between them. His cock stirred and swelled as hands explored his shoulders and arms, ran down his sides, pressed against his ribs, tousled his hair, and caressed his cheek. They seemed to be everywhere at once, tweaking nipples to taut ripeness, soothing parted lips as he gasped in unexpected pleasure, and kneading the firm muscles of his clenched ass. The hands and arms turned connected to a strong, long body and Mason could see and feel a trail of dark hair over the broad chest that trailed down to disappear between their grinding bellies and hips. He followed the trail back up and this time the face was clear, frame din dark curly hair with gentle brown eyes and a half-amused smile that Eli had worn since the first time Mason had looked up into his face. Eli had been embracing him then, too, but Mason much preferred this kind of hold to tone Eli had used to stop him from falling into the fire. His pleasure built with each grinding roll of Eli's hips. Mason and silently willed his orgasm to hold back a few seconds longer. Then a chill settled over him and the solid, secure weight on top of his body dissolved away to be 49


replaced with a smoky cloud of cold dread. His climax waned and Mason started awake. Flat on his back, instantly awake, and eyes wide open, he looked up into a enveloping shroud of white mist. A blurred image of the face from the mirror hovered over his own close enough that if it had breathed, Mason would have felt the air moving on his skin. He didn't need his glasses to see this. "Jesus!" Bolting upright, Mason waved his arms to dispel the mist, the cloying smell of brandy clinging to his nostrils, the mist making his eyes water. He flung the covers to one side and jumped out of the bed. As he stood half-naked and barefoot shaking, trembling with the cold that had seeped into the room and the rush of adrenaline racing through his veins, Mason watched the blurred face in the mist linger over the empty spot where he had been lying then slowly drift toward the window and ease out through the cracks between the panes. The window was still firmly shut, but the curtains fluttered as if catch in a gentle a breeze. Once the mist had left the room, Mason decided the ghost had the right idea. He rocketed out the bedroom door and down the hallway, slowing only long enough to navigate the stairs without his glasses. **** "I don't care if you don't believe me. There's a ghost in this house. In my room. I'm not sleeping there alone." Mason barely waited until the bedroom door was open before he 50


barged past its sleepy-eyed occupant and strode to the obviously unused side of the just recently vacated queensized bed. "I'm not sleeping anywhere alone in this inn. So make room. I'm freezing." Shivering, he grabbed a handful of blankets, sheets and comforters and pulled them back far enough that he could slip under them without disturbing the used half of the bed. "What?" Still standing with the handle of the open door in his hand and a bewildered look on his face, Eli swiveled his head around to watch Mason storm across the room. It was obvious Eli was going to need more time to process what had just happened than Mason planned on giving to him. Mason ignored the man and his confusion. He punched a pillow into a shape with blows that promised to have the room raining feathers if the pillow didn't submit to his demands soon. Luckily for all, it went meekly. Satisfied, Mason jammed it against the headboard and threw his head down on it, back turned to the door and to Eli. He couldn't trust himself to look at the man whose bed he had just climbed into uninvited. He had thought about being in Eli's bed—just not under these circumstances. He was still shaking. That ghostly face had almost kissed him, he knew it. He was scared out of his wits and he didn't care who knew it. This wasn't going to change anything. Eli couldn't possibly think less of him after this afternoon. "Don't hog the blankets." He kicked his feet further under the covers and pulled the folded-back edge up under his chin. "And please tell me you don't snore." He looked up and over his shoulder to throw Eli an accusing glare, then closed his 51


eyes tightly and buried the side of his face in the cushion again. "But it doesn't really matter." He squeezed the words out through tightly clenched teeth. "I'm not leaving." He pulled the covers around himself until they hugged him as snuggly as plastic food wrap. Eli shut the door and walked to the newly occupied side of his bed. Mason tracked his progress by sound, refusing to look up even when he felt Eli sit on the edge of the bed beside him. "Mason?" It was the warm, strong hand that rubbed comfortingly over his shoulder that finally prompted Mason to turn his head to one side. He pried open one eye so he could peer up into Eli's face. Eli's expression was part concern, part affectionate amusement, and part something else. It was the something else that kept Mason from being angry about the amused portion. Embarrassment still tried to muster a glow to his cheeks but being scared witless won out. He felt cold. His chest ached from his lungs' attempt to keep up with the pounding heart that had lodged at the base of his throat. Christ, he couldn't believe that ... that ... thing ... had touched him, hovered over him eye to eye and ... whatever other body parts that had lined up. He'd have much preferred waking up to the man in his dream doing all that—the mostlynaked, clothed only in a pair of loose boxers, sexy man currently trying to hold back laughter while leaning in close and rubbing Mason's shoulder with a deliciously hot hand. "Want to sit up here and tell me what happened?" 52


Mason looked up, trying to pack as much determination into his expression as a one-eyed glare could give. "I don't care if you think I'm a clueless, suicidal dork nerd." He pulled the cover more tightly around his shoulder, shrugging off Eli's warm and pleasant but, nevertheless, placating touch. "I'm not leaving this bed until morning." He suddenly sat up to reach over and turn back the rumpled covers on the other side of the bed invitingly. "And neither are you." He scooted his bare-chested body back down under the blankets, his haste nearly dislodging Eli from his seat on the mattress edge. "Because, I repeat, I am not sleeping alone." Silence filled the room broken, only by the sound of Mason, face back in the pillow, gasping and gulping air, trying to breathe through the sack of feathers. "Okay. Let's try this another way." Eli walked around to his side of the bed and crawled in. He turned on his side to face Mason and pulled the covers up to his waist. Mason hoped he had settled in for the night. But, when the lamp on the side table remained lit, Mason steeled himself for more questions. "Tell me what happened in your room, Mason. You really believe in hauntings?" "Ghosts!" It was a barely understandable yelp muffled by the pillow. "Spirits, ghost, poltergeists." Eli's voice was gentle but firm. "They don't exist." Mason rolled over onto his back then curled onto his side facing Eli. "You haven't had one touch you in the middle of the night, or look at you in the bathroom mirror or run an icy 53


cold hand up your back and sit beside you at the cliffs." His voice rose with each sentence, shaky and hoarse. He forced himself to stop and take a deep breath, hoping a calmer effort would make the disbelief fade a bit from Eli's handsome face. It only lasted a moment before the memory of what had happened in the room flooded him with a hollow, terrified flush again. He felt as if he might throw up. "You didn't just wake up with one lying on top of you." He could feel the heat radiating off Eli's skin—warm, human, alive. "He ... it ... was going to ... "—Mason took a deep, shaky breath but the words came out soft and small anyway, full of fear and disgust—" ... kiss me." He had to fight back the tears, but he knew his face had twisted into a deep frown. The fear that had sung through every fiber of his being only moments before lingered. He was helpless as his whole body shook. Eli sighed, pushing back the covers and revealing his own torso and Mason's. Mason was sure that the exasperated man was preparing to throw him out of the bed. He gripped the sheet tighter. "Come here, baby." The words were low and deep, the sound rich, soothing and so gentle with compassionate understanding that Mason couldn't bear it. He made to roll out of the bed, but he didn't get far. Eli yanked Mason toward him in a won't-take-no-for-ananswer bear hug. Mason's eyes popped wide. His heart, which might have been slowing just a fraction, began to race in earnest—'though for a much more pleasant reason than 54


before. They were naked chest to naked chest, and nose to nose, groins so close that body parts jostled and rubbed. Even slightly blurry in a soft out-of-focus way, Eli was amazingly handsome. He smelled good, too—woodsy and clean. Mason broke out in a cold sweat. "I've got you." That was all it took. Three words and Mason's last vestige of control snapped and the tears poured down his cheeks. They were mixed with gasps, sniffles, and broken sentences. "I mean ... I haven't kissed any one in almost, shit!-almost twoyears. Nobody!" A surge of righteous anger pushed terror aside. "If any lips are going to be pressing on mine from now on, they sure as hell 't going to be cold, d-dead ones!" He stuttered and gasped, half the time burying his head under Eli's chin wiping away his slowing tears on the man's hot skin, and the other half staring wildly up into Eli's silent, watchful face. "I mean, if someone's lips are going to kiss me, I want them to be warm and firm and wet and ... "—Mason swallowed hard, his gaze darting back and forth between Eli's eyes to read his expression and his lips to stare at their full, wet goodness—"attached to a living, b-breathing man." Mason became aware of Eli's hand running soothing strokes over his shoulders and down his back, slipping easily under the waistband of his loose flannel sleep pants and lingering on the curve at the small of his back. It was exciting and distracting. "A man with strong hands, not one made out of mist." His voice faltered and the fluttering in his gut changed from fear to desire. He'd had a hard-on threatening to burst to life the 55


moment he'd fled his own room. Now his cock was fully engorged, heavy, hot and eager. It poked Eli's abdomen, but the man didn't pull back from the embrace in which he had Mason wrapped. Mason managed to hold his gaze still long enough to look Eli in the eye. His own hands began exploring the warm flesh he was pressed against, growing bolder when he didn't meet any resistance. "One with dark hair and dark, kind, compassionate eyes and a name that's easy to whisper. Eli?" "Like I said, baby, I've got you." Eli's dark-eyed stare caressed Mason's face and his hungry soul. Mason's breathing came in jerky, little gulps. He couldn't stop his limbs from trembling. He was a mess and he knew it. But, Eli's powerful embrace calmed Mason's quaking nerves, giving him a sense of security and protection he hadn't felt in a very long time. And, none of that seemed to matter the moment Eli's lips touched his. They were hot and firm, commanding and gentle. Just what Mason needed right at that moment, a calm, in-charge kiss while locked in a tight embrace. The controlled passion Mason saw in Eli's eyes made him feel safe, warm, cared for. It let him know he was desired, but that this wasn't going to go any farther than Mason wanted it to. It could be a comfort kiss to sooth and reassure, or it could be the start of a passionate night filled with exploration and discovery. He knew the choice was his. He just didn't know which way to run, forward or backward. Mason's brain spun in circles. Backward held 56


ghosts—several different kinds of them—and loneliness. Lots and lots of loneliness. Forward lay a future that was blurry at best, but it at least held a chance at happiness. The future held a chance to chase away his demons. All of them—the one from upstairs and the one he'd brought with him. A hand slipped under the loose elastic waistband of his pants and kneaded his ass while a gently exploring tongue parted his lips and pressed against his teeth until they opened. Wet warmth invaded his mouth and Mason groaned as his cock shot up in what seemed like a ridiculous attempt to touch Eli's tongue tip to tip. Blood rushed to the surface of his flesh and a tingling glow bathed his skin. God, this felt good. So. Damned. Good. Thinking went out the window and Mason ran full tilt toward forward. He slid his hands up Eli's neck to cup the man's head and pulled him closer, devouring Eli's mouth with a long pent-up hunger that made both of them moan. Things turned fast and furious. They stripped off their sleep pants under the covers. They weren't entirely successful at discarding them, though. Kicking the pants aside still left them twisted in the jumble of sheets. Mason didn't know where to put his hands first so he put them everywhere—on defined, hard muscles and on thick, firm thighs. He threaded his fingers through dark waves of hair, slid his palms over satiny smooth hips and traced the thick tufts of chest hair down to the wiry bush of pubic hair at the base of Eli's stout, eager cock. Then he did it all over again, his own hips thrusting in rhythm to the grip Eli's strong hand had on both their cocks. Mason's brain was divided between the delicious 57


sensations the hand was pulling from his hypersensitive prick to the metal-melting heat of the searing kiss Eli's lips and tongue were blistering his mouth with. The kiss threatened to suck all the air from his lungs and his ability to reason from his brain. Far too quickly for both Mason's ego and his enjoyment, his orgasm boiled up from the pit of his abdomen, grabbed his balls and shot out his prick. Mason cried out and froze, body stiff with surprise and the sudden spasm of a climax so strong and so unexpected his eyes watered. He buried his face in the crook of Eli's neck, his soft cries muffled by muscled shoulder as a litany of gentle encouragement and comfort whispered in his ear. A powerful arm held him tightly to Eli's chest like a hot band of steel, anchoring and reassuring. Mason opened his eyes and tilted his head to one side. Nope, no mist, no half-formed, white faces, and—even if he was blurry—it was definitely Eli. This wasn't a dream or a solo effort in the shower. He was in the arms of a lover, a warm, tender, attentive new lover. A lover who still had an impressive erection. The scene clicked into focus again as his climax faded and his hearing finally distinguished the words his mind had just accepted. "It's okay, baby. I've got you. I've got you." God, he hoped Eli meant that for more than just now. Now that he'd jumped back into the dating pool, he didn't plan to leave the water any time soon. The hollow ache that had taken up most of the space in his chest lately crumpled like used newspaper, receding to a place deeper inside of him. It 58


was still there, but smaller and less painful. He could breathe a little easier and he felt like his heart had more space in his chest. It was odd, but vaguely exciting, as if he'd been offered a new adventure. Eli kept up stroking both cocks, slowing his rhythm as Mason relaxed, the caress now wet and smooth with the addition of Mason's cum. Mason's embarrassment at shooting off so quickly faded as his cock stirred and grew with each sensual flick of Eli's large, experienced hand and wrist. Looking up into Eli's face, a rush of uncertainty washed through Mason until Eli smiled. "I got you, Mace. And in case you're worried, I'm not letting go." Mason pulled back a few more inches to get the other man's features into marginally sharper focus. At least Mason could judge what his partner was thinking more easily when he could read his expression. The smile was genuine and the hungry look in Eli's face seemed tempered with a sparkle of tenderness. Christ, the man was gorgeous in ordinary daylight. But, flushed, sweaty and crushing Mason to his naked, aroused body, Eli Storm was an overwhelming god of sensual power. Mason wanted him so bad, he could taste it—or he wanted to. "Please, tell me you have condoms?" Was that actually his voice begging? God, he was desperate. "Uh-uh. We'll have to do it the safe way this time. We'll have to save more adventurous ways to enjoy each other for next time." Eli dropped a lingering kiss on Mason's lips then nuzzled around Mason's jaw line and down his neck. "After I hit the drug store." 59


"Shit!" Eli's strokes sped up, and Mason's hips began to buck in time to them. It was great, but not enough. He wanted more contact, more closeness than another hand job, even a great one. He ground his body to Eli's and wrapped his arms around his lover's broad shoulders, hands clenched into fists pressed hard against Eli's back. In silent understanding of what Mason needed, Eli abruptly stopped and peeled Mason from his leech-like hold. Mason was suddenly seized by doubt. "What's wrong?" Wordlessly, Eli rolled Mason away from him. Then, he swiftly dragged him back so they were spooning, Eli's chest to Mason's back. He urged Mason to lift his leg and, when he did, Eli slid his thick, cum-coated cock along Mason's sensitive perineum. He clamped Mason's leg back down, and began thrusting so that his shaft slid in and out of the tight embrace of Mason's legs and ass cheeks, his cock's tip nudging Mason's balls on each forward stroke. Eli used one arm to plaster Mason tightly to him while his other traveled over Mason's chest to pinch and rub both tiny nubs of rosy flesh. He drew a lazy path down the smaller man's smooth skin to take hold of Mason's neglected cock. "Like this?" Eli breathed into Mason's the damp strands of Mason's hair, and the heat of his breath scalded Mason's scalp where it touched. At a loss for words, panting for breath, Mason could only nod and then groan as Eli picked up the pace and sensation assaulted him. This time the building tension rose faster, 'though it was more defined. 60


The heat of Eli's body, the power of his hold, the tone of his murmured pleasure and gasping need tossed fuel on the fire raging in Mason's veins. Mason was engulfed in flame, and each stroke from Eli's hand and cock stoked the blaze higher. Harsh, needy kisses marked his neck and Mason turned his head to meet the lips with his own, eagerly accepting Eli's demanding, ravenous kiss. His mind reeled and fireworks exploded behind his closed eyes. His own climax pumped from his cock with Eli's willing fingers at the same time that he felt a sudden liquid heat bath his ass and inner thighs. The wet, sexy sound of moist flesh on moist flesh joined the scent of freshly spilled semen and forced Mason's already powerful, already exquisite climax higher. He went rigid as he came, body plastered to Eli's, legs pressed closely around Eli's cock, stoking the pleasure of Eli's orgasm. The powerful shuddering of Eli's body drove the words from him. "God, Mace, what you do to me. Jesus!" The deep, satisfied groan in his ear was like a reward, and Mason grinned with pride, thrilled that he had satisfied Eli by simply being wrapped around him. It spoke well for future, more adventurous activities. "If this is what being scared does to you, I'm buying an entire library of horror movies." Eli squeezed and Mason yelped. "Bastard, let go." He pushed and prodded until he had turned in Eli's arms enough to lie on his side and face the other man. It please Mason that Eli's hold only loosened instead of letting go. 61


And, even he could see the broad smile on Eli's face. The affection and lust still in Eli's dark eyes were enough for Mason to forgive the man's skepticism—'though Eli's gentle chuckle threatened the forgiveness. "It's not funny. There was a ghost in my bed." Mason narrowed his eyes and flattened his lips into what he knew was a thin, unhappy line. "And not the one you're thinking of. I didn't bring this one with me. It's your ghost, not mine!" "Mason, Eugene Storm is dead." "Which would be at least a basic requirement to be a ghost, don't you think?" Eli had to concede that point, and he did with a small shrug. Mason ventured more. "Maybe ... maybe he has unfinished business here." "Like what?" Eli was trying to be understanding, but Mason could hear it in Eli's voice. He was humoring Eli. "Like maybe he's looking for his lover? He's been haunting Jeb's bedroom, dogging my tracks because I'm sleeping in there. Maybe we just need to tell him Jeb is gone?" Suddenly he felt a pang of sympathy for Eugene Storm. He knew how lost he'd felt when Eric was suddenly gone from his life. Jeb had disappeared from Storm's life just as unexpectedly. "If they're both dead, and they are, don't you think he'd know that already?" "How do I know what dead people know? Is that what mediums do? Talk to the dead?" 62


"I don't know any professional mediums." Mason's frowned. He had to beat back a sudden burn of tears. This was frustrating, seeing the ghost and having no one believe it existed. "How about a séance or something? Got a Ouija board?" Eli snorted lightly, softening it with a gentle smile and quick kiss to Mason's furrowed brow. "Well, Ruby's done a couple of Halloween party séances, but—" "Let's ask her! Ruby believes in the ghost!" A thrill raced through Mason at the prospect of a real séance to reach an actual ghost. He loved scary movies, but now he'd been thrust into one of his own. It was more intimidating and terrifying, but at least in a séance he wouldn't be alone if the ghost showed up. "Mason—" "Please, Eli? For me? For my peace of mind?" He hated pleading, but he honestly didn't think he could take another wake-up call like his last one. "I can't sleep in that bedroom another night until this is cleared up. It's too creepy." "I wasn't planning on letting you sleep there." Eli leaned in close and pinned Mason to the mattress. He silenced Mason's token protest with a heated kiss and a rib-bruising embrace. Mason pushed Eli back when the man came in for a second taste. "So you're going to get Ruby to have a séance and get rid of old Eugene once and for all?" Eli hung his head in defeat. "Okay." He chuckled, a whatever-it-takes-to-keep-you-happy look on his face. Then the accommodating expression turned mischievous, and he nipped at Mason's neck. "If the spirit moves me." 63


"Not funny." Mason had to mumble between brief but insistent kisses. Eli hugged Mason to his chest and chuckled into his wayward tufts of fine, dark hair. "To you, maybe." **** "Are you sure we shouldn't turn on another light?" Mason glanced around the gloom-shrouded room, dubiously eyeing the closed wooden sliding doors that cut them off from the rest of the big, old, creaky house. "Maybe that one in the corner?" "It has to be shadowy, Mason, or the spirits won't feel comfortable coming to us." Ruby patted the cushioned chair beside her, then motioned to Mason to move closer. He hesitated, but approached her. "Now relax." She patted the chair again as if she had to subdue it for Mason to sit on it. "Sit down here beside me. On my right." Mason cautiously slid into place where she wanted him. He darted an anxious glance toward Eli, who was sitting on Ruby's other side. He looked over his shoulder at the advancing shadows as the evening sun disappeared, taking with it even the faint glow behind the curtains. He searched his memory of every horror movie that he'd ever seen, and couldn't recall a single séance that had taken place in broad daylight. They were seated in the small library, once an old parlor room. Oak bookcases lined the walls, full to brimming with rows and stacks of books and odd items. The floor was thick with the same sort of oriental rugs that Mason has seen in the 64


lobby. The carpet muffled sound eerily. Two loveseats and a stool filled supplied the remaining furniture. Thin threads of incense smoke drifted up from ashtrays, and Mason recognized the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon. Sliding his chair to the right along the table, Mason edged closer to Eli's reassuringly large presence. The antique, oval library table had occupied a corner until Mason and Eli had hefted its mass to the center of the room. The table was small enough that all three people could touch hands. In the middle of the small sheet-draped table sat three, white, unlit candles and Ruby's black and brown Ouija board. It looked out-of-date and well used, and Mason surmised that Ruby had gotten the board as a child. "Let me have the book, please." Ruby held out her hand expectantly and Mason thrust into it Jeb's gift from Eugene, the book that he had been reading the night before. "What's this for again?" "The book obviously belonged to both men at one point, a gift from Eugene to Jeb from the inscription you mentioned. I'm going to use it to focus on, to see if I can reach Eugene Storm through it." Mason couldn't help giving her a skeptical look. Eli just smiled at him and then turned his attention to playing with the little plastic planchette sitting on the Ouija board. Slightly defensive, Ruby huffed and moved closer to the table. "They say it really helps to have a personal belonging from the departed spirit to draw it back. Kind of like a psychic who has to touch items to get a vision." She checked the 65


inscription in the front of the book and then placed it in front of her. Looking up, she glared across the table, snatched the planchette from Eli's fiddling fingers and centered it over the middle of the playing board. The alphabet ranged over most of the Ouija board, arched in two rows. Under those ran a straight line of numbers from one to zero. On the top left corner sat the word yes and on the right, no. An ominous farewell occupied the bottom line. In the middle of the small planchette was a hole large enough to reveal one letter or number on the board. The little wedge was designed to slip across the board on three tiny, padded feet. Mason didn't know about anyone else, but he thought the chain of bones running around the outside of the board subtracted just-for-fun elements from the game. He cast another glance over his shoulder, looking longingly at the closed doors that marked the room's only easy exit. "We ready?" When he didn't respond, Ruby squeezed Mason's hand to regain his attention. Startled, he flinched and jerked his head back around. "You sure you want to do this, Mace?" Eli held the hand that Ruby didn't. He squeezed it reassuringly. "We don't have to, you know." The heat from Eli's skin was warm comfort, anchoring Mason to the living. His own fingers felt numb and cold, and his heart thumped faster than usual in his chest. Mason wet his dry lips, settled a wide-eyed, contact-enhanced stare on his new lover and nodded. He blew out a breath to steady his nerves. 66


"I'm good. Let's do this." Mason reluctantly extracted his hands from this partners' grasp and put his fingers hand on the planchette. Ruby lifted them off gently. "First we call the spirit to us. Then we see if he'll talk to us." Frowning, Mason dropped his hands on table and glanced around the room again. Ruby settled herself more comfortably in her seat and looked from Eli to Mason and back again. "Let's all take a deep breath and relax. Try to clear your thoughts and open your minds." She took a deep, noisy breath, held it, then slowly exhaled, nodding at both men to follow her example. Eli wore an expression of amused cooperation, but he neither rolled his eyes nor did he sigh in exasperation as Mason expected him to. When he caught Mason staring at him, watching his shirt pull tight across his broad chest as it expanded with each deep breath, Eli gave Mason a sultry little smile and a seductive wink that brought a flush of heat to Mason's neck and face. Mason's gaze rested on Eli's strong, confident face. His fear retreated for a moment, crowded out by Eli's beauty and Mason's memories of their time together in bed. Eli was thoughtful., experienced, patient. Mason could still feel Eli's muscles rippling against his body, his strong hands roving over Mason, his beautiful eyes crinkled by the laugh that both soothed and unnerved Mason. A little of the tension eased from Mason's shoulders and his next deep breath felt less constricted—even if his jeans were suddenly tighter and he had to shift his legs to make room for his growing erection. 67


He dropped his gaze, but it landed on Eli's folded hands. Mason's thoughts wandered just a bit, as he noticed not for the first time that Eli had nice hands, strong, tanned, experienced hands just the way Mason liked them. Eli was his anchor in that moment and would be his anchor through the séance—far past the séance, too. Ruby rapped on the table to get their attention. "Focus, guys." Eli flashed Mason a passionate glance and Ruby tersely added, "On the ghost, not on each other." Closing his eyes to resist temptation, Mason took several deep breaths and tried to clear his mind as Ruby had instructed. But the face in the mirror, the same face that had hovered over him in bed, kept forming in his mind. It unnerved him and at the same time offered a strange hope, a hope that perhaps the ghost was near and would become visible to both Eli and Ruby. Mason raised a hand to push nervously at the bridge of his glasses before he remembered he was wearing his contacts— but only because he'd asked Eli to get them from his room. He'd flatly refused to go back there for any reason. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the board. He needed to concentrate but since his had libido reawakened, it was harder and harder to think of anything but Eli. "Can you get the light, Eli? I'm going to light the candles." Eli moved away and Mason's eyes followed him to the lamp. A touch of panic hit him when the room went dark save for the sputtering flame from three tiny wicks. Shadows leapt out at him, then huddled close like a blanket of blackest velvet. 68


"We do this by just candle light?" Mason's panic receded slightly when Eli regained the seat next to him. "Of course. The candles channel the energy in the room, to guide a spirit to our midst." Speaking calmly in a hushed version of her normally cheerful voice, Ruby had lit all three candles and placed one about a foot in front of each of them. "Give them a moment to focus their power." The flickering light cast ghastly, pale shadows on their surroundings and made the contours of their facial features appear hollow and gaunt. All the sounds in the small room seemed magnified and hushed at the same time to Mason. The tick of the clock on the mantle dominated the room, but the usually crisp click was muted as if a pillow had been placed over it. The crickets and the peepers had begun their song outside in moonlight-drenched dark, but the singsong tune was muffled behind the thick velvet drapes. The walls seemed closer than they'd been when the three of them had sat down only a minute ago. Mason's pulse began to accelerated as Ruby continued her preparations, and a cold hand touched his neck. "I don't think we need the candles, Ruby." "Concentrate on breathing deep and emptying your mind." Ruby had closed her eyes. Her hands were spread across Jeb's book and her face was smooth and relaxed, voice more hushed, almost a whisper. "I'm trying to reach out to the spirit world." "I don't think we need to anymore." Mason knew his voice had a tremor in it, but he couldn't help it. The room had 69


turned cooler, darker, quieter. Even the peepers outside had stopped their song. Mason shivered. "Are you all right, Mace?" Eli opened his eyes when Mason's voice cracked. He instantly reached across the small table and gripped Mason's forearm. "Not really. I think the spirit world is reaching out to us. He's here." Mason pointed at the Ouija board with a trembling finger. "Christ!" Eli's grip was going to leave behind bruises, but Mason didn't mind. It was reassuring and it kept him from running out of the room like a scared little boy. "Oh, my God! Eugene Storm! It's true." Ruby gasped. Her fingers had wrapped tightly around the edge of the book until her knuckles paled, but now she shoved it further out into the table's center, away from her, as if it had been on fire. Hovering over the dime-store Ouija board was a white wisp. The strand of mist churned in the air, growing larger and denser as they watched. While Mason, Eli and Ruby withdrew their hands in astonishment and horror, the little planchette quivered and then slowly glided from one letter to the next, spending only a few seconds on each. The felt pads whispered on the board as the planchette traveled, but the sound seemed like a ghostly wail to Mason. "Oh, God. I hope someone has a better memory than I do!" Ruby squinted to read the letters as the little saucer slid to the other end of the board. "M-O...." Eli called out the letter closest to his end of the table. "VE-M-Y-B...." 70


"O-N-E-S." Mason found his voice, calling out the letter in a harsh whisper. "M-O-V-E-M-Y-B-O-N-E-S." He frowned and tried to make words from it. "Movem by ones? No, wait. That's wrong." "Movemy b ones?" "Uh-uh, guys. Try move my bones." The saucer rested on the S, unmoving and silent. The mist tumbled and swirled over the board, gathering form as it became denser. While Mason stared into its depths, the outline of a human face with rough, unfinished features slowly formed before him. Even though he could see the face, Mason could also see through it, like a misty overlay on a photo layout. The ghost shifted and suddenly it lay perfectly over Eli's handsome frown. Mason swallowed hard and fervently hoped the visual wouldn't haunt him. Then the candles flickered and extinguished themselves, pitching the room into total darkness. "Sit still. I'll get the lights." Mason felt and heard a bump, then a scratch cast a tiny circle of gold light in the darkness when a match flared. Ruby had re-lit the three candles by the time Eli found his way to the lamp. Now the room was ablaze with soft electric sunlight that pulled the shadows from their corners and tossed them out into the night. Crouching down beside Mason's chair, Eli ran both hands up Mason's arms, rubbing and warming the limbs as they shivered and quaked under his touch. "That's what chased you out of your room?" 71


All Mason could manage was a jerky nod. He tried twice to speak before he was able to sputter the words. "MOVE MY BONES! He's not in a cemetery?" Mason stared accusingly at Eli but didn't pull away from his comforting touch. "He isn't in the basement or anything, is he?" "Of course not." Eli scoffed. "Eugene Storm was buried in the graveyard in town. I remember going to his funeral as a kid." "Guys," Ruby's voice was full of amazement and the smug excitement of discovery. The men turned to look at her. She was staring at the last pages in the book Mason had given her. "I don't think it's Eugene we were talking to." "What?" Mason had been completely convinced that it was Eugene who was haunting his room. It didn't make sense that it might be anyone but Eugene. "Who else could it be?" Eli's question seemed to confirm that he'd come around to believing Mason whole-heartedly. "Look at this." Holding the book up, Ruby flipped a few pages back and forth, showing them several paragraphs of a handwritten entry. "It's written on the blank pages in the back of this book." Mason and Eli took in the handwritten lines. Ruby read a few lines to herself. "Jeb Dahl," she whispered. "What?" Eli still hadn't let go of Mason, and still crouched beside him. Mason's teeth chattered lightly when he tried to take a deep breath. "Listen to this." She ran a finger down the page, squinting in the dim light. 72


"It's with a heavy heart I write this, but I can no longer bear the burden of this horrible knowledge alone. Decades ago, I cast the ashes of my wife off Mourning Cliff. It seemed fitting she should be free to travel the ocean and the winds to find the happiness I couldn't give her in life. It was one less weight that my soul had to carry. But the greater burden remains, even after all these years, like a festering wound, consuming me from within. I only hope confessing the crimes for which I am responsible will allow my family to understand that they were done in the name of love: Love for my faithful and loving wife May and love for her dear brother Jeb. I hope my words help their spirits rest in peace. May is gone and my beloved Jeb is dead these many years as well. Dead and gone from life by his own sister's hand. On the fifteenth of October, 1925, May to discovered Jeb and me in a passionate, unquestionably compromising state in the wine cellar. Enraged and possibly temporarily unbalanced by the shock, May took up an iron pinning rod from a wine rack and struck her brother down. The blow to Jeb's head was instantly fatal. I escaped her ire only because the magnitude of her actions registered instantly on her, in the way that Jeb crumpled to the floor and in the bloodsplattered walls. The only color on her face and hands was Jeb's own blood, and for the next week she never stopped washing them. A week to the hour after she killed the brother than she so loved, May leapt from Mourning Cliff. Unable to wash the bloodstains from the cellar walls, and unable to bear 73


standing there a moment longer, I sealed the room to prevent discovery of May's shame and mine. Under cover of night, I buried my beloved Jeb at the top of Mourning Cliff, his grave marked by the white shore stone and my well-worn footsteps on the dirt. I go to him regularly and we pass the time together in spirit. May never recovered from that night, and it is a sad lament to say she is undoubtedly happier on the winds and sea then she was as my wife. As for Jeb, my heart has always been with him. He was my sole desire in life, and in death he will be my soul's only desire for all time. Eugene Storm October 15, 1964 "Jeb Dahl. The ghost must be Jeb, not Eugene. All of them. They all died for love, even Eugene. Oh, my, Eli. I'm so sorry." Reaching out, Ruby laid a comforting hand on Eli's arm. Eli stood and, distracted, ran a hand over his face. "I barely remember my great-grandfather. He's been a ghost to me most of my life." He paused, and stared away for a moment, as if hearing something distant or trying to recall a memory. "Talk about seeing a ghost only started after the fire revealed the wine cellar he'd sealed up. Oh, my God. Jeb was trapped in that room where he died for almost forty years until the fire freed him. He's buried up on the cliff, but he was killed in that sealed-up room. He started trying to communicate with people right after his spirit got set free." Giving Ruby a frown, he sighed and fell silent. 74


"The fire released him from a kind of prison, Eli. It was kind of a good thing it happened." Mason touched Eli's hand, squeezing it only once, but firmly. "Have others seen him like I did? Did he visit them in his room?" Eli shrugged but his fingers wrapped around Mason's hand and held on. "Other people have just mentioned a coldness in the room from time to time or a feeling like they were being watched, but you're the first one he could touch. Maybe it's because you're both artists and more open." Eli jerked his head to one side in a short, tight shudder. "I've never felt anything before like what just happened here." "Thanks for being here with me." Mason pressed his hand to Eli's until the man looked up at him, then he winked. The small gesture drew a tight smile to Eli's lips and both of them relaxed slightly. Suddenly Mason didn't feel so alone anymore. Ruby closed the book and gently handed it to Eli. "I think Jeb's ghost is calling to Mason to find his body so it can be buried properly, near the one he truly loved." Eli accepted the volume, thoughtfully running his hand over the mahogany colored bindings. A family heirloom, taken for granted for another forty years after Eugene had died. One that recorded a new piece of the puzzle that was part of his family's traumatic history. "I think you're right, Ruby. So let's see to it that he gets a proper final resting place. Eighty-plus years is too long to wait for your lover." Eli winked at Mason through a sad, intimate smile. He stood, pulling Mason along with him and out of the dark, cold, and silent room. 75


**** Eli notified the authorities. The bones buried on Mourning Cliff, wrapped in canvas and rope, were uncovered under the outcropping of relocated white rock and decades of layered soil. Personal items found in the body's tattered remaining clothing confirmed that the bones belonged to Jeb Dahl—as if Eli, Mason or Ruby had had any doubt of it. Eli oversaw Jeb's re-burial, laying him to rest in the local cemetery beside Eugene Storm. Eugene had been alone all these years. Eugene's confession was accurate. What had been left of May's crushed and broken body had been retrieved from the base of Mourning Cliff and been cremated, her ashes scattered from Mourning Cliff, only feet from her brother's unacknowledged grave. As sad as it was, Mason couldn't help thinking that May was the only person to have ever gone over Mourning Cliff twice. Finding humor in the situation lightened some of his lingering unease. He hoped that relocating Jeb's bones had put the anguished spirit to rest and that it had stopped haunting Jeb's old room. He hadn't seen it since the night of the séance, but, to be honest, he wasn't sleeping in Jeb's old room anymore. It had been the best three weeks of vacation he'd ever had. He didn't want it to end. Ever. But, he needed to know how Eli felt about ... well ... forever. Mason rolled over in bed and watched as Eli removed his clothing, marveling at the man's graceful movements and 76


rippling, trim body. Keeping the inn in shape had certainly kept the innkeeper in shape as well. He felt his erection spring to life and his skin flush at the mere thought of what that body did to him. His gaze moved up to Eli's face, pulled there by the man's sudden stillness. When his glance met Eli's dark eyes, Mason's heart pounded under his ribs cage and his stomach fluttered at the intense stare of loving desire that marked Eli's expression. Mason's cock jumped and his ass clenched in anticipation and wanting. Making love with Eli was good—very, very good. The brawny man was tender and rough, considerate and demanding, just when Mason needed him to be all those things. His strong hands and powerful arms caressed, held and manhandled Mason in the best of ways. His fat cock, too, was tender and rough, considerate and demanding just when Mason needed it to be all those things. Naked and confident, Eli strode toward the bed, gaze pinned to Mason's face, the fire in his eyes leaping higher as he closed the distance. Mason kicked off the covers and let the man's stare travel down his own equally naked form. He watched Eli smile and raise an eyebrow at the sight of Mason straining, ready cock. He slipped onto the mattress and instantly pulled Mason to him in a passion-fueled embrace. Long seconds passed as they stared into each other's eyes, love and need dancing in both their faces. A small gasp rolled off Mason's lips and Eli's willing mouth captured it. Black spots danced before Mason's eyes. He felt the blood pounding through his veins, rising. Then, suddenly Eli 77


released him, and he let slip a whimper of protest at the loss of contact. Eli rolled over and pinned Josh to the mattress, pressing the length and weight of his entire body into Mason. Mason's breath came in small gasps, filling the space between them. Eli recaptured Mason's lips in a gentler, less demanding kiss, sliding one hand down to grip Mason's hip and one hand up to tangle loosely in his dark hair. Eli gently parted Mason's legs, settled between them. Mason automatically pulled his knees up on either side of Eli's hips. Mason's wrists were caught in a firm grip, his fingers grazing the headboard. Eli slid his hands down Mason's outstretched arms, teasing and caressing each inch of exposed flesh. Mason couldn't stop the moan that escaped his lips, and Eli returned to them with a lingering, deep kiss. Mason shuddered, rocking his hips up to rub against Eli, forcing cock to cock, sliding hard dick against hard dick, making his own cock slick with pre-cum and eager for more friction. He eagerly reached again for Eli's mouth, exploring it with his tongue, tasting as if it were the first time. He didn't think he'd ever get enough of this strong, quiet, confident man. Instinctively, a passionate, demanding rhythm began. Mason's hips rocked against the smooth, hard planes of Eli's lower abdomen, growing impatient for more. He ended the kiss, dipped his head down and lavished attention on first one of Eli's taut nipples and then the other until Eli forced his head up to kiss him again. 78


Those strong hands he loved so much pulled his legs open wider as Eli raised up on his knees. His hand trailed down Mason's chest and abdomen, stroking and touching, exploring and rubbing, forcing Mason's senses to concentrate on each touch and sizzling point of contact. His skin was flushed and he could feel the heat radiate from it, hot, but still no match for the blazing fire from Eli's fingertips. Pulling his blurry gaze up to meet Eli's sultry expression, Mason's chest ached and his stomach flopped again, thrilled by the love and desire that were so easy to read in Eli's eyes. Maybe he didn't have to wonder how Eli felt about him. Suddenly, he couldn't hold back any longer. He'd been holding back words, waiting for a perfect time to say them. Instead, the words came tumbling out, the careful rehearsals forgotten. "I want to see you after this. After I leave. I want to ... date?" He gasped as Eli gripped his cock and began a slow, sensuous stroking. The man's eyes never left Mason's face and the tenderness in the caresses never faltered as Mason's rushed, stumbling words and emotions got the better of him. "I think I love you." Eli smiled and increased the tightness of his grip on Mason's dick. "You think you love me? Only think it?" Mason groaned and bucked up into the slick, sliding fist. Eli leaned down and licked the crown of Mason's cock as it popped through the clenched hold. Mason gasped and shimmied his hips while Eli's wet tongue explored his slit and hot breath turned the warm spit to cool, wet goodness that dripped over the leaking head. 79


"Because," Eli continued—as if Mason wasn't writhing and moaning between his bent thighs—"I was thinking that I definitely love you." He sucked the bulbous crown into his mouth and massaged the flared head with his lips before pulling off Mason's cock with a wet, thrilling hungry sound. "But if you're only thinking—" "God, no! I mean, yesssss." Mason was momentarily distracted as Eli fondling his balls, rolling and tugging gently on the sensitive sac. Mason sighed and surrendered. Declaring lasting love while making love wasn't the best place time to do it convincingly. But it was going to have to do. "I love you!" Fists knotted in the sheets at his side, Mason stared up into Eli's face and knew this was the right time, the best time. He could actually see love, love for him and only him, in Eli's eyes. "I was just ... I didn't want to say it now ... you know while my dick head is doing most of the thinking ... but it just rushed out." Realizing how uncertain he sounded, he rushed to add, "I think the head on my shoulders got tired of waiting for its turn to be in control." They had been spending more and more time in bed than out enjoying the bracing autumn and the joys of Ruby's company. Good thing winter was approaching and the days were getting shorter. They had an excuse to go to bed earlier. And they had taken every advantage of the excuse. Eli laughed out loud and Mason had to join him. The laughter ended in a long, lingering, deep kiss. Eli pulled back enough to look at Mason. "I'm glad that's settled. We'll work on the rest of things later. I think this is the important part." 80


"You think right." Eli fumbled a condom and lube from the bedside table drawer and tossed it to Mason, who tore open the packet with trembling, eager hands and worked it over his lover's stout dick, layering it with slick, sensual goo. Mason stroked the swollen shaft, loving the feeling of thick power the cock's girth and hardness gave him. His asshole fluttered at the thought of it sliding into him, breaching his outer defenses and filling him, until his ass ached sweetly and his own cock strained with need. Pulling his knees up, Mason exposed his opening to Eli's hands and ravenous gaze. Mason couldn't decide which one made him hotter—the Eli that touched his body or the Eli that touched his soul. His lover entered with measured ease, gauging each thrust against Mason's moans and jerky little nods of eager need. Eli's cock hit Mason's prostate and with just an arch of his back or a twist of his hips, he could ignite bursts of white light behind Mason's eyes and send pleasure to ripping along his nerve endings. Mason fumbled for Eli's hands, gripping their wrists as Eli supported himself on them. He felt bound to Eli, destined to be here. He felt full again, real. Eli maintained a slow, steady rhythm of deep, powerful thrusts, every loving stroke aimed to rub over his lover's prostate. Mason was reduced to babbling incoherent half sentences and incomprehensible grunted syllables. With each thrust, Eli tried not to press his full weight onto Mason, but 81


Mason gripped his shoulders and pulled him down, wanting to crawl inside the man's skin when he eased back. As Mason neared his orgasm, Eli sensed his need and intensified his thrusts, stroking deep and slow, striking at Mason's prostate and stretching his opening so that he was battered by burning pleasure both in his ass and deep inside his groin. It was a seesaw of sensation that had yet to fail to send Mason into orbit. His orgasm began to build behind his tightening sac and the rocking rhythm took on an urgent, primal beat. Their orgasms ripped through them, first Mason's, then Eli's close behind. Both men lay spent and sweaty on the sheets, amidst wrinkles and wet spots. Eli rolled off Mason, disposed of the condom, and pulled the covers over them before he drew his drowsy, pliant lover back into his arms. Mason sighed and rolled over, spooning up to Eli's chest and planting his ass in Eli's groin. He liked the sensation of the hot, wet, and still half-hard cock against his burning ass. His opening clenched and spasmed, renewing the pleasurable burn, the burn of being filled and stretched. An arm dropped around his waist and hot breath whispered over his neck. "Think you can deal with this on a regular basis, lover boy?" "For once, both my heads are in agreement." Mason reached up and laced his fingers through the fingers of the strong hand on his waist. "I think this will work out." END

82


Josh Lanyon A Ghost of a Chance Like the philosophers say, the line between genius and stupidity is a fine one. Actually, it wasn't the philosophers, it was Nigel in Spinal Tap, but the point is still a valid one. Which is why what seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time—namely, prying off the screen and crawling through the open window of Oliver de la Motte's front parlor—turned out to be a really bad decision. It's not like I hadn't tried to use the key Oliver sent. I'd tried for about two minutes, turning the damn thing every possible way—not easy in the dark of three a.m., and not pleasant either with that clammy sea breeze on the back of my neck—and rustling the overgrown shrubs. Not that I'm the nervous type or I wouldn't hunt ghosts for a living—well, for a hobby. No one hunts ghosts for a living. When I couldn't get the key to work I jumped off the porch and walked around the side of the house till I found an open window. Pulling out my pocket knife, I pried loose the screen, hoisted myself up and climbed through... And that's when all hell broke loose. Something rushed out of the darkness and tackled me around the waist, hurling me to the hardwood floor. The very hard wood floor. My tailbone, elbows and skull all connected painfully. My glasses went flying. "Christ!" I yelped, trying to get away. "Guess again," growled a deep voice. 83


Human. Definitely human. And male. Definitely male. I was wrestling six feet or so of hard, lean male. Naked hard, lean male. Definitely not Oliver who is sixty-something and built like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. And no one else was supposed to be here. Was my assailant a burglar? A naked burglar? The guy had muscles like rocks—speaking of which: I brought my knee up hard. His breath went out in an infuriated whoosh. His weight rolled off me. I rolled over and tried to crawl away, but the rug beneath me bunched up and slid my way. A small table crashed down just missing my head, and I heard glass smash on the floor. "You little son of a bitch," said the burglar who was probably not a burglar, looming over me. I tried to scoot away, but a knee jammed into my spine pinning me flat. He grabbed my right arm and yanked it back so hard I thought he'd dislocated it. The pain was unreal. I stopped fighting. For a minute there was nothing but the ragged sound of our breathing in the darkness. Then he reached past me and turned on the table lamp. I had a blurred view of a forest of scratched claw-foot furniture, miles of parquet floors and a herd of dust bunnies. I could make out my glasses a few feet away beneath a wide ottoman. "I don't understand what's happening here." I got out. "What part do you not understand?" he inquired grimly. "Who are you?" 84


It must not have been the question he expected. "Who the hell are you?" He didn't ease up on my spine, but there was something in his tone ... a hint of doubt beneath the hostility. "Rhys Davies. I'm a—a friend of Oliver's." He made a disgusted sound. "Yeah, you and every other cheap hustler in the greater metropolitan area—" "Cheap hustler!" I'm sorry to say that came out sounding way too much like a squeak. The squeak factor was partly due to the fact that with every shallow breath I inhaled his hot-off-the-sheets scent. He'd had a shower before bed, and that sleepy soapy skin smell was even more alarming than the fear he was going to crack my vertebrae. "Oh, sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Cheap is the wrong word. These things are never cheap." "Things?" I repeated. "I'm not ... you've got this all wrong." "Is that right?" He seemed unimpressed. I requested with an effort, "Could you ease up on my arm?" He let go of my arm. It flopped weakly down. I flexed my fingers, surprised that they still seemed to work. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Oliver's out of town for the next month." "I could ask you the same question." "Yeah, but I asked first." He patted me down with brisk, impersonal efficiency. "If you're not one of Oliver's boy toys, what are you? Reporter? You're not a burglar, that's for sure." And neither, obviously, was he. So who the hell was he? 85


"I told you who I am," I bit out. "I'm a friend of Oliver's. He invited me to stay." His weight shifted off my back, and he ran his hands along the outside of my legs—then the inside. He seemed to know what he was doing, but it was invasive to say the least. "Ever hear of knocking?" "I didn't know there was anyone to hear me knock. I tried my key—the key Oliver sent. It didn't work." "Your key?" He felt over my crotch with what felt like unnecessary familiarity. And in a tone I didn't like, he said, "I see." "Hey! Then what's with the Braille!" I recoiled as much as you can with two hundred plus pounds of beef pinning you to the floor. He hesitated, but only an instant, before pulling my wallet out of my back pocket. He thumbed through it, taking his time. "Rice Davies," he said. "It's pronounced Reece," I retorted, muffledly. "Like in Reese's Pieces." Now why had I said that? Amusement threaded his voice as he continued, "1045 Oakmont Street in West Hollywood. You're a long way from home, Reece." Yes, apparently I had turned left after The Outer Limits. "Can I get up?" "Slowly." He stepped out of range as I sat up, wincing. I looked up— a long way up. He was a big blur, I had an impression of dark 86


hair, big shoulders narrowing to more darkness, and miles of long brown legs. "Can I get my glasses?" The blur stepped away, bent, retrieved my glasses and handed them to me. I moved onto the settee and put them on. My hands were a little unsteady. I haven't been in many fights. Not that academia isn't a jungle, but generally we don't end up brawling on the floor. The man now sitting on the giant ottoman across from me came into sharp focus. He was not entirely naked after all. He wore cotton boxers with little red and blue boating flags, thin cotton very white against the deep brown of his tanned skin. He stared back at me with equal curiosity. His black hair was unruly—which could have been the result of an impromptu wrestling match. His eyes were very green in his tanned face. His features were too harsh to be good-looking. He looked ... mean. But he wasn't quite as burly as he'd seemed in the dark. About six feet of strong bones and hard muscle. "You're Oliver's nephew," I guessed, rubbing my wrenched shoulder. "The cop." Something changed in his expression, shuttered. "Bright boy. That's right. Sam Devlin." I didn't know what to say. This was an unwelcome development, to say the least. "I didn't know you were staying here." He cocked a dark brow. "I didn't know I needed your permission." 87


"It's just ... I'm here to work." "What did you have in mind?" he asked dryly. I remembered the leisurely way he'd groped me earlier and felt an uncharacteristic heat in my face. "I teach a course in paranormal studies at UCLA," I said. "I'm working on a book about ghost hunting along the California coast. Oliver invited me to stay here for a few days while I researched Berkeley House." I'm guessing most people never saw that particular expression on Sam Devlin's face. After a moment he closed his jaw sharply. He studied me with narrowed green eyes. "Well, well," he said mildly. "A ghost buster." I hate that term. I hate that movie. Well, okay, there are funny bits: Rick Moranis as Louis Tully is a scream—but really. Not good for the image. "Parapsychology is a science," I said firmly. "Yeah, weird science." He considered me without pleasure. "This oughta be cozy," he said finally. Planting his hands on his muscular thighs, he pushed up to his feet. "Okay, Mr. Pieces. I can't see anyone making up a story that dumb. Help yourself to one of the bedrooms. I'm upstairs on the left. There are clean sheets and towels in the cupboard at the end of the hall." I stopped massaging my shoulder, gazing up at him doubtfully. "That's it? You're going to bed?" "Did you have other plans, Professor?" That was going to get old fast. I said a little sarcastically, "I thought you'd demand to see my teaching credential at the least." 88


