I read 217 books in 2019 so when I was getting ready to do my Best Reads of 2019 feature, it was very difficult to narrow it down. So many left a lasting impression that most often made it hard to let go and move on to the next read in my TBR list. I finally narrowed it down to 48 books broken into five parts. Part 1 features my favorite reads from January, February, & March of 2019 each containing my original review.
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Summary:
January Book of the Month
Carlisle Deputies #3
When Chris Anducci is moved off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, he doesn’t expect his first assignment to be protecting a witness against a human trafficking ring. Knowing the new sheriff doesn’t abide screwups, Chris reluctantly agrees to work the case.
Pavle Kasun has spent the last four years of his life at the mercy of others. When an opportunity presented itself, he took it, resulting in his rescue. Now the safe houses he’s placed in are being threatened and he needs protection if he is to have any sort of chance at a life.
Chris opens his home to Pavle, but he doesn’t expect Pavle and his story to get under his skin… and stay there. Soon they discover they have more in common than either of them thought. Slowly Pavle comes out of his shell and Chris finds someone who touches his heart. But as the men looking for Pavle close in, they will stop at nothing to get him out of the way. But even if Chris can keep him safe, he might not be able to protect his heart if Pavle moves back home.
Chris Anducci's first assignment once he's moved to the sheriff's department is witness protection in a human trafficking ring. Having spent the last four years in a virtual prison Pavle Kasun saw an opportunity for freedom and took it, now the safe houses he's associated with are being targeted. Can Chris protect Pavle till he testifies? Can they each protect their hearts in the process as well as their lives?
I am going to start out by saying that I think Fire and Agate has been the most heartbreaking story in either Carlisle Deputies or the series it was spinned-off of, Carlisle Cops. We don't see first hand the pain and suffering Pavle lived prior to getting free but we definitely see the lasting effects it had on him and subsequently those around him. Unlike most missing persons, Pavle had no one looking for him so there was no one hurting but him, at least at the time but as so often when the media tires of a case or they move to the "next big breaking news" the pain doesn't stop when the cameras do so even though Pavle had no one waiting there are others effected by his pain. Andrew Grey does an amazing job conveying this and that aspect alone makes this an incredible read but there is so much more to this tale.
Don't get me wrong, yes Agate is heartbreaking but it is also quite possibly the most uplifting and heartwarming entry as well. Just knowing Pavle survived is uplifting enough but what he goes onto accomplish is enough to turn the tears of pain to happy tears, trust me there will be tears😉. You might think I'm giving away an awful lot but really I'm not spoiling anything because we all know Chris and Pavle's story will be a HEA but as so often it is in fiction, its not the end result but the journey getting there that is the meat-and-potatoes of the story. And boy is there a feast waiting for you within the covers of this gem, you do not want to miss one single bite laid on the table.
One final note, if you're wondering about reading Carlisle Deputies(or Carlisle Cops for that matter) in order is necessary, its not as each entry is a separate case with separate members of the communities' law enforcement. However, it is my personal opinion that relationships with secondary characters who were main characters in previous stories flow better in order but it is not a must and you will not be lost one bit.
RATING:
Summary:
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #12.7
St Bride's College is buzzing with excitement at the prospect of reviving the traditional celebration of the saint's day. When events get marred by murder it's natural that Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith will get called in to help the police with their inside knowledge. But why has somebody been crawling about on the chapel roof and who's obsessed with searching in the library out of hours?
As the revival of the St. Bride's Day traditional celebrations nears, signs of break-ins and crawling about the chapel roof have given Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith a new case. Is a dastardly crime afoot or is it just dunderhead pranks?
OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD! A new Cambridge Fellows Mysteries is here and I finally got a chance to read it(holiday reading stopped me from getting to it sooner so I just told myself it wasn't out yet😉😉) What better way to start off the new year than with Jonty and Orlando on the case? I have been a huge fan of these boys since I first discovered Lessons in Love back in the summer of 2014 and I've said it before but I'll say it again: whether Charlie Cochrane has only a one paragraph holiday coda or 100 full length novels left in her for this pair, I'll be first in line to gobble them up. I don't know just what it is about this series that hooks me in but whatever it is, I'm all for it.
As for Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code, well the mystery is fun and yes I know there is a bit of death and destruction involved but "fun" is the best way to describe it. An added plus with Deadly Code, as it is set back in 1911, the elder Stewarts are back and ready to help when needed. We see more of Mr. Stewart aiding the boys but we get still have the ever feisty Mrs. Stewart showing her favoritism to Orlando too😉😉. I think that's about all I'm going to say to the mystery part of the tale as it is a novella, the tiny details are even more telling than with a full length mystery but I will reiterate that it is just plain fun and had me guessing right up to the reveal. As for Jonty and Orlando, well they are equally as fun, flirty, and more in love than ever.
Yep, Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code is a win win from the getgo! It has a little bit of everything, okay so there is no sci-fi or fantasy, but otherwise pretty much everything is here. Mystery, romance, friendship, flirting, death, humor -- oh yeah, Miss Cochrane has done her readers proud with this addition to the Cambridge Fellows. Speaking of the author, one of my favorite things about a Charlie Cochrane story is her attention to detail, to the little points that may or may not actually effect the mystery, and in the case of Cambridge her respect for the past just oozes off the page and yet the entertainment factor is never in jeopardy of being overshadowed by "getting it right". Definitely a win win from cover to cover.
One last thing, for those who have never read Cambridge Fellows Mysteries before and are wondering if it is a series that has to be read in order? Well not really. If you go to the author's website and look at the list, you'll notice that the series order isn't necessarily the chronological order. Personally, I would highly recommend reading the first three or four in order because it helps to cement friendships with secondary characters but each entry is its own mystery so technically each one is a standalone. However you choose to read it, if you are a mystery fan than don't let this series pass you by.
RATING:
Summary:
Ghost Wore Yellow #2
To live and draw in L.A.
Now living in Los Angeles with former navy SEAL Nick Reno, artist Perry Foster comes to the rescue of elderly and eccentric Horace Daly, the legendary film star of such horror classics as Why Won’t You Die, My Darling?
Horace owns the famous, but now run-down, Hollywood hotel Angels Rest, rumored to be haunted. But as far as Perry can tell, the scariest thing about Angels Rest is the cast of crazy tenants--one of whom seems determined to bring down the final curtain on Horace--and anyone else who gets in the way.
Original Review January 2019:
When Perry Foster set out to do some renderings of the run-down Hollywood Hotel, Angels Rest, he never expected to come to a stranger's rescue but when he heard the screams he went to investigate. When he returns home to find his boyfriend back early from his own investigation he talks Nick into going with him back to Angels Rest where a small cast of eccentric tenants make for an interesting weekend. Will Perry and Nick discover who or what is after Horace, the legendary horror actor before the final curtain falls for the last time?
It has been four years since I read The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks where Perry and Nick meet and I normally would have re-read book one before starting The Ghost had an Early Check-Out to "refresh my memory" but I didn't and you know what? I remember everything of the boys that I fell for ages ago. Now I don't want to say too much about the plot since this is a mystery and so many points can be important and telling but I will say I loved every eccentric and crazy moment of Early Check-Out.
The occupants of Angels Rest is definitely a cast of characters that made Perry and Nick's "case" intriguing. I wanted to laugh, scream, and even pull my hair out at times. You know what Perry ran into when he chased after Horace's screams and yet there is always that inkling of doubt to just what it all meant and who was really behind it. Its these moments where doubt and certainty war within the reader that make this mystery standout and kept me guessing.
So often in series, the second entry can be more about the couple finding their footing and keeping the relationship moving forward but with Early Check-Out that doesn't enter into it. Sure there are fleeting moments of internal "What have I got myself into?" for the pair but it really doesn't become a factor of the story and I very much appreciated that element. I hope there will be more of Perry and Nick in the future because they are a pair that is not getting old anytime soon.
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out is definitely a story with present day attitudes and yet its got just enough of a classic feel that I expected the likes of Humphrey Bogart or Dick Powell to turn up asking questions with their own brand of sarcastic wit. Definitely a delightful blend of mayhem and fun to make this a winning read.
It has been four years since I read The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks where Perry and Nick meet and I normally would have re-read book one before starting The Ghost had an Early Check-Out to "refresh my memory" but I didn't and you know what? I remember everything of the boys that I fell for ages ago. Now I don't want to say too much about the plot since this is a mystery and so many points can be important and telling but I will say I loved every eccentric and crazy moment of Early Check-Out.
The occupants of Angels Rest is definitely a cast of characters that made Perry and Nick's "case" intriguing. I wanted to laugh, scream, and even pull my hair out at times. You know what Perry ran into when he chased after Horace's screams and yet there is always that inkling of doubt to just what it all meant and who was really behind it. Its these moments where doubt and certainty war within the reader that make this mystery standout and kept me guessing.
So often in series, the second entry can be more about the couple finding their footing and keeping the relationship moving forward but with Early Check-Out that doesn't enter into it. Sure there are fleeting moments of internal "What have I got myself into?" for the pair but it really doesn't become a factor of the story and I very much appreciated that element. I hope there will be more of Perry and Nick in the future because they are a pair that is not getting old anytime soon.
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out is definitely a story with present day attitudes and yet its got just enough of a classic feel that I expected the likes of Humphrey Bogart or Dick Powell to turn up asking questions with their own brand of sarcastic wit. Definitely a delightful blend of mayhem and fun to make this a winning read.
RATING: 
Summary:
February Book of the Month
Lindenshaw Mysteries #4
Detective Chief Inspector Robin Bright and his partner, deputy headteacher Adam Matthews, have just consigned their summer holiday to the photo album. It’s time to get back to the daily grind, and the biggest problem they’re expecting to face: their wedding plans. Then fate strikes—literally—with a bang.
Someone letting loose shots on the common, a murder designed to look like a suicide, and the return of a teacher who made Robin’s childhood hell all conspire to turn this into one of his trickiest cases yet.
Especially when somebody might be targeting their Newfoundland, Campbell. Robin is used to his and Adam’s lives being in danger, but this takes the—dog—biscuit.
NOTE: This title contains references to abuse and self-harm.
Original Review February 2019:
As Robrin Bright and Adam Matthews prepare to return to work after a much needed summer holiday, their hopes that it will be a low key transition back to the daily grind are dashed when a shot disrupts their Sunday morning walk with Campbell. Throw in a murder made to look like suicide, a decades old death, and a face from Robin's past and the couple find themselves longing for another holiday.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again, there is just something about a British written mystery that far surpasses any other. Perhaps its the blend of humor and murder with the added layer of love and friendship that make the macabre stand out above the rest. But whatever it is, Charlie Cochrane is one of the best when it comes to mixing murder, love, and humor.
I don't know what more I can say about the characters that I haven't already touched on with the other entries in the series other than Adam and Robin continue to delight, both in work and play, with each other as well as co-workers and friends. I can't forget about Campbell, a big bear of a dog but he is so much more to the couple and with this case we get to see just how much of a whole he would leave behind for the pair. I should mention that if you are looking for on page sexy times you may find yourself a little disappointed but don't think that means there is no chemistry between the pair or that the love is ever lacking because there is never any doubt what Adam and Robin feel for each other or the heat that is always surrounding them.
I won't touch on the mystery because I just refuse to give anything away but I will say that with Old Sins the author shows how cases of old never really leave, solved or not as the saying goes "Revenge is a dish best served cold". Lets just say Robin has his work cut out for him this time. I also want to say how I absolutely love the fact that the author doesn't use a too often used trope of cops'-partner-doing-amateur-sleuthing-causes-relationship-drama, in Old Sins Robin actually encourages Adam's help which I found to be incredibly endearing for the couple and even more incredibly grateful as a reader. The trust Charlie Cochrane has created between the pair was much appreciated.
Robin, Adam, and the Lindenshaw Mysteries may not quite even up to the author's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries with Jonty and Orlando for me but its a pretty close race and I wouldn't want to place a bet between them. Whether or not you love Lindenshaw Mysteries as much as I do really doesn't matter but if you love a well thought out, intriguingly written, and completely edge-of-your-seat who-done-it, than Old Sins is for you.
If you're wondering if you need to read Lindenshaw in order, my personal recommendation is yes because of the evolution of Adam and Robin's relationship but as each installment is a separate mystery than no, I guess you can start anywhere. The little details and some of the personal conversations flow better having read the series in order but you won't by any means be lost if you haven't read the first three entries prior.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again, there is just something about a British written mystery that far surpasses any other. Perhaps its the blend of humor and murder with the added layer of love and friendship that make the macabre stand out above the rest. But whatever it is, Charlie Cochrane is one of the best when it comes to mixing murder, love, and humor.
I don't know what more I can say about the characters that I haven't already touched on with the other entries in the series other than Adam and Robin continue to delight, both in work and play, with each other as well as co-workers and friends. I can't forget about Campbell, a big bear of a dog but he is so much more to the couple and with this case we get to see just how much of a whole he would leave behind for the pair. I should mention that if you are looking for on page sexy times you may find yourself a little disappointed but don't think that means there is no chemistry between the pair or that the love is ever lacking because there is never any doubt what Adam and Robin feel for each other or the heat that is always surrounding them.
I won't touch on the mystery because I just refuse to give anything away but I will say that with Old Sins the author shows how cases of old never really leave, solved or not as the saying goes "Revenge is a dish best served cold". Lets just say Robin has his work cut out for him this time. I also want to say how I absolutely love the fact that the author doesn't use a too often used trope of cops'-partner-doing-amateur-sleuthing-causes-relationship-drama, in Old Sins Robin actually encourages Adam's help which I found to be incredibly endearing for the couple and even more incredibly grateful as a reader. The trust Charlie Cochrane has created between the pair was much appreciated.
Robin, Adam, and the Lindenshaw Mysteries may not quite even up to the author's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries with Jonty and Orlando for me but its a pretty close race and I wouldn't want to place a bet between them. Whether or not you love Lindenshaw Mysteries as much as I do really doesn't matter but if you love a well thought out, intriguingly written, and completely edge-of-your-seat who-done-it, than Old Sins is for you.
If you're wondering if you need to read Lindenshaw in order, my personal recommendation is yes because of the evolution of Adam and Robin's relationship but as each installment is a separate mystery than no, I guess you can start anywhere. The little details and some of the personal conversations flow better having read the series in order but you won't by any means be lost if you haven't read the first three entries prior.
RATING: 
Summary:
Harrisburg Railers #8
Stan Lyamin has seen many of his dreams come true. He’s found his soulmate, loves Noah like his own, hoisted the Cup, and has his Mama living with him in his new country. But his fantasies of a loud, loving, madcap home overflowing with childish laughter linger. When a distant family member passes, Stan and Erik immediately agree to take in the two orphaned children, but that means a trip back to Russia for Stan, an idea that both exhilarates and terrifies him.
Erik’s world tilts on its axis when a phone call wakes him and Stan in the middle of the night. Abruptly, Stan is returning to Russia, making deals, working with people who know people, and fully intending to bring two orphaned children home. The red tape is overwhelming, and Erik is alone in Harrisburg with the nearly impossible task of finding a nanny who can speak fluent Russian. Being on his own is one thing, but add in fears about Stan’s safety and team issues, and Erik is finding everything hard to balance; not least of which is spending quality time with Noah.
When their family expands from three to five, the journey won’t be easy, but love can always find a way.
Original Review February 2019:
Stan Lyamin and Erik Gunnarsson have so much to be thankful for with their love, their championship, their friends, Stan's mama, and baby Noah when a phone call with news of a cousin's death shakes things up as Stan is named guardian of two orphaned children in Russia. There is no question of Stan accepting what's asked of him but when their household increases suddenly by two, will their life become more hectic or more loved?
OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!
Okay, now that I got that out of the way let's begin😉. Hat Trick is absolutely adorable from beginning to end. How can it not be with Stan front and center? It's no secret that Ten and Jared are my favorite couple in Harrisburg Railers series but Stan and Erik are a very close second, truth is Ten & Jared probably only inch ahead because they were first and I've made no secret of the fact that 99.999% of the time the first pairings in a multi-couple series is always my fave. But come on! This is Stan we're talking about and he is impossible not to love. I have to be honest, I don't know which author, Scott or Locey, is mainly in charge of Stan but he is one of about three or four characters that I actually read in my head with the accent and broken English that he's written as, generally the accents just fall to the wayside but not with Stan, oh no his broken English is sounded out in every adorable syllable.
I've made no secret of the fact that I find men who care for children to be an incredible turn on and Stan and Erik are no different. Seeing them with baby Noah is just breathtaking but now that Eva and Pavel enter the picture, I have no words to describe how much I love how they accept them into their home without question, especially Erik because with him he has the added language barrier to break through.
Talking of Eva and Pavel, one of the things that really caught my attention was how even though Stan "knows people" to cut out some of the red tape, the authors still manage to let the reader know just what some of the hurdles are as well as letting us see why Stan is so thankful to be here as being a gay man is not an easy life in Russia right now. But what I loved the best was that these elements factor into the story but they are not the forefront of the journey. Hat Trick is all about Stan, Erik, Noah, Eva, and Pavel getting to know each other and settling into their knew life.
And I can't forget Mama Lyamin because she is feisty, fun, and no nonsense all in one. Too often older foreign parents are written as meek and just so thankful to be here that they just accept everything and yes, she is grateful to be here but she doesn't just let everything roll by her which I absolutely love about her.
Hat Trick may be a novella in Scott & Locey's Harrisburg Railers but it is packed to the brim of everything we have come to know and love about the series, add in a little setup for Save the Date coming this summer and this entry is nothing short of sublime. You will laugh, cry, laugh some more, and have a smile on your face so huge that will make people question your sanity(if you're reading it in a public place). What more can you ask for?
OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!
Okay, now that I got that out of the way let's begin😉. Hat Trick is absolutely adorable from beginning to end. How can it not be with Stan front and center? It's no secret that Ten and Jared are my favorite couple in Harrisburg Railers series but Stan and Erik are a very close second, truth is Ten & Jared probably only inch ahead because they were first and I've made no secret of the fact that 99.999% of the time the first pairings in a multi-couple series is always my fave. But come on! This is Stan we're talking about and he is impossible not to love. I have to be honest, I don't know which author, Scott or Locey, is mainly in charge of Stan but he is one of about three or four characters that I actually read in my head with the accent and broken English that he's written as, generally the accents just fall to the wayside but not with Stan, oh no his broken English is sounded out in every adorable syllable.
I've made no secret of the fact that I find men who care for children to be an incredible turn on and Stan and Erik are no different. Seeing them with baby Noah is just breathtaking but now that Eva and Pavel enter the picture, I have no words to describe how much I love how they accept them into their home without question, especially Erik because with him he has the added language barrier to break through.
Talking of Eva and Pavel, one of the things that really caught my attention was how even though Stan "knows people" to cut out some of the red tape, the authors still manage to let the reader know just what some of the hurdles are as well as letting us see why Stan is so thankful to be here as being a gay man is not an easy life in Russia right now. But what I loved the best was that these elements factor into the story but they are not the forefront of the journey. Hat Trick is all about Stan, Erik, Noah, Eva, and Pavel getting to know each other and settling into their knew life.
And I can't forget Mama Lyamin because she is feisty, fun, and no nonsense all in one. Too often older foreign parents are written as meek and just so thankful to be here that they just accept everything and yes, she is grateful to be here but she doesn't just let everything roll by her which I absolutely love about her.
Hat Trick may be a novella in Scott & Locey's Harrisburg Railers but it is packed to the brim of everything we have come to know and love about the series, add in a little setup for Save the Date coming this summer and this entry is nothing short of sublime. You will laugh, cry, laugh some more, and have a smile on your face so huge that will make people question your sanity(if you're reading it in a public place). What more can you ask for?
RATING:
Summary:
Theater critic Artemus Bancroft isn’t sure what to expect when his aunt summons him home to California with vague but urgent pleas about being unable to cope with “the situation.”
The situation turns out to be the apparent haunting of Green Lanterns Inn—along with alarming rumors that long-suffering Auntie Halcyone may have murdered her philandering husband.
In fact, the rumors seem to have been started by the late Mr. Hyde himself—from beyond the grave.
Original Review February 2019:
When Artemus Bancroft is called home by his aunt to help with a "situation" he isn't sure what to expect but it certainly wasn't that his aunt's deceased husband was haunting their home or the growing rumors of her involvement in his death. Will Artemus be able to clear his aunt's name when the rumors appear to have come from the deceased himself?
I can't really call this a surprise story by one of my favorite authors as it was originally serialized for her Patreon supporters last year but timing just never seemed to be on my side and didn't get or take the opportunity to read it as it was being written. Now with the official release and the new year and holidays being over it seemed the perfect time to get stuck in. Plain and simple: WOW!!! Seance on a Summer's Night is everything I have come to love in Josh Lanyon's work and why she is one of my favorite author's and top automatic "1-click" purchases.
Artemus is funny, clever, and a bit pig-headed with his skepticism which can make the reader want to give him a good shake every few pages but in a good way, afterall he is just looking out for his beloved aunt and how can you fault him for that? I may be a bit more open to the idea of hauntings and the afterlife than Artemus but I like to think I'd be equally determined to get to the truth, be it a real haunting or something even more sinister. As for the gardener with glowing references that doesn't seem to know one flower from the next? Well, Seamus has his own secrets that I won't delve into but let me just say the connection and attraction between him and Artemus is instant, off the charts, and yet Artemus doesn't let it get in the way of keeping his Aunt Halcyone safe.
I haven't said much about the supporting cast of characters and I don't really think I will because each one brings something to the mystery that I don't want to give away but trust me when I say once you meet them you won't soon forget them. Some I wanted to wrap up in bubblewrap to keep them safe and others just gave me the heebie jeebies from the getgo but they all heighten the WOW-factor that made this story unforgettable.
From the mystery to the romance to the humor, Seance on a Summer's Night is an edge of your seat read that makes you forget about eating and sleeping so if you have something else pressing on your calendar you may want to save this gem for a day that is wide open because you will not want to put it down once you pick it up. There is something about Seance that is obviously present day but with a 40s feel looming throughout, a lovely blend of gothic and noir flavors make this contemporary setting a very intriguing reading experience.
I can't really call this a surprise story by one of my favorite authors as it was originally serialized for her Patreon supporters last year but timing just never seemed to be on my side and didn't get or take the opportunity to read it as it was being written. Now with the official release and the new year and holidays being over it seemed the perfect time to get stuck in. Plain and simple: WOW!!! Seance on a Summer's Night is everything I have come to love in Josh Lanyon's work and why she is one of my favorite author's and top automatic "1-click" purchases.
Artemus is funny, clever, and a bit pig-headed with his skepticism which can make the reader want to give him a good shake every few pages but in a good way, afterall he is just looking out for his beloved aunt and how can you fault him for that? I may be a bit more open to the idea of hauntings and the afterlife than Artemus but I like to think I'd be equally determined to get to the truth, be it a real haunting or something even more sinister. As for the gardener with glowing references that doesn't seem to know one flower from the next? Well, Seamus has his own secrets that I won't delve into but let me just say the connection and attraction between him and Artemus is instant, off the charts, and yet Artemus doesn't let it get in the way of keeping his Aunt Halcyone safe.
I haven't said much about the supporting cast of characters and I don't really think I will because each one brings something to the mystery that I don't want to give away but trust me when I say once you meet them you won't soon forget them. Some I wanted to wrap up in bubblewrap to keep them safe and others just gave me the heebie jeebies from the getgo but they all heighten the WOW-factor that made this story unforgettable.
From the mystery to the romance to the humor, Seance on a Summer's Night is an edge of your seat read that makes you forget about eating and sleeping so if you have something else pressing on your calendar you may want to save this gem for a day that is wide open because you will not want to put it down once you pick it up. There is something about Seance that is obviously present day but with a 40s feel looming throughout, a lovely blend of gothic and noir flavors make this contemporary setting a very intriguing reading experience.
RATING:
Summary:
March Book of the Month
Kings of Hell MC #5
--- The real demons live within ---
Laurent. Time traveller. Devoted husband. Stubborn as the devil himself.
Beast. Kings of Hell MC president. Will stop at nothing to protect his family.
After everything Baal put them through, neither Laurent nor Beast considered ever making another pact with a demon, but in the spur of the moment, temptation becomes too great, and they decide on one more deal.
This time, with Mr. Magpie.
But the gift might prove to be more than they can handle. The danger to the human world has already strained their relationship, but Magpie’s offering brings out the worst in both Laurent and Beast. Confronted with each other’s flaws, they need to decide if, despite all they’ve been through together, perhaps they’re just not meant to be.
With the world on the brink of collapse, and their pact binding them in new and unexpected ways, they have to put their differences aside to stand a chance at saving their family.
POSSIBLE SPOILERS:
Themes: motorcycle club, alternative lifestyles, demons, tattoos, secrets, crime, gothic, opposites attract, biker, commitment, family, sacrifice, relationship issues, established couple
Genre: Dark, paranormal M/M romance
Content: Scorching hot, emotional, explicit scenes
Length: ~105,000 words (Book 5 in the series)
FINAL BOOK IN THE SERIES. NOT A STANDALONE.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, offensive language, and morally ambiguous characters.
When a pact with Mr. Magpie is made, both Laurent and Beast have differing reactions and they are both determined and stubborn towards the pact. Will this be one too many pacts for the Kings of Hell?
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! I warred with myself whether to read In the Arms of the Beast, not because I didn't want to but because I didn't want to say goodbye to this series and knowing this was the finale made me want to prolong it as long as I could. HOWEVER, my need to know what happened to my favorite motorcycle club won out and in I jumped. Boy am I glad I did because as I already stated: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!
Now, I won't touch on the plot but I will say if you have been reading Kings of Hell MC as I have from the very beginning this is definitely one you don't want to skip because you already know how amazing this group of people are and if you haven't started or you were waiting for it to be completed to begin, well now you can and trust me you will not be disappointed. This one starts off from where Gray's Shadow ended which means it truly grabs the readers attention from page one. There's love, hate, twists, turns, good, bad, hope, defeat, wins. losses . . . well I think you get the idea that Arms has a little bit of everything that we've come to expect from the Kings and their enemy, Baal. That's all you're going to get from me about the plot as everything is important and I refuse to ruin anyone's adrenaline rush that I know you'll experience as I did when reading.
