MORE THAN HUMAN by Mel Keegan & Jayne DeMarco

“Here. Make yourself comfortable.” Jason had brought them to a wide lounge with a view of Titan and, beyond, Saturn. Adrian saw three-meter viewports, five couches, several screens, two bistro tables, and the air smelt of coffee and cinnamon. “I’m drinking green tea. Yourself –?” Jason offered, on his way to the machines at the counter between the viewports. In the warmth of the lounge he shrugged out of the dress uniform jacket and threw it carelessly at one of the couches.

“Coffee is fine,” Adrian said, hushed, watching the long, elegant lines of Jason’s body as he poured. “What did Vanderhoven mean …you’re supposed to ‘take care’ of me?” He swallowed on a dry throat. “In this system, that expression’s come to mean anything up to and including premeditated murder.”

The younger man gave him an odd look as he returned from the serving machines, and placed a mug into Adrian’s hand. “I won’t lie to you. Dirk isn’t completely convinced you’re on the level. You could think you are, because you’re operating under a blanket of conditioning, ten layers thick.” With his own mug, he gestured at the nearest couch. “Sit. Relax. All Dirk wants me to do is make sure about you, so we can trust you, stop worrying that we could have a government agent aboard who’ll take the first opportunity to destroy us.”

A muscle in Adrian’s gut began to relax, and he sat back into the couch. The cushions sank beneath Jason’s considerable weight, and Adrian’s nostrils flared as he caught a hint of cologne, like nothing he had ever smelt before. Something from Eidolon? Something like cedar, like spruce, but infinitely exotic, hinting of the alien.

And Jason was warm. His body heat enveloped Adrian, made him want to touch, and he turned to him the way a plant turns to the light. The fabric he wore was skin-soft, and skin thin, and beneath it he was hard, with the physique of one who was designed, crafted, and then born to be an athlete. Adrian’s breath snagged in his throat, and he choked off a groan.

“What’s wrong?” Jason’s voice was deep, quiet.

“Nothing,” Adrian lied as every nerve came alive. And he knew he could not lie, not to Jason.

“I know you want me, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Jason said with gentle humor. “Where I come from, it’s nothing to hide or fret about. What’s spooking you Adrian? You worried I’m going to mock you for wanting me?”

“I – yes, maybe,” Adrian admitted, and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s been a long time since I had anything you’d think of as ‘civilized’ sex. Out here, nobody wants to get intimate with the government goon, and back on Earth, it’s no secret I’m a twenty. People don’t want anything to do with me, because they know the government has to be watching me, and I’ll just drag them under the same lens. In the end, no one’s going to get involved with me.”

“Damn.” Jason drank a little tea. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you do? For sex, I mean?”

The heat flushed back into Adrian’s cheeks, infuriating him. “Now and then I pick up spacers.” He gestured vaguely. “They’re not choosy, and nobody asks for a name, much less an ID. You go down to the clubs by the docking ports where the Belters come in, the freighter crews, and the prospectors from the Jovian system. You throw a lot of money around, buy a lot of booze, see who wants to talk to you, who sizes you up and likes what he sees.”

“You don’t take the spacers home?” Jason hazarded.

“Good gods, no!” Adrian did not have to feign a shudder. “My place is under surveillance – because I’m a government goon, and a twenty, and because the Civil Representatives are often targeted when people have a case to make against The Pure Light. Somebody’s partner or sibling or workmate gets picked up and vanishes, like my cousin Max. Someone gets steamed, the anger has to go somewhere, and people like me get trashed.” He shrugged. “It happens too often. The surveillance is supposed to be for my own security, but…”

“But it makes you wonder,” Jason finished, “if it’s also a way for the bastards to keep an eye on you. See who you’re talking to. Sleeping with.”

“Fucking,” Adrian corrected. “I haven’t gone to sleep beside a warm, familiar body in a very long time.”

“Damn,” Jason repeated. “And I know, I already said that.” His brows arched at Adrian in speculation, and disbelief. “You really go down to a club on the docks, and pick up some guy, and … and you do it, right there in the club? Really?” His voice rose in something like disbelief.

“Uh … they don’t do it on Eidolon?” Adrian was embarrassed, and angry with himself for the reaction.

But Jason’s blond head was shaking. “If I want someone, I just come right out and tell them, and I expect to offer them dinner, some very good wine, and breakfast. It’s only good manners, when you’re asking someone to be intimate with you. At least, that’s what we think back home.”

“And you’d be right to think it,” Adrian said miserably. “It doesn’t work that way here – not for the likes of me, anyway.”

“You’re only a twenty.”

“Yes.” Adrian slapped his legs.

“They’re fantastic legs,” Jason told him. “I saw them the moment you walked into the lounge. I’d say they were your best feature, but then I saw these eyes of yours. And your mouth. You’re very beautiful.”

