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Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 90% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M historicals in no particular order. You'll find many different eras facing all kinds of drama with one thing in common: homosexuality was not only considered immoral but also illegal, not a factor that is often the whole of the story and sometimes not mentioned at all but you just know the danger is always lurking. The heart always finds a ray of light like a beacon in the dark. Though we have a long way to go, in these stories you not only are entertained but you get a better understanding of just how far society has come towards equality.
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Summary:
Ever since Cambridge-bound Colin Lancaster spied on stable master Patrick Callahan mastering another man, he’s longed for Patrick to do the same to him. When Patrick is caught with his pants down and threatened with death for his crime, Colin speaks up in his defense and confesses his own sinful nature. They’re soon banished to the faraway prison colony of Australia.
Patrick never asked for Colin’s help, and now he’s stuck with the pampered fool. While it’s true that being transported to Australia is a far cry from the luxury Colin is accustomed to, he’s determined to make the best of it and prove himself. Although Patrick learned long ago that love is a fairy tale, he’s inexorably drawn to sweet, optimistic Colin.
From the miserable depths of a prison ship to the vast, untamed Australian outback, Colin and Patrick must rely on each other. Danger lurks everywhere, and when they unexpectedly get the chance to escape to a new life as cowboys, they’ll need each other more than ever.
This historical gay romance from Keira Andrews features an age difference, an eager virgin, hurt/comfort, and of course a happy ending.
This book is the story of Colin and Patrick and how life doesn't always end up the way you plan or imagine. How one moment can change a person's life in ways that were not even thought possible. How a virtual death sentence can turn into the best thing that ever happened to you. How stepping up and doing what's right even at the cost of your own peril. This story is a beautifully written tale of awakening a love that helps not only yourself but those around you in a time when male/male relationships were not only thought of as immoral but also very illegal. The Station is so much more than just a gay romance, it's also a story of friendship and finding oneself in a foreign land.
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Summary:
Gin & Jazz #1
Jack and Nick seek fortune and adventure in the silent film era of Hollywood. But their newly-expressed love is threatened by the heady allure of fame, gin and easy money.
Sweet and innocent nineteen year-old Jack has loved the older and more street wise Nick from almost the first time he met him. Nick has taken care of him ever since Jack arrived in New York after he was beaten and thrown out of the boy’s orphanage for messing around with one of the guys there. They share a passion for silent films and have dreams of heading west to make their fortunes building sets for the studios. If only Nick felt the same passion for Jack, and wasn’t already engaged to a gal back in Philly.
Nick’s temper sometimes gets the best of him, but that’s only because he worries about Jack – Nick is all the poor kid has. But he’s also terrified about the way he’s been feeling towards Jack lately. They’re the kinds of feelings he should be having for his fiancé—Penelope—and never for a man. His only goal is to get them both to Hollywood, where he’s sure they’ll be rolling in the dough in no time, and where everything will all work out the way it should.
Hollywood isn’t exactly what they’d thought it would be. There are plenty of gin joints, jazz, money, parties and sex—but everything comes with a hefty price. Everyone they meet—from Trixie Fox, the ditzy up and coming starlet, to Bernie, the foreman who gets them their first studio job—seems to have a hidden agenda. Can the newfound love between Jack and Nick survive the tawdry mess that makes up the glitz and glamour of the celluloid kingdom, or will their own secrets tear them apart forever?
Reader Advisory: This book contains mild BDSM elements, drug use, and sex-for-hire scenes.
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Gin & Jazz
Very hard for me to write a review for Hollywood Bound without any spoiler reveals so I'll just say that I can't help but love Jack, I just want to bundle him up and transport him to the present day real world so I can smother him with hugs. And despite how certain circumstances play out, my heart goes out to Nick, I may not agree with all his decisions but I could definitely sympathize with his motives.
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Summary:
A holiday fling forges the bond of a lifetime.
In Paris on business, Londoner Nigel is the target of a practical joke by French colleagues. He’s embarrassed to discover the night spot they sent him to is a drag cabaret. But when a sultry performer seems to be singing right to him, awakening his hidden desires, he can’t bring himself to leave.
Chanteuse Jay often brings home new friends after a night at the club, but he’s never had one quite like Nigel. The buttoned up banker hides a poetic and passionate nature. These opposites spend one unforgettable night on a rooftop under starry skies and part of the following day at the ground breaking 1901 Paris Exposition. But all holidays must end.
Each man relives those precious moments until one day Jay surprises Nigel by visiting him in England. Can the exotic songbird survive a caged existence, or will Nigel be brave enough to shed his respectability and fly away with his beloved?
Summer and Bonnie have done it again. Their historical collaborations are entertaining forays into a time that has long since past. Not only are the characters well written but they are men we want to know and certainly men that I would be intrigued to call friends. Their historicals help to remind us just how far we have come as an accepting society, we still have a ways to go but it's good to be reminded how it was, and Miss Devon and Miss Dee do that in a very interesting way. Nigel and Jay are a pair that should never have met, or at least not by standards of the time, but they do meet and boy what a journey they have and we get to go along for the ride.
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Summary:
It’s 1919, and Frank Huddleston has survived the battlefields of the Great War. A serious head injury has left him with amnesia so profound he must re-learn his name every morning from a note posted on the privy door.
Gerald “Jersey" Rohn, joined the Army because he wanted to feel like a man, but he returned from the trenches minus a leg and with no goal for his life. He’s plagued by the nightmare of his best friend’s death and has nervous fits, but refuses to associate those things with battle fatigue. He can't work his father's farm, so he takes a job supervising Frank, who is working his grandparents’ farm despite his head injury.
When Frank recovers enough to ask about his past, he discovers his grandparents know almost nothing about him, and they’re lying about what they do know. The men set out to discover Frank's past and get Jersey a prosthesis. They soon begin to care for each other, but they'll need to trust their hearts and put their pasts to rest if they are to turn attraction into a loving future.
This is an amazing story of love, friendship, and overcoming both physical and emotional difficulties. Added on top of all that, it was a time when a gay relationship was not only shunned but illegal. Jersey and Frank both have their own issues to overcome that linger after returning from the war, alone they just manage to "get by" but together they find strength to not only get by but also grow and overcome. I loved the way the author dealt with their individual issues and meshed them together at the same time. Not all the characters are likeable but they aren't suppose to be and the author writes them in a way that is understandable, at times leaves the reader wanting to shake them till they realize what they are saying and doing could do with some rethinking. A definite must for those who love historicals and for those that enjoy a good romance and character study, because you just might find something that makes today a little brighter, I know I did.
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Summary:
In a shadowy game where defeat can mean death, a deal with the enemy can change things forever.
In 1842, Captain Gabriel O'Riordan of the 8th King's Royal Irish Hussars is sent on a mission to Bukhara. His task—to try to free two of his compatriots from the clutches of a mentally unstable Emir. On his way, he encounters Valentin Yakolev, an officer in the Russian Army, who is also on a mission—to persuade the Emir that an alliance with Russia would be in his best interests. Gabriel, disguised as a holy man, is not happy to be the object of Yakolev's intense scrutiny. After all, he's working for the opposing team in the Great Game being played between their two nations. When Gabriel realises that his mission is little more than a forlorn hope, a game he has no chance of winning, he's desperate enough to turn to Valentin to help and offer him anything in return. What he doesn't expect is to have his plans to return to Calcutta scuppered by events.
Instead, he and Valentin flee north, fighting off bandits, their desire for each other and the hardship of desert travel. Their travails bring them closer together until a secret from Valentin's past tears them apart.
Can they set the past behind them and move on together?
***Reader Advisory: This book contains some violence, including beheadings.***
WOW! I found this book to be completely mesmerizing. As I've said before, I've always been a history buff and as most people usually have, I have certain areas that are of interest to me over others. I can safely say that the time frame and area that is touched upon in Tournament of Shadows has never really piqued my interest. Most of my knowledge from this area comes from Hollywood and we all know how accurate they aren't. So I went into this book not sure how I would feel. I was so pleasantly surprised. It's a perfect blend of history, well written characters, serious plot development and light-hearted dialogue. You can almost taste the desert sand during Gabriel and Valentin's trek both to and out of Bukhara. Some might say it's cliche to have enemies become friends, lovers, and have to rely on each other to survive, and I guess in that description it is cliche. But it most definitely does not read as cliche, it's anything but that. What they find together is pretty much what we all want but will it be enough to overcome who they are? I guess you'll have to check it out for yourself, which I highly recommend doing.
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The Station by Keira Andrews
Waiting only a moment after knocking, Colin’s mother, Elizabeth, entered his room. Colin glanced over from the window seat. He’d been watching Patrick in the meadow exercising the young colt born several days before. “Yes, Mother?”
Elizabeth was forty-two and quite beautiful, with a regal nose and posture and the same thick, chestnut brown hair as Colin. “You haven’t bathed yet? Guests will be arriving within the hour.”
“I was about to, if you’d leave me to my privacy.”
When he wasn’t studying or walking the grounds, Colin whiled away the hours sitting by his window reading novels of thrilling adventures in faraway lands. Sometimes Patrick would appear in the meadow, training the horses. Colin’s book would lie forgotten on his lap as he watched Patrick at work. He seemed as if he belonged in one of the fictional tales Colin devoured. Colin could easily imagine him with sword in hand.
“Of course, dear. I had Charles press your jacket. It’s hanging there.” She pointed across the room, where, sure enough, his formal wear waited. “Katherine was partial to that one, if I do recall.”
Colin couldn’t hold back a sigh. “Yes.”
“Darling, you gave up on Katherine far too easily. Tonight will be another chance for you to win her hand. You’re quite a catch, you know. Off to Cambridge soon. Katherine will want to ensnare you now.”
“Mother, Katherine Crawford has turned her favor elsewhere. She’s moved on.” So had he. Most definitely.
Elizabeth’s pretty face pinched into a frown. “It’s an honor that the Crawfords are attending this evening. You will be on your best behavior. I don’t know what exactly you did to ruin things with Katherine, but tonight you will do your utmost to undo it.”
“Yes, Mother.” He would attempt no such thing, but Colin had learned years before that arguing with his parents got him nowhere. Soon he’d be at Cambridge and he would be able to make his own decisions. Soon he’d have a new life.