Now as for Laurent and Beast, well it was a no-brainer that the series should end with the same couple we first met but don't think that doesn't mean they are the same as they were in Laurent and the Beast. Beast is still gruff, straight forward, and takes no BS from anyone but he's also got a side that is, well I refuse to use the word "soft" because no one is going to accuse Beast of being soft and live to tell the tale, but he definitely lets his heart show more but the tough guy we've come to know and love is certainly his goto side. As for Laurent, well he's still a bit naive when it comes to life in the 21st century but he is learning more and more every day. One thing I found to be interesting with Laurent in book one was his love of everything plastic(don't ask me why other than its the last thing I would have thought of in a time travel story😉) and though he still loves plastic, circumstances cause him to learn that not all plastic is a good thing for the future. This is a minor element but for me it showcases the authors' talents for making the little things more than just a plot device to fill in pages and that even when characters grow they always retain a small bit of who they were.
Who knew such a dark and twist filled series good be so inviting? Who am I kidding, of course it would be inviting. Kings of Hell MC has a little bit of everything and I can honestly say "everything" because since book one started with some time travel it even has a little sci-fi factor(okay that might be stretching it because its down to demonic elements that the time travel occurs but I'm sticking to the "has everything" statement😉). In the Arms of the Beast is a fitting end to the series, although after reading it I have to be honest that I don't think we've seen the end of this group of guys(or at least some of them) but I won't elaborate on what made me come to that decision because you'll have to discover that on your own just as I did.
In the Arms of the Beast is a win-win from beginning to end but it is definitely not a standalone. Sure, you'd still enjoy the book if you started here without reading the first four but you'll be scratching your head and going "huh, wonder what that's about" a lot so I highly recommend reading Kings of Hell MC in order, you won't be sorry.
Summary:
The West Hills #1
Dr. Christopher Allen knows how to deal with death. He’s a psychiatrist who works with hospice patients and their families, helping them cope with grief and letting go. But Chris’s job doesn’t prepare him for the sudden death of his devil-may-care brother Cal.
At Cal’s funeral, Chris is completely thrown when he meets Elliot Rawlings, an artist Cal has been dating. Chris is hurt to discover that the brother he knew as straight was actually bisexual. Elliot is angry and resentful of having been kept hidden from Cal’s family.
After the funeral, a night of drinking at the bar with Cal’s friends leads to Chris and Elliot falling into bed together. The next morning, they’re overwhelmed by guilt and grief and agree to never speak of it again.
But Cal’s apartment needs to be packed up and Elliot reluctantly agrees to help Chris, as well as answer some questions about Cal’s life and their relationship. Despite their guilt and initial dislike for one another, they sort through the pieces of Cal’s life and begin to fall for each other.
Despite his best efforts to fix things, Chris’s family seems to be crumbling around him and he begins to question who he is and what his role with them is. As his feelings for Elliot grow, Chris must decide if they’re worth further damaging his fragile relationships with his friends and family.
Elliot’s rough upbringing has left him distrustful of getting close to anyone, much less another man who isn’t willing to acknowledge him in public. The odds seem stacked against Chris and Elliot, but if they can overcome them, they may be able to lay Cal’s ghost to rest, along with their own demons.
I have to be honest, when I picked up The Ghosts Between Us, I was not in the mood for a full length drama at all, nothing against dramas because I love them I just didn't feel like one at the time. However, I went ahead and opened my kindle and got stuck in. Now it did take a couple of chapters to really pull me in but that was more me not ready to let go of the couple from the book I read previous. All of sudden I was right there, like someone flipped a switch and before I knew it I was halfway through the book and desperate to learn the rest of Chris and Elliot's journey.
There is heartache and loss, distrust and pain, but there is also growth and discovery, friendship and heart. Some people don't like backstory, I however love when an author can "fill us in" on the past in a fluid manner without making the story "choppy" or pieced together and that's what Brigham Vaughn has done, a perfect balanced journey. Let's be honest, what better setting to use backstory than when you are packing up a loved one's possessions after they've been taken from us? Good or bad memories help us remember and move forward when grieving.
As for Chris and Elliot, well I won't lie, there are more than a few times I found myself wanting to give the doc a good shaking and more than a few whacks to the backside to make him see what he's taking for granted. But then if everything was hunky-dory from the get go than you'd be reading a 10-paragraph pamphlet instead of a full length novel and walkaway not nearly as entertained.
Chris, Elliot, and all the secondary characters all have a place in this story of grief, healing, and discovery and I wouldn't label a single one "extra" or "filler", each one has a purpose no matter how big or small. One thing I really loved about Ghosts is even when I wanted to throttle Chris I realized that what made him so real is as a doctor he deals with death and families on a daily basis and yet when it comes to his own grief he's completely lost making him that much more real and possible. It was elements such as Chris' expertise not really helping him that made me realize I could run into any one of these characters around the corner, at the gas station, or getting stamps. The Ghosts Between Us may be a fictional creation of Brigham Vaughn but they are very real and "everyday" kind of people.
So I may not have been in the mood for a drama when I started Ghosts but by the last page I wasn't ready to say goodbye and that feeling when I put my kindle down afterwards says more than anything I mentioned in this review as to how amazing this story is. Being able to get so sucked in when I was in the mood for something completely different takes talent and that is exactly why Brigham Vaughn is a member of what I like to call the Automatic-1-clickers Club.
Summary:
Speakeasy #2
Love, served extra dirty.
Jesse Murtagh loves his life as a wealthy bisexual businessman dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. With a circle of friends he trusts implicitly, he enjoys a successful career in his family’s business and as co-owner of Under, an uptown speakeasy, with his friend with benefits, Kyle McKee.
Music teacher and part-time DJ Cameron Lewis lives modestly in a DUMBO loft and isn’t interested in serious relationships. However, he’s always up for some casual fun.
Doing a favor for his friend Carter Hamilton, Jesse meets Cam and is immediately charmed. When Jesse discovers Cam’s other life as a DJ, he is further intrigued. Viewing Cam as a challenge, Jesse pulls out all the stops, but his usual methods to avoid serious relationships fail. Though Cam has no intention of becoming attached, he begins to fall for Jesse, unaware that Jesse’s feelings are changing.
Afraid of heartbreak, Cam pulls away, leaving Jesse bewildered and hurt. They remain friends until a series of misunderstandings widens the rift to breaking point. When Cam steps in to help Jesse through a family crisis, they realize they care for each other more than they’ve been willing to admit. Jesse and Cam don’t want a traditional relationship, but can they build a future that makes them both happy?
This is a rarity for me and when I say "rarity" I mean RARE, as in perhaps only a dozen times in the 40 years I've been reading. I loved Extra Dirty even more than book 1 in the authors' Speakeasy series, With a Twist. That's right, Jesse and Cam burrowed even deeper into my heart than Will and David. When I read a series that has a different pairing in each entry, the first couple is 98% of the time my favorite the same as when a character is recast in the middle of a television series, not neccessarily because the first is actually better but having been the first to be familiar with they stand out more. I guess it has more to do with the way a person's mind works😉😉.
Anywho, back to Extra Dirty.
I knew that whenever Jesse Murtagh was going to be given his own book that it would be something special just because he has been such an amazing and interesting supporting character from the first time we met him way back in Coles & Vaughn's Tidal duology. His spirited nature and look on life is infectious and whether we want to admit it or not, most of us wish we had more of that lease-on-life in our daily dealings. I also think its been pretty obvious that no matter how much fire is between Jesse and his business partner Kyle McKee, they were never going to have the be-all-end-all kind of connection, course that doesn't mean the fire can't be lit now and then😉.
As for Cameron Lewis, well what's not to love about Cam? He may be a bit younger than Jesse but he's just as intriguing and spirited to catch Jesse's eye. I love the connection of him being the music teacher to Carter's kids(for those who don't know who Carter is he and Riley are the stars of the authors' Tidal duology and a must read because well WOW!). Now, New York may be jam-packed with people but sometimes life really is a small world and whether you believe in coincidence or fate, we meet the people we need to meet at exactly the right time, which is what puts Jesse and Cam in each other's sight.
One thing I love most about the pair is that despite everything they don't try to change each other and sometimes that means they don't communicate like they should but I'd rather read a story of communication problems than changing someone. I firmly believe that if you don't like the way the person is that you feel the need to change them then why are you with them? I guess its just a pet peeve of mine so when authors don't use the "changing people" concept I love the book even more. As I said, this meant that there were times that communication wasn't there which left me wanting to bang their heads together but then if everything came easy-peasy for Jesse and Cam, Extra Dirty would have been a very short short story instead of the amazing dramatic yet fun-filled full length novel that it is.
It's hard to imagine Carter/Riley and Will/David as secondary characters after they've had their own stories told but they fill the roles expertly and really prove how friends are family. Speaking of family, I just want to add how much I loved the fact that both Jesse and Cam's families were supportive, friendly, and amazing, especially Jesse's brother and sister-in-law. Their scenes may have been limited but they owned every page they were on.
One last note: yes, Speakeasy is a series that can be read as standalones due to a different pairing for each entry but it is my personal opinion that it is a universe(I say "universe" because I think Tidal duology that told Carter & Riley's journey is included) that is even better read in order. I found that knowing each couple's story makes the friendships and connections flow better, however, I can also honestly say you will not be lost if you start with Extra Dirty. Whatever order you read this in you definitely should experience it because K Evan Coles and Brigham Vaughn have brought to life an incredibly amazing world of characters that you don't want to miss out on knowing.
RATING:
Fire & Agate by Andrew Grey
“CHRIS,” BRIGGS said as he stalked into the locker room like a man on a mission. His gaze was hard and his posture as rigid as a two-by-four. Anger and discontent rolled off him in waves, worse than Chris had ever seen in the month since he had moved from jail duty.
Two years of whining, demanding prisoners who thought being in jail was the worst thing to ever happen to them and thought a jail cell should be like a suite at the Hilton. Those were the ones Chris was pretty sure were never going to see the inside of a cell again if they could help it. And then there were the repeat offenders who thought of the jail as home and a chance at three meals a day. God, he had hated every minute of the constant noise of men and women talking, fighting, yammering on about nothing just to make noise so the reality of the shit they were in didn’t close in around them.
“What can I do for you?” Chris smiled as best he could. Briggs had been instrumental in getting him off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, so he owed the guy.
“It’s not me. His Majesty wants to see you.” Briggs turned, flashing a beam of damn near hatred out the door.
Not that Chris blamed the guy. When Sheriff Hunter had decided to retire, Briggs had stepped in as acting sheriff at Hunter’s request. The entire department had been pretty happy about it. Briggs was well respected and good at his job. But the county board had other ideas. They did some lame-assed search, and lo and behold, they’d found the current sheriff, a political appointee. That had been a month ago, but Briggs still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Thanks.” He checked that his uniform was perfect, because that was what Sheriff Mario Vitalli liked. He was all about how things looked and appeared. It didn’t seem to matter how things got done as long as he looked good—at least that was the general feeling in the locker room. “I’ll go right away.”
Briggs rolled his eyes. “He’s on a call, so give him five minutes.”
Vitalli liked everyone to wait for him, though he never wanted to wait for anyone or anything. Which would be fine if he were good at his job. He wasn’t particularly—at least Chris didn’t think so.
“Okay.” Chris wanted to say something to Briggs. He really thought a lot of him, but everything that came to mind sounded completely lame, so he kept quiet and showed Briggs the respect he thought he deserved.
“Do you want something?” Briggs asked, taking a step closer.
Chris realized he’d sunk into his thoughts and had been looking at nothing in particular. Briggs must have thought he was staring at him. “No.” Chris turned away and closed his locker. “I’ll see you around.” He left the room and headed up to where the big guy had his office.
The door was closed, so Chris sat in the chair outside to wait. Things had changed a lot in a month. Everyone was quiet around the office. The people who worked near the sheriff all spoke in whispers. Sheriff Vitalli didn’t like noise, and to him, talking meant people weren’t working. Which seemed ridiculous to Chris, because for him, talking in a sheriff’s office meant work was getting done and investigations were being discussed and moving forward.
The door opened and Sheriff Vitalli tilted his head outside.
Chris snapped to his feet, went in, and closed the door. “Good morning.”
“Anducci,” Vitalli said, taking his seat behind the desk. Chris couldn’t miss the file that sat there in front of him, and wondered if he was being sent back to the jail. His stomach clenched. He’d worked hard and diligently to get out of there. “I have an assignment for you.” He pushed the file off to the side as though he had made a decision. Chris wondered if it was good or bad.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, hoping to hell he wasn’t on his way back. No matter what, he was going to have to return to his locker for an antacid.
Vitalli shook his head and scoffed. “Everyone seems to think that this office is some kind of protection service.” He sneered.
Chris kept his mouth shut. It was their job to protect the public, which was why they became police officers in the first place. At least why Chris had. Granted, most people would think him idealistic, but so the fuck what.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Chris answered quickly.
“I got a request from a social worker.” Vitalli yanked open a drawer and pulled out a thin file, then tossed it on the desk dramatically. “The cops in Carlisle busted up a whorehouse and found a bunch of aliens working there. In their touchy-feely world, they set about helping them and found they were brought here against their will.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not buying it, but no one asked me my opinion. Anyway, they say they need help for one person they found. It’s a man, not a woman….” The sheriff paused as if he were expecting some sort of agreement to his ignorance and shortsightedness. He didn’t seem to believe that men could be trafficked as well as women, and Chris wasn’t going to agree with him.
“Human trafficking takes many forms,” Chris said, then cleared his throat when the sheriff frowned deeply. “What would you like me to do?”
Vitalli groaned dramatically. “The Social Services folks found these people safe places to live, but one of them has been found out. Apparently he’s preparing to testify against his captors, and now he’s been getting threats. The feds, DA, and Social Services are all asking for protection for this guy, and it’s falling on me to provide it. So….” He picked up the file and thrust it toward Chris. “It’s you.”
“Me?” He took the file and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t going to read it while standing in front of the sheriff.
“Can we not let this interfere with your shifts?” he groused, then turned back to his empty desk, grabbing the first piece of paper he could find.
“Is there anything else?”
He didn’t think he was going to get an answer, but then the sheriff lifted his gaze. “Don’t screw this up. It’s an easy job, so just do it and be done.” He turned away, back to his papers. Chris took it as a dismissal and left the office, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh of relief, Chris went to his old metal desk at the back of the station and placed the file on the empty surface. He was usually out on patrol or working with one of the other deputies, so he spent very little time there. No pictures or papers littered the space, just a phone and a few files hanging in one of the drawers. It would be so easy for him to pack up and move on. Part of him, some fear deep inside, wondered how long he would get to stay before being sent back to jail duty.
“What did the sheriff want?” Pierre asked as he approached the desk.
“He gave me an assignment,” Chris said, rather pleased.
Pierre smiled. “It looks like you’re going to stay, then.” Pierre had been the first one to welcome him, handing over a fresh coffee on Chris’s first day. “That’s good.”
“Suppose so, as long as I don’t mess it up.” Chris opened the file and scanned through it. There wasn’t much information, just a name and address for the witness, along with information on how to contact the caseworker. “Kasun, Pavle Kasun…,” he said, and nodded.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Pierre asked.
“Not personally. My mother’s family is Serbian, and this has that sound.” He picked up the phone and called the number for the caseworker. It went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call back as soon as she was able.
“What did the sheriff tell you?”
“That this Pavle is a witness who was in a safe house until he was found out. I suspect he’s been moved, and they want me to try to help keep him safe until the FBI and DA can talk to him and he can testify against the traffickers.” It shouldn’t be too difficult a job as long as they could keep his location a secret.
“Then do what you can for him.” Pierre glanced at the sheriff’s office, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t think too much of others… who are different. Anyone who is different from him.”
“I see.” Chris knew Pierre had a partner, Jordan, who worked at the courthouse, and there were other gay men in the department. Apparently they were worried about this particular sheriff. Sheriff Hunter hadn’t been prejudiced; either that or he hadn’t cared as long as the job got done. Chris supposed that was probably the best kind of person to occupy the office. Someone who looked at accomplishments and results.
“No, you don’t. Be careful, and do this to the best of your ability.” Pierre clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Because this could be your one and only chance with this man. He doesn’t seem to abide anything that makes him look bad in any way.” Pierre held his gaze, and Chris nodded. They were both thinking of Graves, who the new sheriff had already demoted and relegated to patrolling country roads for speeding and crap just because one of his arrests fell through on procedural grounds.
“I know.” Chris had started reviewing the file again when his phone rang. He smiled at Pierre, who left his desk, and Chris answered the call.
“Hello, this is Marie Foster returning your call. Is this in regards to Pavle?” She sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept or had a break in weeks.
“Yes. I was hoping I could meet you and we could discuss what you believe is required, and then I’d like to meet him. I need to assess the situation so I can develop a plan to help keep him safe.”
“Excellent. If you’d like to come to my office on Pitt Street, we can go see him from there.” She gave him the address. “And please don’t come in an official car. We don’t want to draw attention to where he is. This is the third safe house we’ve housed him at, and we keep getting indications that he’s been found. We don’t know how, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Then I’ll change into civilian clothes as well before I come see you.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in about half an hour, then.”
After hanging up, Chris left his desk, picking up the file to take it with him. He returned to the locker area, changed out of his uniform, and let dispatch know that he was going to be out on an assignment from the sheriff. Then he took his own car and drove the five minutes to the office.
The building embodied small and utilitarian at its worst—nothing at all of any personality in the place—and Marie’s office was equally drab and stuck in the eighties. When he entered, she stood to offer her hand. Then he sat in an olive-green office chair that creaked under his weight.
Marie was a big woman with a ready smile and bright, expressive eyes that bristled with intelligence and care. She dressed professionally casual, wearing a dark blue and white blouse with jeans. Her office was as neat and organized as any he’d seen. Two phones rested in holders on her desk, which also held a computer and a few pictures.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on so I can try to help?” Chris asked, needing to get some background.
She nodded. “We discovered the house about three weeks ago, and the Carlisle Police raided the place. They discovered people inside, including two wanted sex offenders, who are still in custody in the county prison, and Pavle, who was cowering in the corner of a closet. It took them an hour to get him to come out. Once they called me, I was able to explain enough to him that he understood those people were there to help him.”
“Did you work with him?”
“Yes. I found him a safe house that was a group home with five other individuals. It was… not good. He cowered when any men came near him and basically stayed in a corner, watching everyone, for days. Either that or he went to his room and hid. I think his poor mind was simply overloaded. Then someone tried to set fire to the home and damaged it enough that everyone had to be relocated. That was hard, but then they reported people watching the next house two days after Pavle moved in.” She swallowed and leaned back in her chair.
“Do you think someone is feeding his captors information?” Chris asked.
“Honestly? Yes,” she said, and he nodded. “We have a system that tracks each person in our safe houses. Pavle has been anonymized, but someone is using the information to try to find him, which is a violation of a number of state and federal laws.” Marie leaned forward, her demeanor turning more serious. “We can’t protect him anymore, and the longer he stays in the safe house, the more he and the others there with him are in danger.” She humphed softly. “At the moment he’s being housed in a home for women because we didn’t want to put him with men right now. And that’s causing some problems for the women, though I think those are dissipating.” She was clearly coming to the end of her resources. “I guess what I’m asking you is if you’d be willing to take Pavle to live with you. That way I can remove him from the system, at least as far as the information about where he’s staying. Get him off the grid for a while.”
That hadn’t been something Chris had thought about doing, and the request surprised him. His instinct was to say no. His own home was his sanctuary, and he liked to keep it that way. Growing up, he’d moved many times—military family. Luckily, when his dad had been close to retirement, he’d been able to get posted to the Carlisle Barracks, near family. Chris’s home here was like his castle because it was the first one he’d had that was his and no one else’s.
“Why don’t you take me to meet him and then we can see what we need to do,” Chris said, purposely vague and noncommittal. Surely Marie couldn’t blame him for not giving an answer until he met Pavle.
“I’ll do that. But there are some things you need to know first.” She floundered, seeming to be trying to figure out where to start. “We haven’t gotten the full story from him about how he got here. There is a language barrier that’s hard for us to breach. He does speak some English, mostly what he taught himself from listening to his captors and the few people he’s been around for the last four years.”
Chris gaped. How in the hell could someone live that way for such a long time? “Oh my God.”
“Yes. We believe he was brought in through New Jersey during the Super Bowl in 2014. Newark is a huge human trafficking point of entry. Anyway, we aren’t sure how long he’s been in Carlisle or how many owners he’s had over the years.”
Her words sent a spike through Chris’s heart. How in the hell could people do that to someone else? Chris had most definitely seen human beings at their lowest, and just when he thought he’d seen it all… wham… it got worse.
“Okay. So he’s been traumatized and most likely gaslighted for years,” he said, and Marie nodded. “So in his mind, this is all his fault, and everything that has happened to him is because of something he did.”
“You got it. Years of fear and guilt conditioning. Those are the greatest weapons they have. Though, deep down, there is some steel in his back. There has to be for him to have survived this long.” She gathered her purse and phone, as well as a spring jacket. The early May weather this year had been up and down. “This is the address.” She handed it to him on a small sheet of notepaper, and Chris memorized it and dropped it into the shredder in the corner of the office. That earned him a smile.
“I’ll meet you there. I’m in the blue Edge,” he explained as he left the office with Marie behind him.
Inside the car, he took a few minutes to breathe. Things like this shouldn’t affect him. He saw bad things every day. But this story got under his skin, and he needed a few minutes to get his professional distance back into place. Once his anger and indignation wore down a little, he pulled out of the lot and drove to the east side of town. He parked on the street and waited for Marie before approaching the house with her.
Marie stopped at the base of the walk. “I know you’re a cop, but try not to walk like one. You’re standing tall and strong. I know in your job you have to project strength, but here that’s not a benefit. Every one of these people have been abused or hurt at the hands of a man, so they are going to be intimidated.”
Chris slumped a little and lowered his gaze slightly. “Better?”
“Try smiling and not being so serious.”
Chris chuckled, and Marie must have approved because she turned, continued forward, and knocked on the door.
The house was deadly silent. Three women sat in chairs, looking up at him as though he were the devil incarnate, fear radiating off each and every one of them. He nodded to each lady and gave them all a small smile.
“This is Deputy Chris,” Marie said.
“What he want?” one of the ladies asked. She had big brown eyes, and her lips curled in a sneer.
“Letty, that’s enough,” Marie said gently, but with a firm undertone. “He’s here to help Pavle.”
A woman bustled into the room, and Marie introduced her as the housemother, Annette.
“His room is down the hall. He rarely leaves it, even to eat,” Annette explained, never raising her voice much above a whisper. “Follow me.” She turned to lead him down the hallway to the last room. Annette knocked, spoke softly, and opened the door.
The curtains were drawn, the room dark, even though it was the middle of the day. A single light burned next to a twin bed that had been made to within an inch of its life, with corners sharp enough to make any drill sergeant proud. The room, however, was empty.
“Pavle, sweetheart. It’s Annette,” she said gently and waited.
Slowly a figure, curled up and small, made an appearance from around the side of the dresser. The first thing Chris noticed were the biggest, brownest eyes he had ever seen, filled with the pain of years of hurt. They blinked, and then Pavle stepped farther into the light. Even standing, he looked half hunched over.
“This is Deputy Chris. He’s here because he’s going to help keep you safe.”
Pavle raised his head slightly, his black hair, long and uneven, falling to the sides of his face.
“Hello,” Chris said, mimicking the soft tone the others had used. “I’m Chris. They told me you needed help, so I’m going to protect you so no one hurts you anymore.” In that moment, he made up his mind to do whatever was needed to help this man, and if that meant moving him into his home to protect him, so be it.
“I’d like it if you went with Deputy Chris. He is a good man and will not hurt you,” Marie explained slowly and gently.
Chris didn’t expect Pavle to believe her or to agree to come. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Chris said, crouching down so he was at the same level as Pavle. “This is your choice.”
“Choice?” Pavle asked in a raspy voice that tore at Chris’s insides, looking at him and then back to Marie.
“Yes. You can choose to stay here or go with Deputy Chris. We want you to be safe, but we aren’t sure how well we can protect you here. If you go with Deputy Chris, he will protect you. Keep you safe.”
“INS?” Pavle asked.
“No. He is good man. Caring. He will help you.” Marie seemed to have infinite patience.
Pavle blinked, standing still, then nodded and walked to Chris. It seemed as though he either didn’t understand or thought he didn’t have a choice, even though he was being given one. Chris held out his hands, palms up, to show that he wasn’t going to hit him. When Pavle looked at him with those huge eyes and the face of an angel, he looked much younger than the twenty-four listed in his file. Maybe that was his previous owner’s fetish. Still, after all he’d been through, Pavle’s handsomeness and light shone through, with soft features and an almost delicate frame.
“I’ll gather his few things,” Annette said.
Marie extended her hand to take Pavle’s gently. He went with her in silence. She led him out of the house, and once they were in the sun, Chris got a better look at him. Pavle was pale, probably from years of being inside. Chris reminded himself to ask Marie about any past injuries. He suspected that Pavle had been treated very badly in the past and he needed to know if he was okay physically.
“Thank you for doing this,” Marie said once she had opened the door to Chris’s car and gotten Pavle settled in the passenger seat. He sat without moving or looking to either side. “You have to keep him safe. He is the main witness against the man who held him for nearly two years. We need to get that man and then trace back to the people who sold Pavle to him. We’re pulling each thread to see what we can unravel.”
“Okay. I will do my best, I promise you.”
“I’ll follow you to your house and help Pavle get settled.”
As Marie got to her car, Pavle reacted for the first time.
“She’s just riding separately. She will be back in a few minutes.”
Chris drove the short distance to his house and pulled into the garage. He didn’t want Pavle to be seen, and yet he also didn’t want him to feel like a prisoner again by being hidden. He got out and waited, hoping Pavle would get out on his own. After a few moments, Pavle opened the door and climbed out of the car. Chris opened the door to the yard and motioned for Pavle to go ahead of him.