Sheer disbelief stole the words out of Adrian’s mind for a long moment, and he knew he was gaping stupidly at Jason, until the younger man laughed with the same gentleness.

“Do I have to be in some dark, smoky club, dressed like a prospector from the Belt, before you’ll let me want you?” The rainbow eyes sparkled with amusement. Mischief. “I’ve never been to any such club, and I wouldn’t know where to find them on Titan Center, even if we had the time to go there, which we don’t. But I do want you. And where I come from, we say so … and offer you breakfast.” The tip of his tongue flicked out over his lips. “What, not interested?” His nostrils flared now, as he took a long deep breath. “That’s not what your body says.”

“Of course I’m interested,” Adrian groaned. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else since I set eyes on you!”

“Good.” Jason glanced up at the chrono, which was mounted over the serving machines. “Then you’ll be sleeping with me tonight. And I do mean sleeping, not just fucking. That comes first, and then you put your head on my pillow and get some sleep.” His expression darkened. “Insofar as any of us is going to get much sleep. Dirk has a plan, but it’s not going to be easy to get out of here – and from the few hints he dropped, none of it will work without you.” He set down the cup and both his big hands cupped around Adrian’s face. “Are you game?”

Adrian could barely breathe. “To work with you? Oh, yes. To crawl under you and let you do unspeakable things to me?”

Jason’s voice was a husky chuckle. “I’m not going to hurt you, Adrian. You’ve been with enough spacers to know how to play the game. Sure, I’m from Eidolon – you could probably even say I’m an alien! But I’m just a man.”

Just? Adrian could see nothing ‘just’ about it. Jason was much bigger, stronger, warmer, and he suspected also smarter, as well as being as highly charged as any of the fifties. They were sensual creatures, all of them. It was one of the qualities that had made them so irresistible, decades ago, when augmentation was chic and Adrian wanted so badly to be like them.

He might have said all this to Jason, but before he could find the breath to speak, much less coherent words, Jason had leaned forward across the little distance that separated them, and laid his mouth on Adrian’s.

His lips were hot satin, his tongue was wet velvet, and he tasted … slightly sweet, slightly spicy, as if his body chemistry was as fractionally different as the physical form. Adrian had never tasted anything like him, and in an instant, he knew nothing else would do.

Many of the spacers he had tangled with in the dark, smoky shadows of the dockside clubs were exciting men, handsome, with hard-worked bodies, ink-black tattoos, and the irresistible hunger that came from being out in the wilderness of the Jovian moons for too long, before they made it back to port. The memories were searing, and Adrian would never forget them, but this –

This was like waking out of a dream which left him in a cold sweat, and finding that the reality was warmth, welcome, big arms in which he felt more safe than he had ever dared allow himself to feel, and desire that was as white-hot as anything he had experienced on the docks, without any need to seek the shadows, hide who he was, and what.

Reality was Jason Erickson, young and healthy and free. There was no chip in his brain, no governor controlling him. Jason was unlicensed, unregistered, he belonged to no one, and he would do exactly as he chose. The sheer notion inspired a vast shiver, and Adrian opened to the kiss.

He let it overwhelm him, and embraced the knowledge that he was in the arms of what The Pure Light termed a maverick – a fifty who was off the leash, beyond their control. Jason could be very dangerous. Adrian felt the power in his body, and knew Jason could have simply reached out and taken whatever he wanted.

Instead, he was faultlessly careful, as if he were keenly aware that Adrian was smaller, comparatively slender, oddly fragile. Minutes later, he lifted his head away from the kiss and blinked down into Adrian’s eyes, and Adrian gasped like a stranded fish. “See?” he said in the husky voice Adrian had already come to love, “I’m just a man.”

“Just?” Adrian echoed. “Not just. You’re … incredible.”

“I am what I was designed to be.” Jason released him and shrugged. “There’s hundreds like me at home. If you’re coming with us, you’ll see, soon enough.”

“I’m coming with you.” Adrian struggled to get a rein on his thoughts.

MORE THAN HUMAN is available in epub for your Nook and android here;
on Kindle, for your, uh, Kindle here,
and on PDF for your laptop or desktop here.

Read more on my website and on my wiki page...

AUTHOR: Mel Keegan, with Jayne DeMarco
ISBN-13: 978-0-9872328-6-1
Category: science fiction
Flames: 4
Length in words: 86700
Page number: 195
Publication date: April 2012
Price: US$8.99

art on this post is drawn from the blog of the artist -- if you'd like to see it at full-size, visit this post: A little gay romance near Saturn, circa 2170

A Daring, Devoted Heart by Linda Hines

Published by DreamCraft
ISBN: 978-0-9807092-7-8
Genre: Western Romance.
Length: 37,500 words.
Cover: Jade.
Heat rating: 3.5
Price: $4.99
Buy Here

Years ago, revenge brought Emeric von Gondrecourt to New Mexico. Now, the force keeping him there is loyalty to the Metairie family — and his love for the young Calder Metairie, who has grown up while Emeric watched.

