#NeverForget
Summary:
Former British Army Lieutenant Adam Merryweather survived the Western Front of WWI and has slowly recovered from his injuries. But can he heal from a broken heart?
Torn between family duty and personal happiness, he sacrificed his love for Alf and has never ceased to regret it in the two years since the war ended.
Adam is slowly putting his empty life back together, working for the family firm in the city centre of Bristol and trying to stop his mother’s meddling to find him the perfect socially acceptable bride. When he happens to meet Alf out of the blue, Adam is determined to try again. But convincing Alf to give him another chance may be too much to hope for.
Can a chance meeting bring them back together? Or has Adam lost another chance for love forever?
Original Review November 2023:
I'll start by reiterating something I say often in my reviews for this era, there just isn't enough WW1/post-war stories in the LGBTQ genre so I tend to automatically 1-click when found even if it isn't an immediate read, I know I want to explore the story eventually. As Ellie Thomas is a fairly new author to me, this is only the second book I've read, I just discovered Another Chance for Love last month and what better time than the lead up to Veteran's Day to dive in? So glad I found it.
I realize that for a short novella, having the romance being only part of the story may seem not enough for some but as a fan of the era, it's hard to have a realistic view of the times and not have more than romance fill the pages. Any returning veteran after the war has ended will always have a difficult time readjusting, some more than others but if the author just made everything hunky-dory for Adam it would have been very out of character and IMO would lessen the enjoyment. It's hard to open one's heart after the level of horror these men are returning from and sometimes if they can find footing in non-heart related areas it can create the courage to open other possibilities as well.
This is what Adam finds, between family, job, unwanted obligations(via his mother's want to meddle), and time he gets a foot in the door of the returning-to-the-world room. And in that room is the one time love interest who's heart was broken by Adam's revelations of who waited at home. Some might see Alf as hard, unfeeling, and distant but he too is finding his way back to a life without war so I perfectly understand his wanting to protect his heart. They say time can heal all wounds and I think that is what lies at the heart of Another Chance for Love. A truly heartwarming entertaining gem.
Ellie Thomas found herself on my authors-to-watch list after reading A Trick of the Light in August and Another Chance for Love has cemented her place on that list. Can't wait to discover more.
Summary:
The Great War cost Robert his left leg and his first love.
A shattering breakup leaves Robert convinced that he is a destructive force in romantic relationships. When he finds himself falling in love with David, an old friend from boarding school, he's sure that he shouldn’t confess his feelings. But as their meandering conversations drift from books and poetry to more intimate topics, Robert’s love deepens - and so do his fears of hurting David.
Since he was wounded, David has been batted from hospital to hospital like a shuttlecock, leaving him adrift and anxious. His renewed friendship with Robert gives him a much-needed sense of peace and stability. Slowly, David opens up to Robert about the nervous fears that plague him, and when Robert responds with sympathy and support, David finds himself feeling much more than friendship. But he’s afraid that he’s already a burden on Robert, and that asking for more will only strain their developing bond.
Can these two wounded soldiers heal each other?
Content warning: period-typical homophobia and ableism (probably less than is strictly period typical, but this is a romance novel, not a historical essay), implied/referenced suicide.
Original Review November 2023:
For me there isn't enough WW1/post-war stories in the LGBTQ genre so when I find one, I immediately 1-click it and read it, well circumstances got in the way so even though I purchased The Larks Still Bravely Singing in November 2022 I didn't get a chance to read until now as I was preparing for my Veteran's Day blog post.
I was not disappointed. Aster Glenn Gray is a new author to me which for some can be scary but for me I find it a bit exhilarating, that unknown gets the blood pumping. I was well rewarded and the author is definitely going on my authors-to-watch-for list.
Many of the WW1-era stories in LGBTQ that I have read often have an element of shell shock or what we know today as PTSD, lets face it you can't have a true-to-the era story and not have veterans dealing with the aftereffects of what they faced. Some stories may focus on it deeper, there are a variety of ways shell shock effected the returning men but very few actually have MCs as amputees(at least of the ones I've read), some but not many. So to have both MCs as amputees I found the author handled it wonderfully, from David's refusal to wear a prosthetic to Robert's tiring on long distance walks. I can see where some readers might see David's lack of thinking of Robert's mobility issues as selfish but I don't see it that way. Perhaps it's my love of the era, both in fiction and fact, it can be hard to see past one's own limitations and that doesn't make them selfish, it makes them human. As a caregiver, people have to come to acceptance of themselves and others in their own time. Which is exactly what David and Robert do and that is what makes them tick.
I want to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything is going to be all right but as I said above, we have to accept and find our place in the world on our time. David and Robert deal with these issues in a believable and entertaining way. The author says at the end of the blurb, "period-typical homophobia and ableism (probably less than is strictly period typical, but this is a romance novel, not a historical essay)" and I would say it's a pretty accurate description. There is enough truth to know the author didn't just try and write history by today's standards(which I truly hate) but gave enough fictional leeway to not be bogged down as a school lesson(which I also hate). The Larks Still Bravely Singing is a near perfect blend of fact and fiction to create a very entertaining and heartwarming tale of friendship, romance, and living again.
For me when reading fiction many beliefs can be suspended, its fiction afterall, but there are some elements that need to be addressed at least semi-accurately if not completely spot on, that can't be left at the sidelines. In Larks I was able to tick so many of these boxes:
WW1 ✅
Historical ✅
Post-war ✅
Caregiving ✅
Friendship ✅
Disability ✅
Romance ✅
Larks may not make my annual re-read list but it is definitely not a one and done read either.
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
Summary:He was nothing but a beast in heart and mind, pretending at love when he knew not the first thing about it.
When Johann, a two-hundred-year-old Austrian vampire meets Lucas, an English student at the turn of the twentieth century, it’s love at first sight. The golden-haired beauty is nineteen and bewitches him, becoming an all-consuming obsession. But Johann has vowed never to confer his dark existence on anyone and so he is cursed to walk his immortal path alone, no matter that Lucas returns his feelings.
The two continue to meet once a year and their love remains unrequited until they, and the world, are shattered by war, and life will never be the same again.
A sweeping novella of love and loss taking the reader from the slums of Whitechapel to the battlefields of World War Ⅰ and beyond. HEA guaranteed.
Possible spoilers:
Themes: hurt/comfort, angst
Genre: Historical vampire romance
Warnings: Harrowing scenes and death. Suicidal ideation.
Original Review September 2023:
Paranormal and WW1 . . . EEEEEEP!!!!
Granted the WW1 content is relatively minor in size but since there is just not enough stories that(at least in some part) set during The Great War, I definitely knew I had to read and file away for Veteran's Day finds as well.
You might have noticed I said "minor in size" well that's because I think despite so few pages concerning the war, it does have a huge payoff that I'll admit I could see coming but guessing it and actually reading it is two very different emotions. Any time my emotions run the gauntlet while pretty much knowing what awaits the characters at the end is a mighty fine piece of storytelling IMO.