Marie came through behind him, and Chris closed the garage doors and joined the two of them in the yard. Pavle looked around, saying nothing. Chris wished he would say something… anything. He was way too quiet, and that worried Chris because he had no idea what he was thinking, and damn it all, those eyes still held buckets of fear.
“It’s okay. This is where you are going to stay.” Marie gently coaxed Pavle toward the house, and he shuffled along, looking at the yard. Hopefully he liked what he saw. Chris had spent too many hours working out stress for the garden to be unappreciated.
Chris opened the back door, went inside, and turned on lights, letting Marie bring Pavle into the kitchen, motioning toward the living room. Maybe this was the biggest mistake of his life. He wasn’t equipped to handle someone as fragile and frightened as Pavle. Chris had no clue what he needed or even how to get through to him.
“I sold?” Pavle finally asked, barely above a whisper.
Chris caught Marie’s gaze, and his heart twisted in his chest. God, this was going to wrench his guts six ways from Sunday.
“No. This is where you are going to live. You are not going to be sold to anyone anymore. Deputy Chris is here to help you and nothing more.” She patted his hand and took Pavle through to the other room.
Chris got three glasses of water and put some cookies on a plate. He needed some sugar if he was going to get through this in one piece.
Marie and Pavle were talking softly on the sofa when Chris handed each of them a glass and offered them cookies. Marie took one, and Pavle stared at the plate as though it were a foreign object. Finally, he took one and ate a small bite before shoving the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing like he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he drank the entire glass of water.
Chris offered him another, and Pavle took it in disbelief, ate it quickly, and then rested his hands in his lap.
“Why don’t I take you upstairs and show you your room?” Chris offered. He led Pavle and Marie upstairs and into the bright guest room, with cream walls and a deep green coverlet on the bed. The furniture was white and rather plain, but functional. He’d found the set at a secondhand store and painted it himself to clean it up. “You can put your clothes in here,” Chris told Pavle, who shrugged and looked down at what he was wearing.
“I have his things in the car. There isn’t much right now,” Marie explained.
“That’s okay. I can take him to get everything he needs.” Chris needed to do some shopping tomorrow anyway and figured he could take Pavle with him. He would need to disguise Pavle somehow. “I have something he can wear tonight if he needs to, and then we’ll shop tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Marie said with a sigh. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked Pavle, who nodded.
Chris showed her downstairs, while Pavle stayed behind, and got Pavle’s things from her car.
“I’ll stop by whenever I can. He’s going to need care and plenty of help.”
“Of course. Is he seeing a counselor?” Chris asked.
“Yes. But they are having some language issues. I’m working on it. I’d like to find one who understands Serbian so they can talk in his native language, but it’s very difficult in this area. But I’m not giving up. I’ll let you know when his next appointment is.” She left through the back gate, and Chris locked it from the inside and went back into the house. He brought Pavle’s things up to his room and set them on the bed next to him.
“Are you hungry?” Chris asked. When Pavle finally nodded, Chris motioned, and they left the room. He didn’t know what to make for dinner, but decided on pasta. He got Pavle seated in the kitchen and started cooking. It wasn’t fancy, and the sauce was from a jar, but when he put the plate and a glass of water in front of Pavle, the surprised expression and then the way he shoveled the food into his mouth, his arm nearly a blur, told him a great deal about Pavle’s treatment. Chris got his attention and ate slowly. “I’m not going to take your food.”
Pavle nodded and ate a little more leisurely, but his body was rigid the entire time, as if he expected Chris to take away his plate at any moment.
Once Pavle had eaten everything, Chris got him a little more and showed Pavle what he had to drink. Pavle pointed, and Chris poured him some juice. Pavle sniffed the glass and sipped before downing the liquid like it was a huge shot.
“I am not going to take your food or drink. You can have all you want.” He poured Pavle some more grape juice and set it in front of him before clearing the dishes. Pavle stared at the glass like it held some deep meaning and then sighed dramatically and drank it.
Once Chris had cleaned up, he motioned for Pavle to follow him through to the living room. Chris put on the television and sat in the chair. Pavle sat in the other one, alternately watching the television and then him. It was a little unnerving, but Chris sat still and tried to relax, hoping Pavle would do the same.
At bedtime, he turned off the television and led Pavle up the stairs, turning out the lights. “It’s time to go to bed.” He showed Pavle the bathroom and the towels that were his to use. He also found a new toothbrush and some extra toiletries for him, placing them on the bathroom counter. He tried to think of anything he was forgetting. “Is there anything else you need?”
Pavle shook his head and went to his room, and when Chris came in to bring him some pajamas, Pavle stood in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back, head bent down.
Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code by Charlie Cochrane
Jonty woke on St Bride’s day with a sense of foreboding, one which he couldn’t shake off, no matter how he tried telling himself not to be so stupid. Life didn’t resemble a mystery story, thank goodness, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would take advantage of the college festivities to commit murder most foul, having engineered themselves an ingenious and untraceable method of killing. The story of the night crawler and the book he’d been reading in bed had clearly been playing on his sub-conscious mind as he slept.
Over their ridiculously early breakfast he’d not been able to hide his unease from Orlando, who’d soon spotted something was wrong.
“It’s the old by the pricking of my thumbs thing. It’s totally illogical, on every ground, but I can’t persuade myself out of it, no matter how often I lecture myself, so please don’t try that one on me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Orlando patted his hand. “I’d also not discount your feelings. Some people have a knack of picking up little clues without being aware they’ve done so. I suspect you’re one, so maybe you’ve picked up something in the atmosphere. Some undergraduate with a particularly guilty expression on his face that he didn’t hide soon enough, an expression which you’ve unconsciously filed away.”
“Perhaps the night crawler himself?” Jonty smiled. “That’s possible. In which case I shall await the event with interest. Unless he’s loosened one of the gargoyles, of course, although Browne would have spotted if one of those had been rigged to fall. Having said that, an innocent prank might be welcome.”
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out by Josh Lanyon
It was after eleven by the time Nick got home.
The apartment was dark and silent. It smelled of paint and linseed oil, which was how home smelled now. It would not smell like cooking because Perry did not bother to cook when Nick was not around for meals. It was a question as to whether he even bothered to eat.
Nick quietly set his bag down and turned on the living room light. God it was good to be back. He looked around approvingly. The room was comfortably furnished. His old blue sofa was positioned against one wall. Two small end tables they’d picked up at a Goodwill store sat at either end. The tables were topped with matching alabaster lamps that Perry assured him were terrific finds. Maybe. Nick had doubts about the antiquated wiring, but Perry loved them, so he’d bought the lamps. Nick’s framed seascape hung on the opposite wall. A tall mahogany bookshelf, another Goodwill find, held Perry’s paperbacks and his vintage clock. They were using an old trunk for their coffee table. Most of the remaining available space was taken up with Perry’s canvases—those that were either on their way out to galleries and local shops or those on their way back.
Everything appeared neat and tidy and in its place. Everything but Perry.
A quick glance in the bedroom verified that he was not in. Nick swallowed his disappointment. It was unusual for Perry to go to bed before midnight, and he hadn’t known Nick was heading back to LA—Nick hadn’t wanted to let him down in case things didn’t wrap up on schedule—however, a survey of the apartment made it clear that not only was Perry not there, he hadn’t been home since breakfast.
His rinsed cereal bowl sat in the sink. A box of Froot Loops sat on the breakfast counter. Perry teased Nick being a neat freak, but he also did his best to accommodate those fifteen years of military regimen and order.
Nick stared at the red and white cereal bowl with a sinking feeling.
There were any number of benign explanations for why Perry wasn’t home. He could be out with friends. He wasn’t exactly a party animal, but he had made friends in art school and he did hang out with them occasionally. He wouldn’t have left a note because he wasn’t expecting to see Nick until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
He could have gone to a movie.
There were less benign possibilities too.
He could be stranded somewhere. That piece of junk car of his was always breaking down.
He could have had a severe asthma attack and landed in the hospital. Although, fortunately, he was so much better now that he was on those controller medications, an attack wasn’t the concern it once would have been. LA’s smog wasn’t great for him, but it had been months since he’d had a real flare-up.
Nick listened to the sound of traffic outside the apartment as he continued to uneasily study Perry’s cereal bowl. The streets were never silent here. At three o’clock in the morning, you could still hear the rush of the nearby freeway.
Well, it was a trade-off. Peace and quiet in exchange for a real job for him and a decent art school for Perry.
Unbidden, another thought slithered into his brain: he could have met someone.
What the hell? Where was that thought coming from? It wasn’t the first time either. He rejected it instantly, impatiently. For God’s sake. Perry wasn’t home to greet him and his thoughts jumped there?
It wasn’t like he was even the jealous type. He knew Perry loved him, and God knew he loved Perry. More than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone. He trusted Perry.
But there was that ten-year age gap and the fact that Perry had never been exposed to so many other gay men before the move to LA.
Bullshit. Working all these goddamned divorce cases was what even put the thought in his head.
That said, he’d have to be blind not to notice the way other guys responded to Perry—or the way Perry responded to finally getting some appreciative male attention. Meaning only that Perry’s blushing confusion at being flirted with was touching.
And the kid was alone a lot. It couldn’t be helped. Nick was low man on the totem pole and most of the out-of-town and late-night gigs fell to him. Fair enough. He was grateful for the job and beyond grateful at the possibility that he might even be made a partner eventually. But it meant Perry was on his own in the big, bad city a lot of the time.
And so what? Whatever was keeping Perry out at this time of night, it was not some illicit affair. That the idea even crossed his mind was proof Nick was spending way too much time photographing cheating wives and double-dealing husbands.
Whatever. The job was what it was, and what it mostly was, was adulterous spouses and fraudulent insurance claims. He was lucky to have it. But. Not exactly why he’d become a navy SEAL.
But then he wasn’t a SEAL anymore.
Nick was brooding over this, staring out the window over the kitchen sink at the smog-dimmed stars when he heard the smothered sound of Perry’s cough outside the apartment door. He stepped out of the kitchen as Perry’s key turned the lock.
Perry opened the door, clearly surprised to find the lights on. His thin, pointy face lit up as he spotted Nick. “Hey, you’re home!”
Nick retorted, “One detective per family is e—” but the rest of it was cut off as Perry launched himself. Nick’s arms automatically locked around him and his mouth came down hard on Perry’s eager one.
What was it about Perry? He was cute enough, sure. Medium height, lanky, and boyish-looking. His hair was blonde and spiky. His eyes were big and brown and as long lashed as a cartoon character. In this town where two out of every three guys looked like they were trying out for a role in a major motion picture, Perry was almost strikingly ordinary. Maybe that was it. The fact that Perry didn’t look like everyone else. That he didn’t act like everyone else.
It was funny though because Perry was almost the complete opposite of what Nick had always thought was his type. Not that he had really thought of himself as having a type—beyond wanting someone with a penis.
Even after nine months, that unstinting…what the hell would you call it? Sweetness sounded too sappy, but there was something so honest, so generous in Perry’s responses. It made Nick’s heart feel too big for his chest. Closed his throat so that he could rarely say the things he wanted to say, things that Perry deserved to hear.
I love you. It scares me how much I love you.
Instead, he said gruffly, “Where the hell have you been at this hour?”
Perry didn’t seem to hear the gruffness. His wide brown eyes smiled guilelessly up into Nick’s. “I was sketching—”
He had to stop though, starting to wheeze. He threw an apologetic look at Nick and dug out his rescue inhaler. He took a couple of quick puffs while Nick watched, frowning.
This was not good. He didn’t like the sudden alarming reappearance of coughing and wheezing. He put a hand on Perry’s shoulder. Under Nick’s tutelage, Perry had built up some muscle, but he had not really put on much weight. His shoulders were still bony, his collarbones sharp.
“You okay?”
Perry put the inhaler away—he didn’t like using it in front of Nick. As if he thought Nick looked down on him for it?
He said, “It was so dusty up there!”
“Where? Where’ve you been?” Nick hoped he didn’t sound as accusatory as he did to his own ears.
“I drove up to Angel’s Rest.”
“Where?”
“That old hotel in the hills. Remember at Dorian’s exhibition last Saturday? The 1920s hotel in those photos?”
“The abandoned place on Laurel Canyon?”
Jesus fucking Christ. He remembered Perry had seemed fascinated by those photos. But hiking around those hills on his own? Anything could happen to him, from being bit by a rattlesnake to running into some crazed homeless person.
Nick didn’t let any of that show on his face. That was one thing he had decided early on. He was not going to undermine Perry’s confidence or self-resilience with his own fears. Perry was not his child, he was his partner. Physically frail or not, he was a grown man.
“Right,” Perry said quickly, as though he sensed everything Nick was determined not to say. “Only it’s not abandoned. Well, not completely.”
Now, studying him more closely in the lamplight, Nick noticed Perry’s t-shirt was smeared with dust and torn at the collar. And—more alarming—his knuckles were scraped and cut.
Perry said, “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t know you’d be home tonight. I bought pork chops for when you got home.”
“Were you in fight?”
Perry’s eyelashes flicked up guiltily. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
Nick felt as winded as if Perry had punched him. Trying to picture him in a fight was—well, yes, Nick had been showing him some moves, tried to prepare him a little in case he ever had to defend himself—but still, Perry in a fight?
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Perry said. “Should I cook the pork chops?”
“I’ll fix us something to eat. You talk.”
In the kitchen Nick grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, uncapped them, handing one to Perry and taking a long swallow from his own. He came up for air and exhaled. He’d needed that.
“How did the job go?” Perry asked, watching him.
“The usual. It was okay. I want to hear about your week.”
Nick dug the package of pork chops out of the fridge while Perry told him about sketching Angel’s Rest over the past few days—Nick hanging onto his patience while Perry was momentarily distracted by his enthusiasm for crumbling architecture and light and shadow—before finally describing hearing someone yelling for help from the hotel grounds.
Nick clenched his jaw on his instinctive protest. Of course, Perry would respond. Of course, he would try to help. It was the right thing to do, and by God Nick was not going to try to tell him otherwise—although the sight of Perry sitting there with his torn t-shirt, bruised knuckles, and shining eyes worried the hell out of him.
While he prepared the pork chops, he heard out the whole ridiculous but still alarming story of men in skeleton costumes with wooden swords— He was both proud and aghast that Perry had charged into the middle of that.
Perry chattered on, barely touching his own beer.
“He said his name was Horace Daly. He used to be an actor. He lives at the hotel. It’s not a hotel anymore though. Now it’s sort of like apartments. Kind of like the Alston Estate really. Only—”
“Horace Daly,” Nick interrupted. “The actor. I remember him.”
“Yeah? I didn’t recognize his name, when he introduced himself, but I did sort of recognize his face.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“No. He’s pretty old, but he seems spry. He’s retired now, of course. You should see that place, Nick. He’s got a bunch of movie memorabilia everywhere. You walk down a corridor and suddenly you see a life-sized mummy standing in the shadows. Or a chopped off head sitting on a table. All these props from his films. There’s a gibbet in the old ballroom. The real thing they used in his movie, not replicas. At one time Horace thought maybe he could turn part of the hotel into a museum.” Perry’s eyes shone with enthusiasm, the artist in him no doubt getting off on the workmanship that went into creating realistic-looking skeletons and ghouls or whatever it was Daly kept in his closet.
Nick said, “Right. He was in all those old horror flicks. Night of the Blue Witch, Seven Brides for Seven Demons, Sex and the Single Ghoul.”
“My parents wouldn’t let me watch that stuff.” Perry’s expression was one of brooding regret.
Nick bit back a grin. “No, well. So, Daly is still around and lives in an abandoned hotel in Laurel Canyon?”
“Exactly. But that’s the thing. It’s not abandoned. He owns the property. He rents the suites out to regular tenants.” Perry amended, “Well, maybe regular isn’t the word. I met a couple of them. But he’s got about seven people renting from him.”
“Huh,” said Nick, noncommittal.
Perry’s big brown eyes—wide with worry and concern—raised to his. “Horace thinks someone’s trying to kill him.”
“To kill him,” Nick repeated. “He actually told you he thinks someone is trying to kill him?”
Perry nodded. “He says it’s not the first time he’s been attacked, but no one ever believed him because he’s never had a witness before.”
Several comments leaped to mind. Nick nobly squashed them all.
Perry was still following his own thoughts. “He thinks it might be a crazed fan or someone like that. Someone who saw his movies and kind of lost it.”
“So…like a movie critic?” Nick was teasing, but he didn’t like this at all. Perry had seen the guys dressed up in skeleton costumes, so Horace wasn’t making that part up, but the rest of it sounded pretty sketchy. Speaking as someone in the PI biz, homicides weren’t really all that common. Not even in LA.
Perry made a face and laughed, but he continued to watch Nick in that serious, hopeful way as though he imagined Nick might have an instant solution to old Horace’s problems.
“Why would someone want to knock Horace off?” Nick asked. “I mean, assuming it’s not a crazed fan out to get him.”
“But that’s it. He’s sure it is a crazed fan or a stalker. Someone confusing the movies with real life. He said for years he’s been getting weird, threatening letters.” Perry bit his lip thinking. “He’s hiding something though.”
Nick studied him. The funny thing about Perry was, despite his lack of worldly experience, he had good instincts about people. Reluctantly, he asked, “Why do you think so?”
Perry gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. He’s frightened. That’s real. He does believe someone is trying to kill him.” He said slowly, “What I think he’s lying about is not knowing why.”
“It would be in the letters, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess. Horace said he didn’t keep the letters.”
Nick considered that piece of information. It might be the truth. It might be that Horace had the letters but didn’t want anyone to see them. It might be that there never were any letters. He said, “I can tell you the usual reasons people kill. They want something someone else has. Usually money or sex.”
“What about revenge?” Perry asked.
“I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. Just that it’s not nearly as common in real life as it is on TV.”
“I don’t think either money or sex would apply in Horace’s case.”
Probably not. Nick was having trouble believing in any scenario where an aging and long forgotten film star would have a murderous stalker.
“But you think revenge would?”
“Er…no. But by process of elimination…”
Nick sighed inwardly. Thanks to true crime TV, everybody thought they were a PI. Even his own boyfriend.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “If these yahoos wanted Horace dead, couldn’t they have killed him today?”
“Yes.”
“Wooden swords sound more like movie props to me.”
Perry’s expression grew animated. “Yes. Exactly. That’s it. That’s one reason why Horace thinks that this is the work of crazy stalker fans. He believes they tried to use wooden swords because that’s what you do with vampires. You drive a wooden stake through their heart.”
Okaaay. Judging by the bright eyes and pink cheeks, it was pretty clear that Horace wasn’t the only one who thought crazed fans wielding wooden swords made total sense.
“Did Horace report the attack to the police?”
“No. I tried to get him to, but he said he reported the earlier attacks, and nobody believed him. The police thought he was making it up for attention.”
Nick grunted. The same thought had occurred to him.
“Even his tenants thought he was imagining things.”
“That doesn’t seem to be the case.” Nick had to allow that much. “You saw these three yourself.”
“Yes.” Perry’s mind was on other things. “In the movie Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? Horace had to use a wooden sword to kill Angelina once she became a vampire. You see?”
“Mmhm.” Only too well.
“So, it does kind of make sense.”
Perry went back to watching him with that resolve-weakening mix of confidence and hope. Uneasily, Nick considered the hopefulness. What did Perry want? What were his expectations?
The pork chops were fried to perfection, their fragrant smell warming the small kitchen. Nick slid them from the frying pan onto two thick blue plates, then placed the plates on the table.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” Perry said quickly. Nick guessed that he was thinking—correctly—that two paper-thin pork chops was not a lot of dinner for him. These four beautiful little pork chops would have been a special welcome home dinner for himself. He had to watch for that kind of thing because Perry was prone to unnecessary self-sacrifice. No way was he going to bed hungry. Not on Nick’s watch.
“Did you have dinner?”
“No, but—”
“Eat your dinner.”
Perry grimaced, but then smiled as though Nick were offering him a special treat and not his fair share of their rations.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nick was tired. It had been a long ass drive from Modesto. His thoughts were still partly on his case. Perry had had a little adventure, but it was over and no harm done. Nick looked forward to a shower, a sleep, and eventually waking up with his favorite person on the entire planet. Rarely did they get an entire weekend to themselves.
Perry chewed a couple of neatly carved pieces of pork before saying slowly, “I wasn’t expecting you home until Monday.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get away. Why? Did you make plans?” Nick smiled, a little amused. He took it for granted if Perry had made plans he’d change them to accommodate him. Not that he wouldn’t fall in with Perry’s plans if Perry had his heart set on another art show or something.
Perry looked troubled. “I did, yeah.”
Nick’s brows rose. He was still tolerant.
“I told Horace I’d stay up there this weekend.”
“You…”
“He needs help, Nick.”
“It sounds like it, all right.” Nick was grim.
Perry seemed to evaluate Nick’s mood. He brightened. “What if you stayed up there with me? That would be even better. You know what you’re doing.”
“What I’m…” Nick swallowed the rest of it. He said very mildly, “Why would you agree to that? Why would you agree to spend the weekend at a falling down hotel where people in costumes are running around swinging swords at innocent bystanders?”
“I’ve told you. Horace is afraid,” Perry said. “Nobody else believes him.”
Nick had no answer for that. Or rather, he had so many answers he didn’t know where to start. He finally managed, “But they’ll believe him now. Right? He’s got corroborating testimony.”
Perry grinned. “‘Corroborating testimony.’ You’re starting to sound like a PI.”
“Yeah. But I’m serious. I don’t see how it would be of any help to Horace for you to stay over in that dump. What are you supposed to do?”
“I think he’s lonely and it’s a relief that someone believes him.”
“Okay, that’s great. But, again, what are you supposed to do about whatever’s going on there?” Nick was struggling not to let his impatience show. Anyway, he was not impatient with Perry. He was impatient with Horace Daly for dragging Perry into his problems.
“Lend moral support?”
“Isn’t that nice,” Nick said grimly. “But you’ve had to use your inhaler tonight for the first time in how long? That’s not a healthy place for you. Clearly.”
Perry colored. His jaw took on that stubborn jut that Nick had become all too familiar with during the past nine months. “I can’t not go places just because I have asthma.”
“Of course you can. Can’t.” Nick drew a breath. “Of course you can avoid situations that make you s—that aren’t good for you. That’s just commonsense.”
“I already agreed to help.”
“We’re going in circles here. Help him how? How does your being there help Daly?”
Perry said, and it sounded like he too was trying to control his impatience, “But that’s what I’m saying, Nick. If you went with me, you could look into it for him. You’re trained to do this.”
“Look into what?”
“Look into whoever is trying to kill Horace. And why.”
Perry’s stare was unwavering. Almost stern. Meeting it, Nick’s heart sank.
Clearly, he was not going to win this battle. Either he went with Perry or Perry went on his own, but go Perry would. The weekend Nick had in mind was already a write-off.
He struggled for a moment with his disappointment and irritation. Obviously, he could not leave Perry to deal with this bizarre situation on his own. Even if he could, well, there was something about the way Perry looked at him—like he really believed there was nothing Nick couldn’t handle, no problem he couldn’t solve—Nick didn’t want Perry to ever stop looking at him like that.
Anyway, the main thing was that they had the weekend together, right?
“Sounds like you have your mind already made up,” Nick said.
His tone was a little flat and some of the eagerness died out of Perry’s face. “You don’t want to go?”
“Want to go? No. If I do give up my weekend, what do I get out of it?” Nick asked.
Perry continued to eye him in that grave way. “Horace’s undying gratitude?” he suggested finally.
“Uh…”
Perry grinned slowly with that funny mixture of sweetness and mischievousness that always set Nick’s heart thudding in his chest. “Let me show you.”
Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Adam Matthews yawned, stretched, and wriggled back down into the bed. If he’d been able to purr, he’d have sounded like a contented moggy, which would have annoyed his dog but summed up his feelings perfectly. Summer holidays, having the best part of six weeks without pupils to teach: bliss. Even if reality meant he still had lesson planning and the like to do, he didn’t mind. Not having to listen to the constant drone of ten-year-olds meant he could let his brain go through its annual recovery process. His partner, Robin Bright, was enjoying his fortnight or so of holiday as well, although in his case the break was from chasing villains and listening to the prattle of his constables.
They’d had ten days in a villa on the Med, enjoying sea, sand, Sangria, Spanish food, and a smattering of the pleasures of the double bed. Now they were home, with a few more days to make the most of before Robin had to report back for duty. The house was neat as a new pin, Sandra—the miracle worker who came into their house daily to clean, wash, iron, care for Campbell’s needs, and sometimes provide cake—having been in to keep everything in order, garden included.
So they’d nothing planned other than being lazy and making it up to Campbell for their cruelty in abandoning him into the care of Adam’s mother. Despite the fact that he’d been spoiled rotten, the dog would take a while to forgive his two masters for not taking him with them. A while being, in Campbell’s terms, until he’d had sufficient quantity of treats to compensate for the extreme mental hardship his facial expressions would suggest he’d undergone.
“Are you awake?” a bleary voice sounded at Adam’s side.
“No. I’m fast asleep.”
“Pillock.” Robin turned, laying his right arm over Adam’s stomach. “Am I dreaming it or did you volunteer to cook breakfast today?”
“Yes. It’s my turn.” Which was why Adam had been lying in bed thinking, putting off the inevitable. “Although I can’t do so unless you let go of me.”
“Shame.” Robin kissed Adam’s shoulder. “I need to clone you so you can be cooking breakfast and romping about here with me at the same time.”
“If I were a woman, I’d accuse you of being a sexist pig. As it is, I’ll call you a lazy sod.” Adam threw off Robin’s arm, rolled him over, and slapped his backside. “Don’t lie here too long or I’ll give all your bacon to Campbell.”
“I’d fight him for it.”
They both got out of bed, Adam heading to the bathroom for a quick relieving visit before his partner got in there. On a work day, Robin showered and shaved speedily, but on occasions like this when he had the opportunity to take his leisure, he enjoyed lingering over his ablutions. And why not? He worked hard, so he should have the chance to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. As long as he didn’t linger too much and risk being presented with an incinerated sausage.
