#NeverForget
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Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Cambridge Fellows Mystery #16
When the normally reliable Mortimer Pollock goes missing, amateur sleuths Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith are called in to investigate. But the country is at war, time away from secret duties is scarce and edicts come from on high not to get involved.
Then a dying man insists on Jonty’s father being informed of his death, an apparent accident that appears less accidental by the moment. Are the two cases related, will the combined Stewart family resources be up to the task and who is leaving a distinctive trace of perfume behind them?
Oh how I love this series! Some mystery series can get tired and repetitive over time but IMO Cambridge Fellows is not one of them. As I've said many times, the author could write a full length novel or a 2-page pamphlet and I would snatch it up without a second thought. Drs Stewart and Coppersmith just never get boring, whether its early on, later in life, or anywhere in between they remain fresh, intriguing, and fun as they were in book 1, Lessons in Love. Jonty and Orlando are right up there with Holmes and Watson for mystery solving duos, even if that comparison would infuriate the lads, especially Orlando.
As for Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent, YAY! just YAY!
The author takes us back to the early days of WW1 as we see the lads working in the respective elements of codebreaking and administration, and of course by going back to this era, we also get to see the always fun and entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. As a matter of fact, this just may be the most we've seen of the parents of all the entries, they may not be front and center but as close as they could without the complete removal of the MCs. I won't lie, it makes me intrigued by the idea of them having their own mystery to solve😉😉.
I won't go into too many details on the mystery front as this always has been and remains a spoil-free zone. There are times when I was confused(but in a good way) and thought there couldn't possibly be any more questions before some answers started to pop up, but frankly, in a great mystery there are always questions until the very reveal(hence the confused in a good way wordage😉). The confusion cleared but not until just a few pages prior to big reveal and the fact that it took that long for me is what makes this so yummy(well the duo themselves plays a little factor too😉).
Because the author does jump around the timeline from entry to entry, you really don't need to read more than the first couple in the series to enjoy all the crimes and mysteries of the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries. I say it that way because I really do recommend at least the first couple of books to fully appreciate the characters, the setting, the era, and everything that makes the lads who and what they are. Once again, the author has proven why I rank her as one of the top Queens of Mystery. Here's to hoping for many more crime-solving adventures for the Cambridge crew.
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Summary:
Season of Joy #1
In 1920s Cheltenham, Walter Webb has settled into a peacetime existence with relative ease. He's kept busy running the family grocer's shop with his father on Lower High Street, a working-class region of the famous Regency spa town. In his moments of leisure, he meets regularly with his ex-army pals that he served with in the Great War.
But being a respectable grocer means that Walter must keep his occasional liaisons with other men brief and anonymous. When he meets Stanley, the attractive and likeable brother of a customer, who is staying with his sister after a debilitating bout of pneumonia, Walter is tempted to throw caution to the winds on the chance of something more with this particular man.
Can these two men take a risk to find a lasting romance?
Original Review January Book of the Month 2025:
Such a lovely little story of finding happiness. It's hard for me to write a review for Season of Joy, not because I didn't like the story, quite the opposite. I was reading this new Ellie Thomas novella during the time my mother came home for hospice and passed away so I was reading it in small chunks here and there. On one hand that can make a story harder to connect to but on the other it gave me pockets of peace and escape, small pockets to be sure but definitely helped balance my emotions so I could deal with the arrangements and help my dad as well. I know this seems like an odd thing to mention in a book review but I wanted to express to the author how grateful I am for those pockets of peace and balance. Truth is I think bringing up the personal chaos and hurt I am dealing with and still be able to enjoy Walter and Stanley's journey speaks volumes to the amazing talent of the author and the power of the heart within the story. Definitely a warmhearted and winning gem in my mind.
Twisted Tome by Vanora Lawless
Summary:Devastating Magic #2
A stubborn empath. A passionate dreamwalker. A love worth fighting for.
For empathic illusionist Warren 'Sully' Sullivan dreamwalking Captain Elliot Stone is more than the only thing keeping him sane and safe. He's the keeper of Sully's heart, even if he can't seem to admit it out loud.
When an ancient grimoire infused with catastrophic magic comes into play, they've got to do everything in their power to keep it from landing in enemy hands. Unfortunately, that means working closely with a man who once shattered Elliot's heart. Someone he would have done anything for.
As insecurity and fear threaten the fledgling relationship between Elliot and Sully, will the darkness closing in around them bring them closer or tear them apart forever?
Original Book of the Month Review November 2025:
Once again I find myself rushed to write the review I really want to. I will say, I was happy to return to this historical fantasy, or perhaps alternative timeline where certain paranormal behavior/elements exist is wordier but more accurate. I'm always on the lookout for WW1/post-war stories in the LGBTQ genre so even though this is fantasy set in historical setting, Twisted Tome still called to me.
As it was with the first entry, Imperfect Illusions, I found the way those paranormal "powers" were used in the time of war incredibly intriguing. Opening with their use of "cloaking" their presence when faced with the enemy was the perfect way to remind me just how useful those abilities could be in wartime. The way the author continues to blend the two genres together is highly talented and entertaining.