He said through a yawn, "Is that what they call it these days? I think it can wait 'til morning." Heading for the hallway, he tossed over his shoulder, "Impressive though it may be." I was treated to a final glimpse of his long brown legs vanishing up the staircase. **** A cheap hustler? Now that was a first. Pretty funny, too. Sort of. C.K.—my ex—would have thought it was a riot. After a moment or two, I pulled myself together and went outside to get my bags from my car. The distant moon hung soft and fuzzy above the sharp tips of stiff and silent pine trees. I cut across the lawn, unlocked my car and hauled my laptop and suitcase out of the back of the Volvo, setting them on the gravel drive. I was re-locking the trunk when I caught a flicker of light out of the corner of my eye. I turned. Beyond the tall wall of pine trees stood the cliffs overlooking the ocean. And on the cliffs perched Berkeley House. It looked like the illustration on the cover of a Hardy Boy's novel—or a smaller version of Cliff House near Ocean Beach, which was where C.K. and I had been dining when I first got the idea to write the book. As I stared, light drifted across one of the upstairs windows. I removed my glasses, wiped them, and looked again. 89


The house sat in total darkness. But as I watched, that eerie glow appeared once more in the corner room window on the second floor. Interesting. In ten years of researching the paranormal I'd never yet come across something that couldn't be explained by natural causes or human intervention. I had to admit, though, this looked pretty authentic. Not Marfa Lights; this illumination really did seem to be inside the house, hovering from window to window. Probably too powerful to be a flashlight beam—the house was about half a mile away. Maybe a reflection off the sea below, or some trick of moonlight? I was pretty damned tired, maybe I was dreaming.... Fascinated, I started walking toward Berkeley House, watching for that mysterious light. It seemed to float from window to window, then disappear—only to reappear on the other end of the house. I rounded a bend in the road and the house vanished from view. I kept walking. The night smelled of the pines and the sea. It was quiet except for the sound of my footsteps on the dirt road; I was a city kid, and not used to that kind of quiet. It should have been nice. People always talk about the peace and quiet of the country, but it made me a little uneasy. I looked back and Oliver's house was now lost to sight. The woods crowded in on me. I shook off my disquiet, focused on my destination. It couldn't be a coincidence—a physical manifestation practically the moment I arrived? But who, besides Oliver, 90


knew I was coming to investigate Berkeley House? Not even the nephew, apparently. Just supposing the ghost lights were for real? As unlikely as that was, I decided I couldn't wait for morning. I needed to check this out now. I hurried along the dirt road as quickly as I could safely go without risking a sprain or a fall. When at last I emerged from the copse, I found myself on the edge of what must have once been a formal sunken garden. The hedges were overgrown with brambles and berries, an oblong pool filmed over with scum. A couple of wind-bent eucalyptus dotted the grounds as though placed there by Salvador Dali. Broken statuary littered the weeds like bone fragments. I stared across the ruins of the garden to the house. The upstairs windows were unlit. Nothing moved. It could have been a painting—maybe one of those gloomy efforts by Atkinson Grimshaw. I continued to wait for ... something. But nothing happened. The woolly moon sank further down the sky. Something swooped over head and I ducked. A bird? A bat? Or—the way my night was going—a flying squirrel? I peered at the luminous dial of my watch. Four-fifteen. The sun would be up soon. I rubbed the grit from my eyes and decided to call it a night. Starting back for Oliver's place, the woods were even darker and creepier, pine needles whispering underfoot, the sea breeze sighing through the tree branches. My night vision 91


was never great and it was especially bad when my eyes were tired. The shadows seemed to shift and slide. I kept my attention on the mostly overgrown road, having zero desire to spend the night in the woods with a sprained ankle. Rounding the bend that took Berkeley House from view, I realized that someone stood in the road ahead of me. I stopped dead thinking—hoping—the shadowy figure was just a trick of my tired eyes. The hair rose on the nape of my neck. It—he—was so still. I blinked a couple of times and willed him to disappear. No luck. There he stood: tall, dark and alarming. Could it be a manifestation? I preferred to think it was a manifestation and not a transient. I waited for him to move or speak. "Hi," I offered. Bushes rustled to my left. I turned instinctively. When I looked back, the figure was gone. Granted, I might not be the best judge, but I didn't think that was normal behavior. Was he lying in wait for me? I stared at the empty road. Abruptly, I decided to take the shortest distance back to Oliver's house even though it meant cutting through the woods. I slipped into the bushes to my right, hoping like hell this wasn't the right time of year for poison oak or lively rattlesnakes. I was caught between feeling foolish and genuine unease; all the same I stayed low, sticking to the shadows. I moved as quietly as I could, pushing through the branches. Every few feet, I stopped and listened. There was no sound to 92


indicate anyone was following me. I could imagine what C.K. would say if he could only see me now. I was probably going to end up with a tick down my collar and broken glasses. Except ... when I remembered that still silent figure blocking my way, I wasn't so sure I was overreacting. There had been something weird about the way he stood there. Something ... menacing. It took about fifteen minutes before I stepped out of the woods, brushing myself down, feeling my clothes sticky with pine sap and God knows what. By then I was too tired to care if Barnabas Collins himself was after me. I wanted a bath and bed. Actually, I just mostly wanted bed. Oliver's house looked peaceful in the moonlight. I started across the lawn, belatedly remembered the whole reason I'd come outside, reversed, and headed for my car and the bags still sitting where I'd left them on the gravel drive. Some sixth sense caused me to glance over my shoulder. I froze. The blunt outline of a man stood unmoving near the woodline. What the hell? Was this guy following me? He sure as hell was watching me. Okay. Enough was enough. I diverted my flight pattern from the car and redirected to the front porch. The peacock blue door, which I'd left propped open with an umbrella stand from inside the hallway, was now closed. The umbrella stand rolled gently in the night breeze. I crossed the porch and tried the door. Locked. Again. 93


I could have howled my rage and disbelief to the now-nonexistent moon. Once more I tried the handle. Still locked. I shoved my shoulder against the unyielding wood. The only thing likely to give was my shoulder. I pulled my keys out. This was where I'd come in. I looked behind me. Did a double take. The figure was now halfway across the lawn. A slash of black silence. For some reason the fact that he didn't move or speak was more alarming than if he'd made some obvious threat that I could respond to. I turned back to the door. Leaned into the bell. No response from inside the house. I glanced over my shoulder. He was closer still—only three or four yards from me. Even so I couldn't make out his features, nothing but a smudge of darkness where his face should be. But that was the light. The lack of light. But the way he stood there ... motionless, staring.... I turned back and pounded the door. "Christ," I muttered. "Open up!" The porch light blazed on above me. The door suddenly swung open and I half-fell into Sam Devlin's arms. For a split second a brawny pair of arms closed around me and my face pressed into a warm hairy chest. We disengaged hastily. I threw a nervous look behind me. The lawn was an empty stretch of ... nothing. I blinked. There was no sign of the man who had followed me. Nothing. Not a trace. 94


"What is this, some kind of sleep deprivation experiment?" Devlin inquired in less than patient tones. I straightened my glasses and looked back at him. His hair was a lot more ruffled and the addition of gruesome pillow creases down his face didn't add to his looks. "Someone was following me." "From your car?" "From Berkeley House. I walked over to see it. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows—" I broke off at his expression. "Someone was out there. He was standing there not two minutes ago." "Are you on some kind of medication?" he asked. "Never mind. Dumb question. Have you maybe skipped your medication?" I didn't totally blame him. If I didn't know me as well as I knew me, I might wonder about me too. And we hadn't started off on the best footing. All the same, Sam Devlin was getting under my skin like no one I'd ever met. But then I've never been impressed by big macho alpha males. "You don't believe me? Fine," I said. "Can you just wait here while I bring my bags from the car?" He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Make. It. Fast." "Two minutes." I told him. I sprinted to the car, grabbed my laptop and suitcase, and ran back. Several times I glanced towards the woods and the road, but there was no sign of anyone. Sam Devlin's long form threw a sinister shadow on the grass as I lugged my bags across the lawn, hiked up the 95


stairs, and squeezed past him. He only stepped aside at the last moment. "Thanks," I huffed. "Are you sure you're in the right line of work?" he inquired. "Fear of the dark seems like it might be a handicap in your profession." "Funny." "Not really. Are you done for the night?" "Mission accomplished," I said, heading straight for the main staircase. "Sorry to have disturbed your beauty rest." Amazingly enough no sarcastic comment followed. I heard him slam the front door and lock it after me. The downstairs lights went off as I reached the upper level. Keeping in mind that Devlin was in the first room off the left, I staggered down the hallway past the master bedroom and two additional rooms—putting a safe distance between me and Joe Friday. Finally I opened a door into a room with an empty bed. I guess there was other furniture beneath a sloping roof, but all I cared about was the bed. I dropped my bags, climbed onto the mattress and pulled the quilt over me. Sleep settled over me. **** The smell of coffee woke me. For a few moments I lay there, trying to remember where I was. Not at home. Not at C.K.'s ... I waited for the inevitable stab of pain. It would never be C.K.'s again. And then I remembered. 96


I opened my eyes. The shadow of the wisteria growing outside my window moved against the white ceiling. I blinked, checked my wristwatch. Nine-thirty. Late for me; I never needed much sleep, and lately my sleep patterns were worse than ever. My nose twitched at the promise of caffeine. Throwing off the quilt, I padded into the adjoining bath. A quick shower and a shave later, I dug a clean pair of Levis out of my suitcase and pulled on a T-shirt. The bedroom window looked down on a sparkling pool and a brick courtyard. Flowering vines twisted through the top of a redwood pergola. Tidy green lawn stretched in all directions and vanished into the woods. I could just glimpse the blue of the ocean behind trees. It was a beautiful place. A little isolated, but that untouched quality was all part of the scenic charm. I thought I understood what had inspired the elegant, passionless landscapes of Oliver's early career. I went downstairs and was making my way across the carpeted hall when Devlin's voice reached me from the kitchen. "Flakier than pie crust. And a little old for Oliver. Normally he prefers them straight out of the shell." Silence. He was either talking to himself or he was on the phone. "Early thirties, at a guess." He added sardonically, "A natural blond. In every sense." Me. He meant me. It's not like I hadn't heard all the stupid, close-minded comments before, but my gut tightened anyway. The fact 97


that Devlin thought I might turn tricks for a living sort of appealed to my warped sense of humor, but that he thought I was dumb? I didn't find that so funny. Maybe the polite thing would have been to pretend I didn't hear him. I guess I'm not that polite. I strolled right into the kitchen. He stood by the gleaming stainless steel counter, coffee machine bubbling over beside him, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him jump. He recovered instantly, turning away and speaking quietly into the mouthpiece. "I'll give you a call if I hear anything, Thad." Hanging up, he nodded to me without warmth. "Morning." "Morning." I nodded at the volcanic spill. "Is it okay if I pour myself a cup of coffee?" "What's Oliver's is yours. At least for the next ten minutes." "What happens in ten minutes?" He handed me a clean mug from the cupboard, his eyes greener than the untidy stretch of woodland behind the house. "Oliver doesn't have a long attention span." "Can we get this settled here and now," I said, pouring coffee. "I think Oliver's a charming old guy, but I'm here to investigate Berkeley House. Period." "If you say so." I gritted my jaw against a lot of stuff that would make future encounters with this asshole awkward, and looked up to meet his gaze. "Look, your uncle invited me to stay for a couple of days, and if there were any strings attached, I'm not aware of them. Since he's not even here, they'd have to be pretty long strings, wouldn't they?" 98


"Puppet-length." I took a sip of coffee and nearly choked. "This is terrible." He nodded gloomily. "Yeah." "It's probably the worst cup of coffee I ever had." "I know." I couldn't quite read him. "Do you ... prefer it this way?" He took a mouthful from his own cup and shuddered. "No. It just always turns out like this." He was permitted to carry a gun but couldn't figure out how to use a coffee machine? "Would it be okay if I made another pot?" For a moment I thought he was actually going to smile. "Knock yourself out." I poured the seething black contents of the current pot down the drain and set about measuring coffee into the machine. Devlin watched me thoughtfully. He wore a black Tshirt and faded Levis that emphasized his narrow hips and long legs. He had a perfect body, no doubt about it. It made an interesting contrast to his homely face. "Where'd you say you met Oliver?" "An art exhibit in San Francisco. C.K. Killian introduced us." "The art dealer?" I was surprised he knew that. He looked like his idea of art would be calendars with sport cars. "Yep." "And what were you doing at an art exhibit?" I wondered if it were possible for him to ask a question so that it didn't sound like he was interrogating a hostile witness. 99


"C.K. is—was—is a friend." He raised those black eyebrows again. "Is he a friend for not?" "He's a friend," I said shortly. I wasn't about to go into my relationship with C.K. My former relationship. "And somehow you and Oliver got talking about this book you're writing, and he invited you to scope out Berkeley House?" "Pretty much. Yes." When I raised my eyes he was watching me narrowly. Sure, there was a little more to the story—like the fact that I was drunk off my ass and had actually—humiliatingly—cried on Oliver's surprisingly comfortable shoulder about getting dumped by C.K.—but no way was I ever going to share that information with him. Or anyone. I sort of hoped Oliver had forgotten it. Devlin said reluctantly, "For the record, you were right about seeing someone in the woods last night." "Are you keeping a record?" I gazed at the coffee machine, willing it to hurry along that precious life-saving elixir. When he didn't answer, I glanced his way. "So who was roaming in the woods last night besides me?" "Thaddeus Sterne. Our nearest neighbor—our only neighbor—unless you count your ectoplasmic buddies at Berkeley House." I ignored that crack. "Thaddeus Sterne? The painter?" "That's right." "Wow." I meant it. Thaddeus Sterne was a legend in the art world. Even more of a legend than Oliver de la Motte. 100


Probably because Sterne sightings were rarer than albino whales. He was like the Garbo of the oil paint set. According to C.K., the last time Sterne had made a public appearance was the 1980s. Then I remembered the stillness, the silence of the man who had followed me through the woods, and some of my pleasure died. Sterne might be a genius, but last night I'd felt threatened. He said curtly, "Yeah, well, see that you don't disturb him while you're poking around out there. The property lines are clearly marked." "Correct me if I'm wrong, but he was on your property last night." "He can go where he wants. If you see him, get out of his way." He studied me, his eyes flinty in his blunt-featured face. I swallowed my irritation—which tasted only slightly better than the bitter coffee had. "Understood. Anything else I need to know before I head over to Berkeley House?" Talk about a foolish question. Sam Devlin contemplated me for a long unsmiling moment. "I think we better discuss that, as well," he said. "Are you aware that the property is condemned?" "The house? Yes." "Great. Well, if you want to wander around the grounds at your own risk, that's one thing, but it's not safe to go inside the house." "I already signed a waiver—" 101


He interrupted, "I don't care what you signed. You saw the place last night. One good push and the building will be in the sea. You don't go inside." "I've already arranged this with Oliver—the guy who owns the property." "I don't care what you arranged. You don't put one foot inside that house. Understand?" What, was the entire universe supposed to be his jurisdiction? I stared at him. It was a stare I had perfected through years of dealing with insolent adolescents and asshole adults. He stared right back. I finally managed a terse, "Yeah, I understand." He nodded curtly. "Good. I've got a call into Oliver, but just so you know, I believe this story of yours about writing a book." He managed to make it sound like he figured I was capable of any lunacy. "Gee, thanks," I practically stuttered. He was actually going to double-check my story? Who the hell would make up a story like this? He shrugged. "No offense, but Oliver is a sucker for a pretty face and a sob story." Unfortunate choice of words under the circumstances. I smiled. It probably looked more like a baring of teeth, because he blinked. What an arrogant asshole he was. Poor Oliver. I could just imagine the lectures he had to listen to from Mr. Law and Order. "I'll keep it in mind," I said. "Do that." 102


Apparently he also needed to have the last word. I struggled to control myself. I couldn't remember the last time somebody had this kind of effect on me. "Is there more or am I dismissed?" To my surprise he gave a twist of a smile. "Not easily," he said. **** "Hey, be careful there!" I turned away from my survey of Berkeley House's pallid and dissolute face—hollow-eyed windows and gaping broken door mouth. A man in jeans and a plaid shirt hurried across the threadbare lawn towards me As he reached me, he said earnestly, "You weren't thinking of going inside? It's a death trap." He was about my age. Attractive. Medium height and comfortably built; hazel eyes, soft brown hair and a carefully groomed beard. "Hi," I said. I gestured with my camera. "I was just taking a few photos." He studied me and something changed in his face. In mine too, probably. The old gaydar picking up those high frequency waves. "It's private property, you know." He said it almost apologetically, his smile rueful. "I know," I said. "I'm staying at Oliver de la Motte's." Remembering Oliver's reputation, I added hastily, "I'm writing a book about haunted houses along the California coast." "Seriously?" The genuine interest was refreshing after Sam Devlin. He offered a hand. "Mason Corwin. I'm president of 103


the local historical preservation society." His handshake was firm. "So you know the history of the house?" "Just the bare bones." "Interesting choice of words. There are plenty of skeletons in the Berkeley House closet." "I'll bet. David Berkeley was a magician, right?" "A 20th Century illusionist. By profession and philosophy. He really did subscribe to the notion that the material world was just an illusion." "Yeah? How does that tie in with his committing suicide?" Mason smiled wryly. "Beats me. I personally subscribe to the here and now theory." I smiled back, then glanced at the house, feeling its tug once more. "Come by the museum," Mason invited. "You can look through our collection. We've got all kinds of photos, newspaper clippings, and memorabilia on Berkeley." "I'll do that." He smiled at me again. "How long are you staying for?" "Just through the weekend." "Too bad." "Why?" I caught the meaning of his smile. "Oh. Thanks." His gaze wavered, edged past me. I glanced around. He said, "Old Thad Sterne. He's another reason to be careful around here. He's kind of on the weird side. Take a piece of advice?" "Sure." "Ghost hunter or not, don't hang around here after dark. It's not safe." 104


"Thanks for the warning." He nodded. Glanced at his watch. "I've got to get back. The museum opens at noon on Fridays." He hesitated. "But I'll be seeing you, right?" I smiled. "Right." I waited until Mason vanished into the woods, then I ducked around the back of the house. I could do with less of an audience. Immediately I saw what Devlin and Mason meant. Originally the mansion must have sat several hundred yards from the cliff, but time and tide had done their work. The back porch stairs were now literally inches from the edge. One of these days—and not too far in the future—the entire structure was going to tip over the side. I stared down at the hypnotic green swirl. White foam washed across the bronze rocks below. The wind seemed to sing eerily off the cliff beneath me. That might explain any mysterious noises coming from the house, but I couldn't see anything that would create the mirage of ghostly lights in the upper story windows. I dipped under the rickety railing, climbed cautiously onto the wraparound porch. Exposed to the unrelenting elements, the porch was in bad shape, the remaining wooden planks silvery and fragile. I picked my way across, and then pushed open the sagging French doors, which gave with a screech of rusted hinges. The glass doors opened onto an empty sunny room. Despite the obvious disrepair and smell of damp and mold, the bones of the house—the black wood floor, the arching 105


windows, and graceful architecture—were still beautiful. A giant chandelier, missing crystal teeth and beads, hung from the ceiling, winking and glinting in the light streaming through the windows. Once this must have been a lovely room in a gracious home. Now... I stayed quiet, trying to pick up a feel for the house. Listened to the wind moaning down the chimney, keening at the window casements. The reflection of the water flickered against the bare ceiling and walls. It was sort of soothing, but I didn't feel soothed. I felt nervous and keyed up. I told myself it was from having to sneak into the house—the mistrustful awareness that Sam Devlin was probably the type to come and check up on me. Moving to the window, I considered the choppy water, the wind rippling through the grass. Not hard to imagine that unceasing whisper preying on the nerves of a guy who wasn't maybe totally right in the head to start with. The light was very good in here. I pulled my camera out and took a couple of photos of the cobwebbed chandelier. I proceeded to the next room, which turned out to be a wide and elegant hallway. Chunks of plaster molding littered the floor. A graceful curving staircase led the second story. I studied it, wondering what kind of shape it was in. It didn't look obviously unsafe, but that didn't mean a lot given the condition of the rest of the structure.

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I started cautiously up. Seven careful steps and there was a loud crack. I hesitated. Took another tentative step—my tennis shoe shoved right through a rotten board. "Damn." Grabbing the carved railing for balance, I pulled my foot out and started back down. Another snapping sound and the edge of the next step broke off right under the heel of my foot. Only my grip on the rail kept me from pitching forward. Shit. It really was unsafe, Super Cop hadn't been exaggerating. I leaned over the railing and looked down at the dusty blackwood floor. An easy drop. I tested the railing, it groaned, but held. I swung a leg over and jumped, landing in a crouch. The crash of my touchdown sounded like I was going to slam through to the cellar, but to my relief the flooring held. I'd have liked to get some shots of the second story, but it wasn't crucial. It did make the lights in the upper story windows a little more problematic. I wasn't a particularly big guy and it would have to be someone a lot lighter than me to make it up this staircase. So ... natural phenomenon? Or was there another way upstairs? Since Berkeley was supposed to have topped himself in his downstairs library, I didn't see why spooklights would be manifesting themselves upstairs, but it's not like the supernatural had to abide by the rules of human logic. Especially since half the humans I knew didn't abide by them. I spent the next couple of hours wandering through the downstairs rooms, using my flashlight to guide the way 107


through the dark interior, brushing aside cobwebs as long as tattered draperies. I took some pictures and made some general notes. On the inland side of the house I came to a long room overlooking the woods. Daylight spilled through the cracked windows revealing built-in bookshelves and the cracked and fissured façade of what must have once been an elegant fireplace. Silvery sheets of velvety wallpaper peeled off the scarred walls. Presumably the library. The room where David Berkeley decided to end it all. And what a way he'd chosen: using the specially-made guillotine from his stage show. Gruesome but effective. To me, it felt like an empty room in a dead shell of a house. But then I've never been particularly sensitive—at least, not in the psychic sense. According to C.K I was ridiculously oversensitive in every other way. On impulse, I sat down in the center of the room, closed my eyes and just ... listened. Wind worked its way through the holes and loose boards: an eerie chorus in a multitude of different tones and pitches. Was it just the wind? I closed my eyes, listening ... feeling.... "What the fuck are you doing inside here?" If Sam Devlin wanted to pay me back for catching him off guard that morning, he got his money's worth. It's hard to retain your dignity when you're scraping yourself off the ceiling, but I tried. At least I didn't actually scream—although I'm guessing my shocked expression was just as bad. 108


Not that he spent time gloating. He leaned in through the open window frame, his face hostile but unsurprised— apparently not much of anything surprised him—and said evenly, "I told you the house was off-limits." "I told you I've got Oliver's permission." "I don't give a goddamn. I told you to stay out of the house." Apparently he read my silence correctly, because he said levelly, "Last warning. Get out before I come in and get you." I wasn't sure if he would try it or not. If he did decide to throw me out, it wouldn't be much of a contest, he was a lot bigger than me, and I didn't doubt he was a lot tougher. In any case, there was no point continuing now with him draped over the window sill. Talk about blocking reception. Feeling a little silly to have been caught trying to ... well, what had I been trying to do? Commune with the dead? I crossed over to the window and he backed out, looking as grim as though he'd caught me trying to wriggle out of my straight jacket. I started through the open window and his big hand closed on my shoulder dragging me out. "Come on, pretty boy." "D'you mind?" My shirt—and skin—caught on a nail. "Christ, watch it!" "All right, all right." He unhooked me. "Hope you've had your tetanus shots." "Yeah, since you missed your rabies vaccine." He gave a little snort that might have been a laugh.

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I got through the window without any further help. Mouth compressed, Devlin watched me as I checked the tear in my shirt. "Come on!" he said impatiently after a second or two. "Go. I don't need a police escort." "You've got one, anyway." I raised my head and glared. "What, you're escorting me off the premises?" He made a sharp gesture with his chin, and turned, obviously expecting me to trail after. So, in answer to my question, yes, I was apparently being escorted from the premises. Devlin strode off across the patchy lawn and I followed at a normal pace. No way was I trotting after him. I watched him stomping along ahead of me through the shambles of the old sunken garden, his dark head gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. I fantasized about picking up a piece of broken statuary and lobbing it at his thick skull. But enough damage had been done to the property without me adding to it. At the end of the garden he paused, waiting for me. "I think we'll wait to hear from Oliver before you do anymore exploring," he said when I finally joined him. "Oh for—! I've only got the weekend!" He shrugged. Clearly not his problem. "I'm sure he'll call this afternoon," he said indifferently. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak, and he turned and stalked off again. I guess I should have been 110


grateful he didn't insist that I march in front of him with my hands on the back of my head. When we reached Oliver's, I went straight upstairs to shower off the cobwebs and filth of Berkeley House. Devlin called up to me as I was changing into a clean pair of jeans and flannel shirt. "Hey, professor. Phone call for you. It's Oliver." I came downstairs and took the phone from him in the hallway. "See," he said laconically. "Told you, he'd call." "Thanks." I took the phone without meeting his gaze. Waited for him to depart—which after a minute he did. "Hi, Oliver. It's Rhys. Sorry to bother you." "Well, my dear. How are you getting along?" I pictured him instantly: tall and elegant with iron-grey hair and amazing green-gold eyes. I figured the connection to the Neanderthal now slamming kitchen cupboard doors had to be by marriage. Probably a forced marriage. "Well..." He laughed that plumy laugh. "You mustn't mind Sammy. He has a very suspicious mind. It comes of being a cop. But it's all right. I've vouched for you." I doubted that meant as much as he imagined it did. I glanced at the door of the kitchen, through which Prince Charming had vanished. "The thing is, Oliver, he's making it all but impossible for me to step foot inside Berkeley House." "Mmm. I heard," Oliver said vaguely. "But you can surely work around that, yes? You're a resourceful boy." I blinked this over. "Uh, yes. I guess." 111


Oliver sighed. "I was so hoping that you and Sammy would hit it off." "Hit if off?" I added ungrammatically, "Me and him?" "Yes! Oh, I know how brusque and hard Sammy seems, but he's not like that really. Just a big softie, once you get to know him." "Sure," I said, not believing it for a moment. "You'd be lovely together, you know. You're just what he needs. And he's what you need, my dear. Someone you can really count on. Someone steadfast and loyal." "You make him sound like a St. Bernard." I was joking but I was sort of appalled. Was that why the old reprobate had given me permission to investigate the house? So he could pimp me out to his socially retarded nephew? "His bark is much worse than his bite. I've known Sammy his entire life..." He ran blithely on with a full listing of the Boy Scout virtues, but I'd stopped listening as Sammy appeared in the kitchen doorway. He gave me a level look. Maybe I'd already used up my one phone call privilege. I said, cutting Oliver off, "Okay, thanks. Did you need to speak to him again?" "No, no. Just give Sammy my love," Oliver said archly. I returned something noncommittal and hung up. "He sounds like he's having a good time," I said into Devlin's formidable silence. "Oliver knows how to have a good time." I wondered if he knew Oliver's hopes that we would hit it off. If so, I couldn't blame him for feeling a little hostile. 112


There's nothing like matchmaking relatives. I'd had my own share of that. "Satisfied that my intentions are honorable?" His smile was sour. "You've certainly got Oliver convinced." But obviously not Sam Devlin. "So is it settled? Can I get back to work?" "If by that you mean going back into the house, no." "Christ! What is your problem?" "Look, it's not safe. You had to have seen that much for yourself today." I gazed out the window at the failing light. I wasn't looking forward to walking through those woods in the dark. "I don't get it. I've signed a waiver. I'll be careful. Oliver is okay with it." He sighed. "Oliver hasn't been inside that place for decades. He has no idea of the shape it's in." "Fine," I said shortly. "I'll stick to the grounds." He eyed me skeptically. It began to get under my skin. "I said I'd stick to the grounds. What do you want?" "Your word is fine." He said it mildly, and I ignored the little stab of guilt that went through me. We stood there for another minute and he said slowly, "So, professor. By any chance do you know how to cook?" **** I assumed it was some kind of crack, but as I stared at him I realized he was perfectly serious. Strange but serious. "That depends. What is there to cook?" 113


"Follow me." I followed him through the large and modernized kitchen then downstairs to the basement and a tomb-sized industrial freezer. "Perfect for storing a body," I murmured. "Yes. Don't annoy me too much." I looked at him and he laughed. "Funny," I said. I stared at the frosty packs of food. "This is all frozen solid. What do you expect me to do with it?" "I thought we could defrost something in the microwave." He actually looked ... conciliatory. Not an expression that fit naturally on his dour face. "I guess we could. It's not ideal, but yeah, we could defrost something. What did you have in mind?" He reached right into the ice cavern and pulled out a neatly-wrapped packet in white butcher's paper. "Pork chops?" he said hopefully. I thought it over. It couldn't hurt to try and make friends with him. Well, friends was unlikely. What I pictured was more in the spirit of throwing a bone—or a pork chop—to a big ugly guard dog. "If I cook, you clean up, right?" "Deal," he said so quickly I thought it must be some kind of trick. But apparently he was just desperate for a hot meal. He sat at the kitchen table watching every move I made as though he feared I make take off with his precious pork chops. 114


I checked out the refrigerator, opened a few cupboards, pretended he wasn't there, but after a few minutes his silence sort of got to me. I leaned against the counter, waiting for the microwave to melt the block of pork chops, "So are you on vacation or something?" Nothing. He was an alien life form and I was wasting my time trying to communicate. The microwave bell rang and I popped open the door. "Or something." Devlin spoke curtly from behind me. To my surprise, after another long pause he said, "How did you get involved in the ghost hunting racket?" I searched the spice rack, selected cumin seeds, black peppercorns, coriander and sea salt. "It's more of a hobby than I business," I said. "I mostly teach history." "How'd you get interested in paranormal studies?" I realized two things about him: he was a better listener than he appeared to be, and he was not easily sidetracked. I guess that was useful in his line of work. Combining spices in one of those anchor-sized frying pans, I tried to decide if I was going to be candid or not. On the whole I thought candor with someone like him was a bad idea, so I was startled to hear my voice begin, "My brother was killed..." I stopped, appalled. Where had that come from? "Sorry," he said brusquely. Silence. I pushed the spices around the pan. "What happened?" Unexpected as it was, Devlin's voice jarred me out of my reflections. 115


I said, "It was a long time ago. I don't know why I brought it up." And I really didn't know. He said, "How did it happen?" A cop's curiosity, I guessed. Easier just to get it over with. I said, "Dylan, my twin—" And was even more startled when I swallowed mid-sentence. I spoke quickly to get past that little stumble. "Was killed when I was eleven. We were riding bikes and a car hit him. It was ... fast. One minute he was right there ... laughing ... and the next minute he was gone." I stopped the film running in my head. Stopped myself from saying anything else. I had already said too much. I threw Devlin a quick look. Waited for him to say something— bracing for sarcasm or traffic death statistics or, worst of all, sympathy—not that he looked like the sympathetic type. To my relief he didn't say anything. His face was expressionless, his eyes alert and curious. I stirred the spices and the room grew fragrant with the toasted scents. I said, "It just seemed to me ... has always seemed to me ... that the line between life and death is so ... fine..." "It is fine." "But it seemed like because it was just a matter of seconds..." I stopped, realizing I was never going to be able to explain it to someone like him. He thought by "fine," I meant fragile—that was natural since he was a cop—and while I agreed that life was fragile, that wasn't what I was talking about. I meant that the dividing line was so flimsy, so insubstantial that it seemed possible—even probable—that 116


you could just reach right across.... If you knew how. If you had the courage. I flashed him a quick, meaningless smile. "So that's my traumatic childhood. Sorry you asked?" His brows drew together as I pulled the blender away from the wall, dumped the spices in and turned it on. The whir of the blender made speech impossible, and I was glad of that. I couldn't imagine why the hell I'd told him about Dylan. Low blood sugar, probably. While the pan grew hotter, I scooped out the blended spices and began to dry rub the meat with them. The smell of the heating pan and the spices, the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of Sam Devlin's aftershave and freshlylaundered flannel shirt had a weird effect on me. I became conscious of my bare fingers deeply massaging the warm raw meat—and that Devlin was watching me with close attention. I said at random, "So what kind of a cop are you? Oliver never said." Another tense pause—I wasn't sure why the question should make him tense. He wasn't undercover, right? So what was the big deal? "I'm a sergeant at the Park police station. Burglary division." "That must be interesting." He gave me an ironic look. I tried anyway. "Do you ... like it? Being a cop?" "Yes." He couldn't have made it any terser. His eyes went back to my meat massage. 117


I gave up. Nodded at the wine rack on the far side of the room. "You want to open a bottle of wine?" By then I needed a drink. He rose, opened the wine with quick efficiency, and poured me a glass. Our fingers brushed as I took the glass—and why the hell I would even notice beat me. I took a sip. A very nice pinot noir. I took another sip, set the glass down and placed the chops in the heated pan. The room began to feel very warm—the effect of wine and the stove. "What do you want with the chops?" I asked, squatting down to look for a sauce pan. He cleared his throat. "Whatever you..." I glanced around. His gaze appeared to be pinned on my ass. He took a gulp of wine and said, "I think there's some canned corn in the cupboard." "Okay. Toss me a can." He got up, opened the cupboard, and tossed me the can of corn—across the table. I almost suspected he didn't want to get too close to me. Studying the can of creamed corn—I considered the peculiar likeness of the Jolly Green Giant to present company. I studied Devlin under my lashes. He was a big man, no question. It was probably handy in his line of work. He looked intimidating, and he had the voice and manner to back it up. I wondered what kind of social life he had, being a cop and looking the way he did. It couldn't be much of one since he was spending his vacation all by himself at his uncle's isolated retreat. Maybe he'd be in a better temper once he was fed 118


and watered. Granted it would take a lot of feeding and watering... "I could make stuffing," I offered. His face changed. He looked at me with something close to respect. "Could you?" I nodded. Maybe when he was in a better mood I could work on him again about Berkeley House. Considering the house's state of disrepair it would be safer to have someone aware of where I was all the time; I didn't want to have to lie and sneak around, but no way was Sam Devlin getting in the way of this book. Searching the refrigerator I came up with limp celery, a loaf of stale nut bread and half an onion. I set about making stuffing. Sam Devlin watched me all the time, and unwillingly I watched him back, uncomfortably aware of long legs, wide shoulders, powerful arms. "So why did you become a cop?" I asked into what began to feel like a very long silence. "I wanted to make a difference," he said sardonically. I sighed. It really was pointless trying to talk to him, but I like talking to people. Generally the wrong people, according to C.K. "And have you?" I asked. He was silent. Gee, what a change. I glanced at him and once again he was observing me in that assessing way. "Maybe." It took him so long to answer that I'd forgotten I'd even asked a question. I didn't pursue it. Dinner was ready in just under an hour, and by then I was feeling the effects of two glasses of wine on an empty 119


stomach. When Devlin came over to the stove to inspect the results of my efforts, I felt awareness of him in every pore. "You really can cook," he said, as though he hadn't believed it until all the evidence was presented. "My dad's a chef. Or was. He's retired now." I was proud of my impromptu efforts: home-style pork chops and stuffing. It smelled great if I did say so myself. Devlin made an uninterested noise. "I'm going to build a fire and eat in the study," he said, serving himself out of the pan. For the life of me I couldn't understand why I felt hurt. He had asked me to cook dinner, not dine with him. And I didn't want to dine with him anyway, right? Because what could be more uncomfortable than trying to choke down food in his silent and disapproving presence. Too much wine, I decided. I was just feeling a little blue, missing C.K. "Sure," I said. I set my plate on the table and pulled out the chair. He eyed me for a moment. "It's warmer in the study, but suit yourself." He turned on heel and vanished from the doorway. I stared after him. Oh. Okay. I picked up my plate and trailed down the hall to Oliver's study. It was easy to picture Oliver in this room—urbane and easy in a silk smoking jacket, pouring cognac from a decanter, and chatting amusingly about art or whatever caught his fancy. If Oliver had ever been a starving hard120


scrabble artist, I didn't know about it; this room provided the perfect setting for him. The walls were a deep green, the trim and molding white, the furniture leather and masculine. Paintings covered the walls, mostly oils, but a few watercolors—one or two of them looked like Thaddeus Sterne's work. Not that I was an expert, but you pick up a few things dating an art dealer. Devlin sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. His powerful body was relaxed and graceful, one arm resting on an upraised knee, the other leg stretched out before him. In the muted light he looked almost attractive, I thought, and then had to bite back a laugh. "Something funny?" he asked, catching me by surprise. "Uh, no." I sat down across from him. Avoiding his eyes, I stared up at the paintings—a small fortune in artwork. I couldn't believe there wasn't a state of the art security system to protect it. Maybe Devlin was the state of the art security system. "He's amazing, isn't he?" I said, meaning Oliver. I thought of his kindness that day at the art gallery, and felt an unexpected lump in my throat. Oliver had most certainly been on the prowl that afternoon, but the minute he'd figured out what was up with me, he'd been absurdly kind. "Every day in every way," Sam returned. An unemotional tone but I realized that there was a sense of humor in there— a sarcastic sense, which appealed to me, since I was a little on the sarcastic side myself, according to C.K. I really didn't want to think about C.K. tonight. We chewed for a while, and he said, "This isn't bad." 121


"Thanks." "In fact," he said grudgingly, "it's pretty good." I nodded, biting back another laugh. Silence but for the scrape of forks on plates, the crackle of the fireplace and the howl of the wind. "It doesn't stop, does it?" I said, lifting my head to listen. "What's that?" "The wind." "No. It doesn't stop." His head lifted and there was a gleam in his eyes. I felt my mouth tugging into a smile. I said, "No, I am not spooked by it. I'm not afraid of the dark, either. Or ghosts." He actually grinned. He had one hell of smile—when he let himself smile for real instead of that usual sardonic twist. "Or lions or tigers or bears," I added. "Oh my," he murmured right on cue. And we both laughed. For real. A shared moment, and a genuine laugh. After that it was a little easier—another bottle of wine helped. Sam asked about the other ghost houses I was writing about, and I told him about some of the things that had happened during my research of other houses. He listened politely—unimpressed, I think, but polite—which was an improvement in diplomatic relations. I was telling him about the elderly owner of a Monterey B&B who had invested quite a bit of money in her resident "ghost," when he startled me by bursting out laughing. "I'm serious," I said. "She had to be in her seventies and she was climbing along the outside railing of this giant 122


staircase with a long pole and a makeshift rubber foot attached—all covered in phosphorous paint." "What size foot?" That struck me as hysterically funny. He watched me, smiling, but his eyes were dark and serious. I eventually got control of myself and said, "I forgot to ask. Anyway, she may have been a fraud, but she made the best oatmeal raisin cookies I ever ate in my life, no lie. The best." His smile widened. He said, "So the fact is, you're actually trying to disprove these ghosts, aren't you?" That sobered me fast. "Not at all." "No? Seven haunted houses and every one of them a fake?" I shook my head. "It's not my fault they're all a bunch of frauds. I'm trying to find proof that these ghosts really exist." He looked unconvinced, and for some reason it seemed important that he be convinced. I said, "I want to believe. I really do." "Then maybe you shouldn't ask too many questions." I frowned. "That seems like an odd philosophy for a cop." "You're not a cop. I didn't say it was my philosophy." Maybe he didn't mean to sound as brusque as he did. Maybe he was just too used to talking to bad guys. I changed the subject. "If you spent summers here as a kid, did you ever go inside Berkeley House?" "Yeah, and it wasn't safe back then," he said. "Okay, okay. I get it," I said. "Did you ever see anything...?" He shook his head like I was confirming his suspicions. 123


"What's the big secret? Did you see something?" His mouth did the sardonic thing. "Not really." "So there was something?" Amused, he said, "How do you work that out?" "Well, if there was nothing, you'd have said nothing, but you said, not really, so there is something." He studied my face for a moment. I'd had a lot to drink, and I wondered if it showed. I wasn't slurring or anything but I felt very ... relaxed. He said slowly, "Yeah, there is something..." And he leaned across and kissed me on my open and astonished mouth. Since Devlin seemed a little on the socially inept side I was taken aback by the skill of that kiss. He didn't look like an expert in seduction, but that mouth—pressing coolly and firmly against mine—had had a lot of practice. I found myself wondering hazily who would have dared kiss him ... and what I was doing kissing him when I wasn't sure I even liked him. "Uh..." He reached over and carefully removed my glasses. I blinked at him uncertainly. The muted firelight turned him into a fuzzy shadow. I had the impression of gleaming eyes and five o'clock shadow, and then he found my mouth again, parting my lips with gentle insistence. It was the gentleness that undid me. That, and way too much wine, and not enough sleep, and missing C.K. and... A lot of excuses for giving into what simply felt ... great.

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I found myself tipping back, big hands cradling me as I landed on the rug, His kiss deepened, heated. Still gentle, but now exploring... I lay in his arms responding without hesitation, my hunger surprising even me. I pushed up his T-shirt, ran my hands down his sides. His body was warm and brown and lean; muscles rippled beneath my fingers as he shifted position. It felt good to hold onto someone, to feel bare skin. I wanted more. Needed more. His fingers worked the button of my shirt, his mouth still on mine, his knee insinuating itself between my legs. He finished unbuttoning my shirt and I half-raised to shrug out of it; he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and tossed it away. His hands went to the button fly of my jeans and I thrust up at him, already so hard the stiff denim was torture. My hands fastened on his belt and I worked it like I had seconds to disarm a bomb—which is what it was starting to feel like. Sweat broke out on my forehead, my breath came fast. I felt wild, out of control with wanting him. Wanting him now. He had me free of the constriction of briefs and jeans, yanking them down where they hung up on my tennis shoes, and I didn't give a damn because by then I had got him free as well, and his dick, hard and thick, was giving the high five to my own. "Oh, God," I groaned. He didn't say a word, his breath fast and rough and scented not unpleasantly of the spices and wine. Usually I'm a little more vocal, but his silent intensity shut me up. 125


I bit my lip as we humped and ground against each other, fast and frantic like this had been on our minds from the first meeting—which was crazy. The slide and slap of feverish bodies. It didn't take long at all before I was coming. I yelled and bumped my head into his shoulder, pressing my mouth to the hollow there, somewhere between nipping and nuzzling. Sam came a couple of heartbeats later in hard economical thrusts, and I felt that blood-hot spill between us. A shudder rippled through him and then another exquisite little aftershock of pleasure, but he still didn't say anything. Just expelled a long heated sigh against my ear, stirring my hair. **** We lay there for a few moments, recovering our breath. Sam's powerful arms felt good about me, comfortable. Right. I like to be held; C.K. hated it, wanted—needed—his space immediately after sex. And about the last person I wanted to think about right now was C.K. Not that thinking about Sam Devlin was an improvement because I felt a little stunned at what I'd—we'd—done. On Oliver's Aubusson carpet no less. "Wow," I said finally. He gave a short laugh and let me go. I was sorry about that. Sorry as he lifted off me and moved away. Dazedly, I felt around for my glasses. "I begin to see the attraction," he said. "What's that?" 126


He said clearly and calmly, "Now I understand why Oliver's developed a sudden interest in psychic phenomenon." It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. I stared at the dark blur with the even voice. That's what comes of having sex with people who you don't like—and who don't like you. And how stupid was I that I felt like he'd slapped me? I slipped my glasses on and got up in one quick movement. I thought he tensed—it was hard to tell in the dim light, but maybe he'd had a lot of experience with people wanting to hit him after sex. He stared up at me, apparently waiting for some reaction. "Yeah, well there's no accounting for taste," I said. "Mine in particular." It wasn't a bad exit line, and I took advantage of it, heading for the door. He didn't say a word and I left him there in the shadows. **** I opened my eyes and groaned. It was morning. I'd slept through the entire fucking—no pun intended—night. Instead of getting my ass over to Berkeley House and doing what I'd come here for, I'd gone upstairs and, feeling stupidly, illogically sorry for myself, given into the urge to lie down for a couple minutes rest. Only my quick nap had turned into the entire night and now it was ... I checked my wristwatch ... ten o'clock. I'd lost an entire night. Totally wasted it conked out in Oliver's guest room. The entire night and a good portion of the morning as well. 127


In a very bad temper I rose, showered and went downstairs. No homely scent of witch's brew coffee this morning, which gave me hope that Prince Charming had taken himself off somewhere—like the cliff behind Berkeley House—but no such luck. There he sat reading the local paper. He looked up and nodded briefly as I entered the kitchen. I nodded even more briefly back, felt him watching me as I opened the fridge and scanned the contents. I ignored him. "I thought you might prefer to make the coffee this morning," he informed me, like this was a concession on his part. I snorted. "Thanks. I'll just get something in town." I removed a carton of orange juice, poured myself a glass and drank it standing at the sink staring out across the woods at the rooftop of Berkeley House. He shrugged and went back to his paper. I glanced to see what was so fascinating but the local headlines seemed to consist of a couple of burglaries, the results of the annual garden show, and a successful library fundraiser. I finished my OJ, rinsed the glass out and left the kitchen. **** Ventisca was one of those quaint little seaside villages, though not so quaint that it didn't have a Starbucks, of course, and I headed there post haste to up my caffeine intake to appropriate levels. I ate a pumpkin cream cheese muffin while I got directions to the Historical Society. 128


I found the Historical Society nestled in between two calculatedly adorable bed and breakfasts. It was the only building on the street that didn't have flower boxes in the windows or a brightly painted entrance. Corwin Mason was unlocking the black front door when I pulled up. I got out of the car, waved, and he waved back, his expression lightening. "Well, hi there! I was hoping you'd turn up today." He looked relaxed and approachable in a blue striped polo shirt and jeans, and his obvious pleasure was balm to my ego after Sam Devlin. "If this is a busy time, I can look around on my own." He chuckled, gesturing me inside. "We're not exactly on the Must See list for most tourists." I looked around while Mason went about the ritual of opening the museum. There were the usual displays of Indian life and Spanish influence. I skipped over the collection of arrowheads and beads, ignored the sepia photographs of the town's early history, and by-passed the local arts and crafts section. There were a couple of very nice watercolors by local artists—nothing by Oliver or Thaddeus Stern—and a lot of battered antique furniture. And then I saw the guillotine. It was roughly twelve feet tall and painted in some kind of shiny black lacquer. Golden sphinxes formed the feet of either side of the two tall guides; tiny jeweled eyes winked at me from the bird-like faces. Egyptian gods and goddesses ambled their way down the sides of the "bed," and the circular collar that held the victim's head in place was covered in crimson 129


velvet. The morning sunshine glinted cheerfully off the sharp angled blade hanging above my head. "Christ, is that real?" I asked Mason. "Is that the guillotine he used to kill himself?" He joined me, smiling faintly. "No. This was a second guillotine Berkeley designed to use in his show. See, his asistant's head would fit down here." He leaned across and pressed a small lever. "A dummy head would fall into the basket. The assistant would never be in any actual danger, although it looks pretty realistic from where the audience was sitting." "It looks pretty realistic from where I'm standing." I added slowly, "It's huge. I don't know why that never occurred to me." "That's show biz." Mason pointed to the far wall where a large oil portrait hung. "And that's David Berkeley." I'd seen photographs of this portrait, but the real thing was startlingly vivid. Somber eyes stared out of a long, pale, intense face. Flat black hair and a dapper mustache and beard. The background was green like the sea beneath the cliffs at Berkeley House. I couldn't think how I'd missed it earlier, because once I'd noticed the painting, it was hard to ignore it. I could feel the gaze of those black eyes as though a real person were watching me. "Creepy," I commented. Mason laughed. "Yeah. It's painted so that the eyes seemed to follow you wherever you are in the room. I'm used to him now, though." "Who painted it?" 130


"No one." At my glance, he clarified. "No one famous, I mean. It was done by a local artist. Aaron Perry." "The same Aaron Perry who ran off with Berkeley's fiancé?" "The same. Very good. You've done your homework. According to the stories, the three of them were inseparable growing up. The girl—" "Charity Keith," I supplied, and Mason laughed. "Now you're showing off." "Yeah. It's an interesting story. Sad. Romantic. Like most ghost stories." "Pure soap opera, if you ask me. Charity agreed first to marry Berkeley, but then changed her mind and ran off with Perry. Berkeley committed suicide at the peak of his fame and fortune—such as it was. The guy was not exactly Houdini." He guided me through the rest of the display. There were fragile posters of Berkeley's performances and yellowed newspaper clippings of his modest triumphs. He'd definitely been junior varsity. No appearing before the crowned heads of Europe and his performance at the Pan-American Exposition had been marred by the assassination of President McKinley. I glanced over the notice of Berkeley's engagement to marry Charity Keith and studied the formal still posed portrait of the happy couple. Apparently not that happy, since Charity had eloped with Berkeley's good friend Aaron Perry. Even in his engagement portrait Berkeley looked ... harrowed. Charity, on the other hand, had that grim 131


expressionless countenance most brides wore back then. Possibly something to do with women not having the right to vote until 1920. "Are there any photos or pictures of Perry?" "Not that I know of." "Too bad." It would have been nice for the book, a picture of the love triangle. I mused, "An elopement must have been socially awkward in a town this size." Mason laughed briefly. "I bet." I moved down the row of black and white photographs, pausing at a picture of Berkeley in Paris. I felt a prickle down my spine as I picked out his tall figure standing next to the unsettlingly realistic guillotine. Something about that tall dark figure in top hat and cape caught my attention; seemed somehow familiar. "This was the guillotine he used to kill himself?" Mason peered over my shoulder. He smelt appealingly of pipe tobacco and citrus. He was sucking on a lemon drop, and he shifted it with his tongue before saying, "I don't know. There were two of them and they were identical, I guess, until Berkeley doctored one for his own personal use. That one was destroyed after the inquest." The shudder that rippled down my spine caught me off guard. Mason laughed. "Berkeley's story really got to you, didn't it?" I laughed, trying to brush my unease off. "Maybe. It's all these gruesome props. Usually I have to use my imagination more. A lot more." "I can imagine. Have you ever seen a real ghost?" 132


"Me? No." I glanced over my shoulder, feeling those strange painted eyes again. "Well, if it's any comfort, it was all about the illusion for Berkeley. He didn't really chop the heads off volunteers." Mason was teasing, and I forced a smile in response; I had no idea why David Berkeley's story affected me like no other I'd investigated so far. It wasn't a rational response, that was for sure. He left me to examine the rest of the photos and memorabilia at my leisure, and I spent the morning glancing over the colorful ephemera of placards and postcards, puzzling over birdcages and boxes and other vintage odds and ends. I took photos of the clippings and the portrait of David Berkeley. I had more than enough information on him for the book, but the more I learned about him, the more fascinated I became. I was the museum's only visitor that morning, and I wondered what Mason did to while away the long hours. "We get a lot more visitors in the summer," he assured me, when I asked. "Berkeley might never have been a household name, but he's still pretty well known in magic circles." He watched me screw the lens cap on my camera, and asked a little diffidently, "What do you think about lunch?" "I'm all in favor of it." I really liked his smile—and the fact that smiling wasn't a struggle for him. "There's a little place down the road that makes terrific meatball sandwiches." 133