Mollified, Elizabeth closed the door behind her. Flopping down on his bed, Colin thought of Katherine and cringed. It wasn’t until a most ill-fated outing with Katherine Crawford several months ago that Colin had admitted to himself that his interest in Patrick was far from intellectual.
Katherine was a beauty, all glossy blonde hair and moist, pink lips. For some reason Colin couldn’t fathom, she had shown an interest in him at a holiday gathering down the road. The courting had begun soon thereafter, with Colin escorting Katherine on various activities. Unlike William, who railed against the inconveniences of chaperones, Colin was grateful for the matrons’ presence.
He liked Katherine well enough. She was intelligent and kind and pleasing to look at. But Colin knew something was missing. Katherine didn’t set his blood on fire, and he rarely thought of her when she was absent.
The absences were as long as Colin could manage while still maintaining the guise of courting. He was a perfect gentleman at all times with Katherine, which he found a simple feat. William and his school chums all needled him in private and made winking suggestions of what was actually going on between him and Katherine, and Colin let them believe what they wanted.
The Lancasters and Crawfords had both been guests at a country estate for an Easter celebration. Colin’s sister, Rebecca, was delighted. On the ride over, she had chattered constantly about the beautiful Katherine and how she might one day be her sister-in-law. Colin loved his sister dearly but wished she’d find a new interest.
Colin had been fast asleep the first night at the country estate when Katherine crept into his room. Despite his protests about the impropriety, she’d insisted he dress and accompany her for a moonlight stroll. He hadn’t really a choice.
It went badly.
Despite Katherine’s obvious beauty and heaving bosom, Colin had remained utterly uninterested. He’d tried. Truly, he did. Under a large willow tree, Colin had kissed Katherine and caressed her soft skin under her skirt, her hand firm on his wrist, guiding him. He had been unable to get excited, and when she’d reached for him to find him flaccid, Katherine Crawford had had quite enough.
She’d stomped back to her room and avoided Colin for the remainder of the weekend. Colin could hardly meet anyone’s eyes. His family had obviously required an explanation, and he’d had none.
When they returned home after a torturous journey, Colin had jumped from the carriage, eager to be away from his inquiring parents and sister, who’d demanded to know how Colin had made such a mess of things. Colin had almost barreled straight into Patrick, who had come to take the horses. At the sight of him, his lean muscles, his maleness, Colin had been struck with the vivid memories of what he’d witnessed in the stable that day long ago. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from begging Patrick to take him into some dark corner and have his way with him.
That was what he wanted. He would never want the Katherine Crawfords of the world. No matter how beautiful, how rich, how ideal for a wife. Colin wanted a man. Oh, God, did he want a man.
“Can I be of assistance?” Patrick had affected a guileless expression, and Colin had realized he’d been staring dumbly.
Awkward and ready to crawl out of his own skin, Colin had mumbled something and hurried off. All the denials he’d repeated to himself had finally been silenced. He’d locked himself in his room, took himself in hand, and, muffling his face in a pillow as he thought of Patrick, attained the most satisfying release he’d experienced since that day at sixteen years old, hiding in the stable.
Remembering now, Colin stroked himself quickly, careful not to muss himself too much before the party. He thought of Patrick, of his Gaelic lullaby and of his grunts as he’d penetrated the man in the stable years before. As he rubbed himself with one hand, legs spread, Colin caressed his lips with his fingertips, imagining what it would be like to be kissed—really kissed. He didn’t even know if men kissed each other, but he would like to try it.
Sometime later, Colin straightened his navy tie and vest under his dark jacket and peered into the full-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom. His large eyes were a deep brown that matched his hair, and his jaw was narrow. His nose was straight and unremarkable. Katherine had once told him that his smile turned her knees to jelly and his eyes were bottomless pools she could stare into for eternity.
Colin doubted it, somehow.
He decided he looked as presentable as he was able to and went to join the party. Naturally, the first person he saw was Katherine. Dressed to the nines in an ornate, yellow, bell-shaped gown and looking lovely, she was laughing gaily at something William had said. Her hand was placed just so on his arm, and Colin saw the flash of her eyes as she spotted him. She laughed again, even louder.
Colin felt like laughing himself. If she only knew. Before he could do anything, Rebecca towed him into the drawing room, her voice low and urgent, grip firm. “Honestly, I don’t know what William is thinking. You mustn’t pay them any mind, Colin. Are you very upset?” Her pretty face, very much like their mother’s, creased with worry.
Shaking his head, Colin kissed his dear sister’s cheek. “I won’t give it another thought. William is welcome to her. Perhaps Father will take some solace if the family is connected to the Crawfords in the end.”
Rebecca, fourteen and very dramatic, hugged him tightly. “Oh, Colin. You’re ever so brave.”
Biting back his mirth, Colin thanked her and pointed her toward her newly arriving friends from down the road. He made his rounds of the soiree, shaking hands and making polite conversation. Dinner was served, and Colin listened to a neighbor tell him about what a wonderful time he’d have at Cambridge. Colin hoped it would be true. The one thing dampening his excitement about finally getting away from home was that he’d also be leaving Patrick behind.
As he spooned his custard, Colin brooded. He knew it was deeply foolish, since the strange affection and desire he had for Patrick was certainly one-sided. He’d only been a child when they were friends. Even if by some miracle Patrick desired him now that he was grown, would Colin really have the nerve to lie with another man? His trousers tightened at the notion, and he was glad for the napkin across his lap.
After dinner, Colin endured the ladies’ singing and gentlemen’s card games. Unable to shake Patrick from his mind as the night wore on, he found himself walking to the stable, unable to stay away. He was almost there when a cry came up. A man burst out from the large wooden doors and fled across the meadow, barely visible in the darkness. In the lantern light from the stable, Patrick tumbled outside, followed by two men Colin recognized as shopkeepers in the next county. Brothers named Harris, he thought.
Colin realized he was running and skidded to a halt just as one of the brothers landed a vicious kick to Patrick’s ribs. “Stop!” Colin shoved the man aside. Blood already streamed from Patrick’s nose and mouth.
The man ignored Colin as if he were naught but a fly, and kicked Patrick again. “Unnatural piece of filth!”
Several other guests who heard the melee drew near. The other Harris brother called out to them. “We need the inspector. A crime’s been committed here.”
“What crime?” Colin demanded.
The man spit at the ground where Patrick lay beaten. “Buggery.”
The world tilted on its axis, and Colin’s stomach churned. He realized Patrick’s breeches were loose, and that the man he’d seen fleeing must have been…
Suddenly Colin’s father was there. In the lantern light, Colin could see the rage on his father’s face, and it chilled him. Edward was short and stout, yet an imposing presence. He issued a terse command to the Harris brothers to follow him and bring Patrick.
Patrick was dragged around the back of the manor house, a growing number of curious guests following. Several women were told to go back to the party, and the servants watched with wide eyes as the brothers hauled Patrick through the kitchen. Inside Edward’s study, a group of men gathered. Patrick was deposited on his knees in the middle of the room as Colin crowded inside with the others. They were soon joined by Colin’s mother.
“What’s going on?” she hissed to her husband. “There are whispers everywhere.”
Edward barely spared her a glance. “This is no place for a woman. An ungodly crime has been committed. Go see to the other guests and tell them everything is fine. We don’t want this getting out.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what’s happened!” Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed.
The man who’d kicked Patrick spoke. “My wife is feeling ill, so my brother and I went to the stable to ask for our carriage to be brought round.”
“Ill? Not from the food?” Elizabeth appeared horrified.
“For God’s sake, woman, forget the food!” A vein in Edward’s temple throbbed, and Colin feared his father might explode with rage.
“Where’s the other one?” Colin glanced behind him, surprised to hear William’s voice. Apparently the whispers were indeed spreading.
One of the Harris brothers answered. “Gone. I think it was the Nelsons’ carriage driver. Quick bastard, we couldn’t catch him. This one was still tangled up in his breeches. Caught him dead to rights.”
“No need to get the courts involved. Take him out back and hang him from his bollocks,” said one of the other guests.
There was a murmur of agreement, and Edward seemed to seriously be considering it. Colin’s panic increased exponentially as the tension simmered. Many of those present had long been into their cups, and a reckless air swirled through the room. He looked to Patrick, who knelt silently, blood dripping down his face, his hands now bound behind his back. Colin hadn’t seen who restrained him.
“Kill him,” agreed one of the Harrises. To Patrick, he said, “Wouldn’t you rather be put out of your misery now than rot in a jail cell knowing you’re going to the gallows? We’d be doing you a favor.”
The murmur of assent grew frighteningly loud. “Should have expected it from an Irishman,” someone shouted.
“Hang ’im! Save the courts some time and money.” The bookkeeper from the local village reached for Patrick, attempting to haul him to his feet as other men cried their agreement.
“No!” When all eyes turned to him, Colin realized he’d spoken aloud. “No. You can’t kill him.” He thought of that day six years before, when Patrick had raced after him and plucked him from the fleeing stallion. His heart hammered as it had that day.
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Colin, the punishment for buggery is death. It’s what he deserves. This man—if you can call an animal a man—is a degenerate criminal.”
“Then so am I!”
Silence gripped the room in an instant, as if everyone held their breath collectively. Elizabeth went pale. “Colin, you have no idea what you’re saying.” She pulled his arm, urging him toward the door. “I’m sorry, everyone; he’s had far too much brandy this evening. He isn’t himself.”
Colin yanked his arm away. “No, Mother. I know what I’m saying.” He swallowed, his throat dry and thick. “I am myself.” Perhaps for the first time.
A shocked William spoke up, his eyes wide. “Colin, this is madness!”
Edward simply stared, stunned into silence for the first time in Colin’s memory. Elizabeth pulled at him again, but Colin shook free. “If you will kill this man for his crime, then you’ll have to kill me too. Shall you take me outside and string me up?”
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Patrick spoke for the first time, and all eyes turned to where he knelt. He stared at Colin with dazed astonishment.
The sound of Patrick’s voice seemed to spur Edward out of his daze. Edward turned a murderous gaze on Patrick. “If you’ve laid a finger on my son, I swear—”
“I’d sooner bed a horse,” Patrick sneered.