Watching Sully & Elliot's relationship further deepen was heartwarming and realistic but also heart-hurting when they find themselves having to work with the man who left Elliot heartbroken. Hard to think of "realistic" when dealing with a fantasy/paranormal historical timeline but the author has done such a wonderful job in the world building, you can't help but forget sometimes that it isn't real. Throw in supporting characters who possess their own "powers" and you have an attention-grabbing read on your hands. With the introduction of the man from Elliot's past, we also get a glimpse into some backstory which, for me, further heightens my connection to the characters with the added element of personal drama without it slowing the story down.
I believe there is suppose to be a third entry in the Devastating Magic series but as this was originally released 2 years ago, I'm unsure on the release date but I know I'll be checking it out when it arrives.
The Larks Still Bravely Singing by Aster Glenn Gray
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 Book of the Month 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.
Blind Tiger by Jordan L Hawk
Summary:
The Pride #1
1924, Chicago. Prohibition is in full swing and gang bosses rule the city with might—and magic.
When Sam Cunningham flees his small-town life to try his luck in the big city of Chicago, he quickly finds himself in over his head in a world of gangs, glitz, and glamour. Fortunately, he has his cousin Eldon to teach him the trade of hex-making.
Everything changes the night Sam visits The Pride speakeasy and meets grumpy cheetah-shifter Alistair Gatti. After losing his first witch to the horrors of the World War, Alistair isn’t interested in any new entanglements, romantic or magical. Especially when said entanglement comes in the form of kind, innocent Sam.
When Eldon is brutally murdered, Sam becomes drawn into the dark underworld of the Chicago gangs. Sam must find the missing hex Eldon created for one of the crime bosses—before whoever killed Eldon comes back for him.
Together, Alistair and Sam begin the search for the mysterious hex, diving deep into the seedy side of Chicago’s underworld while dodging rival gangs. And as they come to rely on one another, Alistair realizes he’s falling for the one man he can’t afford to love.
👀The Pride takes place in the same universe as the Hexworld books.👀
Original Review July 2021:
WOW! Just WOW! WOW! and WOW! again.
Okay, now that I got that out of my system, I can continue.
Blind Tiger ticks so many of my boxes:
Historical✅Post-WW1✅1920s✅Prohibition✅Chicago(Upper Midwest so it's sorta local-ish)✅Paranormal/Supernatural✅Romance✅Friendship✅Witches/Familiars✅Mob✅Mystery✅Mayhem/Danger✅Opposites Attract✅
It may seem there is almost too many boxes ticked but the author blends them all together perfectly.
Jordan L Hawk has not only started a new series but made it a spin-off(or next generation style) of one of my favorites, Hexworld. For those who have already read the Hexworld series, you know how amazing the world building is, taking a historical setting and making witchcraft and their familiars a known element, they don't have to hide who they are because the world knows, history incorporates paranormal as part of it's reality. To me that's harder than keeping the paranormal world a secret, blending the two to make an alternate universe or timeline. Genius!
Now having mentioned Hexworld and that The Pride is kind of a spin-off, don't think you have to read Hexworld first because even though it's the same universe, the same alternate reality, you won't be lost, you won't be left wondering "how did this happen?" "why does this work?". The author lays it all out for you but be warned, if Blind Tiger is your introduction to the Hexworld universe, you will want to go back and read it as well, this AU is addictive.
Now let's talk Alistair and Sam. Opposites attract probably puts it pretty mildly, completely different backgrounds and ways of life but once they lock eyes, you just know nothing is ever going to be the same for either. There were so many times I wanted to smack Alistair for not being open to the possibilities of happiness but also I wanted to give Sam a good shake to erase the self-doubt that often crept in usually in the form of his family's voices. Truth is there is probably just as many times that I wanted to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything is going to be okay. For me, those warring emotions inside of me is what told me this is a journey worth reading and that their chemistry is off the charts.
And where would 1920's Prohibition be without a little murder? The mystery is the element that pulls everything together, brings(or perhaps "keeps") Sam into Alistair's world. They mystery may be secondary plot-wise to Sam and Alistair's journey but it is what weaves everything together and kept me guessing till the reveal.
I think I'm going to stop there before I'm tempted to give too much away. I'll just end by saying the blending of all the boxes I ticked earlier make Blind Tiger pop! I was not only sucked into the story and didn't want to put it down but I felt I was right there in the Gatti's club, The Pride and witnessing it unfold right next to me. Another brilliant bit of storytelling from an amazing author. Jordan L Hawk has brought another winner to the table.
Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
March 1915
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged’,” Orlando Coppersmith read aloud, “‘that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ What a load of nonsense.”
“I told you not to read that book.” Jonty Stewart viewed him over the top of his glasses. “I knew you’d get annoyed at it. But would you listen? Would you my Aunt Fanny.”
“It’s well regarded in the college. Drs Peters and Panesar were singing its praises.”
“That I admit. As I do my own partiality to the story.” Jonty laid down the book he’d been occupied with. “However, I was able to get past the first line and appreciate the rest. It’s Jane Austen’s opinion, you know, not something set in stone like Pythagoras’s theorem.”
“Well, it’s a stupid opinion.” Orlando shut the book and laid it down in a marked manner. Perhaps he was in too bad a humour to appreciate the prose, having recently heard that one of his old professors at Oxford had been spouting unpatriotic opinions. “You possess a good enough fortune, but you aren’t in want of a wife.”