The two men are separated by geography, history, language, culture — one, born an Austrian prince just before upheaval in Europe would rob him of his birthright, the other born to head a cattle ranch as vast as small European countries. Both were born to different kinds of power, positions of command, and lives bound by duty. And both share a secret.

Being gay at this volatile time in America's history is damned dangerous. Being two men in love is a hazard Calder and Emeric fully recognize —

But the simmering frustration with which Calder grapples, every moment of every day, is Emeric's stubborn refusal to allow himself to love, and to express his feelings in any physical sense. For Emeric, the situation is a labyrinth of duty and loyalty, desire and the determination to honor promises he made to the Metairie family in the wake of his one terrible mistake. The Metairies forgave Emeric once, and he enjoys a certain comradeship within the great Alteza cattle empire. He has worked long and hard to earn their trust and respect ... but would they forgive him a second time if his crime, this time, were to lay a lover's hands on Calder? For an Austrian warrior prince, the dilemma is bleak.

The situation between the two men is already like a powderkeg on a short fuse only waiting for a spark, when horse thieves steal Emeric's priceless Andalusian stallion, Lagrimas. The horse's name is prophetic ... it's the Spanish for tears, and this magnificent animal is at the epicenter of troubles, danger, which will bring Emeric and Calder face to face with their personal devils, once and for all.

A DARING, DEVOTED HEART is a Western with a difference. Not merely an m/m romance, it's also "quest fiction," taking a pair of mismatched heroes through country which brings to mind the works and words of Zane Grey, and culminating in a double-barreled climax — it's a hail of hot lead and a struggle to survive, before Calder Metairie and Emeric von Gondrecourt take those devils by the horns.

Chapter One

Beside the shaded riverbank, the buffalo grass was abundant, protected from the parching late summer sun of northern New Mexico by a leafy veil. Scattered sunlight filtered through the heavy foliage, dappling the leaves and painting whimsical shadows across the curly mesquite which blanketed the ground. Great branches stretched out across the river, coloring the canopied pools a cool viridian. Two riders halted from their journey there, as the hardwood gallery of bur oak, green ash and cottonwoods hailed a welcoming retreat.

Dismounting the big buckskin, Calder Metairie turned to his dark companion and laughed, as if once again wishing to rouse the prince from his serious thoughts. "Enough, I say," chided the spirited cowboy, hands on hips. "You voice concern when there is none. I am a man well grown."

"Too well grown," retorted Emeric von Gondrecourt, black eyes narrowing as he studied him. Carefully groomed to manage the Metairie Cattle Company's huge operation, Calder Metairie was impressive in stature and a skilled leader of men. Confident and charismatic at twenty-three, he was a young giant. With his handsome features, commanding presence and engaging ways, the young rancher attracted attention wherever he went. Too much attention, mused the prince, and usually of the wrong sort!

Amused, Calder tilted his Stetson to reflect his audacious personality. The bright blue shirt he wore contrasted sharply with his partner's darker garb. Worn and stained shotgun chaps covered his long, lean legs. A gun belt was prominent on his hip. Fancy silver spurs crowned the heels of his custom-made Coffeyville boots. And an elegant silver buckle graced his hand-tooled belt, the distinctive stylized M, a bold and recognizable symbol of strength throughout the rugged territory.

"I said enough, Emeric." Calder unsaddled Riago and pulled his bridle, freeing the buckskin gelding to graze among the high grass. Irritated still, he tossed his hat aside, brushing back his long dark hair, tying it at his nape with a rawhide cord. "Who are you to advise me on men? I don't try to pick your lovers."

"A man of more experience," he declared. "And there have been no lovers for you to pick." Prince by birth, warrior by circumstance — now at thirty-four, Emeric's features were quite striking, angular and gaunt. Lean, broad-shouldered, and physically powerful, Emeric von Gondrecourt was a haughty beast. A life hard fought had sharpened his mind, strengthened his body; its emotional scars lent his movements a wary leonine grace, and to those who threatened, he emanated a silent danger.

He was known as Jaeger along the Mediterranean and across the battlefields of Europe. The family he protected called him the Hunter.

Beneath long, thick lashes the cowboy's eyes changed with his moods, and Emeric noticed, now they were a deeper blue. "Calder, what may be accepted between two men in a warriors' camp, or behind closed doors at a princely court, can surely get you killed in the American territories in 1878."

"Emeric," Calder challenged with a wounded expression only his trusted companion understood, "I know of your life before, and the passion you once shared. But that was years ago. Why do you bridle your love now?"

"Calder," Emeric said softly to the man he knew who loved him — a feeling he deeply shared, but was honor-bound never to acknowledge, "because the only man I love is the one I cannot have."