When Adam got down to the kitchen, Campbell greeted him with a rub against his legs, followed by a dash for the kitchen door. Lie-ins were great for the workers in the household, but not helpful for canine bladders. Opening that door took precedence over everything else first thing in the morning. Once that was done, Adam could get the kettle on, fish out the bacon—always best done while Campbell was otherwise occupied—put on some music, and potter about the kitchen content in the knowledge that the two creatures he loved best were happy. And long might that state of affairs continue.
Over breakfast, talk turned—inevitably—to their imminent return to work, although Robin insisted that shouldn’t be discussed for at least another twenty-four hours. He’d even banned them from watching crime shows over the holiday period, so as not to remind him of what awaited at Abbotston station.
Adam changed the subject to their regular discussion topic. “Am I allowed to mention work in the context of moving house to somewhere slightly more convenient for commuting?”
Given that both of them had relocated to new jobs since they started living together, the comfortable little cottage in Lindenshaw—that had once belonged to Adam’s grandparents, as had the infant Campbell—wasn’t quite as well located as it had been.
“Campbell says you can mention that all you want.” Robin grinned. “He wants a bigger garden to lumber about in. And he keeps reminding me we can afford it, maintenance and all.”
“That dog should get a job as an estate agent.” Or maybe a registrar. There was also the small matter of a civil partnership to sort out, which they’d decided on earlier in the year but not got any further in terms of planning.
“Mum was asking again,” Robin said when he’d finished the last bit of bacon.
Great minds were clearly thinking alike again. “Asking about what?”
Robin gently tapped Adam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Have we set a date? Will she need her passport? Should she buy a winter hat or a spring one?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That what with the demands of school life and the unpredictable villains of Abbotston, it wasn’t easy to fix a weekend.”
All of which was true, but wouldn’t have mollified Mrs. Bright one bit. “And what did she say in response?”
Robin shrugged. “That she understood the predicament we were in, which I suspect was a lie because she then pointed out that other policemen and teachers manage to tie the knot.”
That was also true, although their case was complicated by having feet in both camps.
The real reason they were making no progress was the simple, prosaic one that they were struggling to sort out what type of do they wanted and who they’d invite. They’d both have preferred something small, discreet, classy, and a guest list limited to their mothers, an aunt or two, and Campbell. But was that going to cause ructions among family and friends? Should they invite their cousins, and how could they not include some of their friends and colleagues? And if they invited only one or two each, whose nose would be put out of joint that they’d not been included?
When they’d sat down to do a theoretical-maximum guest list, they’d given up when it hit one hundred, and had then parked the matter entirely. One day they’d have to start it up again, although at present the real desire they felt for entering into that partnership, the official statement that they were a couple and intended to be until death they did part, kept being destroyed by the stress surrounding making arrangements.
“Let’s not spoil today thinking about it,” Adam said. “We’ll grab our diaries later, and set a date—not for the event, so don’t look so panicked, but for sitting down and deciding what we want to do. Once and for all and no arguments from anyone not already living in this household. Does that work?”
“Yeah. Got to bite the bullet sometime.” Robin grinned. “And I can relate that progress to Mum the next time she rings. She’ll make sure we actually do it and don’t renege at the last moment.”
“Deal.” Adam pushed aside his plate and mug. “Right, let’s not waste the rest of Sunday. What are we going to do with today?”
“The weather forecast is good. We should get some fresh air.”
“Sounds spot on.”
“Where do you fancy getting said air?” Robin asked, en route to putting his dirty crockery in the washing-up bowl. “And I assume we’re taking himself?”
“We wouldn’t dare leave him behind. He’s still not happy about us going away to that villa.”
“He can lump it. He’s on holiday all year round.”
Holiday time or not, Sunday morning was their favourite time to walk the dog, weather and jobs permitting. Campbell could run off some of his energy, Adam and Robin had the chance to talk, and they could all work up a healthy appetite for lunch. Today they were having beef casserole, which Adam had already got out of the freezer to defrost. The Yorkshire puddings needed no such preparation, being able to go from freezer to stomach via a hot oven in a matter of minutes. Accompany that with a beer and follow it with some sport on the telly—what more could a man want?
“What about going somewhere different today?” Robin asked. “There’s the towpath along the old canal. We’ve not been there for ages, and Campbell loves the smells.”
“He loves getting smelly, you mean, which is why we avoid it. Remember last time?” Campbell, being a Newfoundland and thereby convinced that water was his second home, had found the most disgusting stretch of canal to go swimming in. He’d needed hosing down and the car had required a professional valeting to get rid of the stench. “Anyway, isn’t there an event on at Rutherclere Castle?”
Rutherclere was a large stately home, the pride of the county, which was said to house a remarkable—highly eclectic—collection of items which various owners had accumulated, mainly during Victorian times. The route from Lindenshaw to the canal would pass close to the grounds.
“Oh, yeah. The one day a year they deign to open the estate to the public.”
“You old cynic. It was supposed to be a cracking affair last summer. Everyone at school was raving about it. People say the first year wasn’t so great, but they’ve got the hang of it now, maybe?”
“Whatever they’ve done, it’s grown bigger than anyone anticipated. Every special constable in the county’s been drafted in. Please God it’ll only be for traffic duties.” Robin shuddered. “What did you do when you were little and didn’t want something to happen? Go out of the room and turn three times?”
“We were far too civilised to do that, but if performing that action, or anything equally daft, stops you getting called in, it would be worth a go.” Robin had only dealt with one murder case so far this year, which was one too many for all involved. If it was time for another serious crime to come along, the damn thing should wait until he was officially back in the office. “Those specials will have their work cut out with the traffic. Last year they only avoided gridlock by the skin of their teeth. The road near the canal’s a standard rat run, so we’d be better off away from the place.”
“So where can we go to avoid the traffic? All the best walks are over that way.”
“What about Pratt’s Common?” Adam suggested. “That’s nowhere near Rutherclere.”
The common was a large area west of Lindenshaw, much beloved of dog walkers, courting couples, and anybody else who wanted fresh air, space, and some trees to either climb in or indulge in less wholesome activities. Adam hadn’t been there for years, but today seemed the ideal day—with the piercing blue sky, bright sunshine, and likelihood of dry ground beneath the feet—to become reacquainted.
“Ah, hold on.” Robin frowned. “Am I dreaming this, that they have cattle grazing there? Ones with dirty great horns?”
“So I’ve always assumed, which is why I’ve avoided taking himself there, but one of the learning support assistants at the school told me they were taken off and relocated last year.” And if one of that redoubtable group of ladies stated the fact, it had to be true. “Done their job for the environment, whatever that might have been.”
“Probably related to grazing or fertilizing. One end or the other.” Robin chuckled. “Let’s give it a whirl, then. Campbell can run about to his heart’s content.”
The drive over to the common was pleasant enough, especially when the radio kept cutting in with extra travel news bulletins warning locals to avoid the Rutherclere area. The big event must have been proving a bigger attraction than the police had predicted, although apparently it wasn’t simply the volume of traffic causing problems. There had been a three-car shunt on one of the approach roads and rumour of the air ambulance having to be sent in. Adam tried not to feel smug at having made the right decision—pride goeth before fall and all that—although he was grateful when they reached the car park to find it almost empty rather than stocked with people who’d come there to avoid the traffic. There was another parking area on the Lower Chipton side, and if that was equally quiet they’d have the common pretty much to themselves.
This parking area, previously little more than a muddy patch of grass, had been properly surfaced since Adam had last visited, and the space available for vehicles had been expanded. The two cars already present were at either end of the tarmacked area—very British behaviour to be as far distant from other people as possible—so Adam slotted his car slap bang in the middle. As he opened the driver’s door, he caught sight of the distinctive yellow air ambulance flying over, and sent up a silent prayer that nothing else would go wrong at Rutherclere and Robin wouldn’t have to be called in.
Campbell sniffed the air tentatively as they let him out of the back of the car. He would know this wasn’t his usual stomping ground and he’d be naturally wary about what delights or disappointments it would hold in store for him. It didn’t take long for him to decide he liked the place, though, and begin to bounce about enthusiastically. They managed to get the lead on him and would keep it on until they could, quite literally, get the lie of the land, then they’d be able to let him romp where he wanted. He was a well-behaved dog, not one to approach strangers, whether canine or human, and generally he’d not stray outside of shouting distance. Clearly, he believed that part of his role was to keep half an eye on his owners while he let them have a walk.
Once off his lead, he initially walked no farther than a few paces ahead, although as soon as they started throwing his ball for him to fetch, his confidence and need for exploration both grew. Adam and Robin eventually found a fallen tree to perch on, sun warming their backs, where they could repeatedly hoick the ball over the scrubby grass, watch the dog go scrambling after it, then see him return triumphant with his treasure.
Adam shook his head. “Next time I say that Campbell’s an extremely intelligent animal, remind me how he takes such pleasure in performing the same actions time and again.”
“I can never work out if he’s really bright or really thick,” Robin observed. “Or maybe he flips between the two.”
Adam grinned “I’d say he’s good in a crisis. That brings out the best of his limited mental resources. Otherwise he can’t process anything other than food, pat, or favourite toy.”
He’d proved his worth in a crisis at least three times, though—and in two of them he’d probably saved a life. Despite the reputations of Newfoundlands, none of these crises had involved water, but death by gunshot or blunt instrument was as definitive as death by drowning.
“That’s typical of dogs, though, isn’t it?” Robin picked up the ball Campbell had deposited at his feet and lobbed it in the direction they’d come, for variety. “Wow, a ball! That’s my favourite thing. Wow, a biscuit! That’s my favourite thing. Wow! You get the picture.”
“Yeah. And that’s himself to a T. Look at the idiot.”
The Newfoundland had retrieved the ball and was carrying it back in his slobbery jaws like he was carrying the crown jewels. He dropped it in the same place he kept placing it in front of Robin, who’d only just finished wiping dog saliva off his hand from the last time he’d handled the thing.
“He’s a disgusting idiot, to boot.” Adam grabbed the ball, stood up, and ran to the ridge to fling the thing as far as he could and give them a bit of respite from continual throw and fetch. The ground fell away sharply before levelling onto a plain, so the ball would roll farther than on the flat where they were seated. He lobbed the ball, then plonked himself down next to Robin, taking a deep breath of the bracingly pleasant air. “I’d forgotten how nice it is here. Better than that place with the goats.”
“The cells at Abbotston are better than the place with the goats.” While holidaying, they’d gone on an expedition to a supposed beauty spot that had been anything but. They spent the next few minutes reminiscing about how ghastly the experience had been, until they risked depressing themselves. “We’ll come here again. It’s so peace—” A sharp report cut Robin off, and sent rooks and pigeons into the air from the nearby trees.
“What’s that?” Adam jumped up, a sickening tingle flying up his spine.
“A rifle, by the sound of it. Not that I can tell much from gunfire.” Robin scanned from side to side as he got up, then they both broke into a run. “Where’s Campbell?”
“He went off after his ball.” Don’t panic. That shot and Campbell’s nonappearance is a coincidence. “Maybe it’s only somebody shooting rabbits in the woods?”
“If they are, they shouldn’t be doing it so damn close to where the public are. I should have a word.”
“You can take Campbell to help ‘persuade’ them. Where the hell has he—” Adam stopped, sick to the stomach. He had kept his eyes down once they’d got onto the slope, aware of how easy it would be to take a tumble. Now he’d looked up again, the flat western part of the common came into full view and—lying a hundred yards off—a large, black, furry mound. “Campbell?”
Adam sprinted, scared witless. The closer he got, the more the mound resembled an animal, the size of a big dog. One that might be a Newfoundland.
“Hold on.” Robin, voice tight, grabbed his arm. “Let me go and see. It looks like Campbell’s hurt himself.”
“No. It should be me that checks.” Adam slowed his pace, though, eyes drawn to the thick black coat that had to be the Newfoundland’s, surely. And that shot they’d heard could only mean one thing. “He was my dog before he was ours.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Adam could barely control his voice. Whichever bastard had done this, they were going to pay. He knelt down, tears blurring his eyes as he laid his hand on the dog’s flanks. “He’s gone.”
Robin squatted beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I . . . It’s so unfair. He wasn’t an old dog. He should have— Oof!” Adam jolted as something heavy smacked into his back, almost going headfirst into the dead dog.
“Not as dead as we thought he was, then.” Robin’s voice was shaky, somewhere between tears and laughter. “Where have you been, boy, scaring us like that?”
Not chasing his ball, given that the thing was nowhere to be seen. Campbell had probably heard the shot and either taken fright or gone to investigate; they’d have to solve that puzzle later, though, there being a more urgent matter to hand. Adam wiped his eyes, then properly examined the corpse. Shock must have deluded him, because this wasn’t even the same breed of dog. This was a Saint Bernard, one that was still warm, and bleeding, so the chances were that the shot they’d heard was the one which had killed it. He’d certainly not been aware of another discharge.
“What happens next?” Adam asked. “This isn’t a case for calling in Grace, is it?” She was Robin’s favourite crime-scene investigator and would no doubt quickly work out—or get somebody else to work out—how long the dog had been dead, what weapon had been used, what he’d had for breakfast, and whether his owners loved him with the passion Campbell’s owners had for him.
Robin, already getting his phone out, replied with, “What happens next is ringing in to report there’s a nutter on the loose with a gun. And we’ll do that while we get back to the car, as quick as we can.”
“Good thinking. Heel, boy.” Adam speedily clipped on Campbell’s lead, ensuring the dog would keep close by. “Nothing we can do for the Saint Bernard, and it’ll upset this lad to hang around a corpse.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Robin said, picking up the pace.
Adam shivered. Of course. Campbell was a potential target. “Ah, yeah. We don’t want two dead dogs on our hands.”
“I wasn’t just thinking about Campbell. He’s not the only sitting duck out here.”
Adam gulped and broke into a trot, eyes and ears alert for any untoward movement or noise. Arriving at the car park couldn’t come soon enough.
Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Insanity runs in my family.
That should go without saying. What the hell else could explain what I was doing sitting in a cab outside the Green Lanterns Inn at that time of night.
“This is it,” the driver said when I showed no sign of moving. And when I still made no sign, he said helpfully, “Green Lanterns Inn.”
Summer rain beat down, fat silver drops blistering against the windshield. The wipers squeaked out each second, dashing the rain away, illuminating the ivy-covered building before us for an instant before the scene melted away again. The seven eponymous brass lanterns were dark in the yellow glare of the car’s high beams. Not a light shone in the entire house.
But then at two o’clock in the morning, I’d have been surprised—even alarmed—to find a light on.
I felt ridiculous. I should have asked Aunt Halcyone for clarification. Insisted on a little more information. It wasn’t like me. But I’d felt her unease, her uncertainty in that last letter, and that was what had sent me jetting across the country. I could not ever remember my aunt admitting she was in over her head—let alone asking for my help.
Come as soon as you can, Artie, Aunt H. had written. The situation has spiraled out of control. I need your cool head and strong shoulders.
I guess my shoulders are strong enough and my head is relatively cool, but she’d never required them before, not even when Ogden, her second husband, had died the year before. As for the situation spiraling out of control, I’d had no idea there was a situation.
Anyway, at the time Ogden had died, I’d been dealing with my own situation. Aunt H. had been as unenthusiastic about Greg as I’d been about Ogden, and refraining from saying I told you so had been about the best we could offer each other.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay for a while?” I’d said after the funeral.
“No, no. I’m all right. I just need a little time,” she had returned.
She had seemed all right. Sad, of course; weary but not broken. It would take more than one dead, philandering husband to break my dear old Auntie Halcyone. When two months later she’d phoned to say she had decided to turn Green Lanterns into an inn, she had sounded enthusiastic and upbeat—almost like her old self.
“You sure they’re open for business?” the cab driver asked.
“Uh…yes.” I sounded as doubtful as he did.
“Okay. Well.”
My words exactly. I opened the door. The driver jumped out and grabbed my bags from the trunk. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he followed me as I ran up the flight of shallow stone stairs to the shelter of an overhanging portico. Ivy draped over the roof, crystal drops falling from the dark, glistening leaves. The brass gargoyle doorknocker eyed us balefully.
The driver dropped my bags at my feet.
“Funny they don’t have a night window or something.” He eyed the darkened house dubiously.
“Yeah, it’s not really that kind of a hotel.” I pulled a couple of bills out of my pocket, and he whistled.
He was still whistling—a cheery, ghostly little tune—as he trotted down the steps and jumped into his cab. As the red taillights disappeared through the gates, humid darkness closed in. I pressed the doorbell again, listening to it ring through the silent, sleeping house.
Once upon a time this had been my home. But that was a long time ago. I’d moved to New York over five years ago—when Aunt H. had announced she was marrying Ogden Hyde. It had been a shock at the time, but really, Ogden had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Without the spur of his arrival in Aunt Halcyone’s life, I’d probably still be living at home, writing my column for the New Fillmore, and hanging out with old college pals who were equally afraid to test their wings. As it was, I had taken the leap and moved to the Big Apple with Greg. I was now the theater critic for New York Magazine. Even removing Greg from the equation, it really didn’t get a lot better than that.
Or if it did, I didn’t want to know.
I had been back twice. For Aunt H.’s wedding, and for Ogden’s funeral. Aunt H. came to New York for theater season every year, so it wasn’t as though we hadn’t seen each other. I called her every few weeks. Well, perhaps not as often as I imagined, given that the summons home came out of the blue.
Rain, surprisingly cold for August, was dripping on my head and trickling down the back of my neck. Somewhere out in the wet, wind-whipped darkness, a dog began to howl, and I felt like howling with him. I leaned into the doorbell.
Where the hell was—
A white crescent appeared behind the fanlight. I stopped pressing the doorbell. The door creaked open, and a pale, suspicious eye peered out at me.
“Yes?”
I recognized the voice, if not the lack of welcome. “Hello? Tarrant? It’s me. Artemus. Artemus Bancroft.”
“Mr. Artemus?” His colorless eyes widened. “Mrs. Bancroft say you are not coming until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m here now. I decided to catch an earlier flight.”
Tarrant didn’t open the door. “The house has all gone to bed.”
“So I see.” What the…? Was I supposed to leave and come back tomorrow because I’d arrived before check-in? With twenty-five rooms, I was pretty sure they could squeeze me in somewhere. I said impatiently, “Would you mind letting me in? I’m getting soaked out here.”
He widened the door but made no attempt to assist as I carried my bags over the threshold. I dropped them with a landslide of thumps on the gold-and-black Aubusson carpet.
We stood in the grand central hall with its sweeping white staircase and eight-arm macaroni bead crystal chandelier. A giant gilt-framed portrait of my aunt, painted right before her marriage to Edwin Bancroft, gazed bemusedly down at me from the first landing. She had been twenty-one at the time, and I had grown up thinking she was quite a mature lady in that portrait. Now that I was thirty, she looked like a kid to me.
“You should have called,” Tarrant said.
I didn’t think I imagined the hint of accusation in his voice. I took a good look at him. The absence of his dentures gave his face a caved-in look. He was wrapped in what looked like one of those original gray-and-white plaid Beacon bathrobes from the 1930s. It grazed his bony, bare ankles. Not that I expected him to be dressed at two in the morning, but I’d never seen him anything but immaculate in his severe black and snowy white butler’s garb. It was like sneaking a peek behind the stage curtain. It sort of took away the magic.
“Aunt H. sounded like the situation might be urgent.”
“Situation? Urgent?” He seemed more confused—and affronted—than ever.
“Right. Anyway, sorry to drag you up at this hour. If you want to tell me which room I’m staying in?”
“Your old room, of course. It has been made ready for you.” He stooped to lift one of my suitcases, and nearly dropped it. “What is it that is in there?” His pale gaze was reproachful.
“I’ll carry them up.”
I reached for the suitcase and he turned away, swinging the suitcase away from me.
“I have got it!”
“Really, Tarrant. There’s no reason I can’t—”
I was talking to his back as he lumbered unsteadily toward the staircase. Short of tackling him and wresting the suitcase away, there wasn’t much I could do. I followed him, swallowing my exasperation. He was an old man now. Nearly eighty. Time to retire, really, but it would have to be his choice. Aunt H. would never put him out to pasture against his wishes.
“How’s Betty?” I asked when we had safely reached the second landing.
Tarrant’s daughter was named Ulyanna. For some reason, in my younger days, I’d thought it was funny to rename her Betty. Fortunately, Betty had thought it was funny too.
Betty had replaced the late Mrs. Tarrant as cook and housekeeper. There had been Tarrants at Green Lanterns nearly as long as there had been Bancrofts.
“Poorly,” Tarrant said grimly. “Very poorly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She is not a young woman! The house is too big for her,” he burst out.
“Oh? Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say. The outburst was as out-of-character as all the rest of this.
“We cannot get any help now. Twenty-five rooms and the girl is only coming twice a week.”
“What girl? What happened to Mabel and Cora?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Left. Packed their things, like the rest of them. They run off like scared rabbits.”
“But why?” I couldn’t understand it. Aunt H. had her faults, but she paid well and treated her staff with affectionate respect. “Mabel must have been with Aunt H. ten years at least. And Cora must have been nearly that long. Didn’t her mother work here before her?”
“Superstitious nonsense,” muttered Tarrant. He dropped my suitcase on the pale blue and ivory runner and mopped his forehead.
“Here. Let me—”
His look of outrage stopped me mid-reach.
I pretended we had simply paused for a bit of sightseeing, gazing around the landing as though I’d never seen it before. In fact, I never had seen it before. Not like this. The carpet smelled musty, and a film of dust coated the railing and edges of the bannister. There was even a cobweb—granted, a tiny one—on one of the brass wall sconces. The very light seemed faded and tired.
“How many guests are staying here?” I asked.
Tarrant picked up the suitcase again. “None.”
“None? But I thought—”
“People are saying the house is haunted.” His gaze was bleak.
“Haunted,” I repeated. And then, when it was clear he was not joking—not that he had ever been one for joking, “Haunted?”
“That is right. Yes. Haunted.”
“Who’s supposed to be…” I stopped. My heart sank. “Oh no. Is Ogden supposed to be haunting the place?”
Dour satisfaction gleamed in Tarrant’s eyes. “That is one opinion. Is not the only opinion.”
“Why the hell would Ogden haunt this house? He barely lived in it. If anyone ought to haunt Green Lanterns, it’s Edwin. He loved the place.”
Green Lanterns had been in my family for generations. Edwin Bancroft had been a distant cousin of my aunt’s, so he’d spent a lot of his youth in the house even though it had not been his official home until he and Aunt H. had tied the knot.
“It is not for me to say.”
“It’s bull—nonsense. The girls got tired of having to maintain such a big house or didn’t like the place being turned into a hotel. That’s all. They felt guilty about taking jobs that suited them better, so they cooked up some ridiculous story.” Even as I said it, I felt the wrongness of it. Mabel had been blunt and forthright. I couldn’t imagine her lying about her reasons for leaving. Neither woman had been the fanciful type.
Tarrant turned away. “That may be, Mr. Artemus. We hire two new maids last month. They stay for one night. Both left the next morning, with same story. The only new help we can keep is the gardener. And he do not sleep in the house.”
I stared at his retreating back.
“Why would Ogden haunt this house?” I demanded. “What are people saying?”
Tarrant stopped, giving me a funny sideways look. “People talk foolishness.”
“I know people talk foolishness. What foolishness are they saying about my aunt?”
His struggle seemed genuine. He said at last, “Only that Mr. Hyde’s accident is maybe not an accident.”
“What?”
“It is gossip. That is all. People say maybe police hurry their investigation because Chief Kingsland is such great friend of Mrs. Bancroft.”
“They suspect Aunt H.?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. Not that so much. More they say there was not a real investigation.”
I had no response to that. We went up the next flight of stairs in silence.
The family suites were on this level. Aunt H.’s rooms at the far end. Liana, Ogden’s sister, near the staircase. My old rooms between them.
Tarrant stopped in front of a heavy oak door and threw it open. “Everything is as it was,” he announced as he switched on the light.
He was right about that, although hopefully the sheets had been changed. A giant bed with a brown velvet canopy and draperies fringed with gold dominated the long room. At the far end was a marble fireplace. The tables and dressers were all marble-topped. Bronze and gold Persian carpets. Brown velvet draperies looped back with gold tassels. Ridiculous accommodations for a seven-year-old boy, but this had been my father’s room, and Aunt H. had decreed that I would grow into it. And I did, sort of, although my apartment in New York was furnished a lot more simply and cozily.
Everything was familiar—except the cold. The house had always felt warm, alive, welcoming.
I shivered. “It feels chilly for August.”
“The furnace, it is out,” Tarrant replied with gloomy satisfaction. “The man is supposed to come yesterday. He did not. The fire is laid.” He nodded at the fireplace, where a couple of logs and twists of kindling had been stacked on the grate, but made no move to light it.
In fact, he stood eyeing me, purple-veined hands at his sides nervously plucking at the nap of his robe. Was he trying to decide whether to speak or not? I couldn’t tell, but I felt uncomfortable, unwelcome, under his somber stare.
“Was there something else?” I asked.
An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, but his features smoothed into blankness. “Good night, Mr. Artemus.” He turned away.
After he had gone, I touched a match to the kindling and watched as a tiny blue flame licked through the twigs and newspaper, catching at the larger log with a comfortable crackling sound. I put my hands out toward the heat.
It was late, that was all. Tarrant had been half asleep and grouchy at being hauled out of bed at this ungodly hour. He was always a little on the eccentric side. They all were in this house.
I was no exception, according to Greg.
Even so, and despite my exhaustion, I was too uneasy to sleep. I rose and began to unpack, quietly sliding open drawers and cupboard doors. The closets and bureau smelled of mothballs. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Two-thirty. Maybe I’d slip downstairs and get a drink from the liquor cabinet. Assuming the liquor cabinet was where I remembered it. Nothing else had really changed, at least not as far as location. In other ways…everything had changed.
There was a soft tap on the door.
I knew that tentative knock. Smiling, I went to answer it.
Aunt H. stood in the hall. She wore a pink silk brocade dressing gown and a sleepy smile. “Welcome home, dear Artie!”
We hugged tightly, and I kissed my aunt’s cheek, which was soft and warm—as if she was the only living thing in this house. She smelled like Chanel No˚5 and apple blossom soap—scents straight out of my childhood. When she rested her head briefly on my shoulder, I felt a sudden onrush of protective tenderness that closed my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her—or how worried I’d been.