“That’s because—item one—I have no inclination to share my life with any member of the female of the species and—item two—I have your good self to meet my every matrimonial need. If only in the true state of our shared life, rather than the name given to it.”
Despite England having moved from the Edwardian to the new Georgian age, a romantic relationship of any kind between two men would be liable to find the two spouses incarcerated, unless they were lucky with the front they put up, as this pair had been. Two Cambridge academics who shared a house for convenience and because nobody else would have put up with them had proved a successful cover story.
However, Cambridge and academia had been temporarily—they hoped temporarily—put aside for London, where they were currently living with Jonty’s parents and tootling off every day to cramped rooms in Whitehall. One to his codebreaking duties and one to more of an administrative role, both placements secured by the good offices of their colleague Dr Panesar, who’d dropped a word in the right ear that this pair were just the chaps the head-hunters were presently looking for. All hands to the pump in a war that hadn’t been over by the previous Christmas, and jolly well looked like it would outlast the next one.
A distinctive triple knock on the door of their little sitting room no doubt heralded the arrival of Jonty’s father.
“Come in, come in, whoever you are, Papa,” Jonty said.
“Sorry to intrude on your precious leisure time.” Mr Stewart poked his head round the door but intruded no further. “Do you have a moment now or later when I could avail myself of your brains?”
“Several,” Orlando replied, a hopeful look in his eye that read as plainly as the text of any book. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of an exceptional mind, must be in want of a mystery to solve.
Mr Stewart sidled into the room, seating himself in the third chair. “This does seem rather less important than whatever it is you two do when you’re wherever you’ve gone to do it, but it’s bothering me.”
“Then tell all, Papa. Orlando is quite capable of solving a murder, developing an abstruse piece of mathematics and writing a letter to the Kaiser simultaneously.” Jonty glanced at his partner in both love and solving crime, amused to find his face now reading, I’m trying to pretend that you exaggerate my qualities, all the time believing that you don’t really.
“Thank you. There’s a chap at my club, Mortimer Pollock. He’s gone missing.” Mr Stewart raised his hand before they could make any comment. “I think we can safely eliminate one of the current reasons why a man might disappear from circulation. I doubt he’s lied about his age, signed up and is currently heading off to training camp, because he’s my age and walks with a limp. Unless they’re more desperate for men than anybody is admitting, I doubt the King’s shilling has been bestowed on him.”
“If he could have signed up, would he? What’s he like, in terms of character?” Orlando asked.
“A reliable man and a sensible patriot with a realistic outlook on events abroad, I’d say. Not like some of the old buffers who go on and on about how the war would have been over by now if they had been in charge. Pollock’s not a man who’d shirk responsibilities or danger were they to come his way. Therefore, I also don’t believe he will have taken himself off to the furthest tip of Wales or anywhere else he would be out of the range of airships.”
Orlando grinned. “You’ve understood my question perfectly. Are his family worried about him?”
“He’s a widower, without issue, which is why he haunts the club so regularly and why his absence was remarked upon.” Mr Stewart ran his hand across his hairless scalp. “Sir Charles Bracken proposed that he’d go round to Pollock’s house, ostensibly to return a book he’d borrowed, but really to see if the chap was, for example, dangerously ill. Before he could undertake his reconnoitre, Pollock’s butler contacted the club. His master hadn’t returned home the previous night and the man was becoming gravely concerned. At that point, which was Wednesday morning, he’d not been at the club since he left late on Monday afternoon.”
“By which,” Jonty said, “one might conclude that whatever befell him—or whatever he decided to do—can be dated to Tuesday morning. Two days ago. Did anyone ask this butler whether Pollock had taken a bag with him?”
“Not at the time, although I did this morning when our friend still hadn’t shown his face. I may, possibly, have played the Stewart as in ‘Stewart and Coppersmith’ card when I was on the doorstep.” Mr Stewart grinned sheepishly. “Broom, the butler, appeared suitably impressed. No bag had been packed or taken by his master, simply the umbrella Pollock always carried, come rain or shine.”
This mystery sounded exactly their cup of tea. “And what else did you ask Broom, oh Sage?”
“I didn’t need to ask him much. Our names alone loosened the floodgates.” Mr Stewart produced a small notebook. “I made some notes afterwards, although it’s possible something evaded my memory. Significantly, it was out of character for Pollock to have gone anywhere and not left word of where he’d be. He would normally inform Broom of his plans for the day, including whether he had an appointment with his doctor or solicitor or whoever. Pollock did regularly visit an old friend from university days, but the household would obviously be informed well in advance and he’d take a suitcase with what he needed for the stay.”
“Has this old friend been contacted?” Orlando asked.
“Not that I’m aware.” Mr Stewart pursed his lips. “Broom said he wasn’t sure of this person’s name and there are plenty of people listed in Pollock’s address book.”
Orlando shared a glance with Jonty. “Could be significant, that Broom wasn’t told the name, given that Pollock visited this man—or woman—frequently.”
“Yes,” Jonty said. “Especially if this person wasn’t invited to the Pollock house in return. Our staff would know all the comings and goings, wouldn’t they, Papa?”