Johann and Lucas are so wonderful, I just loved watching them navigate meeting again and again. The pain Johann inflicts upon himself by both reaching out the way he wants and his determination not to put the vamp horrors he faces onto such an innocent lad like Lucas rips at your heart. Lucas wars within himself his desires for Johann and his fears at just what Johann actually is also pulls on the heartstrings. Despite at times wanting to bang their heads together at their internal conflicts, it's these kind of character developments that can often get, well not overlooked but glossed over in short novellas but Scarlet Blackwell balances it perfectly.
Do I wish it was longer? Of course.
Do I think it could be better as a full length novel? Perhaps, if only to see more of Johann's past as well as his future.
Can I imagine loving The Golden Haired Boy any stronger with more content? No. Don't get me wrong, I would most definitely love it longer but more than I already love it, that's a no because the lads are already occupying my heart as is.
So to reiterate more succinctly: The Golden Haired Boy is a brilliant tale of wanting, leaving, returning, accepting, and above all else discovering and surviving.
Summary:
Love Across Time #1
Soulmates across time. A sacrifice that could keep them apart forever.
In present day, near the village of Ornes, France, Devon works on his master's thesis in history as he fantasizes about meeting a WWI American Doughboy.
In 1916, during the Battle of Ornes, Stanley is a young soldier facing the horrors of the battlefield.
Mourning the death of his friends from enemy fire, Stanley volunteers to bring the message for retreat so he can save everyone else in his battalion. While on his mission, mustard gas surrounds Stanley and though he thinks he is dying, he finds himself in a peaceful green meadow where he literally trips over Devon.
Devon doesn't believe Stanley is who he says he is, a soldier from WWI. But a powerful attraction grows between them, and if Stanley is truly a visitor from the past, then he is Devon's dream come true. The problem is, Stanley's soul wants to finish his mission, and time keeps yanking him back to relive his fateful last morning over and over, even as his heart and body long to stay with Devon.
Will Stanley have to choose between Devon and saving his battalion? Will time betray their love, leaving each alone?
A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, French coffee, warm blankets, fireplace kisses, the angst of separation, and true love across time.
It's been nearly 3 years since I first read Heroes for Ghosts and I'm a little ashamed to admit I have yet to delve into the rest of the Love Across Time series even though the next two already sit on my kindle. One of these days I'll explore the other time-travel stories by Jackie North but for now I knew it was the perfect time to re-visit Devon & Stanley for Veteran's Day.
As so often the case, I can't think of a single thing to add to my original review as to how amazing this story is, if anything I loved it even more this time around. As for the narration, Greg Boudreaux does a wonderful job bringing Devon and Stanley's journey to life. Followers of my reviews may recall that one of the highest honors I can bestow on an audiobook is when I'm left with the feeling of expectation of hearing Harlow Wilcox or Don Wilson jumping in with a sponsor's commercial during one of the old radio shows I collect. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, I get so involved in listening that I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story laying on the floor staring at the radio listening to Little Orphan Annie.
Anyway, that's the benchmark for a brilliant audiobook for me and between Boudreaux's voice and North's words, Heroes for Ghosts completely hooked me in and I can easily see this being an annual Veteran's Day re-listen.
Original Review February Book of the Month 2021:
RATING:
This was brought to my attention when I asked in a FB M/M book rec group for stories with a similar concept to the movie Groundhog Day, the whole repeating the day over scenario. When I also learned this had a WW1 element, I was all kinds of grabby hands. I was not disappointed.
I have to start off by saying this: I don't often make mentions of details in stories because I'm a spoiler-free reviewer but this isn't a spoiler, this is more of a feeling, a reason why I'm a history lover. When Devon is wobbly about his thesis, about telling the story, wondering if anyone will care, Stanley's answer is spot on how I feel about history and why it's an important subject and why everyone needs to learn it.
“The whole thing is stupid,” said Devon. “After everything you’ve been through. After hearing about it from you and having you show me the trenches, telling me about that guy who lost his leg—which isn’t in the records anywhere—because you were there, and you suffered for it. For me to write a paper about it, it’s like I’m benefiting from that without having paid the price.”The twisted feelings that had started when Stanley had shown up on the green grasses that were all that was left of a disastrous battle had risen to the surface, and he’d said them aloud. He could barely look at Stanley with this confession ringing in the air. His constant awareness about the futility of war was only the half of it. The other half was the loss that war brought, inexplicable and never-ceasing, and Stanley had been the one to go through that. Not Devon.“But you’re telling the story,” said Stanley as he stood up and came over to Devon, so close that as he took a step forward, Devon found himself against the wall. “You’re telling all of our stories, mine, Isaac’s, everybody’s.”“Nobody will care,” said Devon. His voice broke on the last word because he realized that it was true. None of his friends cared, and his thesis advisor had strongly suggested he focus on another aspect of the Great War. In the end he was alone, except for Stanley, who could be dragged back through time at any moment.“I care,” said Stanley. “And you care. You can put the stuff that I told you in your paper, and then one day, somebody will read it. It’ll matter to somebody, someday.”
Now, I know the whole time-travel sub-genre gives this historical a fantasy twist but this moment in time, this exchange the author gives between the two men is so important, it really resonated with me, it's how I have felt whenever someone says "why do I need to know, it happened years ago to people I don't know". Their actions had a bearing on life today, time is what connects us all but most importantly, those souls of yesteryear, be it on the world stage or your own family tree, lived, they mattered and those stories need to live on. In these few paragraphs that I shared the author put voice to the importance more than anything I've ever read before. For that alone, I have to say a huge "Thank You" to Jackie North.
Okay, off my soapbox and onto the story.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How have I not seen this series before? How did it not cross my reading path? Heroes for Ghosts is a brilliant tale of history, fantasy, science fiction, romance, and drama with characters that are likeable, loveable, wanting-to-know-able, I'll be honest it ticks every single one of my reading boxes. I've read historical paranormal/supernatural/fantasies before but too often the historical element gets lost in the world of fantasy so for Jackie North to combine all these factors AND keep the historical accuracies is just pure . . . well it's magical(and I'm not talking about the time-travel bit😉).
Devon is a history lover after my own heart, thesis or not if I didn't have family keeping me grounded now, the idea of going to the place history happened and living in a mostly state of seclusion to do the research sounds absolutely heavenly. I can also honestly say, if I came across Stanley the way Devon did, my mind would be a bit teeter-totter as to believing him and worried he escaped from an institution too. I don't see how anyone couldn't love either of these men, they are just so real and wonderfully written, there is no doubt to this reader they have to have their HEA. If you follow me you'll know what my next statement will be: to see how the men get there you'll have to experience their journey for yourself.
And what a journey it is! You won't regret it, historical lover or not, if you love an old fashion journey of storytelling than this is for you.
I'll add that this is my first Jackie North and it certainly won't be my last because if her backlist is only half as good as Heroes for Ghosts than it will still be a pleasure to dive in.
Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #13
Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith like nothing better than being asked to solve mysteries, but when they get commissioned to help someone fulfil a vow he made to a late comrade in arms, matters start to cut too close to home for both of them.