“And probably has!” a voice called out.
Colin felt a ridiculous stab of pain at Patrick’s words.
Patrick went on. “Sir, your son is clearly not in his right mind.”
William’s father, John, a lawyer, spoke next. He was tall and distinguished, the opposite of his brother, Edward. He seemed to be the only calm person left in the room. “Colin, are you saying you’ve committed acts of buggery?”
“Yes.” Even if it wasn’t true, Colin couldn’t let them kill Patrick. At least not tonight, not if he could help it.
Elizabeth shrieked and collapsed into a chair. “Oh, my son. What have you done? It can’t be true!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. They’ll have to kill us both.”
“Don’t listen to him! For God’s sake!” Patrick tried to stand but was shoved back down by Edward, whose face flamed with rage.
John spoke up. “No one’s killing anyone.” He turned to the Harris brothers. “Did you witness the act?”
One of them laughed tersely. “Didn’t have to. They heard us coming, and the other one was off and running. But we saw and heard enough to know what was going on.”
John pondered this, and everyone waited. He seemed to have quietly taken control of the proceedings, for which Colin was grateful. He hoped Patrick wouldn’t be harmed any further for the moment.
“No concrete evidence. None in regards to Colin either,” John said after a lengthy pause.
“Because it’s not true!” Elizabeth cried.
John ignored her and turned to Edward. “I have some friends in the magistrate’s office who should be able to help. I’ll go speak to George Crawford and get him on our side. But too many people have heard Colin’s confession. Something must be done.”
Edward nodded grimly, not looking at Colin. He pointed to Patrick. “We’ll keep this one locked in the pantry for the night. Colin will be in his room with a guard placed outside. William, take him upstairs.”
The shock of his actions slowly settling in, Colin didn’t resist as William led him away. They opened the door to the study to find the hallway crowded with party guests. Katherine was among them, her delicate face transformed into a hard mask. “Fiend!” She dashed down the hall, weeping.
Accusing eyes glared from all sides, and William led Colin to the servants’ back stairway, sparing him the spectacle of being marched up the grand staircase. In his room, Colin tried to speak. “Will, I…”
William raised a hand. “Don’t.” He shook his head sadly, his expression deeply wounded. “I don’t understand. I’ve always thought of you as a dear friend. A brother. Now I feel I’ve never known you at all.” He turned his back, closing the door behind him. A moment later, Colin heard the key turn in the lock, and his life as he knew it was over.
Hollywood Bound by Morticia Knight
The Bohemian and the Banker by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon
Paris 1901
He should never have agreed to meet Messrs. Abelin and Pascal in such a neighborhood. He could be safely in his hotel room, observing the city from the safety of a balcony.
Even the Champs-Elysées, with all that life under the glittering lights and the spreading horse-chestnut trees, had seemed decadent to him. The people who lounged and laughed at cafés drinking wine and listening to music seemed foreign. Now that broad, clean stretch of Paris felt like home compared to these sinister, crowded streets.
Nigel cringed as he stepped square on a pile of something foul. Not dog feces, thank God, but some almost equally smelly refuse. He hurried on. The next street he turned onto seemed a bit broader and more as if it led someplace he might actually want to go. Music drifted from the well-lit cafés, drinking establishments and music halls. He might have accidentally stumbled onto his destination. Good heavens, what had inspired him to walk rather than have a cab drop him in front of the Cabaret Michou?
The incongruous sight of a turning windmill a ways down the street caught his attention. The infamous Moulin Rouge Theatre. M. Abelin had mentioned the smaller Cabaret Michou was located not too far from that monstrosity. In broken English, M.Pascal had assured Nigel he would find the cabaret most entertaining. Wishing to establish rapport with the French company his bank had sent him to audit, Nigel had affably agreed to come along with Abelin and Pascal on an evening’s adventure. But the thought of can-can dancers holding their skirts high and exposing all sorts of unnecessary flesh didn’t appeal to him in any way. Still, Nigel knew how to pretend to enjoy the same amusements other men did.
At last he spotted a sign on a building with an Oriental-themed façade. Chinese dragons coiled around the columns on either side of the blood-red door, and flickering gaslights shone in flame-shaped torches.
On the doorstep of the club, Nigel paused to reach his finger under the leather upper of his shoe to scratch an itch. How he wished he could remove the shoes from his feet and rub them all over to ease the ache of his long walk. But other customers were approaching the club. He could not delay his entry any longer. Taking a breath, Nigel opened the shocking red door.
The décor of the club reflected the pagoda theme of the exterior. A highly carved table bearing Chinese dragon figurines stood in the foyer, a huge vase of flowers gracing its surface. Depictions of the Far East hung against red wallpaper. In the main room, Nigel scanned the tables and peered as far as he could into the silk-draped booths, but he did not spot M. Abelin or M. Pascal. He’d checked his pocket watch several dingy alleys ago and knew he was late, which meant his business associates were even later since they’d promised to be there to greet him.
Or they weren’t coming. Perhaps the Frenchies had played a funny joke at his expense, luring him to this seamy part of town. When they met again at the Chauve-Souris, the men would pretend Nigel had misunderstood and laugh behind his back at the tres amusante Englishman.
Well, he was too knackered to retrace his footsteps now. Nigel made his way to an open table for two, since apparently the waiters here did not seat customers. He would not hold a larger table and appear a fool if his companions never arrived. Nigel sighed as he slumped in the hard-backed seat. Underneath the scarlet-draped table, he carefully toed off his lace-up shoes and rubbed one foot against the other.
When one of the garcons finally deigned to notice him, Nigel ordered a glass of wine and earned a sneer at his pronunciation of the French vintage. He wanted to order food too, but the menu was beyond his skill to decipher, and damned if he’d point to an item and allow the waiter another smirk.
Gaslights on the perimeter of a stage cast an eerie glow upward. A man in the spotlight made an announcement with a lot of extravagant gestures. The band, hidden offstage, played a lively, modern tune, and five dancing girls pranced onto the stage. They kicked up their heels and flounced their skirts and even wiggled their bums at the audience. Mortified, Nigel ducked his head.
None of the other customers watching the review seemed remotely disturbed. Many cheered and clapped along with the song. Nigel peeked at the dancing girls as they trotted up to the front of the stage, and an unlikely detail shocked him—Adam’s apples on several of the women. Other visual cues informed him these were not normal women or, indeed, women at all.
His mouth dropped open, and he stared full-on for the rest of the dance number. Were they pretty young men painted and padded and wearing women’s clothing? He’d heard rumors of such shows but could scarcely imagine a place where such forbidden fruit was paraded right out in the open. Only in Paris.
The faux ladies pranced offstage while the audience yelled and whistled and applauded too loudly. Nigel politely patted his hands together and waited to see what could possibly happen next.
A single spotlight cast beam from the back of the club somewhere, making a neat circle on the stage. Now a long, willowy figure wearing a trailing gold kimono moved languorously from backstage into the spotlight. Black hair brushed the man’s shoulders and white makeup painted his face. Thin arched eyebrows were drawn above a deep-set pair of eyes impossible to look away from. Luscious, full lips were painted as deep a crimson as the door of the club. Nigel’s own mouth tingled at the outrageous thought of pressing against such softness.
This figure was a man, despite the feminine garb and painted face. Nigel wasn’t completely certain until the man began to sing. There was no doubt about his pure, vibrant tenor.
The sweet, plaintive notes of a violin and that yearning, soulful voice filled the room. No one talked or as much as scraped a fork against a plate. For a respectful moment, all laughter stilled. Nigel could hardly breathe as he drank in the exotic figure that commanded the stage without even moving. The beautiful man looked slowly around the club, gracing first one person then another with his attention. For a phrase or an entire line of the song, he sang to that lucky listener. And although Nigel didn’t understand a word, he knew whatever this fascinating man was saying held infinite meaning. He wished he could understand. He wished the singer would look at him.
And then those dreamy eyes focused on him, chose him, offered wisdom to him. Nigel swallowed and gazed back, willing the amazing singer to understand how the words Nigel couldn’t understand touched him.
“Peut-être aurez vous de la peine
Moi j'en ai eu tellement pour vous
Je vous laisse avec votre haine
Mais laissez-moi partir loin de vous
Moi, je meurs d’amour
Moi, je meurs d’amour”
When the song ended, a moment of hushed stillness followed before the audience erupted into applause. This time Nigel joined in, clapping so hard his palms stung.
The chanteur—or was he a chanteuse since he was dressed as a woman?—gave a sweeping bow before flowing offstage again. Such graceful movements for a man.
A man! The absolute perversion of this club where men boldly flaunted themselves in female clothing hit Nigel. And his business contacts had sent him here knowing full well the place would shock him. Clearly a joke at the ignorant Englishman’s expense.
Nigel should be humiliated and furious. He should leap up from his seat and leave the club, catch a cab back to his hotel room and pretend he’d never been here at all. Abelin and Pascal need never know. He’d tell them he’d completely missed the evening appointment as he’d fallen asleep in his hotel room.
But Nigel remained pinned to his seat and listened carefully as the announcer returned to the stage and suggested another round of applause for the singer Jean Michel. Nigel wished he understood more French. He needed to learn everything he could about the ethereal young man in the gold silk kimono.
The Door Behind Us by John C Houser
Chapter 1
1965
THE YOUNG man still had a dressing over one ear and a crust of blood inside one nostril. The doctor paged through the chart. Notations recorded progress as good as could be expected for such a recent amputee. “Mind if I look?” He pulled back the sheet and noted the wound drained normally. “How’d he rest last night?”
The resident pulled at his narrow tie. “Poorly. He was yelling and thrashing around. That’s why I asked for you to look in.”
“Hmm. Has he been given anything to help him sleep?”
“No, he even tried to refuse the morphine.”
“That’s interesting.” He watched the steady rise and fall of the muscular chest. “He’s a sergeant. Was he a squad leader? Do you know what happened to him?”
The resident shook his head, yawning. “Nope. He hasn’t said much.”
“Does he know about the leg?”
“We told him there was too much nerve damage.”
“The nightmares started before the surgery?”
“Before.” The resident yawned again. “From the first night he was here.”