“They would, my boy. I suspect they’re aware of our every move.”
Orlando, clearly unsettled at the notion of those below stairs knowing exactly what went on upstairs between him and Jonty when the chance presented itself, hurriedly said, “Is it possible that Broom knew the name and was holding it back?”
Mr Stewart considered for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression. I believe he was trying to be as helpful as he could be. Broom’s clearly a worried man.”
“Then maybe Pollock is drawing a veil over this person’s identity,” Orlando suggested, “because it’s a woman whom he’s visiting to…ah…satisfy the particular needs he has now that he is widowed.”
Mr Stewart nodded. “Quite possibly. Yet if he’s gone to her this time, why make the visit without so much as a spare collar or a ‘by your leave’ to anyone else?”
“What else did Broom tell you?” Jonty asked.
“That he, very sensibly, has been in contact with the police and the local hospitals and has drawn a blank. Nobody matching Pollock’s description has been brought in, for example following an accident, and he’s not hard to mistake because he still has a fine head of black hair apart from the white patch on his crown he’s apparently had since he was a child. He might, of course, have travelled further afield and be trussed up in a hospital ward miles away but he appears to be the kind of man who’d get word sent home.” Mr Stewart spread his hands. “Unless he’s out for the count with concussion.”
“Or unless he’s been leading a double life and has totally abandoned his present situation for the new one. Run off to join the circus as a strong man, with his beloved bearded lady.” Jonty chuckled. “Do they still have circuses during the current unpleasantness?”
“I wouldn’t know, my boy, although I do know Pollock, and unless he’s managing to hide his true character from us, he’s a man of integrity, with no obvious inclination to the flying trapeze and no obvious enemies, to boot.”
“Can a man truly have no enemies?” Jonty asked. “We three must have accumulated some over the years, given the number of people we’ve helped bring to book, and there will be others, with no connection to our detective activities. Anyone from the college next door, to start with, simply because we are St Bride’s men.”
“Pollock’s private life could have generated people who’d wish him harm,” Orlando pointed out. “What if he has a married woman as mistress and her husband has discovered what goes on behind his back?”
Mr Stewart steepled his fingers to his chin. “I confess I didn’t specifically probe Broom on such intimate matters, as the man was so upset. Would you like me to return, with a list of questions?”
“Perhaps we could find time to go together, when we’re not on one of our shifts,” Orlando said, wistfully, “although trying to co-ordinate all three of us would be difficult.”
Jonty slapped his knees. “We’re all here now. Papa, would Mama—or indeed the cook—allow us to defer dinner by half an hour so that we could employ some time now to nip over and see Broom?”
Mr Stewart beamed. “I’m sure that can be accommodated, given the circumstances. The problem will be persuading your mother not to come with us. I wouldn’t like Broom to be presented with a scrummage at his master’s door.”
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Shortly before closing time, Mrs. Harris entered the shop, accompanied by her numerous progeny. It was for good reason that Walter’s father referred to the junior members of the Harris family as “the holy terrors.”
If Dad had known they were coming, he would have delayed nipping out for five minutes.
Walter hid a grimace while keeping a close watch on the arrangements of piled tins, all too tempting an obstacle for small, unruly children.
The three older ones, used to being well-behaved at school, stood quietly enough by their mother as she approached the counter. To Walter’s relief, the two youngest, a boy and a girl, the rambunctious pair of twins, were not running riot but remained contained, each holding the hand of an unfamiliar man.
“I only popped in for a couple of tins of corned beef,” Mrs. Harris said chattily. “I thought I had some put by in the larder. Isn’t it strange how quickly food gets used up when you’ve another mouth to feed?” She smiled and continued, “My brother Stanley is staying with us while he recuperates.”
Walter gave a nod of acknowledgement as he selected the tins of canned meat. He was already aware of the newcomer to the tight-knit streets that comprised old Cheltenham.
Local shops were a mine of ready information. It was surprising what intimate details people revealed to shopkeepers or loudly speculated about to each other in the shop.
Mrs. Harris’ brother’s arrival from the village of Lydbrook in the Forest of Dean, her home before marriage, had inevitably caused a steady stream of gossip.
“He’s not quite right, so I’ve heard,” one lady said, tapping the side of her behatted head sententiously. Another more sympathetic soul had added, “The poor chap has had repeated bouts of pneumonia as a result of the Great War, so I believe.” A final tactless commenter declared, “You’d have thought he’d have got over that by now.”
That remark had caused Walter to grit his teeth and hold back a pithy retort.
Most civilians back in Blighty had no notion of the horrors of trench warfare, often affecting a man for the rest of his days. Walter was mostly grateful that civilians were spared those harrowing experiences, but such ignorance raised his hackles.
“There you are,” he gravely handed the tins to two of Mrs. Harris’ most responsible children.
“Can I help you with anything else?” he enquired politely, as though he wasn’t eager to see the back of the family before the twins wriggled free to wreak havoc.
“A jar of Hartley’s jam would come in handy. It’s Stanley’s favourite.”
She jerked her head towards her brother. Walter naturally glanced in the same direction. Contrary to his first assumptions, rather than clutching the twins to keep them under control, the infants seemed to be helping to hold the man upright.