"Sounds good," I said, and was treated to the easy smile again. I followed Mason to a little Italian restaurant with a great view of the ocean. The tables were covered in red and white checked table cloths and there were candles in Chianti bottles and faded photos of 1960 Rome for ambiance. Mason ordered the meatball sandwiches and I went for pepperoni and black olive pizza, having no idea when or if I'd have dinner. "How long are you staying for?" he asked as we sipped beer from chilled mugs. "Just 'til Sunday night." "I guess, living in L.A., you don't get up this way a lot?" I thought of all the plane trips, all the Friday night drives up the coast to see C.K. How come it had never occurred to me that I was the one doing all the driving and flying and jumping through hoops? Never again. "No," I said. He nodded, stared at the table top. Someone had left a newspaper folded on the table next to us, and my wandering gaze lit on the story about the recent rash of burglaries—which reminded me of Sam. Now that I had a little distance from the night before, I could see that a certain amount of cynicism was probably part of the cop job description. And it's not like I was so inexperienced I put undue importance on sex. I was irritated with my earlier reaction to his misanthropic view; what did I care what he thought about me? I put it down to Oliver planting ideas in my head about him. 134


"What's the crime rate like here?" I asked, to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were going. "Almost non-existent." Mason followed my gaze to the newspaper headline and shook his head. "Oh, that. That's something new for us. Started a couple of weeks ago with summer houses getting broken into and robbed. Luckily no one's been hurt." I nodded absently. We chatted about the usual things. Mason was full of praise for small town living. He had moved to Ventisca from San Jose following the death of his longtime partner three years earlier. "I'm sorry," I said. He smiled sadly. "Yeah. People sort of forget that AIDS is still killing us." I wondered if he had tested positive for the virus or not. I liked him and found him attractive but I wasn't at the point where it mattered to me personally one way or the other. His uncomplicated admiration and openness was refreshing after Sam Devlin. Not to mention C.K. But I was still unsettled about my stupidity in having sex with a stranger the night before—unprotected sex at that— and it put me on my guard. I returned the conversation to neutral ground. "So what's the local word on the ghost?" "Ask around and you'll hear plenty of accounts of flickering lights and strange noises. You know: the ghostly slide of a guillotine blade echoing through the woods." He grinned, and I grinned back, but I remembered the eerie sensation of those silent woods closing in on me. 135


"Have you ever seen anything?" He hesitated. "I hate to tell you this, but I'm not a big believer in the supernatural." "Sure. Which means anything you've seen will be more interesting. Or at least more reliable." He took a swallow of beer and wiped the foam from his mustache. "I've seen the lights. I go out to Seal Point sometimes with my telescope. The lights are supposed to be Berkeley traveling from room to room searching for his lost bride." "But she wasn't his bride, right? She ran off before they married, so why would he be looking for her in the house?" Mason shrugged. "Never thought about it. Maybe ghosts aren't logical. Maybe his ghost forgot what happened. He did chop his head off, after all." I laughed. "Good point." I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. I said, at random, "Berkeley killed himself eight months after Charity ran off?" "So the story goes. Yep. That much is documented." "It seems like a weird way to commit suicide, using the guillotine. You think he'd just throw himself off the cliff or blow his brains out." "He was a showman up to the end, I guess." "I guess. So did you ever hear—" He chuckled. "I know what you're going to ask. Did I ever hear the ghostly scrape of the guillotine ax?" "Did you?" 136


His face was rueful. "Nope. I've made a point of never getting that close to the house at night." "Seriously?" Mason didn't look like the nervous type. "Seriously," he said, and his eyes were without their habitual twinkle. "And, if you'll take my advice, you'll steer clear of those woods after dark." **** Mason and I talked a little longer, and then I reluctantly declined dessert and coffee and headed back to Oliver's. This time I took the back road, skirting the Oliver's home and parking in the woods not far from the cliffs. I could smell the seasalt and eucalyptus, and hear the cries of the gulls circling high above the rocks as I unloaded my gear, and lugged it across to Berkeley House. Once I had everything out of the car I lifted it through the broken front windows of the library and began setting up my equipment. The afternoon was warm and unusually sunny, the wind down to a murmur. I could hear birds singing in the trees. The unease I'd felt the previous day seemed silly now. I mounted the video cam on its tripod in the corner of Berkeley's library where it wouldn't be easily spotted by anyone peering through the window. Setting the timer, I hurried back to the car. As I pulled away, I was caught between guilt and triumph. Yes, I'd given Sam Devlin my word not to go back into the house, but I'd been coerced into it, so it didn't count. Not really. Besides, Devlin was a jerk. 137


It took about ten minutes to drive to Oliver's. I parked in the shady front drive, and went inside the house using the key Devlin had given me before I'd left that morning. There was no sign of him, and that was a relief. Sitting down at my laptop, I entered my notes from the museum. I worked for about an hour when the sound of splashing filtered through my consciousness. I rose, went to the window and looked down at the brick patio and swimming pool beyond. Sam was in the pool. I watched him for a while. He swam with a single-minded ferocity. Gleaming brown arms cut glistening arcs in the air, strong legs kicking as he shot through the water. Each time he reached the length of the pool, he did one of those quick underwater summersaults off the wall and started back across the water. I was struck again by the beauty and power of his body; I didn't want to remember how it had felt to be held by him, how his mouth had tasted on mine, the roughness of his cheek and the softness of his hair. I wanted to forget the night before had ever happened, so it was annoying as hell to find it difficult to tear myself away from the window. But I did. I went back to work, finished entering my notes and then read them over. I thought Berkeley House was by far the most interesting of my chapters, and I wondered if it would be feasible to use David Berkeley's portrait on the book cover. "Hey," Sam yelled upstairs some time later. "You want some dinner?" 138


I opened my mouth to yell my refusal, but my stomach growled, practically loud enough to answer for me. And the answer seemed to be yes. I closed my laptop and went to the top of the stairs. "Is that your way of asking if I'll cook?" He stared back, but then his mouth quirked like he just might smile. "It's for your own protection," he said. "That's what I thought," I said. His expression altered. "If you want me to cook, I'll cook." I must have looked unconvinced because he said, "I defrosted a couple of steaks. I can do steak." I was too hungry to ignore this olive branch—in fact, I was hungry enough to eat an olive branch, so I shrugged ungraciously and joined him downstairs in the kitchen. "There's beer in the fridge," Sam said, peppering two enormous steaks. "I went to the market earlier." I opened the refrigerator and saw that he had indeed stocked up. There was plenty of imported beer as well as perishables like milk and bread and lettuce. Apparently he was planning on staying for a good while. It didn't matter to me now; I wouldn't be staying beyond Sunday and I'd already figured out how I'd work around him. "How was your day?" he asked, his eyes very green in his tanned face. "Fine." "How'd the ghost hunting go?" I stared at him. Was he making conversation with me? Why? "It was okay," I answered warily. 139


"Learn anything useful at the museum?" My hand slipped opening a bottle of Beck's and I almost spilled some of the precious elixir. "How'd you know I went to the Historical Society museum?" He raised thick brows at the suspicion in my voice. "I saw you with Mason Corwin coming out of Mama Louisa's. I put two and two together." "Oh?" His mouth twitched a little at my tone. "Is that a touch of paranoia? I was going into the market. I have the produce to prove it." Well of course he wasn't following me; I hadn't thought he was, but it still gave me a funny feeling, especially since he was being so uncharacteristically cordial. "Speaking of which, do you want me to make a salad or something?" I offered, mostly to change the subject. Sam smiled, his expression informing me that he knew exactly what I was doing. "Sure, that'd be great." It occurred to me that the offer of beer had simply been a ploy to get me to open the fridge and see the vegetables awaiting my expert hand. "Are you sure you're gay?" I inquired. "You seem pretty helpless in the kitchen." "I'm sure." He gave me an unexpectedly direct look. "My skills lie in another direction." Anybody else, I would have thought he was flirting. As it was, blood rose in my face remembering exactly how skilled he was—and my own uncharacteristic response.

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I busied myself tearing up and washing greens, and Sam took the steaks out to the back patio. Apparently his idea of cooking was BBQ. I gave myself time, drank some beer, then followed him outside. He was sitting in one of the wooden Adirondack chairs idly swiping at flies with the extra-length spatula while the coals heated. I straddled one of the weathered benches taking a turn at observing him for a change. "How do you want your steak?" he inquired into the silence. "Medium—hold the flies." He turned a gleaming look my way. "Extra protein," he observed. "Ha." He resumed gazing at the sun-glittering pool. I swallowed a mouthful of beer, listened to the sound of the pool filter and the scrape of dead leaves on the bricks. Bees hummed around the bougainvillea winding up the wooden posts of the pergola, brilliant scarlet and yellow flowers. "So what happened between you and the boyfriend?" Sam asked suddenly. "Huh?" I stared at him, astonished. "The art dealer boyfriend," he clarified, as though I had so many I might have lost track. I continued to stare at him, and his face reddened as though it belatedly occurred to him that maybe this was just slightly intrusive. I figured that Oliver must have filled him in 141


on me—preparatory to handing me over as human sacrifice du jour. "He didn't do monogamous," I said. "Or long term." I stood up, swung my leg over the bench, aware that he was still watching me with that bright alert gaze. "Are we eating inside or out?" "What did you want?" Somehow everything spoken in the last couple of minutes seemed laden with undertones and secret meaning. It took me a second to gather my thoughts. I said, "Outside, I guess. It's nice tonight." "It is nice," Sam agreed. He rose and applied himself to the grill. **** The steak at least was perfect. After his odd question about C.K., Sam seemed to have little to say. We ate mostly in silence, while the little lights strung across the open patio and threaded through the vines blinked into life like fireflies or tiny stars. Pool lights illuminated crystal water. The evening was perfumed with charcoal and chlorine and freshly mown grass. Every so often I'd glance up from my plate and Sam would be staring at me with a expression I couldn't quite pin down. Each time I'd catch his gaze, he'd look away. "You want another beer?" He asked on his way into the house. "No thanks." We were both sticking to beer—and not too much of it. 142


"How did your family acquire Berkeley House?" I asked when he returned with his beer. "Berkeley wasn't a relative, was he?" "No." "The house was abandoned after Berkeley's death?" "Near enough. The house went to elderly relatives of Berkeley's back east. They had no interest in moving out west and the house had a bad reputation locally. Finally it was sold off with the surrounding acreage to Cornelius Wagnalls, who built this house. Wagnalls lost everything when the stock market crashed in 1929, and Oliver's grandfather bought the estate in auction." "And the house was left closed up all that time?" "Mostly. There are stories about Wagnalls offering the house to his daughter as a wedding present, and her walking inside and walking straight out again." He raised his black eye brows suggestively. "Atmosphere," he said. "Or thirty years of dust." I smiled absently, reminded suddenly of the previous evening, the way it had felt being together. It was still hard for me to believe that I'd done that. Or that he had. It seemed risky to even question it. It had been a one off. It had felt good at the time, but now I needed to forget about it. So how the hell come I kept thinking about it? I said briskly, talking myself away from my wayward thoughts, "Are you ever going to tell me what you saw at Berkeley House way back when?" Sam tilted his beer bottle up, his eyes studying me wryly over the top. 143


"Is this going in the book?" "Not if you don't want it to." That was a rash promise; I wasn't sure if it would go in the book or not, but I wanted to hear what he had to say. "Okay, well, it's not like I have an actual incident to report. I used to go over to the house. This is about twenty years ago." How old was he? Late thirties? Early forties? I tried to picture him as a little kid. I kept getting tall, grim-faced with five o'clock shadow. "What did you see?" "Nothing." At my expression he said, "I never saw anything, but ... it was an ... uneasy place. It had a vibe, I'll give you that." "Did you ever go upstairs?" "A few times." He shrugged. "By then there wasn't much left to see, but when Oliver was a kid there was still some furniture and bits and pieces of Berkeley's magic apparatus." "For real?" "Yeah. No one seriously ever tried to secure the premises, so piece by piece, it all vanished or was destroyed by vandals. Oliver's grandfather donated the best of what was left to the Historical Preservation Society." "What kind of stuff was there?" He eyes rested on my face; it was probably my imagination, but for a moment his expression seemed to soften. "Books mostly. A guillotine. A portrait of David Berkeley." 144


"I saw that guillotine today. Pretty impressive. The portrait too." He smiled reluctantly. "You love this stuff, don't you? Everything from the magic tricks to the spooky old house." "Well ... it'll make a great chapter for the book and ... yeah. I do." I waited for him to say something rude or belittling, but he just grimaced and reached for his beer. "What was it like upstairs?" "Like the downstairs." I opened my mouth to object, and he said patiently, "There was a lot of junk and a lot of cobwebs and dust. A few skeletons of sea gulls that flew in through broken windows and couldn't get out again." "Did you go through all the rooms?" "Yes," he said. "I did. And I crawled around in the attic." Here was a valuable resource if he'd be willing to cooperate. Correctly reading my expression, he said, "That wasn't the creepy part." "What was?" "The cellar." His eyes flicked to mine and I wasn't sure if he was about to pull my leg or not. "Cold as ice. A cold like nothing I've ever felt. I only ever went down there once. That was enough." "The cellar? Not the library?" "The cellar." "But Berkeley killed himself in the library." "So the story goes." 145


I fastened on this. "Is there any reason to think he didn't kill himself there?" "Not that I know of." There was nothing about the cellar in any of the stories about Berkeley house, so I couldn't figure why there would be a cold spot in the cellar. Lights in the upper story and an unnatural chill in the cellar: two supernatural manifestations that didn't make any sense. Whether they made sense or not, I wanted to check the house out, experience its secrets for myself. Afraid that Sam might read my thoughts—he seemed pretty good at that—I changed the subject again. "How long have you been a cop?" His face tightened. "Ten years." Yes, there was something there. Something to do with his job. "Do you like it?" "Yeah." "Are you on vacation now?" He gave me a long level look, planning, if I read his look correctly, to tell me it was none of my fucking business. But instead, he said neutrally, "I'm on ... leave." "Oh." Medical leave? He looked healthy as a horse. What other kinds of leave were there? I was still thinking it over as he changed the subject, turning the tables once more. "Oliver says you teach at UCLA?" I nodded, reached for my beer. 146


"You've got a pretty good football team heading into spring practice." "Twenty returning starters and an experienced core group of players." "And you teach history?" He really had been listening the night before. "Mostly. One course on parapsychology." "How long?" "Six years." He nodded thoughtfully. It was the slightly awkward conversation you make on a first date. I almost asked him how he felt about Oliver trying to set us up, but remembering how quiet and intense he had been when we'd fucked, I held my tongue. It seemed to me that he was not a guy to tease. I must have been looking at him oddly, though, because he raised his brows. "What?" I shook my head. "Thanks for dinner. My turn tomorrow night." "Are you staying for dinner? I figured you'd be taking off early. Beat the traffic." Meaning he'd hoped I would be taking off early? Probably. "I ... was thinking I might stay over Sunday." I was? Sam raised his brows. "Unless you have a problem with that?" He shrugged. "It's not a problem for me. You're Oliver's guest." "Right. Well ... good." For some damn reason I couldn't come up with anything else to say. I'd thought—well, I hadn't 147


really thought anything. I'd hoped—no. No, I definitely wasn't hoping for anything. In fact, I had no idea what the hell I was thinking or why I had suggested staying another night. Sam said slowly, "Did you know Berkeley was found just moments after he used the guillotine? The local story is that when they picked up his severed head he opened his eyes and spoke." I stared at him. I knew it was just a story, but for some reason my face felt stiff as I formed the question, "What did he say?" "Dum spiro spero." A chill rippled down my spine. "Which means what?" "It's Latin." "For what?" I asked a little impatiently. Gravely he said, "While I breathe, I hope." He laughed at my expression, and I was glad it was too dark for him to see that I was red as well. "Funny," I managed. He was still laughing. "So is there actually any story about Berkeley being found after he used the guillotine?" He sobered. His eyes, black in the uneven light, met mine. After a moment, he said, "No. Of course not." I realized he was lying. "You know, there are scientists who believe that when a head is suddenly severed it takes the brain a while to realize what's happened. There are recorded instances of severed heads responding to someone speaking their name or touching their cheek." 148


He said flatly, "Berkeley was found days later. There's no story about his severed head." "How do you know when he was found? I've never read anything about it." "Anecdotal evidence. There are still a few old-timers with stories about Berkeley." He rose and picked up his plate and mine. "Don't let your imagination run away with you, Professor," he threw over his shoulder. After a moment I stood, gathering the rest of the dishes, following Sam into the house. He had the dishwasher open and was loading it. "I'll wash up," I told him, and he nodded and left me to it. It didn't take me long. I finished loading the machine, turned it on and went upstairs to bed. Setting my wristwatch for 11:30 I lay down to nap, but it took a long time to relax. I could hear the TV downstairs, little twitches of the house settling down for the night, the wind.... I woke at the creak of floorboards down the hall and the sound of Sam's bedroom door shutting. Raising my head, I checked my wristwatch. Ten-thirty. Early yet. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep. My wristwatch was going off softly next to my ear. I rolled over, peered at the luminous dial in the gloom. Eleven fortyfive. Time to get moving. I sat up, pulled on my jeans and shirt. Found my shoes and socks, holding them in one hand as I eased open the bedroom door. I paused. Moonlight dappled the floor like silver lily pads on the shiny dark wood. 149


Not a sound from down the hall. I tiptoed down the lily pads past Sam's closed door, hesitating at the squeak of a floorboard. I waited. Behind the door on my right, I could hear Sam snoring, and I bit back a grin. I continued down the hall, down the stairs and out through the front door, which I locked quietly behind me. I sat down on the porch steps and slipped my tennis shoes on, pulled my sweatshirt over my head. Rising, I glanced back and the black window of Sam's bedroom. I hoped to God the neighborhood burglars didn't pick tonight to hit Oliver's. **** Berkeley House was, unsurprisingly, quiet as the grave on a crisp and chilly Saturday night. I crawled in through the library window and hesitated for a moment in the darkness. It was very dark with only my flashlight to guide my way across the uneven floor. The video camera whirred softly away in the indistinct gloom of the library. I checked the meter. It had only started running two hours ago, so there was still plenty of time and tape. For laughs, I tried tapping on a few walls. Berkeley was an illusionist. I thought it was likely he might have a hidden room or a secret passageway built into the house. But the place was huge and some of the rooms were no longer even accessible due to broken flooring and tumbled walls. I 150


wondered if it would be possible to lay hands on a set of blueprints for the house. Mason might know. Remembering Sam's comments about the cellar, I started hunting for the kitchen. There were two doors at the end of the long former dining room. One door turned out to be false, apparently existing only to add symmetry to the room's architecture. The second door led down a short passage to the enormous old kitchen. The flash light picked out where the ovens had stood, the wreck of cupboards, and another door leading into what must have been the pantry. Staring up, I saw the gallery where the lady of the house would have stood to drop her instructions for the day's menu down to the kitchen staff. Of course there had been no lady of the house in Berkeley's day, so maybe he had stood up there himself. For some reason the image of that tall, thin figure standing up in the gallery gave me goose bumps. I turned away, making my way to the far end of the kitchen where an empty door frame led out onto a porch. That couldn't be it. I started back across the wasteland of dirt and debris. The flashlight beam picked out another door I had missed when I'd entered the kitchen. It was positioned near the kitchen entrance, set off to the side of the hallway. I studied the peeling surface for a moment and reached for the tarnished knob. It seemed stuck. I tugged harder and the handle came off in my hand. The door swung gently open. 151


The dank breath of the cellar gusted out. I could feel clammy stink against my face. A chill wave of sick horror came over me. Okay. Maybe not. I shoved the door closed and stood there for a moment panting in the wake of that cold miasma. What the hell was that? I backed up trying to make sense of it. I'd experienced a few cold spots in my investigations—though nothing that couldn't be explained by underground springs or faulty architecture—and occasionally I'd felt something that prickled the hair on the back of my neck, but this was the first time I'd ever felt anything quite that ... extreme. Mouth dry as sand, heart banging away in my chest in that flight or fight instinct, I began to reason with myself. It was just bad air. Stale air. It was dust. Mold. Mildew. The damp. That scene from the movie The Haunting flashed into my mind. Gloomy old housekeeper, Mrs. Dudley warning poor doomed Eleanor, There won't be anyone around if you need help. We couldn't even hear you, in the night. In the dark.... Right. In the night. In the dark. In the damp. That seeping damp ... pervasive and oppressive ... like a gust of swamp gas or the tainted air from a crypt. It brushed against my face like a veil. Even if there was some kind of presence—no, not presence. Presence was the wrong word. Even if there was some kind of supernatural manifestation, that didn't mean 152


there was any danger. Outside of the movies, no one has ever been killed by a ghost. I was still telling myself this as I stumbled back towards the door opening onto the dining room. I grabbed the handle, relieved when it turned. Why wouldn't it turn? Why was I overreacting over a little bit of moist and mildew? I made my way through the broken planks and plaster, almost falling over a loose floorboard in my haste. Christ. I was acting like the very nitwit Sam believed I was. Blundering back into the hallway, I paused to get my bearings. Something moved in the surrounding pitch blackness and my heart stopped. I swung my flashlight in the direction of that soft sound. A mouse froze in the glare of my flashlight and then whisked itself away behind a baseboard. I sucked in a sharp breath, told myself to get my shit together. Okay. There were good reasons not to explore the cellar. It was a foul place, and it wasn't even mentioned in any of the stories about Berkeley House. So no need to prove anything to myself. Logically, there was no reason to go down there. If I did decide to explore the cellar, it would be better to do that during the day. But actually it would be better to just forget about the cellar because Sam was right. It was dangerous down there. The house really was unsafe. I could break a leg easily. Or my neck. I reached the library with a feeling of relief. The relief was short-lived. 153


As I stood there listening to the breeze through the broken window scuttle leaves or old newspaper around the floor, I got that sensation of being watched. A feeling of increasing anxiety crept over me. I turned my flashlight into the cobwebbed corners of the room. Nothing. I shone it at the black mouth of the doorway. A prickly shivering darkness seemed to lay in wait beyond the doorway. Yeah. Right. Really, what the fuck was my problem? I resolutely turned from the doorway and scouted out a reasonably clean place of floor space near to the wall. Wrapping myself in my blanket, I sat down with pad and pen. The spring moon moved slowly across the floor, the shadows lengthened, deepened... The repetitive rasp of sliding metal, a cold hollow thunk, and the jangling pull of a chain filtered into my dreams. I started awake. To a crisp and eerie silence. I listened tensely. To nothing. I rubbed my eyes, checked my watch. Three-thirty. The camera was still running. I took a look at the electromagnetic detector. The needle was trembling, indicating strong erratic fluctuating EMFs. I watched it in the circle of my flashlight beam. The needle stilled. I waited for something else to happen. 154


Nothing did. I jotted down the time and event in my log, then made myself sit down again to wait. Outside the window I could hear crickets chirping. Bed sounded better and better. Especially since I couldn't seem to keep my eyes open. Electromagnetic fields could result from a number of things, but that sound had been so ... real. I could still hear the echo of the slow distinct draw of chain, the swift steely bite, and the crunch of blade on ... on flesh and bone? Too much red meat, that's what this was about. A heavy dinner and not enough sleep. Unfolding painfully, I set my unused pad aside—I wasn't about to write down my dreams—folded up the blanket and crawled out through the window. I hurried through the shambles of the garden, pausing on the edge to look back at the house. The scent of eucalyptus hung heavy in the night air. I told myself that if I saw lights in the second story windows, I would go back, so it was a relief to see only black and broken panes reflecting the night sky. I started back up the road towards Oliver's house. It seemed a long way that night—as though the overgrown road were elastic, stretching further and further despite the energetic pace I set. I began to think about the figure in the road the previous evening. Except ... not a mysterious figure, after all, but rather a famous and well-respected artist. With a penchant for sauntering through the woods at night. Well, everyone needs a hobby. 155


But the way Thaddeus Stern had followed me through the woods—that wasn't normal behavior. That was ... disquieting. The way he'd stood there watching me, moving closer and closer across the lawn. He'd practically emanated malevolence. Or had my tiredness and imagination got the better of me? Given the direction my thoughts were going, I guess it wasn't surprising that when someone stepped out of the bushes right to the side of me, I shot off the ground like I'd had springs installed in my feet. A blast of fear and adrenaline surged through me, I turned and bolted—slamming right into a thick tree trunk. ***** I was seeing stars. "Are you all right?" The voice floating above me was soft and alarmed. A black bulk bent over me. I jackknifed up—and just missed banging heads with the owner of the voice. "I-I think so..." Actually, I felt a little sick in the wake of that rush of fear and adrenaline—not to mention the shock of hitting my head. I had a blurred impression of massive shoulders and silver fur. It didn't do much to settle my nerves. Feeling around in the grass, I found my glasses and examined the wire frames doubtfully. The lenses were fine but the frames fit crookedly when I slipped them on. I viewed my companion. He was big—even bigger than Sam. Tall and broad with a dark hawkish face and long silver hair and beard. Silver eyebrows too. 156


"Here, let me help you up." Forceful hands fastened on my upper arms and lifted me onto my feet. "I didn't mean to frighten you." "You didn't." I put a hand to my forehead, brought it away. No blood as far as I could tell. That was good, though I could feel a knot rising beneath my cautious fingers. It pulsed, tender to the touch. "You're Oliver's little friend." His eyes were very dark, like black holes in his face. I irritably shook off my fancifulness. An elderly man and the safety of Oliver's house within sprinting distance: there was nothing here I couldn't handle. I bent to brush myself off. "I don't know if friend is quite the right word," I glanced up. "I don't know if little is quite the right word. You make me sound like a pet rabbit." He chuckled. "Sure you're all right?" "Mostly. You're Thaddeus Sterne, aren't you?" "Yes." He did that chuckling thing again. I said as though we were standing in C.K.'s gallery, "I'm a great admirer of your work." "Are you?" He sounded amused. "Would you like to come back to my house and see some of it?" It seemed an odd time for a visit, even if he was one of living legends of the art world. "I should probably be getting back," I said regretfully. "I think you should come with me," he said gently. "David Berkeley's waiting for you."

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"I ... what?" I jerked upright, interested at how calm I sounded. Calm and a little faint. Which was pretty much how I felt. "Look." He pointed down the road. I stared. There in the bend where the trees dipped low and the shadows were deep I could see— No. I didn't see anything but shadows. And Thaddeus Sterne was almost certainly off his rocker. But my eyes wouldn't seem to look away, and as I focused I seemed to be able to pick out the tall, faceless figure. A tall man standing silent in the center of the path. This was what I had seen the night I arrived. Not Thaddeus Sterne at all. The shade of David Berkeley. Ridiculous. I was just reacting to the suggestion... "Why would he wait for me?" I asked carefully, unable to tear my gaze away from the umbra in the path. "I don't know." I could feel Thaddeus's gaze on my profile. "You keep returning to the house. Maybe he thinks you're looking for him." I was too tired to work this out. And then it occurred to me that I was having a very strange dream. It had to be a dream. I could imagine myself telling Sam about it over dreadful coffee in the morning: I was standing in the woods talking to Thad Sterne about David Berkeley—and David Berkeley was right there listening to us. I said to Thaddeus, "I thought it was you following me the other night." He said, "You'd better come back with me and let me take a look at that bump on your head." 158


Yeah, I had to be dreaming. I was tucked up in bed right now. So it was okay to go along with this—it wasn't for real, and I was curious about how it was all going to work itself out. I nodded, keeping one eye on the dark shadows where I thought I'd seen ... Berkeley's specter. We didn't take the path, though, Thaddeus pushed right through the bushes and I followed him so there was no need to pass that point in the road where Berkeley waited. "It's not far," he assured me. He moved in long powerful strides once we cleared the shrubbery. I trailed after him. We walked until we came to a house that looked like an Arts and Crafts masterpiece: a rambling shingle-style in dark wood with a multitude of brightly lit windows. Thaddeus trudged up the interlocking stone front path and pushed open the unlocked front door. "You're not afraid of burglars?" I asked. He tittered, holding the door so that I could precede him inside. "No danger of that. What do I have that anyone would want?" I stared around at an informal wall-to-wall gallery of paintings, a fortune in Thaddeus Sterne art work. It seemed to me pretty obvious what someone might want, but I let it go. There's no point debating with people in your dreams. Thaddeus led the way to a large room that was also lined with paintings. Obviously the rumors were wrong; he hadn't quit painting. He had just quit exhibiting. I sank down on the nearest surface: a velvet-covered sofa straight out of a Victorian novel. My head hurt, but mostly I 159


just felt tired and a little woozy. Sterne left me for a few moments and returned with an old-fashioned ice pack. I applied it cautiously to my forehead. Disappearing again, he reappeared with a decanter. He poured two cognacs, one of which he handed to me. I said apologetically, "I probably shouldn't after a knock on the head." He shrugged, set the glass on the flimsy table next to the sofa, and then dropped down in a giant brocade chair. He leaned forward, frowning beneath the shaggy silver eyebrows. "Tell me about Oliver?" I shifted the ice pack. "Tell you ... what?" "How did he look?" "Good. Healthy. Happy." He nodded. Stared at his drink. Had that been the wrong answer? "Did he say when he was coming home?" "Not to me." I added uncomfortably, "I think he's in Paris now." "Yes. He loves Paris." He tossed back the cognac in his glass. "You must have made quite an impression on him." I said honestly, "I think he felt sorry for me. I'd broken up with my boyfriend and ... I wasn't taking it well." He stared at me. "He can be very kind," he said at last. "He was to me." There was a very strange silence. I realized that more than anything I wanted to lie down on this velveteen couch and go to sleep. 160


"We grew up together, me and Oliver. We've always been together." I guess it was all how you defined "together." I searched around for something to say. He obviously was only interested in one topic. "What was he like back then?" He said dryly, "Like he is now, only faster on his feet." "Did you know Sam when he was a boy?" I heard myself ask—proof that I'd been knocked harder on the noggin than I supposed. Sterne smiled, his face unexpectedly relaxed. "Oh yes. He spent all his summers here when he was growing up. Sammy's a sweetheart." I made a noncommittal noise. I hadn't seen that side of him yet, but he certainly had the Silver Panther vote. Sterne chuckled again. I wished he wouldn't. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "You shouldn't go in the house. It isn't safe. Especially for you, I think." I stiffened. "Why especially for me?" "Not every door you open is possible to close." "That's certainly cryptic." He just eyed me in that calm way. "Did you ever see...?" I realized it was a foolish question. He had seen whatever I had tonight. The question was what had we seen? How much of it was imagination—or suggestion—and how much of it was bad lighting? "Sam said he used to play—" I paused, wondering if "play" was the right word to describe anything Sam might have done. 161


"Boys will be boys," Sterne remarked. He reached for my untouched cognac. "Oliver and I used to prowl through the house when we were lads, too." "You know the story about Berkeley killing himself in the library?" "Using the guillotine from his act? Oh yes. The guillotine was long gone by then, of course, but you could still see the bloodstains on the floor." The ice pack was leaking cold water down the back of my neck. I shuddered, studying Sterne, not sure whether to believe him or not. He smiled maliciously. "Or maybe we just hoped that's what those stains were." He eyed me speculatively. I said, "Is there some legend about Berkeley's severed head speaking when he was found?" He laughed heartily. "Where did you hear that old horror story?" "So there is such a story?" "Amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus." "Which means what exactly?" Did everyone in this damn place speak Latin? "Love is rich with both honey and venom." I stared at him. "That can't be true." Why had Sam lied? "Of course not." His eyes were puzzled. "It's just a story some fool made up. You know the legend of course? Berkeley killed himself when his childhood sweetheart ran off with his best friend." "A local painter by the name of Aaron Perry." 162


"That's right!" He looked pleased. "Have you seen the portrait?" I nodded. "It's not bad, is it? Aaron Perry had something. It's a shame none of the rest of his work survived. Berkeley was at the height of his fame when that portrait was painted. Fame being relative. He traveled all over the world: England, Spain, Paris—" his voice was bitter on the word "Paris." "He performed in music halls and carnivals and circuses. Anywhere he could. He didn't come home for years on end, but I suppose he thought the girl would wait forever. She didn't." The silence was definitely awkward. "I should probably be getting back," I said. "Do you know the way?" "Yes. I think so." "Take the road. Don't cut through the woods." I didn't answer that. I wasn't sure that he wasn't deliberately trying to spook me—no pun intended. Sterne followed me to the front door. "Thank you for visiting," he said politely. "I don't get much company. Everyone thinks I'm crazy." He chuckled and closed the door in my face. **** "Shit!" Sunday morning, I studied myself with dismay in the steamy bathroom mirror. A colorful bruise marked my brow 163


bone where the tree branch had whacked me the night before. Now how was I supposed to explain that? I raked my hair over my forehead. If I didn't mind it in my eyes, it was long enough to cover the special effects. I just had to remember not to move my head around too much. I sighed and reached for my shaving cream brush. Not so pretty a boy this morning. Lathering my face, I considered last night's adventures. If I didn't have the bruises to prove it, I'd have wondered if I'd dreamed the entire evening. As it was, the events had an Alice in Wonderland quality to them. Or maybe I was thinking of the Jabberwocky. I'd definitely experienced a sinister moment or two in that house. Probably my own overactive imagination, but I couldn't wait to get hold of the video camera and see what might have been captured on tape. "What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked, looking up out of the paper when I wondered into the kitchen a short time later. So much for my hair disguising the damage. I walked over to the coffee maker. This morning Sam appeared to be boiling tar in it. Perhaps he planned on working on the roof. "I—er—went for a walk last night and banged into a tree." I replied, wondering if Thaddeus would confirm my story or whether he'd come up with his own version, which was liable to include details about me climbing out of Berkeley House at three o'clock in the morning. "A walk in the woods?" "It's true, believe it or not." 164


To my alarm he tossed the paper aside and got up, coming over to examine me. I flinched as he raised his hand—and he halted mid-reach. Just for an instant hurt flared in his eyes. "Rhys—" I had a sudden understanding of how often people reacted to his size and rough-hewn looks, without giving him an opportunity to be anything else. That wasn't my problem, but how could he know that? "Really, Sam, it's okay," I said awkwardly. He brushed the hair off my forehead. I went stiffer than a plank of wood, feeling that gentle touch in every cell of my body. I swallowed nervously, my throat making a little squeaky sound. "That shade of purple just about matches your eyes," he said with wry humor. I smiled weakly. It felt funny having to look up into his eyes—funnier still was the expression in them. I couldn't make it out but just for a second I thought he was about to... Actually, I don't know what I thought. "There's coffee," he said laconically, lowering his hand and moving back to the table. "Is that what that is?" No wonder he was such a grim guy if he started every morning out with a dose of molten lava. "I ground the beans myself." "They have a machine for that, you know." He grinned a wolfish grin. "I waited for you as long as I could."

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Oddly, I remembered Thaddeus saying that Berkeley had assumed his sweetheart would wait forever. Which reminded me. "I ran into Thaddeus Sterne last night." His face changed, the friendliness draining out of it. I said defensively, "I wasn't looking for him. Why would I? He stepped out of the trees and startled me. That's how I got this." I pointed at my forehead. After a moment he relaxed and nodded. I felt a flicker of guilt. And unease. Maybe I should have shut up about Sterne; now it was sure to come up between them as a topic of conversation. "How was he?" he inquired. "I think he misses Oliver. A lot." "Yeah." He sighed. He didn't seem like the type to waste time sighing over what couldn't be changed, but that was the impression I had. Then he jerked his thumb back at the stove. "I fried up some Spam and eggs, if you're hungry." "No you didn't," I said. He looked puzzled. "Yeah, I did." "Spam? Nobody eats Spam." "I got news for you. Spam is delicious and nutritious." "I'll give you delicious. No, actually, I can't in good conscience give you either of those." "Suit yourself," Sam said. "There's probably a stale box of oatmeal somewhere." I raised the lid on the frying pan and the warm, salty smell of fried eggs and ham hit my salivary glands. I hadn't realized quite how hungry I was. 166


"Well, I guess I have to eat something," I conceded, reaching for a clean plate. "You do eat a lot for such a little guy." "'Little guy?' Excuse me, King Kong, but I'm nearly six feet." His eyes flickered at the King Kong crack, but then he laughed. "Better keep your strength up then, Cheetah. Especially if you're going to be taking many moonlight strolls." It was suddenly hard to avoid his gaze. "What brought on that sudden desire for fresh air, by the way?" I could come clean right now. I could tell Sam everything that had happened—or at least everything I had dreamed. But if I told him, I knew without a doubt he'd have my equipment out of Berkeley House and me packed and on my way back to Los Angeles before my Spam and eggs were cold. That's what I told myself, anyway, but what I really shied away from was risking this jokey almost companionable truce between us. "I wanted to see if I could catch another glimpse of those lights over at Berkeley House." He was silent. I kept my eyes pinned on my plate while I shoveled in eggs, waiting for him to press it. I tried to decide if lying by omission was as bad as lying straight to his face— and whether I had it in me to lie straight to his face in any case. I wasn't sure I could anymore. So it was a relief—and a surprise—when he all he said was, "Did you see the lights?" "No." He nodded, and then went back to his newspaper. 167


After my delicious and nutritious breakfast, I went out to the pool to have a heart attack and read over my notes in peace. Not that Sam was disturbing me, except that somehow his presence was harder and harder to put out of my mind. In fact, I was astonished to realize that I hadn't given C.K. a single thought in almost twenty-four hours. It was warm and sunny by the pool; summer wasn't far off now, and the events of the night before felt more and more distant and unreal. I turned my laptop on, working while the pool water lapped soothingly against the filter and the sun moved lazily across the bricks. As I tapped and clicked, I began to wonder about Aaron Perry and Charity Keith. Their story seemed to stop with the event of their running off together; no source ever mentioned them after the elopement. Of course, I had never thought to ask anyone about them before... I plugged "Charity Keith" into Google, but came up with nothing. "Aaron Perry" brought up musicians, actors and basketball players—none of whom fit the profile. There was quite a bit of information on David Berkeley—a lot it totally inaccurate—and there were several mentions of the runaway lovers, but nothing about what had become of them. Nothing about the talking head either, for what that was worth. I was pretty sure Sam had brought that up to freak me out, and then for some reason changed his mind and turned it into that silly joke. Had the eloping couple never returned to their hometown? A little drastic, surely? Or was public opinion so strongly in 168


favor of Berkeley that they had decided they needed a fresh start? Or had they feared some reprisal from Berkeley? I thought about this for a moment, eyes narrowed against the sunlight dancing on the water. I wasn't sure why that idea had come to me; perhaps it was the unsettled feeling I had about Berkeley's—alleged—specter. If it hadn't been Thaddeus Sterne in the woods that first night ... if it really had been the shade of David Berkeley ... then there was no denying the sense of threat I'd had. But maybe the Perrys had returned. Maybe no one mentioned them because David Berkeley was the star of that show, and what interest was there in a couple of ordinary newlyweds settling down to run-of-the-mill domestic bliss? Why had none of Aaron Perry's other paintings survived if he had continued to live and work in Ventisca? Maybe they weren't any good? Maybe they had survived but no one recognized them as Perry's since he wasn't a famous artist? Maybe he had stopped painting and got a day job. The absence of other paintings didn't prove the Perrys hadn't returned to Ventisca; it was just interesting, that was all. I could check out the local graveyard. Maybe check church records? A shadow fell across the lounge chair. I glanced up. "Feel like taking a break?" Sam asked. "What's up?" He said very casually, "I was thinking of going into town for lunch. Want to come?" 169


I did—how much startled me—but as I opened my mouth to say yes, I realized I would lose a much-needed opportunity to slip over to Berkeley House and change the video tapes, resetting them for the night. I might not get another chance. Besides, I needed to hear whether the ghostly guillotine sounds had been in my imagination or had actually been recorded. "I'm not at a place where I can stop," I said reluctantly, nodding to the laptop. He glanced at his watch and said tentatively, "Well, how about in another hour or so?" "I—uh—I really need to keep working," I excused. My own disappointment startled me, but I didn't see a way around it. "Rain check?" I said hopefully. Even as I said it I realized how stupid that was. When would there be time for a rain check? I'd be leaving tomorrow. "Sure," Sam said indifferently, his face closing up again into its usual hard lines. "See you later." He went back into the house and I stared unseeing at the computer screen. The minute I heard his car pull away, I shut down my laptop and ran inside the house. I pulled on Levis, stepped into tennis shoes, and hotfooted it over to Berkeley House. There was no sign of anyone in the woods—for a change—and my fears of the night before seemed the result of not enough sleep.

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Slipping through the broken library window, I quickly changed the tapes, stuck the recorded video in the smaller video cam and started out again. Leg over the sill, I hesitated. Why not take a look at the cellar in the daylight? Last night I had been overtired and, I had to confess, I'd let the atmosphere of the old place get to me. But today the house was just a slightly depressing wreck, and there was no reason not to check out the cellar. In fact, there was every reason to take a look, since it was my job to investigate paranormal occurrences, right? I ducked back under the sill and made my way down the hall and through the ruined dining room. The chill hit me as I slipped through the dining room side door, but it was cold inside the center of the house, removed from the light and warmth of the day. Rounding the corner, I stopped, letting my flashlight play over the scratched and battered door to the cellar. The door was closed again. The knob had been replaced on its spindle. I stared at it for a long time, trying to remember when I'd replaced it. I reached for the knob and then let my hand drop back to my side. My skin crawled at the thought of opening the door to that ... to that what? What was my problem? I yanked open the door. Cold. Bitter cold seeping through my clothes, my skin, right to my bones.... I slammed the door shut. 171


Fuck. I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself step through that door, let alone go down the steps to the cellar. And that fact alone seemed to indicate that there was something here, something at least worth mentioning in the book. I'd never felt anything like it. Everything else ... the shadowy figure in the woods, the lights, the noise of the guillotine, everything else could be put down to fatigue or imagination or suggestion. But whatever was on the other side of this door.... Suddenly I wanted out of that house about as intensely as I'd ever wanted anything in my life. As I crossed the hall to the dining room my foot stuck to the floor. I shone my flashlight on the sole of my shoe. A dime-sized piece of plastic. Not plastic. Hard candy. I could see a candy wrapper blowing inside the house but there was no way a half-sucked lozenge of candy had wafted here on its own. And there was no way David Berkeley's ghost—with or without a head—was eating hard candies. Someone—a human someone—had been inside the house besides me. ***** Kids, I thought. Not that I had seen any kids around, but candy and trespassing in haunted house seemed to indicate an adolescent hand.

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Or perhaps ... Thaddeus? He didn't seem particularly fearful of the house, but he also didn't seem like the candypopping type. Or maybe he did. How would I know? There was a reasonable chance I had the answer on the video tape—assuming the candy-sucking intruder had showed up during the hours I'd been recording. I remembered the floating lights in the attic and the sounds of sliding metal and clanking chains—had someone faked guillotine sounds and a ghostly presence? Why? The house was already abandoned and no one seemed to show much of an interest in it aside from me—and my interest was temporary. It's not like I planned to move in there. The house itself didn't seem long for this world. I stick-stuck my way across the floor, the dirt on the wood gradually working the candy loose and off my shoe sole. Climbing out the library window, I was startled to see that the day had grown overcast, the sun retreating behind heavy cloud cover. A cold salty wind blew off the sea. I crept my way through the overgrown garden and then slipped into the woods, making my way back to Oliver's. Sam was still not back, but as I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway, I saw that it was nearly four-thirty. He might be on his way back now. He'd been gone all afternoon. I hunted around until I found a television hidden inside a lavish antique armoire. It took a few moments to figure out the inputs, but at last I had the camera hooked up to the TV. I pressed play and stood back to watch. Gray snow and the ear-blast of static. 173


I turned down the sound and tried different channels. No good. I hit fast forward. The tape was blank. "Damn." Camera malfunction? Pilot error? I couldn't make sense of it. I'd used this camera dozens of time without problem. Could someone have tampered with it? A candy-sucking saboteur? But why wouldn't such a person simply have turned the camera off—or smashed it? Hearing the sound of a car in the drive, I snapped off the TV. I wiggled the cord free, grabbed the camera and ran for the stairs. Foot on the bottom step, I heard Sam's key in the front door lock. I froze, spied the hall closet door, and jerked it open, setting the camera inside. I turned as the door swung open. Sam, was balancing white bags of take out while trying to pull his key from the door. I felt a weird mix of pleasure and guilt at the sight of him, and although I had been planning to make my escape upstairs with the evidence as quickly as possible, I found myself walking towards him. "Hi." "Hi." He smiled a little self-consciously. "How'd the work go?" "Good." This was ridiculous. I actually felt ... shy. "I thought tonight we'd both get a night off." He held up one of the bags. "You like Chinese?" 174


"I love Chinese." He gave another one of those lopsided smiles like he was still practicing getting the expression right. "Grab some plates and a bottle of wine. We'll eat in the study." He added as an afterthought, "If that's okay with you." "Yeah, it's okay." His eyes met mine. I waited 'til he vanished into the study, then I opened the closet door, grabbed the camera and took the stairs two at a time. I dropped the camera inside the doorway of my room and raced downstairs. No sign of Sam, but I could smell woodsmoke. I uncorked a bottle of wine, found glasses, and carried the plates into the study. Sam had dragged a short table over to the fireplace and was setting out little white cartons. "Cashew chicken, barbecue spare ribs, sesame beef...." I poured the wine into the glasses and settled on the floor beside him facing the fire. Something was different. Something had changed. I could feel it, even though I couldn't identify what it was. I knew the change was partly in myself—and I knew the change was partly in Sam. Every time I met his eyes—which was frequently—something in his gaze warmed me, lifted my heart. Suddenly there was a lot to say, each of us rushing into speech, pausing, smiling, to let the other talk. I let Sam refill my glass a couple of times and I looked forward to the night ahead. 175


When we finished eating, Sam slipped his arm around my shoulders and I turned my head to find his mouth. I closed my eyes, liking the feel of his mouth on mine, firm and warm, liking his gentleness and liking his assurance. My heart started to pound hard in my chest as his tongue brushed my upper lip. "I've never known anyone like you," he said against my mouth. It almost sounded like an apology. I smiled and his tongue slipped into my mouth, a dark and sweet kiss. Our tongues pushed delicately against each other, whorled, withdrew. I laughed, snatched a quick unsteady breath. It had been a long time since kissing had been a big part of my sexual repertoire. With C.K. time had always been of the essence, both of us busy with our careers and outside demands. I hadn't realized quite how many outside demands C.K. had until one of them insisted he break up with me. Sam rested his hand on my jaw, turned my face to his and kissed me deeper still, taking my breath away as his tongue touched, tested, tasted. Weren't there something like eight thousand taste buds on an adult tongue? Every one of mine seemed to be experiencing its very first burst of flavor: a smoky blend of alcohol and cashew chicken and something uniquely masculine—uniquely Sam. The phone rang above our heads. Sam stiffened. I moaned. He tore his mouth away. "Who the hell is that?" I complained. He kissed the corner of my mouth, and sat up. "Thad probably. No one else ever calls here." 176


The phone continued to shrill away. Sam rolled to his feet and picked it up. I listened to the one-sided conversation. Since that was Sam's part of the conversation, there was basically nothing to hear. "Yeah ... Okay ... Sure ... No. No problem, Oliver. I'll handle it." He hung up the phone and studied me ruefully. "Feel like a walk in the woods?" "Seriously?" "Oliver says he got a strange phone call from Thaddeus a while ago. He wants me to go over there and check that he's okay." I sat up. "Okay." We grabbed jackets from the hall closet and locked the front door behind us. The moon was lost behind the heavy clouds as we cut through the woods, but our two flashlights provided enough light as we pounded down the dirt path. "What are you smiling at?" Sam asked during the silence that had fallen between us. If he could tell I was smiling in the dark, he had to be paying pretty close attention. "I was just thinking I'd put money on you over David Berkeley's ghost any day of the week." He sounded amused. "I thought you weren't afraid of ghosts?" "I'm just sayin'." Actually, I was saying too much, but I wasn't used to having to deceive anyone in the course of my work. And I liked less and less having to lie or conceal things 177


from Sam. I tried to think of a way to tell him I'd been sneaking into Berkeley House before Thaddeus brought it up, but I hated the thought of losing this new-found harmony. And maybe Thaddeus wouldn't say anything. Maybe whatever had us hot-footing it over to his house in the middle of the night would require all his attention. And if he did bring it up, maybe having a third party present would keep Sam from getting too angry, and give me a little time to explain my side of it. Only one light was on at Thaddeus's house. Remembering the blaze of lamps the night before, it struck me as ominous. Sam banged on the door, but after a pause that seemed long enough to confirm my fears, Thaddeus swung open the door. He was wearing a purple paisley silk dressing gown and his hair looked like he had stuck his finger in a wall socket. He reeked of booze. "Oliver sent you," he said immediately. "He's worried," Sam said. "Can we come in?" Thaddeus's eyes moved from Sam to me. He said, "He's not so worried that he'll come home." For a minute I thought he was talking about me. He continued to stare at me. "Can we come in, Thad?" Sam repeated. And after a moment Thaddeus moved aside and led the way into the house. We trailed him into the room where he'd played host to me the night before. Sam sat down as though it was an ordinary visit, and after a moment, I sat too, choosing a chair off to the side. I was sort of hoping Thad might forget all about me. 178


We watched as he poured himself another cognac. His hands shook. "You think that's going to help?" Sam asked. "It can't hurt," Thaddeus retorted. He poured another glass and handed it to Sam. Looking blearily around, he spotted me. "There you are." He poured a third unsteady glass and I half-rose to take it from him. Sam savored, swallowed, and said, "What's going on, Thad?" "I'm old and I'm tired and I'm lonely," Thad said pretty crisply for a guy who'd apparently downed a half bottle of cognac. "I've come to the end of my rope." Sam didn't have an answer for that, and I recognized it would be best if I kept my mouth shut. I swirled the tulipshaped glass and then sniffed the volatile aroma. "I want Oliver to come home," Thaddeus said. "If he loves me, he'll come." "You know it's got nothing to do with that," Sam said. Thaddeus turned his dark, bitter gaze my way. "I know what it has to do with. It has to do with using pretty little boys like that one to keep the dark at bay." I lowered my glass. Granted, I was outside my weight division with those two, but I wasn't a midget, and I was over thirty. I opened my mouth, but caught the warning look Sam shot my way. By now I had an idea of Oliver's track record, so I bit back what was on the tip of my tongue. "It's still got nothing to do with you," Sam said. "No?" Thaddeus laughed—nothing like his usual nutty chuckle—and tossed back the rest of his drink. 179


Sam said quietly, "Thad." Thad refilled his glass from the decanter at his elbow. "Don't be a boor, Sammy. Allow me my little farewell party." He raised the glass and toasted something out there in the night. "Oh, that's just great," Sam said disgustedly. "What? You're planning to off yourself because Oliver's a spoiled, overgrown adolescent?" Thaddeus glared. "This is farewell to a dream," he said with great dignity. "I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of killing myself." "For what it's worth, I don't think Oliver would find your death very satisfying." "It doesn't matter what he would or wouldn't find," Thad returned. "It's over. I've finally given up. I've been a fool. I see that now. Flesh and blood can't compete with.... "Once more he turned that dark hostile gaze my way. "Well, it's finished. Over. Oh, don't worry. I won't do anything drastic. That's why you're here, I suppose. You can call Oliver right back and assure him I'm not going to cut my throat. I'd have to care to cut my throat, and I don't care anymore. I don't feel anything anymore." And he drained his glass once more. "Why don't I help you to bed, Thad?" Sam suggested. "You'll see things differently in the morning." "Oh, go home, Sam," Thad said wearily. "And take him with you."