Original Review April 2023:
Not sure why it took me so long to get to Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise as Charlie Cochrane's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries is one of my absolute favorite series and Jonty and Orlando definitely rank high on my Top 10 ships list. I hate to keep saying it but unfortunately my reading mojo still hasn't quite returned after it fell way down during Covid. Slowly but surly it's creeping back and I have quite a list of stories to catch up on, well Dangerous Promise was one of them.
Despite it taking me way longer than normal to read Jonty and Orlando's latest case, I loved it as much as ever. The pair just never get old. For a couple of reasons, this latest case put before them hits home more than some of their others. Having been asked to prove the guilt or innocence of a curate who has been accused of being a little too friendly with a few of the young boys in his parish and when it's a fellow veteran of The Great War who brings the case to them, how can they refuse?
I still miss the contributions by Jonty's parents into their cases but Lavinia has stepped in and does her share of assisting that brings a level of fun spirited moments to the story that only a sister can. Readers of Cambridge Fellows will know that Jonty has a sad history with being messed with in his youth in a similar way the young curate has been accused of, I can't imagine how difficult that could make the case but at the same time I think it gives the pair a sense of needing to know the truth. If guilty than punishment is needed so the boys can heal but if innocent then the stain of accusation must be removed so the man can heal. Which is he? Guilty or innocent? Well, by now you know my answer to that: you have to read to discover for yourself.
Jonty and Orlando are as delightful as ever. The heat has always been mostly off-page but the chemistry and love between the men is undeniable. They have what I like to call a "snark and cuddle" quality about them. "Snarky" may be a bit overstated but their quips with each other makes their cuddle time even more "awwwww"-inducing. In Dangerous Promise this element that makes their relationship so amazing is just as prominent as it was in Lessons in Love when they first met way back in 1905.
For those who have yet to dive into this cozy historical mystery series, don't let the number of entries scare you. Once you start you won't want to stop. I've been reading them as published as there was none of the novellas and still had 2 full lengths to come when I discovered Jonty and Orlando. Each entry is it's own mystery, there are the occasional past case references but the author keeps the reader updated enough so you won't be lost if you hadn't read that particular referenced case. The main ongoing elements is the growing relationship between Jonty and Orlando obviously but also friendships and family, those are factors that are important to me to be read in order but not a necessity. The author keeps a chronological order on her website if you'd like to read them that way. However you choose to read it, you will never be lacking in highly addictive fun that keeps you guessing right up to the reveal.
Another Chance for Love by Ellie Thomas
He’d not really registered Alf much on their first meeting. He and his pals had been on leave in Paris and ended up in some dive in Montmartre and bumped into a group of lads from a Warwickshire regiment. Adam had exchanged a few words with Alf but despite the pleasantries, he had been initially dismissive.
Adam had just seen the superficial aspects of his new acquaintance. A mere Corporal to his rank of Lieutenant. The unremarkable appearance, thick spectacles, quiet manner and West Midlands accent, the fact he was a hands-on engineer by trade. Despite the smiling camaraderie within the group of soldiers, Adam had inwardly dismissed him as a lower-middle-class grammar school boy with not much going for him.
Looking back at his callow younger self, this only proved that Mrs. Merryweather’s social snobbery had rubbed off on him, he thought ruefully.
The next night, they’d all reconvened in the same scruffy bar before the majority of them took off for the seedy delights of the Folies Bergeres. With no interest in rapacious dancers bouncing around the stage and showing their bloomers, Adam remained at the table while most of the others finished their drinks and started to take their leave. To ensure he wouldn’t be swept along with them, Adam had ordered another bottle of rough red wine from the patron.
The general conversation had touched on poetry, specifically the new style of raw, heartfelt poems which had emanated from the battlefield since the start of the war. Such matters were widely discussed by soldiers, but as the party gradually broke up and moved on elsewhere, Adam and Alf were left to themselves, in the midst of a heated discussion between merits of Siegfried Sassoon versus Wilfred Owen, who Alf could quote by heart.
As he argued on the superior meter of Owen’s poetry, comparing it to the inventiveness of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Alf removed his glasses for emphasis as he reiterated a verse from memory.
While he spoke, Adam wondered how he could have ever thought Alf plain, dull or unprepossessing. The sharp, passionate intelligence in those expressive eyes, green as a perfectly ripe gooseberry, lit his finely-featured face from within. In hindsight, Adam knew that was the moment he started to fall in love with him.
They had finished the final bottle and their animated discussion and by unspoken accord, left the smoky bar and stumbled out into the cobbled streets of Montmartre, clinging a little to each other for balance, laughing together. Walking along, their physical closeness became more of an embrace, with neither one nor the other pulling away. It was an unspoken signal and Adam remembered it filled him with dizzying excitement.
As they had reached the darkened alleyway leading to the pension where Adam was staying, they wordlessly leaned in for a kiss. It felt risky, daring even, to touch each other openly in the street. However, this was Montmartre. Even if there was anyone around, no one could see them in the darkness or frankly would care in such a louche area where anything and everything went without remark.
Adam collected his door key from the grumpy concierge and led the way up the winding staircase to the attic room he was billeted in.
He apologised nervously, saying, “It’s hardly the Ritz, but ...” he’d smiled unsteadily, lighting the old fashioned gas lamp.
“It's fine,” Alf said smiling, his eyes gleaming with more than passion for poetry and they had stood close together in the cramped, quiet room. Adam bent his head to kiss the smaller man and the way they fitted together felt effortless.
Then came the tugging at uniform buttons and layers of clothing, as they helped each other undress increasingly eagerly. The reveal of the removal of each garment only added to the sense of anticipation. Finally, their clothes lay in a heap on the floor and they were naked together on the bed, blissfully skin to skin.
The Larks Still Bravely Singing by Aster Glenn Gray
Chapter 1
Robert Montagu had not been in bed with pneumonia for so very long. He had fallen ill in February, and it was only April when his sister Enid wheeled him onto the terrace of Montagu House. But the contrast between the raw winter weather when he took ill and the fresh bright sunshine of this gentle spring day made it seem like an eon.
“I feel like one of those chaps climbing out of Plato’s cave,” Robert commented to Enid. “Blinking at the bright light of reality after looking at shadows my whole life. I don’t seem to recognize any of these fellows.”
Secretly he thanked God for it. Perhaps all the chaps he’d slept with had moved along while he was ill.
“We got in a whole new crop of convalescents,” said Enid. For the duration of the war, Montagu House had become a convalescent home, specializing in amputees. After all, they had already installed a lift for Robert in 1915, after he lost his left leg above the knee at the Battle of Loos. It had been a difficult wound, and although Dr. Hartshorn remained optimistic that more surgeries would put it right, so far the stump was no good for a prosthetic.
“Don’t suppose you’d tell me who’s who?” Robert asked. Enid would know all the men’s names. Both Robert and Enid helped out in the wards, but Enid in particular was tireless, uncomplaining, at least on her own behalf; prepared to complain to the death if it might benefit one of the men. Once she and Dr. Hartshorn, the lead physician, had shouted at each other so loudly that it had been audible at a dinner party.