“There’s not much I can do for him until he wakes up. You’ll have me paged?”
Chapter 2
1919
FRANK CAME into the barn sniffing the air like the scent might tell him whether the place was dangerous.
“About time you got here. Saw the note, I take it? Any questions?” Charlie watched the boy take in the stone barn, from hayloft to the three-legged stool where he sat. “Questions?” he prompted the boy a second time.
Cocking his head as if sorting through a stack of mental index cards, the boy eventually picked a pair of questions. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?”
“You received a head injury, maybe from a shell explosion. That’s what the quacks at the hospital told us. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Why don’t you remember anything? I don’t know. Here, grab a bucket. I expect your hands remember how to milk a cow, even if your head don’t.” Charlie watched the boy’s hand creep upward to touch his head. “Queenie knows you, even if you don’t know her.”
Frank picked up a bucket hesitantly.
Charlie nodded at a Jersey cow that stamped impatiently at her stanchion. “She’s waiting.”
What was it like for the boy to discover who he was every morning from a note tacked to the door of the privy? If the boy had any feelings about it, he never told Charlie.
THE BOY discovered the note after waking in an unfamiliar room. Pale light filtered through a dusty window at the end of a tunnellike dormer. Feeling exposed even under a woolen blanket, he slid to the floor and rolled part way underneath the bed. More comfortable with the solid frame looming over him, he stayed for a time, staring upward. As the light strengthened, he let his gaze follow the lines of wood grain in the window frame. The builder of this house had cut matching pieces for the verticals, their patterns mirrored on either side of the window.
Eventually he rose and struggled out of the tangled bedclothes. A small writing desk, cluttered with loose sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen, and an inkpot, was tucked into the dormer. A stack of unopened envelopes lay next to the writing supplies. The first was postmarked in July of 1918, and the last in October of the same year. Why didn’t this fellow, Francis Huddleston, open his mail?
Gut fluttering like an anxious bird, he peered under the bed for a chamber pot. Finding none, he rushed down to the second floor looking for a toilet or the way to the privy. Steps led down toward either end of the house. The set in the back were coarse and painted rather than finished, a servant’s stair. He knew the term, even if he didn’t know where he’d learned it. Down again, he found a large kitchen and heavy door framed in pantry shelves. He ran out into the yard. A well-worn path led to a small, clapboard structure with high windows. A minute later, as he tried not to breathe the acrid stink, he noticed a ruled sheet of writing paper tacked to the door in front of him. GOOD MORNING was blocked out in square letters.
GOOD MORNING
Your name is Francis “Frank” Huddleston. You are a soldier, returned from the war in Europe. The white-haired man milking the cows in the barn is your grandfather, Charlie Clark. He will welcome your help with the chores. When you return from the barn, the gray-haired woman in the kitchen will give you breakfast. She is your grandmother, Edith “Eddy” Clark.
Charlie continued to milk his own cow and watched as Frank began to squeeze a stream of milk from Queenie’s teats, the familiar act calming the boy. Soon the milk squirted steadily, and Frank fell into a kind of trance, his movements automatic, until a diminishing stream and restless stamp from Queenie signaled time to change to a new pair of teats. Shifting to a new set, he rested his head against Queenie’s side and continued mechanically.
Charlie finished first and went to stand behind the boy. When Frank was done, he placed his hands on his knees and looked around. Charlie held his breath and watched Frank’s face. But there was only a tightening around Frank’s mouth and a narrowed gaze. Charlie sighed and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. I’m your grandfather, Charlie Clark. You’re Frank Huddleston, come home from the war with a head injury. That’s why you don’t know me. Let’s go in and meet your grandmother. She’ll give us something to eat. Are you hungry? Don’t forget your bucket.”
EDDY’S SPOTTED hands twisted in her lap as she spoke. “Charlie isn’t a young man anymore. You’re a great worker, Frank, but it’s the forgetting. With one of us staying with you all the time to answer your questions, we can’t….”
Frank fidgeted in his chair and let his gaze wander over the worn fixtures and scarred wood of the kitchen. He wondered if they would ask him to leave, the strangers who had fed him for months, judging from the thick wad of notes in his hand. Would their faces ever be familiar?
“… so Charlie and I, we’ve posted a notice at the Grange Hall. We hope to have someone here by the harvest.”
Frank became aware the room had fallen silent—except for the tap dripping in the sink and the birds calling outside. Eddy and Charlie. They watched him closely as if they expected something, as if they were unsure of his response. He didn’t know why. Eddy’s careful announcement seemed to have little to do with him.
“Will you hire someone I knew… before?”
“No, Frank. You were with your parents in Philadelphia before the war. Nobody around here knows you.” Charlie looked away. His voice took on a rote quality. “They thought you might be more comfortable here with us while you recovered.”
“Will the new person stay with me or work with you?”
Charlie rubbed fingers across his forehead like he was trying to erase the wrinkles there, but Eddy answered in firm tones. “We have to be careful with our money, Frank. It may be cheaper to hire somebody to keep an eye on you and to help you remember when you have one of your spells. Charlie will work around the house.”
Frank fingered his notes again. “So… you want me to keep feeding the horses and milking the cows?”
“Yes, you’ll do that and other work as well.”
“Now, Eddy.” Charlie’s voice was gentle. “The boy’s still recovering. I’m not dead yet.”
“He’s strong as a bull, Charlie.”
“I don’t mind doing more, if that’s what you want.” Frank shifted from face to face until he focused on the sharp furrows at the side of Eddy’s mouth. “Just tell me what you want.”
“That’s what the new man will do,” Eddy said, looking at Charlie.
Charlie’s gaze dropped to his callused hands.
Tournament of Shadows by SA Meade
A hopeful patch of green glimmered in the distance, distorted by the heat. It was promise enough. I urged the horse on. I cleared my mind of everything but becoming the travelling scholar once more. A harmless fool immersed in research for the sake of it, not a paid fool sent to rescue two other idiots. The May heat left me bad tempered. I just wanted to find a place to rest for a day or two, perhaps lie in wait for my unwanted travelling companion. I knew there was a caravanserai on the road ahead but I didn’t want the crowds, the braying camels, persistent hawkers. I just wanted peace and quiet.
I talked to myself in Uzbek. I talked to the horse. His ears twitched at the sound of my voice and he let loose a long, flubbering sigh as he hobbled along beside me. The oasis drew closer, rising out of the scorched earth in a cluster of trees and earthen buildings. The horse quickened his step and I hurried alongside him, desperate for cool, green shade and a place to rest, even if it was just a rug laid out beneath a tree. I needed all the rest I could get in preparation for the impossible task ahead.
The furnace wind kicked up dust and dead leaves, hurling them across the road. I was glad to leave the desert behind and reach the refuge of the village. I searched for the closest thing they had to an inn—a small, mud-walled building beneath a canopy of trees. The proprietor, a wizened old man with skin like creased, oiled leather hobbled out into the courtyard and offered me a toothless smile. There were a few cots scattered beneath a wood-shingled awning. One or two were already occupied by weary, dusty travellers sleeping in the shade. I chose the bed at the far end, desiring as much peace and quiet as possible, not wanting to be bothered by conversation or company.
The horse came first. I led him to a stable.
“Your horse has a bad limp, sir.”
I bent down and examined the injured leg. “I think it’s his foot.”
The horse shuddered when I reached for his hoof. It was hot to the touch and a close study of the sole revealed a tell-tale black line, which told me that he had an abscess. “Can I have some warm water?”
“Yes, sir.” The innkeeper smiled, nodded then walked away.
I searched my saddle pack for the small bags of things I kept for medicinal purposes including Epsom salts, then pulled the knife from my belt. The innkeeper returned with a basin of water and stood watching when I dug my knife into the animal’s hoof. The horse groaned and snorted but remained still as pus streamed from his foot. I dropped Epsom salts into the water, then dunked an unrolled bandage into it. Once the cloth was soaked, I wrapped it carefully around the horse’s hoof, all under the watchful eye of my host.
“You are a clever man, sir.” His grin was brilliant in the seamed leather of his face.
I straightened my back and patted the horse’s warm neck. “No, just one who has learnt to care for his horse.” I didn’t much care for such close scrutiny and hoped the innkeeper wasn’t one of those talkative sorts who need to know the life story of each of his guests.
He stooped to retrieve the basin and flung the water onto the dirt. “I will leave you to rest. I will bring you some food later.”
“Thank you.” I salaamed, made sure the horse was settled then sought refuge on my bed.
It was cool enough in the shade to be comfortable. I lay down on my bedroll and fell asleep to the warbling of a bird in the dusty trees.
* * * * *
The sun slipped beyond the walls of the inn. My host carried a tray across the yard and set it on a small table beside my bed. “It is but a simple meal, sir.”
I glanced at the bowl of aromatic stew, the cup of cloudy white rice, the pickles and slab of flatbread. “It is a feast after days of traveller’s fare. Thank you.”
He left me to eat in peace, which I did, until the bowl was empty, wiped clean by the last wedge of warm bread. I washed the repast down with the lukewarm tea he’d provided. It was more than enough to satisfy me. I returned the tray to the house then went to see to my horse.
The gelding dozed, resting his afflicted foot. I removed the bandage and poultice, pleased to note that the wound had finished draining. There was still some heat in the sole, which meant I faced a day or two of enforced rest.
“It’s all right, my friend,” I murmured into his ear. “A day or two isn’t going to make much of a difference.
I wasn’t sure I believed my own words but I needed a sound horse more than I needed the firearm hidden in my saddlebag. The gelding nudged me, then rubbed his head against my shoulder, seeking relief from some hidden itch. I obliged by scratching his cheek and offering up prayers to every god I could think of to speed his recovery.
Waiting only a moment after knocking, Colin’s mother, Elizabeth, entered his room. Colin glanced over from the window seat. He’d been watching Patrick in the meadow exercising the young colt born several days before. “Yes, Mother?”
Elizabeth was forty-two and quite beautiful, with a regal nose and posture and the same thick, chestnut brown hair as Colin. “You haven’t bathed yet? Guests will be arriving within the hour.”
“I was about to, if you’d leave me to my privacy.”