She held me tightly for a moment, then pushed back. To my alarm, I thought I saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. I could only remember her crying once before, and that was at the funeral of my father and mother.
“Let me look at you!” Auntie H. said. “Still handsome as ever! I suppose you’ve been breaking hearts up and down Broadway now that Gregory is out of the picture.”
I laughed. “Hardly. I’m too busy dashing the dreams and desires of starstruck kids and hacks old enough to know better. How are you, me old darling?”
“Wonderful, now that you’re here. I’ve missed you so, Artie.”
She was still smiling, but the smile couldn’t hide the worrying change in her appearance. Aunt H. had always looked much younger than her years, and after all, fifty-five wasn’t that old, but in the months since Ogden had passed, she seemed to have aged a decade. There were grooves in her cheeks and forehead, lines around her blue eyes, and deep creases running from her nose to mouth. That wasn’t age, though; it was worry and tension. I could see the strain in her eyes. Even her slim, sturdy body had grown small and frail, as if she’d been buffeted by too many hard winds.
“What the hell has been happening?” I asked, and I couldn’t hide my consternation.
“Oh!” Her gaze evaded mine. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if I’ve…”
“If you’ve what?”
“Let things…get me down. So much has happened. I can’t blame it all on Liana.” Abruptly, she turned away, clearing a space on the bed and sitting.
“Liana. What’s Liana got to do with it?”
“You know how close she and Ogden were.”
Yep, and I’d always thought it was a little peculiar, but then I’d been an only child. “I realize Ogden’s death must have been hard on her. It was hard on you too.”
“Yes. Of course. But Liana is…older.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You were his wife. How could it possibly be harder for Liana?”
She was avoiding my gaze again. “She’s always been very sensitive.”
I snorted.
“But she has, Artie. Anyway, she was in shock at first. We both were. But after the funeral, I think it all hit her. Very hard. That’s when everything began to change.”
“What everything?”
“Liana locked herself in her room and refuses to see anyone except me and the Tarrants. And Roma, of course. She’s become a-a literal recluse.”
“Liana?” I wasn’t sure who Roma was, but this picture of Liana as a hermit was hard to believe. Liana Hyde-Kent put the word social in socialite. Okay, it was to be expected she might take a break from the endless rounds of luncheons and cocktail parties and charity balls while she was in deep mourning, but Ogden had been gone for a year. Close enough.
“She just sits up there, day after day, with the drapes drawn, dealing out tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards. Seriously?”
Aunt H. nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
“Roma Loveridge.”
“And she is—”
“A medium.”
“A…”
“Yes. A medium. A very odd person.”
“Well, yeah. I would say so.”
Aunt H. threw me a quick, chiding look. “Not because she’s a medium. I know you’re a skeptic, but there are more things in heaven and earth.”
“That’s right, Horatio. There’s fire and water.”
She laughed and caught my hand, gripping it tight. “I have missed you so much, dear.”
“I’m not surprised, with Liana locked in the attic and the very odd Roma Lovebridge for company.”
“Loveridge, dear. The thing is, Liana seems to live for those séances. For the chance to speak to Ogden once more.”
I recalled Tarrant’s comments about the maids claiming to have seen ghosts. No wonder, with this kind of bullshit going on. I said, “Isn’t it time Liana was thinking of getting a place of her own again?”
Aunt H.’s eyes widened. “Throw her out?”
“I’m sure there’s a tactful way to dislodge her.”
Aunt H. looked pained. “Oh, Artie. I couldn’t do that to her. Especially now.”
“Especially now is when a change of venue might be good. For everyone involved.”
As mentioned, I always thought Liana’s attachment to Ogden was the stuff of bad seventies’ horror flicks.
“But this is where she’s…comfortable. This has been her home for so many years. And I know what you’re going to say, but this is where she’s been able to make contact.”
Aunt H. lifted her chin with self-conscious stubbornness under my scrutiny.
“My darling Auntie,” I said. “It’s one thing to be open-minded about the possibility of the supernatural. It’s another to bundle the Psychic Hotline with other phone and Internet services. Don’t tell me you believe Liana is up there chatting with Ogden over a friendly hand of tarot cards?”
“Well, no. That is, Roma uses a Ouija board to speak to Ogden.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Artemus, please don’t look at me like that. The thing is, Roma might be an oddball, but I’m absolutely convinced that she is not faking.”
A log settled, shooting a shower of sparks upward.
“No?” I said. “All right, then. What do I know? I guess I’d like to believe there was life after death.”
Aunt H. said eagerly, “After all, the greatest religions in the world are founded on the idea of life after death.”
“True enough.” I was still neutral, still doing my best not to show my increasing dismay.
Aunt H.’s eyes searched my face as though trying to determine if I was sincere or not.
In the ensuing silence, a gust of wind outside rattled the windows. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked. My aunt’s hand seemed to go ice-cold. Her face had suddenly gone very white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aunt Halcyone put a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” I tried not to show how freaked out I was by this, but I was pretty sure a photo would show my hair standing up in porcupine quills.
“Someone walking…”
I listened. “It’s the wind. A couple of floorboards settling. That’s all. That’s what you used to tell me,” I reminded her gently.
Her eyes flashed to my face. “We can’t keep servants anymore. Only the Tarrants. The others have all left.”
“Tarrant told me. Superstitious nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Artie. There are so many strange things happening here.”
I wrapped an arm around my aunt’s slender shoulders. “Of course it’s nonsense. Don’t tell me you’re starting to get caught up in Liana’s fantasies?”
“It might not be fantasy. If she and Roma have truly managed to contact Ogden—”
Once again I had to hope my expression didn’t give me away.
I said firmly, “Now look, darling. You’re tired. It’s late. We’re starting to go in circles with this. We’ll talk in the morning. How about that?”
“But the thing is…” Halcyone lifted stricken eyes to mine. “Oh, Artie. If it’s true—”
“It’s not true. How can it be?”
“If it is true, Ogden says…”
I sighed. “What? What does Ogden say?”
“Ogden says he was murdered!”
In the Arms of the Beast by KA Merikan
A hot flash pierced Laurent and trailed all the way to his toes when Beast’s blue eyes met his. The red neon above the entrance shed a colorful glow on his powerful figure, but his face, scarred as it was, softened with tenderness. Beast hadn’t expected Laurent’s presence, but he’d appreciate it nevertheless. Laurent might not be competent at using guns or fighting, but he would support Beast as best as he could on the difficult path his man needed to walk.
When Gray started talking to Beast outside, taking away his attention, Laurent refused to wait any longer. He put his notebook away and went straight for the door, itching to put his arms around his man. He doubted thinking of Beast in such a way would ever grow old. His. Man. A concept unthinkable in year 1805, the time Laurent had left behind.
“How did it go?” he asked when Beast had finished the hurried conversation.
Beast didn’t answer at first, instead sweeping Laurent to his chest until Laurent’s feet left the asphalt. Relief was like warm water splashing down Laurent’s back, and he circled the thick, warm neck with his arms, bumping their foreheads as tenderness took root in his heart.
“We have it,” Beast whispered into Laurent’s ear.
Laurent kissed Beast with a smile, itching to see the jewel. “But are you not injured?” he asked when he spotted dried red dots on Beast’s vest.
Beast shook his head and gave Laurent another peck on the lips. If the blood wasn’t Beast’s, Laurent didn’t need to know who it belonged to.
Extra Dirty by Brigham Vaughn & K Evan Coles
April 2015
Jesse Murtagh set down the packet of financial statements he’d been reviewing and smiled. He was seated in the back office of Under, a speakeasy in Morningside Heights, and life was good.
With Under approaching its one-year anniversary, the bar’s earnings surpassed expectations each quarter. They boasted a full guest list every night, and Under appeared as a “must visit” on New York’s fashionable lifestyle blogs and guides. Business was booming. And its success meant everything to Jesse and his business partner, Kyle McKee.
In addition to being Under’s co-owner, Kyle also happened to be one of Jesse’s favorite people in the world and one of his favorite partners in bed. Jesse would bet he’d find Kyle out in the speakeasy right now, too, readying the place for opening.
Jesse got to his feet. He locked the papers in the desk, then exited the office and moved toward the long bar that ran the length of the room. Under had a masculine, sophisticated vibe. Sleek leather seating areas dotted the room and open shelves lined the walls, backlit with amber lamps that cast a warm glow over bottles of rare and high-end liquors. On a typical evening, house music throbbed through the air by now, but Jesse and Kyle were holding a private party tonight, and silence reigned, save the sounds of Kyle at work.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Jesse drawled. “When did you get here?”
Kyle glanced up at Jesse’s approach. He smiled and the quirk of his full lips sent a ripple of heat through Jesse’s body.
“About an hour ago.” He shrugged easily. Kyle had dressed in black, as he always did for work, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. His muscled forearms flexed as he polished a rocks glass. “I saw Matt upstairs when I came in. He told me you were here, but I figured you’d be busy counting the money. Thought I’d leave you to it.”
Jesse rounded the bar with a laugh. “You know me too well.”
Opening the speakeasy had been a departure from his usual business of running a growing regional media conglomerate with his family. Jesse had never even worked in a bar or restaurant, let alone owned one. But Kyle had mentioned the idea of opening a bar one night over dinner and drinks, and the way his dark eyes had shone had captured Jesse’s fancy.
Jesse had mulled the idea over for several days, then brought it to his brother, Eric. He’d hoped Eric would talk him out of it and had thrown up his hands when Eric merely smiled.
’I’m not sure who you think you’re fooling, Jes,’ Eric had said. ‘I can already tell you’ve made up your mind to do it.’
And so, Jesse had found himself working with his accountants and his lawyer to create a business proposal. Within two weeks of that fateful dinner, he’d presented it to Kyle. They’d celebrated by screwing each other senseless, then started scouting for a location the very next day.
Jesse stepped up behind Kyle now and molded himself against his body. He wound his arms around Kyle’s waist, careful to avoid the glass in his hands.
In many ways, Kyle appeared to be Jesse’s opposite. His elegant, clean-shaven features and dark hair contrasted with Jesse’s short beard and dark-blond, blue-eyed coloring. Jesse broadcasted his emotions, whereas Kyle was more reserved. Both men stood at six feet and were built long and lean, like runners. But where Jesse could be coltish in his movements, Kyle’s were deliberate and graceful. Kyle, Jesse liked to say, had found his Zen.
Jesse nuzzled the side of Kyle’s neck. “I take it last month’s numbers are good?” Kyle’s voice went low and throaty.
“Indeed.” Jesse pulled him closer. He angled his hips and pressed his groin against Kyle’s muscular ass, and his body paid immediate attention to that firm heat. “The numbers are so good, in fact, I think we should celebrate.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Kyle’s throat.
Kyle leaned back into him with a rumbling noise. He set the glass he’d been polishing on the bar. “What did you have in mind?”
“Next weekend off—Masen can handle things in your absence.”
“Well, he’ll like that.”
Kyle sounded amused. They’d hired Masen Jones earlier in the year to help out, and he’d quickly become Kyle’s right-hand man.
“A whole weekend, though… I don’t know, Jes.”
Jesse dropped one hand and palmed Kyle through his trousers, and, oh, yes, he was hard. Kyle let out a soft gasp.
“Friday and Saturday, then,” Jesse bargained. He closed his eyes, heat flashing under his skin as Kyle pushed back and ground against him. “We’ll go to that club in Chelsea you told me about.”
“Oh, fine.” Kyle turned in the circle of his arms. “I’ll bring Jarrod and Gale as backup,” he added, then looped his arms around Jesse’s neck. “They can walk me home after you find someone to disappear with.”
Jesse grinned. “You really do know me too well,” he murmured and covered Kyle’s mouth with his own.
The kiss deepened and Kyle groaned. Jesse palmed him again, his touch rough, and pressed Kyle backward hard into the bar. Kyle’s cock twitched under Jesse’s hand, and he broke away with a sharp inhale.
“Jesus.”
“Jesse will do.”
Jesse let Kyle go and leaned back enough to get his hands on Kyle’s belt. Desire pulsed through him. Quickly, he opened Kyle’s trousers and pushed the dark fabric down his legs. Kyle’s eyes were wild when Jesse looked up again and a flush stained his cheeks and neck. He uttered a soft moan as Jesse sank to his knees.
Jesse kissed Kyle’s thighs. He kneaded the soft, fair skin with his hands and dragged Kyle’s boxer briefs down. Kyle sighed as his cock slipped free of the underwear and jutted up onto his abdomen.
Jesse pressed his face into the juncture between Kyle’s thigh and groin and inhaled the smell of almond-scented soap and sweat and man. “Damn,” he said, his voice low. “You always smell so good.”
Kyle ran his hands over Jesse’s head, then twined his fingers into his short hair. That possessive touch sent a jolt of lust zigzagging down Jesse’s spine. He loved it when Kyle got rough.
Shifting, he held tight to Kyle’s hips and opened his mouth at the base of his cock. He slowly dragged his tongue along its length.
“Oh, God.” Kyle’s low whisper set a fire in Jesse’s belly.
He licked and teased the shaft before he ducked down and caught Kyle’s balls with his tongue. He lavished them with attention until Kyle moaned steadily, then looked up and locked eyes with him. The dazed bliss on his face made Jesse’s dick throb.
“Suck me,” Kyle rasped out.
Jesse pulled back. He braced one arm across Kyle’s abdomen and wrapped his free hand around his base. Very, very slowly, he slid his lips over Kyle, reveling in the bittersweet taste and weight of the hard, velvety flesh on his tongue.
He took Kyle deep and waited until his nose brushed the curls of hair on his groin before he swallowed. Kyle’s eyes went wide. Jesse pinned him against the bar, and he bucked his hips forward, a strangled noise tearing out of him.
Kyle tipped his head back as Jesse sucked. He closed his eyes and swore, and his ragged tone went straight to Jesse’s groin. Jesse dropped his free hand and palmed himself, past caring if he shot in his pants.
He worked Kyle hard with his mouth until a shudder racked his frame. Jesse moved the arm pinning Kyle’s hips, which left him free to fuck Jesse’s mouth. Kyle opened his eyes again and stared at Jesse, his gaze filled with fire. He started to thrust and desire rattled down Jesse’s spine. He groaned with need and closed his eyes when Kyle gasped.
“Gonna come, Jes,” Kyle said, his voice rough and desperate. He tensed at Jesse’s moan. Then Jesse pressed the fingers of his free hand into the soft skin behind Kyle’s balls, and Kyle fell apart with a cry.
He tightened his grip on Jesse’s hair and his knees buckled. Jesse used his shoulder to hold Kyle up. His balls tightened as Kyle pulsed in his mouth, and he swallowed, tasting bitter and salt.
Kyle’s panting breaths echoed through the silent bar. Jesse pulled off, his head swimming, and Kyle freed his shaking hands from Jesse’s hair. He bent and hauled Jesse to his feet, and Jesse stumbled and clutched at Kyle.
“You okay?” Kyle asked with a smile.
“Dizzy. And I wanna fuck you right now,” Jesse muttered. Jesus, he needed to come. He pulled Kyle in for a messy kiss and ground his erection against Kyle’s thigh until Kyle broke away with a breathless laugh.
“I think we’ve violated enough health codes for now,” Kyle said. “Besides, we don’t have any lube or rubbers.”
“There’s some in the office.”
“We used them up last weekend.”
Jesse whined and rutted harder into Kyle. “Fuck.”
“I said no,” Kyle scolded, his tone playful and his brown eyes gleaming. He pulled his trousers up. No sooner were they buttoned than he sank to his knees and reached for Jesse’s belt. “Lucky for you, there’s time for me to suck you off and clean up.”
Kyle worked Jesse’s fly open and leaned in. He spread his palms over Jesse’s thighs and mouthed him through his boxer briefs. Goosebumps rose along Jesse’s arms at the press of damp heat and cotton against his erection. Leaning forward, he braced his hands against the gleaming bar, arrested by the sight of his friend. Kyle shut his eyes and nuzzled Jesse through his clothes. His long, dark lashes fanned over his fair skin, and his lips were parted and wet. He looked unbelievably erotic.
Jesse cupped his jaw. “Mmm, baby.”
Kyle opened his eyes. He hooked his fingertips under the waistband of Jesse’s boxer briefs, then pulled his trousers and briefs down. Jesse hissed. He bit his lip hard when his cock sprang free, and Kyle swallowed him down.
Jesse’s world exploded in a roar of pleasure that wiped his mind clean.
Life was very good indeed.
“CHRIS,” BRIGGS said as he stalked into the locker room like a man on a mission. His gaze was hard and his posture as rigid as a two-by-four. Anger and discontent rolled off him in waves, worse than Chris had ever seen in the month since he had moved from jail duty.
Two years of whining, demanding prisoners who thought being in jail was the worst thing to ever happen to them and thought a jail cell should be like a suite at the Hilton. Those were the ones Chris was pretty sure were never going to see the inside of a cell again if they could help it. And then there were the repeat offenders who thought of the jail as home and a chance at three meals a day. God, he had hated every minute of the constant noise of men and women talking, fighting, yammering on about nothing just to make noise so the reality of the shit they were in didn’t close in around them.
“What can I do for you?” Chris smiled as best he could. Briggs had been instrumental in getting him off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, so he owed the guy.
“It’s not me. His Majesty wants to see you.” Briggs turned, flashing a beam of damn near hatred out the door.
Not that Chris blamed the guy. When Sheriff Hunter had decided to retire, Briggs had stepped in as acting sheriff at Hunter’s request. The entire department had been pretty happy about it. Briggs was well respected and good at his job. But the county board had other ideas. They did some lame-assed search, and lo and behold, they’d found the current sheriff, a political appointee. That had been a month ago, but Briggs still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Thanks.” He checked that his uniform was perfect, because that was what Sheriff Mario Vitalli liked. He was all about how things looked and appeared. It didn’t seem to matter how things got done as long as he looked good—at least that was the general feeling in the locker room. “I’ll go right away.”
Briggs rolled his eyes. “He’s on a call, so give him five minutes.”
Vitalli liked everyone to wait for him, though he never wanted to wait for anyone or anything. Which would be fine if he were good at his job. He wasn’t particularly—at least Chris didn’t think so.
“Okay.” Chris wanted to say something to Briggs. He really thought a lot of him, but everything that came to mind sounded completely lame, so he kept quiet and showed Briggs the respect he thought he deserved.
“Do you want something?” Briggs asked, taking a step closer.
Chris realized he’d sunk into his thoughts and had been looking at nothing in particular. Briggs must have thought he was staring at him. “No.” Chris turned away and closed his locker. “I’ll see you around.” He left the room and headed up to where the big guy had his office.
The door was closed, so Chris sat in the chair outside to wait. Things had changed a lot in a month. Everyone was quiet around the office. The people who worked near the sheriff all spoke in whispers. Sheriff Vitalli didn’t like noise, and to him, talking meant people weren’t working. Which seemed ridiculous to Chris, because for him, talking in a sheriff’s office meant work was getting done and investigations were being discussed and moving forward.
The door opened and Sheriff Vitalli tilted his head outside.
Chris snapped to his feet, went in, and closed the door. “Good morning.”
“Anducci,” Vitalli said, taking his seat behind the desk. Chris couldn’t miss the file that sat there in front of him, and wondered if he was being sent back to the jail. His stomach clenched. He’d worked hard and diligently to get out of there. “I have an assignment for you.” He pushed the file off to the side as though he had made a decision. Chris wondered if it was good or bad.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, hoping to hell he wasn’t on his way back. No matter what, he was going to have to return to his locker for an antacid.
Vitalli shook his head and scoffed. “Everyone seems to think that this office is some kind of protection service.” He sneered.
Chris kept his mouth shut. It was their job to protect the public, which was why they became police officers in the first place. At least why Chris had. Granted, most people would think him idealistic, but so the fuck what.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Chris answered quickly.
“I got a request from a social worker.” Vitalli yanked open a drawer and pulled out a thin file, then tossed it on the desk dramatically. “The cops in Carlisle busted up a whorehouse and found a bunch of aliens working there. In their touchy-feely world, they set about helping them and found they were brought here against their will.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not buying it, but no one asked me my opinion. Anyway, they say they need help for one person they found. It’s a man, not a woman….” The sheriff paused as if he were expecting some sort of agreement to his ignorance and shortsightedness. He didn’t seem to believe that men could be trafficked as well as women, and Chris wasn’t going to agree with him.
“Human trafficking takes many forms,” Chris said, then cleared his throat when the sheriff frowned deeply. “What would you like me to do?”
Vitalli groaned dramatically. “The Social Services folks found these people safe places to live, but one of them has been found out. Apparently he’s preparing to testify against his captors, and now he’s been getting threats. The feds, DA, and Social Services are all asking for protection for this guy, and it’s falling on me to provide it. So….” He picked up the file and thrust it toward Chris. “It’s you.”
“Me?” He took the file and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t going to read it while standing in front of the sheriff.
“Can we not let this interfere with your shifts?” he groused, then turned back to his empty desk, grabbing the first piece of paper he could find.
“Is there anything else?”
He didn’t think he was going to get an answer, but then the sheriff lifted his gaze. “Don’t screw this up. It’s an easy job, so just do it and be done.” He turned away, back to his papers. Chris took it as a dismissal and left the office, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh of relief, Chris went to his old metal desk at the back of the station and placed the file on the empty surface. He was usually out on patrol or working with one of the other deputies, so he spent very little time there. No pictures or papers littered the space, just a phone and a few files hanging in one of the drawers. It would be so easy for him to pack up and move on. Part of him, some fear deep inside, wondered how long he would get to stay before being sent back to jail duty.
“What did the sheriff want?” Pierre asked as he approached the desk.
“He gave me an assignment,” Chris said, rather pleased.
Pierre smiled. “It looks like you’re going to stay, then.” Pierre had been the first one to welcome him, handing over a fresh coffee on Chris’s first day. “That’s good.”
“Suppose so, as long as I don’t mess it up.” Chris opened the file and scanned through it. There wasn’t much information, just a name and address for the witness, along with information on how to contact the caseworker. “Kasun, Pavle Kasun…,” he said, and nodded.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Pierre asked.
“Not personally. My mother’s family is Serbian, and this has that sound.” He picked up the phone and called the number for the caseworker. It went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call back as soon as she was able.
“What did the sheriff tell you?”
“That this Pavle is a witness who was in a safe house until he was found out. I suspect he’s been moved, and they want me to try to help keep him safe until the FBI and DA can talk to him and he can testify against the traffickers.” It shouldn’t be too difficult a job as long as they could keep his location a secret.
“Then do what you can for him.” Pierre glanced at the sheriff’s office, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t think too much of others… who are different. Anyone who is different from him.”
“I see.” Chris knew Pierre had a partner, Jordan, who worked at the courthouse, and there were other gay men in the department. Apparently they were worried about this particular sheriff. Sheriff Hunter hadn’t been prejudiced; either that or he hadn’t cared as long as the job got done. Chris supposed that was probably the best kind of person to occupy the office. Someone who looked at accomplishments and results.
“No, you don’t. Be careful, and do this to the best of your ability.” Pierre clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Because this could be your one and only chance with this man. He doesn’t seem to abide anything that makes him look bad in any way.” Pierre held his gaze, and Chris nodded. They were both thinking of Graves, who the new sheriff had already demoted and relegated to patrolling country roads for speeding and crap just because one of his arrests fell through on procedural grounds.
“I know.” Chris had started reviewing the file again when his phone rang. He smiled at Pierre, who left his desk, and Chris answered the call.
“Hello, this is Marie Foster returning your call. Is this in regards to Pavle?” She sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept or had a break in weeks.
“Yes. I was hoping I could meet you and we could discuss what you believe is required, and then I’d like to meet him. I need to assess the situation so I can develop a plan to help keep him safe.”
“Excellent. If you’d like to come to my office on Pitt Street, we can go see him from there.” She gave him the address. “And please don’t come in an official car. We don’t want to draw attention to where he is. This is the third safe house we’ve housed him at, and we keep getting indications that he’s been found. We don’t know how, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Then I’ll change into civilian clothes as well before I come see you.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in about half an hour, then.”
After hanging up, Chris left his desk, picking up the file to take it with him. He returned to the locker area, changed out of his uniform, and let dispatch know that he was going to be out on an assignment from the sheriff. Then he took his own car and drove the five minutes to the office.
The building embodied small and utilitarian at its worst—nothing at all of any personality in the place—and Marie’s office was equally drab and stuck in the eighties. When he entered, she stood to offer her hand. Then he sat in an olive-green office chair that creaked under his weight.
Marie was a big woman with a ready smile and bright, expressive eyes that bristled with intelligence and care. She dressed professionally casual, wearing a dark blue and white blouse with jeans. Her office was as neat and organized as any he’d seen. Two phones rested in holders on her desk, which also held a computer and a few pictures.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on so I can try to help?” Chris asked, needing to get some background.
She nodded. “We discovered the house about three weeks ago, and the Carlisle Police raided the place. They discovered people inside, including two wanted sex offenders, who are still in custody in the county prison, and Pavle, who was cowering in the corner of a closet. It took them an hour to get him to come out. Once they called me, I was able to explain enough to him that he understood those people were there to help him.”
“Did you work with him?”
“Yes. I found him a safe house that was a group home with five other individuals. It was… not good. He cowered when any men came near him and basically stayed in a corner, watching everyone, for days. Either that or he went to his room and hid. I think his poor mind was simply overloaded. Then someone tried to set fire to the home and damaged it enough that everyone had to be relocated. That was hard, but then they reported people watching the next house two days after Pavle moved in.” She swallowed and leaned back in her chair.
“Do you think someone is feeding his captors information?” Chris asked.
“Honestly? Yes,” she said, and he nodded. “We have a system that tracks each person in our safe houses. Pavle has been anonymized, but someone is using the information to try to find him, which is a violation of a number of state and federal laws.” Marie leaned forward, her demeanor turning more serious. “We can’t protect him anymore, and the longer he stays in the safe house, the more he and the others there with him are in danger.” She humphed softly. “At the moment he’s being housed in a home for women because we didn’t want to put him with men right now. And that’s causing some problems for the women, though I think those are dissipating.” She was clearly coming to the end of her resources. “I guess what I’m asking you is if you’d be willing to take Pavle to live with you. That way I can remove him from the system, at least as far as the information about where he’s staying. Get him off the grid for a while.”