“That fellow walking around the fountain,” she said, with a tip of her head, “that’s Arthur Paige. He’s just got his artificial leg and he’s breaking it in, that’s why he’s walking like that, poor duck. And you see the two men playing catch?”
“They’ve got two arms between them?”
“Otis Sackville and Anthony Tarkington. They’ve both got their right arms, which would be lucky, only Tarkington was left-handed before, unfortunately.” Tarkington was rather good-looking, but in the tall weedy way that had never particularly appealed to Robert, so soon his gaze drifted on.
It caught on the oak tree halfway across the lawn—or rather, on the chap who was walking along one of the oak tree’s low-hanging limbs, arms outstretched as if he were balancing atop a fence, so that Robert could see that he had no left hand. Robert could not see his face, yet he felt a shock of recognition as he looked at the sunlight picking out glints of gold in his light brown hair.
“Are you cold, dear?” Enid asked.
Robert realized he had shivered. “No; no,” he said, but accepted the blanket that she draped around his shoulders anyway. He lifted his chin to gesture at the oak. “Who is that fellow?”
“That’s David Callahan,” Enid said, and Robert felt another chill. “Do you know him?” Enid asked.
“We went to school together.”
“Do you want me to call him over?”
“No,” said Robert, a little more forcefully than he intended. “Not just yet.”
***
David Callahan had not really cared about cricket.
That was, perhaps, an odd reason for Robert to take an interest in him, because Robert had been so mad about cricket that he cried (in absolute secrecy, of course) when he wasn’t made the captain of the eleven. And certainly David wasn’t the only boy who didn’t care about cricket, but most of the others were awful at it, and Robert had always taken their disdain as sour grapes.
David Callahan, on the other hand, showed the makings of a fine cricketer almost as soon as he’d learned the rules. But he never much seemed to care, either about cricket or about the social jockeying that was so much a part of a boy’s life at a boarding school like the Abbey. It had annoyed the other boys, who called it cheek and unforgivable side, although they soon took care not to say as much in front of David, because he had a right hook like a boxer’s.
Not that he cared about that, either. He fought willingly enough when someone else pushed him to it, but he never picked a fight himself.
Robert was in his final year at the Abbey and beginning to get bored of the school himself, and it seemed to him that David was bored of it too, because unlike the rest of them (still mired in kiddish games) he had faced real danger in his life, and true tragedy. He had grown up in South Dakota, land of blizzards, coyotes, tornados; and he had been orphaned when both his parents died in a train derailment.
And of course David was so good-looking, at least in Robert’s opinion. When David arrived, the prairie sun had tanned his face and bleached his hair, so that it gleamed like wheat. During the short days of the English winter his tan faded and his hair darkened to the color of toffee, but his dark wide set eyes retained their bright distant look, as if he were gazing at some far-off horizon that only he could see.
David was sixteen when he arrived at the Abbey, but a childhood diet of American eggs and bacon made him a head taller than the other boys his age, who had been raised on scant boarding school porridge. Sometimes he was clumsy, as if he were not yet accustomed to his size; and some of the boys took this to mean he was slow as a scholar, too, and certainly he didn’t have much background in Greek. “No call for it in the colonies?” asked Babcock, who died in the war three years later, so it wouldn’t do to call him a bully.
“No. We had better things to do,” said David, so indifferently that it took a few moments for Babcock to realize it was an insult. Then he pounced, and that was how the boys found out about David’s right hook.
In the common room, David never flinched and never backed down. But one day not long before the Christmas hols, Robert came upon him curled up in the back corner of the library in the little-used natural history section.
Robert had not expected to find anyone there. In fact, he had come to that corner of the stacks looking for a hiding place to cry over a letter Cyril Sibley had sent from Oxford. Cyril had always been liable to fits of piety, and now—he phrased this very delicately; nothing that could get either of them in trouble—he had decided that their love affair was wicked, and must be broken definitively off.
But David already occupied that corner, sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, not crying, but flushed and pink about the eyes as if he had been earlier. He lifted a defiant face to Robert, daring him to make something of it.
They sized each other up. “I’m looking for a book about butterflies,” Robert said finally.
David regarded him. He had a sullen, aggressive look, and Robert wondered with wary excitement whether David might hit him. That would distract Robert from Cyril anyway.
But then David’s face relaxed. “You’re interested in natural history?”
Robert nodded. And then: “Are you interested in that sort of thing? Malmsey’s got a natural history club. We trot around the countryside looking for wildflowers and rock formations and so on, and then stop to eat lunch in a pub.”
Lunch in a pub was, secretly, Robert’s favorite part of these expeditions. He had only joined because Cyril was so barmy for natural history. But now he was glad he’d spent all those muddy half-holidays clumping around in the fields, because David’s face split in a big American grin. He lifted the book he was reading, so Robert could see the title: Fossils in Cornwall and Devon. “I’ll be spending Christmas with my aunts,” he said. “They’ve got a cottage in Hawley on the coast of Cornwall.”
“You’ve got aunts?” The rumor in the school was that David was an orphan with no relations but an uncle, who had dumped him here and forgotten him. Certainly no one sent him parcels, a grim fate in a school that expected its students to depend on packages from home to supplement the meager rations.
“Great-aunts. Spinster sisters.”
“Rough luck.”
“No,” said David, a note of surprise in his voice, and Robert realized (and felt a fool for not realizing before; but he had been thinking of his own crabby spinster great-aunt, who sometimes whacked Robert’s shins with her cane) that of course to David any relation who took an interest in him was good luck. “They want me to come. They sent a ticket for the train and everything. I haven’t met them before, but it has to be better than my uncle’s house. He’s still mad at my mother for marrying an Irishman.”
Robert restrained himself, with great difficulty, from asking how that had come to pass. Later perhaps, when they knew each other better. “There are supposed to be wonderful fossils down in Cornwall.”
“Oh yes,” David agreed. “That’s where they found so many of the earliest dinosaur fossils… well, not exactly where I’ll be, but the same general area.” He looked up at Robert, a bright appealing look that made Robert’s breath catch in his throat. “Do you think he’d let me join the expeditions? Malmsey?”
“I can’t see why not.”
“He knows loads about natural history,” David mused. Malmsey taught Latin, for which he did not noticeably care, and the boys often distracted him into talking about mollusks or birds’ eggs. “Why do you call him Malmsey?”
“Well, his surname is Clarence… like the Duke of Clarence, you know, who was drowned in a butt of malmsey… it’s affectionate,” said Robert, because it occurred to him that the murder connection might make it sound rather hostile to an outsider.
Then David laughed. Robert had never heard him laugh before, and the sound appealed to him even more than David’s bright upraised eyes. “What is it with English schoolboys and ridiculous nicknames? Are you afraid someone will hex you if they say your real name?” But David was grinning as he said it, and so Robert was not offended; felt, indeed, that he had made a friend.
The set up of the school did not usually encourage much mingling between boys in different forms, but Malmsey’s natural history excursions threw David and Robert together. They walked as a pair, David clambering up trees and sloshing down into streams and marshlands as Robert trailed after, watching David’s thighs as he slung a leg over a difficult branch, and the way his abdominal muscles flexed when he pulled himself up.