When he wasn’t studying or walking the grounds, Colin whiled away the hours sitting by his window reading novels of thrilling adventures in faraway lands. Sometimes Patrick would appear in the meadow, training the horses. Colin’s book would lie forgotten on his lap as he watched Patrick at work. He seemed as if he belonged in one of the fictional tales Colin devoured. Colin could easily imagine him with sword in hand.
“Of course, dear. I had Charles press your jacket. It’s hanging there.” She pointed across the room, where, sure enough, his formal wear waited. “Katherine was partial to that one, if I do recall.”
Colin couldn’t hold back a sigh. “Yes.”
“Darling, you gave up on Katherine far too easily. Tonight will be another chance for you to win her hand. You’re quite a catch, you know. Off to Cambridge soon. Katherine will want to ensnare you now.”
“Mother, Katherine Crawford has turned her favor elsewhere. She’s moved on.” So had he. Most definitely.
Elizabeth’s pretty face pinched into a frown. “It’s an honor that the Crawfords are attending this evening. You will be on your best behavior. I don’t know what exactly you did to ruin things with Katherine, but tonight you will do your utmost to undo it.”
“Yes, Mother.” He would attempt no such thing, but Colin had learned years before that arguing with his parents got him nowhere. Soon he’d be at Cambridge and he would be able to make his own decisions. Soon he’d have a new life.
Mollified, Elizabeth closed the door behind her. Flopping down on his bed, Colin thought of Katherine and cringed. It wasn’t until a most ill-fated outing with Katherine Crawford several months ago that Colin had admitted to himself that his interest in Patrick was far from intellectual.
Katherine was a beauty, all glossy blonde hair and moist, pink lips. For some reason Colin couldn’t fathom, she had shown an interest in him at a holiday gathering down the road. The courting had begun soon thereafter, with Colin escorting Katherine on various activities. Unlike William, who railed against the inconveniences of chaperones, Colin was grateful for the matrons’ presence.
He liked Katherine well enough. She was intelligent and kind and pleasing to look at. But Colin knew something was missing. Katherine didn’t set his blood on fire, and he rarely thought of her when she was absent.
The absences were as long as Colin could manage while still maintaining the guise of courting. He was a perfect gentleman at all times with Katherine, which he found a simple feat. William and his school chums all needled him in private and made winking suggestions of what was actually going on between him and Katherine, and Colin let them believe what they wanted.
The Lancasters and Crawfords had both been guests at a country estate for an Easter celebration. Colin’s sister, Rebecca, was delighted. On the ride over, she had chattered constantly about the beautiful Katherine and how she might one day be her sister-in-law. Colin loved his sister dearly but wished she’d find a new interest.
Colin had been fast asleep the first night at the country estate when Katherine crept into his room. Despite his protests about the impropriety, she’d insisted he dress and accompany her for a moonlight stroll. He hadn’t really a choice.
It went badly.
Despite Katherine’s obvious beauty and heaving bosom, Colin had remained utterly uninterested. He’d tried. Truly, he did. Under a large willow tree, Colin had kissed Katherine and caressed her soft skin under her skirt, her hand firm on his wrist, guiding him. He had been unable to get excited, and when she’d reached for him to find him flaccid, Katherine Crawford had had quite enough.
She’d stomped back to her room and avoided Colin for the remainder of the weekend. Colin could hardly meet anyone’s eyes. His family had obviously required an explanation, and he’d had none.
When they returned home after a torturous journey, Colin had jumped from the carriage, eager to be away from his inquiring parents and sister, who’d demanded to know how Colin had made such a mess of things. Colin had almost barreled straight into Patrick, who had come to take the horses. At the sight of him, his lean muscles, his maleness, Colin had been struck with the vivid memories of what he’d witnessed in the stable that day long ago. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from begging Patrick to take him into some dark corner and have his way with him.
That was what he wanted. He would never want the Katherine Crawfords of the world. No matter how beautiful, how rich, how ideal for a wife. Colin wanted a man. Oh, God, did he want a man.
“Can I be of assistance?” Patrick had affected a guileless expression, and Colin had realized he’d been staring dumbly.
Awkward and ready to crawl out of his own skin, Colin had mumbled something and hurried off. All the denials he’d repeated to himself had finally been silenced. He’d locked himself in his room, took himself in hand, and, muffling his face in a pillow as he thought of Patrick, attained the most satisfying release he’d experienced since that day at sixteen years old, hiding in the stable.
Remembering now, Colin stroked himself quickly, careful not to muss himself too much before the party. He thought of Patrick, of his Gaelic lullaby and of his grunts as he’d penetrated the man in the stable years before. As he rubbed himself with one hand, legs spread, Colin caressed his lips with his fingertips, imagining what it would be like to be kissed—really kissed. He didn’t even know if men kissed each other, but he would like to try it.
Sometime later, Colin straightened his navy tie and vest under his dark jacket and peered into the full-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom. His large eyes were a deep brown that matched his hair, and his jaw was narrow. His nose was straight and unremarkable. Katherine had once told him that his smile turned her knees to jelly and his eyes were bottomless pools she could stare into for eternity.
Colin doubted it, somehow.
He decided he looked as presentable as he was able to and went to join the party. Naturally, the first person he saw was Katherine. Dressed to the nines in an ornate, yellow, bell-shaped gown and looking lovely, she was laughing gaily at something William had said. Her hand was placed just so on his arm, and Colin saw the flash of her eyes as she spotted him. She laughed again, even louder.
Colin felt like laughing himself. If she only knew. Before he could do anything, Rebecca towed him into the drawing room, her voice low and urgent, grip firm. “Honestly, I don’t know what William is thinking. You mustn’t pay them any mind, Colin. Are you very upset?” Her pretty face, very much like their mother’s, creased with worry.
Shaking his head, Colin kissed his dear sister’s cheek. “I won’t give it another thought. William is welcome to her. Perhaps Father will take some solace if the family is connected to the Crawfords in the end.”
Rebecca, fourteen and very dramatic, hugged him tightly. “Oh, Colin. You’re ever so brave.”
Biting back his mirth, Colin thanked her and pointed her toward her newly arriving friends from down the road. He made his rounds of the soiree, shaking hands and making polite conversation. Dinner was served, and Colin listened to a neighbor tell him about what a wonderful time he’d have at Cambridge. Colin hoped it would be true. The one thing dampening his excitement about finally getting away from home was that he’d also be leaving Patrick behind.
As he spooned his custard, Colin brooded. He knew it was deeply foolish, since the strange affection and desire he had for Patrick was certainly one-sided. He’d only been a child when they were friends. Even if by some miracle Patrick desired him now that he was grown, would Colin really have the nerve to lie with another man? His trousers tightened at the notion, and he was glad for the napkin across his lap.
After dinner, Colin endured the ladies’ singing and gentlemen’s card games. Unable to shake Patrick from his mind as the night wore on, he found himself walking to the stable, unable to stay away. He was almost there when a cry came up. A man burst out from the large wooden doors and fled across the meadow, barely visible in the darkness. In the lantern light from the stable, Patrick tumbled outside, followed by two men Colin recognized as shopkeepers in the next county. Brothers named Harris, he thought.
Colin realized he was running and skidded to a halt just as one of the brothers landed a vicious kick to Patrick’s ribs. “Stop!” Colin shoved the man aside. Blood already streamed from Patrick’s nose and mouth.
The man ignored Colin as if he were naught but a fly, and kicked Patrick again. “Unnatural piece of filth!”
Several other guests who heard the melee drew near. The other Harris brother called out to them. “We need the inspector. A crime’s been committed here.”
“What crime?” Colin demanded.
The man spit at the ground where Patrick lay beaten. “Buggery.”
The world tilted on its axis, and Colin’s stomach churned. He realized Patrick’s breeches were loose, and that the man he’d seen fleeing must have been…
Suddenly Colin’s father was there. In the lantern light, Colin could see the rage on his father’s face, and it chilled him. Edward was short and stout, yet an imposing presence. He issued a terse command to the Harris brothers to follow him and bring Patrick.
Patrick was dragged around the back of the manor house, a growing number of curious guests following. Several women were told to go back to the party, and the servants watched with wide eyes as the brothers hauled Patrick through the kitchen. Inside Edward’s study, a group of men gathered. Patrick was deposited on his knees in the middle of the room as Colin crowded inside with the others. They were soon joined by Colin’s mother.
“What’s going on?” she hissed to her husband. “There are whispers everywhere.”
Edward barely spared her a glance. “This is no place for a woman. An ungodly crime has been committed. Go see to the other guests and tell them everything is fine. We don’t want this getting out.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what’s happened!” Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed.
The man who’d kicked Patrick spoke. “My wife is feeling ill, so my brother and I went to the stable to ask for our carriage to be brought round.”
“Ill? Not from the food?” Elizabeth appeared horrified.
“For God’s sake, woman, forget the food!” A vein in Edward’s temple throbbed, and Colin feared his father might explode with rage.
“Where’s the other one?” Colin glanced behind him, surprised to hear William’s voice. Apparently the whispers were indeed spreading.
One of the Harris brothers answered. “Gone. I think it was the Nelsons’ carriage driver. Quick bastard, we couldn’t catch him. This one was still tangled up in his breeches. Caught him dead to rights.”
“No need to get the courts involved. Take him out back and hang him from his bollocks,” said one of the other guests.
There was a murmur of agreement, and Edward seemed to seriously be considering it. Colin’s panic increased exponentially as the tension simmered. Many of those present had long been into their cups, and a reckless air swirled through the room. He looked to Patrick, who knelt silently, blood dripping down his face, his hands now bound behind his back. Colin hadn’t seen who restrained him.
“Kill him,” agreed one of the Harrises. To Patrick, he said, “Wouldn’t you rather be put out of your misery now than rot in a jail cell knowing you’re going to the gallows? We’d be doing you a favor.”
The murmur of assent grew frighteningly loud. “Should have expected it from an Irishman,” someone shouted.
“Hang ’im! Save the courts some time and money.” The bookkeeper from the local village reached for Patrick, attempting to haul him to his feet as other men cried their agreement.
“No!” When all eyes turned to him, Colin realized he’d spoken aloud. “No. You can’t kill him.” He thought of that day six years before, when Patrick had raced after him and plucked him from the fleeing stallion. His heart hammered as it had that day.