He’s hardly a heavyweight, more of a bantam in boxing terms.
He wasn’t tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than Walter’s five feet eleven inches and far less robust in build. Walter could hear the slight rasp of his breath from across the shop, confirming that he must suffer with his lungs. His face was downturned, hidden by his cap.
“Strawberry or raspberry?”
Walter addressed Mrs. Harris, but her brother answered.
“Damson, if you have it.”
He looked up as he spoke. Walter blinked.
Blimey, he’s a looker.
He was fine featured, but still managed to be handsome rather than pretty. His large dark eyes were emphasised by his sallow, over-thin face and his lush mouth was accentuated by a pencil moustache. Like a home-grown Rudolph Valentino.
Twisted Tome by Vanora Lawless
CHAPTER ONE
May 4, 1918
Belgium
IN THE LAST BREATH of evening light, Elliot shoved Warren into a stable as the sound of boots in fast pursuit echoed outside. Startled horses snorted and stomped in their stalls. Elliot’s heart pounded loud in his ears alongside his heaving breaths. Hay crinkled underfoot, the musty scent of animal and decay heavy in the air.
Warren pressed close, his eyes dark and intent on Elliot’s. He guided Elliot back into a corner, his calloused hands rasping over Elliot’s cheeks, cupping his face. The door burst open, but Warren’s mouth only twitched into an irresistible smirk. Elliot’s gaze darted to it and he wet his own lips.
German soldiers flung open the doors, barking loud orders at each other. Elliot watched over Warren’s shoulder, his chest squeezing tight, fingers tensing over the pistol at his waist. He held his breath as a soldier approached, but the man’s gaze passed over the space they occupied without sign of alarm. Elliot exhaled slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. Although he trusted Warren’s illusion to conceal sounds, there was no need to test it.
Around them, the noise of the search continued, but Elliot’s attention was recaptured by Warren’s shadowed gaze, full of adrenaline and edged with lust as he tipped his head up, lips parting in invitation.
A jolt of shocked arousal heated Elliot as Warren slid his hardening prick against Elliot’s thigh. He barely held back a groan as he ducked his head to kiss Warren, against his better judgement. The pressure and yield of Warren’s soft mouth was both pleasure and temptation; he couldn’t resist dipping his tongue inside, clutching Warren’s hips and dragging his body closer. This was the worst time, the worst place, and still Elliot couldn’t help himself. Need and desire had him in their implacable grasp, and Elliot had no intention of fighting when it was so much easier to give into the stroke of Warren’s tongue, the gentle pressure of his teeth against Elliot’s bottom lip.
Warren’s breathing hitched, and he rubbed slowly against Elliot’s own trapped, swollen cock. Molten pleasure consumed him. Elliot was half a second away from hauling Warren up to wrap his legs around Elliot’s waist when Warren tore his mouth free with a breathless chuckle.
Elliot’s pulse skyrocketed with delayed alarm, glancing past Warren to find the stable empty save the animals. “Christ,” he muttered.
Warren pressed his face into the curve of Elliot’s neck and shoulder, silent laughter wracking him. “Your face. Your eyes just—” He choked.
Served him right. “Yes, well, forgive me for a moment’s concern when I remembered what we were in the middle of and worried I’d distracted you,” Elliot said dryly. Which set Warren off once more. Elliot’s own amusement was difficult to conceal. “Whenever you’re finished.”
After a moment, Warren sobered and stepped back. “You are distracting, but I made you a promise. I’ll always keep you safe.”
Warmth flooded Elliot, and he had to look away.
“I showed them a quick illusion of us crawling out a window back there,” Warren said, gesturing to the back of the stable behind a big horse, made larger by the darkness. “They all took off around the building to give chase.”
“Come on,” Elliot said, taking Warren’s hand and leading him to the door. “We’d better get out of here while we have the opportunity.”
He didn’t have to ask Warren to conceal them as he cracked it open and checked the street. They’d been through this routine enough over the winter, rescuing key Belgian and French soldiers in occupied territory. They had it down pat.
By now his second in command, Lieutenant Bell—Bellona, as they called her—and the rest of their team would have Caporal Lucien D’aramitz stashed away at the safe house. LFB, a spy network they’d been working closely with, had provided it as a temporary gathering point before they made the return journey to their home base in Fienvillers. Hopefully the place would have hot water so they could finally get clean.
After a tense journey back to their well-concealed motorcycle, then an uneventful drive for which they were both grateful, Elliot and Warren arrived at the location they’d been directed to.
Climbing out of the sidecar, Warren grumbled under his breath, and Elliot tried not to look entertained. Warren still hated riding in one, but he didn’t particularly enjoy driving a motorcycle either. Elliot gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, and in the moonlight caught the roll of Warren’s eyes. He couldn’t keep a smile down.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Warren said, clearly trying for grumpy, but sounding much too fond.
Nodding, Elliot agreed. “I have been blessed.”
“Damn right.”
And because it was dark and no one was outside, Elliot stole a quick kiss before knocking on the door, inhaling the familiar enthralling scent of Warren. A warm surge of affection gathered in his chest, his lips tingling, as he forced a mild expression onto his face.