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Sam's eyes met mine apologetically. I shrugged. I accepted that Thad's dislike wasn't personal; I just happened to represent everything he blamed for his unhappiness. We didn't stay much longer. Sam made a couple more attempts to help Thad to bed, but they seemed to piss the old man off more than anything, and in the end even Sam had to concede defeat. Thad seemed to be settling into a boozy doze when Sam nodded silently to me. I rose, setting my empty glass aside. We let ourselves out, standing for a moment on the porch. The wind had picked up again, rustling the tree leaves around us. "Will he be all right?" Sam shrugged. "I guess so. He's not a child. And he's not self-destructive—unless you count wasting your life loving someone like Oliver." "Oliver must care a little. He called you to come check on Thad." "Oh, he cares. In his own way." He added quietly, "The best thing for Thad would be if he could stop loving Oliver. But how do you break the habit of a lifetime?" That was a depressing thought. I felt tired and dispirited as we headed back to Oliver's. No wonder Sam was cynical about relationships with a role model like Oliver. And, if I remembered correctly, his parents were divorced as well "They grew up together?" I asked. "Oh, yeah. They were boys together, went to art school together, achieved fame and fortune together." "They were lovers." 181


"They are lovers. That's the weird thing. No one means more to Oliver than Thad." "I guess I understand Thad's confusion." My own sour memories must have echoed in my voice because Sam glanced my way and then put an arm around my shoulders. He said, "I don't understand Oliver. I don't understand why being with the person he loves the most isn't enough for him. But it's not. He needs the fame and he needs the adulation— he likes being a celebrity and he likes being a legend in his own lifetime. And if that's all it was, it would be difficult enough for Thaddeus, who doesn't care about any of that." "But Oliver also likes pretty little boys." "Yes." He sighed. "Thad isn't in the best of health, although he won't tell Oliver that—won't let me tell Oliver that. So Oliver's going to wait too long, and that will be that." "And you don't think maybe you should speak up before it's too late?" I felt him glance at my profile. "No, I don't." I thought it over, comfortable in the circle of his arm. "Did you ever hear the story of David Berkeley?" I inquired. "He was a Twentieth Century magician who was so busy building a career based on creating illusions that he fooled himself and lost the woman he loved to another man." He said wryly, "Okay, okay. I know about Berkeley, and Oliver knows about Berkeley. Oliver knows life is short—that's a big part of Oliver's problem." "Non-interference. It doesn't seem like a cop attitude." "I'm not a cop with the people I love." His voice was different, although I couldn't define how. "And if it was me, 182


I'd try to spend every minute with the person I loved, instead of focusing on the pain of losing him one day." "Is that what it is?" "I don't know. Partly, I think." I thought it was funny how easily he spoke of love and caring and commitment. He didn't look like a guy who would waste five minutes on mushy stuff, let alone be able to articulate his feelings. Of course, he didn't look like a worldclass kisser, either, but he was that all right. My mouth still tingled pleasantly from our after dinner encounter. I started to speak but caught sight of Berkeley House through the trees. I stopped stock still. "Look!" Sam followed the direction I pointed. In the distance we could see hazy lights moving eerily from window to window on the upstairs floor. He was silent. "You see that?" "Yeah." He let go of me, automatically reaching up with his free hand, and I knew he would ordinarily have been wearing a shoulder holster. "I need to check that out." The last thing I wanted was him investigating the house and finding my equipment. I said, "Unless someone's using a trampoline, I don't understand how that can be of human origin. The staircase has rotted through and the dumb waiters are wrecked." He snorted. "What, you think that's David Berkeley looking for a lost sock or something?" "Maybe he's looking for his head." 183


He glanced at me. "Now that's a gruesome thought, professor." I shrugged. "It might be some kind of refracted light. Ships off the ocean?" I didn't even bother to answer that one. "Okay, what do you think it is?" "You can't even consider the idea that it might be a paranormal phenomenon?" He opened his mouth, and then apparently rethought the first words that came to him. "I didn't say that." His spoke painstakingly, and I realized that he was making a conscious attempt not to offend me. "But I need something more than— " He fell silent as the light vanished. We waited for a few moments but the windows stayed dark. "The moon reflecting off something maybe," he said doubtfully. "Whatever it is, it's over for the night." I said. "Let's go back to Oliver's." He thought it over. "Come on," he said, and to my relief— and pleasure—he put his arm around my shoulders again. As we continued on I was thinking about my assertion that supernatural forces had to be at work, but what about the lozenge of candy I'd found? I knew I should tell Sam. If local kids were fooling around in that house, it had to stop. The place was a death-trap. 184


But maybe I could wait 'til tomorrow; 'til after whatever was going to happen tonight had developed. We'd have a better chance of weathering Sam's discovery of my deception if things went well tonight. And if I could get my stuff out of the house tomorrow without him finding out, maybe I could find another way to let him know about the house's other trespassers. "What are you thinking about so seriously?" he asked. "About the way things work out. I'm glad Oliver invited me to stay." His hand rested lightly against the small of my back, warm, possessive. "Me too." When we got back to the house, Sam poured us each a brandy and then called Oliver. It was a brief call, and Sam was unusually curt with his uncle. At least, that's how it seemed to me, listening in. He said finally, "Maybe you should tell Thad then." He listened to Oliver, and then said with great finality, "Then I guess it comes down to trust." Trust. A little frisson of alarm unfurled down my spine, and I was glad I'd kept my mouth shut about sneaking back inside the house. In fact, I was definitely going to get my stuff out of that house without Sam finding out. I could probably pretend to leave tomorrow and then swing back around and park in the woods again. Sam concluded his call with Oliver. For a moment he gazed down at the phone; his head raised, he met my gaze. "Feel like a moonlight swim?" "A ... swim?" 185


He smiled—and I found myself smiling too. **** We swam naked in the warm buoyant water of the pool behind the house, our voices quiet in the cool empty night air. A tear in the canopy of thick cloud cover revealed the dusting of stars glittering high overhead. Sam had turned on the living room stereo and the music drifted out from the window, a lazy seductive saxophone flirting with a sexy-shy piano. After a couple of lazy laps, I floated on my back and stared up at the sky. The fleecy black clouds looked low enough to touch. Steam rose from the water. Sam swam up beside me; he moved like an eel in the water, smooth and fast, the water barely rippling around him. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?" "I should probably be on the road by lunch time. I have an evening lecture." He sank down, swimming under me, slick body brushing my own, surfacing so that I was lying across him. His genitals bobbed against my backside; he was half-hard—and now so was I. The languid graze of hands and legs, the bump of bodies, the glide of water on sensitive skin: it was playful and erotic at the some time. "Do you—?" I wanted to ask if he ever got down to L.A., but he interrupted quietly, "Yeah, I do." And his hands slid under me, turning me without effort so that I was lying on top of him. He kissed me, his lips cool and tasting of chlorine and Sam. I kissed him back. 186


His legs wrapped around me, his arms slipped under my own, holding me tight. His mouth fastened on mine again and we slowly submerged, the water closing softly over our heads. I realized I was out of my depth in more than one way. **** I breathed out a gentle stream of bubbles through my nose while Sam's breath filled my mouth and lungs. I opened my eyes as we sank past the pool lights, the underwater world washed out aqua and bright as daylight. It was like being in our own sphere, warm as the womb; I let go, let Sam control it, relaxed in his arms as we drifted down. His mouth exhaled softly into mine. Our feet touched against the floor of the pool and he pushed off. We shot back up again in a silver spill of bubbles. Our heads broke the surface, the night air cold against our wet faces. It was black as pitch. It took me a moment to realize the house lights were off and the music had stopped. "Hey," I said to Sam, wiping my face. "That was some kiss. The fuses just blew." The pool water swelled like ink around us as the wind rose again. Sam's feet and legs brushed mine as we tread water. "It's an electrical storm," he said, staring up at the clouds. Sure enough, as we watched, lightning forked against the night. The air around us seemed to crackle with a charge— followed by the boom of thunder. "Oh hell," Sam said. "Swim, Rhys." 187


I didn't need to be told twice. We raced for the steps, reaching them as the night flashed white—followed by another ear-splitting crack of thunder. Sam was up and out, reaching back for me. With one hand he practically lifted me out of the water and onto the cement—and I realized exactly how strong he really was. "It's close," I gasped, as another flare lit our way across the bricks to the back door of the house. "Too close," he agreed. He kept a hand fastened on my upper arm, guiding me through the blur of wooden patio furniture and potted plants. The wet slap of our feet left footprints that vanished on the paving behind us like ghost steps. Sam felt for the door knob and pushed into the kitchen. The curtains billowed in the wind from the open windows, shadowy and indistinct in the darkness. "Stay there and I'll find candles," he ordered. I didn't bother to answer, stepping back outside, finding my way to the table where I'd left my glasses. I slipped them on and stood there for a moment beneath the vine-covered pergola watching the lightning flash above the ocean. The air snapped with electricity. The hair on my arms prickled with it. "Rhys?" Sam called from inside the house. "Right here," I called back. Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a thick candle. The flickering shadow cast sinister angles across his face. I said, "This would seem to limit the evening's entertainment options." 188


A slow and wicked grin crossed his face. "I wouldn't say that," he said. **** "You're beautiful," Sam said huskily. His big warm hand stroked my belly like he'd stroke a cat. It felt extraordinarily nice, and if I'd known how to purr, I would have. Instead I laughed huskily, as my cock filled, twitching like a witching wand. "So are you." "You're right. That is funny." I shook my head, but it was hard to concentrate. I just wanted his hand around me. I dug my heels in the mattress of his bed and thrust up a little. Instead his hand slid upwards, stroking my chest, scratching my nipples with his thumbnail. I groaned. He murmured, "Beautiful and funny and smart—and a liar." My eyes flew to his face. "I'm not lying," I said—and because my conscience was guilty, I sounded abrupt and defensive. "I'm teasing you," he said. "I know you're not lying. You're trying to be nice. You don't have to bother. This mug of mine is useful in my line of work." I stared up at his face; there was strength and character in his harsh ugliness. In fact, he no longer seemed ugly. I liked the fact that he didn't look like everybody else. He seemed familiar and increasingly important to me. Too important to lie to. 189


"Sam," I began hesitantly. His mouth touched mine, stopping my words as though he knew what I was going to say, as though he didn't want to hear it, as though he didn't want the moment spoiled. And because I didn't want the moment spoiled either—because I needed this moment—I let his lips press me into silence, opening to him in another way. Sam's kisses made me feel like I'd never been properly kissed before, like it was the first time—like the best of all the firsts: the first giddy swoop of alcohol in your bloodstream or the first sweet bite of dark chocolate on your tongue or the first time you saw a shooting star or felt a man's mouth close on your dick. His hands gathered me close, hard and competent but cherishing too. I could feel every beat of our hearts echoing in my veins and nerves, beat and answering beat. I felt safe and complete in Sam's arms. His mouth lifted from mine. "What would you like?" His soft words gusted moist and warm against my ear. I said with simple certainty, "I want to be inside you." And he nodded, surprising me with an astonishingly sweet smile. "Sure. How?" We angled around, knees and elbows bumping, but it was relaxed and easy, as though we were already used to each other, comfortable with each other. Sam stretched out before me, long strong and bronzed in the candlelight. Everything in beautiful proportion, the ripple of muscles beneath supple skin, the black dusting of hair over limbs and genitals. His hands and feet were carefully groomed, the nails trimmed 190


and buffed. His hair was neatly cut. He took care of the details, so he did care to some extent about appearances. I felt unexpected tenderness for him, a desire to make up for things. Bending, I kissed the back of his strong neck, and he shivered. There was a tube of sunscreen next to the bed, and I squeezed a dollop of creamy white smelling of sea and sand on my fingers, separating the globes of Sam's tight buttocks with one hand and probing that tight little hole with the other. I pushed one delicate finger in and Sam uttered a long, low groan, his body clenching. I smiled. "All right?" I leaned forward, pressed a damp kiss between his shoulder blades. The ring of muscle pulled at my finger as I slid in and out. "Believe it," he grated. I took my time, although I could tell he didn't really need it, and then I pressed a second finger in, stretching him, seeking that nub of nerves and gland. Sam pushed back at my hand, drawing me in deeper. "You're so gentle..." He raised his head, smiling. "Knew when I saw those long, sensitive fingers of yours ... fuuuck ... " His back arched as I found his P-spot. I moved forward, trying to find his mouth at that awkward angle, massaging the spongy bump with careful fingers. My own cock was rock hard, my balls aching. Sam shuddered and moaned as I lowered myself on top of him. I loved the hard heat of his body down the length of mine. 191


"This feels so good," I said into his muscular shoulder. "I think I've wanted this practically since that first night." "You're killing me here, professor," Sam muttered. His buttocks humped back against my groin, and I pulled my fingers out, replacing them in that moist heat with my dick. So ... good. I whimpered as his sphincter muscle contracted around me. Began to push and slide in that hot darkness. I couldn't have stopped to save my life. Sam let out a deep sound, something between a groan and a growl, and began to rock back hard against me. I thrust back at him, closing my eyes, just concentrating on that welcome velvet grab, trying to push deeper, needing to feel joined, united. Heat on burning heat. His fierce silence in contrast to my own wounded sounds as I pumped into him, reaching further and further for that desperate release— And finally ... after delicious and due diligence ... at last ... there it was. Rolling up out of the yearning struggle of hungry cock and willing ass, slow sweet climax that pulsed through me, warming me with every heartbeat. "Sam ... Sam..." I couldn't help it. Couldn't help the helpless noises as I began to come, pouring out stupid emotional things while my muscles turned to rubber and my cock spurted sticky relief into the clench of his channel. I collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath, quivering head to foot. I'm ashamed to admit I didn't even know if he'd come. Although the linens felt soggy enough for several orgasms. A long, long time later, Sam stirred, tipping me off of him and pulling the covers over us. I wrapped my arms around 192


him, still wanting the closeness, quietly delighted when his arms wrapped around me again, cradling me against his warmth. He kissed my brow bone and my nose, and I smiled, opened sleepy eyes. Over his shoulder I could see the candle on the bedstand, hissing and guttering hot wax. "Does that candle look funny to you?" I mumbled. "Kind of green and glowing...?" He half-rolled away, blew the candle out, and pulled me back against his body. **** The storm had passed. I slipped out from under Sam's arm. Slid out of the warm bed, found my glasses, stuck them on my nose. The clock next to Sam read half-past midnight. For a moment I stood there watching Sam sleep in the moonlight, the hard planes of his face relaxed, his hair tumbled, his mouth soft. He was snoring, a tolerable buzz. I found my jeans and tiptoed out of the room while Sam slept deeply on. Making my way along the hall, I headed downstairs, retrieving my shoes in the hallway. I was moving fast, refusing to acknowledge any unease. I needed to make this fast, needed to get back in case Sam woke and wondered what happened to me. I didn't know how heavy a sleeper he was and I didn't want to find out the hard way. So if David Berkeley was lurking in the trees, I didn't see him as I ran through the woods. I came out on the edge of the sunken garden, paused, hands braced on thighs, to catch 193


my breath. The moon, reflected in the black windows of the house, gilded the eucalyptus trees and the broken statues. Cautiously, I made my way down the moss-slick stone stairs, finding a path through the weeds and brambles. Skulking along the side of the house, sticking to the shadows, I drew near the library window—and froze. Were those voices I heard? I inched closer, trying to see through the shadows and darkness. I reached the library window and listened. Silence. No—there is was. Echoing down the hallway. It sounded like something heavy being dragged along the floor. Hands on the window ledge, I hesitated. Leaned in. I heard it again. A voice. Masculine. I couldn't make out the words. I swung myself up, ducking under the shattered window, and the roof crashed down on me.... **** Cold. Bitter cold. I shivered—had been shivering if the ache in muscles was anything to go by. My head ached too, the sick pounding of my temples seeming to rebound through my entire body, pulse hammering, heart thudding too hard. Shell bursts flared behind my eyelids. What was wrong with me? Was I ill? I pried my eyes open. Pitch ... black ... nothing. Panic washed through me. Was I blind? What had happened to me? 194


I made an effort to sit up. Sweat broke out on my body, nausea roiled through my belly. I twisted to the side and threw up. I groaned. Threw up again. When the worst of it seemed over, I scooted back painfully, dropping back shaking onto the cold stone. Why was I lying on the floor? What floor? What ... the ... fuck ... had happened to me? For a few moments I lay there shuddering, fighting the sickness bubbling in my guts. My head throbbed in time to my heavy heart beat. The cold of the stone floor seeped... Cold stone? Where the hell was I? I forced my lids open again. Passed my hand in front of my eyes. I could just make out a pale glimmer. It wasn't my vision. At least ... it wasn't only my vision. I was somewhere very dark, somewhere with a stone floor... It didn't make sense. I tried to remember.... I recalled swimming with Sam. Warmth washed through my body. I remembered making love to Sam. That was the last thing I could recollect. It wasn't a bad place for memories to end, but... I pushed myself up, having to wait on my hands and knees for the next wave of nausea to subside. I dragged myself the rest of the way to my feet, and hands outstretched, tried to get an idea of the size of the room that held me. Three steps forward and my hands touched wood. Old wood. Rough and splintered. A door. Dizzily, I closed my eyes and leaned against the wooden surface. 195


No way. No. This had to be a nightmare. I was lying next to Sam right now. Dreaming. And hopefully he would wake me up any minute. I waited in the unstable blackness. My balance was off and I needed the support of the door to stay upright. I needed to lie down again. But not here. I needed out of wherever here was... Vague flashes of running through the woods, the moonlight gilding the ruined garden, and then ... nothing. My heart accelerated, zero to ninety in nothing flat. I was in the cellar at Berkeley House. I knew it as sure as I knew anything ... which was maybe debatable considering the dumb ass way I'd managed things so far. One thing for sure, no ghost knocked me over the head and threw me into the cellar. I told myself this a couple of times in an attempt to distract my awareness of the sickening chill pressing in on me. Numbly, I moved my hands over the door, trying to find a knob. A handle. No reason for panic. Even if there was ... something ... wrong with the house ... and there wasn't. Of course there wasn't. Even if there was ... it had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with my being in the cellar. I jerked my head around at a whisper of sound behind me. Was there moment? A breach in the wall of darkness? I turned back to the door, urgently feeling over its surface. 196


There it was again, the stealthy slide of something metallic. A tinkling like broken glass—links of a chain? My groping fingers closed on metal. A handle. I twisted it. Tried the other way. The door stayed firmly closed. I yanked hard. The door didn't budge. Another insinuation of sound. I threw a frantic look over my shoulder and froze. Movement in this utter darkness? I turned, planted my back against the wood, facing ... the wisp of smoke that seemed to unfurl in the void a few feet from me. My eyes strained to see. From overhead came the slow draw of a chain. I looked up, flinched as something glinted overhead. "This isn't real," I said desperately. "I don't believe in this." I caught motion out of the corner of my eye, jerked my gaze forward. A filmy, cadaverous mist was gathering a few feet away. No. I shook my head to clear it. Mistake. The room slanted sickeningly. I could feel something warm trickling down my face. Blood? Tears? My head swam. I blinked hard. Above me I heard again the metallic rasp of links through a pulley, but I couldn't look away. The mist was taking shape before me ... a tall figure in old-fashioned garments ... shoes with spats ... trousers ... vest beneath overcoat ... a top hat ... but all of it indistinct, vaporous, seeming to waver and wane as though moving in a breeze. 197


The drag of chain was louder, harsher ... deafening It was destroying my ears. The mist seemed to reshape, a familiar face taking form: long, narrow, diaphanous, with hollow burning eyes and a cruel thin mouth. Overhead the pulley stopped. "You're not real," I told the baleful haze. "I don't believe in you." The eyes seemed to find me in the darkness. It sees me, I thought bewilderedly. The cruel mouth turned upwards. I heard the screeching release of chain, felt something heavy hurtle my way. I cried out in shock as something massive and glacial and terrifying slammed into me. From a distance I heard David Berkeley laughing. **** "Thatta boy." The words trickled through the warm blankness. Someone was stroking my face. My hair. A warm callused hand smoothing from temple to jaw, a long, slow, comforting sweep over and over. "That's it. That's better." Sam. I unstuck my eyelashes. An indistinct form leaned over me—and beyond his shoulders, the red ball of the morning sun. I was lying on the ground. I could feel the fragrant tickle of weeds and grass, feel the damp warmth of the earth beneath me. Tears of relief flooded my eyes. 198


I unglued my lips. "Sam?" I croaked. "Welcome back," he said. He brushed the back of his knuckles against my cheek, wiping the wet away. "I can't—" It was an effort to get my lips to form sentences. I felt battered, exhausted. "Are my glasses—?" "Your glasses are broken. I found them outside the house." He added grimly, "That's how I knew to look for you inside." He repositioned, slipped an arm beneath my shoulders. "You think you can sit up?" I nodded. Sat up with his help. "Sorry," I said to the blur of his face. "Are you pretty pissed off?" "Yeah, I am. You want to try standing up?" I nodded. Rested my head in the warm curve of his neck and shoulder. Closed my eyes. **** When I next opened my eyes I was in my bed at Oliver's, and it was late afternoon. I squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Sometime after three? My spare pair of glasses sat next to the clock. I slid them on. Three-twelve on Monday afternoon. Shit. I needed to call the university. I shoved aside the pile of blankets and sat up cautiously. My head ached but nothing like that morning. I reached up, touched a square of gauze and tape. Sam to the rescue, apparently. I was slowly trying to process everything that had happened since that very long ago night we had spent together, when the open door to the bedroom pushed wide, 199


and Sam, wearing black jeans, black T-shirt and a black expression, looked in. We gazed at each other for a silent moment. He had the advantage. There's nothing like being knocked over the head and caught out in a lie to take the wind out of your sales— sitting there in nothing but my underwear didn't help, either. "Hi," I said, subdued. "Hi. How do you feel?" "Okay." That was overstating it. I felt like shit. "Good. Because I want to know what happened. You up to getting dressed and coming downstairs?" I guess I could understand why he had no wish to sit with a nearly naked me in my bedroom. "Yeah." "I'll see you downstairs." "Sam—" But he was already gone. I got up slowly, dressed still more slowly, and went downstairs. Sam was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. There was a mug of tea in front of him. I took a seat at the table, moving with careful deliberation, trying to jar my head as little as possible. He watched me without particular sympathy. "You want some tea?" "Please." "Milk and sugar?" I nodded and wished I hadn't. "You've got a mild concussion," he said, observing me. "I had Oliver's doctor take a look at you while you were out." "Thanks." My spirits sank lower still at his flat tone. 200


He placed a mug in front of me. I picked it up, hand shaking. I sipped the hot liquid and felt a little better. I wondered if this doctor had left any tablets for my head. "So fill me in on what happened after you snuck out of the house." He didn't sound angry, exactly, just ... empty. I told him everything I could remember—which wasn't a lot—and I apologized a couple of times for ... not listening to him. "You mean lying?" he asked, the second time I said it. I cleared my throat. "Yes." He was silent for a moment. "Have you ever blacked out like that before?" "I didn't black out. Someone hit me over the head." "When I pulled you out of that cellar you were ... you appeared to be catatonic." I stared at him. "Has that ever happened to you before?" "No." I took another mouthful of tea, concentrated on keeping my hand steady. "I didn't dream it. There's something in the cellar," I said. His green eyes rested on my face. This was the face that people across the interrogation table from him saw. I'd blown it with him; I knew that. He wasn't somebody to take a light view of being lied to. "You mean like a ghost?" he asked at last. "I mean like..." I stopped. "Yes. Like a ghost," I admitted. He looked sorry for me. "Rhys." So I told him everything. I told him about seeing the shade of David Berkeley in the woods the night I had arrived, how I 201


thought it had been Thad, but now I knew for sure it hadn't. I told him about hearing the sound of a guillotine when I'd fallen asleep in the library. I reminded him of the horrifying cold emanating from the cellar. "You said yourself you'd never felt anything like it," I said. "It's an unpleasant place. That doesn't mean there's a—an entity setting up house down there." "Thad saw David Berkeley too." "Thad? Thad is not what I'd call a reliable witness." Neither was I apparently. It didn't look like he was going to bother humoring me at this point. I said, "What happened to my equipment?" "Loaded in your car." I nodded, looked down at my mug. My fingernails were torn and bloodied; I must have clawed the door of the cellar trying to get out; I was just as glad I didn't remember that part. "There's something down there," I said. He stared at me with those hard green eyes. "I think David Berkeley is insane—was insane." "I think he's dead," Sam said with finality. I said, "If there is such a thing as life beyond the grave—" His wearied expression stopped me. I said, "Is it unreasonable to think that if someone was driven mad in life, their spirit might be ... troubled as well?" "Yeah, it is. Dead is dead. Over. Done with." I had the sick feeling he wasn't just talking about mortal coil stuff. 202


I said, still trying although even I wasn't sure why, "There's something in that house. Something that can't rest. Something that won't let David Berkeley rest." I rubbed my head. Speaking of rest, I wanted nothing more than to lie down again. Distantly I was aware that Sam had risen from his chair. He dropped a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, then letting go. "You should get some sleep," he said. "You've got a long drive tomorrow." **** I was packing when Mason showed up that evening. The door bell ring and then Sam bellowed for me from downstairs. When I came down only Mason sat in the front parlor. "How are you feeling?" he asked, rising as I entered the room. "You look okay." He stepped towards me and then stopped. "I'm fine. Just a slight headache." I gave him a wan smile. Had I been interested in Mason? It seemed as vague as everything else that had happened to me since crawling out of Sam's bed Sunday night. Mason sat back down and so did I. "The whole town's buzzing with the news you got yourself clobbered by the local burglars." "I did?" "Yeah." He looked puzzled. "Didn't you know?" "I don't remember much about it." 203


"Apparently the gang was using the house to store the stuff they stole." I stared at him, dumbfounded. "I didn't see any sign of that." He smiled his nice uncomplicated smile. "They were using a hidden room." "A hidden room?" He chuckled at my tone. "'Fraid so. Not so hidden as it turned out. Sam Devlin knew all about it." "He knew about it?" I didn't seem to be able to do more than echo Mason's words. "Apparently he spent a lot of time in the house when he was a kid." I felt irrationally hurt that Sam had not shared this knowledge with me. Had he thought it would tempt me too much to return to the house? Little did he know. "So they caught the burglars?" I asked. "No. They recovered some antiques, a couple of stereos and some TVs equipment. They won't catch anyone. I'm sure they wore gloves. Everyone knows that much." "Yeah," I said slowly. "How would these burglars have known about the hidden room?" Mason got a funny look on his face. "Now that's an interesting question." He lowered his voice. "It would have to be someone familiar with the house." His eyes shifted to the doorway which led to the room where, from the sound of things, Sam was watching TV—loudly. "Did you know he's on suspension? Something about missing property in a police investigation." 204


My head was really starting to throb again. I stared at Mason. "You think Sam—" "I just think it's very convenient that he happens to be the guy who discovered the hidden room was full of stolen property right before the sheriffs descended on the place." I absorbed this slowly, shook my head—unwisely—which made me curt. "That makes no sense at all. He couldn't have been the one who hit me. When I left he was sleeping." Silently we both absorbed the implications of my certainty on this point. Mason said, "He wouldn't have been the only person involved, you know." "He wouldn't have pulled me out of the cellar if—" I stopped because I already knew the answer to that. Mason said earnestly, "He wouldn't have wanted to kill you. No one would have wanted that." I nodded. I knew what he was suggesting didn't make any sense—I knew Sam was not part of any local burglary ring— but I was too weary and muddled to reason out how I knew. Mason rose. "Anyway, glad you're okay. I guess..." He stopped. I stood up. "Thanks for coming by," I said. "And thanks for your help ... and everything." "Yeah. You won't be headed this way again?" "My work here is done." I was trying to put the right note of levity in, but it just sounded dull. "Sure. Take care," Mason said.

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After he left I spent a few moments sitting in the parlor feeling sorry for myself. I listened to the television blasting from the next room. Finally I rose and followed the sounds to their source. Sam was sitting in the dark watching some nature program. Snarling tigers and velvet-eyed antelope—the antelope were getting the worst of it, as usual. "Can I talk to you?" I asked from the doorway. A noticeable pause, and then he said, "Sure." He pointed the remote control at the TV. I sat down across from him and said, "I think you should dig up the cellar." I couldn't read his face in the flickering light of the television set, but he said without inflection, "Is that so?" "That cold, that ... miasma—it's classic outward manifestation of a haunting." "Look, you weren't hit that hard on the head." "Just listen to me for a moment. A ghost or a spirit is the sentient presence of someone which stays in the material world after the individual dies. Conventional wisdom is that the ghost is the spirit of a murdered person who wants justice." "Or someone who died violently and is confused about passing over." Sam turned his head my way. "I read plenty of ghost stories when I was a kid. I know the drill." "I've investigated a lot of so-called haunted houses, but I've never seen or heard anything like Berkeley House. I guess the sounds and lights can be explained by the burglary gang wanting to scare people off—and maybe someone was 206


dressing up like David Berkeley in the woods—but nothing explains that cellar." "I think a case of concussion explains that cellar." I was afraid he had a point. "Okay, maybe, but you felt the cold yourself. You said you'd never felt anything like it." "The house is built on a cliff over the Pacific ocean. Of course it's cold. Of course it's damp." I said stubbornly, "I can't believe that what I experienced down there was all due to concussion. You said yourself I was in shock when you pulled me out." He said, "I know you're not the most honest guy in the world. For all I know, you're not the most stable guy, either." Well, I sort of had that coming. I said, "I'm sorry I lied to you, Sam. I let my enthusiasm for the book get in the way of my judgment." He was shaking his head, and I knew he wasn't interested in hearing it. "But don't let your personal feelings for me get in the way of hearing what I'm saying. I've never had anything like that happen, never experienced anything that didn't have a rational explanation." He moved as though he were going to get up and walk away, but he stayed seated. "Rhys, Jesus. It's a creepy room. All right? I don't think David Berkeley was murdered, and he had plenty of time to figure out what he was doing when he set the guillotine up." "I think Berkeley is trying to hide or protect something in the cellar." There was a long moment of silence. 207


"So what's in the cellar?" Sam asked evenly at last. "The remains of Charity Keith and Aaron Perry." "Really." It was not a question. Sam's tone was uninterested. "I might be wrong—" "You might." "But I think the reason no one ever heard of Perry or Keith again, why they never turn up in any of the historical accounts, is that Berkeley killed them. And I think that's why he killed himself eight months after they supposedly ran off. Either he couldn't live with what he'd done or..." "I'm going to hate myself for asking. Or...?" "Their spirits were haunting him." "Okay," he said calmly. "Appreciate the theory. What time did you want to hit the road tomorrow?" **** My office phone was ringing Thursday afternoon when I got back from giving a seminar on historical research and interpretation. I shrugged out of my tweed jacket, reaching for phone with my free hand. "Davies," I said. "Hello," Sam said. "How are you?" I sat down hard; I hadn't expected to hear from him again. He sure as hell hadn't indicated he'd be giving me a call when he said his curt goodbye Tuesday morning. "As good as new," I said. "It's nice to hear from you."

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"Yeah. Well. Oliver's on his way home. He liked your idea of digging up the cellar, so he's inviting you back for the weekend." "Oh." I said. Oliver was inviting me, not Sam; that was clear. And Oliver had initiated the call; it wasn't Sam's choice. My happiness drained away; I was embarrassed to have felt it. Of course it was over. It hadn't even begun, really. We'd fucked a couple of times and it had been nice and that was that. Leave it to me to start building it into something more. As tactful as ever, Sam questioned, "Is that a yes, no, or whatever?" "Whatever," I said. Silence. Nothing new there. "Is that what you want me to tell Oliver?" It took a little effort, but I got a grip on myself. "No, of course I want to see whatever there is to see. What time should I be there?" "They're breaking ground Saturday morning." He added, like he was reading a script, "You're welcome to come up Friday evening." "Okay. I'll see y—tell Oliver I'll see him Saturday morning." Silence. "Okay," said Sam. Another silence. It was torture. I opened my mouth, but he said, "Drive safe," and hung up. **** The sun was shining when I pulled up at Berkeley House on Saturday morning. I could smell the brine and eucalyptus 209


on the breeze. There were a couple of trucks parked in the clearing. Voices and the unmistakable gravelly pound of distant jackhammers echoed from inside the house. I slammed my car door and started walking, but stopped at the sound of someone calling my name. Oliver waved to me from the sunken garden. Thaddeus was with him—and the contentment on his face was almost painful to see. "Hello, dear boy," Oliver greeted, as I came down the mossy steps to meet them. "Have you seen Sam?" That answered one question; I'd been wondering if Sam would be around for the festivities. I replied, "I just got here." "He's probably inside overseeing the slaves. You'd better go talk to him. He has some bad news for you." "In that case I can't wait to see him." Oliver chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with Thaddeus, who chuckled right back. I never realized how much alike they sounded. I hiked up to the house, ignoring the anxiety spiraling through my guts. I wasn't sure if I was more uneasy at the thought of facing Sam or the cellar again, but either way, the best thing was to get it over with. The boards blocking the front door had been removed and thick brick-colored hoses ran though the doorway and disappeared inside the structure. I stepped over the hoses, following them to the dining room. It was amazing how the light and noise and bustle diffused the atmosphere. Sam stepped through a side door and spotted me. It seemed to me that he hesitated for an instant. 210


Then he pointed the way I'd come and yelled over the sound of the drills and shattering stone and mortar, "Let's go outside." I nodded, turned and preceded him back out. The sunlight and fresh air were a relief. I hadn't realized how much I didn't want to go back inside. And yet ... it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't felt that sick taint flowing from the cellar. Sam took my upper arm, surprising me, drawing me to a halt. "I wanted to tell you before you found out some other way. Mason Corwin's been arrested for burglary." "You're kidding me." He let go of my arm. "No. He turned up on that video tape you recorded Sunday night. Him and another local man." "Mason knocked me out and threw me in the cellar?" "Mike Klinger, the other guy, knocked you out. But Mason let Klinger put you in the cellar, which was pretty stupid, since I'd never have started poking around the house if they'd just dumped you in the garden." I thought this over. I'd wondered what happened to the second video tape. Confiscated as evidence, apparently. I said, "He must have found out about the hidden room by reading through Berkeley's private papers." "That's right." His green eyes were approving—and I was sorry to note how much that mattered to me. "He pretty much admitted everything when the sheriffs questioned him. Anyway."

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I shrugged. I was sorry about Mason, but ... A little maliciously, I said, "He'd suggested that maybe you were involved." Sam snorted. "Did he?" "He said you were on suspension because of some missing evidence in a case." Sam's face hardened. "Small towns. Yeah, that's true. But it's ancient history now. I was cleared and I've been reinstated. I start back at work next Monday." "Congratulations." "Yeah." He gave me a funny look from under his heavy brows. Reluctantly, he asked, "Are you ... pretty upset about Corwin?" "Me?" "Yeah." "No." "Because I thought maybe..." "While I was sleeping with you?" I interrupted, offended. To my surprise, he grinned. "Not so much sleeping." "Not so much." I turned my profile to him, stared at the house. The sounds of the drills seemed to have stopped. He said quietly, "I don't like being lied to. I don't like the idea of being manipulated." "Manipulated?" My voice rose. His hand closed around my arm again, but the funny thing, I was relieved by that hard grip. Relieved that he seemed to have trouble keeping his hands off me. "Shhh." He nodded towards the garden where Oliver and Thaddeus seemed to be in deep conversation by an 212


overgrown hedge. "I may look like a dumb ox, but I'm not." He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. "If you think I was manipulating you, you're dumber than I thought you were," I said. "That could be," Sam said evenly. Oliver was laughing. His voice drifted up from the garden. I watched Thaddeus watching Oliver, and even from this distance I could see the hunger and longing on his face. It made me sad. And I thought I had an inkling where this particular insecurity of Sam's sprang from. He'd had had a lifetime of seeing Oliver operate. And Oliver was quite an operator. "Is that back on again?" I asked. "Apparently." "How long is Oliver home for?" I asked. "He says for good." Sam watched the two older men. "Apparently Thad scared him this last time. We'll see." I nodded. I could feel Sam watching me. I said finally, "I'm sorry I lied to you. It didn't seem like a big deal at first, and then when it was, I didn't know how to get out of it. There was no manipulation. I ... liked you. A lot. I mean, after I got used to the fact that you can be a real jerk." He didn't smile as he drew me forward. His mouth brushed mine lightly, and something tight and angry in me relaxed. I kissed him back, and for a moment there was nothing and no one else. "I realize I'm not exactly your type," he said abruptly. "Guys like me generally don't have a chance with guys like you." 213


"Is this your unique lead in to asking me out?" "Yes." One of the workmen stuck his head through the window. "Hey, you better get in here," he said to Sam. "There's something under this floor all right. It looks like a skeleton. Or maybe two." Sam's eyes met mine. "Congratulations, professor." "Kind of gives you a dim view of romance, doesn't it?" I remarked. He said quite seriously, "I'm willing to take a chance. If you are." "Okay," I said. "Just this once." END

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Sarah Black Wild Onions The year was 1882, and the last of the native tribes had dropped to their knees and slipped on their yokes under the boots and guns of the US Cavalry. The Blackfoot were the last, and then the buffalo hunt failed. The vast plains were barren and empty, and the people began to starve. Desperation spread like poison across the land. Evil men, seeing their chance, fed on the hunger, ate the clean hearts of the people. The blood that was spilled in 1882 has not been avenged today. The ghosts are waiting for someone to set them free. Robert drove his old pickup down the rutted gravel road to Val's cabin. No, it's my cabin now, he reminded himself. He either needed to take this last gift, hold it to his heart and let it be his, like Val intended, or he needed to sell it and be done with it. Be done with him. Don't run away from this, Robert. Val's voice in his head. Robert parked the truck and climbed out, pulling his stiff leg carefully after him and reaching across the seat for the cane. Driving made his leg stiffen up worse than anything. "Val, I feel like a broken old man," he said. He straightened up, looked around. The cabin was ancient and square, made from huge old timbers black with age. The chimney was built out of flagstone and covered nearly the whole of the end wall. The cabin sat in a clearing on the Salmon River, in the wild mountain country of western Idaho, and the grass was ankle 215


deep, bright green with dandelions and tiny purple and yellow wildflowers scattered everywhere. The big oak that Val had always claimed was in a struggle to destroy the septic tank appeared beautifully cool green and shady, like always. Robert pushed open the front door. He'd have to run some water in the sink, see if the tap root had won that battle. The dust floated lazy in the afternoon light, dappled on the cabin floor. The cabin had been built a hundred and thirty years ago. It was one big room with a double bed in the corner close to the fireplace, an old wooden chifferobe in place of a closet, two leather easy chairs and a battered table made out of tiger oak, the top three inches thick. The kitchen had been added later, and it was Spartan—a deep, double sink, tiny gas stove, old white ice box with a rounded top that wasn't any taller than a child. A small bathroom was attached, also spare and plain, but everything worked and that was enough. Robert pushed open the back door, and he could smell the river on the wind. The river was high, and the bubbling, happy sound of the Salmon River flowing over rocks brought a smile to his face for the first time in ... in a long time. He'd missed the river, missed standing out in the icy water playing with his fishing pole until his feet turned blue with cold. He never caught anything, not once, and Val said that was because the fish could tell he was a pussy. He'd missed the river and he'd missed the cabin and he'd missed Val, but he was better now. The familiar pang rolled through his chest, squeezing his ribs like a fist closing, yearning and loss. He'd felt it so often the first few months 216


after the accident that he decided he had heart disease, and put himself on aspirin and fish oil tablets. But it was getting better, and he was getting better. Now the feeling was as familiar as an old friend. Time, that thing about time was true, whether you wanted it to be or not. Robert went back out to the truck, started hauling in the cleaning supplies. Lime Windex and a roll of paper towels, a broom and dustpan, Val's old lambswool duster, and some lemon Ajax and a mop for the flagstone floor. He wasn't really sure how you were supposed to clean flagstone, but the cabin had been left for a year untouched, and Robert thought some hot water and Ajax in a bucket was probably in order. Robert scrubbed for a couple of hours, and when his leg started to hurt he sat down in one of the old leather easy chairs, rested for a bit. He left the mantle for last. He ran the duster over the wood, then picked up the heavy silver picture frame. It was almost black with tarnish, but the photo inside was as clear as the day it had been taken—here, at the cabin, two years ago. They were laughing, and Val had his arm around Robert's waist. Robert's hair was longer then, silver and wavy, almost down to his shoulders. He had forgotten he used to keep it that long. They were holding black helmets, standing next to the new Harley. They had both been so happy that day. He remembered the way the excitement had bubbled up in his chest, the first road trip on the new motorcycle. The Harley was a joy to ride, built for touring the backroads, and he and Val had ridden all over the West, feeling free as a couple of hawks soaring on the warm updrafts. But mostly they had come up here to the 217


cabin. They would come Friday after work, fish, eat the fish Val caught, and then make love on that bed in the corner like a couple of tired old guys. Half the time they would fall asleep in the middle of the deal, legs tangled together, hands moving over each other slower and slower. "I think I got gyped," Val would say, his breath warm on Robert's neck. "Remind me later I owe you one," and Robert would drift off to sleep in Val's arms, under a double wedding ring quilt that Val said was as old as the cabin. Robert used a paper towel and the Lime Windex to clean the tarnish off the silver picture frame. When he was done, he set it back on the mantle and looked around at the cabin. The familiar gray feeling sat down on his shoulders and wouldn't move. What was there to do now? As long as he had things to do, he was okay. But the empty space, his thinking time, that was a killer. Too much to worry about. He looked across the kitchen at the bottle of bourbon he'd brought along. Then he went into the bathroom, bent over and splashed cold water on his face. Robert stared at an old man in the mirror. He'd been gray since he was young, in his twenties, and he'd never really minded. His eyes were a peculiar shade of silver gray, and with his silver hair and black brows, he'd gotten as many second looks as he could want. Now he looked like an old man who needed a shave. There were new furrows between his eyes, and lines of pain next to his mouth. He turned away and dried his face. Fuck it. Bourbon for supper; that was easy, then he got out his journal, sat outside on the porch and stared out over the river. 218


Hey, baby. The cabin looks good cleaned up. Everything seems to be holding together. The septic tank is still in one piece. I don't know about the chimney. I'll get it swept before autumn. The river looks the same, the water's high, and that field still smells like wild onions. He stared down at the page, his pen tapping the paper, leaving a tiny smudge of ink. Val, I'm fine. I don't want you to worry. The leg's stiff and it makes the end of the day a misery when I've been on my feet too much, or when I have to drive. But it's bearable. It's been a bad year, Val. I came out here to see if I could get the cabin ready to sell, because our hospital bills, yours and mine, they're going to bankrupt me. And that's not the only thing. I've always been a photographer. I can't even imagine doing anything else. But I'm not very quick on my feet anymore. And that's not going to get any better. The leg's as good as it's going to get, and I'm 46 now. The paper, they're okay with it, they held the job while I was in the hospital, and they wouldn't fire me for being slow, but there are just so many really young and eager photags beating down the door. But Val—I can't sell your cabin. Our cabin. I'll have to think of another way. Robert could feel the weight of that decision lifting off his shoulders for the first time in months. Good. That was decided. He'd keep the cabin for as long as he possibly could. He'd forgotten what it felt like, coming out here. How it felt to be at the cabin, at the river. Val, you would have laughed today to see the kid that tried to pick me up. He was young, probably twenty-five, sitting outside Brennan's General Store eating a pint of strawberries. 219


He gave me a look, you know, asked me if I wanted to party. I just laughed at him and shook my head. He was so improbable. I gave him a ride to the next big truck stop. He was sitting on a big green rucksack, but he didn't look like a Marine on the way home from boot camp. Boys don't look at me like that much anymore, Val. Not like you always did. They see the cane and the limp and the gray hair and think, old man alert. I wonder, though, when you stop missing it. You spoiled me for love, for a loving touch. I don't want anyone but you, but I still want you all the time. I may not think of you every day, but I think of you every night, when I slide between our sheets. I always think, hey, Val, rub my hip a little bit, right there where it hurts. I wish you would come be with me tonight. You know I hate to sleep alone. Robert put the pen and journal down. Enough. Enough now. He looked over to the corner of the porch. Their old fishing poles were leaning against the screen. He carried them back to his chair, started untangling the nylon fishing line. Val's pole was for serious fishermen, a supple thin Orvis fly rod with a reel full of braided yellow nylon. His pole was cheap, from Wal-Mart, with a soft cork handle and a reel with a sticky thumb button. Val laughed when he saw it, said it was for fishing at reservoirs. He put Val's pole back in the corner, carried his down the slope to the river bank. It took him a little while to find his balance again. He didn't try to get into the water. That would probably be too much for his shaky leg. But after a few casts 220


he got his rhythm again, let the weight fly out low over the water. There was a splash a bit upriver, and a moment later a young man appeared, walking down the middle of the shallow river from rock to rock in green hip waders, dressed in the dark green uniform of Fish and Wildlife. He had a fishing pole over his shoulder and a woven oak creel. From the weight of it on his shoulder, Robert could see he'd had some luck. He was Indian, Blackfoot, maybe, and his long hair was tied back at his collar. He raised a hand in greeting. Robert nodded back. "Evening." He reeled in his line, and the man watched the red and white bobber bouncing across the water in front of him. The man's face was impassive, but he blinked a couple of times when he watched the line come out of the water, bobber, lead weight, no hook. No fish. "I guess I don't need to ask you if you have a fishing license," the man said. "Since you aren't really fishing." Robert nodded to the creel over the man's shoulder. "Looks like you've had some luck." The man eased the basket off his shoulder, dipped it down into the icy river water. "Yes, I sure did." He slapped the Fish and Wildlife patch on his uniform shirt. "Course, I don't need no stinkin' license! Just another example of the generalized corruption of the Federal Government." Robert grinned at him. "Wonder how many times you hear that in the course of a week? We must be in Idaho! I'm Robert Mitchell." 221


The man reached for his hand and they shook. "I'm Cody Calling Eagle. So," he nodded toward the fishing pole in Robert's hand, "what's with this? You have a no-hook fishing technique? You're not a vegetarian, are you? One of those guys who think it's cruel to eat the poor fish?" Robert shook his head. "I just don't know how to do it. Good fishermen have tried to teach me, but it didn't stick." Cody was looking at him with interest now, his warm, dark eyes moving over Robert's face in a way that was almost unfamiliar, it had been so long. And Robert found himself wondering if this guy might be a friend. The possibility of a new friend, that was a good feeling. "I knew Val. My grandfather, he was the silversmith." Cody's eyes were on the heavy silver and turquoise cuff on Robert's wrist. "He made your cuff. I remember watching him when he set the turquoise. I sure was sorry to hear about the accident." He cleared his throat. "You don't know how to fish, but do you know what to do with a nice piece of speckled trout in a frying pan?" Robert was grinning now, too, turned and waved for Cody to follow him up the river bank. "Cornmeal and Crisco, right?" "You got that right, brother. Hey, I picked some fiddleheads, too." Cody pulled his waders off and left them on the porch. He almost had to duck to get in the cabin's back door, and Robert realized then how tall he was, at least six-five. Cody straightened up and looked around the cabin. "Man, it's nice in here! Have you been cleaning? I think I smell Spic and Span." 222


Robert shook his head. "Nope. It's Lemon Ajax. I haven't been out here for a year. I guess once a year is about right for cleaning." "You haven't been here since the accident?" Robert shook his head. "This is the first time." He started opening cabinets. "Well, I promised cornmeal and Crisco, but now I'm not sure I can produce." Cody walked over to the fireplace, picked up the heavy silver picture frame. "Wow, look at you two. You look so happy." Robert looked at him and felt a pang of regret that it wasn't Val standing here, talking like this with some kid about him. Cody looked at him, his face stricken. "Sorry, Robert, I'm sorry. Listen, just tell me to shut up." He put the frame back down, ran his finger along the beaded edge. "You're taking good care of the silver." "No, it's okay, Cody. I'm good. Your grandfather, he made that picture frame, right?" "Yeah, he did. He died this last year, too. Pneumonia. It took him fast, but he was so stubborn, he wouldn't go to the hospital till the fever was so high he was out of his head." Cody followed Robert back into the kitchen. "You've got some wild sage and wild onions out in that field. That'll be good with the fish." Robert nodded. "I smelled those wild onions when I drove up. I remember the first time Val brought me out here, must have been seven years ago now. I said, 'what the hell smells like onions?' He just looked at me like I was crazy, and said, 223