That hadn’t been something Chris had thought about doing, and the request surprised him. His instinct was to say no. His own home was his sanctuary, and he liked to keep it that way. Growing up, he’d moved many times—military family. Luckily, when his dad had been close to retirement, he’d been able to get posted to the Carlisle Barracks, near family. Chris’s home here was like his castle because it was the first one he’d had that was his and no one else’s.
“Why don’t you take me to meet him and then we can see what we need to do,” Chris said, purposely vague and noncommittal. Surely Marie couldn’t blame him for not giving an answer until he met Pavle.
“I’ll do that. But there are some things you need to know first.” She floundered, seeming to be trying to figure out where to start. “We haven’t gotten the full story from him about how he got here. There is a language barrier that’s hard for us to breach. He does speak some English, mostly what he taught himself from listening to his captors and the few people he’s been around for the last four years.”
Chris gaped. How in the hell could someone live that way for such a long time? “Oh my God.”
“Yes. We believe he was brought in through New Jersey during the Super Bowl in 2014. Newark is a huge human trafficking point of entry. Anyway, we aren’t sure how long he’s been in Carlisle or how many owners he’s had over the years.”
Her words sent a spike through Chris’s heart. How in the hell could people do that to someone else? Chris had most definitely seen human beings at their lowest, and just when he thought he’d seen it all… wham… it got worse.
“Okay. So he’s been traumatized and most likely gaslighted for years,” he said, and Marie nodded. “So in his mind, this is all his fault, and everything that has happened to him is because of something he did.”
“You got it. Years of fear and guilt conditioning. Those are the greatest weapons they have. Though, deep down, there is some steel in his back. There has to be for him to have survived this long.” She gathered her purse and phone, as well as a spring jacket. The early May weather this year had been up and down. “This is the address.” She handed it to him on a small sheet of notepaper, and Chris memorized it and dropped it into the shredder in the corner of the office. That earned him a smile.
“I’ll meet you there. I’m in the blue Edge,” he explained as he left the office with Marie behind him.
Inside the car, he took a few minutes to breathe. Things like this shouldn’t affect him. He saw bad things every day. But this story got under his skin, and he needed a few minutes to get his professional distance back into place. Once his anger and indignation wore down a little, he pulled out of the lot and drove to the east side of town. He parked on the street and waited for Marie before approaching the house with her.
Marie stopped at the base of the walk. “I know you’re a cop, but try not to walk like one. You’re standing tall and strong. I know in your job you have to project strength, but here that’s not a benefit. Every one of these people have been abused or hurt at the hands of a man, so they are going to be intimidated.”
Chris slumped a little and lowered his gaze slightly. “Better?”
“Try smiling and not being so serious.”
Chris chuckled, and Marie must have approved because she turned, continued forward, and knocked on the door.
The house was deadly silent. Three women sat in chairs, looking up at him as though he were the devil incarnate, fear radiating off each and every one of them. He nodded to each lady and gave them all a small smile.
“This is Deputy Chris,” Marie said.
“What he want?” one of the ladies asked. She had big brown eyes, and her lips curled in a sneer.
“Letty, that’s enough,” Marie said gently, but with a firm undertone. “He’s here to help Pavle.”
A woman bustled into the room, and Marie introduced her as the housemother, Annette.
“His room is down the hall. He rarely leaves it, even to eat,” Annette explained, never raising her voice much above a whisper. “Follow me.” She turned to lead him down the hallway to the last room. Annette knocked, spoke softly, and opened the door.
The curtains were drawn, the room dark, even though it was the middle of the day. A single light burned next to a twin bed that had been made to within an inch of its life, with corners sharp enough to make any drill sergeant proud. The room, however, was empty.
“Pavle, sweetheart. It’s Annette,” she said gently and waited.
Slowly a figure, curled up and small, made an appearance from around the side of the dresser. The first thing Chris noticed were the biggest, brownest eyes he had ever seen, filled with the pain of years of hurt. They blinked, and then Pavle stepped farther into the light. Even standing, he looked half hunched over.
“This is Deputy Chris. He’s here because he’s going to help keep you safe.”
Pavle raised his head slightly, his black hair, long and uneven, falling to the sides of his face.
“Hello,” Chris said, mimicking the soft tone the others had used. “I’m Chris. They told me you needed help, so I’m going to protect you so no one hurts you anymore.” In that moment, he made up his mind to do whatever was needed to help this man, and if that meant moving him into his home to protect him, so be it.
“I’d like it if you went with Deputy Chris. He is a good man and will not hurt you,” Marie explained slowly and gently.
Chris didn’t expect Pavle to believe her or to agree to come. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Chris said, crouching down so he was at the same level as Pavle. “This is your choice.”
“Choice?” Pavle asked in a raspy voice that tore at Chris’s insides, looking at him and then back to Marie.
“Yes. You can choose to stay here or go with Deputy Chris. We want you to be safe, but we aren’t sure how well we can protect you here. If you go with Deputy Chris, he will protect you. Keep you safe.”
“INS?” Pavle asked.
“No. He is good man. Caring. He will help you.” Marie seemed to have infinite patience.
Pavle blinked, standing still, then nodded and walked to Chris. It seemed as though he either didn’t understand or thought he didn’t have a choice, even though he was being given one. Chris held out his hands, palms up, to show that he wasn’t going to hit him. When Pavle looked at him with those huge eyes and the face of an angel, he looked much younger than the twenty-four listed in his file. Maybe that was his previous owner’s fetish. Still, after all he’d been through, Pavle’s handsomeness and light shone through, with soft features and an almost delicate frame.
“I’ll gather his few things,” Annette said.
Marie extended her hand to take Pavle’s gently. He went with her in silence. She led him out of the house, and once they were in the sun, Chris got a better look at him. Pavle was pale, probably from years of being inside. Chris reminded himself to ask Marie about any past injuries. He suspected that Pavle had been treated very badly in the past and he needed to know if he was okay physically.
“Thank you for doing this,” Marie said once she had opened the door to Chris’s car and gotten Pavle settled in the passenger seat. He sat without moving or looking to either side. “You have to keep him safe. He is the main witness against the man who held him for nearly two years. We need to get that man and then trace back to the people who sold Pavle to him. We’re pulling each thread to see what we can unravel.”
“Okay. I will do my best, I promise you.”
“I’ll follow you to your house and help Pavle get settled.”
As Marie got to her car, Pavle reacted for the first time.
“She’s just riding separately. She will be back in a few minutes.”
Chris drove the short distance to his house and pulled into the garage. He didn’t want Pavle to be seen, and yet he also didn’t want him to feel like a prisoner again by being hidden. He got out and waited, hoping Pavle would get out on his own. After a few moments, Pavle opened the door and climbed out of the car. Chris opened the door to the yard and motioned for Pavle to go ahead of him.
Marie came through behind him, and Chris closed the garage doors and joined the two of them in the yard. Pavle looked around, saying nothing. Chris wished he would say something… anything. He was way too quiet, and that worried Chris because he had no idea what he was thinking, and damn it all, those eyes still held buckets of fear.
“It’s okay. This is where you are going to stay.” Marie gently coaxed Pavle toward the house, and he shuffled along, looking at the yard. Hopefully he liked what he saw. Chris had spent too many hours working out stress for the garden to be unappreciated.
Chris opened the back door, went inside, and turned on lights, letting Marie bring Pavle into the kitchen, motioning toward the living room. Maybe this was the biggest mistake of his life. He wasn’t equipped to handle someone as fragile and frightened as Pavle. Chris had no clue what he needed or even how to get through to him.
“I sold?” Pavle finally asked, barely above a whisper.
Chris caught Marie’s gaze, and his heart twisted in his chest. God, this was going to wrench his guts six ways from Sunday.
“No. This is where you are going to live. You are not going to be sold to anyone anymore. Deputy Chris is here to help you and nothing more.” She patted his hand and took Pavle through to the other room.
Chris got three glasses of water and put some cookies on a plate. He needed some sugar if he was going to get through this in one piece.
Marie and Pavle were talking softly on the sofa when Chris handed each of them a glass and offered them cookies. Marie took one, and Pavle stared at the plate as though it were a foreign object. Finally, he took one and ate a small bite before shoving the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing like he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he drank the entire glass of water.
Chris offered him another, and Pavle took it in disbelief, ate it quickly, and then rested his hands in his lap.
“Why don’t I take you upstairs and show you your room?” Chris offered. He led Pavle and Marie upstairs and into the bright guest room, with cream walls and a deep green coverlet on the bed. The furniture was white and rather plain, but functional. He’d found the set at a secondhand store and painted it himself to clean it up. “You can put your clothes in here,” Chris told Pavle, who shrugged and looked down at what he was wearing.
“I have his things in the car. There isn’t much right now,” Marie explained.
“That’s okay. I can take him to get everything he needs.” Chris needed to do some shopping tomorrow anyway and figured he could take Pavle with him. He would need to disguise Pavle somehow. “I have something he can wear tonight if he needs to, and then we’ll shop tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Marie said with a sigh. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked Pavle, who nodded.
Chris showed her downstairs, while Pavle stayed behind, and got Pavle’s things from her car.
“I’ll stop by whenever I can. He’s going to need care and plenty of help.”
“Of course. Is he seeing a counselor?” Chris asked.
“Yes. But they are having some language issues. I’m working on it. I’d like to find one who understands Serbian so they can talk in his native language, but it’s very difficult in this area. But I’m not giving up. I’ll let you know when his next appointment is.” She left through the back gate, and Chris locked it from the inside and went back into the house. He brought Pavle’s things up to his room and set them on the bed next to him.
“Are you hungry?” Chris asked. When Pavle finally nodded, Chris motioned, and they left the room. He didn’t know what to make for dinner, but decided on pasta. He got Pavle seated in the kitchen and started cooking. It wasn’t fancy, and the sauce was from a jar, but when he put the plate and a glass of water in front of Pavle, the surprised expression and then the way he shoveled the food into his mouth, his arm nearly a blur, told him a great deal about Pavle’s treatment. Chris got his attention and ate slowly. “I’m not going to take your food.”
Pavle nodded and ate a little more leisurely, but his body was rigid the entire time, as if he expected Chris to take away his plate at any moment.
Once Pavle had eaten everything, Chris got him a little more and showed Pavle what he had to drink. Pavle pointed, and Chris poured him some juice. Pavle sniffed the glass and sipped before downing the liquid like it was a huge shot.
“I am not going to take your food or drink. You can have all you want.” He poured Pavle some more grape juice and set it in front of him before clearing the dishes. Pavle stared at the glass like it held some deep meaning and then sighed dramatically and drank it.
Once Chris had cleaned up, he motioned for Pavle to follow him through to the living room. Chris put on the television and sat in the chair. Pavle sat in the other one, alternately watching the television and then him. It was a little unnerving, but Chris sat still and tried to relax, hoping Pavle would do the same.
At bedtime, he turned off the television and led Pavle up the stairs, turning out the lights. “It’s time to go to bed.” He showed Pavle the bathroom and the towels that were his to use. He also found a new toothbrush and some extra toiletries for him, placing them on the bathroom counter. He tried to think of anything he was forgetting. “Is there anything else you need?”
Pavle shook his head and went to his room, and when Chris came in to bring him some pajamas, Pavle stood in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back, head bent down.
Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code by Charlie Cochrane
Jonty woke on St Bride’s day with a sense of foreboding, one which he couldn’t shake off, no matter how he tried telling himself not to be so stupid. Life didn’t resemble a mystery story, thank goodness, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would take advantage of the college festivities to commit murder most foul, having engineered themselves an ingenious and untraceable method of killing. The story of the night crawler and the book he’d been reading in bed had clearly been playing on his sub-conscious mind as he slept.
Over their ridiculously early breakfast he’d not been able to hide his unease from Orlando, who’d soon spotted something was wrong.
“It’s the old by the pricking of my thumbs thing. It’s totally illogical, on every ground, but I can’t persuade myself out of it, no matter how often I lecture myself, so please don’t try that one on me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Orlando patted his hand. “I’d also not discount your feelings. Some people have a knack of picking up little clues without being aware they’ve done so. I suspect you’re one, so maybe you’ve picked up something in the atmosphere. Some undergraduate with a particularly guilty expression on his face that he didn’t hide soon enough, an expression which you’ve unconsciously filed away.”
“Perhaps the night crawler himself?” Jonty smiled. “That’s possible. In which case I shall await the event with interest. Unless he’s loosened one of the gargoyles, of course, although Browne would have spotted if one of those had been rigged to fall. Having said that, an innocent prank might be welcome.”
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out by Josh Lanyon
It was after eleven by the time Nick got home.
The apartment was dark and silent. It smelled of paint and linseed oil, which was how home smelled now. It would not smell like cooking because Perry did not bother to cook when Nick was not around for meals. It was a question as to whether he even bothered to eat.
Nick quietly set his bag down and turned on the living room light. God it was good to be back. He looked around approvingly. The room was comfortably furnished. His old blue sofa was positioned against one wall. Two small end tables they’d picked up at a Goodwill store sat at either end. The tables were topped with matching alabaster lamps that Perry assured him were terrific finds. Maybe. Nick had doubts about the antiquated wiring, but Perry loved them, so he’d bought the lamps. Nick’s framed seascape hung on the opposite wall. A tall mahogany bookshelf, another Goodwill find, held Perry’s paperbacks and his vintage clock. They were using an old trunk for their coffee table. Most of the remaining available space was taken up with Perry’s canvases—those that were either on their way out to galleries and local shops or those on their way back.
Everything appeared neat and tidy and in its place. Everything but Perry.
A quick glance in the bedroom verified that he was not in. Nick swallowed his disappointment. It was unusual for Perry to go to bed before midnight, and he hadn’t known Nick was heading back to LA—Nick hadn’t wanted to let him down in case things didn’t wrap up on schedule—however, a survey of the apartment made it clear that not only was Perry not there, he hadn’t been home since breakfast.
His rinsed cereal bowl sat in the sink. A box of Froot Loops sat on the breakfast counter. Perry teased Nick being a neat freak, but he also did his best to accommodate those fifteen years of military regimen and order.
Nick stared at the red and white cereal bowl with a sinking feeling.
There were any number of benign explanations for why Perry wasn’t home. He could be out with friends. He wasn’t exactly a party animal, but he had made friends in art school and he did hang out with them occasionally. He wouldn’t have left a note because he wasn’t expecting to see Nick until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
He could have gone to a movie.
There were less benign possibilities too.
He could be stranded somewhere. That piece of junk car of his was always breaking down.
He could have had a severe asthma attack and landed in the hospital. Although, fortunately, he was so much better now that he was on those controller medications, an attack wasn’t the concern it once would have been. LA’s smog wasn’t great for him, but it had been months since he’d had a real flare-up.
Nick listened to the sound of traffic outside the apartment as he continued to uneasily study Perry’s cereal bowl. The streets were never silent here. At three o’clock in the morning, you could still hear the rush of the nearby freeway.
Well, it was a trade-off. Peace and quiet in exchange for a real job for him and a decent art school for Perry.
Unbidden, another thought slithered into his brain: he could have met someone.
What the hell? Where was that thought coming from? It wasn’t the first time either. He rejected it instantly, impatiently. For God’s sake. Perry wasn’t home to greet him and his thoughts jumped there?
It wasn’t like he was even the jealous type. He knew Perry loved him, and God knew he loved Perry. More than he’d ever imagined he could love anyone. He trusted Perry.
But there was that ten-year age gap and the fact that Perry had never been exposed to so many other gay men before the move to LA.
Bullshit. Working all these goddamned divorce cases was what even put the thought in his head.
That said, he’d have to be blind not to notice the way other guys responded to Perry—or the way Perry responded to finally getting some appreciative male attention. Meaning only that Perry’s blushing confusion at being flirted with was touching.
And the kid was alone a lot. It couldn’t be helped. Nick was low man on the totem pole and most of the out-of-town and late-night gigs fell to him. Fair enough. He was grateful for the job and beyond grateful at the possibility that he might even be made a partner eventually. But it meant Perry was on his own in the big, bad city a lot of the time.
And so what? Whatever was keeping Perry out at this time of night, it was not some illicit affair. That the idea even crossed his mind was proof Nick was spending way too much time photographing cheating wives and double-dealing husbands.
Whatever. The job was what it was, and what it mostly was, was adulterous spouses and fraudulent insurance claims. He was lucky to have it. But. Not exactly why he’d become a navy SEAL.
But then he wasn’t a SEAL anymore.
Nick was brooding over this, staring out the window over the kitchen sink at the smog-dimmed stars when he heard the smothered sound of Perry’s cough outside the apartment door. He stepped out of the kitchen as Perry’s key turned the lock.
Perry opened the door, clearly surprised to find the lights on. His thin, pointy face lit up as he spotted Nick. “Hey, you’re home!”
Nick retorted, “One detective per family is e—” but the rest of it was cut off as Perry launched himself. Nick’s arms automatically locked around him and his mouth came down hard on Perry’s eager one.
What was it about Perry? He was cute enough, sure. Medium height, lanky, and boyish-looking. His hair was blonde and spiky. His eyes were big and brown and as long lashed as a cartoon character. In this town where two out of every three guys looked like they were trying out for a role in a major motion picture, Perry was almost strikingly ordinary. Maybe that was it. The fact that Perry didn’t look like everyone else. That he didn’t act like everyone else.
It was funny though because Perry was almost the complete opposite of what Nick had always thought was his type. Not that he had really thought of himself as having a type—beyond wanting someone with a penis.
Even after nine months, that unstinting…what the hell would you call it? Sweetness sounded too sappy, but there was something so honest, so generous in Perry’s responses. It made Nick’s heart feel too big for his chest. Closed his throat so that he could rarely say the things he wanted to say, things that Perry deserved to hear.
I love you. It scares me how much I love you.
Instead, he said gruffly, “Where the hell have you been at this hour?”
Perry didn’t seem to hear the gruffness. His wide brown eyes smiled guilelessly up into Nick’s. “I was sketching—”
He had to stop though, starting to wheeze. He threw an apologetic look at Nick and dug out his rescue inhaler. He took a couple of quick puffs while Nick watched, frowning.
This was not good. He didn’t like the sudden alarming reappearance of coughing and wheezing. He put a hand on Perry’s shoulder. Under Nick’s tutelage, Perry had built up some muscle, but he had not really put on much weight. His shoulders were still bony, his collarbones sharp.
“You okay?”
Perry put the inhaler away—he didn’t like using it in front of Nick. As if he thought Nick looked down on him for it?
He said, “It was so dusty up there!”
“Where? Where’ve you been?” Nick hoped he didn’t sound as accusatory as he did to his own ears.
“I drove up to Angel’s Rest.”
“Where?”
“That old hotel in the hills. Remember at Dorian’s exhibition last Saturday? The 1920s hotel in those photos?”
“The abandoned place on Laurel Canyon?”
Jesus fucking Christ. He remembered Perry had seemed fascinated by those photos. But hiking around those hills on his own? Anything could happen to him, from being bit by a rattlesnake to running into some crazed homeless person.
Nick didn’t let any of that show on his face. That was one thing he had decided early on. He was not going to undermine Perry’s confidence or self-resilience with his own fears. Perry was not his child, he was his partner. Physically frail or not, he was a grown man.
“Right,” Perry said quickly, as though he sensed everything Nick was determined not to say. “Only it’s not abandoned. Well, not completely.”
Now, studying him more closely in the lamplight, Nick noticed Perry’s t-shirt was smeared with dust and torn at the collar. And—more alarming—his knuckles were scraped and cut.
Perry said, “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t know you’d be home tonight. I bought pork chops for when you got home.”
“Were you in fight?”
Perry’s eyelashes flicked up guiltily. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
Nick felt as winded as if Perry had punched him. Trying to picture him in a fight was—well, yes, Nick had been showing him some moves, tried to prepare him a little in case he ever had to defend himself—but still, Perry in a fight?
“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Perry said. “Should I cook the pork chops?”
“I’ll fix us something to eat. You talk.”
In the kitchen Nick grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, uncapped them, handing one to Perry and taking a long swallow from his own. He came up for air and exhaled. He’d needed that.
“How did the job go?” Perry asked, watching him.
“The usual. It was okay. I want to hear about your week.”
Nick dug the package of pork chops out of the fridge while Perry told him about sketching Angel’s Rest over the past few days—Nick hanging onto his patience while Perry was momentarily distracted by his enthusiasm for crumbling architecture and light and shadow—before finally describing hearing someone yelling for help from the hotel grounds.
Nick clenched his jaw on his instinctive protest. Of course, Perry would respond. Of course, he would try to help. It was the right thing to do, and by God Nick was not going to try to tell him otherwise—although the sight of Perry sitting there with his torn t-shirt, bruised knuckles, and shining eyes worried the hell out of him.
While he prepared the pork chops, he heard out the whole ridiculous but still alarming story of men in skeleton costumes with wooden swords— He was both proud and aghast that Perry had charged into the middle of that.
Perry chattered on, barely touching his own beer.
“He said his name was Horace Daly. He used to be an actor. He lives at the hotel. It’s not a hotel anymore though. Now it’s sort of like apartments. Kind of like the Alston Estate really. Only—”
“Horace Daly,” Nick interrupted. “The actor. I remember him.”
“Yeah? I didn’t recognize his name, when he introduced himself, but I did sort of recognize his face.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“No. He’s pretty old, but he seems spry. He’s retired now, of course. You should see that place, Nick. He’s got a bunch of movie memorabilia everywhere. You walk down a corridor and suddenly you see a life-sized mummy standing in the shadows. Or a chopped off head sitting on a table. All these props from his films. There’s a gibbet in the old ballroom. The real thing they used in his movie, not replicas. At one time Horace thought maybe he could turn part of the hotel into a museum.” Perry’s eyes shone with enthusiasm, the artist in him no doubt getting off on the workmanship that went into creating realistic-looking skeletons and ghouls or whatever it was Daly kept in his closet.
Nick said, “Right. He was in all those old horror flicks. Night of the Blue Witch, Seven Brides for Seven Demons, Sex and the Single Ghoul.”
“My parents wouldn’t let me watch that stuff.” Perry’s expression was one of brooding regret.
Nick bit back a grin. “No, well. So, Daly is still around and lives in an abandoned hotel in Laurel Canyon?”
“Exactly. But that’s the thing. It’s not abandoned. He owns the property. He rents the suites out to regular tenants.” Perry amended, “Well, maybe regular isn’t the word. I met a couple of them. But he’s got about seven people renting from him.”
“Huh,” said Nick, noncommittal.
Perry’s big brown eyes—wide with worry and concern—raised to his. “Horace thinks someone’s trying to kill him.”
“To kill him,” Nick repeated. “He actually told you he thinks someone is trying to kill him?”
Perry nodded. “He says it’s not the first time he’s been attacked, but no one ever believed him because he’s never had a witness before.”
Several comments leaped to mind. Nick nobly squashed them all.
Perry was still following his own thoughts. “He thinks it might be a crazed fan or someone like that. Someone who saw his movies and kind of lost it.”
“So…like a movie critic?” Nick was teasing, but he didn’t like this at all. Perry had seen the guys dressed up in skeleton costumes, so Horace wasn’t making that part up, but the rest of it sounded pretty sketchy. Speaking as someone in the PI biz, homicides weren’t really all that common. Not even in LA.
Perry made a face and laughed, but he continued to watch Nick in that serious, hopeful way as though he imagined Nick might have an instant solution to old Horace’s problems.
“Why would someone want to knock Horace off?” Nick asked. “I mean, assuming it’s not a crazed fan out to get him.”
“But that’s it. He’s sure it is a crazed fan or a stalker. Someone confusing the movies with real life. He said for years he’s been getting weird, threatening letters.” Perry bit his lip thinking. “He’s hiding something though.”
Nick studied him. The funny thing about Perry was, despite his lack of worldly experience, he had good instincts about people. Reluctantly, he asked, “Why do you think so?”
Perry gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. He’s frightened. That’s real. He does believe someone is trying to kill him.” He said slowly, “What I think he’s lying about is not knowing why.”
“It would be in the letters, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess. Horace said he didn’t keep the letters.”
Nick considered that piece of information. It might be the truth. It might be that Horace had the letters but didn’t want anyone to see them. It might be that there never were any letters. He said, “I can tell you the usual reasons people kill. They want something someone else has. Usually money or sex.”
“What about revenge?” Perry asked.
“I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. Just that it’s not nearly as common in real life as it is on TV.”
“I don’t think either money or sex would apply in Horace’s case.”
Probably not. Nick was having trouble believing in any scenario where an aging and long forgotten film star would have a murderous stalker.
“But you think revenge would?”
“Er…no. But by process of elimination…”
Nick sighed inwardly. Thanks to true crime TV, everybody thought they were a PI. Even his own boyfriend.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “If these yahoos wanted Horace dead, couldn’t they have killed him today?”
“Yes.”
“Wooden swords sound more like movie props to me.”
Perry’s expression grew animated. “Yes. Exactly. That’s it. That’s one reason why Horace thinks that this is the work of crazy stalker fans. He believes they tried to use wooden swords because that’s what you do with vampires. You drive a wooden stake through their heart.”
Okaaay. Judging by the bright eyes and pink cheeks, it was pretty clear that Horace wasn’t the only one who thought crazed fans wielding wooden swords made total sense.
“Did Horace report the attack to the police?”
“No. I tried to get him to, but he said he reported the earlier attacks, and nobody believed him. The police thought he was making it up for attention.”
Nick grunted. The same thought had occurred to him.
“Even his tenants thought he was imagining things.”
“That doesn’t seem to be the case.” Nick had to allow that much. “You saw these three yourself.”
“Yes.” Perry’s mind was on other things. “In the movie Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? Horace had to use a wooden sword to kill Angelina once she became a vampire. You see?”
“Mmhm.” Only too well.
“So, it does kind of make sense.”
Perry went back to watching him with that resolve-weakening mix of confidence and hope. Uneasily, Nick considered the hopefulness. What did Perry want? What were his expectations?