That was pleasurable enough in its way. But Robert liked even better when they stopped for tea at a pub or a farmhouse. At school David was generally reserved; the boys had to badger him to hear anything about his old life. (Robert thought this was a clever piece of work on David’s part: the boys wouldn’t have rated his stories of snakes and tornados half so highly if David told them willingly.) But after a long day tramping the countryside, mud-spattered and red nosed with cold, as they sat drinking tea from tin cups in a farmyard David would talk.
“We used to have a brown Jersey just like that,” he might reminisce, nodding to the cow chewing its cud placidly in the field, and then he would be off. “The homestead never paid, though. Dad had to get a job at Mr. Mahoney’s dairy, maintaining the machinery.” He said this quite as naturally as if it were a normal thing to have one’s father go to work in a dairy. One of the farm dogs came over to sniff at their feet. It pressed its nose into David’s cupped hand, licking for crumbs, and David fondled its ears. “After my parents died, Mr. Mahoney offered me a job. I could have worked my way through high school, but then Uncle Bernard,” (he pronounced it that American way: Bernard, the accent on the second syllable) “sent a telegraph, and everyone was so impressed by the idea of an English boarding school…”
David’s hand had stilled on the dog’s ears, and the dog gazed mournfully up at him. Robert swung his foot sideways to kick David’s. “Well,” Robert said. “I’m glad you’re here.” David smiled over at him, a quick smile that went to Robert’s heart, and Robert added, “My grandfather—my mother’s father, I mean—started out as a farmer in Pennsylvania. My mother always says they were poor as church mice till Grandpa found mineral deposits on the land and started a paint factory.”
“Why did she ever come to England?”
It was a cheeky question, especially spoken in that tone. But David rarely seemed to realize he was being cheeky (off school grounds he even called Robert by his Christian name, although at least he had the sense not to try that in the Abbey), and, off school grounds, Robert often let him get away with it. “I suppose she had some idea of marrying into the English aristocracy,” Robert said, “although she didn’t quite make it.”
In summer term Robert offered to help David with his Greek. (He had some idea of reading the Phaedrus with him, but David’s Greek proved so abysmal as to make this impossible.) All the seniors got their own studies at the Abbey, tiny rooms that had one been monk’s cells, and so David began to come often to Robert’s study.
Robert could not say exactly when David had begun to return his interest. Certainly he’d seemed frightfully pi at first, worse than pi in fact, absolutely oblivious to everything of that sort.
But he was not oblivious any longer by summer term. Robert remembered a particular day, a warm golden day in June, David sitting on the hassock at Robert’s feet. Late afternoon, motes of dust floating in the sunlight that poured through the windows. Halcyon days.
David had lifted his face toward Robert, and Robert knew in that moment that he could take David’s face in both hands and kiss him and David would let him, would love it, would be his.
And he had not because—well, it seemed unfair, in a way. There was an expected order of things, quite different from the sermons in church but even more ironclad in its own way. The new boys were supposed to hero-worship the seniors in their nearly grown-up majesty. Then, as they grew into seniors themselves, their affections were meant to turn back toward the new boys, as the closest thing available to girls; and once they’d left school, after Oxford or Cambridge or Sandhurst, they were supposed to fall in love with women.
Robert had succeeded splendidly in the first phase of this plan, and then never got past it; when he should have been charmed by the girlish beauty of the new boys, he kept falling in love with his fellow seniors. Of course, David was younger than Robert, but he was almost as tall, and although Robert loved the way he looked, he was not the kind of good-looking that could be described as pretty.
Robert did not quite know, then; he was still young enough to push inconvenient knowledge away from him. But he already suspected that he did not have it in him to fall in love with a girl.
David, though. He told stories about his American high school, about the classes with boys and girls sitting side by side, dances in the gymnasium… “Did you dance with a girl, Yankee?” Thatcher had cried, his face avid; and although most of the boys would have scorned to be so obvious, affected in fact a haughty dislike of girls, they crowded round to hear as David said yes, he had, lots of girls, and it was splendid, his face growing ever so slightly pink with the memory.
David had not deigned to share her name with the crowd, but on one of their tramps through the countryside, he had mentioned to Robert the girl he had liked best, Caro. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he reminisced, “We used to tease her because she curled her hair.”
“She sounds vain,” Robert pronounced, goaded by a stab of jealousy that he did not recognize as such until long after. David had frowned and told him nothing else—in fact, stopped talking to him entirely for the next hour. Robert had told himself he was glad, and didn’t care, and really had been sorry.
David liked girls. It would just complicate things for him if Robert corrupted him. And so Robert, aglow with the flame of conscious chivalry, had risen from his chair to lean out the window, and point into the empty sky, and say, “I say, old chap, is that a curlew?”
It seemed an awful lot of rot now, looking back. They should have seized the day. But who knew then that time was so short? It was June of 1914. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand had not yet been assassinated, and they had no reason to believe that the high Edwardian summer would not continue forever.
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
CHAPTER ONE
1900
Spring, and the gaslights were being lit later than usual. The vampire Johann stood in the darkest shadows, watching the man complete his task and hurry over to the opposite side of the square. This was the second time in a month Johann had visited the university quad. He hadn’t had any particular reason to be there the first time other than to feed, but he had more of one to be there the second. The golden-haired boy who lived in room thirteen.
He’d taken a sip that first night from a nice-looking girl of twenty or so and left her in the bushes behind the square, where she would wake in an hour with little more than a headache. Stepping out under the circle of a gaslight, he’d been startled by a boy hurrying past, and drawn back like lightning. Wearing a blazer and carrying a satchel, he moved under the light’s halo, and his hair shone like spun gold. His face was pale, his features fine, his lashes long and delicate over eyes whose colour was concealed by the shadows. Johann remained still until the boy had gone, then stepped out and followed him. He went in the direction of the university accommodation, his shoes ringing on the cobblestones, then ascended a flight of stairs to the first floor. Johann, trailing behind, sprang up the stairs in one leap and arrived at the top just as his quarry let himself into a room, closing the door behind him without looking back.
Johann approached the door with no sound. He stood for a moment, listening, noting the number. He thought about knocking, gaining admittance with some pretext, but it was a bad idea. He would lose control if he was alone with the boy, and he didn’t lose control. Not anymore. He retreated back to the university square.
It wasn’t his intention to return to bite the golden-haired boy. Or maybe it had been—he wasn’t sure. But Johann didn’t do anything as indiscreet as killing. He’d learned his lesson in Vienna and Prague long ago. No, surviving on sips from a few victims per day made his current stay in England much more harmonious. It was just that the boy had captured his imagination in a way no one had done for so long. Johann couldn’t get his beauty out of his mind. The golden hair, the porcelain skin, his long lean figure. Cultivating attractions towards humans only ended in disaster and misery. And the boy appeared barely eighteen or nineteen. He should go. He hesitated at the corner of the square, undecided. Then shoes clicked against the cobblestones and Johann drew back into his hiding place in the bushes.
It was the same time, on the same day of the week, and there he was. He must have a late class on Mondays. He walked quickly again. Perhaps he was cold, or maybe the class was a bore and he was just eager to be back in his room.