'that would be the onions.' Like everybody in the world had an acre of wild onions next to their cabins." Robert picked up his cane and Cody followed him outside. They walked across the field to where the wild onions grew, along with a riot of herbs Val had planted years ago and then forgotten. "Look at this, you've got dillweed, too. Just a tiny bit of that'll be good with the fiddleheads." Cody bent over, pulled a few wild onions up, handed them to Robert. He tore a couple of sprigs of sage and some dill, then he bent over, looked more closely at the ground. "Hey, Robert. Come look at this." Next to a thick clump of fuzzy sage leaves was a small red flag shaped like a triangle, stuck into the ground. "What is that? It looks like the markers we use for excavations." Robert straightened up. He didn't know why his stomach felt so tight, didn't know if he was happy or not to see the little flag, this reminder of Val. "Val must have put it there. I saw him with these flags." He looked up at Cody. "He got this new toy, this fancy spaceaged metal detector. He was convinced there were artifacts underground, that this was the site of some battle, some battle between the US Cavalry and the Backfoot." He looked up into Cody's dark face. Cody nodded. "We don't really call it a battle. We actually call it 'The Massacre.' Rumor, also known as powerful tribal legend, is that the massacre, fifteen children killed, took place somewhere in this valley, along the river." He gestured with his arms, and Robert looked around. Mountains on the horizon, surrounding them nearly in a circle. 224


A huge green valley, bisected now by dirt roads, fences and other cabins, and the Salmon River at their back. Must have been sixty or seventy miles square, maybe more. "That's a lot of valley," Robert said, looking around. "It's beautiful here, safe and protected." Cody raised his eyebrows and grinned. "I guess unless the US Cavalry is planning to massacre you. What did you mean, when you said you use flags in excavations? Does Fish and Wildlife...?" Cody shook his head. "This is a seasonal gig for me." He gestured to his uniform. "Punishment, to tell you the truth. Just this summer, I hope and pray." "Punishment?" "I'm forcing myself to do some honest physical labor." Cody pulled a few more leaves of sage, held them up to his nose. "I'm an anthropologist. Physical anthropology. I'm at least three-quarters of the way through my dissertation and I can't stand that fucking thing another second." He hesitated. "Okay, maybe half through." He followed as Robert made his slow way back to the cabin. "What's your dissertation about?" "Lithic technology in Montana." Cody's voice was gloomy. "And that would be...?" "Prehistoric stone tools, Robert." He turned, his face earnest. "Do you have any idea how many grown men in this day and age are still digging up and studying and discussing and arguing over prehistoric stone tools? Too. Damn. Many." Robert couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, and I bet everyone, from the time you were in sixth grade, told you that you should be studying your own people, your tribe, your legends, 225


your history, right? And so you very stubbornly..." Robert stopped, feeling suddenly that he might have overstepped. This guy was still a stranger. But Cody didn't seem offended. He just nodded, his face still gloomy. "I was having dreams, man, of lithic technology gone wrong. Evil prehistoric stone tools, axe-heads, mostly, chasing me, trying to sink themselves into my head! While I was asleep! Jesus! So I took the summer off." Robert was laughing, cartoon axe-heads floating through his mind. "So what does interest you? Anthropology is a huge field." "Yeah, it is. But at the moment I can't think of a single thing. I just want to go fishing." He shrugged, and Robert watched his face fall back to its natural, sunny lines. "I'll figure it out. I've got seven weeks and four days before the fall semester starts." "I guess we can use some of that time to eat. I hope you're gonna clean those trout. I really hate to clean fish." "Yes, I am," Cody said. "You know what to do with the fiddleheads?" "Frying pan, dab of butter, pinch of salt, dill optional." "Good man!" Cody clapped him on the shoulder with one of his big hands, and Robert felt the warmth of it through his shirt, on his skin, after Cody took his hand away. **** Cody sat with him out on the porch after supper, and they stared out over the river as the sun went down. "It's beautiful here. When did you say the cabin was built, Robert?" 226


"I think Val said about a hundred and thirty years ago. What was that, the eighteen seventies, eighteen eighties?" Cody rocked back in the chair, stared up at the heavy old timbers that framed the porch. "We're a long way from Blackfoot land. Our reservation is up on the border with Canada, right near Glacier National Park. But all this land used to be Blackfoot land. We were hunters, and we roamed with the buffalo. The people didn't really give up on living our way until the last buffalo hunt failed. We all nearly starved that winter. Some say over 800 of the people starved to death. That was 1882. About the same year this cabin was built." Cody looked over at him and smiled, and Robert didn't think he had ever seen anything sweeter. Robert could feel the life, the light from Cody's spirit filling the dark places in the cabin. "I'm glad you came down the river today, Cody." Robert climbed into bed that night, groaned and pulled his stiff leg after him between the sheets. He might have overdone the cleaning. "Val, rub that sore spot for me, okay?" He closed his eyes, smiling at the idea of a young Blackfoot man, Cody Calling Eagle, with his huge body and huge hands. Cody had eaten four trout, a mess of fiddlehead ferns, and a pint of strawberries. Robert wished he'd had time and a couple of potatoes, he'd have fried them up. Cody could probably rub the cramps out of his hip with no problem, and he would have, too, if Robert had asked him to. The year of the last buffalo hunt, 1882. That sounded familiar, and Robert wondered if Val had said something about it. Val had always been fascinated by the long, tangled 227


history of this place. Maybe that was the year the cabin had been built. He drifted off to sleep, dreamed of a man stripping the bark off the huge trees cut to build the cabin. He looked like Val, only old-fashioned, with reddish mutton-chop whiskers and Val's auburn hair. And he saw another man helping him, an Indian with long black hair and golden skin, wearing moccasins that were blackened on the bottom from walking through prairie ash. A Blackfoot man. **** The next morning Robert took his coffee and journal out to the porch, so he could listen to the river talk while he woke up. Hey, baby. I woke up a couple of times in the night, thinking I had dreamed about you. I had a good dinner last night with Cody Calling Eagle. Remember him? His grandfather was your favorite silversmith. He seems like a nice kid, happy. The life is just bursting out of him, Val. He reminded me of you that way. Where is your toy, that metal detector? And what did you find in the wild onion field? Robert couldn't remember seeing that metal detector anywhere, not at home in the garage and not out here at the cabin. It had an LCD screen of sorts, he remembered, so you could see the shape of the object found. Val must have put the flags up to mark the spots, meaning to come back later and dig up what he found. He walked around the side of the porch, and from this angle the wild onion field had a curve, a bit of elevation, and 228


it was even greener than the fields of green grass surrounding it. Robert could see a few little red flags peeking out between the floppy green onion tops. Oh, my God, it wasn't planted over the septic tank, was it? Robert felt his stomach lurch a bit. No, wait, the septic tank was next to the oak, in a life and death struggle with the tap root. So what was giving the wild onions that bit of a raise, almost like a ... almost like a ... No. Not a burial mound. It couldn't be. It was too wide and too low. But maybe it was very old, and it had settled over time. But the wild onions covered over, what, half an acre? If it was a burial mound, it would have had to be ... oh, my God. A massacre. Oh, please, Val, don't tell me you found a massacre. A trip into town, a trip to the library was in order before he ate any more of those onions. Salmon had a good library on Main Street in downtown. The woman behind the desk was in her late fifties, with reading glasses and short, curly dark hair shot through with gray. She had sturdy hips and sturdy arms, and when Robert walked in, she had her hands on her hips, giving a final warning to a culprit who had gone over the thirty-minute allotment on Internet use. She stared at him over her reading glasses when he introduced himself. "You're Val's Robert? We wondered if you'd be back, or if you'd just sell the cabin and disappear. I'm Lillian Evans." Robert rubbed his chin and studied the bulletin board. The words in fading orange construction paper said Summer 229


Reading is Fun! "Actually, I found too many memories waiting for me when I came back. Too many to sell the cabin." "Hmm. I see." "What I was wondering was if there is any local history about the cabin and the land? Any stories about the people who built the cabin?" "We do have a couple of good local histories," she said, moving to a small, glass-fronted cabinet. "You're not looking for the site of the massacre, are you? Treasure hunters have been looking in that valley forever. I don't know what they think they'll find. When poor people or children are killed and buried, they don't take a lot of grave goods with them." "I just heard something about the massacre yesterday." "It was the Blackfoot. Val told you the story, surely? It was the winter after the last buffalo hunt failed, the winter of the great starvation. A family came down here from up in Montana, maybe twelve or fifteen people. Supposedly they were welcomed by someone on one of the homesteads, but no one really knows which one, or what happened then. Some horses were stolen from a US Cavalry detachment, that was the presumptive cause, but that was hardly a unique occurrence in that day and age. You've heard about the other Blackfoot massacres? The Marias Massacre?" Robert shook his head. "Well, the man who should know is just coming in behind you. Most anthropologists, you would think, would know the history of their own people, but he is too busy studying important chips in rocks." 230


"Hey, Robert." Cody's big hand landed on his shoulder. He sounded a little harassed. He had a couple of little boys clutching his chambray shirt and bobbing around, shouting, their hands full of pale river rocks. Robert could see that Cody's jeans pockets were bulging. "No more! I'm out of quarters. And remember, I only want rocks with cut marks on them. Old cut marks." The librarian shooed the boys away by offering to let them check out two library books each. They scrambled out the door, and Cody turned around with relief. But the librarian had her hands back on her hips. "Come to do some research? How's that dissertation coming along?" "Ah..." "You're a procrastinator, Cody Calling Eagle. You always have been." "Yes, ma'am." Cody tugged at his sleeve. "Robert, you want to go get some breakfast?" "Sure," he said. He had to smother a laugh. Cody's voice was plaintive, very close to whining. "Let me just check out these books." Cody pointed to the door, then followed his finger outside. The librarian stared after him, her eyes narrowed. Then she looked back at Robert. "Cody probably knows more than he admits about Blackfoot history and our own local massacre. His grandfather was a storyteller, and Cody was always at his feet, listening. He's a two-spirit person. Not too many Blackfoot are two-spirit. They have always been the toughest, most aggravating, most hard-headed of the Plains tribes. The only Indians to try and ambush Lewis and Clark. 231


Hard-headed, fractious, always ready to steal your horse. Course, I'm Nez Perce and we're old enemies." She winked at him and leaned over the counter. "But I'll make an exception for Cody. I was his sixth-grade homeroom teacher." Cody was leaning against the library building, taking advantage of the little bit of shade from the overhang to pull rocks from his pockets and study them. "I swear, I see some of these same rocks over and over, the same ones every day. I think I'm gonna have to dig a deep hole and bury them." "Any prehistoric axe-heads in that bunch?" "Not a one, and I'm down another $2.75. I should probably do receipts, mark this down as an educational expense." They walked down Main Street until the smell of coffee and bacon frying pulled them into the Double Nickel Diner. They took a booth near the back. The waitress gave them both menus and filled their coffee cups. "Cody, what does it mean, a two-spirit person? That librarian said something about it, that you're a two-spirit." "She did?" Cody didn't look up from the rock he was studying. "She must be trying to fix us up. Here, Robert. Look at this." He showed him a line of rough, parallel marks cut into the stone. They looked new. "What is that, marks where the rope goes into the stone? To attach it to a wooden handle or something?" Fix us up? Cody sighed and sat back. "Nope. That's the mark of a Phillips head screwdriver and a hammer in the hands of a little boy. I swear, those kids are driving me crazy." He looked up and met Robert's eyes, and he was smiling. "Twospirit. It means I'm queer as a two-dollar bill. Like you." 232


**** "Okay, it doesn't really mean queer as a two-dollar bill." They were walking across the onion field with a shovel, a roll of yellow tape that looked like crime scene tape, and a metal detector rented from a place in town. "I really just..." Cody fiddled with the knob on the top of the metal detector, twisting it back and forth. "I just wanted to get it out there, you know, put it on the table so there wasn't any ... confusion." Robert glanced at him, smiled when he saw Cody's face was flushed red. "Yeah, I like putting my cards on the table, too. So, what else does it mean, to be a two-spirit?" "Sometimes women will be very strong, have warrior spirit, or they'll have talent for something that belongs to the men, like the medicine men. So those strong women, they're said to have a male and female spirit. Sometimes they marry other women, sometimes men. The sex part, that isn't as important. Actually, those are some tough, strong babes. I've got an aunt who's two-spirit. She says if a woman's smart, people give her credit for having a male spirit, and that really pisses her off." He grinned at Robert. "I wouldn't piss her off for any reason, my friend. She looks like she could stomp your ass without breaking a sweat." "What does she do?" "Long-haul trucker. She's got her own rig now and likes to be on the road. I worked for her for a summer after high school." "How did that go?" 233


"Okay, I guess. She said she couldn't stand my chattering. I wasn't actually invited back. But none of my other cousins made it through a single summer, so I guess that's saying something. My cousin Rufus, she dropped him off in Oklahoma City at the Greyhound Bus Station with a hundred bucks and an AT&T calling card, told him to get himself home." "So if you're a man, and a two-spirit, you've got a female spirit as well as a male?" "Correct. Maybe we're just less prone to typical male violence. More talky, more nurturing, something like that. As an anthropologist, I appreciate the difference between being an honored, protected subclass with special gifts for the tribe, as opposed to devil fornicators and a lifelong target for violence. I don't want to end my days tied to a barbed wire fence. No offence if that's your thing, Robert. I mean, far be it from me to pass judgment." Robert was laughing now. "I'm not into tying up young, good-looking guys with barbed wire." Cody gave him that warm look again, like he might be thinking of reaching his hand out and touching Robert's face. "I don't know. Nobody's ever had the balls to tie me up. You'd just have to do it so it wouldn't hurt." He narrowed his eyes. "You say young, like I'm a whole different generation than you are, daddy. I'm thirty-four." Robert reached over and took Cody's hand. "I get the feeling you won't let me get away with much. I'm forty-six, and I'm broken into pieces. I'm gonna lose my house to the hospital bills. My heart feels like I buried it with Val. I've got 234


his ghost living in my head, and he's really all the company I need, or want. Cody, I think you're hot enough to melt a man's heart who's been stuck in the deep freeze for years. But I would say I'm a bad bet. I wouldn't recommend you waste your time. Since we're putting our cards on the table." "I'm sure that's good advice. You're old, broken, depressed, and bankrupt. Oh, crazy, too, and talking to ghosts. Got it." Robert stared up into Cody's face, eyes narrowed, considered getting pissed off, and Cody reached out for him, jerked him forward with a fist in his shirt and kissed him. Oh, God, he tasted good, spicy and warm and dark, and he felt as big as a mountain, his arms so tight around Robert's body that he felt lifted off his feet. Val, he thought, helpless, dropping the shovel and holding on to Cody. Val, help me, I said I never would again ... And Val's voice in his head, laughing, Robert, don't be a fool. He was lifted off his feet, which he didn't realize until Cody put him back down on the ground. It made him feel ridiculous until he saw Cody's face, so complicated with yearning, desire, embarrassment, and his shaking hands patted Robert gently on the chest. "Sorry, Robert, sorry, it's just been..." He sighed and closed his eyes, ran a big hand down over his face. "Okay, just ignore me. Back to work." Robert almost reached for him, tugged him back into his arms. But then what? Were they going to fall into the dirt and make love among the onions? Too much thinking, too much thinking, but Cody seemed very ... tender. Vulnerable. A soft 235


open heart in that big body, and Robert didn't want to see him hurt. Cody looked out over the wild onions. "I see what you mean about the elevation. It's subtle, but it's there. And it's uneven." "What does that mean?" "It means something's down there. A structure, a midden, foundations of a building. It could be a burial mound of some kind, but I can't imagine it, Robert. It's too big an area. In mass graves, people are buried together, and after some time the ground sinks a bit. This looks more like structures." Cody sounded more cheerful now, and Robert felt it, too. He really didn't want to find the site of some old Indian massacre. Oh, God, what a mess that would be. "Maybe it's the Anasazi. Were they ever this far north?" "Not as far as I know." Cody was unrolling the yellow tape along the edge of the area where the land started to rise. "Most probably this was where everyone dumped their garbage." He stepped on a small spike with his boot, drove it through the tape and into the ground. "I sure hope so." That surprised a laugh out of Robert. "Hey, trash isn't trash if it's unearthed by an eager anthropologist, especially if the trash proves the key evidence to support his dissertation." "So, we're looking for, what, stone axe-heads?" "Don't even mention lithic technology to me today, or I won't make you some of my famous chili for supper." "I like chili. How do you make it?" 236


"It's a traditional Blackfoot recipe. First, we hunt down a bison." "I've got some hamburger in the freezer." "Or we can just bow down to modern conveniences, and use hamburger." Robert looked around the field. "What do you want me to do?" "Okay, I want you to dig a hole outside the study area." Cody pointed out a random spot and handed Robert the shovel. "A hole. You want me to dig a hole? In the middle of the yard? Is this some busy work to keep me out of your way?" "No, it's not. I want to see the layers of dirt. Then I compare the layers of dirt inside the study area. Can you dig a hole, as old and broken as you are?" He was grinning again, and Robert almost said, if you'll promise to rub my sore hip for me tonight. But he just bit down on his bottom lip and went off to dig a hole. Cody drew some pictures of the layers of dirt from the hole in a little memo book with Field Notes on the cover. "Stratification," he explained. Robert still suspected Cody of giving him busy work, like he was some over-eager puppy of a volunteer. But Cody dropped the rest of the rocks from his pocket into the hole, stuck the memo book in his back pocket and waved him over the yellow tape line. "I don't want to waste a good hole," he explained, when Robert stared down at the rocks. "Okay, let's see what Val found with his metal detector." 237


Cody moved the machine slowly over the area where they found Val's first flag. "Here, Robert. Hold this." Robert held the machine while Cody pulled out the memo book. He wrote down the depth data from the machine, then drew a small sketch in the book. Robert stared down at the screen but he couldn't tell what the objects were—a couple of lines of round shapes, in rows, like a row of coins, and there were several groups of them, one on top of the other. "We need to number the flags." "What does it look like to you?" Cody looked up from his sketch. "Robert, I think buttons. I think those are rows of metal buttons on a military uniform blouse. And underneath that, the same again. You've got Internet at the cabin?" "Yeah, I do. I brought my laptop but I haven't hooked it up. We can, if you want to." "Okay. I can show you a picture of what I think this is." They moved slowly through the field, and Cody made a careful sketch of each area where Val had a flag. But they saw so much under the ground that by the time they finished he was shaking his head. "I ought to do a proper grid map, Robert. Val marked all these sites with flags? There're twenty-seven flags. Why didn't he tell you what he was doing? What he was looking for?" "I'm not sure, Cody. I've been thinking about that. Maybe he wanted to know a little bit more before he talked about it. He was a reporter. He liked to get his research done, be sure of his facts before he started talking." 238


"With so much here it would be easy to lose track, let the science down, you know? That's the big risk, with a project like this." Robert shook his head. "It's like the excitement of a treasure hunt. I don't know, maybe the site doesn't have any historical significance. But if it did, I would hate to have that knowledge lost." "Okay, I guess I agree with you, Cody. I'm just not sure what it all means." Cody clapped a big hand on his shoulder. "I don't either! This will take some serious thinking in an easy chair, maybe with some iced tea at hand and my eyes closed for twenty minutes or so. That's when I do my best thinking." "Good. That's settled. While you're 'thinking' I'll cut up a couple of onions, a bell pepper, some garlic, maybe some parsley and cilantro for the chili." "Perfect! And I'll get to work on finding that bison." Cody dumped the tools on the front porch, followed Robert into the cabin. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, cupped his hands under the stream of water and drank from them. Then he eased back in one of the easy chairs and closed his eyes. He reached behind his head, pulled the elastic band out of his hair. He sighed and settled, extended the recliner as far as it would go, his long legs dangling off the footrest. Robert felt a strange tightness in his chest, watching him, a flood of tenderness he couldn't remember ever feeling before. He pulled the quilt off the end of his bed, covered Cody's legs with it. Cody opened his eyes and watched him, smiling. Robert leaned over, felt like he was stepping off a cliff, leaned 239


over and kissed his mouth. Val, don't watch this. Just let me ... A little taste, that's all. And Cody sighed against him, sighed and smiled and closed his eyes again. When the chili was done, Robert put it on the back burner and took his journal out to the porch. Hey, baby. Cody and I were just out looking in the wild onions. What in the world did you find? Cody says it probably isn't the massacre. For some reason, he didn't want to tell Val that there was a man asleep in his chair, though he probably knew. A man who kissed like he was throwing his heart into the deal. God, the people who must have taken advantage of him. There were so many men in the world without scruples. They would have seen that openness, that leap before you look willingness to fling himself into love. But Robert guessed that a lot of men had underestimated Cody Calling Eagle, had overlooked the brain behind that big smile and open heart. Interesting. It would be interesting to get to know him. And what about the wild onion field? Should he leave it? He had a lot on his plate right now, maybe too much to take on another big project. The sudden weight of remembrance, the hospital bills, the worry about work, and he felt twenty years older in the space of a few seconds. Maybe a nap was a good idea. He went inside, leaned back in the other chair. His leg gave a twinge of warning, high up near the hip, and he closed his eyes. Robert could feel Cody next to him, that strange warm feeling of having another living person near, of not being alone. He'd missed that. 240


**** When he woke up the light outside had changed to the warm gold of late afternoon. The quilt was over his legs now, and Cody was gone from the other chair. The kitchen table was set, paper towels stuck under the silverware in place of napkins. Robert walked out to the porch, then around the corner of the cabin. Cody was standing in the late afternoon sun, looking out over the field. He was still, concentrating, the sun turning his skin to gold. His sheet of black hair spread across his back like a river. He turned and smiled down at Robert. "Hey, good-looking." "So what do you think, anthropologist?" "I'm still thinking, Robert." He looked out across the field again. "I'm wondering if I'm making more of this than it deserves, just so I can hang out with you." Robert studied his face. The jaw was rock-hard, and he had a hatchet nose, black eyes. Cody wasn't handsome. He looked like an icon, like something ancient and true. "Do you always tell the truth?" Cody put his hands on his hips. "Mostly. You can't imagine the trouble it causes me." "Oh, yes, I can. You hungry? The chili's done." Cody reached for him, tugged him close. "I'm hungry for you." His big hands were on either side of Robert's head, kisses pressed against his closed eyelids, against his cheeks, against a chin rough with afternoon whiskers, then Cody opened Robert's mouth with his own, touched him with his tongue. 241


Robert felt his belly go hollow, his thighs go weak with a thump of lust. He reached out blindly, but Cody was already there, wrapping him up in his arms. Cody took one of Robert's hands, pressed it against his cock. He was massive, straining against the soft denim, and Robert wrapped his fingers around the long length the best he could, rubbed hard. Cody closed his eyes and groaned, pleasure and need chasing each other across his face, and Robert smiled at him, at the sun, at the wild onions, at the joy of the body, filling him up again after so long. "You can lay down on top of me, Robert. Come on, let's try. I'll lay on my back, and you get on top of me." "You can't make it thirty seconds into the cabin?" Cody shook his head, cheeks flushing red, and Robert reached for Cody's jeans and jerked them open, shoved the boxers down over his hips and Cody's cock burst out, darkskinned, darker than any Robert had ever seen, reaching for his mouth, and Robert pushed the heavy foreskin back, as thick and soft as hide, exposed the sticky purple head. "Oh, my God, oh, God, Robert, please," and Robert lowered his head, put his mouth on Cody's cock. Cody jerked and thrust, his hands moving to Robert's head, thighs trembling madly. Robert could see he was trying to control the violence of his response, trying to control his urge to thrust and batter and ram himself into Robert's mouth. So Robert dropped to his knees in the soft dirt, sucked Cody down as deep into his throat as he could take him, grabbed his hips and jerked him closer. Cody's head was thrown back, the muscles in his belly and thighs in spasm, two seconds, 242


three thrusts, and he was coming, shouting, a roar echoing across the field, onions everywhere, and Cody's hands were shaking against Robert's face. Robert would have been happy to stay right there as the sun went down, on his knees with a good man's cock in his mouth, the taste of semen on his tongue, and Cody didn't seem in any rush to pull out either, stroking Robert's hair back from his forehead like he was petting a kitten. But eventually Cody reached down for him. "Come on. I'll help you up." And between Robert's gimp leg and Cody's jeans and boxers tangled around his knees, they staggered and stumbled, clutched each other and nearly fell like some kind of drunken vaudeville act. Then they were both upright again, weaving a bit but hanging on, Cody trying to tug his boxers back over his hips. "For God's sake! I am such a fool. Robert, please, just ignore me." "Ignore you? Not tonight." They walked back to the cabin, a little slower than usual with Cody's arm around him. "I want to tell you something, Robert. I had a big-time crush on Val when I was younger. Then one weekend I saw you at the grocery store, in produce. I was buying green chili peppers for chili rellenos. This guy I was seeing, he was always trying to cook the fancy stuff." "I like chili rellenos. I never tried to make them at home, though. I think you got to have a Mexican grandmother to teach you. How were they?" "Not very good, and he found twenty reasons why it was my fault. Like I cared about chili rellenos. Like he cared more 243


about impressing me with his cooking than making love. He was always editing, you know?" Robert shook his head no. "Whatever we were doing, he was imagining how it would sound, describing it to someone more impressive than me. I think he wanted me to do something really Indian, you know, let out a war whoop, or talk in some dead native language, or make a quick sketch of a buffalo hunt on a piece of hide. So he could drop that piece of authentic Blackfoot behavior into a conversation." "You were an ethnic boy-toy!" "You got that right, brother." Cody's arm was around his waist. "But all the boys in town who had always been in love with Val, they got a look at you, and they were gone, man, you were so tough and cool. Your hair was longer then, and sort of curly. When I saw you in the grocery store, you had it back in a pony tail, and you were wearing jeans and a black tshirt. You were shoving raw peanuts into a plastic bag, and I thought, I'm gonna walk over there right now, ask that sexy brother what the hell you do with a raw peanut to make it worth eating. And I took one step forward, but then Val came around the corner with a box of salt. Wow, of course! Those are A-team guys! Val, he was smart and sexy, and he had a sweet face and maybe a little wild streak, too. So I thought, well, okay, it's only right the two of them should be together." "How long did you stay with the guy who blamed you for screwing up his chili rellenos? After that day?" "Nearly another year." Cody's cheeks were flushing red again. "I'm a slow learner, man. I kept thinking, he couldn't 244


really be that big an asshole, could he? Or how could I have ever had ... feelings for him?" "You boil them with salt." "What?" "The peanuts. You boil them with salt in a big pot until they're soft." "You know, it's funny. I thought I had a dream about Val last night. It was him, but then it wasn't him. Old fashioned clothes, and his hair was long, with these funny mutton-chop whiskers. He was building the cabin." Robert stopped and stared at him. "And there was a Blackfoot guy with him, pugugly, my God. I kind of got the feeling they were together." "I didn't think he was ugly," Robert said. Cody looked at him, his eyebrows raised. "I had a dream, too. They were stripping the bark off the logs. To build the cabin." They both turned around and stared back toward the wild onion field. Cody stepped closer to him and took a bit of his shirt in his fist. "So, did we both ... Um, Robert? You sure you want to ... proceed with this?" Robert could feel the warmth from his body, standing close, smell his sweat, still taste his semen on his tongue. He was so alive, the fire burning bright in his heart, and Robert reached for him, held as much of him as he could fit into his arms. "I'm sure I want to proceed with the chili that's sitting on the stove. Also the looking up of uniform buttons on the Internet, and I want to proceed with climbing into my bed and making love. We're still thinking about the rest." He felt a twinge of warning looking at the field, some warning that this 245


was not to be ignored. But Cody's smell was swamping his senses, his taste making his tongue hungry, his hands reaching out on their own, and Robert felt the small frisson of weirdness dissolve and fly away on the wind. "Okay, I'm good with that. But we need to think about this later. Did you put a Vulcan mind meld on me?" "What?" "Never mind. Okay, chili, uniform buttons, love. In that order? I mean, the Internet never sleeps. Those buttons are still gonna be there..." "Well. Maybe you're right." "But chili first. I'm starving." "Hey." Cody stopped, turned and looked at him. "Val would have said you were an A-team guy. I think so, too." Robert watched the feelings flooding over Cody's face. "Jesus, kid, you have no filters. Aren't you supposed to be stoic or something? No, no way, stop it." He pushed Cody's hands away. "Get in the cabin. I'm not screwing in the grass." Robert pulled Cody into the cabin by his hand. "Slow down, partner. We've got time. Let's get to know each other." "I have a problem with that," Cody admitted. "With slowing down, I mean. I know I'm too fast, I come too fast, I don't..." "Was it Chili Rellenos who told you that?" "Ah..." "Listen." Robert put a hand flat against Cody's chest, started walking forward, and Cody backed up, let himself get pushed until the bed was behind his knees. He sat down hard. "Why don't you just let me do what I want with you? Teach 246


you how hot you are." Robert was grinning at him, feeling a little like a wolf circling Red Riding Hood, while she sucked on a finger and cried, lost in the woods. Cody nodded, his eyes wide. "Good. Okay. Teach me, Robert." A powerful happiness filled his chest. God, this was sexy, unbelievably sexy, the openness, a young man with an open heart and a willing body saying teach me. Take me. Robert leaned forward, started unbuttoning Cody's shirt. His chest was broad and strong, with only a few rough black hairs around the nipples and scattered across his golden skin. Robert pushed the soft chambray off his shoulders, pushed the shirt down to his wrists and held them captive. "Now, Cody. The easiest way to tie a man up is to let him get tangled up in his own shirt. See how easy this is?" He eased closer to him, one knee between Cody's thighs, and held his wrists tight. Then Robert leaned in and kissed him, tasted surprise and the warmth of the setting sun on Cody's mouth. He took his time, counted Cody's teeth with his tongue, felt the other man soften a bit under him and become passive. He leaned up again, tugged the shirt off. "But I'm not really into that. When men are tied up they can't use their hands." "What do you want me to do?" Cody's face was sweet and humble. Robert took his hand, pulled him up from the bed. He unsnapped Cody's jeans, then started tugging them down his legs. Cody's thighs were long and muscled, with sparse, 247


curling black hair. Robert ran his fingers down those muscles, felt them bunch and lengthen under his touch. Cody's cock was stirring again, but Robert just finished tugging the jeans down, let Cody lean on his shoulder to kick off his boots and push the jeans down over his feet. Cody stood back up, reached a hand for Robert's chest and touched gentle fingers over his heart. "Can I undress you?" "Yeah, baby. You can." And Robert watched his face as Cody bent his head to the job, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one button, two, three, four, then Cody slid the shirt off his arms, tossed it to the end of the bed. Then Robert's breath caught in his throat. Cody leaned down, pressed his mouth to Robert's nipple, sucked it into his mouth, a slow circle with his tongue. Cody held him by the shoulders, moved to the other nipple, sucked him in. "I can't decide which is my favorite," he said, moving back to the first, and Robert's skin was sparking and hot, a flush moving up his neck, and Cody looked into his face and reached for the waistband of his jeans. "Can I?" Cody was smiling just a little, that same gentle, searching look that had been on his face the first time Robert had seen him in the river. "You can do anything you want, Cody." His cheeks flushed red, and he lowered his head, kissed Robert on the mouth, and Robert could feel his tongue, could feel his hands, busy at his waist, the button, the zipper, then soft denim sliding over his hips, and Cody's hands moving over his ass, holding them tightly together. Two erect cocks, separated by a couple of layers of thin cotton poplin boxers, one pair pale blue, one pair plaid. 248


"I'm going slow," Cody murmured against his mouth, and Robert couldn't help but smile, because Cody may have been going slow, but his cock was most certainly not, it was rambunctious and eager and turning toward Robert's; his hands were most certainly not, kneading Robert's ass, sliding under the elastic waistband of his boxers, warm hands on cool skin. And Robert's breath caught in his throat again when Cody pushed his boxers down and reached for his cock, held it in his fist, just that fast, a squeeze and a handshake, and his mouth was still going about its slow, sweet business. Robert thrust once against Cody's fist, and they both groaned, then laughed, and Robert pushed him gently away. He dropped the boxers, stood there with his hands on his hips, letting Cody look at him, remembering how it felt to have a man look at his naked body, to want him. "I want to take pictures of you." Cody's eyebrows flew up. "You mean, like, naked pictures?" "Yeah. Did you know I was a photographer?" Cody nodded yes. "I'm going to show you what you look like. Sometimes you've got to see the evidence with your own eyes." Robert shoved him gently toward the bed again. "And I can see what a hard-headed boy you are. I'm gonna have to work hard, and convince you over and over and over." Cody shook his head, grinning. "I went to sleep in the chair, and I woke up a porn star!" Robert laughed and tugged Cody's boxers down. "Yeah, baby. You got that right. Now get on the bed and spread your legs." 249


"What?" Cody froze. Robert reached into his camera bag, shoved under the table. "Just lie back, honey, and think of the Queen." "What?" Robert laughed out loud. "You're gonna like this, Cody. You'll get into it, I promise." He raised the light meter. Cody was showing a little interest in the camera now. "Go on, baby." His voice was gentle. "Get on the bed so I can check the meter." Cody crawled across the bed, then rolled over to his back and sprawled out. Robert pushed the pillow around a bit. "Put your hands up above your head, Cody." He lifted his arms, big muscles bulging, and Robert ran the light meter over his body. "Oh, maybe just a little taste. Don't move now," and he reached down to the bed, licked Cody on his chest, high under one arm, down the inside of his thigh, up the underside of his cock. Cody was staring up at the ceiling, breathing like he was seconds from hyperventilation, and Robert raised the camera and started shooting. Cody's body was muscled, long, alive, and Robert could feel his heart coming alive with the images of this wild beauty in his camera, with the knowledge that it was his, if he desired it. He was laughing, moving around the bed, and the look on Cody's face nearly stopped him dead, fear and love, desire, lust, yearning, yearning, yearning, and he raised his camera and stole the picture like a kiss. Robert put the camera down and climbed on the bed, climbed on top of Cody's big body, and their hips moved together, lifting and thrusting, cocks tangling and sliding 250


against each other. The orgasm caught him and he felt swept out to sea, sensation swamping his chest, his belly, his balls, and Cody grabbed his hands, twined their fingers together, reached up and kissed him. Cody's tongue thrust into his mouth and he was coming, coming, coming, and their sticky semen mixed and smeared across their skin. **** Chili, then more love. Cody looked like he was thinking about a third bowl of chili, but instead he pulled his notebook out and flipped through the pages. He stopped at one, tapping the paper. "Robert, I need some paper. Bigger sheets than this." Robert pulled an old spiral notebook out of his camera bag, tore some sheets out, and handed them to Cody. He didn't look up. "Thanks. This is the one that's been bugging me." He started making sketches, copies from the field notes he's taken earlier in the onion field. Finally he sat up and pushed the paper across the table to Robert. "Does that look like anything? Anything you recognize?" Robert studied the sketches and shook his head. "Cody, I don't think so." "Okay, how about this?" He changed the sketches a little. "I wonder if these are metal fittings or latches of some kind. Like on a hinged wooden box. Or on a tool or weapon of some kind." Robert studied the sketch again, nodded his head. "Yeah, I see what you mean." 251


"This is the shape of the box, if it is a box, and we have fittings on the corners, a front latch here, and hinges on the lid." Cody sketched this out, and they compared the two drawings. They were close to the same. "Cody, what is it?" For the first time since Robert had known him, Cody's face looked grim. "See how long the box is? I think rifles. I think this is a case of rifles. That's why we were seeing so much metal. We won't be sure without digging up the site, Robert, but I think, most probably, the buttons belonged to military uniform shirts. We've got three different sets of buttons. And I can't imagine why you would bury a uniform shirt without burying the soldier in it." Robert whistled between his teeth. "So we've potentially got dead and buried soldiers, and buried rifles. Wow. I don't understand. What kind of Indian massacre is this supposed to be?" "I'd like to know that myself." Robert studied his face. "Okay. You call it. You're the anthropologist." He shook his head. "I shouldn't really call myself that. I haven't finished the degree, and I'm not..." "This guy, Chili Rellenos. I hear him talking sometimes through your mouth. Was he, by any chance, on your dissertation committee?" Cody grinned at him. "You're right. But Robert, I don't think he's gonna take me down. Not now you've made me into this hot porn star." 252


They smiled at each other across the kitchen table, and Robert reached for his hand. "Can you stay with me tonight?" Cody nodded, followed him across the room to the bed. Robert climbed between the sheets, exhaustion swamping him suddenly, his leg so stiff he could hardly pull it into the bed after him. "Val, rub that sore spot for me, okay?" Cody climbed in after him, his big hands moving to the scar on Robert's thigh, kneading the muscles that were in spasm. Robert rolled over suddenly and looked at him. "Did I just...?" "Hush now." Cody leaned up and kissed him sweetly. "Go to sleep." Robert thought later that the dream was so vivid because he was exhausted, his emotions in some tangled stew of joy and trepidation and sexual release, and the strange tenderness that bloomed in his chest whenever he looked into Cody's face. It was 1882, and the last of the native tribes had dropped to their knees and slipped on their yokes under the boots and guns of the US Cavalry. The Blackfoot were one of the last, and the buffalo hunt had just failed. Winter was coming. They were facing starvation. Some of the women had come to the fort, to try and find work, or food. "Captain Carmody, sit down, man." Val took his hat off and sat opposite the older officer. They were both wearing the blue wool uniform of the US Cavalry, with shiny brass buttons and polished black leather belts. "Boy, you cannot keep going on this way! I'll support you, make no mistake, but you've got to stop! We all know what's happening, but the Blackfoot, 253


they're doing it to themselves when they start drinking. That's where their food's going. The whiskey, it's poison for them. They could settle on the land we gave them, learn to plant crops..." "The woman wasn't drinking when they attacked her, Colonel. But the men were. I don't see why it matters that she was a Blackfoot. She was hired to do laundry. She was doing the laundry. Three US soldiers, on duty, attacked her. They were drunk. The woman is dead. Those men need to hang." The colonel leaned back in his chair, as if trying to get away from the younger man's vehemence, and his fury. "Well, Captain, I can hang them for being drunken on duty, that's no problem. But do we want to start a precedent here? I just don't see hanging them for the woman." "Colonel, I will resign my commission now, this very moment, if you release the soldiers who raped and murdered a woman at this fort. Any woman deserves as much consideration, Blackfoot or Chinese or African or a woman as white as your own daughters." The colonel stood up, his face shading red above silver whiskers. "You think I'll accept the resignation of your commission? I've known you since West Point. Don't do this. You've always been like a son to me. But since we came out West, since you got involved with these Indians, I feel like I don't even know you! I hear what the men are saying about you, son. That you have an Indian living out on your place. Living ... with you. That you're sleeping in a damn tipi, for God's sake. Boy, we've got to stop this kind of talk. It can 254


ruin a man. Rumors fly back to Washington like the wind, Val, please..." Val stood up, looked across the desk at his Commanding Officer. His eyes were sad, but his jaw looked like a rock. He took a folded piece of paper from inside his uniform and dropped it on the desk. He saluted, then turned and walked out of the office. The big gates to the fort were open, and the plains outside were covered with people, transport wagons, tipis, the stink and bray of mules, horses, oxen that stood with drooping heads as if they were dead on their feet. The noise, the heat, the smell was nearly unbearable, but it was nothing to the simmering fury in Val's chest. Robert had never felt him like this, but the murderous fury was like something living and black wrapped around his chest. He walked across the compound to the brig, kicked the door open. The young Master-at-Arms leapt to his feet and saluted, but Val pushed past him and went to the cage. Three men were sitting on the dirt floor. They were wearing uniforms but the wool was filthy and sodden, smelled like cheap whiskey and dung and blood. Val looked them over one by one. The oldest had long, greasy gray-brown hair and beard, dirty gray eyes and brown teeth. His name was Jackson. He was a drifter, had come out west to find another fight after the south had gone to her knees in bloody defeat. He spit in the dirt, squinted up at Val. "You came to see how we was doing, Captain? Ain't that sweet, boys." One of the other men in the cell giggled and nodded. The tow-head with the crazy blue eyes picked at a sore on the 255


back of his hand until it started bleeding, then he raised his hand and sucked on the wound. They called him Billy. The third man was Santiago, a Mexican with pretty, liquid dark eyes and long black hair, and scratch marks down his face. He was the one who had started beating the woman, Val knew. She had scratched his face while he was raping her, and then the three of them had taken turns beating her to death. Jackson looked up at him, picking slowly at something lodged in his teeth. "Maybe we'll go visit your boy, Captain, that fine young Indian buck. Give him some of the same." Val stared into his eyes. "You escape the hangman's noose, and I will put a bullet between your eyes." He pointed at the other two men, one after the other. "And yours. And yours. You can count on it." Jackson stood up. "We'll be seeing you again real soon, Captain." The quiet and the green grass, the soft sounds of the river and men doing honest work. They were at the site of the cabin, but the cabin wasn't built yet. Two men lifted a tree up on sawhorses, and each started at an end stripping off the limbs and bark. Sunshine and clean sweat, and the sweetest air Robert had ever smelled. Val and the Blackfoot man met in the middle of the tree and looked at each other, not speaking. The only sounds were men breathing and the river flowing. Val smiled a bit and said his name, "Akecheta." And the other man looked at him, his face very private just for a moment, like a door opening. Then they turned away 256


and each took an end of the tree. They rolled it over and started work again. They slept that night side by side in the cool, quiet space of the tipi, fingers touching, but Val woke up when he smelled the smoke. Something was burning. The Blackfoot man reached for his tomahawk, said something to Val in a language Robert didn't understand. Val shook his head, checked his rifle and ducked through the door of the tipi. A gun fired, and Val fell backward, clutching his bloody shoulder. Santiago dragged him out by the arm, then Jackson and the tow-head with the crazy face came through the doorway of the tipi. Akecheta sank the tomahawk into Billy's forehead, then Jackson clubbed Akecheta across the face with the butt of the rifle. He fell to his knees, and Jackson grabbed his long black hair in his fist, forced him to crawl outside the tent. Val was on his knees, too, blood soaking his shirt. They looked at each other for a long moment. Jackson raised the rifle, let the sharp end scrape across Val's cheek. Then he moved it, pressed the barrel against the Indian's face. "I want you to see this, Captain. You watching? Watch close, now." Santiago grabbed Val's head, forced it around. Jackson's teeth were bared. The Blackfoot man started speaking softly, the sounds of the words rising and falling like music. "Shut up! Don't try your Indian curses on me." He reached down and pulled the trigger, but Akecheta jerked his head out of the way. Jackson hit him again with the wooden stock of the rifle, and it splintered in his hands. Val had his knife out now, the knife he had been using to peel 257


bark, and he cut the Mexican's throat, then sank the knife into Jackson's neck up to the hilt. Blood poured out of the wound, spilling down his chest, bubbling out of his mouth, and he reached up, tried to grab the knife out of his neck. Val reached for the rifle and shot Jackson through the forehead. Akecheta reached for Val, wrapped his arms around his chest. They were leaning into each other, foreheads touching. Spirits, ghosts, something slick and shiny and evil started rising from the dead bodies. They twined and twisted together, thin screams and howls as the forms changed, tortured animal figures with ripping claws and fangs, until they moved together, twisted into a strange dance, and they were snakes, rattlesnakes, eyes slits of glowing emerald, forked tongues tasting the air with delight. The ghost snakes moved around Val and his lover as they held each other, unaware, danced and tasted their skin, slithered up their bodies. The three snakes moved away, thrusting and sliding against each other in an evil parody of sex, and then they sank into the ground. And back in the cabin, a hundred and thirty years later, Robert opened his eyes and reached for Cody's hand. "Sheesh!" Cody twined their fingers together and held on tight, his clammy palm at odds with his lighthearted words. "Were those snakes? I really hate snakes." ****

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When he got out of the shower, Robert went out to the porch, sat in his chair and picked up the journal and pen he had left there the day before. The dream, it was too strange, too real, and why was he sharing dreams with Cody? Something was going on, and it felt like it could get dangerous. He needed to figure it out, needed to stop whatever was happening. But a part of him wanted the dreams, loved this peek at Val and Cody, his Val and Cody, living other lives. Cody brought him a cup of coffee, stood next to his chair and dropped his hand on Robert's head. "That was wild last night, Robert. The photography, I mean. The hot sex." He shrugged. "I don't know what's going on with these weird dreams. I mean, that's ... that's too strange ... I guess it should be scaring me, but I'm having a hard time thinking about anything except the way I feel. The way you made me feel. I can still taste you." His hand stroked back over Robert's hair, settled heavy and warm on the back of his neck. "I'm totally carried away, Robert. What are you and Val cooking up for me next?" Robert looked up at him, smiling a little. "You don't even know what you've got that turns me on, boy. And I don't think you'll change much when you do know." Cody groaned, dropped to his knees there on the porch, and Robert held his chin, brought his face around for a kiss. He tasted luscious, that spicy warm taste that was Cody. "Me and Val? You think we've got some sort of ghostly threesome going on here?" "I don't know what's going on." Cody's voice was nearly a whisper. "I think I'm okay with it if you want to imagine 259


you're holding Val in your arms, Robert, when you're holding me. I can feel how much you two loved each other. It's like something in the air all around us, in the cabin, and down by the river. That kind of love, I can't imagine it would ever die. I feel, I don't know, privileged to see it. To feel it, a little bit." The tenderness, it was swamping his chest again, and Robert knew that Cody was telling the truth. He reached out and touched his face. "It's funny, I forgot to remember Val when you were filling my mouth with your tongue. Somehow it was all you." And Cody dropped his head into Robert's lap, and Robert felt the heat of his tears. "You cooking breakfast, baby?" Cody lifted his head, laughed and nodded and wiped his fists hard across his eyes. "Yeah, Robert. You got bacon in the fridge! You're a wild man!" When he left Robert picked up the journal, turned to the next page. His eyes were filling with tears now. "Hey, baby. Did you hear that? Did you hear what that boy just said to me?" **** "When do you have to go back to work, Robert?" "Tuesday. I've got tomorrow off. So I should leave by about four tomorrow afternoon. I'm looking forward to getting into the darkroom. I've got the basement set up as a darkroom for black and white." "That was black and white film in that camera?" "Yeah. I'm gonna hate to sell that house just because the basement is such a perfect darkroom." Robert looked down at 260


the tangled mess of fishing line in his hand and passed the whole thing over to Cody. "Would you please do something with that mess? Or I'm going to get out a pocket knife and just start..." "No! Robert, Jesus!" He was running those big hands over Val's rod. "Oh, you're a beautiful girl. Come here, baby. I won't let that big meanie cut your lines." "I was gonna ask you if you wanted to come home with me. But that was before you started baby-talking Val's fishing pole." "Ah. Well. But Robert, this isn't just any rod. Rod, not pole." Robert leaned back in his chair and studied Cody's earnest face. "It's not! I mean, do you even know ... What am I saying? You don't even fish with a hook." Robert looked him over, considering. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Please don't tell me you want to take some sort of nude fishing..." Robert felt his eyebrows fly up. "Hmm. I've got some film left, big guy. Why don't you just take your shirt off, and..." "I'm going to hell for this. There are rules about fishing." Robert laughed, went into the cabin and got the camera case. Cody had the braided line smooth, lying in neat rows in the reel when he got back out to the porch. "You are the most lovely girl. What a beauty you are. You sing your song to the fish, my lovely one." He looked up. "It's not baby talk, Robert. It's secret Blackfoot fishing talk." "Really. Interesting." "Robert, can I really go with you? I can stay with you for a couple of days? It isn't too much, too soon? Or..." 261


"Cody, I just said I wanted you to come home with me. You're not a stray puppy I've picked up by the side of the road." He turned and bounded down the steps, splashed into the river. "No, I'm not! I am the Fishing King of the Salmon River, and now that I have Excalibur in my hands, my fish brothers will come to me, throw themselves on my hook!" "Excalibur?" Val, did you hear that? "You just splashed into the river in your jeans. If I'm not mistaken, those were your only dry clothes." Cody stared down at his wet jeans, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Then he turned and addressed the fishing pole. "Well, Excalibur? Have we been outmaneuvered? I believe we have." He walked out of the river and started peeling out of his clothes. "Cody, will you let your hair out of the ponytail?" He looked over his shoulder at Robert and pulled the elastic band out of his hair. It was shiny and black and down to his waist, and it spread across his shoulders like a silky black waterfall. "Sure, if you want me to. You better take your pictures from behind, Robert. This water's so cold my pieces and parts are gonna shrivel up and crawl up my ass." Cody wasn't really into the nude fishing picture-taking deal, muttering to the fishing pole and the river rocks and moving a little ways down the river like he really wanted to bolt. But Robert got some world-class photos of him casting, shoulders and back dense with muscle, his sculpted ass and thighs looking like something the Greeks were trying for, but never quite got right. Then Robert put the camera down, sat 262


on the river bank and just watched him. Watched him and thought about Val, alive in 1882 and alive last year, and thought about ghosts. He heard a little whistle, and Lillian Evans, the town librarian, walked around the side of the cabin. She was carrying a Tupperware cake plate, and Robert could smell something warm and sugary—pineapple upside down cake, if he wasn't mistaken. "Hi, Robert." Her eyes studied Cody, fishing naked down the river. She handed Robert the cake, trying not to smile. "Well, Cody's grown up into a fine strong man! I'm happy to see it. I wanted to welcome you back, Robert. See how you felt about staying." She smiled at him then, and her dark eyes were kind. "Come on in the cabin," he said, and she followed him up the porch and inside. "Robert, it's beautiful! I haven't been in this cabin for a long time now. It's nice to see you taking such good care of it." "Well, I haven't been," Robert admitted. "But I will now." "Has your recovery been very hard?" He nodded. "I was in the hospital a lot longer than I wanted to be. I couldn't even arrange anything for Val. They wouldn't let me out. The paper did a memorial service, but it ... I don't know. It wasn't right. I wasn't there, and it wasn't what he would have wanted. It still feels like unfinished business." "You're walking a little stiff." 263