The pork chops were fried to perfection, their fragrant smell warming the small kitchen. Nick slid them from the frying pan onto two thick blue plates, then placed the plates on the table.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” Perry said quickly. Nick guessed that he was thinking—correctly—that two paper-thin pork chops was not a lot of dinner for him. These four beautiful little pork chops would have been a special welcome home dinner for himself. He had to watch for that kind of thing because Perry was prone to unnecessary self-sacrifice. No way was he going to bed hungry. Not on Nick’s watch.
“Did you have dinner?”
“No, but—”
“Eat your dinner.”
Perry grimaced, but then smiled as though Nick were offering him a special treat and not his fair share of their rations.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Nick was tired. It had been a long ass drive from Modesto. His thoughts were still partly on his case. Perry had had a little adventure, but it was over and no harm done. Nick looked forward to a shower, a sleep, and eventually waking up with his favorite person on the entire planet. Rarely did they get an entire weekend to themselves.
Perry chewed a couple of neatly carved pieces of pork before saying slowly, “I wasn’t expecting you home until Monday.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get away. Why? Did you make plans?” Nick smiled, a little amused. He took it for granted if Perry had made plans he’d change them to accommodate him. Not that he wouldn’t fall in with Perry’s plans if Perry had his heart set on another art show or something.
Perry looked troubled. “I did, yeah.”
Nick’s brows rose. He was still tolerant.
“I told Horace I’d stay up there this weekend.”
“You…”
“He needs help, Nick.”
“It sounds like it, all right.” Nick was grim.
Perry seemed to evaluate Nick’s mood. He brightened. “What if you stayed up there with me? That would be even better. You know what you’re doing.”
“What I’m…” Nick swallowed the rest of it. He said very mildly, “Why would you agree to that? Why would you agree to spend the weekend at a falling down hotel where people in costumes are running around swinging swords at innocent bystanders?”
“I’ve told you. Horace is afraid,” Perry said. “Nobody else believes him.”
Nick had no answer for that. Or rather, he had so many answers he didn’t know where to start. He finally managed, “But they’ll believe him now. Right? He’s got corroborating testimony.”
Perry grinned. “‘Corroborating testimony.’ You’re starting to sound like a PI.”
“Yeah. But I’m serious. I don’t see how it would be of any help to Horace for you to stay over in that dump. What are you supposed to do?”
“I think he’s lonely and it’s a relief that someone believes him.”
“Okay, that’s great. But, again, what are you supposed to do about whatever’s going on there?” Nick was struggling not to let his impatience show. Anyway, he was not impatient with Perry. He was impatient with Horace Daly for dragging Perry into his problems.
“Lend moral support?”
“Isn’t that nice,” Nick said grimly. “But you’ve had to use your inhaler tonight for the first time in how long? That’s not a healthy place for you. Clearly.”
Perry colored. His jaw took on that stubborn jut that Nick had become all too familiar with during the past nine months. “I can’t not go places just because I have asthma.”
“Of course you can. Can’t.” Nick drew a breath. “Of course you can avoid situations that make you s—that aren’t good for you. That’s just commonsense.”
“I already agreed to help.”
“We’re going in circles here. Help him how? How does your being there help Daly?”
Perry said, and it sounded like he too was trying to control his impatience, “But that’s what I’m saying, Nick. If you went with me, you could look into it for him. You’re trained to do this.”
“Look into what?”
“Look into whoever is trying to kill Horace. And why.”
Perry’s stare was unwavering. Almost stern. Meeting it, Nick’s heart sank.
Clearly, he was not going to win this battle. Either he went with Perry or Perry went on his own, but go Perry would. The weekend Nick had in mind was already a write-off.
He struggled for a moment with his disappointment and irritation. Obviously, he could not leave Perry to deal with this bizarre situation on his own. Even if he could, well, there was something about the way Perry looked at him—like he really believed there was nothing Nick couldn’t handle, no problem he couldn’t solve—Nick didn’t want Perry to ever stop looking at him like that.
Anyway, the main thing was that they had the weekend together, right?
“Sounds like you have your mind already made up,” Nick said.
His tone was a little flat and some of the eagerness died out of Perry’s face. “You don’t want to go?”
“Want to go? No. If I do give up my weekend, what do I get out of it?” Nick asked.
Perry continued to eye him in that grave way. “Horace’s undying gratitude?” he suggested finally.
“Uh…”
Perry grinned slowly with that funny mixture of sweetness and mischievousness that always set Nick’s heart thudding in his chest. “Let me show you.”
Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Adam Matthews yawned, stretched, and wriggled back down into the bed. If he’d been able to purr, he’d have sounded like a contented moggy, which would have annoyed his dog but summed up his feelings perfectly. Summer holidays, having the best part of six weeks without pupils to teach: bliss. Even if reality meant he still had lesson planning and the like to do, he didn’t mind. Not having to listen to the constant drone of ten-year-olds meant he could let his brain go through its annual recovery process. His partner, Robin Bright, was enjoying his fortnight or so of holiday as well, although in his case the break was from chasing villains and listening to the prattle of his constables.
They’d had ten days in a villa on the Med, enjoying sea, sand, Sangria, Spanish food, and a smattering of the pleasures of the double bed. Now they were home, with a few more days to make the most of before Robin had to report back for duty. The house was neat as a new pin, Sandra—the miracle worker who came into their house daily to clean, wash, iron, care for Campbell’s needs, and sometimes provide cake—having been in to keep everything in order, garden included.
So they’d nothing planned other than being lazy and making it up to Campbell for their cruelty in abandoning him into the care of Adam’s mother. Despite the fact that he’d been spoiled rotten, the dog would take a while to forgive his two masters for not taking him with them. A while being, in Campbell’s terms, until he’d had sufficient quantity of treats to compensate for the extreme mental hardship his facial expressions would suggest he’d undergone.
“Are you awake?” a bleary voice sounded at Adam’s side.
“No. I’m fast asleep.”
“Pillock.” Robin turned, laying his right arm over Adam’s stomach. “Am I dreaming it or did you volunteer to cook breakfast today?”
“Yes. It’s my turn.” Which was why Adam had been lying in bed thinking, putting off the inevitable. “Although I can’t do so unless you let go of me.”
“Shame.” Robin kissed Adam’s shoulder. “I need to clone you so you can be cooking breakfast and romping about here with me at the same time.”
“If I were a woman, I’d accuse you of being a sexist pig. As it is, I’ll call you a lazy sod.” Adam threw off Robin’s arm, rolled him over, and slapped his backside. “Don’t lie here too long or I’ll give all your bacon to Campbell.”
“I’d fight him for it.”
They both got out of bed, Adam heading to the bathroom for a quick relieving visit before his partner got in there. On a work day, Robin showered and shaved speedily, but on occasions like this when he had the opportunity to take his leisure, he enjoyed lingering over his ablutions. And why not? He worked hard, so he should have the chance to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. As long as he didn’t linger too much and risk being presented with an incinerated sausage.
When Adam got down to the kitchen, Campbell greeted him with a rub against his legs, followed by a dash for the kitchen door. Lie-ins were great for the workers in the household, but not helpful for canine bladders. Opening that door took precedence over everything else first thing in the morning. Once that was done, Adam could get the kettle on, fish out the bacon—always best done while Campbell was otherwise occupied—put on some music, and potter about the kitchen content in the knowledge that the two creatures he loved best were happy. And long might that state of affairs continue.
Over breakfast, talk turned—inevitably—to their imminent return to work, although Robin insisted that shouldn’t be discussed for at least another twenty-four hours. He’d even banned them from watching crime shows over the holiday period, so as not to remind him of what awaited at Abbotston station.
Adam changed the subject to their regular discussion topic. “Am I allowed to mention work in the context of moving house to somewhere slightly more convenient for commuting?”
Given that both of them had relocated to new jobs since they started living together, the comfortable little cottage in Lindenshaw—that had once belonged to Adam’s grandparents, as had the infant Campbell—wasn’t quite as well located as it had been.
“Campbell says you can mention that all you want.” Robin grinned. “He wants a bigger garden to lumber about in. And he keeps reminding me we can afford it, maintenance and all.”
“That dog should get a job as an estate agent.” Or maybe a registrar. There was also the small matter of a civil partnership to sort out, which they’d decided on earlier in the year but not got any further in terms of planning.
“Mum was asking again,” Robin said when he’d finished the last bit of bacon.
Great minds were clearly thinking alike again. “Asking about what?”
Robin gently tapped Adam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Have we set a date? Will she need her passport? Should she buy a winter hat or a spring one?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That what with the demands of school life and the unpredictable villains of Abbotston, it wasn’t easy to fix a weekend.”
All of which was true, but wouldn’t have mollified Mrs. Bright one bit. “And what did she say in response?”
Robin shrugged. “That she understood the predicament we were in, which I suspect was a lie because she then pointed out that other policemen and teachers manage to tie the knot.”
That was also true, although their case was complicated by having feet in both camps.
The real reason they were making no progress was the simple, prosaic one that they were struggling to sort out what type of do they wanted and who they’d invite. They’d both have preferred something small, discreet, classy, and a guest list limited to their mothers, an aunt or two, and Campbell. But was that going to cause ructions among family and friends? Should they invite their cousins, and how could they not include some of their friends and colleagues? And if they invited only one or two each, whose nose would be put out of joint that they’d not been included?
When they’d sat down to do a theoretical-maximum guest list, they’d given up when it hit one hundred, and had then parked the matter entirely. One day they’d have to start it up again, although at present the real desire they felt for entering into that partnership, the official statement that they were a couple and intended to be until death they did part, kept being destroyed by the stress surrounding making arrangements.
“Let’s not spoil today thinking about it,” Adam said. “We’ll grab our diaries later, and set a date—not for the event, so don’t look so panicked, but for sitting down and deciding what we want to do. Once and for all and no arguments from anyone not already living in this household. Does that work?”
“Yeah. Got to bite the bullet sometime.” Robin grinned. “And I can relate that progress to Mum the next time she rings. She’ll make sure we actually do it and don’t renege at the last moment.”
“Deal.” Adam pushed aside his plate and mug. “Right, let’s not waste the rest of Sunday. What are we going to do with today?”
“The weather forecast is good. We should get some fresh air.”
“Sounds spot on.”
“Where do you fancy getting said air?” Robin asked, en route to putting his dirty crockery in the washing-up bowl. “And I assume we’re taking himself?”
“We wouldn’t dare leave him behind. He’s still not happy about us going away to that villa.”
“He can lump it. He’s on holiday all year round.”
Holiday time or not, Sunday morning was their favourite time to walk the dog, weather and jobs permitting. Campbell could run off some of his energy, Adam and Robin had the chance to talk, and they could all work up a healthy appetite for lunch. Today they were having beef casserole, which Adam had already got out of the freezer to defrost. The Yorkshire puddings needed no such preparation, being able to go from freezer to stomach via a hot oven in a matter of minutes. Accompany that with a beer and follow it with some sport on the telly—what more could a man want?
“What about going somewhere different today?” Robin asked. “There’s the towpath along the old canal. We’ve not been there for ages, and Campbell loves the smells.”
“He loves getting smelly, you mean, which is why we avoid it. Remember last time?” Campbell, being a Newfoundland and thereby convinced that water was his second home, had found the most disgusting stretch of canal to go swimming in. He’d needed hosing down and the car had required a professional valeting to get rid of the stench. “Anyway, isn’t there an event on at Rutherclere Castle?”
Rutherclere was a large stately home, the pride of the county, which was said to house a remarkable—highly eclectic—collection of items which various owners had accumulated, mainly during Victorian times. The route from Lindenshaw to the canal would pass close to the grounds.
“Oh, yeah. The one day a year they deign to open the estate to the public.”
“You old cynic. It was supposed to be a cracking affair last summer. Everyone at school was raving about it. People say the first year wasn’t so great, but they’ve got the hang of it now, maybe?”
“Whatever they’ve done, it’s grown bigger than anyone anticipated. Every special constable in the county’s been drafted in. Please God it’ll only be for traffic duties.” Robin shuddered. “What did you do when you were little and didn’t want something to happen? Go out of the room and turn three times?”
“We were far too civilised to do that, but if performing that action, or anything equally daft, stops you getting called in, it would be worth a go.” Robin had only dealt with one murder case so far this year, which was one too many for all involved. If it was time for another serious crime to come along, the damn thing should wait until he was officially back in the office. “Those specials will have their work cut out with the traffic. Last year they only avoided gridlock by the skin of their teeth. The road near the canal’s a standard rat run, so we’d be better off away from the place.”
“So where can we go to avoid the traffic? All the best walks are over that way.”
“What about Pratt’s Common?” Adam suggested. “That’s nowhere near Rutherclere.”
The common was a large area west of Lindenshaw, much beloved of dog walkers, courting couples, and anybody else who wanted fresh air, space, and some trees to either climb in or indulge in less wholesome activities. Adam hadn’t been there for years, but today seemed the ideal day—with the piercing blue sky, bright sunshine, and likelihood of dry ground beneath the feet—to become reacquainted.
“Ah, hold on.” Robin frowned. “Am I dreaming this, that they have cattle grazing there? Ones with dirty great horns?”
“So I’ve always assumed, which is why I’ve avoided taking himself there, but one of the learning support assistants at the school told me they were taken off and relocated last year.” And if one of that redoubtable group of ladies stated the fact, it had to be true. “Done their job for the environment, whatever that might have been.”
“Probably related to grazing or fertilizing. One end or the other.” Robin chuckled. “Let’s give it a whirl, then. Campbell can run about to his heart’s content.”
*****
The drive over to the common was pleasant enough, especially when the radio kept cutting in with extra travel news bulletins warning locals to avoid the Rutherclere area. The big event must have been proving a bigger attraction than the police had predicted, although apparently it wasn’t simply the volume of traffic causing problems. There had been a three-car shunt on one of the approach roads and rumour of the air ambulance having to be sent in. Adam tried not to feel smug at having made the right decision—pride goeth before fall and all that—although he was grateful when they reached the car park to find it almost empty rather than stocked with people who’d come there to avoid the traffic. There was another parking area on the Lower Chipton side, and if that was equally quiet they’d have the common pretty much to themselves.
This parking area, previously little more than a muddy patch of grass, had been properly surfaced since Adam had last visited, and the space available for vehicles had been expanded. The two cars already present were at either end of the tarmacked area—very British behaviour to be as far distant from other people as possible—so Adam slotted his car slap bang in the middle. As he opened the driver’s door, he caught sight of the distinctive yellow air ambulance flying over, and sent up a silent prayer that nothing else would go wrong at Rutherclere and Robin wouldn’t have to be called in.
Campbell sniffed the air tentatively as they let him out of the back of the car. He would know this wasn’t his usual stomping ground and he’d be naturally wary about what delights or disappointments it would hold in store for him. It didn’t take long for him to decide he liked the place, though, and begin to bounce about enthusiastically. They managed to get the lead on him and would keep it on until they could, quite literally, get the lie of the land, then they’d be able to let him romp where he wanted. He was a well-behaved dog, not one to approach strangers, whether canine or human, and generally he’d not stray outside of shouting distance. Clearly, he believed that part of his role was to keep half an eye on his owners while he let them have a walk.
Once off his lead, he initially walked no farther than a few paces ahead, although as soon as they started throwing his ball for him to fetch, his confidence and need for exploration both grew. Adam and Robin eventually found a fallen tree to perch on, sun warming their backs, where they could repeatedly hoick the ball over the scrubby grass, watch the dog go scrambling after it, then see him return triumphant with his treasure.
Adam shook his head. “Next time I say that Campbell’s an extremely intelligent animal, remind me how he takes such pleasure in performing the same actions time and again.”
“I can never work out if he’s really bright or really thick,” Robin observed. “Or maybe he flips between the two.”
Adam grinned “I’d say he’s good in a crisis. That brings out the best of his limited mental resources. Otherwise he can’t process anything other than food, pat, or favourite toy.”
He’d proved his worth in a crisis at least three times, though—and in two of them he’d probably saved a life. Despite the reputations of Newfoundlands, none of these crises had involved water, but death by gunshot or blunt instrument was as definitive as death by drowning.
“That’s typical of dogs, though, isn’t it?” Robin picked up the ball Campbell had deposited at his feet and lobbed it in the direction they’d come, for variety. “Wow, a ball! That’s my favourite thing. Wow, a biscuit! That’s my favourite thing. Wow! You get the picture.”
“Yeah. And that’s himself to a T. Look at the idiot.”
The Newfoundland had retrieved the ball and was carrying it back in his slobbery jaws like he was carrying the crown jewels. He dropped it in the same place he kept placing it in front of Robin, who’d only just finished wiping dog saliva off his hand from the last time he’d handled the thing.
“He’s a disgusting idiot, to boot.” Adam grabbed the ball, stood up, and ran to the ridge to fling the thing as far as he could and give them a bit of respite from continual throw and fetch. The ground fell away sharply before levelling onto a plain, so the ball would roll farther than on the flat where they were seated. He lobbed the ball, then plonked himself down next to Robin, taking a deep breath of the bracingly pleasant air. “I’d forgotten how nice it is here. Better than that place with the goats.”
“The cells at Abbotston are better than the place with the goats.” While holidaying, they’d gone on an expedition to a supposed beauty spot that had been anything but. They spent the next few minutes reminiscing about how ghastly the experience had been, until they risked depressing themselves. “We’ll come here again. It’s so peace—” A sharp report cut Robin off, and sent rooks and pigeons into the air from the nearby trees.
“What’s that?” Adam jumped up, a sickening tingle flying up his spine.
“A rifle, by the sound of it. Not that I can tell much from gunfire.” Robin scanned from side to side as he got up, then they both broke into a run. “Where’s Campbell?”
“He went off after his ball.” Don’t panic. That shot and Campbell’s nonappearance is a coincidence. “Maybe it’s only somebody shooting rabbits in the woods?”
“If they are, they shouldn’t be doing it so damn close to where the public are. I should have a word.”
“You can take Campbell to help ‘persuade’ them. Where the hell has he—” Adam stopped, sick to the stomach. He had kept his eyes down once they’d got onto the slope, aware of how easy it would be to take a tumble. Now he’d looked up again, the flat western part of the common came into full view and—lying a hundred yards off—a large, black, furry mound. “Campbell?”
Adam sprinted, scared witless. The closer he got, the more the mound resembled an animal, the size of a big dog. One that might be a Newfoundland.
“Hold on.” Robin, voice tight, grabbed his arm. “Let me go and see. It looks like Campbell’s hurt himself.”
“No. It should be me that checks.” Adam slowed his pace, though, eyes drawn to the thick black coat that had to be the Newfoundland’s, surely. And that shot they’d heard could only mean one thing. “He was my dog before he was ours.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Adam could barely control his voice. Whichever bastard had done this, they were going to pay. He knelt down, tears blurring his eyes as he laid his hand on the dog’s flanks. “He’s gone.”
Robin squatted beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I . . . It’s so unfair. He wasn’t an old dog. He should have— Oof!” Adam jolted as something heavy smacked into his back, almost going headfirst into the dead dog.
“Not as dead as we thought he was, then.” Robin’s voice was shaky, somewhere between tears and laughter. “Where have you been, boy, scaring us like that?”
Not chasing his ball, given that the thing was nowhere to be seen. Campbell had probably heard the shot and either taken fright or gone to investigate; they’d have to solve that puzzle later, though, there being a more urgent matter to hand. Adam wiped his eyes, then properly examined the corpse. Shock must have deluded him, because this wasn’t even the same breed of dog. This was a Saint Bernard, one that was still warm, and bleeding, so the chances were that the shot they’d heard was the one which had killed it. He’d certainly not been aware of another discharge.
“What happens next?” Adam asked. “This isn’t a case for calling in Grace, is it?” She was Robin’s favourite crime-scene investigator and would no doubt quickly work out—or get somebody else to work out—how long the dog had been dead, what weapon had been used, what he’d had for breakfast, and whether his owners loved him with the passion Campbell’s owners had for him.
Robin, already getting his phone out, replied with, “What happens next is ringing in to report there’s a nutter on the loose with a gun. And we’ll do that while we get back to the car, as quick as we can.”
“Good thinking. Heel, boy.” Adam speedily clipped on Campbell’s lead, ensuring the dog would keep close by. “Nothing we can do for the Saint Bernard, and it’ll upset this lad to hang around a corpse.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Robin said, picking up the pace.
Adam shivered. Of course. Campbell was a potential target. “Ah, yeah. We don’t want two dead dogs on our hands.”
“I wasn’t just thinking about Campbell. He’s not the only sitting duck out here.”
Adam gulped and broke into a trot, eyes and ears alert for any untoward movement or noise. Arriving at the car park couldn’t come soon enough.
Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Insanity runs in my family.
That should go without saying. What the hell else could explain what I was doing sitting in a cab outside the Green Lanterns Inn at that time of night.
“This is it,” the driver said when I showed no sign of moving. And when I still made no sign, he said helpfully, “Green Lanterns Inn.”
Summer rain beat down, fat silver drops blistering against the windshield. The wipers squeaked out each second, dashing the rain away, illuminating the ivy-covered building before us for an instant before the scene melted away again. The seven eponymous brass lanterns were dark in the yellow glare of the car’s high beams. Not a light shone in the entire house.
But then at two o’clock in the morning, I’d have been surprised—even alarmed—to find a light on.
I felt ridiculous. I should have asked Aunt Halcyone for clarification. Insisted on a little more information. It wasn’t like me. But I’d felt her unease, her uncertainty in that last letter, and that was what had sent me jetting across the country. I could not ever remember my aunt admitting she was in over her head—let alone asking for my help.
Come as soon as you can, Artie, Aunt H. had written. The situation has spiraled out of control. I need your cool head and strong shoulders.
I guess my shoulders are strong enough and my head is relatively cool, but she’d never required them before, not even when Ogden, her second husband, had died the year before. As for the situation spiraling out of control, I’d had no idea there was a situation.
Anyway, at the time Ogden had died, I’d been dealing with my own situation. Aunt H. had been as unenthusiastic about Greg as I’d been about Ogden, and refraining from saying I told you so had been about the best we could offer each other.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay for a while?” I’d said after the funeral.
“No, no. I’m all right. I just need a little time,” she had returned.
She had seemed all right. Sad, of course; weary but not broken. It would take more than one dead, philandering husband to break my dear old Auntie Halcyone. When two months later she’d phoned to say she had decided to turn Green Lanterns into an inn, she had sounded enthusiastic and upbeat—almost like her old self.
“You sure they’re open for business?” the cab driver asked.
“Uh…yes.” I sounded as doubtful as he did.
“Okay. Well.”
My words exactly. I opened the door. The driver jumped out and grabbed my bags from the trunk. Shoulders hunched against the rain, he followed me as I ran up the flight of shallow stone stairs to the shelter of an overhanging portico. Ivy draped over the roof, crystal drops falling from the dark, glistening leaves. The brass gargoyle doorknocker eyed us balefully.
The driver dropped my bags at my feet.
“Funny they don’t have a night window or something.” He eyed the darkened house dubiously.
“Yeah, it’s not really that kind of a hotel.” I pulled a couple of bills out of my pocket, and he whistled.
He was still whistling—a cheery, ghostly little tune—as he trotted down the steps and jumped into his cab. As the red taillights disappeared through the gates, humid darkness closed in. I pressed the doorbell again, listening to it ring through the silent, sleeping house.
Once upon a time this had been my home. But that was a long time ago. I’d moved to New York over five years ago—when Aunt H. had announced she was marrying Ogden Hyde. It had been a shock at the time, but really, Ogden had turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Without the spur of his arrival in Aunt Halcyone’s life, I’d probably still be living at home, writing my column for the New Fillmore, and hanging out with old college pals who were equally afraid to test their wings. As it was, I had taken the leap and moved to the Big Apple with Greg. I was now the theater critic for New York Magazine. Even removing Greg from the equation, it really didn’t get a lot better than that.
Or if it did, I didn’t want to know.
I had been back twice. For Aunt H.’s wedding, and for Ogden’s funeral. Aunt H. came to New York for theater season every year, so it wasn’t as though we hadn’t seen each other. I called her every few weeks. Well, perhaps not as often as I imagined, given that the summons home came out of the blue.
Rain, surprisingly cold for August, was dripping on my head and trickling down the back of my neck. Somewhere out in the wet, wind-whipped darkness, a dog began to howl, and I felt like howling with him. I leaned into the doorbell.
Where the hell was—
A white crescent appeared behind the fanlight. I stopped pressing the doorbell. The door creaked open, and a pale, suspicious eye peered out at me.
“Yes?”
I recognized the voice, if not the lack of welcome. “Hello? Tarrant? It’s me. Artemus. Artemus Bancroft.”
“Mr. Artemus?” His colorless eyes widened. “Mrs. Bancroft say you are not coming until tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m here now. I decided to catch an earlier flight.”
Tarrant didn’t open the door. “The house has all gone to bed.”
“So I see.” What the…? Was I supposed to leave and come back tomorrow because I’d arrived before check-in? With twenty-five rooms, I was pretty sure they could squeeze me in somewhere. I said impatiently, “Would you mind letting me in? I’m getting soaked out here.”
He widened the door but made no attempt to assist as I carried my bags over the threshold. I dropped them with a landslide of thumps on the gold-and-black Aubusson carpet.
We stood in the grand central hall with its sweeping white staircase and eight-arm macaroni bead crystal chandelier. A giant gilt-framed portrait of my aunt, painted right before her marriage to Edwin Bancroft, gazed bemusedly down at me from the first landing. She had been twenty-one at the time, and I had grown up thinking she was quite a mature lady in that portrait. Now that I was thirty, she looked like a kid to me.
“You should have called,” Tarrant said.
I didn’t think I imagined the hint of accusation in his voice. I took a good look at him. The absence of his dentures gave his face a caved-in look. He was wrapped in what looked like one of those original gray-and-white plaid Beacon bathrobes from the 1930s. It grazed his bony, bare ankles. Not that I expected him to be dressed at two in the morning, but I’d never seen him anything but immaculate in his severe black and snowy white butler’s garb. It was like sneaking a peek behind the stage curtain. It sort of took away the magic.
“Aunt H. sounded like the situation might be urgent.”