Johann clutched at a branch as the boy drew level, and his hair glowed like a halo. Johann fought with himself, because he heard the human’s heart beating like a drum and he wanted a taste. Just a little one. He cursed himself for not feeding before he came. For arriving hungry and putting this boy at such risk.
The boy stopped suddenly, and barely five feet away, Johann held his breath. The object of his attention peered into the shrubbery. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue. To Johann’s heightened vampire vision, they were hypnotic, glittering jewels. Johann caught his scent on the still night air. The smell of his blood, and manmade things, like soap and spicy cologne.
“Who’s there?” The boy seemed to stare right at him. His voice was deep, belying his youthful looks, his accent southern, perhaps Southampton, although Johann wasn’t an expert.
Johann’s mouth filled with saliva. He could have sworn he felt his dead heart stir to life.
“Is there somebody there?” The boy sounded nervous, afraid. Johann wanted to reach out to him, reassure him, but he did not. He remained as still as a cat, not allowing himself to take what he desired.
The boy bit his pale lip, looked around, then hurried on, redoubling his swift pace. Johann stayed where he sat. He put his hand over his chest and expected to feel a hard thudding beneath his ribs. The boy with the golden hair had revived him.
Johann was a model member of his small town community. He lived in a townhouse on the outskirts and was pleasant to his neighbours, if reclusive. He raised his hat at ladies he saw on the streets and politely declined invitations to visit clubs from the local gentlemen. He employed no staff, and his neighbours no doubt gossiped about a single man keeping house for himself. In a locked room at the top of the house, Johann kept a coffin filled with Viennese earth, where he slumbered and could pretend he was still at home. Not that he disliked England, with its sun in fits and starts and cold winters. Its climate was rather ideal for him. If it was overcast enough, he could actually venture outdoors during the day for short periods, providing he wore gloves and the brim of his hat shaded his face. It was risky, though. If the sun happened to peep from behind the clouds unexpectedly, he could expect to receive a nasty burn. He’d learned all this through trial and error, during his two-hundred-year life, and had caused himself damage and pain more times than he could remember. But he liked the daylight too much not to risk it. Liked to remember what it was like to be human.
A week after coming face to face with the golden-haired boy, Johann was still thinking about him. He resolved not to go back to the university, because sooner or later he would attract attention hanging around there.
Spring arrived, daffodils and snowdrops peeping through the winter-hard ground, and Johann rationed his daylight sojourns as the sun put in several appearances. He liked spring—the way everything winter seemed to have killed was slowly reborn, new and stronger than before. The baby birds, the lambs in the fields, and the smell of rain on the revitalized earth.
Johann felt reborn himself. He had a focus for his thoughts and his attention and wished it were not so. It was dangerous to let admiration grow, to let finer feelings take over his hard, abandoned emotions. He had to remember who he was. A creature that no longer had the luxury of feeling, who must remain alert to suspicion in the town and cover his tracks. Becoming soft-hearted would get him killed. Although there were plenty of times when that would have appealed to him. It had been a long and lonely life, and Johann had wished an end to it more times than he could count.
One grey, rainy day, Johann left his house sheltered by his broad umbrella, and walked down to the river. He sat on a bench and watched a little girl and her mother feeding the ducks and swans, while keeping an eye on the clouds for signs of shifting. There were hansom cabs to be hired on the road not far away, which should guarantee him a swift exit before he burst into flames.
Some geese arrived, raucous and taking control of the rations, chasing the other birds greedily away. Johann closed up his umbrella because the rain had tapered off to mere drips, and relaxed back against his bench. He felt peaceful today, even if he was still haunted by the image of the golden-haired boy. He was hungry, a sullen ache that muttered at him, but it was nothing which couldn’t wait until nightfall. He was used to the hunger; it was part of him.
A group of students made their way along the riverbank, chattering animatedly. Johann froze in place as one golden head stood out among a sea of dark hair. He bowed his head so his hat would obscure his face, irrationally convinced the boy would recognize him even though he was sure he had not been seen that night in the bushes. His blood seemed to pound in his veins and drum in his ears. Impossible. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t hide like this, not when he needed to set his eyes on this beautiful creature again. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything, apart from blood.
He lifted his head. The students stopped level with the child and her mother. A couple of them pushed each other playfully towards the water. The golden-haired boy took a shiny, red apple from his satchel and polished it on his blazer. Johann saw a flash of pearly teeth as he bit into the flesh with a crunch which reverberated in the vampire’s sensitive ears. He said something to one of the other students as he chewed, and then nodded at the reply without smiling.
The group continued on their way, coming close to Johann. Did he dare make eye contact? Oh God, he had to. He felt as if his life depended on it. He kept his head up, his eyes fixed on the boy, and waited for the student to notice he was being looked at.
The boy noticed. His gaze drifted to Johann, idly swept over him, then came back, fixed rigidly, staring. The hand, which had been about to bring the apple back to his mouth, remained hovering in the air. He blushed, the rosy glow beautiful on his snowy skin. Johann didn’t look away. His throat felt tight and closed. His fingertips tingled. These feelings of attraction were so unfamiliar to him they distressed him rather than excited him. He didn’t like the way his stomach seemed to lurch as if he would commit that very human act of vomiting, or the way his hands became clammy when he didn’t normally perspire.
He hadn’t been wrong about the boy. He was as beautiful as Johann remembered from his two glimpses in the university quad. The jewel-like eyes glowed from the flushed skin. His features were delicate and measured, the cheekbones sculpted, the nose small and upturned. His mouth, while small, was full-lipped, but pale, almost without colour. He was of good height, but not as tall as some of his friends—perhaps about five-feet-eleven, and his body was lean and well-proportioned.
One of the other students nudged him. The golden-haired boy looked away. His dark-haired friend laughed, but sent a cold glance in Johann’s direction.
The students passed by him and were gone. Johann let his gaze follow the golden-haired boy. “Look back,” he said, under his breath. “Please look back.”
Johann could hypnotize some humans, but he didn’t believe his magic could work at such a distance, nor had he set out to deliberately bewitch the boy. Nonetheless, the object of his affection turned around and looked at Johann once more, the expression on his face intent and unreadable.
Johann was possessed. He thought he saw the golden-haired boy everywhere he went. He dreamed of him while lying in his coffin during sunlit days. He smarted with remembrance as he thought of others loved and lost, and unrequited desire, and he vowed he would never approach the boy and make himself known.
Spring marched into full bloom, and Johann was relegated to the coffin during daylight hours. Perversely, he thirsted for the sun. He remembered its warm caress on his human skin, and swimming in Austrian lakes during endless summers. For the first time in an age, his skin ached for another’s touch. His vampire skin prickled and burned as though the sun had possession of it. He imagined the press of another body beside him in the coffin, and it almost made him weep. There was only this. There would only ever be this.