"My leg was broken high up, a compound fracture where the thigh bone connects to the hip. I'm just happy to walk at all. That was up in the air for awhile." "Have you thought about coming out here? Staying here in Salmon?" He blinked at her, shocked. "No, Lillian. I really haven't. I'm a photojournalist. I've been working for the same city paper for twenty-two years now." "Well, I'm not trying to push you, Robert. I just wanted you to know that you would be welcome here, in our community, if you did decide to make a change." Cody came bounding in the back door, holding an enormous fish that looked to Robert like a King Salmon. "Robert, look! Excalibur had triumphed! Miss Evans!" He turned on his heel, dashed back out to the porch. A moment later he heard Cody's small voice. "Robert? Robert, can you bring me some clothes, please?" **** Late afternoon, drowsy warm sunlight striping the bed. Robert had his head on Cody's lap, and they were reading some of the library books Robert had checked out on local history, trying to find anything about what they had seen in the dream. "Robert, the Val in the dream, was that your Val? I mean, do you think he was the same person?" "I'm not sure. I've been trying to figure it out, because, I mean, Jesus, what if he was? What the hell does that mean? I should be thinking about why we're both dreaming together, 264


that's weird enough, but I can't seem to work my mind around this thing about Val. I think it doesn't matter about the names being the same. Names get passed down. My grandfather was Robert Mitchell, too. "But in the dream, the man looked just like him. I mean, exactly like him, like a twin. The longer hair, the mutton-chop whiskers—take those away, and it would be like looking into a photograph. His eyes, they looked the same. But I'll tell you what didn't feel the same. I could feel this rage, this black fury wrapped around him. I could almost see it, it was so strong. I never knew Val to give in to rage like that. We traveled all over the world together, covered stories ... some bad stories, Cody. It's a tough world. But Val, he would feel sad. We saw horrible things, and it would hurt him, he would hold the pain in, then write the best story he could, try to change things that way. This other Val from the dream ... He was so angry, so full of hate. I thought, he's so angry he's hoping for violence. He could hurt someone. That made me think he wasn't my Val." Cody was silent, his fingers stroking Robert's hair. "I didn't think the Blackfoot guy looked much like you, other than the nose. That nose was the spitting image of yours. Is that some tribal thing? Do the Blackfoot all have that same nose?" Cody's fingers stilled in his hair. "Ah. No. Actually, it's a family nose." "A family nose." "So the story, Robert, the secret tribal legend that we don't tell outside the family is that a Blackfoot man, a two265


spirit like me, fell in love with an Army officer in the year of the last buffalo hunt. He was cast out, but that winter the people began to starve. His sister loved him, and she decided to find him. She set out to walk from Montana with her children and some of the other lost and orphaned children— fifteen all together, from babies to teenagers. When they got here, her brother took them all in. In the story my grandfather told it was always, and my grandmother was killed in that winter of death by evil men. But the Blackfoot uncle, and his lover, they kept all the children, kept them safe and kept them hidden, and over time the community grew and changed and accepted, and today everyone lives together. I don't know why we still keep the story secret, like the children still need protecting. But we do." Robert looked up at something in his voice, and found Cody's eyes full of tears. "My grandmother was killed in that winter of death by evil men. She was your great-great grandmother, the woman who was murdered." "Yeah. That's what I think. It felt true, the dream. Didn't it? Or have we both gone crazy? But actually, Robert, I nearly cheered out loud when Akecheta sunk that tomahawk into the nut's forehead. I'd love to get a good look at that tomahawk. Seems like the head was forged metal." Robert blinked in surprise. "Yeah, Cody, I thought the dream felt true. But you know what? I forgot about you being an expert in old weapons. And this one might actually belong to you. Why don't we go dig it up? It's out in the onion field." **** 266


"How do you know it's out in the onion field?" "I saw it on the LCD screen of the metal detector. Didn't you? I mean, there is nothing else that looks like a tomahawk. There was no mistaking it." "I guess I did miss it. You show me, okay? Later? Because our options right now are to make love or dig up a tomahawk. Now, that's a tricky decision. That would be a tricky decision, I mean, if you weren't lying here, Robert, looking like something from a teenaged boy's wet dream." "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just an old man." Cody splayed his fingers out across Robert's face, traced the lines between his eyes. "These lines, they make me think you're tough. Like nothing can break you." He ran his fingers back through Robert's hair. "It's, like, when I look at you, I don't know what you're thinking. You're likely to be thinking anything, cause your mind, it's wide, you know what I mean? Wide and deep like the ocean. Untamed." Robert laughed up at him, and Cody shrugged, his cheeks flushing red. "Hey, I'm not a poet. I don't know how to say what I mean, and have it sound ... you know. But I think I'd rather make love, if it's all the same to you. That tomahawk isn't going anywhere." Cody bent over him, kissed the skin next to his mouth, and his fingers moved down Robert's chest, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the soft cotton aside. He crawled around, tugged Robert up, sat him on the side of the bed. Cody took his clothes off, dropped them on the floor, and when he was done 267


he watched Robert finish pulling off his jeans, stand up and move into his arms. Cody wrapped him up, and Robert closed his eyes, let his forehead rest on Cody's big chest. Cody's skin was warm, with its spicy, dark taste, like anise and chocolate. Robert moved his mouth across his collarbone, and Cody wrapped his arms tight around him, squeezed as his cock lifted and filled. "Robert. Lie down, Robert. Let me make love to you. I'll be gentle." Robert looked up at him, traced a hand across his chest. "You'll be gentle. That's very nice! What if I want you to be rough?" Robert laughed at the look on his face. "Cody. You can do what you want. I said that before. You can do anything you want." The breath seemed to catch in Cody's throat, and his dark eyes got wide. "You really mean it. See, that's why you're so cool!" He leaned in. "I want to fuck. I want to fuck you and I'm not sure if your leg can take it. And do we even have any condoms?" Robert felt some dark and sweet emptiness deep in his belly, felt his cock stirring. "I can take you, baby. I'd love to feel that long cock in my ass, Cody. I love to fuck, too, I love to get fucked, it's been so long, but I love it, I love..." Cody was all over him now, mouth hungry and urgent, tongue moving hard and fast into his mouth, cock rearing up, thrusting against Robert's. "In the bathroom, Cody. There's some lube on that top shelf. See if there's a condom up there, too. I don't know." Robert pushed him away, climbed across the bed and lay on 268


his stomach. He lifted his ass a little, tried to find a comfortable position. Tiny flames were licking his skin and he was so turned on all of the sudden he knew he could have humped the quilt, come into his fist in two seconds. Cody was back, and his heavy body fell across Robert's. He reached under Robert's hip, slid his cock into his fist. "One fucking condom, and you know I can't last, don't ask me to go slow..." His hand around Robert's cock was rough, the other hand moving down his ass, spreading him open, a big finger pressing in. Then Robert felt the lube, cold and slick, and Cody's cock was at his anus, as heavy as a truncheon, pushing, pushing. "Let me in, Robert, come on, man, now, now, now." He couldn't breathe, his heart was beating a wild tattoo in his throat, and he pushed back suddenly, felt Cody's heavy purple cock-head slip in. His voice was crooning and sweet. "Oh, that's good, that's good, you beauty, that's what a man is supposed to feel like..." Cody reached down, took a gentle bite out of the thick muscles in Robert's shoulder. The hand on his cock tightened, he began to move it in rhythm with the cock in his ass, Cody's heavy sheet of hair falling down around them, its smell musky and wild, and Robert turned his head and let Cody take his mouth. He shattered, his cock shattered in Cody's fist, his mind shattered, and Cody groaned, a dark sound against his mouth, groaned and then roared like a beast with bloody jaws. He pumped against Robert's ass, deeper and rougher, and Robert could feel every inch of that cock shuddering 269


inside him. Cody licked the bite marks on Robert's neck, licked them, pressed a kiss against his red skin, and Robert could feel his cock thrusting and shuddering inside him. And Cody stopped to kiss. Robert reached a hand under his body, wrapped his fingers around Cody's sticky fist. "Don't move. Stay inside me now." Cody hadn't quite caught his breath. "Okay. Okay. I won't move. You're the boss." Robert grinned and closed his eyes. "I'm the boss?" Cody replied in a zombie voice. "Yesss, Massster." And then they were both laughing so hard that he slipped out, groaned and flopped over on his back and reached down for the loaded condom, laughed some more when Robert's fingers moved across his belly and tickled him. **** "It was the second flag, Cody. The tomahawk, I mean. It was in that same area as the uniform buttons." Cody was flipping through the notebook. "Okay, here we go." He stared down at the sketch. "Maybe. Probably." He put the notebook down and stared at Robert. "I think my brain short-circuited from standing so close to you. That's my guess." "Maybe so. What do you need?" "The reading said the tomahawk is about thirty-six inches down, but we shouldn't depend on that metal detector. You have a measuring tape of some kind?" Robert nodded. "I think I've got one in the truck. Let me go look." 270


Cody reached over and kissed him, stood up. "Thanks for this, Robert. You can't imagine how cool this is for me." Robert grinned. "What, digging shit up? You're a cheap date. You bring your own fish. You bring your own shovel. And for fun, you want to dig holes in the yard. And take your clothes off so I can take your picture." "Those pictures, they aren't going to show up anyplace my cousins will see them, right? Cause they will never let me live it down, Robert, I swear." "My eyes only. And yours. You're coming home with me?" Robert reached for his shirt, tugged him a little closer. "Come home with me. Spend some time with me. Let me spoil you a little." Cody's hand wrapped around his head, dropped to the back of his neck. "Yeah, I'll follow you home. Like a love-sick puppy." Robert stood up. "Good. Go dig your holes. I'll find the tape measure." He pulled the tool box out from behind the seat, flipped it open and started digging through the screwdrivers and bolts for the tape measure. He found it at the bottom, slid the rest of the tools back and shoved the tool box back behind the seat. He stared across the onion field, and when he looked at Cody he started to laugh. He was dancing around, shaking his leg like he was doing the hokey pokey. "You fool, what are you doing?" Then he saw Cody's face, and his blood turned to ice, his heart froze in his chest. Blind horror, and Cody was stumbling backward, shaking the shovel, then throwing it away from 271


him, shaking his foot, shaking his arm, and then he shrieked, a hoarse, horror-filled shriek that tore into Robert's chest. Robert started running, but he already knew. Snakes. Rattlesnakes. The hole was small, not even two feet deep, but Cody had dug down into a rattlesnake nest. He was on the ground, screaming, grabbing at a snake moving up his arm. There was another rattler wrapped around his leg, fangs sunk into the skin above the ankle. Robert grabbed the snake, jerked it off him and flung it away, but he could see the bite mark, a couple of thin lines of blood dripping down his skin. Cody shrieked again, and Robert stared down at him in horror. He was trying to pull the snake off his arm, but it had bitten into his forearm, was hanging on, and Robert was staring into his eyes when they both realized that a third snake had slithered up his chest. The snake reared, then sank his fangs into Cody's throat. Robert grabbed the snake, felt the shock roll through his belly when he felt how cold and wet the snake's skin was. He jerked it away, felt the fangs rip through Cody's skin. "Robert. Help me, Robert." Cody's voice was a whisper, and Robert grabbed for the other snake, the one on his arm, jerked it off and threw it down among the onions. Cody's eyes rolled up in his head and he started shaking, then a seizure moved through his body. Robert reached for him, but the force of the spasms threw Robert off him to the ground. "Cody. Hang on. I've got you." Cody's legs seized, spasms rocking his body until he nearly levitated off the ground. Robert crawled back to him, tried to hold him. 272


"Breathe. Breathe, Cody." The seizures were too strong, too violent, and Cody's face was shading dark. Robert was next to him, trying to hold his head when he saw the first ghost. They looked just like they had in the dream, slimy, evil shapeshifters, claws and teeth, ending as rattlesnakes that moved over Cody's body, tongues flicking in delight. "No!" Robert voice was hoarse, filled with horror. He tried to grab them as they moved over Cody's body, but his fingers slid right through them. He flung himself over him, was bucked off, and watched in horror as the ghost snakes slithered around his neck, then slid into Cody's mouth and disappeared. Robert bolted for the cabin, grabbed the truck keys. Then he ran to Cody, cursing the slowness of his bad leg, grabbed Cody by his stiff shoulders and manhandled him into the back of the truck. He knew where the ER was, and he could be there in minutes. He floored the truck, tore out across the onion field, laid on the horn when he turned into the ER parking lot on Main Street. The EMTs came running, and Robert could hardly speak, his throat was so tight, but he managed to say seizure and rattlesnake bites. Thirty seconds after he pulled up the EMTs had Cody on a gurney, giving him oxygen and helping him breath with an Ambu bag. Robert staggered and fell to his knees, cold sick horror filling his mouth, tried to vomit. But he couldn't, his throat was too tight, too tight, and he wanted to claw at his skin, claw away the images of the snake at Cody's throat, the ghost snakes sliding into his mouth. 273


That mouth, Cody's mouth. He could smile so sweetly, he could kiss like an angel, with so much hope. Robert put his forehead down on the pavement. It was only a moment before a nurse reached down and lifted him up. "Did you get bit?" He shook his head. "You sure? Better come on in and let us check you. You're looking a little shocky." She had a sturdy arm around his waist. "I'm okay. You need some information? Name, or the, I don't know, insurance, or..." "We know Cody. He grew up here. We went to school together." Robert glanced up into her worried dark eyes. Her skin was golden, and she had a nose like Cody's, long and sharp. He remembered Cody's story about the children who had been hidden. "Come on. I'll show you where you can wait." With Val, there had been no waiting. He'd watched him die under the wheels of a drunk driver, tried to die himself, so they could be together. There was no sitting in a plastic chair in an Emergency Room waiting, no praying, no negotiating with God. But this boy, this Cody Calling Eagle, who had come splashing down the Salmon River carrying life like the sun in his chest. Robert could not sit here and watch him die. He closed his eyes and asked Val to come. Val, help me. You've got to help me, and help this boy. I don't know what's going on with you. I've got a few questions for you, my man. But do something now. Don't let him die. Please, Val, do something. He kept his eyes closed, felt Val grab him roughly, pull him into his arms, press hungry kisses to his mouth. I'm sorry, 274


Robert. I'm so sorry. I didn't know about the snakes or I would have warned you. I've ... Val's hand against his face. Robert, I love you. And I've loved him in ... other lifetimes. I can save him now but I may not be able to do everything. Listen carefully. If he's not himself, you need to be careful. Take him to the medicine man. Robert reached for him in his mind, tried to hold him. Val, when will I... Let me go now. I love you, Robert. I need to go to him, Akecheta. He's Cody, Val. Cody Calling Eagle. Your love, Robert. I know. And then he was gone, and Robert felt a yearning, painful squeeze across his chest, hard loss, the hardest, like he was telling Val good-bye for the very first time. **** Another two hours, and the same nurse who had hauled him up from his knees in the parking lot took pity on him, came out to the waiting room and told him Cody would live. "We got the antivenom into him, a ton of it, because there were so many bites, but then it seemed like he had some kind of allergic reaction, because he stopped breathing. It only lasted a couple of minutes. We've got the seizures under control. His blood pressure is still sky-high, we're not sure why, but we can control it with medication for now. Anyway, about fifteen minutes he'll be up in ICU, and you can see him for a quick moment." 275


"Thanks. Listen, when he stopped breathing—does that mean he didn't get oxygen?" "No, no, we gave him oxygen, helped him breathe." She studied his face. "What are you concerned about? You've been sitting out here, thinking about what you did wrong?" "Maybe. Yeah." Robert shrugged, but the knots in his stomach didn't ease. "I think he wasn't breathing while I was driving him in. I should have called for an ambulance, so the EMTs could give him oxygen on the way to the hospital." She shook her head. "You got him here very fast, faster than anyone else could have. You're worried about some sort of brain damage from the lack of oxygen?" Robert nodded, and he couldn't hide the tears standing in his eyes. She shook her head. "Not a chance. I personally think Cody is too stubborn to ever suffer an injury to his head. Besides, he's never used even half the brains God gave him." She stood up. "He's my cousin. ICU's up on the third floor." Cody was in a small white room with a big glass observation window facing the nurse's station. Tray tables on wheels held monitors with blinking orange and green lights, and the wires snaked across Cody's body to his chest, his wrist, his fingertip. The ugly bite mark on his neck was covered with a bandage, and so was the one on his arm. Robert walked over to the bed, put his hand on Cody's thigh. Cody opened his eyes, stared blankly, then just for a moment Robert saw something behind his eyes, something cold and slick and shiny. Cody stared up at him, wrinkling his forehead. 276


"How you feeling, baby?" "My head's about to split open." Cody looked down at Robert's hand on his thigh, then stared back up at him, his face like a rock. "Look, no offence, but have we met?" Robert jerked his hand away, nearly doubled over from the sucker punch. Cody wasn't joking. He was staring at Robert with an ugly, cold face Robert had never seen before. "Cody, it's me. Robert Mitchell. You were out at my place when you got bit by the rattlesnakes. You remember, Cody? We were excavating..." You don't remember me, Cody? You were inside my body three hours ago... Cody closed his eyes. "Sorry, man." He raised his hand, rubbed across his forehead, and one of the little monitors on his fingertip dislodged and started beeping. He opened his eyes and looked at it. "Oh, wait a minute. You're Val's Robert." He looked around the room. "Was Val just here? I thought I saw him." One of the nurses came through the door, turned off the beeping monitor and reset the sensor on Cody's finger. Robert backed up, feeling the room tilt a bit around him. Those eyes, so hard and cold. Were those Cody's eyes? Cody looked at him again. His mouth looked plastic, twisting into an ugly sneer Robert had never seen before. "Was there something you wanted?" Robert turned and left the room. He looked back through the window. The nurse was asking him a question, and Cody shrugged his shoulders. The nurse turned back to the window, looked at him, frowning. I don't know that guy. I don't know what he was doing here. 277


What the hell was going on? Robert took the stairs down to the ER, found the nurse he had talked to earlier. "Listen, I need to call someone. You know the librarian, Lillian Evans?" "Sure." "Can I borrow your phone book, call her from here?" "Come on back." She took him to an office down a quiet hallway, left him with a phonebook and a phone. "Lillian? Miss Evans?" "Yes?" "This is Robert Mitchell." "Robert!" Her voice was warm. "Lillian, I'm at the hospital with Cody. He got bit by rattlesnakes, out at my place. Can you ... Please come. I need some help. Can you come right away?" They met in the parking lot, and Robert was shocked to see it was dark outside. The hospital seemed like such an allpowerful, enclosed world, it was always a bit of a shock to realize it didn't control time, as well, that time continued on, oblivious to the human dramas happening inside. Lillian wrapped Robert up in a strong hug, patted his back gently. He told her everything that had happened with the field since he had come down for the weekend—finding the red flags, checking with their own metal detector, making the sketches, then digging up the tomahawk this afternoon. She studied his face. "So what did you mean, Robert, that Cody wasn't himself?" "Lillian, he didn't recognize me. He didn't know me." She raised her eyebrows. "This was the same man you talked into fishing naked? He wasn't trying to be funny, or 278


make a joke, was he? Because he was always that kid who would try to make you laugh..." Robert shook his head, then closed his eyes tightly against the tears. "He said his head hurt, but it was more than that. I felt like I was looking into a stranger's face. This has never happened before?" She shook her head. "Would you just go up and see him? Just see him, talk to him, and come back down and tell me if he's ... Cody." Her glance sharpened on his face. "Yes, Robert, I will. Wait for me in the lobby of the ER, okay?" They walked back inside, and he took a plastic seat, closed his eyes and waited. The throb in his hip was nearly unbearable, and he got up, rubbed it a bit, tried to walk it out. Maybe he'd done something serious to it, torn a ligament or something. Was there any place in a hospital for a visitor to get an ibuprofen? Apparently not. Lillian was back within fifteen minutes, and one look at her grim face brought Robert to his feet. She stopped in front of him. "I don't know who that is upstairs. It's not the boy I've known since he was a child, the boy I helped raise. Now I think you better tell me the rest of it. The parts you thought were too crazy to tell me before. Like why Cody saw Val a little while ago, for example." Robert nodded. "I'm gonna need to find a medicine man. Val told me we might need some more help." ****

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He watched her face fill with disbelief and horror. The shared dreams, what was buried in the wild onions. The ghost snakes he had watched invade Cody, the evil spirits of evil men. By the end of the story, the disbelief was gone, but the horror remained. "Robert, my God! What are you going to do?" "I don't have any idea, Lillian. I've never even heard of anything like this. And if I had, I would have thought it was bullshit." He stood up. "Thanks for listening. I don't..." He shook his head, rubbed his hands over his face hard. Exhaustion was making it hard to think clearly, and the pain in his hip was huge, big as the world. He wasn't really sure if he'd be able to walk, and he didn't have any idea where he might have left that fucking cane. Somehow these last hours, these last couple of days with Cody, and he hadn't needed it as much. Lillian reached for his hand. "Slow down. You're not alone here, Robert. I don't know what to do either, but I believe you. I believe in the truth of what you saw, and what's happened to Cody. But we need to think carefully about what to do now, how to proceed. Who to ask for help. I know this will come as a shock to you, Robert, but some medicine men are only in it for the money. They don't have ... "she hesitated. "They don't have the true spirit for the work. They may have started with good intentions, but found the work too hard, requiring too much of themselves, so they ended up just going through the motions. Someone like that, he won't work for Cody. We need the real thing." "But what do we need? What will Cody need?" 280


"A weapon and a shield. An animal spirit to protect him. A medicine bundle. I don't really know. It's tribal, Robert, and I'm not Blackfoot. I know Cody never did any of the puberty rituals, the Sun Dance or his vision quest. He turned to anthropology then, decided to study, rather than believe. His grandfather, he let Cody choose his own path, but I always thought things were a little rough between them, after Cody turned away from his culture. We've got his grandfather's shield at the Historical Society, next to the library. Come see it in the morning if you would like, see his medicine bundle. But ... I mean, Cody can't use his grandfather's shield. Each warrior makes his own. Each man makes his own shield when he returns from his spirit quest, because then he knows his guardian animal." "Can I go for him? Can I do it for him, Lillian? Because he's not well enough." Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached forward, put her hand against his face. "I don't know. You look exhausted, Robert. Will you go home now, try to get some sleep? He can't go anywhere tonight. We have tonight to think on it." When he stood up he nearly fell, had to hold on to the chair to keep his balance. Lillian wrapped an arm around his waist and walked him out to the parking lot. "Thanks for coming, Lillian." "Call me, or come by the library in the morning. We'll see what I've come up with by then." The gas station on the corner was lit. Robert stopped for a cup of coffee and some ibuprofen, and when he climbed out of the truck his leg gave out and he fell to his knees on the 281


asphalt. He stayed there a moment, wondering what he would do if he couldn't get up, the humiliation burning a hole in his chest. He was forty-six, and his life had crashed and burned around him for the second time in a year. He'd worked hard, always, and where was he now? Bankrupt, crippled and in chronic pain, about to lose his home, and now this. This was too cruel, to have a lover for three days. Three? Two days. To fall in love again, when he'd thought his heart had been cut out of his chest. And then to lose it, to lose him. He pulled himself upright, hanging onto the door. He shouldn't have tried with Cody. Hope was so risky. He was on his feet now, holding onto the door of his pickup. But how could he have not tried? How could he have not fallen in love, with the joy, with his spirit, with the happiness that burned like a light in his face? He thought about Cody splashing out into the river, raising his arms and shouting, I am the Fishing King of the Salmon River! And, Well, Excalibur? Have we been outmaneuvered? No, we have not been outmaneuvered. Robert stared at the gas pump, then made his slow and painful way inside, bought a gas can and filled it up at the pump. When he got back to the cabin he could see it was too dark to go into the onion field. His leg was ready to buckle again and he had no way of knowing where the snakes were. But he couldn't leave it. He got some matches from the kitchen, swallowed a handful of ibuprofen dry and felt them hit his stomach like a bomb. He put on his boots, then went back outside. 282


He could hear the night noises, rustles and chirps, the wind in the trees, and he thought he could hear the sounds of those cold bodies sliding over each other. He could see where Cody had started digging the hole, and he poured the gasoline in it, then poured more over the onions, spiraling out from the hole. He lit a match, and the flames leapt up, moved across the field, and when the fire hit the gasoline in the rattlesnake nest, he heard a muffled whomp, and the bright yellow flames shot high in the air. The fire ate into the snakes, and Robert imagined he could hear them screaming in pain, crawling over each other, trying to escape. No escape. There would be no escape. When the fire died down he threw a little more gas in the hole, just to make sure, watched it flare up again, bright against the night sky. **** In the morning he called the hospital to check on Cody, and the switchboard operator put him back to Cody's room. He picked up the phone, sounding like he'd just woke up, or like his head was still hurting. Robert didn't feel so hot himself. "Cody, this is Robert Mitchell. I'm just..." "Calling to see if I'm still alive?" "Yeah, I guess so." "I seem to be. Listen, Robert. One of the nurses told me you saved my life. So I should thank you, I guess." His voice was grudging at best. "Don't break a sweat over it, kid." 283


"I wasn't trying to blow you off last night. I just didn't know who you were." "Yeah, Cody, I got that." "I mean, I'm laying there feeling like my head's come off, and next thing I know this guy's grabbing my leg, and you're looking at me like you're ready to grab my nuts." "Uh, huh." "So do we know each other? What the fuck is going on?" Robert felt like chewing glass and spitting it in his face. "You want me to tell you where your secret tattoo is? When you're ready for the truth, Cody, you come find me." He slammed the phone down, ignoring Cody's cursing on the other end. This was unfuckingbelievable, and his stomach felt like a badger was chewing a hole through it, and his hip felt like it had shattered sometime in the night. And when he jerked the refrigerator door open and saw a solitary leftover bowl of chili, the misery welled up in his chest and overflowed from his eyes, and he slammed the door shut again and got the bourbon, instead. Two big swallows, and the hip loosened up enough he could walk out to the onion field. The grass was scorched black in concentric circles, and nothing was moving in the hole. He found Cody's shovel, started digging, and one hour and two inches of bourbon later he found the tomahawk. The head looked like hand-forged metal of some kind, with a wicked spike on the back end. The wooden handle was smooth and heavy, except for a groove cut near the bottom. It had been buried too deep for the fire to touch it. What had Lillian said? Cody would need a weapon and a shield. He 284


brushed the dirt off, took it up to the cabin, then dragged one of the chairs from the porch out to the wild onions. Was there anything out there that Cody needed? Bones, buttons? Who the fuck knew? Some other piece of the bad guy for some Indian exorcism? Robert had not received inservice training in ghost-fighting. The whole evil spiritpoltergeist deal had always struck him as bullshit, until he had seen one of the evil fuckers with his own eyes, until one of them had crawled into his lover's mouth and infected his brain, leaving him stuck with trying to figure out how to find a Blackfoot medicine man who could ... save them. Okay, a weapon and a shield. And this mess sitting in the wild onions, this trouble. Maybe Cody would have wanted to play anthropologist and dig and brush and measure, but this looked to Robert too dangerous to mess with. He needed to bulldoze the entire field, burn whatever was down there. The dead weren't staying buried. This trouble wasn't staying underground. **** Lillian knew someone with a dozer and she'd get them out to the cabin that afternoon. She was also hard at work tracking down a Blackfoot man who was a Sun Dancer. "A Sun Dancer? You mean, from the Sun Dance? Lillian, Jesus Christ, you're not telling me I'm gonna be hanging by a couple of rawhide thongs through my chest, are you? Isn't that going a little overboard?"

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"The sweat is what we need, Robert. A sweat lodge, and a Sun Dancer can do it for us." She sniffed. "Aren't you being a little melodramatic? Rawhide thongs?" "Ignore me. It's the bourbon talking." "Robert, it's nine o'clock in the morning." "I got up early." She sighed across the phone line. "Could I suggest that you eat something?" "A piece of pineapple upside down cake might hit the spot. Okay, I'll wait for your boy." "What are you going to do, with whatever you bulldoze up?" "I'm going to set it on fire, Lillian. Burn it until it's ash. Better ask your Sun Dancer if he needs any ash, because if he doesn't, I'm going to sow that field with salt and ash." "Very biblical." Her voice was dry. "I'll talk to you later. Would it be inappropriate for me to suggest you calm down?" Robert hung up the phone and had a huge chunk of her cake, and immediately felt better. **** David drove into the wild onion field a little before noon, hauling the dozer behind a one-ton dually pickup with painted flames erupting from the wheel wells. He climbed out and offered Robert a hand. He was wearing jeans and boots, with a white t-shirt straining a bit over his belly. "So, you're Val's Robert?" He sighed. "First we had Val, then Cody. Must be something in the damn water around here. The two-spirits are popping up like daisies. No offence." 286


"None taken." Robert offered the bourbon, and David took a slug. "Now that's the kind of tool I'm talking about, you dealing with a rattlesnake nest! And here's the other." He pulled a huge revolver out of the pocket of his jeans. The barrel must have been ten inches long. "Shoot those fuckers with this, they won't be giving us any more trouble." "Sounds good," Robert agreed. "I did set them on fire last night, but no telling what's still underground." "Fire's not bad, you dealing with rattlers," David agreed. He took one more swig of the bourbon, then went back to the trailer, lowered the ramp. About thirty minutes later, Lillian drove up. She had Cody and the nurse from the ER with her. They all got out of her car, walked over to watch David's bulldozer scoop up its loads and dump them into a big pile. "Hey, Robert." The nurse walked over and offered her hand. "I'm Beth. I don't remember if I introduced myself last night." He shook her hand. "Beth, thanks very much. I sure appreciate what you did. Is he okay to be out of the hospital so soon?" "Oh, yes." Her voice got a little louder. "He was being such an asshole the nurses couldn't stand him another minute." Cody shot her a hostile look, and her hands went to her hips. "Don't you look at me like that, Cody Calling Eagle. I don't know what the hell is wrong with you." He turned pointedly away. 287


Lillian pulled Robert off to the side. "Come talk to me. I've got lots to tell you." They walked up to the porch and sat down. "The Sun Dancer, he's on his way from Montana. He says when he gets here, he'll decide if he can help out or not. You need to get some cash, Robert. It's polite to pay for his gas." "That's it? He doesn't want payment for the sweat?" Lillian paused. "It's traditional to give a gift of some kind. The way it works is you offer a tribute, and if it's acceptable, then he proceeds with the ceremony. He doesn't want much, but he wants you to think, and be thoughtful, I guess you could say. Anyway, his name is Black Moon Rising. He lives alone on a remote part of the reservation. That's all I know. He should be here tomorrow. The cousin, who takes his phone messages, said he has been preparing, expecting a journey." "Yeah?" "Don't sound so cynical, Robert." "Holy shit! Look at this!" David reared up, aimed his gun down into the pit the dozer had dug, and pulled the trigger. The kick of the big gun knocked him off his feet, and he landed back on his butt in the bulldozer's seat. "Now, that's something you don't see every day." Robert and Lillian walked over and joined Cody and Beth, staring down into the hole. The dozer had unearthed a human skull, and Robert could see bits and pieces of blue cloth in the dirt around it. He grabbed Cody's arm, pushed him back. "Be careful, Cody. I don't know what's dangerous to you." 288


David stood back up. "I'll make sure the son of a bitch isn't dangerous." He aimed again, a couple more shots, but he was braced this time and didn't go tumbling backward. Lillian had her hands on her hips, and so did Beth. "David, what exactly are you shooting?" Beth sniffed. "I can assure you, as a medical professional, that the person in the hole is already dead." David was undeterred. "I saw this thing once, a bad-ass Harley tattoo, rattler came crawling out the skull's mouth. This thing reminded me, and better safe than sorry is what I say." He holstered the gun. "You used to have a Harley, didn't you, Robert?" "Yeah. I don't have it anymore." He realized he still had Cody's arm in his hand, and he dropped it and moved away. He went back to the porch, but when he turned around Cody was next to him. He sat down on the first step. Cody turned around and gave Robert a stone face. "I don't have any tattoos." Robert looked into his eyes, looking for any trace of the man he was starting to know. He thought he saw a trace of fear cross Cody's dark eyes. "I know you don't have any tattoos. How do you feel?" "I feel like shit. I feel like somebody's trying to cleave my skull in two. My head's swimming with creepy weird shit, voices and snakes, and I want to know what's going on." Robert sighed, looked around for the bourbon. What was he doing? Cody didn't drink. He closed his eyes wearily. He hadn't slept much last night. "Cody, listen. We've got a medicine man coming. He lives alone, up near the border with 289


Canada. Blackfoot land. We need to think up a gift or something." "What's he coming for?" "He's gonna do a sweat, I think. Try to get the creepy weird shit and the snakes out of your head." "Are you fucking kidding me? I think it was just that shit they put in my IV in the ER. And you called some Blackfoot medicine man and didn't even ask me?" "Look, kid. After I do everything I can think up to make this right, if you're still an obnoxious asshole I'll assume that's your baseline and leave you alone. But for today, and tomorrow, and for however long the medicine man says, you're gonna stay here and do the healing thing if I have to hog tie you and drag your sorry ass into the sweat myself. Now, maybe if you're not doing anything else, you could go catch us some fish for dinner. Looks like we've got some people to feed. Your fishing pole is that Orvis fly rod on the back porch, in case you don't remember." From the look Cody shot at him, the black-eyed glare digging holes into his back all the way across the yard, Robert was glad he'd hidden the tomahawk. Val. You still with me? Not for much longer. His voice was weak in Robert's head. Your boy's strong, Robert. And he's still in there, don't worry. The Sun Dancer, he'll get the ghosts out of his head. You burn what you dig up, Robert. Do it now, before the medicine man gets here. Don't give them any place to hide. Val, are you okay? You don't sound good. 290


Nearly done. He's strong, my Akecheta. Hardheaded, like a piece of wood! He'll be fine, Robert, and he loves you. Don't give up on him. Trust him. He'll be the love of your life. I thought you were the love of my life. Val's mouth pressed to his, weaker than last night. Don't go, Val. Can't you stay? Fingers stroking across his cheek. Robert got the gas can out of the back of the truck. "David, what do you think? We've got to burn all this, every bit. Not just the rattlesnakes, but the bones, too. So how do we do it?" David hitched up his jeans, stroked his chin. "Well, I guess we burn and dig. See what I'm saying? Burn a pile, rake it out, dig another pile, burn it. Eventually we'll burn everything that can burn. This isn't ... Robert, this isn't the massacre site, is it? That battle the historians are always talking about? They say fifteen Blackfoot children were slaughtered. Maybe we shouldn't burn their bones." "There was no massacre." David looked up at him in surprise. "Those children, they were hidden, protected. They all lived and their great-grandkids are still roaming around Salmon." He nodded toward Cody and Beth, walking down to the river bank. Beth had his old fishing pole. "Well, I'll be damned." "The men who tried to massacre them?" Robert nodded toward the pit. "We're about to soak their bones in gasoline and set them on fire."

291


"Goddamn! Let's do it, brother! We'll let those mean fuckers know they can't mess with children in Salmon, Idaho." Robert handed him the gas can. "You can go first." Cody was watching him from the river, his sheet of black hair blowing back from his shoulders. The flames flared up between them, making the air shudder with heat. David had been reckless with the gas. Robert watched the skulls, the long gray-brown thigh bones catch fire, start to blacken and burn. Cody dropped to his knees in the river. Trust him. He's strong. Wasn't that what Val said? Robert didn't move, just watched as the flames licked at pieces of wood, pieces of bone, fragments of cloth. Cody filled his cupped hands with water, splashed his face, knelt there in the icy water, sluicing it over his face, his hair, his shoulders, his chest. When the flames died down, David climbed in the dozer, rolled the big tires back and forth, then lifted another load. Four hours later, and Cody was asleep inside the cabin in one of the big easy chairs. David was loading the bulldozer back onto the trailer, his eyebrows singed off, face smudged and sooty. He'd refused any payment, claiming civic duty and a favor owed if he ever needed one. He'd had such a good time Robert wondered if he was an incipient firebug. Lillian and Beth were on the way into town with his ATM card and PIN number. They were going to get cash, food, a chainsaw, and the tribute for the Sun Dancer at the Radio Shack. Robert had been afraid to leave Cody alone. When he'd asked what had happened inside his head when they burned 292


the bones, Cody said that someone was screaming and he wouldn't shut up. Robert gave him a slug of bourbon and put him in the chair. He was sleeping, curled on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek. Robert spread the quilt over his legs. The tenderness was still there, but tempered now with a cold knot of panic in his belly. They could lose this. They could lose each other. Tenderness and love, sick, cold fear, sexual desire, and a tiny bit of blind fury seemed to fill his chest like a river about to overflow its banks. He was tired— tired and broken and in pain. His leg hadn't been this bad since he had first come home from the hospital, come home to his and Val's empty house. He got into the shower, took the last mouthful of bourbon, then eased back in the other chair, closed his eyes. He must have slept a couple of minutes. When he woke up Cody was awake, too, sitting at the kitchen table and looking at him over a cup of coffee. "You ready to tell me what's going on?" Trust him. He's strong. "Sure, kid. We met on Friday evening. This cabin belongs to ... it belonged to Val, before he was killed. He was killed a year ago, Cody. The cabin's mine, now. Me and Val, we were lovers, partners for years. And this last weekend you and I became lovers, too." Cody's face went blank and still with shock. "Out in the wild onions are buried the bodies of three men. We had a dream about it, you and me. They murdered your great-great-grandmother in 1882. Then they tried to ambush and kill Val and his lover, Akecheta. Val and Akecheta killed the men and buried them in the onion field. They were evil, 293


twisted. Their ghosts rose up, turned themselves into snakes, and they made a nest over the bodies, a rattlesnake nest. We started to dig up the field, and you dug into the rattlesnake nest. I watched..." Robert took a deep breath. "I watched the ghosts, like snakes, go into your mouth after the rattlesnakes bit you." Cody was wiping frantically at his mouth, then he lurched up and just made it into the bathroom before he started vomiting. Robert could hear him in there coughing and cursing. When he came out he went out the back door, walked back down to the river, and when Robert got to the back porch he was kneeling in the river again, splashing water over his face. Robert followed him out, walked into the river and pulled Cody's long hair back out of the way, tied it with an elastic band. "Robert, I can hear them. They're talking in my head, all kinds of evil shit. They never shut up." Robert stood there in the river while his feet turned cold and numb. He stood near, like a friend, so Cody wouldn't be alone. **** Whatever battle was raging in Cody's head, it was giving him a massive headache. He looked exhausted, new lines of pain next to his mouth and eyes, and he sat on the bottom step of the front porch and stared blankly across the green fields to the stand of aspens that bordered the property. Robert sat in a chair on the porch, an ice pack on his hip, smelling like Bengay. He'd found a tube in the groceries Lillian 294


had brought from town. He thought they were a sorry pair of ghost fighters. "Shouldn't we start building the sweat, Robert?" "Why are you asking me? I believe you're the only Blackfoot sitting on this porch." Cody turned around and gave him a nasty look. "Yeah, I am. But aren't you running this show?" "No, I'm not." Besides the Bengay, there was stew meat, potatoes and carrots, a loaf of bread and some ham, and some Cokes. No additional bourbon. There was also some food for the medicine man. Robert had studied this last in surprise. Half a case of Spam, half a case of canned peaches. Four large cans of coffee and the same of instant oatmeal. People still ate like this? Like John Wayne climbing aboard the wagon train and pointing the oxen toward Oregon? Apparently so. "Okay, asshole, then I think we need to start work on the sweat! He's supposed to be here tomorrow, right?" "Yes. Do you know how to do it?" Cody bit down on his bottom lip. "I've never built a sweat, but I've seen it done. I think I remember enough. We need to cut down some trees, strip off the branches so they're smooth. Then we take three and form a tripod, and use the others to fill in the space. It only has to be big enough for two. Or maybe three, I don't know." "Lillian brought the chainsaw with the other stuff. You know how to use it?" "Yeah. Who's paying for all this?" "I am." 295


"I thought you were bankrupt or something." "Pretty close. The money doesn't matter." "Why not? Money always matters." "I guess I don't care about money as much as I care about you." Cody closed his eyes and rubbed hard across his forehead again. "I wish I knew why." "I don't get it either." Robert stood up and hobbled down the steps. "Okay, let's go build a sweat." The aspen trees were tall and pale, and the wind rustled through the leaves in a way that Robert might have called ghostly, a few days before. The noise they made walking through the leaves startled a pair of mountain blue jays. Robert bent over and picked up a brilliant blue feather with a black band across it. He was thinking about the tomahawk, that groove cut into the wooden handle near the bottom. When Akecheta had wielded the tomahawk in the dream, a leather thong had been tied to the handle with some blue feathers attached. Cody picked up another feather and handed it to him. "These are so blue, aren't they? They're the same color as Val's eyes." Robert jerked in shock. "Let me go put these in the cabin, Cody. We may need them." "What for?" "A weapon and a shield. That's what you'll need. And no, I don't know what that means." Robert walked back to the cabin, put the black and blue feathers on the counter, then came back out to where Cody was starting small wedge-cuts in a couple of trees, all five or six inches in diameter. 296


"You know how to do this, Robert? How to cut down a tree?" He powered down the chainsaw. "No, I don't." "Stand behind me, then, so the tree doesn't fall on you." When the tree fell over, much softer and slower than Robert had expected, Cody told him to leave it, and the next tree fell at an angle to the first. "This way you won't have to bend over so far." "Thanks." Cody glanced at him as if he was wondering if he was being sarcastic, then he turned back to the trees and revved up the chainsaw. When four trees were lying across the first, Cody put down the chainsaw and they used small handsaws to cut off the limbs and brush. When one side of the tree was cleared, they reached down together, lifted the tree and turned it over, and Robert was reminded of his first dream about Val and Akecheta, building the cabin together. Cody's hands were still and dark against the pale bark of the Aspen tree, and they glanced at each other for a moment. Robert felt it like a spear in his chest, that wounded dark glance. "You won't leave me until it's done, Robert?" "Maybe I won't leave you then, either." Cody ducked his head. Robert stared out at the river. "Did Val say anything to you? When you saw him at the hospital?" "He said to trust you. He said you were strong." "He told me the same about you, Cody." They lashed the three largest trees together like a tripod, and it formed a tipi shape. The smaller trees covered the outside, then the branches went over that. "This is like we're 297


a couple of boys building a fort!" Just for a second Robert could hear Cody's young voice again. Cody mixed up some river mud and piled it on the branches, and Robert hauled some smooth, pale river rocks inside the sweat for the fire hole. He rested inside the dark space, the only light coming from the smoke hole. It wasn't very big. They'd have to sit crosslegged to fit all three of them in here. Cody crawled in through the entrance with a small shovel, sat up on his knees and started digging the fire pit. He hauled the dirt outside, crawled back in and rimmed the pit with rocks. "We need a few more." Robert sat up. "I'll get them." "You rest, Robert. I'll get them." Robert leaned back, put his hands behind his head. The space was still and dark and quiet, the sunlight a golden shaft like an arrow through the smoke hole. Maybe the medicine of the sweat lodge just came from the peace of the space, when you could leave the world outside and be still and think. Cody crawled back in, glanced at Robert, then finished the fire pit. Then he leaned back, too, studied the roof. "Do we have anything to drink?" "Cokes, coffee, and water." "Where's the rest of the bourbon?" "We finished it. That's all there was. Besides, you don't drink, Cody." "It helped me to sleep before. You gave me a sip, and the voices shut up and I could sleep for a bit. It was a relief not to hear them, Robert." 298


"I think it's too dangerous, Cody. I may not know what's going on, but I know that for sure." "And you just decided this for me, like I'm a child? Like you decided I needed a medicine man? Booze isn't illegal. Not all Indians are alcoholics. That's just white bullshit." "Cody, you told me you don't drink. Maybe somebody else in your head's clamoring for some whiskey. You gonna just let the bad guys tell you to poison yourself?" "I could knock you on your skinny white ass and take your truck and do whatever the fuck I wanted. You couldn't stop me." "You go ahead. Live out your lonely, miserable life with a head full of murdering ghosts. Go ahead, Cody. Take the truck, drink some whiskey. The keys are on the table. Then maybe you can find a couple of guys out for a Sunday afternoon ride on their motorcycle. And you can just run them down like their lives don't mean anything." Cody climbed out of the sweat without another word, and Robert lay still, on his back, tears sliding down the side of his face and dripping into his ears. Maybe he should ask the medicine man to help him, too. Could he get Val's ghost out of his head? Maybe. But he didn't want to lose Val's ghost. Val? You there, baby? Nothing. Maybe this, like everything else, was out of his control. The shaft of late afternoon gold moved across the floor, and Robert crawled stiffly out of the sweat, stood up on the second try. His truck was still where he'd left it. Where was Cody? In the cabin, sharpening the tomahawk? Hitchhiking into town, to visit the liquor store? No, he could hear him. 299


Robert walked around the back of the cabin. Cody was in the river again. He had stripped off his clothes, knelt among the rocks, and was crying with his head down on his knees, crying like the heart had shattered in his chest. Robert couldn't speak around the tightness that gripped his throat. He went into the cabin, pulled a towel out of the bathroom, then looked into the chifferobe for something warm. There was an old hooded sweatshirt of Val's in there; it would fit Cody better than his smaller one. He threw the towel over his shoulder and walked back outside, kicked off his shoes and walked out into the river. Cody's skin was icy, and he shook his head when Robert tried to lift him up. "Just leave me alone, Robert." Robert wrapped the towel around his shoulders. "Please, baby. Please come in with me. You're so cold." Cody's head lifted, and his voice sounded strangled. "When you talk to me like that, kind of sweet, it almost sounds familiar. Maybe I'm starting to remember you." "Please come back into the cabin. I don't want you to get sick, Cody. And I don't think we have any more dry clothes between us." "I'm sorry, Robert. I'm sorry for what I said. I can't believe what a fucking asshole I was to you." "It's okay, baby. Come on, now. Come inside with me." Cody stood up, his legs shaky, and Robert dried him off, slipped the sweatshirt on over his head. Cody held out his arms, humble as a child. When they got back in the cabin Cody dried his legs and feet, sat down on the end of the bed, and Robert rooted around for a pair of clean boxers. 300


Cody slipped them on, but by then his teeth were chattering, strong shivers rocking his frame. Robert pulled back the covers, and Cody crawled into his bed. Robert put some coffee on, started browning the stew meat for tomorrow. It felt cozy. The cabin was warm, with the smells of cooking food and Cody curled up asleep in his bed. He looked at the food Lillian had brought for the medicine man. Oatmeal had a certain appeal on a night like this. Comfort food. Maybe he and Cody would be happy that way, living poor together, out in the wilderness. Robert sighed. Not yet. No wishful thinking yet. After tomorrow, Cody might just run as long and far away from him as he could possibly get. Robert walked over to the bed and picked up Cody's hand, pressed a kiss into the palm. Cody opened his eyes, blinked for a moment like he was wondering where he was. Then his eyes found Robert's face. He looked like himself, warm dark eyes, no evil ghost snakes slithering through his brain. Robert tucked the hand back under the quilt, and Cody closed his eyes and slept again. **** It was after midnight when Robert heard the wolf. The howl shivered up his spine, and he wondered at first if it was another dream, but Cody was sitting up, too, looking around. "He sounds close, Robert." Robert climbed stiffly out of the chair, but he didn't turn the light on. "Cody, did you hear that? It wasn't a dream?" The moonlight was coming through the window, lighting the 301


cabin enough they could see each other, bathed in the silver light. "Is that a wolf?" Cody nodded. "I think so. Let's be real quiet, see if we can see them." He opened the back door of the cabin as quietly as he could, and Robert followed him out to the porch. They stood silently, looking across the river. A pair of wolves moved into the moonlight. The huge male had solid black fur, eyes like liquid amber. His companion was smaller, with dappled silver fur. They were on the other side of the riverbank, and the big black wolf lifted his head and howled. Robert took a picture of the scene in his mind, as if his eyes were a camera. This is the shield. The wolf was Cody's spirit guardian. "Come on." Robert touched Cody on the arm. "You'll be safe tonight. They're here to protect you. So am I." Robert turned back to the wolves one more time. They were real, alive and strong and beautiful. Like Cody. Cody crawled back into bed, curled up on his side. "Robert, come sleep in your bed. The chair isn't good for your leg. I'm okay. I won't go nuts or something during the night." Robert slid in next to him, wrapped his arms around Cody's waist. "Did you see how beautiful they were?" "I liked the smaller one with the silver fur." "Yeah? I liked the big black one." Cody chuckled, and his throat sounded raw from crying. "We can sleep, Cody. The wolves have got our backs." "Yep. They got our six." "Our six? What does that mean?" "It's slang, Robert. It means they've got our back." 302


"I don't get it." "Go to sleep. I'll explain it in the morning." "Cody, did you call them? Did you call the wolves?" "I don't know, Robert. I was praying." "Who were you praying to?" "To whoever was listening." **** When dawn broke, Robert went out to the back porch. They were still across the river in the shade of one of the big trees on the far riverbank. The little silver wolf was asleep, but the black one was awake, down in the river taking a drink of water. He looked up at Robert, then turned back and nudged his companion with his nose. Then they were running through the trees, and disappeared into the shadows. Lillian arrived first, while Cody was still bleary-eyed, sitting on the porch steps with a cup of coffee, staring off blankly at the sweat lodge. She had a teenage girl with her and Beth, and everyone was carrying bags. Robert thought he smelled cinnamon rolls. Lillian came back outside after dumping her bags. "Robert, this is my niece, Sharona. We'll start the stew. We brought yeast bread and salad and bowls. You probably don't have enough bowls, do you?" She didn't wait for an answer, just moved to Cody and held his face between her hands, forced him to look up at her. "You look better," she announced. "You're starting to look like yourself again." She patted his cheek, and then Beth was there, untwining a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from the backpack she was carrying. She 303


tried to stare into his eyes, too, but Cody flinched away from her. "Don't make me get the flashlight." Her tone was light, but no one doubted she meant it. Then she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm and started pumping the bulb. David pulled up a few minutes later. The trailer was still hooked to his truck, but the bulldozer was gone. In its place was a redwood picnic table. A teenage boy climbed out of the pickup. He looked about sixteen, and had a long, straight nose and black hair that looked familiar. Robert looked over at Cody and Beth. "That boy, is he Blackfoot?" Beth looked around. "Did Redmond come? Amazing. Usually he's locked in the basement, playing Dungeons and Dragons or whatever they're playing now. He's our cousin. David's wife, I mean." "Second cousin," Cody said. "No, Gail's our first cousin. So that makes Redmond..." "Second cousin. I told you." "I am not going to argue with you." Robert walked out to the truck. David hitched up his jeans and shook hands. "Thought you might need someplace for everybody to eat. Robert, this is my son, Redmond." Redmond was wearing black, and his hands were in the pockets of black pants that were only held on his skinny ass by a wish and a prayer. He was wearing a black stocking cap with a patch on the front: Slipknot. Robert assumed this was the name of a band or a drug, but decided not to ask. They unroped the picnic table and carried it into the shade of the 304


big oak. "Nice and green under here," David said. "This the septic tank?" "Yep." "That tap root? That big sucker is probably tearing this septic tank up. You gonna have a major problem soon, my friend." "That's what Val thought, too." "Well, you call me, you start having trouble, we'll pump that baby out." Redmond was wilting, cringing away from them, and Robert could read on his face a desire to die rather than become the type of adult who would stand around and talk about septic tanks. But he straightened suddenly, walked casually away down to the river. A moment later Sharona, responding to some silent mating call, appeared on the porch steps, then made her way down to join him. David nodded, watching them. "Well, I admit I was wondering why he agreed to come out here with me. These days I usually have to give him cash to spend ten minutes in my company. When he was a little boy, I couldn't even pee alone, he was always hanging on my leg. I thought I would see about this Sun Dancer Lillian found. He needs to do his puberty ceremony soon, if he's gonna do it. Cody never did his, and look what's happened to him. How's our boy this morning?" "He seems a little better. You want to hear something wild? A couple of wolves came last night to the other side of the river. They stayed here all night." 305