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Colin, the punishment for buggery is death. It’s what he deserves. This man—if you can call an animal a man—is a degenerate criminal.”
“Then so am I!”
Silence gripped the room in an instant, as if everyone held their breath collectively. Elizabeth went pale. “Colin, you have no idea what you’re saying.” She pulled his arm, urging him toward the door. “I’m sorry, everyone; he’s had far too much brandy this evening. He isn’t himself.”
Colin yanked his arm away. “No, Mother. I know what I’m saying.” He swallowed, his throat dry and thick. “I am myself.” Perhaps for the first time.
A shocked William spoke up, his eyes wide. “Colin, this is madness!”
Edward simply stared, stunned into silence for the first time in Colin’s memory. Elizabeth pulled at him again, but Colin shook free. “If you will kill this man for his crime, then you’ll have to kill me too. Shall you take me outside and string me up?”
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Patrick spoke for the first time, and all eyes turned to where he knelt. He stared at Colin with dazed astonishment.
The sound of Patrick’s voice seemed to spur Edward out of his daze. Edward turned a murderous gaze on Patrick. “If you’ve laid a finger on my son, I swear—”
“I’d sooner bed a horse,” Patrick sneered.
“And probably has!” a voice called out.
Colin felt a ridiculous stab of pain at Patrick’s words.
Patrick went on. “Sir, your son is clearly not in his right mind.”
William’s father, John, a lawyer, spoke next. He was tall and distinguished, the opposite of his brother, Edward. He seemed to be the only calm person left in the room. “Colin, are you saying you’ve committed acts of buggery?”
“Yes.” Even if it wasn’t true, Colin couldn’t let them kill Patrick. At least not tonight, not if he could help it.
Elizabeth shrieked and collapsed into a chair. “Oh, my son. What have you done? It can’t be true!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. They’ll have to kill us both.”
“Don’t listen to him! For God’s sake!” Patrick tried to stand but was shoved back down by Edward, whose face flamed with rage.
John spoke up. “No one’s killing anyone.” He turned to the Harris brothers. “Did you witness the act?”
One of them laughed tersely. “Didn’t have to. They heard us coming, and the other one was off and running. But we saw and heard enough to know what was going on.”
John pondered this, and everyone waited. He seemed to have quietly taken control of the proceedings, for which Colin was grateful. He hoped Patrick wouldn’t be harmed any further for the moment.
“No concrete evidence. None in regards to Colin either,” John said after a lengthy pause.
“Because it’s not true!” Elizabeth cried.
John ignored her and turned to Edward. “I have some friends in the magistrate’s office who should be able to help. I’ll go speak to George Crawford and get him on our side. But too many people have heard Colin’s confession. Something must be done.”
Edward nodded grimly, not looking at Colin. He pointed to Patrick. “We’ll keep this one locked in the pantry for the night. Colin will be in his room with a guard placed outside. William, take him upstairs.”
The shock of his actions slowly settling in, Colin didn’t resist as William led him away. They opened the door to the study to find the hallway crowded with party guests. Katherine was among them, her delicate face transformed into a hard mask. “Fiend!” She dashed down the hall, weeping.
Accusing eyes glared from all sides, and William led Colin to the servants’ back stairway, sparing him the spectacle of being marched up the grand staircase. In his room, Colin tried to speak. “Will, I…”
William raised a hand. “Don’t.” He shook his head sadly, his expression deeply wounded. “I don’t understand. I’ve always thought of you as a dear friend. A brother. Now I feel I’ve never known you at all.” He turned his back, closing the door behind him. A moment later, Colin heard the key turn in the lock, and his life as he knew it was over.
Hollywood Bound by Morticia Knight
"Nick. Give me five cents. I need a cuppa joe before we head to the theatre."
"Who am I? Rockefella?"
Jack smiled and elbowed Nick in the ribs. They were at the far end of the counter on the swivelling stools Jack loved so much. Every time they had a few extra cents in their pockets—which wasn’t often—they would head on over to Huyler’s Diner in midtown. It was close enough to the vaudeville theatre where they worked, just off of Broadway.
"Would ya quit spinnin’ around on those things? You’re acting like a kid."
Jack frowned at him. Nick was four or five years older than Jack, but he acted like he was really something. All worldly and such. At the same time, Jack really admired him. He knew about things and always watched out for him. Nick had been there for him after he’d been kicked out of the boys’ orphanage in Buffalo. He’d only been sixteen and hadn’t known what to do or how to take care of himself. Nick was the best friend he’d ever had. And since he had no family, he guessed Nick qualified as that too.
"I ain’t no kid. I just turned nineteen. I’m a man."
Nick snorted and took another drag of his cigarette. "A man. Sure ya are, kid. Here’s a nickel, get yourself some coffee. It’ll be a late night. We have to tear down all of the sets, and put up the new ones. The next show starts tomorrow."
"Aw, shucks. I was hopin’ we could go out tonight to the Red Head. I know someone who’ll let us in. Plus, Mr Pearson swore he’d pay what he owes us from the last show."
"Shee-it. The last time we went to a speakeasy, the place got busted. You wanna end up in the black mariah again? We’re supposed to be savin’ every penny to make it out west. I know it’s hard when everyone else seems to be living the easy life, but we have a chance to make it really big out where they make movin’ pictures—just like we’ve been dreamin’ about."
"Geez, Nick, I don’t know. I still think we got a good enough job here. We make all right money. And I don’t know nobody out there."
"You’ll know me, won’t you?"
"Yeah, but what about that gal you’ve got back in Philly? What if you decide to marry her and leave me behind?" Jack’s voice got softer. "You always said you’d have to do that someday."
Nick didn’t answer. He looked straight ahead at the mirror behind the diner’s counter, worry etched on his brow, a cigarette held to his lips. Finally, he seemed to snap out of it.
"Yeah, well, I don’t wanna talk about it. I’ve put her and my folks off this long. They can all wait a little bit longer."
Jack motioned to the waitress and asked for some coffee. He didn’t want to bug Nick about it, but it bothered him a lot. One time Nick had said that he would send for her when they got out west, but then he’d never brought it up again. Jack worried that once Penelope got in the picture, Jack would be out of it.
But it’s only right, ain’t it? Every guy has to get his own family one day. We can still be friends.
If only friendship was all that Jack wanted from Nick. He had been in love with him for a while, but didn’t dare say or do anything about it. That was the kind of stuff that had got him pushed out the doors of the orphanage. If it hadn’t been for Father O’Malley intervening, he might have been beaten to death by the other kids. He’d been half-beaten as it was.
He and Stanley had been playing with each other since they were both fourteen. That was what Jack had called it, and Stanley had said he thought it was okay because they weren’t going after girls. Stanley wasn’t super smart, so one day he’d told the other boys about his and Jack’s playtime when they were complaining that there weren’t any gals around. It had got Jack a one-way ticket out the front door. But not before he’d received a good beating too.
Father O’Malley had told Jack to head to New York City.
"You go out to the big city, Jack Stone. Things’ll be much better for you there."
He’d said that there were places like pansy clubs that accepted guys like him. These were modern times, he’d explained. Nineteen twenty four—people would be more open and liberal from now on.
So far, Jack agreed that it was much better in New York City, but only if you hung out with the right crowds and went to the right places. But that was only from what he’d heard. He knew Nick didn’t go in for that sort of thing, and he wouldn’t dare do anything that Nick didn’t like.
He’d met Nick at the bus station when he’d first arrived. Father O’Malley had given him just enough money to get to the city and to buy a couple of meals. Jack hadn’t had a clue how he was going to survive beyond that. Having just arrived from Philadelphia to work over the summer with his uncle who ran a vaudeville theatre, Nick had quickly taken Jack under his wing. Jack still thought of it as the luckiest day of his life. Within a few short days, he’d had a job as a set-builder and painter at the Atlantic theatre run by Nick’s uncle, Fred Milton. As it turned out, after the summer ended, Nick suddenly didn’t want to go back to Philly, although he never really had a reason why.
But more than anything, it seemed Jack had Nick’s support no matter what. Tall, lean and with muscles born of hard work, Nick also had brown wavy hair that parted at the side and swooped down over his hazel eyes. Jack thought he was very handsome. Sometimes he fantasised about what it would be like if there was no Penelope, and Nick wanted to be with him like a woman. Sometimes he even thought that he could see it in Nick’s eyes, the way he stared at Jack, then quickly looked away.
"Here you go, honey."
"Thank you, miss."
The young brunette waitress placed a cup of salvation down in front of him and winked. He’d had plenty of days where he’d lived off of just coffee and cigarettes. He’d stir in cream—not because he liked the taste—but so he could convince himself he was getting something more, like real food. Besides, it was free. The worst had been when Nick’s uncle had died. The theatre had been shut down, and he and Nick had ended up on the streets for a couple of weeks. It had been a very frightening time. Besides not having jobs and running out of money, Nick had started hinting around that it might be time for him to head back to Philly and take up with his betrothed. That had been over a year ago, but Jack still shivered when he thought about it.
Luckily, Mr Pearson had bought the closed theatre and rehired most of the people who had worked there before. In addition to set-building, they were also stage hands during the shows. It was terribly exciting, but more recently, he and Nick had become obsessed with silent films. They’d spent more of their money than they should have to go and see such wonders as Sherlock, Jr. and The Love Nest with Buster Keaton, and Jack’s favourites, The Thief of Baghdad and Robin Hood. That was where the seeds of the idea to head west had been planted.
The Bohemian and the Banker by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon
Paris 1901
He should never have agreed to meet Messrs. Abelin and Pascal in such a neighborhood. He could be safely in his hotel room, observing the city from the safety of a balcony.
Even the Champs-Elysées, with all that life under the glittering lights and the spreading horse-chestnut trees, had seemed decadent to him. The people who lounged and laughed at cafés drinking wine and listening to music seemed foreign. Now that broad, clean stretch of Paris felt like home compared to these sinister, crowded streets.
Nigel cringed as he stepped square on a pile of something foul. Not dog feces, thank God, but some almost equally smelly refuse. He hurried on. The next street he turned onto seemed a bit broader and more as if it led someplace he might actually want to go. Music drifted from the well-lit cafés, drinking establishments and music halls. He might have accidentally stumbled onto his destination. Good heavens, what had inspired him to walk rather than have a cab drop him in front of the Cabaret Michou?