Heroes for Ghosts by Jackie North
Chapter One
A mortar shell exploded at the far end of the trench, spraying black debris that slammed into the mud and sent up the acrid odor of burnt tar and hot, damp earth. Stanley hunkered down with mud up to his ankles, his backside pressed against the broken end of a mortar gun, his hands on his helmet as his body shook with the force of the blast. He tried to stem his tears as Lieutenant Billings stabbed at the radio with a bit of metal wiring to see if he could get it to work again. Between the mortar rounds, the radio responded with squawks and low pitched shrieks and then went quiet.
If the radio had been even six feet to the left, it would have been safe from being torn apart by the shell that had directly hit the trench mid-morning. And if Bertie, Isaac, and Rex had been on the other side of Stanley when that shell had hit, then they would be alive. Then he would have had someone to worry with, someone who would bolster his courage so he could respond to Lt. Billings’ earlier request.
He missed his friends, but he wanted to be brave for them now. Lt. Billings needed a volunteer to run across the trenches and the misty, frost-bitten fields to contact the major in charge to get the final message for retreat. The battalion needed a retreat or all of the 200 men were going to be smashed to bloody bits and their families would not hear from them come Christmas.
It was horrible. Stanley wondered how he ever imagined that signing up and shipping off would be an adventure worth having, something he could tell everybody about back home. There was no way he could convey the tragedy of it, the futility of a radio that didn’t work, of trying not to look at the bodies of his friends that were currently beneath a tarp for decency’s sake.
Whether there would be a break in the shelling so that they could be buried was anybody’s guess; the way it had been going, they would likely get frozen in place, spattered with mud and bits of shrapnel, and nobody would be able to bury them till spring. By which time, the war would be over, or they’d all be dead. Or both.
Stanley was shaking all over, and told himself it was because he was trying to warm his body up, but that was another futility, a lie he could barely hold on to. The Germans were coming closer with each passing hour. The shells were louder and more on target, and soon they would die. All of the battalion’s efforts would come to nothing, and Stanley would be another body beneath a tarp, and nobody would have the energy to bury him.
He would become part of the landscape, part of the stretch of brown mud and red blood, decorated with torn limbs. The uniform he wore so proudly would turn into the tattered remnants of desire to do good, to fight for one’s country, and to keep families and children and grandmothers safe. At least that’s what the recruitment posters had stated, and behind every one had been the American flag, rippling with patriotism and an overwhelming urgency.
Stanley had signed up alone, but had soon met his three friends during training. They’d stuck together, sharing the burden of fear, bolstering each other up, proud to fight and do right. Only it was wrong, so, so wrong because what was happening seemed to be for no reason at all, and everything they did as a battalion felt like they were merely going through the motions.
Men kept dying, though the sudden silence across the top of the trenches indicated that the Germans seemed to have let up for the moment. Which left Stanley alone with Lt. Billings, and on the verge of blubbering. He was shaking with the effort of not crying, though his face was hot with tears he kept having to blink away as he tried to focus on what Lt. Billings was doing.
“The wire goes under,” said Stanley with a croak. “Under on the left.”
“Oh, yes?” asked Lt. Billings. His voice was gruff.
He didn’t look at Stanley, all of his attention on the radio. He moved the wire as Stanley had suggested, and while this brought a sound from the transmitter, it ended in another ineffectual squawk.
The worst of it was that Stanley had previously thought the radio was too much in the open and ought to be moved, just in case. He’d not wanted to step on Lt. Billings’ toes, though, as the lieutenant had only just taken over from Colonel Helmer, and had not said anything.
Helmer had been the worst commander anybody had ever seen, and the muttered comments among the enlisted men had almost grown into a roar. Though Stanley might have given him some leeway, due to his age, Colonel Helmer had taken the coward’s way, run off in the night, and had not been heard from since. With the tenseness among the men, Stanley hadn’t wanted to point out that the radio was in harm’s way. It might have been seen as a challenge to the order of command, which was the last thing that Stanley wanted to do.
He’d refrained from talking about Helmer, and had generally kept his mouth shut. But if he’d not done that, if he’d given into his natural proclivities to think with his mouth open, they might have a radio now, might already be in an officially sanctioned retreat, and Rex, and Bertie, and Isaac would not be dead. They’d be beside him as they all scuttled to the rear of the battle and clambered into trucks to be taken to somewhere a bit safer than where they were.
It was all his fault, then. All of it. His lungs felt as though they were running out of air, and his belly dipped so hard he thought he might shit himself in fear. The only thing for it was to do something so that it didn’t get worse. And that meant answering Lt. Billings’ question from earlier that morning.
“Sir?” asked Stanley, though he realized that his voice was too soft to be heard. “Sir?” he asked again, more loudly this time.
“It just sparked,” said Lt. Billings, completely focused on the radio. “If I move that wire again, I’m going to fry this fucking thing.”
Stanley scrambled up from where he was, his boots slipping on the mud as he surged forward to land on his knees at Lt. Billings’ side.
“Sir, I’ll go,” said Stanley. “I’ll take the message and bring the code back.”
Lt. Billings’ hands froze in the midst of what he was doing, and then he slowly turned his head. The lieutenant’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was be-grimed with smoke and mud that seemed to have pushed its way into his skin. He didn’t smile as he looked at Stanley, and his expression was grim.
“You might not come back,” said Lt. Billings. “In fact it’s a death sentence. Do you want that?”
Lt. Billings was so unlike Commander Helmer in every way; Stanley knew that it was a death sentence, so Lt. Billings, not one to suffer fools, was making sure that Stanley knew exactly what he was getting into. A zigzag run across a field of dead bodies, horse carcasses, guns, gouged earth, and barbed wire, all the while dodging bullets and shrapnel and mustard gas.
“There’s no other way,” said Stanley. He wiped his hand across his upper lip, and took a hard breath, feeling his metal ID tag like a circle of cold ice in the middle of his throat. “You said so this morning. If we don’t get the order to retreat, we’re all going to die. Right here in this trench.”
He did not add that they could retreat anyway, without the order, and save a whole lot of lives. But Lt. Billings was a seasoned army officer, and while he might take it upon himself to take control of a battalion that was currently officer-less, it was not in his makeup to call such a command without a direct order.
Stanley could try to convince Lt. Billings to overstep his authority, but that would only get everyone irritated, and as they were all so edgy already, it would be the worst way he could contribute. The best thing for him to do, besides throw himself on a land mine, was to step up and volunteer. It wouldn’t bring his friends back, but it would give their deaths meaning. Or would it? At any rate, it would be better than sitting with his ass in the mud watching Lt. Billings mess with equipment in a way that was probably making it worse. If only Stanley had spoken up and told him to move the radio.
If only Stanley had told his friends to sit someplace other than where they had. If only Stanley had been born at a different time, and had missed this stupid war entirely. One hundred years ago or a hundred years from now, it made no difference to him. But he was here now, and he needed to do his best for the sake of his friends’ memory.
He stood up and made an ineffectual pass at the front of his wool sweater vest. He winced as his fingers touched dried blood, the source of which he didn’t want to identify, but which had been the spatter from Rex’s head as it exploded. Rex would have gone with him, big and silent and close as they crossed the field of battle to carry the message.
“I’ll go,” said Stanley.