"Goddamn! Were they real? Or, what do you call them, spirit animals?" "They were real. But I got the feeling..." "They came to protect him." "Yeah." Robert felt a sudden surge of affection for this good old boy, who twice now had dropped everything to come and help. What was it with the people of Salmon, Idaho? Were they all born with hearts as generous as the mountains? Cody had escaped the women and gone to the river. He had his fishing pole and had rolled up his jeans, and was walking down the river away from them all. "Hey, Cody! Wait up! I got my pole in the truck," David said. "Robert, you don't worry. I'll stay with the boy." Robert did a quick check of the bathroom to make sure they had clean towels and plenty of paper. Lillian and Beth were in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. Beth turned from the sink and dried her hands. "Robert, his blood pressure is still high, and I don't think he took the pills I left with him last night. We're gonna have to be careful today." When he went back outside, there was an old man sitting on the front porch. He was Indian, Blackfoot, with that same hatchet nose and long, steel-gray hair down his back in a ponytail. He was wearing jeans and an indigo blue twill shirt, both old and worn, but clean and neatly pressed. He sat without speaking, his gnarled old hands resting on his thighs, and looked around. Robert sat down next to him and studied the view. The blackened hole where the onion field used to be, the big oak next to the river, with the picnic table underneath in the 306


shade. The sweat, the green grass, and the wildflowers. Robert looked at him, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. "Would you like to see the river?" The old man nodded, and he and Robert walked slowly around the back of the cabin and down to the river bank. The river sounded happy, water flowing over the rocks, and the air was sweet and cool. The Sun Dancer studied the teenagers—Sharona was picking a wildflower and trying to put it in Redmond's hair—then he turned and looked downriver at Cody and David. His hand crept to something under his shirt, something on a thong around his neck. "Is that him?" Robert nodded. "I would be very thankful for anything you could do to help my friend." Old black eyes sharpened on him. "This is a good place. A clean place." He put one of those knobby old hands on Robert's shoulder, the knuckles swollen and twisted. Robert looked at his hand. "I have a small gift for you. I hope you can use it with your arthritis. It's a radio, designed to hear radio stations all over the world. Russia, Africa, South America, everywhere. And it has a special battery inside. You can recharge by turning the handle. It makes its own electricity, so you never need to buy batteries." The Sun Dancer's face looked delighted. "Voices from around the world! And music! I heard music once from Africa. They know their drums, those Africans. Thank you for the thoughtful gift." "It was my pleasure. And thank you for making the long trip down here." 307


"There is a story we tell about this place, about children hidden during the year of the last buffalo hunt, about a woman murdered. Do you know this story?" Robert nodded and pointed to the blackened hole in the onion field. "That's where they were buried, the men who murdered the woman. I burned their bones yesterday. It was their ghosts. They turned themselves into snakes, and hurt my friend." The old man hissed softly between his teeth. "My name is Black Moon Rising. I am Blackfoot, of the Blood. We will finish writing this story today. I'll go alone," he said, as Robert fell into step next to him. "Get me that basket out of my truck?" Robert walked back over to the Sun Dancer's truck, a pale blue Chevy that looked like he'd been driving it since it rolled off the showroom floor in 1957. In the front seat was a small plastic laundry basket, and inside the basket were a couple of bundles of dried grasses and plants, a water bottle half filled with a pale, greenish liquid, some dark brown sticks floating in it, and a couple of small hide pouches full of something that Robert was pretty sure he shouldn't touch. Also a rolled up copy of American Cowboy. Robert took the basket over to the medicine man. He pointed to the ground. His eyes were already half-closed, standing in the burned onions, and he reached for one of the hide pouches, took some yellowish powder from the inside and threw it into the hole. "Does the boy have his medicine bundle?" "Not one of his own." The old man looked around, frowning. "His grandfather's..." 308


"Okay, good. We'll use that one. He'll need his weapon and shield." Robert left him, went into the kitchen. Lillian and Beth were peeking out the window. "Robert, is that him? He looks tough, doesn't he?" "Yes, he does. Lillian, I need you to go break into the Historical Society and steal Cody's grandfather's medicine bundle. Also, I need some hide. Buffalo skin would be better, I guess, I don't really know. And something to paint the shield. I don't have any idea what you use to paint on a hide." She was staring at him, her face blank. "Oh, and a rawhide thong for the tomahawk. The weapon and the shield, Lillian. And the old man wants the medicine bundle." "Right! Okay, medicine bundle, hide, paint, thong. Got it. Beth, would you please stay here and make sure Sharona..." "I sure will." Lillian reached down and kissed Robert on the cheek. "You sure liven the place up, Robert. But I swear, Blackfoot men are lunatics! You wouldn't catch a Nez Perce ... never mind." She grabbed her keys off the counter and was out the door. **** The Sun Dancer was praying in the wild onions. Robert didn't understand the words, but the cadence, the rhythm of the language was unmistakably prayer, or song. He had the water bottle and one of the hide pouches, and he would sprinkle the water, or toss pinches of the yellow powder into the hole, or into the air. It looked like curry powder, but Robert decided to keep that opinion to himself. David, with 309


Redmond in tow, joined him just outside the onion field, and after a few minutes Cody came out, too, nearly dragging his feet with reluctance. He was as close to pouting as Robert had ever seen him. Robert stepped away from David and Redmond, and Cody followed him. "What's wrong? Don't be afraid, Cody. He seems nice, I don't know..." "I'm not afraid!" Cody's face was outraged. "Fine. I'm sorry I said anything." Cody rubbed down hard over his face with both hands. "Robert, it's not that. I mean, I'm a scientist. An anthropologist. And here I am, about to willingly participate in a ritual that involves my getting painted and tying feathers in my hair! I've been fighting this off since I was thirteen, and do you know what it cost me to turn away from all this Blackfoot bullshit last time?" Robert looked up into his furious face, color staining his cheeks red. "And now you're doing this for me. Because ... because Val told me in a dream that it would heal you. And because all these people here are worried about you. I know you're a scientist. But I've seen things in the world that science cannot explain. Just keep an open mind, baby. Nobody's asking you to turn into a traditional Blackfoot, do the Sun Dance. Just keep your mind open." He hesitated. "Keep your heart open." Cody was studying his face, that warm dark gaze moving over him like a caress, like the first time. "Robert, you don't look so good. You look tired." 310


He was suddenly furious, nearly in tears. "Thank you, Cody, for pointing that out. I am, in fact, very tired. Tired and worried and in pain. And don't forget I'm twelve years older than you. That's probably why I look so old. So let me ask you, if you've turned your back on traditional Blackfoot culture, why do you wear your hair halfway to your butt?" "It makes it easy to get laid." Cody put his hands on his hips and stared down at him. "Okay, so you're old, broken, depressed, bankrupt. Got it." He leaned forward. "And you must be crazy to be doing all this for me." Robert felt a clutch somewhere around his heart. "You're starting to remember, aren't you?" Cody nodded. "Since the river last night." He watched the medicine man tossing the yellow powder in the air. "What is that, curry powder?" "Boy!" Black Moon Rising beckoned Redmond close. "You help me." He picked up a bundle of the dried grasses, handed Redmond the bottle of green water and the hide bag. David tried to hide his grin at the boy's look of alarm. When the Sun Dancer moved past them toward the sweat lodge, he looked at Robert first, then Cody. Cody flinched behind him, stepped close. The old man said something to Cody in Blackfoot, then he moved off across the yard like they were invisible. "Goddamnit." "What did he say? Cody, do you speak Blackfoot?" "My grandfather spoke it when I was little. The Sun Dancer, he told me to be a man. He said not to hide behind you." 311


Robert looked up at him. His jaw was like a rock. Lillian pulled up, and Robert walked out to meet her. She was flushed and excited by her misdemeanor breaking-andentering of the Historical Society. "Robert, I got it! I got everything!" He leaned close. "Why are you whispering, 007?" Her laughter bubbled up. "I feel like I'm on the lam. Okay, medicine bundle, elk hide, rawhide thong stolen from a moccasin, and some oil pastels. They'll work, won't they?" "They're perfect. Thanks, Lillian." She handed the elk skin through the window. It was a beautiful, thick golden yellow hide. There was a small cut a few inches from the edge, and Lillian traced it with a finger. "Blackfoot arrow. This is old, Robert. When you mentioned that you needed a hide, I thought about it. This belonged to my great-grandmother. I don't know anything about it, other than I watched my grandmother trace that cut with her finger, and say 'Blackfoot arrow.'" "Lillian, I can't take this. It's too old. This is really special." "Please, Robert. Use it. Let it be alive, out in the world. Not getting old and stiff, rolled up in my cedar chest. Can I watch you draw the shield?" "Yeah. I've been working on the sketch." The medicine bundle was bigger than he expected, wrapped in some sort of hide. Inside the cabin, Robert spread the elk hide out on the kitchen table. It had a rich, buttery surface. Robert pulled out his shield drawings. Using the yellow oil pastel, he sketched out the river, the trees, and the moon, making a rough circle, and in the middle he sketched the two wolves. 312


Lillian looked over his shoulder. "That's nice, Robert. I like how strong the river is. Cody, he's always been really attached to the river. Anything goes wrong in his life, he heads to water." "Good." Robert took the colored pastels, began drawing in the water, the rocks, the trees. Outside on the front porch, Redmond was hauling the medicine man's laundry basket, and Cody followed the Sun Dancer through the door. Lillian handed him his grandfather's medicine bundle. He stroked it with his fingertips, his face still, then handed it over to Black Moon Rising. "Robert, do we have a weapon?" "Yes." Robert ignored his start of surprise, didn't meet his eyes. He got the tomahawk out from under the kitchen sink and handed it to him. Cody hefted it in his hand, testing the balance and the weight. Robert got the rawhide thong and the two blue feathers, and Cody held it for him while he tied them on the end. "You dug it up?" "While you were in the hospital." The Sun Dancer was studying the elk hide. "This is the shield?" Robert nodded. "I'm drawing it now." "Good." He turned around and gave Cody a look. "Blackfoot. Come with me." Cody sighed through his nose, rolled his eyes, then followed the old man out. Robert met Lillian's eyes, and they both turned quickly to keep from laughing. Robert went back to painting the shield, and Lillian went back to making stew. A few minutes later Beth came in, her 313


hair wind-blown. She had David and Sharona with her. David was trying to get Sharona to talk, but apparently only Redmond had heard her voice. "Come on," Beth said, touching her shoulder. "Let's set the table." David hitched his jeans, looked over Robert's shoulder. "David, there're sodas in the fridge, if you want a Coke." "Thanks, Robert." He got a soda, then wandered over to the mantle and looked at the picture. "Hey, Lillian, did you see this?" Robert looked over at them, felt the familiar squeeze across his chest. Oh, Val. I wish you were here to see all these good people. David studied the photo. "They look real happy, don't they?" Lillian looked across the cabin at Robert. "Yes, they sure do." Cody came through the door, and Robert took an involuntary step backward. "Holy shit!" Cody rolled his eyes again and held up a hand. "Not one word, Robert." His face had been painted white, with a fierce black band across his eyes. Feathers dangled from his hair, and he was naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. "Are you ready? He sent me to get you." "He wants me, too? You sure?" Cody reached for Robert's shirt, started unbuttoning it. Lillian and David watched with interest. Cody looked over at them. "Um, would you two..." 314


Lillian jerked. "Yes! Of course, I don't know what I was thinking." She took David's arm. "Come on. We don't need to watch this part." David was hiding his grin. He slapped Cody on the shoulder. "You look good, boy! Very authentic." "I am never going to live this down, Robert, never. This is worse than fishing naked." He pushed the chambray off Robert's shoulders, let it tangle at his wrists. "The easiest way to tie up a man is with his own shirt, right? But I like the way you use your hands." He finished pulling the shirt off, dropped his hands to Robert's waistband. "Robert." He whispered the name. His fingers were busy with button and zipper. "Robert, I remember you. I remember all of it." He traced a line from Robert's belly button down. Robert looked up into his eyes. He was there, Cody, with a little trace of uncertainty, as if he wasn't sure of his welcome. "It feels like you again. But let's finish this, and make sure." Robert reached a hand for his chest, pressed his palm over Cody's heart. "So, what now?" "The sweat. He's heating the rocks." Robert stepped out of his jeans, kicked off his shoes, and followed Cody outside and across the yard. "Wait, do we need the shield?" Cody took his elbow. "Redmond's bringing it. He's gonna tack it over the door after we're in. It's supposed to keep the bad guys out or something." He stopped, turned Robert to face him. "Are you sure you want to do this? He said we both need a sweat. I think we're both fine." 315


"What about the crazy ghost voices in your head, Cody?" "They're gone, Robert, I told you. Since the river last night. I don't know. Maybe the voices were just the rattlesnake venom. Or the seizure or the antivenom or the blood pressure medicine. You know there are probably ten frigging reasonable explanations." "And what's the reasonable scientific explanation for me seeing ghost snakes crawling into your mouth?" "I figured it out." Cody leaned toward him. "We've been eating those onions! We've been eating onions out of the wild onion field and they've got some hallucinogen and that's what caused the dreams! So since we had dreamed ghost snakes naturally you saw them when I got bit because you were feeling..." "What?" "You were feeling stressed out and guilty. Over Val. And me." Robert looked up into warm, dark eyes searching his face ... with tenderness. Maybe Cody was right. He could be right. Could it have all been the product of an overwhelmed heart? His heart full of grief at being back at Val's cabin, overwhelmed with memories and the possibility of a new love? "Okay, Cody." He was standing there with an eagle feather in his hair and his face painted, and he was doing it to make Robert happy. Robert put a hand over his chest, and he could feel the strong double-thump of Cody's heart. "Okay. I accept there could be truth in what you say. That it could be the truth. What do you want to do?" 316


Cody looked back at the sweat lodge. "He said we both need a sweat. So let's take a sweat. What can it hurt? I've never done it. My grandfather, he said it was just a bunch of guys sitting around telling old stories." Robert crawled painfully through the entrance. The old man was sitting cross-legged on the floor on the far side of the fire with his shirt off. His skinny old chest was ribbed with scars, scars from the Sun Dance, and Robert was reminded of his sarcastic comment to Lillian about hanging from a couple of rawhide thongs through his chest. Then Redmond was tacking up the shield over the entrance, and the only light was from the fire and the tiny white light at the smoke hole. Cody sat down and crossed his legs, and when Robert lowered himself to the floor, Cody reached for him and moved him over until he was leaning against his shoulder. "Don't try and cross your legs, Robert. Lean on me." He looked at the medicine man. "He's got a hurt leg." Black Moon Rising raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I know. I've been watching him limp all over the yard." Cody wrapped an arm around Robert's shoulder. "You tell me if it starts to hurt, Robert. I'll rub it for you." "He already believes you love him, Blackfoot. You don't have to beat it into his head." The fire pit was full of rocks, the coals glowing red and black and yellow, and the heat in the small space was climbing quickly. Robert could feel the flush of heat on his skin, then he could feel the heat move through his skin, into his blood and bones as the Sun Dancer started praying. Several of the dried grasses were tossed into the fire, making 317


tiny puffs of smoke, and a pinch of the yellow powder—not curry powder, he heard Cody thinking—and a tiny piece of clear, red-gold amber, or something that looked like amber, that filled the small space with a rich and dark smell that was rather intoxicating. Cody sneezed twice. The Sun Dancer was speaking in Blackfoot, his voice the beautiful rhythmic cadence of a heart beating, or a foot dancing, or hands on a drum, and Robert felt so drowsy and warm, lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of the prayers, that he might have put his head on Cody's shoulder and drifted off to sleep, except for the invisible man with the hammer and spike banging on his leg. Eventually the prayers stopped, and Black Moon Rising looked sternly at them both. "We are here to—do what? To get the ghosts out of this stubborn boy's head? Do you believe in ghosts?" He pointed a gnarled finger at Cody's chest. "No, I don't." "And you?" The finger moved to Robert. "Yes, I do." "We are not here for the ghosts. Of course there are ghosts. You would be a fool not to open your mind to that possibility. They are good and evil, just as they were when they were alive, walking the earth. But a man with a strong mind, and a whole heart, does not have to worry about ghosts. Why? Ghosts hide in the cracks, in the dark. They slide into the empty places. They fill up what is empty inside you. Robert, how could your lover's ghost leave you, when you still needed him so much? And how could those evil men 318


have resisted you, Cody Calling Eagle, blood line of their old enemy Akecheta? How could they have resisted another twospirit, but this one torn in two by his rejection of his own people? "Your ancestor, Akecheta, he was rejected by the people. But he never questioned that he was a Blackfoot. But you, you reject that which makes you who you are. Science will never fill that hole. And since you believe you broke your grandfather's heart doing it, you cling harder and harder to that decision of childhood. You are afraid now to admit you were wrong." Cody's hand crept over until he was touching Robert's knee. Black Moon Rising laid the medicine bundle on the ground. "You didn't break his heart, boy. A fine, strong grandson like you? He understood. Look at this. Don't you see?" Cody shook his head. "Your grandfather, he didn't collect his medicine bundle until he was a man. He didn't do a spirit quest at puberty. He was hard-headed, like you." Cody reached out to touch the edge, and the Sun Dancer passed it into his hands. "This is passed to the men in our family when they are ready to become Blackfoot." Black Moon Rising looked at Robert suddenly, and Robert could barely control a flinch. "And you. You can't have them both. You want a back-up plan, so you won't be alone? As long as his ghost fills the hollows of your heart, there is no room for this hard-headed Blackfoot who is trying to love you. "Now, let us tell a story, a story that we are still writing today, like all the great stories. 319


"The year was 1882, and the last of the native tribes had fallen to their knees and slipped on their yokes under the boots and guns of the US Cavalry. The Blackfoot were the last. They were strong and tough, but too hard-headed to listen to the voices of the elders, and the medicine men. Their self-destruction with greed and alcohol was like a comet across the sky. Then the last buffalo hunt failed. The plains, once teeming with life for the people, were barren and empty. Starvation loomed like a hungry ghost, and desperation spread like poison across the land. "Blackfoot women have always been strong, brave, and one Blackfoot woman determined to bring her children to a safe place. She collected fifteen children, her own and those who had no adults to care for them. She knew these children would not be alive after this winter of starvation. The women of the tribe made sure all the children had strong moccasins, and they set out into the mountains as the leaves started to fall, walking. "It was a long and hungry walk, but the older children helped with the younger, and in time they made it over the mountains to this place. To this place of sanctuary. What a blessing for me, an old man, to follow their path to this place, to see the children of that blood still here. The woman, her name was Magaskawee, and she was the sister to my grandmother. They were twins, and loved each other very much. My grandmother always claimed that she knew the very moment that her sister was murdered. She felt it like a black and evil splinter of wood entering her heart, and the pain never left her. 320


"Akecheta had come to the fort to help build, because he was very strong and skilled in the way of wood. He came to be friends with a young officer, a man who was also a twospirit, but who had fought against his nature for many years. They found that each filled the empty, lonesome places in the other's heart, and in time they decided to walk their path together. "They understood that the worldly cost for the young officer was great, and the danger, but to him it felt like freedom, like shedding a false skin and becoming himself. But he could still reach for the well of anger he had built over a lifetime at war. When the woman arrived with the children, he and Akecheta were overjoyed. They had found a family, a tribe of their own, and the love was strong within their house. No one knows exactly what happened next, just that evil entered their home." Cody looked up at Robert, pushed the tomahawk toward the old man. "Grandfather, I know what happened. This man and I, we saw it in a dream. Oh, let me tell you this part of our story. He was a brave man, resolute, but hard in ways that made weaker men avoid him, or want to hurt him. Captain Valentine Carmody. And handsome! He had this very stubborn chin. Anyone could see that, even through his long whiskers, and his hair was dark red, and down to his shoulders, beautiful in the sunlight. And he had the most beautiful eyes, Grandfather, blue like these feathers, and you could see everything he was feeling when you looked into his eyes. 321


"When my great-grandmother was killed, he felt murderous rage, rage as big as the sky, and part of that rage was guilt, I think, because probably she came to the fort to work because he was there." Cody glanced a question at Robert, and he nodded. "Yeah, I think so, too." "They raped her, grandfather, and beat her to death, three men." The old man made a small noise of pain and closed his eyes. "Val set out for justice, or revenge. He knew the men, had them thrown into the brig. When he realized his commanding officer did not share his outrage, and was probably going to let the men go, he flung his letter of resignation on his desk, marched out of the office so tall and proud, and then he went to the brig. "Val kicked the door open, and I thought he was going to start killing, Grandfather, his rage was so great. But he didn't. The men were in a cage, and they ... threatened to hurt Akecheta. Val's heart became as still and icy as a mountain lion's. Grandfather, I could almost feel his bloody jaws tearing into their evil throats!" Robert cleared his throat and glanced over at him, but Cody wouldn't meet his eyes. "Anyway, the men made a terrible mistake to hurt his family, to threaten to hurt them again. Val knew they would never be safe. There was only one way this story was going to end, and that was with the blood of his enemies spilled on the ground!" "And wild onions growing out of their bones," Robert added. He had to hide a smile at how natural a storyteller 322


Cody was, his voice falling into the same rhythms, at how much the old man was enjoying the story, and the telling, his eyes huge. It must have been a hundred and ten inside the sweat. Robert was drenched and lightheaded, and he could see the sweat rolling down Cody's spine. When Cody described Akecheta burying the hatchet in Billy's skull, the Sun Dancer reared back with a Blackfoot oath, fumbled for his bags of powder. He said a prayer over the tomahawk, sprinkled powder on his hands. Then he passed the bag to Cody. "Your hands," he said, concentrating hard on the tomahawk, and Cody and Robert put the yellow powder on their hands and rubbed the palms together. Black Moon Rising traced an invisible line near the edge of the blade and smiled a warrior's smile. "The blood of an enemy. This is a good weapon. So what happened then? How did you get the weapon?" Robert picked up the tale. "When the three evil men were killed, we saw their spirits leave their bodies, like shapeshifters, twisted animals, all teeth and claws. Then they seemed to settle on the form of snakes. The ghost snakes wrapped around Val and Akecheta ... tasting them. They didn't seem to know. They couldn't feel them. And then the spirits went into the ground." Cody reached for the tomahawk, traced the heavy wooden handle. "So Robert's Val, he found some metal out in the wild onions, marked the places with little flags. We saw the flags and we ... we dug into..." 323


Black Moon Rising stared. "You dug into the field. The burial field where you had seen the evil spirits? You dug with a shovel?" Cody was studying the roof. "Ah. Well. Actually, Grandfather, yes." The Sun Dancer blew out through his nose. "Both of you have gone to university, am I right?" He shook his head. "Grandson. Is your head made of wood?" Robert intervened. "We dug into a rattlesnake nest." "Of course you did!" "He got bit. He had a seizure, and I watched the ghost snakes ... climb into his mouth. That's what I'm afraid of. That the ghosts are still in him somewhere." "This Blackfoot has gotten rid of his ghosts." "He has?" "I have?" "The boy is born of water. Some people are healed with fire, some with earth. For some, the air will heal. And this Blackfoot is water. He knew what to do, even if he didn't realize he knew it. He has gone to water, made his choices, cleansed himself. And you, friend of my grandson. You asked your ghost lover to save him. And you knew what that would cost. You made your choice, too." He raised his hands as if in praise. "And now the circle is nearly complete! What a story I will have to tell when I go back to our people! To see the children again, the descendants of the children, walking in this good place. What a blessed life. Come, we need to get this man outside, Cody. He isn't used to the heat. And it's 324


time for some stew! Keep the sweat lodge, grandson. Maybe you will learn the songs someday." Robert had to agree that he wasn't used to the heat, because he was very close to passing out. He could feel each heartbeat against his skin, as if his blood were expanding in his veins. Cody knocked down the shield and the air rushed in like snow. The sky tilted, and Cody picked him up, carried him down to the river, and they knelt there together in the icy water. Cody splashed water on Robert's face, his chest. "Can you feel it, Robert? It's my river." When Robert's head had stopped spinning, he looked up the bank, at the cabin and their friends. Cody was spreadeagled in the river, laughing like a fool, his hair drifting on the surface of the water. Beth was shaking her head on the river bank, towels over her shoulders, hands on her hips, and Lillian was waving for them to come in. "You guys are running a little short of dry clothes! Well, I'm not surprised. You can't keep Cody out of the water." David was on the back porch, looking up and down the river bank. "Where have those kids gone? Anybody seen Redmond and Sharona?" Black Moon Rising was bringing the shield and the weapon in from the sweat. What had he said about Val and Akecheta when the children had arrived? A tribe, a family of their own. Robert had come here alone. **** Cody fussed over Black Moon Rising for the rest of the afternoon, loading his pickup truck with food, slipping an envelope of cash into the glove compartment for gas, showing 325


him how to work the radio. The Sun Dancer sat on the edge of the porch, listening to the music from a Native station out of Dutch Harbor and trying to sing along. Robert pulled Cody aside. "Listen. You can go with him if you want, back to Montana. I'll be here when you get back." "What? No way, Robert. I'm not going anywhere without you." "I think you've missed your grandfather and it's a miracle to suddenly find this old man. Someone who can show you the way." Robert could see the yearning in his face. "He's staying with David's family tonight. Let's think on it." "Yeah, okay. I'm tired, to tell you the truth." "Me, too, baby." The cabin was spotless again, because Lillian and Beth could not stop working. The old man had studied the picture on the mantle of Val and Robert, raised his hands as if in joy and said another prayer. "That's a good picture frame," he said. "Blackfoot silversmith?" But while Cody was describing his grandfather's silverwork, the Sun Dancer reached a finger for the glass, touched gently over the picture of Val. David hauled Redmond and Sharona out of the woods, and Redmond had an impressive new hickey on his neck. David bundled him into his truck, and Black Moon Rising climbed into his to follow him back to his house. He promised Cody he would come back for breakfast. The cabin was quiet, then, with the sounds of the river coming through the open back door. Robert closed it, peeled 326


out of his damp clothes, and climbed into bed. He couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted. "Cody, come rub that sore spot for me, okay?" "Sure." Cody climbed into bed with him, his long fingers massaging the scar. "What are you doing in bed? It's six thirty." Robert pulled him close and kissed him, tasted cold river water and dark chocolate on his mouth. "I'm tired. I don't care if it's six thirty. If I fall asleep, you just go ahead and do whatever." "Whatever what?" Cody's big hands were moving across his chest, down his belly, then Robert could feel the warm breath blowing across the back of his neck. Cody curled around him, wrapped him up in his arms. "If you're gonna just lay there like a slug, I guess I'll go to sleep, too. I'm beat. Sleep in my arms tonight." Robert couldn't answer. His tongue had already fallen asleep, his mouth, his mind, but he could feel Cody's heart beating through his chest, slowing, falling into rhythm with his, and then their hearts were beating together. Twelve solid unconscious hours later, and Cody was out exploring the onion field. Robert had a cup of coffee in one hand and the phone in the other. His editor was skeptical. "So you want to do a photo shoot up on Blackfoot land? It's not another bunch of pictures of depressed looking kids living in tar paper shacks, right?" "Oh, no. The reservation's right next to Glacier, remember? We should get some scenic mountain shots, and the story's a good one, about the children who came down to 327


Idaho in the year of the last buffalo hunt, going back to the ancestral lands for the first time." "Okay, Robert. Sounds good, something different. Will a week do?" "Thanks, Bill. That will be perfect." "So how are you?" His voice was very casual. "You okay?" "Better all the time." He looked out the window. Cody had just jumped down into the hole David's bulldozer had made, ducked down and disappeared. "Bill, I've got to go. I'll send you some pictures within a couple of days." He hung up and walked outside. What the hell was he doing? Cody's head popped up above the edge of the hole. "Robert, get the shovel, quick." He took a sip of coffee, didn't move. "Not in this lifetime, my friend." "Robert, look at this! It's a stone axe-head, man! Holy shit! Lithic technology rocks!" END

328


William Maltese A Rendering of Souls Marl Bas threaded his left testicle through the gold cockring and followed it with his right. What with the sudden expansion and elongation of his impressive penis, he was almost unable to follow it through the very same circle. The head of his cock caught in the tight space between cool metal and warm hairless scrotum. The shaft of his burgeoning erection bent painfully between the ring and his hairless lower belly. It was only a quick application of saliva smeared to ring, cockshaft, scrotum, and prick, which saved the day. "I always marvel at how you do that without your dick snapping off," Luuk Riin, King/Lord and Master, said, with admiration for the prestidigitation just performed, for not the first time, for his benefit. "Even snapped in half, my dick would provide plenty of filling for that tight ass of yours," Marl boasted. He turned the gold cockring in a counterclockwise direction to screw it even more firmly against his muscle-firm lower belly. Luuk was constantly exposed to superior physiques, including his own, on battlefields, in locker rooms, in pleasure palaces, but he was still impressed each and every time Marl was stark naked for viewing. There was something about the young man's handsome facial features, complete with blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw line, dimpled cheeks, cleft chin ... something about the young man's perfectly mirrored pectorals sharing a common deep cleavage ... something about the young man's sculptured abdominals, hard as 329


palinko stone and punctuated with a belly button neither innie or outtie ... something about the young man's columnar thighs, triangular calves, and large and perfectly formed feet ... that provided Luuk the kind of penis-swelling enjoyment that he'd never experienced with anyone else. Luuk's impressive cock was swollen beneath his loin cloth. "I presume this—," Marl's thumb and forefinger slid the gold to emphasize the subject matter presently wrapped tightly around his dick, "—came to me via you; came to you via the treasure chest seized from its courier en route to DenDen Lou." "Put to much better use, encircling your horse dick, if I do say so, myself," Luuk confirmed, "rather than melted down to finance rebellion." "Speaking of the contents of the treasure chest, tell me about the candle." "Such nonsensical curiosity I can understand from the ignorant, but I considered you far more enlightened." "Said to have been made by Delimar-Gloo in his Maridian Cave Complex. The magician came out of retirement to do the deed, flattered that Den-Den Lou actually hoped magic, in this time of waning magic, might turn the tide." Luuk smiled. With or without magic-definitely-in-decline, Den-Den Lou and his band of ragamuffin Callalians were doomed by Luuk's superior forces and intellect. For Den-Den Lou actually to have gone groveling to the fakir at Maridian Cave Complex was genuinely a last-ditch effort by him to save his sorry ass. 330


"It's said that Den-Den Lou paid with two malimuk fighters and a dolinian wolf?" "I heard that rumor, too." Luuk's voice was chastising. "Had Den-Den Lou had two malimuk fighters and a dolinian wolf to spare, he would have sold them for gold, not for some phallic wax plaything to be used for wizardry." "It is lingam-like, then?" "Oh, yes, definitely that!" "A dildo candle, then? A candle dildo?" "Merely a candle with protruding wick made to look as if ejaculate." "Stowed where at this very moment?" "In its box, in my vault." "To be summoned, whenever I'm absent, to service your ass?" Luuk laughed. "But of course!" His confirmation was denial. "You do so enjoy something hard rammed deep up your ass, my king, lord and master. My hard dick has been there often enough to know." "Your dick my ass can handle. Successfully sitting that candle would be quite another story." "Cast in life-like replica of the magician Delimar-Gloo's very own cock, to make it magical, or so the story goes." Luuk shook his head that anyone or anything could still be considered magical in the present age of enlightenment. Maybe there might, once upon a time, have been magic; all the obviously exaggerated tales were likely based upon some reality, but Luuk couldn't imagine there really ever having 331


been something as miraculous as ... say ... the collapse of the walls at Jenicum. Even if such a thing had happened, an earthquake was more apt than witchcraft. That Delimar-Gloo was retired (except for the occasional reemergence for the likes of this candle business), was proof-positive that the days of magic were pretty much over and done. "It has always been said that Delimar-Gloo, as a young man, bargained with the Devil in exchange for a cock the size of a bull," Marl said. His fingers languidly stroked the impressive length of his own animal-size prick; by way of reward, he received a dew-like drop of pre-seminal fluid which his fingertips spread, like olive oil, along the entire length of his erection. The sticky moisture made his cock glow. "If the candle is representative of what's to be found between Delimar-Gloo's legs, now or at any time in the past, he bargained with the Devil for the cock of an elephant," Luuk said. "If any human being actually volunteered his dick for that casting, it had to have been none other than the legendary Colossus of Mlin." "Have your steward fetch this casting of the cock of the legendary Colossus of Mlin," Marl said. "I would see it." "You would sit on it, more likely," Luuk said. "As many months as my cock has been servicing your rectum, your anus just may be stretched well enough for you to take it without splitting asshole to backbone." "I can't believe you've left it sequestered within its box," Marl berated. "You had to know that I would be curious." 332


"Isn't it my cock with which you should be more concerned? Or, are you so familiar with it now that you're ready to move on to what you assume is bigger and better?" "You and I know there's no substitute for your hard dick that could ever be conjured by a mere magician." "You think flattery is going to get you what you want?" "Maybe not. However, I'll bet my gold-cockringed cock can work some real magic up your tight asshole while your steward is en route to-and-fro the vault rooms." "How about you fuck my ass and let me decide, then, whether your efforts, when done, actually merit any reward? If so, we can regroup with a glass of wine before you get all horny at the sight of some waxy replica of the Colossus of Mlin's cock and ruin yourself for the both of us by irresistibly splitting your butt down and over it?" "Why not just send your steward for it, right now?" "It is just a candle shaped like a giant prick, for gods' sake, Marl. No doubt, after all the hype, the reality will prove anticlimactic." "Then, I'll always have my lead-in fuck of your alwayspleasurable-to-fuck butt by way of consolation." Luuk rang for Melick Gaval, his steward, and sent him to the vault for the Delimar-Gloo candle. "If your fuck of my butt isn't above standard, I can still have the candle sent back before its box is opened," Luuk warned. "As if any fuck by me would ever be anything but above standard," Marl boasted, and he had every right to boast. He possessed a sexual expertise few could rival. It was a good 333


part of what saw him where he was, with whom he was, when he was. "On second thought, why don't we save that dick of yours for later, after it's hardened even more as a result of strangulation by its new golden collar?" "You'd prefer to fuck my ass." It wasn't a question. "My fucking your ass would have your dick spitting prostate-massage cream in too short a time," Luuk foretold. "This leaves us with the best alternative of you just going down on my fat dick to make me cream." "Oh, I think I can manage that, especially if that bulge beneath your loin cloth is what I think it is." "If you think it's my stiff cock, waiting your hot mouth, you're right." Luuk dropped all concealment, proving his boast wasn't idle." "Yes, indeed," Marl said. He walked closer to his king. He dropped to his knees. He manhandled his king's dick into a position that allowed Marl's tongue to lick one long and leisurely path from his lord/master's balls to the drop of precum that obligingly beaded, like magic, within the pouted lips of Luuk's cockmouth. "Ahhhhhh," Marl complimented, simultaneously sucking up the clear moisture his king's phallic pap was providing. He swallowed inch after inch after inch of the elixir-producing member. His nose burrowed within the curly black pubic hair clustering the thick base of Luuk's stiff-and-getting-stiffer penis. Marl was pleased, as he always was at such a moment. He lucked out in being called upon to service a dick that wasn't 334


difficult for him to eat whole. Luuk being who he was, Marl would have certainly provided the required servicing whether the king's dick was an uncomfortable fit or not. Marl had gotten as far as he had in life (and that was a good ways) by being able to manage things pleasant and unpleasant to speed him along his way. As it advantageously turned out, though, Luuk wasn't hung like the Midget of Melista, nor like the Colossus of Mlin. Luuk's cock dimensions were inclined toward the latter but not so much that Marl's experience had ever proved anything but enjoyably successful in mouthing the totality of royal phallus to creamy discharge. Luuk's cock seemed a perfect fit for Marl's moist mouth and throat. Marl couldn't remember a time, from the initial get-go, when he had even the faintest choking reflex when gobbling Luuk's dick—not when the suck proceeded nice and easy, not even when the suck turned a bit frantic with Luuk's nearness to orgasm seeing the king needing desperately (all delicacy and finesse out the door) to get off. Having estimated the time it would take for the steward to get to the vault and return with the already fabled candle-byDelimar-Gloo, Marl had a good idea how long he had between first swallowing Luuk's dick and seeing it sucked dry. There was plenty of time for a nice lead-in, without having immediately to go into fast-motion head-bouncing to achieve the desired results. As Marl's face lingered over the plugging prick, his taste buds savored the slightly salty taste of it. His nose inhaled the essence of studly warrior king. He was almost sorry that he'd made such a big deal of having the candle brought to them. It 335


wasn't so much that he wanted to see the damned thing (although, like everyone else, he did want to see it), more than it was a case of the prestige involved in being able to see it, and seeing it, when so few had access. No doubt about it, Marl thought, as he began his first real head-slide back up the cockshaft to slip his lips into the slight groove formed at the base of Luuk's circumcised cockhead, this flesh-and-blood dick obviously had more to offer than any wax one. Then again, if the wax one did contain some kind of magical... "No one sucks my cock like you do," Luuk heard himself admitting and interrupting Marl's train of thought in order to focus the sucker even more entirely upon pleasing the king. In fact, Marl did such a good job at what he now did that Luuk often wished the handsome soldier and confident wasn't quite so good at it. Luuk would have liked to think that everyone around him was easily replaceable. Having it so made it infinitely easier for a ruler to rule. At a moment's notice, a king often had to make decisions as to who should stay and who should go, who should live and who should die. If Luuk would have had to, then and there, send Marl away, or—gods' forbid—have him killed, there was no doubt in the king's mind that Marl would be sorely missed. Maybe it had something to do with physical opposites attracting, like two opposing poles of a magnet. Marl so blond, so blue-eyed, so hairless. Luuk so dark-complexioned, so ebony-eyed, so hirsute. Not that Luuk's body hair was comparable—say—to the natural fur coat of Henrilin Dub (who was so often referred to as the Henrilin Bear), but compared 336


to the complete (except for his head) hairlessness of Marl (some natural, some from depilation, some from sharp blade and razor), Luuk was, indeed, furry. Although his back, shoulders, and ass (except for the depths of the latter's crack) escaped pelt-status, dark hair (although not as curly nor as thick as the black curls on his head), began at the top of his pectorals, fanned outward and downward to form a distinguishable dark line through his pectoral cleavage, over and around his belly button to the wiry strands V'd at his crotch. Unlike the Henrilin Bear's nipples, Luuk's (dime-sized and the color of unpolished copper), weren't completely hairhidden and, when erect, made themselves even more evident. The thickness of his pubic hair, which matched in color the hair on his head, thinned as its growth patterns cascaded his thighs, calves, and ankles; to number, in grand finale, three lone hairs on each big toe of each large foot. **** A naked Glynen Gaval fucked the gwin tree. Actually, he fucked a tree trunk. Actually, he fucked a convenient hole in the tree trunk. The secret to successful and enjoyable tree-, trunk-, holefucking, was first finding the right tree, trunk, hole. Of course the hole could be made from scratch, using a drill, but a natural hole was usually the better bet, if for no other reason than that it saved a helluva lot work. Most trees provided at least one or more nature-made hole, although not every such hole was suitable for fucking. Since most people frowned upon the fucking of trees, the best holes were high among 337


the branches and concealing leaves, thereby affording one privacy while ramming tree/trunk/hole to climax and not attracting attention from any less-than-liberated someone strolling the grounds below. Glynen's first such fuck-hole was discovered quite by accident. At first, he'd climbed trees merely to find places to get away from his mother (who always had some chore or other he was supposed to do, had forgotten to do, needed to do). Also, he'd climbed to get away from his little brother who had been harder to shake than glue; the time had come, after little Gorj had been carried away by the flash flood, later found dead amidst the resulting detritus, when Glynen had wished he'd spent more time with the kid instead of having devoted so much time trying to avoid his sibling. Specifically, Glynen remembered his first tree fuck as the result of another visit from Marna-Sil who was far more annoying even than Gorj, what with her aggressively wanting, constantly, to steal kisses and/or take a look at what made Glynen anatomically different from her, and/or flash her naked big tits in his face (it taking a good deal of effort for Glynen to pretend the interest and appreciation other guys would have displayed at such "good" fortune). Glynen wasn't ordinary, though. He'd known that from the get-go. He'd confirmed it over the years. How many guys, after all, passed up getting their dicks into Marna-Sil's cunt and, instead, saw the preferable possibilities for sex offered by a tree hole discovered during a climb to escape her? How many such holes had Glynen bypassed, on other climbs, 338


without a second thought, before the epiphany offered by that one? Eventually, of course, he'd fucked cunt, although not the one Marna-Sil had so blatantly offered up. Before, during, and after every cunt-fuck, though, he'd known full-well that he would have preferred dipping his wick into a tree-hole. Whether he would, then or now, really have preferred some guy's tight and funky asshole, in general—Krydon's asshole in particular—was something he couldn't say for sure. He'd never had the opportunity to dick-dive any buddy's butt, certainly not Krydon's butt. Not that Krydon was actually a buddy. Before the dallin-de invasion, Krydon and Glynen hadn't even run in the same social circles. Glynen's father was the king's steward; Krydon's father was an army sergeant; Glynen's mother was aristocratic Farlin-Zu clan; Krydon's mother was a camp follower. From afar, Glynen had always found Krydon crude, uneducated, unrefined, and decidedly backward in his harassment of gays, retards, nerds, and minorities. It was the dallin-de invasion that made for so many strange bedfellows. Glynen and Krydon had since shared many a bed, even if merely gathered tree bows and moss, during Krydon's recovery from his stab wound, and during the two's often dangerous journey to sanctuary among the gwabdi-din. If Glynen, on more than a few occasions, sported a boner during those bed-times with Krydon, he'd mostly been able to keep them concealed, or had been able successfully to explain them away by blaming them on screwing-pussy night dreams. More than once, Krydon (to be 339


sure Glynen truly dreamed of cunt?) had made Glynen relate, in vivid details, the contents of any such dreams. Once Krydon had actually jacked off in accompaniment, so good was Glynen's lying. Afterwards, Krydon had been so genuinely embarrassed, though, by what he'd done, that he, took to masturbating in private after subsequent story-tellings. So, Glynen fucked his favorite tree-hole (he had several in the surrounding forest), and wished he was fucking Krydon now stripped to the waist, sweaty, and visible through a break in the foliage. The crude and uncouth, but admittedly handsome bastard (literally as well as figuratively), hoed a garden as recently tilled as his cabin was recently new, and as his slut of a wife, Hilda-Moore, was recently acquired. Glynen still had wet dreams and fantasies of that one time Krydon had wrapped calloused hand around thick commoner dick and had pounded it to comet-spewing climax. No doubt, it was Krydon who, married or not, along with the just-about-perfect tree-hole Glynen now fucked, which kept Glynen detoured from his original objective of journeying deeper into the hinterlands—not counting, of course, how the dallin-de invasion made it almost impossible for him, or for anyone else, to travel. The gwabdi-din, often enemies of Glynen's people in the past, were exceedingly generous in their acceptance, now, of others less fortunate than they. Of course, there was method in their generosity, in that it was well-known that the dallin-de, having initially passed by the gwabdi-din, because of rugged terrain, would soon concentrate on wiping them out as completely as each and 340


every other peoples who stood in the dallin-de's way. The gwabdi-din would very soon need all the help they could get! "Agghhunnngh," Glynen growled softly into the segment of tree trunk against which his sweaty right cheek rested. In the distance, Krydon had bent from the waist (to dislodge a particularly recalcitrant weed from his new garden?), just as Glynen's big dick had made another delicious slide into the tree-hole he was fucking. For that brief moment, it was almost as if Glynen's dick slid not into a beeswaxed tree hole but up and into the funky depths of the muscled ass Krydon always turned in Glynen's direction in Glynen's best fuckfantasies. Beeswax, of course, was one secret to a good tree-fuck. Glynen's initial efforts at arboreal screwing left his poor dick scratched, bruised and, once, even bleeding. Beeswax, kneaded to workable consistency and liberally scooped into any hole and, then, molded into correct shape by cockinsertion for only as long as it took the wax to begin resetting, later provided a sensuously slick corridor sure to coax any inserted dick to grand-mal eruption of steamy cream. Glynen had good footing on two branches perfectly distanced below the branch on which his ass sat and which his legs straddled. His tree-hole, the result of a damaged limb having rotted off, was perfectly distanced so that Glynen, by hugging the trunk and by raising and lowering himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet, worked his dick in and out ... in and out ... in and out ... of the canal he was fucking. If, as he sometimes did, he wanted to interrupt his building passion, he needed only to drop his ass back into a sitting 341


position; his cock would still be more than halfway inserted into the hole but not moving while Glynen waited for nearpeaking pleasure to abate before continuing. Glynen, though, wasn't out for any abatement of his pleasure at that particular moment. Krydon was suddenly bent from the waist, again, in the garden, his ass presented; Glynen took full advantage of the resulting fantasies that had Glynen's big cock fucked hard and fast up Krydon's seemingly service-me-please rectum. "I'm screwing your hypocritical, bigoted, uncouth, shitty, straight asshole," Glynen vocally carried through with his make-believe. "What, my friend, do you think of that?" Of course, Krydon wasn't really a friend, even after Glynen had rescued him from certain death in that gutter by the side of that forest road. What Krydon felt was a begrudging sense of indebtedness to a member of the once-despised aristocracy, and a fierce self-loathing that Krydon, he-man commoner, had been unable to save himself. Then, of course, there was their connection in being two of the so few of their Riin countrymen who survived the ongoing dallin-de invasions. Krydon would have been rabid-dog livid had he known that now, or ever, he, his cock, and his ass were objects of another man's unbridled lust, even if the latter was only getting fantasy-fucked in Glynen's imagination. "Stay bent over for servicing, stud," Glynen whispered to the tree-trunk but really talked to Krydon whose anal gyrations were in accompaniment not to Glynen's screwing of Krydon's ass (although that's how Glynen fantasized it), but 342


because of some unwanted weed's root system so obviously clinging tenaciously to remain implanted in the soil around it. "I only need a couple more seconds and..." Glynen moaned his disappointment as Krydon won his wrestling match, stood straight, and tossed defeated flora off to one side. Not that Krydon's premature repositioning kept Glynen's nuts from erupting. Glynen's testicles were too far primed to be kept from doing what they had to do, come hell or high water. "Fuck you, you sexy bastard shit-hole!" Glynen made do and provided a final thrust of his dick into beeswax-lined treehole, imagining the snugness of tight asshole as his creamcontaining nuts began letting go their reservoir of pearly sperm. It was definitely time for Glynen to hold on tightly. Past experience, and a few near falls from the treetops, at such mind-blowing moments of sexual oblivion, kept him determined to maintain his balance among the leaves and limbs. His equilibrium was little helped by his dick refusing to stay deep-hole anchored but, rather, proceeding into grandfinale rabbity punch-fucks that—had Glynen really been fucking a bent-over Krydon—would have seen the commoner knocked completely over by the aristocrat's poke ... poke ... of battering-ram dick ... up ... commoner asshole. Finally over and done, Glynen plopped his firmly muscled ass down upon the limb he straddled. He hugged the tree trunk, his cheek tight against it as he breathed gaspy postorgasmic breaths. His skin gleamed with its slick of sweat. 343


"Damn, that had to be better than the real thing," he tried to convince himself, since it hardly seemed likely he would ever get the opportunity to stuff his dick up Krydon's tight rectum, although miracles, even in the present day and age, were still known to happen (fewer and farther between as they might be). Glynen's dick began to soften and, as a result, slowly withdrew even more from the fuck-hole's cum-sopped interior. Clean-up consisted of utilizing what Glynen had carried into the tree with him. His tote bag hung on a nearby limb. From it, he took a soft cloth to wipe his dick dry. He used the same rag, fingers-guided, to sop up the man-made sticky mess in the fuck-hole. He wanted the hole ready and waiting for his next time, not wanting to put his dick into a space crusted by stale cum. Too much spunk, this time, to be sufficiently mopped up by the one rag, he used the second he'd brought as back-up. Both rags went back into his bag to be carried down the tree and away with him. He had no intentions of betraying this special tree-fucking spot by being as careless as the lazy whintel bird that always just hung its feathery ass over the rim of its nest, every time it had to dump. The whintel bird's inability to fly even as far as the next tree to shit, marked his location for any hungry hunter. Glynen cleaned and buffed the beeswaxed fuck-hole, and then plugged it with a hand-crafted wooden stopper. No way did he want surprised by one day inadvertently sticking his dick into a hole occupied, during his absence, by a wasp, or an ant, or by any other creepy-crawly. 344


His senses more about him, now, than but minutes before, he successfully maintained his balance while he re-dressed. Krydon, still naked to the waist, and still laboring in the garden, wasn't nearly of as much interest as he had been while Glynen was playing hard dick to climax. In fact, big balls cum-drained of their copious spermal reservoirs, Glynen, as he often did at such moments, wondered why he even got off while fantasizing sex with such a genuinely boorish shit, and commoner to boot. Possibly, the aristocrat thought, as he gathered up his things, proceeded down the tree, with a final glance in Krydon's direction, it was because the commoner bastard was built like a brick shithouse and, despite decided crudeness, provided a genuinely masculine aura to which Glynen, and others, were drawn. Glynen was into thicker leaf cover, still on the way down, when the whole forest seemed to vibrate. The trembling provided just enough vertigo so Glynen found it necessary to pause in his descent and hold on until the quickly ended vibration ceased and desisted. Earthquake immediately came to mind but only for as long as it took Glynen's ears to hear the distant but distinct sound—puk ... puk ... puk ... of whizlin-whip weaponry. And ... a human cry of pain? A quick return to his stoppered tree-hole, and a glance through the trees, showed Krydon belly-down. His head had been completely removed (by a whizlin-whip?), and plopped lackadaisically beside him. It appeared as if one man's torso mimicked a torlup bird, head buried in the sand; another man buried to his neck within the same grouping. 345