The incongruous sight of a turning windmill a ways down the street caught his attention. The infamous Moulin Rouge Theatre. M. Abelin had mentioned the smaller Cabaret Michou was located not too far from that monstrosity. In broken English, M.Pascal had assured Nigel he would find the cabaret most entertaining. Wishing to establish rapport with the French company his bank had sent him to audit, Nigel had affably agreed to come along with Abelin and Pascal on an evening’s adventure. But the thought of can-can dancers holding their skirts high and exposing all sorts of unnecessary flesh didn’t appeal to him in any way. Still, Nigel knew how to pretend to enjoy the same amusements other men did.
At last he spotted a sign on a building with an Oriental-themed façade. Chinese dragons coiled around the columns on either side of the blood-red door, and flickering gaslights shone in flame-shaped torches.
On the doorstep of the club, Nigel paused to reach his finger under the leather upper of his shoe to scratch an itch. How he wished he could remove the shoes from his feet and rub them all over to ease the ache of his long walk. But other customers were approaching the club. He could not delay his entry any longer. Taking a breath, Nigel opened the shocking red door.
The décor of the club reflected the pagoda theme of the exterior. A highly carved table bearing Chinese dragon figurines stood in the foyer, a huge vase of flowers gracing its surface. Depictions of the Far East hung against red wallpaper. In the main room, Nigel scanned the tables and peered as far as he could into the silk-draped booths, but he did not spot M. Abelin or M. Pascal. He’d checked his pocket watch several dingy alleys ago and knew he was late, which meant his business associates were even later since they’d promised to be there to greet him.
Or they weren’t coming. Perhaps the Frenchies had played a funny joke at his expense, luring him to this seamy part of town. When they met again at the Chauve-Souris, the men would pretend Nigel had misunderstood and laugh behind his back at the tres amusante Englishman.
Well, he was too knackered to retrace his footsteps now. Nigel made his way to an open table for two, since apparently the waiters here did not seat customers. He would not hold a larger table and appear a fool if his companions never arrived. Nigel sighed as he slumped in the hard-backed seat. Underneath the scarlet-draped table, he carefully toed off his lace-up shoes and rubbed one foot against the other.
When one of the garcons finally deigned to notice him, Nigel ordered a glass of wine and earned a sneer at his pronunciation of the French vintage. He wanted to order food too, but the menu was beyond his skill to decipher, and damned if he’d point to an item and allow the waiter another smirk.
Gaslights on the perimeter of a stage cast an eerie glow upward. A man in the spotlight made an announcement with a lot of extravagant gestures. The band, hidden offstage, played a lively, modern tune, and five dancing girls pranced onto the stage. They kicked up their heels and flounced their skirts and even wiggled their bums at the audience. Mortified, Nigel ducked his head.
None of the other customers watching the review seemed remotely disturbed. Many cheered and clapped along with the song. Nigel peeked at the dancing girls as they trotted up to the front of the stage, and an unlikely detail shocked him—Adam’s apples on several of the women. Other visual cues informed him these were not normal women or, indeed, women at all.
His mouth dropped open, and he stared full-on for the rest of the dance number. Were they pretty young men painted and padded and wearing women’s clothing? He’d heard rumors of such shows but could scarcely imagine a place where such forbidden fruit was paraded right out in the open. Only in Paris.
The faux ladies pranced offstage while the audience yelled and whistled and applauded too loudly. Nigel politely patted his hands together and waited to see what could possibly happen next.
A single spotlight cast beam from the back of the club somewhere, making a neat circle on the stage. Now a long, willowy figure wearing a trailing gold kimono moved languorously from backstage into the spotlight. Black hair brushed the man’s shoulders and white makeup painted his face. Thin arched eyebrows were drawn above a deep-set pair of eyes impossible to look away from. Luscious, full lips were painted as deep a crimson as the door of the club. Nigel’s own mouth tingled at the outrageous thought of pressing against such softness.
This figure was a man, despite the feminine garb and painted face. Nigel wasn’t completely certain until the man began to sing. There was no doubt about his pure, vibrant tenor.
The sweet, plaintive notes of a violin and that yearning, soulful voice filled the room. No one talked or as much as scraped a fork against a plate. For a respectful moment, all laughter stilled. Nigel could hardly breathe as he drank in the exotic figure that commanded the stage without even moving. The beautiful man looked slowly around the club, gracing first one person then another with his attention. For a phrase or an entire line of the song, he sang to that lucky listener. And although Nigel didn’t understand a word, he knew whatever this fascinating man was saying held infinite meaning. He wished he could understand. He wished the singer would look at him.
And then those dreamy eyes focused on him, chose him, offered wisdom to him. Nigel swallowed and gazed back, willing the amazing singer to understand how the words Nigel couldn’t understand touched him.
“Peut-être aurez vous de la peine
Moi j'en ai eu tellement pour vous
Je vous laisse avec votre haine
Mais laissez-moi partir loin de vous
Moi, je meurs d’amour
Moi, je meurs d’amour”
When the song ended, a moment of hushed stillness followed before the audience erupted into applause. This time Nigel joined in, clapping so hard his palms stung.
The chanteur—or was he a chanteuse since he was dressed as a woman?—gave a sweeping bow before flowing offstage again. Such graceful movements for a man.
A man! The absolute perversion of this club where men boldly flaunted themselves in female clothing hit Nigel. And his business contacts had sent him here knowing full well the place would shock him. Clearly a joke at the ignorant Englishman’s expense.
Nigel should be humiliated and furious. He should leap up from his seat and leave the club, catch a cab back to his hotel room and pretend he’d never been here at all. Abelin and Pascal need never know. He’d tell them he’d completely missed the evening appointment as he’d fallen asleep in his hotel room.
But Nigel remained pinned to his seat and listened carefully as the announcer returned to the stage and suggested another round of applause for the singer Jean Michel. Nigel wished he understood more French. He needed to learn everything he could about the ethereal young man in the gold silk kimono.
The Door Behind Us by John C Houser
Chapter 1
1965
THE YOUNG man still had a dressing over one ear and a crust of blood inside one nostril. The doctor paged through the chart. Notations recorded progress as good as could be expected for such a recent amputee. “Mind if I look?” He pulled back the sheet and noted the wound drained normally. “How’d he rest last night?”
The resident pulled at his narrow tie. “Poorly. He was yelling and thrashing around. That’s why I asked for you to look in.”
“Hmm. Has he been given anything to help him sleep?”
“No, he even tried to refuse the morphine.”
“That’s interesting.” He watched the steady rise and fall of the muscular chest. “He’s a sergeant. Was he a squad leader? Do you know what happened to him?”
The resident shook his head, yawning. “Nope. He hasn’t said much.”
“Does he know about the leg?”
“We told him there was too much nerve damage.”
“The nightmares started before the surgery?”
“Before.” The resident yawned again. “From the first night he was here.”
“There’s not much I can do for him until he wakes up. You’ll have me paged?”
Chapter 2
1919
FRANK CAME into the barn sniffing the air like the scent might tell him whether the place was dangerous.
“About time you got here. Saw the note, I take it? Any questions?” Charlie watched the boy take in the stone barn, from hayloft to the three-legged stool where he sat. “Questions?” he prompted the boy a second time.
Cocking his head as if sorting through a stack of mental index cards, the boy eventually picked a pair of questions. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?”
“You received a head injury, maybe from a shell explosion. That’s what the quacks at the hospital told us. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Why don’t you remember anything? I don’t know. Here, grab a bucket. I expect your hands remember how to milk a cow, even if your head don’t.” Charlie watched the boy’s hand creep upward to touch his head. “Queenie knows you, even if you don’t know her.”
Frank picked up a bucket hesitantly.
Charlie nodded at a Jersey cow that stamped impatiently at her stanchion. “She’s waiting.”
What was it like for the boy to discover who he was every morning from a note tacked to the door of the privy? If the boy had any feelings about it, he never told Charlie.
THE BOY discovered the note after waking in an unfamiliar room. Pale light filtered through a dusty window at the end of a tunnellike dormer. Feeling exposed even under a woolen blanket, he slid to the floor and rolled part way underneath the bed. More comfortable with the solid frame looming over him, he stayed for a time, staring upward. As the light strengthened, he let his gaze follow the lines of wood grain in the window frame. The builder of this house had cut matching pieces for the verticals, their patterns mirrored on either side of the window.
Eventually he rose and struggled out of the tangled bedclothes. A small writing desk, cluttered with loose sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen, and an inkpot, was tucked into the dormer. A stack of unopened envelopes lay next to the writing supplies. The first was postmarked in July of 1918, and the last in October of the same year. Why didn’t this fellow, Francis Huddleston, open his mail?
Gut fluttering like an anxious bird, he peered under the bed for a chamber pot. Finding none, he rushed down to the second floor looking for a toilet or the way to the privy. Steps led down toward either end of the house. The set in the back were coarse and painted rather than finished, a servant’s stair. He knew the term, even if he didn’t know where he’d learned it. Down again, he found a large kitchen and heavy door framed in pantry shelves. He ran out into the yard. A well-worn path led to a small, clapboard structure with high windows. A minute later, as he tried not to breathe the acrid stink, he noticed a ruled sheet of writing paper tacked to the door in front of him. GOOD MORNING was blocked out in square letters.
GOOD MORNING
Your name is Francis “Frank” Huddleston. You are a soldier, returned from the war in Europe. The white-haired man milking the cows in the barn is your grandfather, Charlie Clark. He will welcome your help with the chores. When you return from the barn, the gray-haired woman in the kitchen will give you breakfast. She is your grandmother, Edith “Eddy” Clark.
Charlie continued to milk his own cow and watched as Frank began to squeeze a stream of milk from Queenie’s teats, the familiar act calming the boy. Soon the milk squirted steadily, and Frank fell into a kind of trance, his movements automatic, until a diminishing stream and restless stamp from Queenie signaled time to change to a new pair of teats. Shifting to a new set, he rested his head against Queenie’s side and continued mechanically.