“Situation? Urgent?” He seemed more confused—and affronted—than ever.
“Right. Anyway, sorry to drag you up at this hour. If you want to tell me which room I’m staying in?”
“Your old room, of course. It has been made ready for you.” He stooped to lift one of my suitcases, and nearly dropped it. “What is it that is in there?” His pale gaze was reproachful.
“I’ll carry them up.”
I reached for the suitcase and he turned away, swinging the suitcase away from me.
“I have got it!”
“Really, Tarrant. There’s no reason I can’t—”
I was talking to his back as he lumbered unsteadily toward the staircase. Short of tackling him and wresting the suitcase away, there wasn’t much I could do. I followed him, swallowing my exasperation. He was an old man now. Nearly eighty. Time to retire, really, but it would have to be his choice. Aunt H. would never put him out to pasture against his wishes.
“How’s Betty?” I asked when we had safely reached the second landing.
Tarrant’s daughter was named Ulyanna. For some reason, in my younger days, I’d thought it was funny to rename her Betty. Fortunately, Betty had thought it was funny too.
Betty had replaced the late Mrs. Tarrant as cook and housekeeper. There had been Tarrants at Green Lanterns nearly as long as there had been Bancrofts.
“Poorly,” Tarrant said grimly. “Very poorly.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She is not a young woman! The house is too big for her,” he burst out.
“Oh? Well…” I wasn’t sure what to say. The outburst was as out-of-character as all the rest of this.
“We cannot get any help now. Twenty-five rooms and the girl is only coming twice a week.”
“What girl? What happened to Mabel and Cora?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Left. Packed their things, like the rest of them. They run off like scared rabbits.”
“But why?” I couldn’t understand it. Aunt H. had her faults, but she paid well and treated her staff with affectionate respect. “Mabel must have been with Aunt H. ten years at least. And Cora must have been nearly that long. Didn’t her mother work here before her?”
“Superstitious nonsense,” muttered Tarrant. He dropped my suitcase on the pale blue and ivory runner and mopped his forehead.
“Here. Let me—”
His look of outrage stopped me mid-reach.
I pretended we had simply paused for a bit of sightseeing, gazing around the landing as though I’d never seen it before. In fact, I never had seen it before. Not like this. The carpet smelled musty, and a film of dust coated the railing and edges of the bannister. There was even a cobweb—granted, a tiny one—on one of the brass wall sconces. The very light seemed faded and tired.
“How many guests are staying here?” I asked.
Tarrant picked up the suitcase again. “None.”
“None? But I thought—”
“People are saying the house is haunted.” His gaze was bleak.
“Haunted,” I repeated. And then, when it was clear he was not joking—not that he had ever been one for joking, “Haunted?”
“That is right. Yes. Haunted.”
“Who’s supposed to be…” I stopped. My heart sank. “Oh no. Is Ogden supposed to be haunting the place?”
Dour satisfaction gleamed in Tarrant’s eyes. “That is one opinion. Is not the only opinion.”
“Why the hell would Ogden haunt this house? He barely lived in it. If anyone ought to haunt Green Lanterns, it’s Edwin. He loved the place.”
Green Lanterns had been in my family for generations. Edwin Bancroft had been a distant cousin of my aunt’s, so he’d spent a lot of his youth in the house even though it had not been his official home until he and Aunt H. had tied the knot.
“It is not for me to say.”
“It’s bull—nonsense. The girls got tired of having to maintain such a big house or didn’t like the place being turned into a hotel. That’s all. They felt guilty about taking jobs that suited them better, so they cooked up some ridiculous story.” Even as I said it, I felt the wrongness of it. Mabel had been blunt and forthright. I couldn’t imagine her lying about her reasons for leaving. Neither woman had been the fanciful type.
Tarrant turned away. “That may be, Mr. Artemus. We hire two new maids last month. They stay for one night. Both left the next morning, with same story. The only new help we can keep is the gardener. And he do not sleep in the house.”
I stared at his retreating back.
“Why would Ogden haunt this house?” I demanded. “What are people saying?”
Tarrant stopped, giving me a funny sideways look. “People talk foolishness.”
“I know people talk foolishness. What foolishness are they saying about my aunt?”
His struggle seemed genuine. He said at last, “Only that Mr. Hyde’s accident is maybe not an accident.”
“What?”
“It is gossip. That is all. People say maybe police hurry their investigation because Chief Kingsland is such great friend of Mrs. Bancroft.”
“They suspect Aunt H.?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. Not that so much. More they say there was not a real investigation.”
I had no response to that. We went up the next flight of stairs in silence.
The family suites were on this level. Aunt H.’s rooms at the far end. Liana, Ogden’s sister, near the staircase. My old rooms between them.
Tarrant stopped in front of a heavy oak door and threw it open. “Everything is as it was,” he announced as he switched on the light.
He was right about that, although hopefully the sheets had been changed. A giant bed with a brown velvet canopy and draperies fringed with gold dominated the long room. At the far end was a marble fireplace. The tables and dressers were all marble-topped. Bronze and gold Persian carpets. Brown velvet draperies looped back with gold tassels. Ridiculous accommodations for a seven-year-old boy, but this had been my father’s room, and Aunt H. had decreed that I would grow into it. And I did, sort of, although my apartment in New York was furnished a lot more simply and cozily.
Everything was familiar—except the cold. The house had always felt warm, alive, welcoming.
I shivered. “It feels chilly for August.”
“The furnace, it is out,” Tarrant replied with gloomy satisfaction. “The man is supposed to come yesterday. He did not. The fire is laid.” He nodded at the fireplace, where a couple of logs and twists of kindling had been stacked on the grate, but made no move to light it.
In fact, he stood eyeing me, purple-veined hands at his sides nervously plucking at the nap of his robe. Was he trying to decide whether to speak or not? I couldn’t tell, but I felt uncomfortable, unwelcome, under his somber stare.
“Was there something else?” I asked.
An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, but his features smoothed into blankness. “Good night, Mr. Artemus.” He turned away.
After he had gone, I touched a match to the kindling and watched as a tiny blue flame licked through the twigs and newspaper, catching at the larger log with a comfortable crackling sound. I put my hands out toward the heat.
It was late, that was all. Tarrant had been half asleep and grouchy at being hauled out of bed at this ungodly hour. He was always a little on the eccentric side. They all were in this house.
I was no exception, according to Greg.
Even so, and despite my exhaustion, I was too uneasy to sleep. I rose and began to unpack, quietly sliding open drawers and cupboard doors. The closets and bureau smelled of mothballs. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Two-thirty. Maybe I’d slip downstairs and get a drink from the liquor cabinet. Assuming the liquor cabinet was where I remembered it. Nothing else had really changed, at least not as far as location. In other ways…everything had changed.
There was a soft tap on the door.
I knew that tentative knock. Smiling, I went to answer it.
Aunt H. stood in the hall. She wore a pink silk brocade dressing gown and a sleepy smile. “Welcome home, dear Artie!”
We hugged tightly, and I kissed my aunt’s cheek, which was soft and warm—as if she was the only living thing in this house. She smelled like Chanel No˚5 and apple blossom soap—scents straight out of my childhood. When she rested her head briefly on my shoulder, I felt a sudden onrush of protective tenderness that closed my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her—or how worried I’d been.
She held me tightly for a moment, then pushed back. To my alarm, I thought I saw a glitter of tears in her eyes. I could only remember her crying once before, and that was at the funeral of my father and mother.
“Let me look at you!” Auntie H. said. “Still handsome as ever! I suppose you’ve been breaking hearts up and down Broadway now that Gregory is out of the picture.”
I laughed. “Hardly. I’m too busy dashing the dreams and desires of starstruck kids and hacks old enough to know better. How are you, me old darling?”
“Wonderful, now that you’re here. I’ve missed you so, Artie.”
She was still smiling, but the smile couldn’t hide the worrying change in her appearance. Aunt H. had always looked much younger than her years, and after all, fifty-five wasn’t that old, but in the months since Ogden had passed, she seemed to have aged a decade. There were grooves in her cheeks and forehead, lines around her blue eyes, and deep creases running from her nose to mouth. That wasn’t age, though; it was worry and tension. I could see the strain in her eyes. Even her slim, sturdy body had grown small and frail, as if she’d been buffeted by too many hard winds.
“What the hell has been happening?” I asked, and I couldn’t hide my consternation.
“Oh!” Her gaze evaded mine. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if I’ve…”
“If you’ve what?”
“Let things…get me down. So much has happened. I can’t blame it all on Liana.” Abruptly, she turned away, clearing a space on the bed and sitting.
“Liana. What’s Liana got to do with it?”
“You know how close she and Ogden were.”
Yep, and I’d always thought it was a little peculiar, but then I’d been an only child. “I realize Ogden’s death must have been hard on her. It was hard on you too.”
“Yes. Of course. But Liana is…older.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You were his wife. How could it possibly be harder for Liana?”
She was avoiding my gaze again. “She’s always been very sensitive.”
I snorted.
“But she has, Artie. Anyway, she was in shock at first. We both were. But after the funeral, I think it all hit her. Very hard. That’s when everything began to change.”
“What everything?”
“Liana locked herself in her room and refuses to see anyone except me and the Tarrants. And Roma, of course. She’s become a-a literal recluse.”
“Liana?” I wasn’t sure who Roma was, but this picture of Liana as a hermit was hard to believe. Liana Hyde-Kent put the word social in socialite. Okay, it was to be expected she might take a break from the endless rounds of luncheons and cocktail parties and charity balls while she was in deep mourning, but Ogden had been gone for a year. Close enough.
“She just sits up there, day after day, with the drapes drawn, dealing out tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards. Seriously?”
Aunt H. nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
“Roma Loveridge.”
“And she is—”
“A medium.”
“A…”
“Yes. A medium. A very odd person.”
“Well, yeah. I would say so.”
Aunt H. threw me a quick, chiding look. “Not because she’s a medium. I know you’re a skeptic, but there are more things in heaven and earth.”
“That’s right, Horatio. There’s fire and water.”
She laughed and caught my hand, gripping it tight. “I have missed you so much, dear.”
“I’m not surprised, with Liana locked in the attic and the very odd Roma Lovebridge for company.”
“Loveridge, dear. The thing is, Liana seems to live for those séances. For the chance to speak to Ogden once more.”
I recalled Tarrant’s comments about the maids claiming to have seen ghosts. No wonder, with this kind of bullshit going on. I said, “Isn’t it time Liana was thinking of getting a place of her own again?”
Aunt H.’s eyes widened. “Throw her out?”
“I’m sure there’s a tactful way to dislodge her.”
Aunt H. looked pained. “Oh, Artie. I couldn’t do that to her. Especially now.”
“Especially now is when a change of venue might be good. For everyone involved.”
As mentioned, I always thought Liana’s attachment to Ogden was the stuff of bad seventies’ horror flicks.
“But this is where she’s…comfortable. This has been her home for so many years. And I know what you’re going to say, but this is where she’s been able to make contact.”
Aunt H. lifted her chin with self-conscious stubbornness under my scrutiny.
“My darling Auntie,” I said. “It’s one thing to be open-minded about the possibility of the supernatural. It’s another to bundle the Psychic Hotline with other phone and Internet services. Don’t tell me you believe Liana is up there chatting with Ogden over a friendly hand of tarot cards?”
“Well, no. That is, Roma uses a Ouija board to speak to Ogden.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Artemus, please don’t look at me like that. The thing is, Roma might be an oddball, but I’m absolutely convinced that she is not faking.”
A log settled, shooting a shower of sparks upward.
“No?” I said. “All right, then. What do I know? I guess I’d like to believe there was life after death.”
Aunt H. said eagerly, “After all, the greatest religions in the world are founded on the idea of life after death.”
“True enough.” I was still neutral, still doing my best not to show my increasing dismay.
Aunt H.’s eyes searched my face as though trying to determine if I was sincere or not.
In the ensuing silence, a gust of wind outside rattled the windows. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked. My aunt’s hand seemed to go ice-cold. Her face had suddenly gone very white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aunt Halcyone put a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” I tried not to show how freaked out I was by this, but I was pretty sure a photo would show my hair standing up in porcupine quills.
“Someone walking…”
I listened. “It’s the wind. A couple of floorboards settling. That’s all. That’s what you used to tell me,” I reminded her gently.
Her eyes flashed to my face. “We can’t keep servants anymore. Only the Tarrants. The others have all left.”
“Tarrant told me. Superstitious nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Artie. There are so many strange things happening here.”
I wrapped an arm around my aunt’s slender shoulders. “Of course it’s nonsense. Don’t tell me you’re starting to get caught up in Liana’s fantasies?”
“It might not be fantasy. If she and Roma have truly managed to contact Ogden—”
Once again I had to hope my expression didn’t give me away.
I said firmly, “Now look, darling. You’re tired. It’s late. We’re starting to go in circles with this. We’ll talk in the morning. How about that?”
“But the thing is…” Halcyone lifted stricken eyes to mine. “Oh, Artie. If it’s true—”
“It’s not true. How can it be?”
“If it is true, Ogden says…”
I sighed. “What? What does Ogden say?”
“Ogden says he was murdered!”
In the Arms of the Beast by KA Merikan
A hot flash pierced Laurent and trailed all the way to his toes when Beast’s blue eyes met his. The red neon above the entrance shed a colorful glow on his powerful figure, but his face, scarred as it was, softened with tenderness. Beast hadn’t expected Laurent’s presence, but he’d appreciate it nevertheless. Laurent might not be competent at using guns or fighting, but he would support Beast as best as he could on the difficult path his man needed to walk.
When Gray started talking to Beast outside, taking away his attention, Laurent refused to wait any longer. He put his notebook away and went straight for the door, itching to put his arms around his man. He doubted thinking of Beast in such a way would ever grow old. His. Man. A concept unthinkable in year 1805, the time Laurent had left behind.
“How did it go?” he asked when Beast had finished the hurried conversation.
Beast didn’t answer at first, instead sweeping Laurent to his chest until Laurent’s feet left the asphalt. Relief was like warm water splashing down Laurent’s back, and he circled the thick, warm neck with his arms, bumping their foreheads as tenderness took root in his heart.
“We have it,” Beast whispered into Laurent’s ear.
Laurent kissed Beast with a smile, itching to see the jewel. “But are you not injured?” he asked when he spotted dried red dots on Beast’s vest.
Beast shook his head and gave Laurent another peck on the lips. If the blood wasn’t Beast’s, Laurent didn’t need to know who it belonged to.
Extra Dirty by Brigham Vaughn & K Evan Coles
April 2015
Jesse Murtagh set down the packet of financial statements he’d been reviewing and smiled. He was seated in the back office of Under, a speakeasy in Morningside Heights, and life was good.
With Under approaching its one-year anniversary, the bar’s earnings surpassed expectations each quarter. They boasted a full guest list every night, and Under appeared as a “must visit” on New York’s fashionable lifestyle blogs and guides. Business was booming. And its success meant everything to Jesse and his business partner, Kyle McKee.
In addition to being Under’s co-owner, Kyle also happened to be one of Jesse’s favorite people in the world and one of his favorite partners in bed. Jesse would bet he’d find Kyle out in the speakeasy right now, too, readying the place for opening.
Jesse got to his feet. He locked the papers in the desk, then exited the office and moved toward the long bar that ran the length of the room. Under had a masculine, sophisticated vibe. Sleek leather seating areas dotted the room and open shelves lined the walls, backlit with amber lamps that cast a warm glow over bottles of rare and high-end liquors. On a typical evening, house music throbbed through the air by now, but Jesse and Kyle were holding a private party tonight, and silence reigned, save the sounds of Kyle at work.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Jesse drawled. “When did you get here?”
Kyle glanced up at Jesse’s approach. He smiled and the quirk of his full lips sent a ripple of heat through Jesse’s body.
“About an hour ago.” He shrugged easily. Kyle had dressed in black, as he always did for work, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. His muscled forearms flexed as he polished a rocks glass. “I saw Matt upstairs when I came in. He told me you were here, but I figured you’d be busy counting the money. Thought I’d leave you to it.”
Jesse rounded the bar with a laugh. “You know me too well.”
Opening the speakeasy had been a departure from his usual business of running a growing regional media conglomerate with his family. Jesse had never even worked in a bar or restaurant, let alone owned one. But Kyle had mentioned the idea of opening a bar one night over dinner and drinks, and the way his dark eyes had shone had captured Jesse’s fancy.
Jesse had mulled the idea over for several days, then brought it to his brother, Eric. He’d hoped Eric would talk him out of it and had thrown up his hands when Eric merely smiled.
’I’m not sure who you think you’re fooling, Jes,’ Eric had said. ‘I can already tell you’ve made up your mind to do it.’
And so, Jesse had found himself working with his accountants and his lawyer to create a business proposal. Within two weeks of that fateful dinner, he’d presented it to Kyle. They’d celebrated by screwing each other senseless, then started scouting for a location the very next day.
Jesse stepped up behind Kyle now and molded himself against his body. He wound his arms around Kyle’s waist, careful to avoid the glass in his hands.
In many ways, Kyle appeared to be Jesse’s opposite. His elegant, clean-shaven features and dark hair contrasted with Jesse’s short beard and dark-blond, blue-eyed coloring. Jesse broadcasted his emotions, whereas Kyle was more reserved. Both men stood at six feet and were built long and lean, like runners. But where Jesse could be coltish in his movements, Kyle’s were deliberate and graceful. Kyle, Jesse liked to say, had found his Zen.
Jesse nuzzled the side of Kyle’s neck. “I take it last month’s numbers are good?” Kyle’s voice went low and throaty.
“Indeed.” Jesse pulled him closer. He angled his hips and pressed his groin against Kyle’s muscular ass, and his body paid immediate attention to that firm heat. “The numbers are so good, in fact, I think we should celebrate.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Kyle’s throat.
Kyle leaned back into him with a rumbling noise. He set the glass he’d been polishing on the bar. “What did you have in mind?”
“Next weekend off—Masen can handle things in your absence.”
“Well, he’ll like that.”
Kyle sounded amused. They’d hired Masen Jones earlier in the year to help out, and he’d quickly become Kyle’s right-hand man.
“A whole weekend, though… I don’t know, Jes.”
Jesse dropped one hand and palmed Kyle through his trousers, and, oh, yes, he was hard. Kyle let out a soft gasp.
“Friday and Saturday, then,” Jesse bargained. He closed his eyes, heat flashing under his skin as Kyle pushed back and ground against him. “We’ll go to that club in Chelsea you told me about.”
“Oh, fine.” Kyle turned in the circle of his arms. “I’ll bring Jarrod and Gale as backup,” he added, then looped his arms around Jesse’s neck. “They can walk me home after you find someone to disappear with.”
Jesse grinned. “You really do know me too well,” he murmured and covered Kyle’s mouth with his own.
The kiss deepened and Kyle groaned. Jesse palmed him again, his touch rough, and pressed Kyle backward hard into the bar. Kyle’s cock twitched under Jesse’s hand, and he broke away with a sharp inhale.
“Jesus.”
“Jesse will do.”
Jesse let Kyle go and leaned back enough to get his hands on Kyle’s belt. Desire pulsed through him. Quickly, he opened Kyle’s trousers and pushed the dark fabric down his legs. Kyle’s eyes were wild when Jesse looked up again and a flush stained his cheeks and neck. He uttered a soft moan as Jesse sank to his knees.
Jesse kissed Kyle’s thighs. He kneaded the soft, fair skin with his hands and dragged Kyle’s boxer briefs down. Kyle sighed as his cock slipped free of the underwear and jutted up onto his abdomen.
Jesse pressed his face into the juncture between Kyle’s thigh and groin and inhaled the smell of almond-scented soap and sweat and man. “Damn,” he said, his voice low. “You always smell so good.”
Kyle ran his hands over Jesse’s head, then twined his fingers into his short hair. That possessive touch sent a jolt of lust zigzagging down Jesse’s spine. He loved it when Kyle got rough.
Shifting, he held tight to Kyle’s hips and opened his mouth at the base of his cock. He slowly dragged his tongue along its length.
“Oh, God.” Kyle’s low whisper set a fire in Jesse’s belly.
He licked and teased the shaft before he ducked down and caught Kyle’s balls with his tongue. He lavished them with attention until Kyle moaned steadily, then looked up and locked eyes with him. The dazed bliss on his face made Jesse’s dick throb.
“Suck me,” Kyle rasped out.
Jesse pulled back. He braced one arm across Kyle’s abdomen and wrapped his free hand around his base. Very, very slowly, he slid his lips over Kyle, reveling in the bittersweet taste and weight of the hard, velvety flesh on his tongue.
He took Kyle deep and waited until his nose brushed the curls of hair on his groin before he swallowed. Kyle’s eyes went wide. Jesse pinned him against the bar, and he bucked his hips forward, a strangled noise tearing out of him.
Kyle tipped his head back as Jesse sucked. He closed his eyes and swore, and his ragged tone went straight to Jesse’s groin. Jesse dropped his free hand and palmed himself, past caring if he shot in his pants.
He worked Kyle hard with his mouth until a shudder racked his frame. Jesse moved the arm pinning Kyle’s hips, which left him free to fuck Jesse’s mouth. Kyle opened his eyes again and stared at Jesse, his gaze filled with fire. He started to thrust and desire rattled down Jesse’s spine. He groaned with need and closed his eyes when Kyle gasped.
“Gonna come, Jes,” Kyle said, his voice rough and desperate. He tensed at Jesse’s moan. Then Jesse pressed the fingers of his free hand into the soft skin behind Kyle’s balls, and Kyle fell apart with a cry.
He tightened his grip on Jesse’s hair and his knees buckled. Jesse used his shoulder to hold Kyle up. His balls tightened as Kyle pulsed in his mouth, and he swallowed, tasting bitter and salt.
Kyle’s panting breaths echoed through the silent bar. Jesse pulled off, his head swimming, and Kyle freed his shaking hands from Jesse’s hair. He bent and hauled Jesse to his feet, and Jesse stumbled and clutched at Kyle.
“You okay?” Kyle asked with a smile.
“Dizzy. And I wanna fuck you right now,” Jesse muttered. Jesus, he needed to come. He pulled Kyle in for a messy kiss and ground his erection against Kyle’s thigh until Kyle broke away with a breathless laugh.
“I think we’ve violated enough health codes for now,” Kyle said. “Besides, we don’t have any lube or rubbers.”
“There’s some in the office.”
“We used them up last weekend.”
Jesse whined and rutted harder into Kyle. “Fuck.”
“I said no,” Kyle scolded, his tone playful and his brown eyes gleaming. He pulled his trousers up. No sooner were they buttoned than he sank to his knees and reached for Jesse’s belt. “Lucky for you, there’s time for me to suck you off and clean up.”
Kyle worked Jesse’s fly open and leaned in. He spread his palms over Jesse’s thighs and mouthed him through his boxer briefs. Goosebumps rose along Jesse’s arms at the press of damp heat and cotton against his erection. Leaning forward, he braced his hands against the gleaming bar, arrested by the sight of his friend. Kyle shut his eyes and nuzzled Jesse through his clothes. His long, dark lashes fanned over his fair skin, and his lips were parted and wet. He looked unbelievably erotic.
Jesse cupped his jaw. “Mmm, baby.”
Kyle opened his eyes. He hooked his fingertips under the waistband of Jesse’s boxer briefs, then pulled his trousers and briefs down. Jesse hissed. He bit his lip hard when his cock sprang free, and Kyle swallowed him down.
Jesse’s world exploded in a roar of pleasure that wiped his mind clean.
Life was very good indeed.
Andrew grew up in western Michigan with a father who loved to tell stories and a mother who loved to read them. Since then he has lived throughout the country and traveled throughout the world. He has a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and now writes full time.
Andrew’s hobbies include collecting antiques, gardening, and leaving his dirty dishes anywhere but in the sink (particularly when writing) He considers himself blessed with an accepting family, fantastic friends, and the world’s most supportive and loving partner. Andrew currently lives in beautiful, historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
RJ’s goal is to write stories with a heart of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and most importantly, that hint of a happily ever after.
RJ is the author of the over one hundred novels and discovered romance in books at a very young age. She realized that if there wasn’t romance on the page, she could create it in her head, and is a lifelong writer.
She lives and works out of her home in the beautiful English countryside, spends her spare time reading, watching films, and enjoying time with her family.
The last time she had a week’s break from writing she didn’t like it one little bit and has yet to meet a bottle of wine she couldn’t defeat.
She’s always thrilled to hear from readers, bloggers and other writers. Please contact via the following links below.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, two dogs, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and three Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.
K.A. Merikan are a team of writers who try not to suck at adulting, with some success. Always eager to explore the murky waters of the weird and wonderful, K.A. Merikan don’t follow fixed formulas and want each of their books to be a surprise for those who choose to hop on for the ride.
K.A. Merikan have a few sweeter M/M romances as well, but they specialize in the dark, dirty, and dangerous side of M/M, full of bikers, bad boys, mafiosi, and scorching hot romance.
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.
To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.
K. Evan Coles is a mother and tech pirate by day and a writer by night. She is a dreamer who, with a little hard work and a lot of good coffee, coaxes words out of her head and onto paper.
K. lives in the northeast United States, where she complains bitterly about the winters, but truly loves the region and its diverse, tenacious and deceptively compassionate people. You’ll usually find K. nerding out over books, movies and television with friends and family. She’s especially proud to be raising her son as part of a new generation of unabashed geeks.
K.’s books explore LGBTQ+ romance in contemporary settings.
Andrew Grey
EMAIL: andrewgrey@comcast.net
Charlie Cochrane
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUTOGRAPH / MLR
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Josh Lanyon
KA Merikan
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Fire & Agate by Andrew Grey
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Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code by Charlie Cochrane
The Ghost had an Early Check-Out by Josh Lanyon
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Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Hat Trick by RJ Scott & VL Locey
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Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
In the Arms of the Beast by KA Merikan
The Ghosts Between Us by Brigham Vaughn
Extra Dirty by Brigham Vaughn & K Evan Coles
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Seance on a Summer's Night by Josh Lanyon
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In the Arms of the Beast by KA Merikan
The Ghosts Between Us by Brigham Vaughn
Extra Dirty by Brigham Vaughn & K Evan Coles