Puk ... puk ... puk. Smoke and fire (Krydon's cabin?). Someone distraught. Female? Krydon's cunt of a wife? Glynen knew what was happening, having once before gone through a similar scenario when he, later with Krydon, had been forced out of their country by the dallin-de invaders. Having once passed up the gwabdi-din, without finishing them off, it had always only been a matter of time before the dallin-de returned for mop-up operations. For Glynen, the gwabdi-din no longer offered sanctuary but suddenly only increased his chances to become a victim of dallin-de slaughter. He had to move, and move fast, if he were to escape Krydon's fate. He had no way of knowing whether Krydon, Krydon's wife, and/or Krydon's cabin, had become victims of a mere raiding party, in preface of a main advance, or whether the majority of the dallin-de was already stealthily upon him. The latter, of course, was the more dangerous alternative; he couldn't dawdle on any account. He paused only long enough to see what, if anything, he could view through other breaks in the foliage of the tree amongst which he perched. He looked for human movement, but saw none—a good sign, at least as far as his potential for escape. He knew, too, just where he would go. North. Through the swamp. Where he'd been headed, in the first place, before he'd teamed up with the wounded Krydon, before they'd become complaisant in the company of the even-thendoomed gawbdi-din, before Krydon had married, before Glynen had given up his original objective in order to moon 346


over the unavailability of Krydon's cock, mouth, and ass (instead fucking holes in trees and pretending they were Krydon's tight orifices). He came down the tree slowly, cautiously. If all he had with him was his tote, filled as it was, at the moment, with cum-soaked rags, half a sandwich, an orange, a bottle of double-oxygenated water, and a candy bar, those were all he was going to be allowed, by way of immediate traveling companions. **** There had been people in the past who called it magic— but... There were those even now, in a world of increasing nonbelievers, who would have still called it magic—but... It wasn't magic. It was merely an automaton: one of the tricks of the trade, like knowing the healing qualities of certain herbs, and the aphrodisiacal nature of some plants. Generations of magicians, out to fool, had built wondrous mechanical marvels—orchestras, birds, otters, fish, owls... This particular automaton was in accordance with Xilium's Schematics for an Android Head. Delimar-Gloo had, once upon a time, thought to combine it with Grinwalk's Instructions for Construction of an Iron Man, but the chore proved too daunting—or Grinwalk's instructions had been intentionally faulty to keep the secret his. Gillium Head (for that was what Delimar-Gloo called his automaton), had become the magician's sole companion in 347


recent years that had seen magic (real magic) in deeper decline, more gods and demons having gone elsewhere, more worshippers and believers having stopped worshipping and believing. Who could blame the defectors? The outcomes of none of the world's recent dallin-de invasions, and there had been many, had seemingly been influenced by magic. With dallin-de genocides on each and every horizon, it was little wonder that every man and woman trusted more in himself and herself than in mere superstition. As far as companions, at least sexual companions, Gillium Head was far superior to some of the sucking mouths of men and women come to the Maridian Cave Complex for assistance—when assistance was still assumed something the Magician Delimar-Gloo could tangibly provide. The very worst cocksuckers, of course, were those who had never sucked a dick and who, consenting to do so for favors, assumed their amateur siphonings commensurate with the best cocksuckers. Their's was the I may not suck cock but if I could suck cock I would suck cock better than anyone could suck cock syndrome. Second worst were those who, although never having sucked cock themselves, had had the benefit of someone, at some time, swinging on their dicks, as if their cocksuckers' expertise somehow, via miraculous osmosis, suddenly provided each and every suckee with similar cocksucking skills. Straight men, of course, didn't have a fucking clue! Straight women went about it too namby-pamby, as if too hearty sucking would damage the goods and/or too much licking would dissolve prick like ice-cream. Guys who liked guys were the true gurus of cock-sucking, but they had been 348


few and far between. At times, Delimar-Gloo had been tempted to go out into the countryside to offer up favors to any gay man who would provide the magician with but one of the cock-sucks Delimar-Gloo so enjoyed and wanted. At such moments, however, all odds said that no gay was likely, any more than anyone else, to be persuaded to service any magician, no matter how loudly that magician might profess a continuing ability (hah, hardly likely!) to cast spells. "Fucking Gillium Head is just fine with me, thank-you very much!" Delimar-Gloo informed himself and the automaton, although he was the only one who heard himself speak. This automaton did not hear, did not speak, did not reason; did not have a clue as to what it did, and why it did it. A switch was merely clicked, gears were put into motions, vacuum pumps were activated. The cock was inserted... It was hard to tell Gillium Head wasn't part of someone whose body existed in another dimension, as Delimar-Gloo, thighs wide, kept the sucking machine securely anchored over magician's dick. "Eat me, eat me, stud-muffin ... eat me!" Delimar-Gloo commanded instruction. When Gillium Head's mouth responded with more moisture, and Gillium Head's cheeks fluttered more intensely against the cock shoved inside it, and Gillium Head's tongue curled to more greatly compress the slide way upon which magician's cock rode, none was in response to what Delimar-Gloo said. It was only the end result of what Delimar-Gloo had previously programmed into the small computer chip that controlled automaton responses. For this section of the session-in-progress, Delimar-Gloo had 349


programmed for a harder and more forceful sucking, a firmer pressing of lips around the roots of the magician's burgeoning pecker, a deeper vibration of Gillium Head's throat in purr about the magician's impressively pulpy cock corona. "Mmmmmm," Delimar-Gloo appreciatively responded and one-hand screwed his sex toy more firmly over his groin. With his free hand, he fondled his grey-haired testicles much the same way he used to caress globes of rock crystal to tell fortunes. So, maybe, head from Gillium Head wasn't quite the same as head from a real human being, but it was better than most, and far less bother. What's more, there was no magic to be performed that Gillium Head demanded, in return, that Delimar-Gloo likely wouldn't be able to provide. Sex without obligation had a helluva lot to recommend it. All Delimar-Gloo needed was just a few more minutes, his dick melded with this mechanical marvel of soft and hard plastics, soft and hard leathers, soft and hard plexiplast that resembled a not too unhandsome young man, and... "Ohhhhhhh, yessssss, yesss, yesssssss!" Delimar-Gloo said and gave his testicles one final squeeze to provide delicious pain in accompaniment and enhancement to the pleasure of his cum leaving his gonads and cannon-firing through his gun-barrel dick into the sucking orifice programmed to collect each and every drop. **** Glynen was fascinated by the light. Not only because it was the first he'd seen since he'd entered the Maridian Cave 350


Complex, but because it had strange and hypnotic color-shifts from white to grey to light blue. It flickered enticingly in the distance, where, before, there had been nothing by way of greeting, friendly or otherwise, within these subterranean rooms, galleries, and tunnels, with their great rocky phallic spikes up-jutting from the floor and down—from the ceiling. Glynen had a torch bright enough when tested at cavern entrance but now hopelessly darkness-swallowed. More than once, he had been positive its scant illumination had indicated an uncluttered passageway, only to find a gauntlet of sharp stones. So difficult was his journey into the earth, to get him where he was, he was about to call off his little expedition and turn back, empty-handed and unenlightened, when the distant glow had clicked on. The beckoning shift of illumination continued to offer the possibility of tantalizing release from the gloom, but it remained such an illusive destination that Glynen soon came to suspect it would always remain too far distant; at which time, a ray of that light shot from its source to spear the distance to Glynen; walls, floor, and ceiling became cumcream white, then shifted to pale-pale blue. Glynen expected the light to retreat or switch off. It didn't. It remained a luminescence to follow. Follow it, he did. His eventual destination was reached with surprisingly speedy ease. It was a large subterranean room with a basin completely filled to near spilling with...? Glynen wasn't quite sure whether the basin contained water ... or milk ... or cream ... or cum ... or ... Whatever it was, it was in constant 351


flux; whorls of variegated whites shifted amid pale-pale blues. It wasn't transparent. He walked to the edge of the liquid, leaned over it, more than a little curious. He was tempted, to dip his fingers into the broth to feel its consistency by way of possibly determining its identity. Instead, his attention was diverted by the vague outline coalescing upon the surface. Was it his reflection contorted by currents in perpetual slow-motion, or...? He squinted to better see the materializing vision that he... "And who, I wonder, might you be?" someone asked from close-by. Glynen elevated from his kneeling position like a bird flushed from the bush by beaters before being pulled viciously back to earth by piercing arrow and cruel gravity. What he mistook for magical levitation soon enough collapsed him on stone not nearly as soft as it was beautiful. "And what, I wonder, brings you here?" the same voiced asked its second question. Glynen couldn't believe that the old man actually sat a rock not more than three-feet away. Surely, Glynen hadn't been so occupied in his silly need to see his own reflection that he'd failed to notice when he'd been joined. "I am Glynen Gaval," he said, "and I have business with Delimar-Gloo." "Have you, now?" The old man's laugh produced no accompanying echoes from the surrounding walls. "On what possible business could that be?" "I desire to know magic," Glynen said. 352


"Magic? You silly young pup. Have you not heard that magic is a thing of the past? It needs gods that have deserted it. It needs believers who now worship other things. It survived as long as it could without sustenance, and it finally died." He opened his arms wide, palms upward, as if he'd just released a ceremonial dove. "Everyone knows of magic's demise, so when and why and how were you left out of the loop?" "Is not Delimar-Gloo still called magician?" "You may call a horse's cock a dog's cock, but that doesn't make it so. What is it you hoped for, then? Some magic elixir to incline some young girl's favors in your direction, or—" His sudden smile was lecherous. "—coax some young boy to be yours? If so, perhaps, Delimar-Gloo can be of assistance, in that such small simplicities are still possible, on rare occasions, likely because the laws of botany don't rely upon that belief-system known to you as magic and known to me as some-men-merely-once-knew-more-about-naturalphenomenon-than-did-the-majority." "I seek apprenticeship." "Oh, my! What mole-hole did you say you have been living in for these last many many years while magic was eclipsed and died? Not, mind you, that I necessarily bemoan its dying. It has died many times before, only to be resurrected. It is the way of things. Here today, gone tomorrow. Here dayafter-tomorrow, eventually gone again. Such things are cyclical in nature, as is life in general. You are familiar, I suppose, with the Grunlinean Calendar?" "Of course." 353


"Everyone to die at the end of this next cycle, come a thousand years from now. End of the world. Apocalypse. Extinction. A grand finale. Followed, by yet another beginning, yes?" "Yes." "You have come to seek an apprenticeship at a time when magicians, those few who still remain, are too busy unlearning what doesn't work any longer. Magicians, including Delimar-Gloo, are simply way too busy trying to cope with these latter-days to try and relay suddenly useless information to out-of-touch young men." The old man shifted slightly on his seat, stone visibly seeming to adjust to his repositioning. His eyes narrowed, just as Glynen's eyes had narrowed while trying to figure out the reflection—his, then not his—within the pond. "Then, again, maybe I have magically solved my quandary," the old man decided with a wry purse of his lips. "Of what clan are you, Glynen Gaval? Surlulean? MacDilyson? Riin?" "Riin." "Certainly, then, your little adventure is for naught. There is no longer any way to save you and yours. That book has already been written. Like magic, you will die and need be resurrected another time." "So says you; maybe, Delimar-Gloo sees it otherwise." "Silly boy! Think very hard, now, and ask yourself: Who other than Delimar-Gloo would you think to stumble upon, here, within Maridian Cave Complex? Some other magician? Even in the best of times, we magicians weren't so fond of 354


one another that two or more of us would likely hole up in the same cave. Consorting with the competition, don't you know?" "But, I know for a fact that Delimar-Gloo, not all that long ago, made the magic candle that killed our King Luuk Riin and his lover Marl Bas." "Oh, that old wives'-tale," Delimar-Gloo pooh-poohed. "Such nonsense." "Not according to my father who was there." "Excuse, please, but it was my understanding that the room, with only those two men therein, was locked from within. Did not the door have to be splintered to gain access to the bodies? Rather indicating, I would surmise, a killing and a suicide; not all of this candle nonsense." "My father was Melick Gaval, King Luuk Riin's steward, and personally fetched the candle from the vault that fateful night. He heard the door's bolt being thrown. He heard the whistle of malimuk crstline and the howl of dolinian wolf coming from within." "I repeat: Was not the room occupied only by king and lover? Two malimuk fighters and a dolinian wolf somehow there, too, then disappeared? Poppycock!" "Who said anything about two malimuk fighters? I mentioned only the distinctive whistle of but one sword." "So you did. I plead to having mixed up your father's tale with one I once heard of two malimuk fighters and a dolinian wolf having been the price paid for the candle in question. Just showing how these 'things' morph in the constant telling." 355


"I want to know the secret of such candle-making," Glynen confessed. "Will you teach me?" "Even if the magic necessary still remained, not yet seeped into oblivion, to what purpose would you make of your acquired skill? I shall tell you exactly as I told the Warlord Den-Den Lou. Such a candle will not turn the tide of events as they have been written in the Great Book. We are all due for extinction, and soon: that is a fact. One magic candle, or two, or three, however many, will not turn the finger of fate. That I finally caved in to Warlord Den-Den Lou's request was only because his notion wasn't to prevent history from taking its natural course—which, as I've said, would have been futile— but merely to punctuate the inevitable with a bit of oldfashioned revenge. His family and that of your king had been embroiled in bloody feuds for generations. That your king's death-by-vengeance inadvertently delayed the demise of his kingdom was only because his son, Cal, proved far more industrious at war games than anyone could have expected. Even Cal, though, was but a burp in the line of fate already laid down, for where is he now? Dead? Where are all of his people? Either dead or, as you bear witness, exiled and suddenly attached to other clans who have yet to be dallin-de plowed under, as all who are not dallin-de will be plowed under." This was not what Glynen had come to hear. Having heard it, he was determined to make lemonade when presented with a lemon. "I may have need of such a candle for revenge before all is over and done," he said. 356


Delimar-Gloo aborted his beginning of a wide smile only to say, "Such a clever, resourceful, and quick-witted boy. Maybe, there just might be enough forces left to conjure one final..." He shook his head. "I think not, though. You're just the kind of complication, so near the end of my life, that I've resolved to avoid." "Please." "With sugar on it?" "With sugar on it?" Glynen was confused. This time Delimar-Gloo's laugh came with hundreds of resounding echoes reverberated to the extent that Glynen had to hand-cover his ears. When the cacophony ceased, Delimar-Gloo said, "What have you brought me by way of recompense? No magician worth his salt works for free. If Warlord Den-Den Lou did not actually pay me, as legend would have it, with two malimuk fighters and a dolinian wolf, he did provide a sizable sack of gold. Unfortunately—" Delimar-Gloo's sigh was an audible hiss that fled the underground grotto like wind through a flue. "— my death so near, I've less need for gold now than I did in Warlord Den-Den Lou's time. Although I could, perhaps..." He paused and shook his head. "But, then, I doubt a straight young man like you would ever agree to the ending of that. Undoubtedly, you have a fiancée waiting in the wings somewhere. Yes?" "What is it you want?" "I was thinking that, before I die, I would like, one more time, to have my ass fucked by a real cock. In this time when moral scruples seem as ridiculous as the rest of civilized 357


claptrap, as we rush pell-mell toward oblivion, do you find that payment too much for the asking?" Glynen was determined to come away with what he'd set out to obtain from this magician, within this cavern. That said, his ability to plug dick up the old man's ass was more a question of whether or not Glynen's body would oblige. His cock, as often as not, had a mind all of its own. "Ah!" Delimar-Gloo had an epiphany. "You think your cock might not harden for someone as old and decrepit as I?" Glynen didn't argue. How could he? His cock was no harder now than it had been a few seconds ago. "There are aphrodisiacs, having really nothing to do with magic, that will do the hardening for us, should you agree." Glynen was encouraged. He had never fucked another man's butt, only fantasized fucking Krydon, but it suddenly seemed doable. Delimar-Gloo was right in his assessment that moral values hardly applied at the End of Days. "And just because I genuinely like you—how fucking long, after all, has it been since anyone has just dropped on by for anything?—I'm prepared to work a bit of additional minor magic to ... Well, just give a watch, but don't be too impressed, because the magic isn't really magic but a natural phenomenon known in the trade as hypnosis." Glynen was fascinated by whatever Delimar-Gloo proposed. While the magician was right that few laymen put much stock in the mumbo-jumbo of times past, Glynen was an exception to the rule, because his father had experienced the night King Riin so mysteriously died. Melick Gaval hadn't been a man to exaggerate, and he'd known what he'd seen, 358


and he'd known what he'd heard; he'd been there when the bedroom door was splintered to reveal two horribly mutilated bodies and no apparent assailant or assailants. "No way," Melick had insisted on more than one occasion, up to and including on his deathbed, "was what I saw and heard that night a murder and a suicide. King Luuk Riin and Marl Bas were too dismembered." Melick had heard the distinct whistle of one malimuk crstline, maybe two; his mother's people were from the Beluein Highlands, and he knew a dolinian wolf howl when he heard one. "Malimuk and dolinian wolf were gone, though, when the door splintered. Dissolved. Disappeared. Vanished. To where? What of the candle, suddenly mere puddle of wax? What candle of such a size would have disintegrated so quickly?" Glynen was anxious to know what part—if any—the candle played in summoning at least one malimuk-with-crstline and a dolinian wolf. He was distracted by the twirling something, bright and shiny, suspended on the thin gold chain, that the magician suddenly inserted between them. "Open your eyes," Delimar-Gloo said. Glynen, who hadn't, until that moment, realized his eyes were even shut, did as requested. "Is this manifestation possibly more cock-hardening than the one before it?" the magician asked, transformed. Younger. Taller. More muscular. More masculine. No clothes. Round and coral-nippled pectorals. A thin but distinct fanning of red hair across the top of his chest to cascade his pectoral cleavage and bisect his washboard stomach and, in doing so, parenthesize his innie navel. His cockhead was the same color 359


as his nipples. His bulky foreskin wrapped about his large cock like a coat wrapped an Eskimo in deep winter. His balls were large within their impressively red-furred scrotum. "Delimar-Gloo?" Glynen was amazed; his cock's immediate stiffening was decidedly noticeable in his pants. "This is merely a visage I first summoned for a Gwasi warrior who I wanted to fuck my ass; he was genuinely particular as to the appearances of those whose assholes his dick plugged. Should you prefer minor adjustments—blond hair, rather than red? Blue eyes, instead of green? Dimples instead of not? A cleft? A unibrow? Less muscle? More muscle? A larger cock? As regards cock-size, I've opted for not-too-enormous, since I find this present size most manageable for masturbation (by myself, or by others) while I have hard cock rammed up my ass. But, if you'd prefer something bigger..." "You're fine." Glynen's cock confirmed with additional extension within his trousers. The decision already made (no thought of now turning back) that Glynen's dick would (and, yes, very soon), tickle the magician's prostate and spear even deeper, Glynen actually now looked forward to getting started. He couldn't remember getting as hard and as hot for any of the girls he'd ever screwed. Even his fantasy fucks of Krydon were hardpressed to produce such anticipation. "Ah, but what about my ass?" Delimar-Gloo turned his backside in Glynen's direction. "Perhaps, you'd prefer it less solid, more femininely round and pliant?" 360


"Mighty Knosis, no! It's always been my fantasy that my first ass fucked would be one just as perfect as this one." Delimar-Gloo turned his head back over one shoulder. "Surely, an attractive and nicely hung young stud like you isn't really still a virgin at fucking male ass?" He smiled as coyly as any young girl on the make. Glynen blushed. "I think we might do this by chains." Delimar-Gloo decided. He lifted both arms toward the cave ceiling that miraculously dropped two lengths of braided metal with bracelets attached. Fur-lined metal cuffs opened and closed around the magician's wrists. "I've not been fucked in chains since my screw by Milocan Moore-ban who came to me for a bit of necromancy in the days when even raising the dead was doable." Glynen hesitated. His genuinely continuing desire to fuck the magician's butt still didn't translate into the actual doing. "Shall I walk you through this, then?" Delimar-Gloo proposed." Since you've come to learn from the master, why limit your instruction to making candles?" Why not, indeed? "Yes, please, and thank-you," Glynen made his willingness final. "First thing is to strip. While some, in a hurry, fuck with their clothes on, we're in no hurry. Besides, someone as physically attractive as you shouldn't ever deprive your partners of the voyeuristic and aesthetic pleasures of viewing the anatomical perfection you've obviously worked so hard to achieve." 361


Glynen did know he looked good, naked—no matter that Krydon had always complained of Glynen being too thin. Glynen, though, couldn't remember a time, even at the outset of puberty, when his cock had been quite as impressive, quite as stiff, and quite as anxious to fuck, as it was at that very moment. "Second thing, you walk on over here and up behind me," Delimar-Gloo said, "because it'll take long-lost magic for you ever to fuck my ass, even with that monster dick of yours, while you're standing that far away." Glynen crossed the distance and felt the heat emanating from the red-head's muscled back and ass. The way DelimarGloo's arms extended up and slightly outward, sexily put the man's spinal column in the groove formed by scrunched shoulder blades and back muscles. Attention was, thereby, focused down to the small of the magician's back where Delimar-Gloo's asscheeks folded into his asscrack. "Put your hands to my buttocks, widen its crack to see my asshole for targeting by your cock. You'll want to be flatfooted once your cock is shoved comfortably inside me. Sometime during the course of the fuck, you'll want to raise up on your toes to try and shove even more of you even more deeply inside me." "What if I need you lifted higher in your chains—here and now?" Automatically, immediately, the chains obliged. "Finally, as regards lubricant," Delimar-Gloo resumed. "Spit, I think. I have alternatives available, but it's hard to beat the original." 362


"How about pre-cum?" Glynen suggested. A large bead of the referenced liquid had oozed his cockmouth to pose like a rare gemstone. "Have I lucked out with a leaker, then, along with all the other wondrous physical attributes you've brought me? Possibly proving my magic to conjure hasn't yet completely run out?" Glynen's bead of pre-cum swelled larger. Finally, it was too large for its surface tension to contain it. It collapsed and drained three separate streams down his cockneck. Glynen helped it along by wrapping his dick and its leakage to smear his cock from top to bottom. "I'm ready for you up my ass whenever you are," DelimarGloo decided. Oh, Glynen was more than ready. It was as if he knew he was about to have a once-in-a-lifetime experience, without even considering how, after the great lead-in, the finale might prove anticlimactic. His left hand to the wizard's ass, just beneath DelimarGloo's backbone, his thumb and index finger pressed firmly into rock-solid buttflesh to widen the space between asscheeks and provide better visual of sexy and puckered anal opening. Glynen's free hand levered down the neck of his dick, drawbridge-like, to rest its leading edge to the small of the magician's back. Bending his knees, he saw how his cock left a slug-like trail of leaked natural lubricant all of the way to the target. Where it paused while Glynen indulged a couple 363


deep breaths in sheer anticipation of what was soon to come (cum!). "Slow and easy, if you please," Delimar-Gloo said. "It's been awhile for me, my want-to-make-a-candle student." Slowly, Glynen thrust his hips forward, at the same time losing the bends at his knees. His pre-cum lubricated cockhead made Delimar-Gloo's brown pucker concave and, then, open wide. Glynen's cock slotted itself into the breach and was squeezed from all directions. "Ohhhhh!" Delimar-Gloo moaned his appreciation. It had been a very long time, if ever, since he'd been subjected to such wondrous cock-sticking. It wasn't something Gillium Head was capable of doing. And, if Delimar-Gloo had tried his best to construct an automaton to do for him what Glynen was now doing, all efforts in that regard had failed, probably due to sabotaged schematics. The selection of dildos, rubber and otherwise, that he did use, was nothing compared to the sensuous pleasure of the real thing. Glynen was up close and personal—so much so that Delimar-Gloo's scrotum experienced the tickle of his young companion's scrotal hair as Glynen's ball-containing sac swung forward. Delimar-Gloo's back experienced the pinpricks from the nipples that punctuated Glynen's naked chest. Delimar-Gloo's ass experienced the hard grind of young-man's belly as Glynen's dick tried to push even more tightly up the hanging magician's asshole.

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Glynen's lips ever-so-close to the old man's ear, whispered, "Shall I hand-hold your dick and pump it to climax while my cock fucks your ass?" "First, pinch my nipples," Delimar-Gloo instructed. "Pinch them hard and revolve your hips to stir your dick into grinding contact with my ... Ahhhhhhhhh, my lovely boy, that is just exactly ... oh, exactly ... yes, yes, yes." Glynen found this easier than he'd ever expected. **** Dabu-pol hated this gwabdi-din man whose face he fucked. He hated all people not dallin-de. If Dabu-Pol had heard rumors that there were actually a small group of barbarians whose physical characteristics could pass them off as verified members of the human race (rumors which he seriously doubted), this man was not one of them. Khli-Lao had the distinguishing flat facial features of a barbarian that made feeding him cock—through thin lips, beneath pug nose—like putting dick to knife-slice in poor-quality pork belly. Dabu-Pol hated Khli-Lao and the gwabdi-din as any conqueror hated a conquered race that refused to recognize it had been conquered, even after the winner was fully entrenched and, for all intents and purposes, fully in control. The inhuman gwabdi-din had held out longer than most. Some analysis blamed their lengthy successful defiance to their native habitat in the north of Laon—rugged hills, deep valleys, serrated crags, dense jungle, swamps, quicksand, and meandering cave complexes. But the dallin-de had quickly defeated other uncivilized cultures existent within just 365


as rugged hills, deep valleys, serrated crags, dense jungle, swamps, quicksand, and meandering cave complexes. There had been many recalcitrant peoples who'd mistakenly thought that they could survive the inevitable steamroller that was the dallin-de out to crush them. Of course, it was only a matter of time (as Dabu-Pol's predecessors had been saying for hundreds of years), before eventually all the embarrassingly bad seed would be eliminated. In the interim, the momentary remnants, still kept alive, by Dabu-Pol's good graces, were good for very little else than sucking Dabu-Pol's big dick. Of course, there were the whispers of gwabdi-din magic, possessed by a few gwabdi-din sorcerers who had pooled their resources to delay—for so long—this day. Dabu-Pol, though, didn't put much stock in any such potency of gwabdidin witchcraft. Wasn't Khli-Lao supposedly one of these gwabdi-din shamans, and what had he done to prevent having his ugly face forced down upon, and over, and routed up-and-down, along the length of Dabu-Pol's big (very big!) and powerful (very powerful!) dick? Nothing supernatural had come to Khli-Lao's aide, during his confinement, during his torture, during his frequent hearty suckings of Dabu-Pol's superior dallin-de dick. Dabu-Pol took a firmer hold of Khli-Lao's bird-wing-like ears and held barbarian head stationary for a series of hearty Dabu-Pol hip thrusts that buried Dabu-Pol's massive erection first to its roots and then pulled the same back out to its knobby head ... again, again, again. 366


Dabu-Pol had no fear of gwabdi-din deities. Hell, these savages worshipped a three-legged monster (the third leg a genuine leg and not a big dick). They worshipped a twoheaded reptilian goddess with scaly tits and armor-plated cunt. They worshipped an unseen "something" that had supposedly taken a decidedly difficult dump and literally pooped the world into existence. The modern world was definitely going to be a better and more civilized place without such archaic shitty (Dabu-Pol had to smile) nonsense. "Eating my dick is far better than chowing down on your usual meal of dog shit, isn't it," Dabu-Pol said; it was a statement. "Too bad for you—" He had every intention of killing this gwabdi-din as soon as the suck was done. "—there are other peoples to be conquered, anyone of whom can likely gobble prick just as good as you do." Dabu-Pol's father had once had an anthropologist killed who had off-handedly proposed the heretical theory that the dallin-de and gwabdi-din had once been one and the same, the dallin-de merely a splinter group of the original gwabdidin gene pool that early-in-the-world had headed off for greener pastures and found them. Dabu-Pol would as easily have killed anyone else who would suggest such an absurdity. Dallin-de were unique! Dallin-de were superior. Gwabdi-din and their ilk were shit and would flushed into complete oblivion, just as Khli-Lao would soon be flushed! **** Glynen checked the time and couldn't believe it was the end of day five. That Pwslen-Ti had lasted so long was 367


something Glynen found staggering. Glynen had lasted only five hours; on Glynen's insisted second attempt, he'd lasted only two. Glynen, on more than one occasion, had thought Pwslen-Pi dead, perhaps the victim of an air passage inadvertently closed at his mouth, at his nose; perhaps from fright; perhaps from starvation; perhaps from dehydration. Each time, upon closer examination, there had been observed the slight rise and fall of the human wrapped within the confining plastic, like a caterpillar wrapped in the restraining silk of a cocoon. Like the caterpillar, would Pwslen-Ti emerge transformed? Lesser time spent in similar mummy wrappings had certainly seen Glynen changed. He was made so paranoid by closed-in places that he'd been, at times, at his wit's end, these last five days, merely to maintain his promised vigil over the plastic-wrapped Pwslen-Ti within this actually quite-large grotto of the Maridian Cave Complex. If he had thought Delimar-Gloo, now buried, the victim of old age and, now, in the niche in the cave wall behind him, would offer adequate company, he'd been mistaken. Glynen just kept remembering, over and over, how Delimar-Gloo had warned that—even if the magic still works to make the deed possible, a soul used to being contained within a human form, which has a certain vastness of anatomical nooks and crannies, and veins, and arteries, and lungs, and testicles, and liver, and bladder, and kidneys, and heart, and brainpan, is entirely different from a soul confined to a wax-solidified container wherein there is nowhere to go, no movement allowed, no freedom experienced until the wick is lit and the 368


soul is freed to do whatever it can do, chosen weapon in hand, until it is quickly snatched away to the official land of the dead. Glynen just kept remembering, over and over, how he'd thought himself not only ready and willing but able. Selfdelusion—such a lie: Glynen's overestimation of his ability to put mind over matter. How he'd fooled himself into thinking that he would ever be the one to wreak revenge when it would, under the best of opportunities, obviously take more than a mere five hours (let alone two hours) to put the candle into play, once any avenging soul was locked securely inside it. Well, at least, a consolatory Delimar-Gloo had been right in one thing: "You're best bet, Glynen, is to merely wait for someone to come along who does have the capacity to withstand the ordeal. Then, if the magic still works, by way of accompaniment, you may have your revenge by proxy. Revenge often a meal best enjoyed cold. What better place to wait than here, with me, learning what you can of the magic that still exists and using it, hopefully, to keep alive the magic of soul transmigration long enough for you to see your original objective realized?" Glynen got up, crossed the distance to the rocky slab and the encapsulated man atop it. He reached for the scissors couched within a nearby stony niche. Carefully, beginning at the plastic-wrapped sole of one foot, he began to cut. The combined and compressed swathes were thick, but the scissors were sharp. He sliced the material up the side of one leg to where one arm was snug in its parallel alignment with the torso. He cut the wrap that ran up the arm to the 369


shoulder. He clipped across the shoulder, up the side of the face, across the top of the head, down the other side of the face and neck, down the other arm... He stopped at the sole of the second foot, surprised that Pwslen-Ti had yet to make any response, except for the slow and easy expansion of the ribcage now partially revealed by the split material that had so securely bound it. When Delimar-Gloo had released Glynen, it had been a maddening experience—Glynen so anxious to get free, and struggling to do so, even before Delimar-Gloo's clipping had provided an adequate breach, that the magician had warned that Glynen was liable to end up accidentally dead by scissor point if he couldn't achieve some self-control. Glynen returned to Pwslen-Ti's head and scooped the fingers of both hands into the breached material sliced across Pwslen-Ti's hairline. With a gentle but persist tug of his handhold, Glynen lifted the compact wrapping free of PwslenTi's hair and forehead. The greasy lubricant, applied five days before, now prevented more than just a few strands from pulling free with the bandage. Additional pulling unveiled the face, death-mask waxy. "Wake up you self-controlled bastard," Glynen wanted to yell, then and there, "and stare upon the face of a man who tried and failed at what you've tried and succeeded." Glynen said no such thing; Pwslen-Ti would make his consciousness known when it best suited him, obviously knowing the capabilities of his psyche and body far more than Glynen ever knew his own. Or, perhaps, Pwslen-Ti's consciousness had 370


slipped whatever the ties that bound it to the still breathing body and would never return Glynen fished one hand into each scissor-breach of material located at each of the man's shoulders, and began the steady tug to peel more sliced wrapping—down along Pwslen-Ti's stale-grease-covered naked torso. Pwslen-Ti's revealed nipples were actually taut so that Glynen was expecting the man's cock to be hard, except it wasn't; Pwslen-Ti's impressive dick was a thick python curled within its grease-sparkling black pubic-hair nest, his nuts needing a bit more concentrated effort by Glynen to see them completely released from wrapping that seemed lovingly reluctant to let go. Glynen succeeded in freeing all the face-up part of PwslenTi, from head to feet, the under half of Pwslen-Ti still cupped by the same cocoon that had once wrapped all of him. "You are revealed my vengeful warrior," Glynen said, actually surprised when Pwslen-Ti's eyelids lifted on cue. If Pwslen-Ti has survived his preparatory ordeal, it was obvious from the look he gave Glynen that it hadn't been a journey in any way easy. **** Tsu-Lao, who had promised himself that he wouldn't fall asleep, came awake with a start. Immediately, he reached for his weapon which wasn't there. "Pwslen-Ti has sent me," Glynen said, not wanting Tsu-Lao to do anything foolish to screw up, now, things having come 371


this far. "If he hadn't given me an accurate description, I would have thought you were the enemy trying to sneak on up." Tsu-Lao, still furious at himself for having been caught offguard, took a good look at the man across from him. He hadn't realized Glynen was quite so old. "I was testing your defensive perimeter," Tsu-Lao explained. "And?" "And, you don't seem to have any." "Ah, seem does seem to me to be the key word there, doesn't it? While you've detected no defenses, here we are, you unarmed, and I having unarmed you." Tsu-Lao grimaced at the truth of Glynen's words. "Pwslen-Ti expects you," Glynen said, hoping against hope that this young man, physically less attractive, to Glynen's way of thinking, than the guy's lover, wasn't the weak link in the chain that was going to spoil everything. "Hopefully, you bring good news." "The arrangements have been made. I've had the candle officially itemized within the roster of gifts I'm delivering to Dabu-Pol. That said, how do you propose to make him so entranced by but one wedding gift among so many?" "Interest by the recipient is part of the magic, isn't it?" Glynen said, but he could only hope that was still the case. "I've less faith in magic than Pwslen-Ti, my father having been a magician whose magic never got us anywhere as regards Dabu-Pol," Tsu-Lao told Glynen: nothing Glynen 372


didn't already know. "There has been little evidence of any magic as of late." "And there will be even less evidence of it as time goes by," Glynen told Tsu-Lao what the younger man already knew. "Times are changing but, at least as far as we're concerned, we've still time before this particular door bangs shut—if we're lucky. Are you feeling lucky?" Glynen could only hope that the door remained ajar until it was all over and done; other doors accessing lesser magic, had long ago banged shut in his face. For this bit of magic, too, it was only a matter of time before it was no more. "Or, maybe you're having second thoughts?" he suggested. Wouldn't that just be peachy-keen? Not! "Thinking, maybe, that your prematurely becoming an eventual suicide might deprive you of time better lived, especially as you're one of the lucky ones who can pass as dallin-de human?" "Once Pwslen-Ti is en route, there'll be little left for me but revenge and suicide." "Ah, yes. Your grandparents made dead by Dabu-Pol. Your mother made dead by Dabu-Pol. Your father made to suck Dabu-Pol's cock just before being made dead by Dabu-Pol. Your lover-before-Glynen slaughtered by Dabu-Pol. Most of your clan made dead by Dabu-Pol. You and Pwslen-Ti, because of some mutually shared aberrant gene that makes you seem temporarily civilized, even to Dabu-Pol, momentarily saved from extinction." "And, what I wonder, has Dabu-Pol done to you and yours that had you search us out." 373


"Search you out?" Glynen was impressed. Maybe this one wasn't as stupid as he looked. "It's my recollection, that it was you who came to me." "Wasn't it you, though, who incorporated the seed that grew the plant that blossomed the idea within us?" "By magic, you mean?" Glynen wondered if it were really necessary for him to feign innocence. No matter that he had, by magic, implanted the seed, no magic presently existing would have been strong enough to get them all this far without willing participants all-around. "Magic so unable to do all that much, lately." "Including what we propose?" "Who knows? I do know that it is imperative that we keep to the schedule. Please try to think of that when I come to pull you two apart, both of you bemoaning that you need more time to complete your last-time sucking and fucking." "Don't worry about us, old man. I've done my part to insert me and our candle into the gift-giver procession, and I'll do the rest that's required of me. Pwslen-Ti will do his part, I have no doubt whatsoever. You need only perform what you've been bought and paid for. Can you do that, magician (and I use that title lightly)?" "What I can only do for certain is take you to Pwslen-Ti who awaits you." Glynen wondered if Tsu-Lao had a big cock, and that was what had Pwslen-Ti so enamored of this jerk. "Where's my weapon?" "What need of a weapon among friends? It shall be retuned to you at departure. Now, if you'll come with me..." 374


"Wouldn't it be easier for you merely to transport us magically to wherever it is we're going?" Tsu-Lao asked after several long and sweaty minutes of traipsing through thick undergrowth." "If you've not even the fortitude to endure a little hardship in trekking a forest for reunion with your lover, how might we expect you to succeed where it really counts?" Glynen suspected Tsu-Lao a whiner and disbeliever: not an encouraging combination. Tsu-Lao trudged on in silence and, then, said, "Is it true you and Pwslen-Ti have had hot and heated sex?" Glynen stopped, and it was only partly because of TsuLao's query. Glynen wasn't as young as he used to be. He found all of this walking exhausting. If he had been able to perform transportation by magic, there was no doubt but that he would have done it. "Are you jealous, then?" Glynen asked, curious about what made this man tick. In the game they played, Tsu-Lao was an important piece to whom Glynen had possibly not devoted nearly enough time. "Pwslen-Ti said sex would be part of the bargain. He said all magicians demanded sex, and you would be no exception. That said, I can't believe the two of you actually..." "You think I am too old," Glynen divined. "You think that I'm not particularly attractive. You think that you would never be persuaded to let me suck your cock for love, for money, for candle—or vice versa?"

375


Glynen didn't have to get his answer to see it written all over the smug young bastard's I'm-more-of-an-enemy-toDabu-Pol-than-you-are-any-day face. "Would you like to see the magic, then, that convinces that even you can be made unable to resist my eating your dick, if and when I was really interested?" Immediately, he converted into giant Gee-Cat. He opened wide his salivating jaws and roared. Quickly back again (he could no longer hold such illusions for long), he was more than a little embarrassed that he'd expended so much time and energy in making Tsu-Lao literally wet his pants; Glynen didn't mention the pee-staining of Tsu-Lao's trouser leg or the piss running into one of the warrior's shoes. He did say, "Of course, in that format, I'd probably eat not just your cock but the rest of you as well." At cave complex, Glynen provided Tsu-Lao with bathing facilities. It would have been hardly suitable for Tsu-Lao and Pwslen-Ti to have their last sexual encounter accompanied by the stink of urine, although Glynen had actually heard of men turned on by golden showers. Upon their joining Pwslen-Ti, Glynen could tell, just by looking, that Pwslen-Ti anticipated sex with this young man, and lover, more than he ever had anticipated sex with Glynen, no matter how attractive the magician's many guises. "I shall leave you two, then," Glynen consented. "Just, please, remember that we are on a tight timetable that could easily compress for consequences detrimental to our combined goal. So, watch the watch and gauge your spurting cream accordingly." He left and pulled the door shut between them. 376


"I don't like him," Tsu-Lao told his lover. "He's as arrogant as a magican with full powers and at his prime." "Nevertheless, he's necessary," Pwslen-Ti said and opened the robe that held the nakedness of his body. "He still has powers your father had lost long ago." Tsu-Lao, who had been robed, too, since his bath, unfastened the softly clinging material. His cock stood tall and hard as any of the stone-juttings he'd passed in the cave to get there. Two stiff dicks met, rubbed, caressed, kissed, even as the rest of Tsu-Lao and Pwslen-Ti's nakedness met, rubbed, caressed, kissed. Spit was exchanged by hungry mouths; precum goo was exchanged by copiously leaking dicks. "Fuck me!" Pwslen-Ti commanded. "I want to feel genuinely alive, even this close to extinction." They fucked hard and fast and with all the finesse (or lack thereof) of two young and studly animals in heat. They sucked so much cock, plugged so much ass, ate so much asshole, that there was no way either's cock could have revived for repeats when Glynen was once again at the door. Glynen escorted Tsu-Lao to another room. "Drink this," Glynen instructed, and he provided a goblet with crimson-red contents. "What is it?" Tsu-Lao queried. Despite everything, he was still leery of the magician, still wondering if Glynen still had the necessary magic to carry out what all three of them wanted. "It's something that will keep you pleasantly occupied while I do what I have to do, as Pwslen-Ti does what he must 377


do. It'll make sure that you do what you have to do, at least for most of your remaining stay here at the cave. I have no time to devote to entertaining you, and I've decided to use this by way of babysitter." "I'm no baby!" Tsu-Lao was indignant. "Of course, I meant studly warrior butch-as-they-come sitter," Glynen amended facetiously. Tsu-Lao drained the liquid. He'd expected it to be bitter; it wasn't. It was ... it was ... it was ... He wasn't sure what it was, so quickly did it take control of him and speed him off to somewhere so pleasurably erotic that even Tsu-Lao's fuckand-suck-spent pecker found resurrection sooner than the young man could ever have thought physically or mentally possible. **** Glynen completed the incantation that united the weapon of choice (a garunma-wo-gun), with its warrior (Pwslen-Ti). Hopefully, the formula still could produce results. Who knew? No one would likely know for sure until the moment arrived when, once and for all, it was proven to have worked or not to have worked at all. "Eat this," Glynen instructed and provided what appeared to be a bit of moldy bread. As Pwslen-Ti ate, without question, he was given insight by the magician. "It will numb the nerve ends so you won't feel the pain. However, the spell is specific in that it requires you to enter, voluntarily, the cauldron under your own steam." 378


The cauldron was a large one, suspended by four large and heavy chains, ceiling-anchored, which kept the iron container suspended about a foot off the floor. Another four chains were connected to the pot's bottom and extended to attachments at each corner of the room. "Maybe you should proceed inside now," Glynen insisted and moved the stepping stool into position. What with the way spells were failing left and right, even when recipes were correctly followed, failure would assuredly result if a formula were followed incorrectly from the get-go. Knowing the fungus was quick-acting, Glynen provided Pwslen-Ti a hand to within a foot of the cauldron, released him there, stood ready to offer a slight and unobtrusive balancing if Pwslen-Ti somehow looked on the verge on not making it, as required, at least as far as the lip of the container. With surprisingly exceptional balance, Pwslen-Ti stepped up and into the pot. He sat down in its tepid water that came just up and over his chin. He laid his head back against the metal and shut his eyes. Glynen pulled a lever. The portion of the insulated floor immediately beneath the pot slid it to one side to reveal earth's crust so connected to the molten interior of the planet that the surface rocks were red-hot and smoking. "How do you feel?" Glynen asked. "Woozy." "You're supposed to feel woozy," Glynen said and stepped farther away from the heat that was, even then, singeing his eyebrows. He sat in a chair in one corner. 379


When Pwslen-Ti was boiled down, Glynen commenced the harvesting of the young warrior's rendered fat for soulinfused candle. **** "What is it that the young man, over there, so lovingly cradles?" Dabu-Pol, bridegroom and imperial leader of the dallin-de, asked from his throne. "A candle?" The kow-towed Tsu-Lao, who looked so much a dallin-de at that moment that he fooled even always-looking-forimposters Dabu-Pol, tried not to look too surprised and impressed that Glynen had predicted the wedding gift would be singled out if the spell was still viable. "Yes, Your Grace. Made fragrant with the attar of the jasmilrose, seldom smelled in that the contributing tree is so seldom found or seen." "Attar of jasmilrose is supposedly aphrodisiacal, is it not?" Dabu-Pol's eyes went all squinty, and his thin lips pursed. Tsu-Lao was again impressed. He'd never heard of it before Glynen insisted that he mention it if given the opportunity. "Actually, Your Grace, I've merely heard it mentioned as an enhancer." That was another line fed to him by Glynen. "If a man's cock doesn't have the starch to begin with, this will not provide it, merely supply additional enjoyment for those who can already do the doing." "A very clever man, you are," Dabu-Pol conceded. "Did you suspect that you were about to lose your head because of insinuated derogatory reflection upon my virility?" 380


"No, Your Grace," Tsu-Lao lied, furious at Glynen for having put him in such a vulnerable situation wherein everything could well have been lost by the swing of an ax. "Who is there anywhere who can question your virility which has already been proven time and time again?" "You, there!" Dabu-Pol pointed to one of his servants who stood attendance on the sidelines. "Take that candle to my matrimonial bedchambers, and have it lit just prior to my arrival. I would test the insinuation that attar of jasmilrose can make a virile man even more virile." **** The flame at the end of the thinly tapered wood splinter began its approach of the candlewick as soon as the servant in charge heard the wedding party enter through the opened doors at the far end of the outside hallway. That the candle didn't immediately get lit was the result of a distracting sudden commotion, again from the hallway, that insinuated all was not as it should be. As the servant stood frozen to the spot, the flame of the taper seemed to try its best to extend as far as the wick, and vice-versa. The door banged open, and the matrimonial chamber was suddenly filled with the chaos of a frightened bride and a bloody bridegroom. The latter was manhandled by two soldiers, one at his feet, one at his shoulders, who hoisted the bleeding-from-his-mouth imperial leader of the dallin-de up on the wedding bed. Pristine white sheets quickly turned red and not from ruptured virginal hymen. 381


The doctor, likewise part of the entourage, bent over the bed and over his master who was laid out on it, and proclaimed, with much wringing of hands, "Zuefulin poisoning!" The servant, still with candle-lighting splinter in hand, felt the flame which, having burned so much wood, now anticipated consuming his fingers. He squealed in pain and dropped what little remained of the ignited taper. Dabu-Pol's soliders, suspecting the servant's response in someway related to their leader now dying, spontaneously reacted with two deadly sword thrusts to the poor man's gut. The servant went down in a heap atop a now-gutted flame and accompanying miniscule ashes. **** Donald Perry steps back from the minor adjustment he's just made to the exhibit, and takes a look at what he hopes are the final results. His judgment is that it looks good, very good, but he checks each of the five photographs in hand to be sure he has all of the pieces pretty much placed how they'd been positioned when originally unearthed. Of course, neither he nor any other museum curator on the tour route has been given the textiles or skeletons. The former have been withheld because of their delicacy and danger of additional disintegration; the latter have been withheld because of increasingly negative public responses to putting any human remains on display. Aside from that, though, everything looks right—for the private viewing that 382


evening; for the public viewing tomorrow and for two months' running. Donald considers himself as having completed a job well done, not only in setting up the display but in having finagled it in the first place. Galahad, New Mexico, isn't exactly the end-all be-all town in the center of the world, even if Gallahad University does boast an alumni that includes three presidents, two vice-presidents, sixty-five senators, and onehundred-two congressmen; none of whom has given Donald the helping hand his old school- and frat-mate, Charles Reginald, has provided in dealing with all of the red-tape attached to this career-crowning moment. Charles' people know people who know people who were persuaded to include Galahad, New Mexico, in the touring Mystery King and Queen Exhibition itinerary. Mystery, in that scholars are still trying to determine the identity of the duo decked out in such regal splendor and with such accompanying spectacular artifacts. Even the candle, among the funerary cache, is an exquisite masterpiece; the candle placed, as it was originally, to the rear of the treasure box that overflows gold and gem-encrusted objects. None of the engraved runes can be read. Only carbon dating provides the clue that the two parenthesized by all that finery had lived at a time long thought barren of any and all aspects of civilization. Speculators are even ballyhooing them as Atlantans, while those within the scientific community, who should known more, didn't know more. The quality of the textiles (missing here) and metal works (several examples present) are simply extraordinary and, like everything else, 383


inexplicable. It all might well have been dropped from outer space; that theory, too, is making the rounds. There is a knock on the wall at one end of the heavy curtain that presently keeps the display concealed from the long viewing gallery beyond. Donald turns toward his assistant, Carol Zynard, who has Donald's stepdaughter, Amantha, in tow. Amantha is such a lovely and delicate child: all ivory-white complexion, big blue eyes, and a decidedly ethereal quality that not just a few, but everyone, always comments upon. She is always polite, always courteous, never prone to anger or to throwing hissy-fits (all character traits appreciated by adults who adore her for possessing them). Her blond hair often catches whatever the light that's available and, like now, braids it within her silky strands to provide the illusion that, "My God, the little angel even has her own halo!" Equally fascinating about her is her clairvoyance. At age three, she told her father he would come into a good deal of money; shortly, thereafter, a distant uncle had died. At age four, she cried for the loss of a playmate who was soon to die from a hit-and-run. At age five... "Shall we wait for you in the hall, then?" Carol suggests and interrupts Donald's runaway train of thought. "No, do come in," he insists. "I think it's as finished as it's going to be." "It is truly spectacular, isn't it," Carol says, and it isn't a question. Whoever these two, they had been buried with great flare, pomp, and circumstance. So much gold hadn't even been unearthed in Tut's tomb. 384


Amantha's sudden little gasp for breath, her right hand to her delicate throat, is—her stepfather assumes—to do with the decidedly macabre character of the exhibit, increased by its presently claustrophobic confinement behind heavy curtain. "It's okay, honey," Donald says, immediately down in a squat and drawing his wondrously attractive stepdaughter into his comforting arms. "For some people, burials aren't sad times but actually happy ones, with all sorts of rejoicing and singing and dancing." Donald is amazed by the sudden strength the child suddenly wields by wrapping his neck and pulling him tightly against her, her small and delicate cherubic mouth suddenly up so close to his ear that he can feel her little gasps of breath, sympathetically echoed by the frantic (frightened?) bird-like heartbeats beneath her undeveloped breasts. "I can hear him screaming," she whispers so softly that Donald thinks that he's misheard until she repeats, with a shudder, the very-same and strangely unsettling thing. END

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