Bellona opened the door, her expression warm as she greeted them before settling into something serious. “We’ve got an issue we weren’t expecting, I’m afraid. I’m glad you’ve arrived. We only just found out about him ourselves.”
“Who, D’Aramitz? Was anyone injured?” Elliot asked quickly, stepping inside.
“No one was injured, come on. You’ll see.”
They found the team gathered around a man seated on a settee. His dark hair was long, stringy and unwashed, and his French army uniform had certainly seen better days. He looked as if he could use a hot shower, several meals, and a week’s sleep. His face was battered and bruised. Elliot suspected it wasn’t the only place he’d been hit considering how he cradled his ribs.
Kneeling before him was another French soldier Elliot didn’t recognize. His hair was a lighter shade of brown and he was much slimmer. Short too, with a young appearance and big eyes set over an upturned nose and thin mouth.
At their entrance, all heads had turned to Elliot and Warren. Caporal Remonet and Charbonneau, the two French army members of their team, had been talking with Lara Baudin, their LFB agent liaison. Hoffman was standing back from the group, and he nodded to Elliot and Warren.
“Thank goodness,” Lara said with genuine cheer. “We were starting to worry we might need to mount a second rescue. Bell was beside herself.”
Bellona narrowed her gaze at Lara from where she’d stopped beside Remonet. “I was no such thing.”
“Aw, you care about us,” Elliot said, relieved to see everyone in one piece.
“Obviously,” she said, her hands going to her hips.
Warren chuckled, and Bellona’s glare turned on him. He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t look at me. I know you’re not the panicking type. I’m sure Lara’s exaggerating.”
Bellona flushed and gestured as she made introductions. “Captain Stone, Corporal Sullivan, meet Caporal Lucien D’Aramitz, and Caporal Gabriel Auclair.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Elliot said. Warren’s gaze darted speculatively between the two men, D’Aramitz sitting and Auclair kneeling, which prompted Elliot to ask. “Weren’t we only expecting one?”
“We were,” Lara agreed, with a tinge of guilt in her expression. “Gabriel—Auclair,” she corrected, “is my cousin. He’s been searching for D’Aramitz for weeks. When your team took up his cause, I alerted him to get here as quickly as he could. I know what you’re going to say, I shouldn’t have compromised your mission, but there’s so much more happening here than your team was let in on.”
Hoffman crossed his arms, stance shifting from relaxed to suspicious. Beside him, Remonet’s eyebrows rose. Elliot couldn’t say he felt different, unease prickling the back of his neck.
“You could not have brought this to our attention before?” Charbonneau asked.
Auclair shot to his feet. “She was forced to make a judgement.” His French accent was strong, and his voice was painfully earnest. “It’s difficult when you have competing loyalty. We try to fight a war for our nations at the same time we fight to save the world from terrible evil.”
“What kind of evil?” Warren asked, sounding skeptical. He’d shifted closer to Elliot, nearly in front of him, as if planning to shield him if it all went sideways.
Auclair and D’Ararmitz shared a look that spoke of years of silent conversation. Auclair’s gaze seemed to linger on the half-healed gash that stretched along D’Aramitz’s right cheekbone. His mouth went tight, and his eyes widened, clearly pleading. D’Aramitz sighed.
“It is a very long story, but to make it less, my family has been guarding a dangerous artifact for centuries. As far as we know, it cannot be destroyed, only contained, and it is our duty to ensure that it is kept so. We have managed through kings and revolutions, and my brothers have done their best through this war, but six weeks ago I lost contact with all of them. Lara was able to get a friend to visit the vineyard to find out why, but her friend vanished.”
“I assume that’s what led you to leave your post?” Elliot asked, guessing, since they hadn’t been told any such thing.
Auclair stepped closer to him, glaring as D’Aramitz grimaced. “What should we have done? Let the world burn in exchange for two soldiers to remain in a never-ending battle?”
“Ça suffit, Gabriel,” D’Aramitz murmured, resting a gloved hand on his forearm. “We found the vineyard untouched, but my entire family gone, along with Gabriel’s. What we guard was gone as well and all that remained in its place was a coded message from one of my brothers. A hint at where to find him.”
“So how’d you get captured, but not him?” Warren asked, tilting his head from D’Aramitz to Auclair.
“I went to search the vineyard while D’Aramitz went to the hidden room only the guards can enter,” Auclair explained, his face pinching with pain. “I was looking for my sister. By the time I return to the main house, he was missing. There were signs of struggle. I didn’t know who had come for him, but he would not go willingly without me.”
D'Aramitz’s lips quirked in a lopsided little smile. “Of course not.”
Auclair nodded as if he’d been repeating the same thing to himself for ages, and hearing D’Aramitz confirm it was an immense relief. “It…” He seemed lost, staring into the middle distance. “It took some time for me to know what to do. Then I went to Lara for help, and she started her contacts working, put me to use on other tasks to occupy me so I didn’t go mad waiting. You cannot blame Lara for giving me this location.”
“What I don’t understand,” Elliot said, “is why on earth we were sent after a deserter in the first place. No offense. If you left your post without a trace, and this thing you guard is supposed to be a secret, I assume?”
“Yes,” D’Aramitz confirmed without hesitation.
“Then why are the French looking so hard for you?”