Lt. Billings stood up too, though he didn’t reach out to shake Stanley’s hand. Stanley was glad about the lack of the gesture because that would have truly meant that Lt. Billings did not expect him to return, but was only sending him out because there was nobody else who would go.
“Find Major Walker,” said Lt. Billings. “Give him half the message, and he’ll know I need the other half. He’ll tell you what that is, and when I have the whole message I can call retreat. Tell him I sent you, you got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley. His heart was thumping in his chest, threatening to push its way out, and his knees started to knock together. “I’ll bring the message back, I promise.”
“It’s a foolish thing to make such promises,” said Lt. Billings. He shook his head, and looked down at the busted radio before looking up at Stanley. His expression was so deep and serious that Stanley knew he was going to die the minute he stepped out of the trench. The alternative, however, was to stay in the trench and watch while his friends’ bodies froze in the mud, taking his heart with them as they became one with the earth, and that he could not bear.
“Here’s a canteen and here’s your rifle,” said Lt. Billings. “You might need to kill some Krauts, and you won’t believe how thirsty you can get when you’re running hard, terrified enough to piss your uniform.”
Stanley took the canteen and looped it over his neck and shoulder, then hung the rifle across his chest in the other direction. He wasn’t exactly armed to the teeth, but he had a pouch of bullets and could give somebody a run for their money. After that, he’d be out of bullets and dead in a ditch somewhere.
He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to go over the top and start running. The major would be in a trench at the back of the field, at least that was the general idea in most battles.
“That way, right?” asked Stanley. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“More over that way,” said Lt. Billings. “Straight across and then over. He’ll be in the right quadrant. You won’t see any flags, but it’s going to have more sandbags and look a damn sight tidier than where we are now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley.
He straightened up and gave Lt. Billings the most efficient salute he’d ever managed, out of respect. Then, not allowing himself one last glimpse at the pile of bodies at the end of the trench, he pushed his way past the three soldiers who were manning a Howitzer that was almost out of shells, and climbed up the ladder.
Stanley slipped at the bottom rung, and was tempted to call it done then and there. For the memory of Isaac, Rex, and Bertie, and all the others, he made himself go up and up till he was standing on top of the ridge, looking over the dip in the earth that ran next to the ruined castle and the small cottage whose roof was half gone.
The sprawl of barbed wire along the top of each trench was intertwined with the dark flags of smoke that twisted and moved as though it was alive. The sun was a smudge through the brown and black haze, and the smell of hot oil and human excrement shot itself into his lungs with his first breath. The air was cold and it seemed as though frost speckled the air like little bits of diamonds made half yellow by the smoke from fires and the general exhalation of despair and gloom and death. Stanley watched a shell explode a hundred feet to his left, turned the other way, and started running.
The idea was to get out of the line of fire, for that was where the major was to be found. The easiest way was to follow the line of trenches, to run inside of them, along the bottom, and make his way there. He started to run, his canteen bouncing, his rifle banging into his thigh the whole while.
At the edge of the trenches were the round tops of helmets. Beneath those glimmered the exhausted, tired eyes of soldiers who saw him go, who knew where he was headed, and who had no hope that he would make it. A few soldiers stood up and fired beyond Stanley to draw enemy attention away from him when he had to cross over the top of a trench to get to the next one. The shots zinged around him anyway. If he slowed down, he was going to take a hit, so he kept low in the trenches and kept running.
His boots slipped as he headed down a small hollow, and he almost fell to his knees as he went up the other side; it was like trying to run up a waterfall, only this one was of mud, with bits of shell and hunks of rock. Just as Stanley got halfway to the top, he heard the high-pitched pop of a canister as it opened, and even before he smelled the bitter tang, a yellow cloud of mustard gas descended around him like a blanket of pure poison.
He brought his hand to his mouth, and staggered to the top of a trench, and though he kept his breath shallow, he felt his lungs collapsing, and fell to his knees, coughing up spit, his hands in the mud, his eyes closed. The yellow swirl filled his brain until there was nothing left but an empty ache and the sting in his lungs. He barely felt his head hit the mud and then sighed, thinking that it would be good to stay right where he was, for what did it matter anyhow? And then it became blackness, so, so much blackness.
Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise by Charlie Cochrane
Jonty Stewart looked through the window of his study at St Bride’s college, transfixed by the scene playing out in the court below. Dr Panesar—polymath, pioneer aviator and who knew what else—was trying to catch a wounded pigeon, a pigeon which didn’t appear to want to be caught.
“That’s quite a kerfuffle.”
The voice sounding over his shoulder was so familiar, Jonty barely registered surprise at its owner’s arrival in his room. Anyway, he’d seen Orlando Coppersmith heading across the court and guessed he would be arriving soon.
“Another victim of Hotspur, do you think? Or Mrs Hotspur?”
“Quite likely. They’re doing a marvellous job of keeping the flying vermin under control.” Orlando patted Jonty’s shoulder while they both observed their colleague’s progress. St Bride’s took a great deal of pride in the pair of peregrine falcons which had deigned to nest on the chapel tower and which dived down on their prey at a terrifying rate.
The college took an equal pride in its pair of amateur sleuths, who’d solved mysteries and murders ancient and modern, including a commission from royalty.
“Not far to look for a culprit in the case of the plucked pigeon.” Jonty cuffed his lover’s arm. “It feels a long time since we had a proper case, though. I can’t believe the world has turned virtuous all of a sudden.”
“I will be extremely vexed if it had.” Orlando snorted. “I’m not asking for a murder—it makes me feel very guilty when I’ve been yearning for one and it subsequently lands in our laps, as it were—but a code to unravel or a crime from long ago would be most gratifying.”
Jonty had heard that refrain many a time, either here in college or by their own fireside. While Orlando always had his mathematics and the challenge of trying to get the principles of same into the noddles of his students, it didn’t provide quite the intellectual stimulus of a real-life mystery. “Well, given the way the universe seems to work—or the machinations of Mama sitting on her heavenly cloud forcing the angels to organise a case for you or else she’ll report them for having grubby halos—no doubt some perplexing mystery will soon fall into our laps. A nice, tricky one, with no corpses or other distressing quantities.
Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical romance.
Ellie also writes historical erotic romance under the pen name L. E. Thomas.
Aster Glenn Gray writes fantasies with a romantic twist, or romances with a fantastic twist. (And maybe other things too. She is still a work in progress.) When she is not writing, she spends much of her time haunting libraries, taking long walks, and doing battle with the weeds that seek to topple her tomato plants.
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Scarlet Blackwell's jam is m/m enemies-to-lovers romance. Her stories are usually small town contemporary but she has been known to throw the odd historical or paranormal into the mix and a hot cop fairly often.
She likes unusual settings and atypical, flawed heroes. Her stories are dark and gritty and her themes are not for the faint-hearted, but a HEA is always assured.
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
Charlie Cochrane
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.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
Ellie Thomas
Aster Glenn Gray
Scarlet Blackwell
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EMAIL: scarlet.blackwell@hotmail.com
Jackie North
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EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com
The Golden Haired Boy by Scarlet Blackwell
Heroes for Ghosts by Jackie North
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