Charlie finished first and went to stand behind the boy. When Frank was done, he placed his hands on his knees and looked around. Charlie held his breath and watched Frank’s face. But there was only a tightening around Frank’s mouth and a narrowed gaze. Charlie sighed and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. I’m your grandfather, Charlie Clark. You’re Frank Huddleston, come home from the war with a head injury. That’s why you don’t know me. Let’s go in and meet your grandmother. She’ll give us something to eat. Are you hungry? Don’t forget your bucket.”
EDDY’S SPOTTED hands twisted in her lap as she spoke. “Charlie isn’t a young man anymore. You’re a great worker, Frank, but it’s the forgetting. With one of us staying with you all the time to answer your questions, we can’t….”
Frank fidgeted in his chair and let his gaze wander over the worn fixtures and scarred wood of the kitchen. He wondered if they would ask him to leave, the strangers who had fed him for months, judging from the thick wad of notes in his hand. Would their faces ever be familiar?
“… so Charlie and I, we’ve posted a notice at the Grange Hall. We hope to have someone here by the harvest.”
Frank became aware the room had fallen silent—except for the tap dripping in the sink and the birds calling outside. Eddy and Charlie. They watched him closely as if they expected something, as if they were unsure of his response. He didn’t know why. Eddy’s careful announcement seemed to have little to do with him.
“Will you hire someone I knew… before?”
“No, Frank. You were with your parents in Philadelphia before the war. Nobody around here knows you.” Charlie looked away. His voice took on a rote quality. “They thought you might be more comfortable here with us while you recovered.”
“Will the new person stay with me or work with you?”
Charlie rubbed fingers across his forehead like he was trying to erase the wrinkles there, but Eddy answered in firm tones. “We have to be careful with our money, Frank. It may be cheaper to hire somebody to keep an eye on you and to help you remember when you have one of your spells. Charlie will work around the house.”
Frank fingered his notes again. “So… you want me to keep feeding the horses and milking the cows?”
“Yes, you’ll do that and other work as well.”
“Now, Eddy.” Charlie’s voice was gentle. “The boy’s still recovering. I’m not dead yet.”
“He’s strong as a bull, Charlie.”
“I don’t mind doing more, if that’s what you want.” Frank shifted from face to face until he focused on the sharp furrows at the side of Eddy’s mouth. “Just tell me what you want.”
“That’s what the new man will do,” Eddy said, looking at Charlie.
Charlie’s gaze dropped to his callused hands.
Tournament of Shadows by SA Meade
I had more important things to worry about than whether the man who trailed several miles behind me was a coincidental traveller or someone with a far more sinister purpose. My horse was hopping lame and I needed to find somewhere to rest. The prospect of dealing with potential trouble in a country ripe with dangerous possibilities did not appeal to me. I patted the animal’s warm neck and kept walking, trying my best to ignore the dust and discomfort of the desert.
A hopeful patch of green glimmered in the distance, distorted by the heat. It was promise enough. I urged the horse on. I cleared my mind of everything but becoming the travelling scholar once more. A harmless fool immersed in research for the sake of it, not a paid fool sent to rescue two other idiots. The May heat left me bad tempered. I just wanted to find a place to rest for a day or two, perhaps lie in wait for my unwanted travelling companion. I knew there was a caravanserai on the road ahead but I didn’t want the crowds, the braying camels, persistent hawkers. I just wanted peace and quiet.
I talked to myself in Uzbek. I talked to the horse. His ears twitched at the sound of my voice and he let loose a long, flubbering sigh as he hobbled along beside me. The oasis drew closer, rising out of the scorched earth in a cluster of trees and earthen buildings. The horse quickened his step and I hurried alongside him, desperate for cool, green shade and a place to rest, even if it was just a rug laid out beneath a tree. I needed all the rest I could get in preparation for the impossible task ahead.
* * * * *
The furnace wind kicked up dust and dead leaves, hurling them across the road. I was glad to leave the desert behind and reach the refuge of the village. I searched for the closest thing they had to an inn—a small, mud-walled building beneath a canopy of trees. The proprietor, a wizened old man with skin like creased, oiled leather hobbled out into the courtyard and offered me a toothless smile. There were a few cots scattered beneath a wood-shingled awning. One or two were already occupied by weary, dusty travellers sleeping in the shade. I chose the bed at the far end, desiring as much peace and quiet as possible, not wanting to be bothered by conversation or company.
The horse came first. I led him to a stable.
“Your horse has a bad limp, sir.”
I bent down and examined the injured leg. “I think it’s his foot.”
The horse shuddered when I reached for his hoof. It was hot to the touch and a close study of the sole revealed a tell-tale black line, which told me that he had an abscess. “Can I have some warm water?”
“Yes, sir.” The innkeeper smiled, nodded then walked away.
I searched my saddle pack for the small bags of things I kept for medicinal purposes including Epsom salts, then pulled the knife from my belt. The innkeeper returned with a basin of water and stood watching when I dug my knife into the animal’s hoof. The horse groaned and snorted but remained still as pus streamed from his foot. I dropped Epsom salts into the water, then dunked an unrolled bandage into it. Once the cloth was soaked, I wrapped it carefully around the horse’s hoof, all under the watchful eye of my host.
“You are a clever man, sir.” His grin was brilliant in the seamed leather of his face.
I straightened my back and patted the horse’s warm neck. “No, just one who has learnt to care for his horse.” I didn’t much care for such close scrutiny and hoped the innkeeper wasn’t one of those talkative sorts who need to know the life story of each of his guests.
He stooped to retrieve the basin and flung the water onto the dirt. “I will leave you to rest. I will bring you some food later.”
“Thank you.” I salaamed, made sure the horse was settled then sought refuge on my bed.
It was cool enough in the shade to be comfortable. I lay down on my bedroll and fell asleep to the warbling of a bird in the dusty trees.
* * * * *
The sun slipped beyond the walls of the inn. My host carried a tray across the yard and set it on a small table beside my bed. “It is but a simple meal, sir.”
I glanced at the bowl of aromatic stew, the cup of cloudy white rice, the pickles and slab of flatbread. “It is a feast after days of traveller’s fare. Thank you.”
He left me to eat in peace, which I did, until the bowl was empty, wiped clean by the last wedge of warm bread. I washed the repast down with the lukewarm tea he’d provided. It was more than enough to satisfy me. I returned the tray to the house then went to see to my horse.
The gelding dozed, resting his afflicted foot. I removed the bandage and poultice, pleased to note that the wound had finished draining. There was still some heat in the sole, which meant I faced a day or two of enforced rest.
“It’s all right, my friend,” I murmured into his ear. “A day or two isn’t going to make much of a difference.
I wasn’t sure I believed my own words but I needed a sound horse more than I needed the firearm hidden in my saddlebag. The gelding nudged me, then rubbed his head against my shoulder, seeking relief from some hidden itch. I obliged by scratching his cheek and offering up prayers to every god I could think of to speed his recovery.
Keira AndrewsAfter writing for years yet never really finding the right inspiration, Keira discovered her voice in gay romance, which has become a passion. She writes contemporary, historical, paranormal and fantasy fiction, and—although she loves delicious angst along the way—Keira firmly believes in happy endings. For as Oscar Wilde once said:
“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.”
M/M Erotic Romance author Morticia Knight enjoys hot stories of men loving men forever after. They can be men in uniform, Doms and subs, rock stars or bikers - but they're all searching for the one (or two!) who was meant only for them.
When not indulging in her passion for books, she loves the outdoors, film and music. Once upon a time she was the singer in an indie rock band that toured the West Coast and charted on U.S. college radio. She is currently working on more installments of Sin City Uniforms and The Hampton Road Club, as well as the follow-up to Bryan and Aubrey's story from Rockin' the Alternative.
Bonnie DeeDear Readers, I began telling stories as a child. Whenever there was a sleepover, I was the designated ghost tale teller guaranteed to frighten and thrill with macabre tales. I still have a story printed on yellow legal paper in second grade about a ghost, a witch and a talking cat.
As an adult, I enjoy reading stories about people damaged by life who find healing with a like-minded soul. When I couldn’t find enough such books, I began to write them. Whether you’re a fan of contemporary historical or fantasy romance, you’ll find something to enjoy among my books.
To stay informed about new releases, please sign up for my newsletter. You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter @Bonnie_Dee.
Summer Devon is the pen name writer Kate Rothwell often uses. Whether the characters are male or female, human or dragon, her books are always romance.
You can visit her facebook page, where there's a sign up form for a newsletter (she'll only send out newsletters when there's a new Summer Devon or Kate Rothwell release and she will never ever sell your name to anyone).
John C HouserJohn C. Houser’s father, step-mother, and mother were all psychotherapists. When old enough, he escaped to Grinnell College, which was exactly halfway between his mother’s and father’s homes—and half a continent away from each. After graduation, he taught English for a year in Greece, attended graduate school, and eventually began a career of creating computer systems for libraries. Now he works in a strange old building that boasts a historic collection of mantelpieces–but no fireplaces.
SA Meade
S.A. Meade lives in deepest Wiltshire with her son, a dog and two cats. She is still partial to gin and tonic and loves to cook. When she's not working, she stares at her laptop and waits for inspiration to strike, preferring that to mowing the lawn or weeding. When parked in front of a computer, she can be found wandering the streets of her village, dog in tow.
Keira Andrews
EMAIL: keira.andrews@gmail.com
Morticia Knight
B&N / DREAMSPINNER / KOBO
EMAIL: MorticiaKnight@gmail.com
Bonnie Dee
EMAIL: bonniedeeauthor@gmail.com
Summer Devon
WEBSITE / BLOG / GOOGLE PLAY
EMAILS: summerdevon@comcast.net
katerothwell@gmail.com
John C Houser
GOOGLE PLAY / AMAZON / iTUNES
EMAIL: johnchouser@gmail.com
SA Meade
EMAIL: sameade1@yahoo.com
The Station by Keira Andrews
Hollywood Bound by Morticia Knight
The Bohemian & the Banker by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon
B&N / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
iTUNES / GOODREADS TBRThe Door Behind Us by John C Houser
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
Tournament of Shadows by SA Meade
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK
B&N / KOBO / PRIDE PUBLISHING
iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