D’Aramitz scrubbed at his face with both hands, wincing when the movement reopened the scab on his cheek. Auclair dug in his pocket and handed him a clean handkerchief. “I’ve wondered as much since your soldiers took me out of confinement. They must know something, it is the only explanation. And my family’s secret in their hands would be just as damaging as in German ones. It cannot be allowed to…” He struggled with his words, and when he found them, generations of unbearable weight echoed in them. “To be used in this war or any other. Ever. Some magic is lost for good reason.”
Elliot glanced at Warren, who quickly answered his unspoken question. “He’s telling the truth. He’s terrified of it, whatever it is.”
“So should you all be. The Germans attempt for weeks to get information from me about the location, and I gave them only lies. Because no torture would be as horrifying as what the artifact can do in the wrong skilled hands.”
Auclair made a small sad sound as he looked at D’Aramitz, before returning his distressed gaze to Elliot. “Lara told me you have orders to return D’Aramitz to our government, and if you must, I will go as well. But…”
D’Aramitz took over the plea. “But we would do the world more good searching for my brother, to keep that insidious thing the secret it must remain.”
Elliot surveyed his team’s conflicted expressions. They all wanted this war to end, were sick of losing people, wanted to be home with their loved ones. But he knew each and every one of them. Not a single soul on his team would choose to give a government they understood to be often unscrupulous the kind of weapon that would endanger the world.
Except where did that leave them?
“Sullivan, you’re certain?” Elliot asked, thinking on his feet as he rolled out his tight shoulder muscles.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Neither of ’em show any sign of lying. And Auclair’s emotions are particularly loud and clear. I don’t think he could pull off a lie if he tried.” He was so attractive when he was confident and teasing. Even if the person he was teasing wasn’t Elliot.
D’Aramitz chuckled and Auclair huffed. Elliot rubbed the back of his neck, struggling with a course of action. His gut agreed with Warren, but how much could he safely risk to do the right thing?
“We cannot disobey direct orders,” he said, reluctantly. Auclair and D’Aramitz both tensed. Warren, Bellona, and Hoffman all started to protest, but Elliot continued to speak, only elevating his volume to be heard. “That said, we’ll all need rest to recuperate for the return journey. Are there enough rooms upstairs to go around, Lara?”
Confusion flitted across her face, joining disappointment. “Yes?”
“Excellent.” Elliot refocused on Auclair and D’Aramitz. “I trust the two of you will remain here for the night without any need for official supervision, and we’ll head out in the morning. In the meantime, perhaps we could find a first aid kit for D’Aramitz?”
“Unnecessary,” Auclair said, shifting to block anyone from coming close to D’Aramitz. Perhaps unwilling to believe they weren’t a threat. “I am a healer. Very low ability, but I can take care of his injuries.”
“Right, well, see you bright and early then.”
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.
Blind Tiger by Jordan L Hawk
1
The rumrunner waited for them behind a burned-out building just north of Chicago.
Philip steered the Model T truck over the bumpy ground, every pothole jarring Alistair’s spine. Doris sat in the wooden bed behind them, the occasional lights reflecting in her eyes. The moon had set with the sun, clouds blotting out the stars. The electric glow of the city tapered out a mile back, the only illumination from the headlights.
They pulled up beside the rumrunner’s truck and climbed out. The rumrunner strode toward them, her hair hidden under a cap and her clothes—and no doubt weapons—mainly concealed by a long overcoat. The nights still held a definite chill in April, and Alistair had to resist the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets. No sense in making anyone think he was reaching for a concealed gun.
“About time you showed up,” she said, shooting a glare at Philip.
“We’re right on schedule, Camille,” Philip replied. He was a big man, solidly built in contrast to Alistair’s own lean ranginess. The headlights washed out his pale, almost colorless hair and gleamed in his yellow-gray eyes. “Do you have the goods?”
One of Camille’s men flung back the tarp covering the crates stacked in the back of their truck. “Straight down from Canada,” she said. “Do you have my scratch?”
Alistair removed a thick envelope from inside his jacket and passed it to her. She looked inside, quickly thumbed the stack of bills, and then vanished it into her own oversized coat. “A pleasure doing business with you. Load ‘em up, boys.”
“Not just yet,” Philip said, holding up his hand.
Camille rolled her eyes. “We’ve always dealt straight with you, Gatti. Do you have to do this every time? It’s a little insulting.”
“Sounds like what someone who’s planning a crooked deal might say,” Alistair observed.
Camille focused on him, her eyes narrowed in anger. Philip merely looked pained. “You aren’t supposed to say that part out loud, Alistair,” he muttered.
This was why Philip was the front man, and Alistair usually stayed in back and counted the money. Ordinarily their busboy, a burly young man by the name of Frank, would come along and help move boxes. But Frank had run off to Mexico with his sweetheart a week ago, so Alistair volunteered to come just this once.
He didn’t regret speaking up, even though he’d obviously pissed off Camille. She might not be slipping them watered down hooch—or worse, booze doctored with rubbing alcohol or gasoline—but she’d thought about it.
Of course she had. You couldn’t trust anyone, certainly not in this business.
Camille took a threatening step forward. Her hand dipped toward her pocket—she was definitely packing heat. “I don’t like your tone,” she said. Her goons shifted, not yet pointing guns, but waiting on the signal.
Apparently, they’d forgotten who they were dealing with.
A warning growl sounded from the darkness near the truck. Nothing showed of Doris: not a hair, not a whisker, not even the gleam of eyes in the night. But she was out there, and she wasn’t happy.
Shotguns were all well and good, but an angry tiger was even better.
The men paled, and the chilly air smelled suddenly of fear. Camille’s eyes darted to the shadows, then to Philip and Alistair. Taking in Philip’s yellow-tinged eyes and Alistair’s deep amber. Remembering, no doubt, why the Gatti family might work with the gangs, but hadn’t been subsumed by them.
Not that the Gattis were related by blood. No one would look at pale, sturdy Philip and think Alistair, with his rangy body and Italian looks, was his literal brother, or brown-skinned Doris his sister. But the bonds between them were no less for it.
Camille stepped back and gestured to the crates. “Work your magic, then.”
“Thank you.” Philip took out a leather wallet, shuffled through its contents, then removed a sheet of paper with an elaborate hex drawn on it. He chose a crate from amidst the pile. One of Camille’s men unloaded it, opened the lid, and stood back.
Philip held the hex over the bottles packed securely in straw. Joel and Wanda had charged it earlier, so he spoke the activation phrase: “Reveal to me the impure.”
Alistair barely kept from rolling his eyes. Eldon, their hexman, had such a flare for the dramatic it was ridiculous.
If any of the booze had been cut or otherwise tampered with, a betraying yellow glow would appear. This time, at least, there was nothing.
“See?” Camille snapped at Alistair. “It’s good.”
“This time,” he replied.
Her scowl deepened. Philip hastily stepped between them. “Thank you for your indulgence, Camille, and I apologize for my brother.”
“Maybe you ought to keep your ‘brother’ on a tighter leash, then.” She folded her arms angrily over her chest. “When we first went into business together, I told you I wouldn’t haul anything but the real McCoy. Now you bring this asshole along to insinuate my word’s no good?”
“Of course I trust you,” Philip replied with his charming smile. “But you get the stuff from somewhere, and it’s them I’m not so certain about.”
Alistair and Philip stood back while Camille’s men went to work. Doris emerged from the shadows in human form, dressed in boots and denim overalls, a cap pulled down over her sleek black hair. Despite the cold, she wore her sleeves rolled up to display muscular arms. Her pale yellow eyes were startling against the brown skin of her face, and one man nearly dropped a box in fear when she drew close to him.
A long time ago, it had bothered Alistair, how frightened people were just because he could turn into a cheetah, or Philip into a snow leopard, or Wanda a lioness. No one wanted to adopt a so-called dangerous breed of familiar; even witches feared them, as though they had less ability to reason than the animals whose forms they took. Seeing the fear on someone’s face had hurt, made Alistair want to do something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t a wild animal ready to lash out.
Then the war happened. And now here they all were, back together again and calling themselves the Gatti family, working in a business where that fear was all to their advantage. Not even the toughest gang leaders wanted to run the risk of waking up to find a tiger in their bedroom.
Thank God, Sullivan wasn’t the toughest gang leader, just the smartest.
When the shipment was transferred, Camille tipped her hat to them. “Safe travel home,” she said. “I’ll see you next time.”
She climbed into her truck, along with her men. Within minutes, the chug of the engine faded away into the darkness.
“Will there be a next time?” Doris asked, leaning idly against the side of their own truck.
“Good question.” Philip turned to Alistair. “You’re such an asshole. This is why I don’t usually bring you along.”
Alistair grinned at him. “I love you, too.”
“Seriously, though,” Doris said. “We still doing business with her?”
They both looked to Alistair, since he was second in command after Wanda. “Camille’s thinking about double-crossing us,” he said. “Maybe she won’t now that she knows we’re suspicious, but the temptation is always going to be there.” He paused. “And once we get back, have Joel charge some more of those hexes. I want every bottle inspected, just in case she hid a bad batch near the back on the truck, where you wouldn’t look.”
“Fur and feathers,” Philip muttered. “Should I feel around for a new supplier?”
“Leave that part to Wanda.” Alistair hunched his shoulders deep inside his heavy coat. “Come on. Let’s get back to The Pride before we freeze our tails off.”
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 ThomasEllie 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.
Vanora LawlessVanora Lawless is a bisexual genderfluid Canadian with ADHD and a passion for telling love stories set in magical or niche historical worlds. A graduate of Saint Mary’s University, Vanora has a B.A, majoring in psychology. As a Nova Scotian, loving long walks on the beach is practically a law, so Vanora takes every possible opportunity to explore the best sandy shores. In spare time between crafting new worlds and stories, Vanora can be found behind the lens of a camera or in a blanket burrito with a good book.
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.
To receive notification of new releases, sign up for her mailing list.
Jordan L HawkJordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
Charlie Cochrane
Ellie Thomas
Vanora Lawless
Lessons in Tracing a Dangerous Scent by Charlie Cochrane
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Twisted Tome by Vanora Lawless
The Larks Still Bravely Singing by Aster Glenn Gray
Blind Tiger by Jordan L Hawk
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