"Me?" They stood close enough to touch, their words a whisper and a lamentation.

"Yes, you know that well enough."

"Emeric, why?"

"Your uncle extended to me his trust; my word, his only demand. Now, by my honor, he has me bound foot and hand."

"We are alone. Who would know?"

"I would. I gave my word to protect his family. I doubt that includes taking you to my bed."

"But it's not right. Who is he to set such boundaries?"

"Calder, what we share knows no boundaries. I feel your desire — know your love by every word you speak and every thoughtful action you perform."

"It is not enough. I need your touch. I need you part of me."

Emeric sighed. "I yearn for your touch as well. More than you will ever know. But it is the choice we were given. I can be here with you now. Choose devotion over desire. Or I must leave. For me, there is no other way."

The gaze they shared seemed endless and was the invocation of their longing. Both men knew words were not enough. Desire ached, and then it burned.

Deviled by discontent, young Metairie turned away. Quickly, he unpacked the harness and with a gentle stroke freed Mythos, the gelding who carried their supplies. The striking blood bay and golden buckskin presented a pleasing scene as they grazed at river's edge. Nodding to his companion, the cowboy set off to gather firewood, leaving Emeric to attend to his stallion and prepare their camp. Stripping his fine mount of leather and pack, Emeric loosed the silvery gray to quench his thirst and join the horses along the riverbank.

The viridian pool mirrored the prince's reflection, and he stared into its depths. He was plainly dressed in the European fashion. His shirt was of the finest linen; his waistcoat and breeches were black and severely cut. He possessed the long, muscular legs of a horseman; his tall gray boots, which were of the richest and most supple leather, seemed a part of him. A revolver on his hip and a black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat were the sole concessions to his presence on this continent.

Running a calloused hand through his dark, rumpled hair, Emeric turned his thoughts to ordering the camp. Eyes narrowing, he glanced through the tangle of trees, pondering their words, impatient for the return of his young companion.

"Lagrimas!"

The magnificent Andalusian stallion raised his sculpted head, dark eyes peering brightly through lustrous strands of silvery forelock. Neck arched, heavy mane tousled, he shook his head in spirited fashion. He was a big horse, strongly built, compact yet elegant, with a long, exquisite mane and tail.

One of the oldest pure breeds in the world, the Andalusian was known for its intelligence, sensitivity and docility. The horses originated on the Iberian Peninsula in Spain, where ancient cave paintings portrayed their noble breed. The chosen mount of captains and kings, the Andalusian was praised for its prowess as a war horse and prized by the nobility. The breed was used as a tool of diplomacy by the Spanish government, and was known as the Royal Horse of Europe. Alas, warfare and disease during the early nineteenth century had reduced the herds dramatically, and exportation from Spain had been restricted since that time.

"Come," he called, as Lagrimas nickered impatiently. Quickly, the gray approached, halting only when Emeric felt the rare stud's silky jaw brush gently against his own gaunt cheek. The soldier's whisper was a caress. Emeric had raised the stallion from a foal, and in 1873 brought him to America from the Mediterranean on his own great ship.

A Habsburg of both Spanish and Austrian descent, Emeric had often visited his austere grandfather in Spain — a nobleman of high rank and domineering ways. The Andalusian was bequeathed to him upon the old man's death. Honoring the stern old warrior, missing him still, Emeric named the spirited colt Lagrimas, which in the Spanish language meant tears. Now, along with Emeric's beloved books, the magnificent stallion was the only physical reminder of his life before.

The Hunter left his mount with a gentle word and a long caress. Inquisitive, the gray followed, gracefully bending his long neck to nuzzle about the saddles and packs spread haphazardly upon the ground. Amused, Emeric found pleasure in the antics of his silver stallion.

Of a splendid intellect, and a daring, devoted heart, Emeric's powers were all combined upon a single purpose: atonement.

Protecting Mariah Metairie, her daughter and her sons was his fervent vow.

But adversity molded the man, not condition of birth, as each experience, success and sorrow, shaped the mind and impacted the heart. Now, Emeric remembered once again the dramatic events which brought a dispossessed Austrian prince to the wildest territories in the American West — an old lover, misplaced passion, and an unforgivable lie.

Don't Go Away by Jayne DeMarco

Storyline by Jade -- inspired by the illustrations; written by Jayne DeMarco

The lights are soft among the trees. Lamps mark out the boundaries of our camp like lonely guardians trying to hold out the dark. But you can’t hold out the dark. I’ve tried for so long, and so hard, and in the end – where am I?

Here, under a cypress tree, listening to crickets and watching the stars burn in a deep blue sky while I wait, and wait. Looking inward, intent on my own thoughts while I wonder, deep down, if I’m wasting my time here, and this time he’s not coming back at all.

I wish ... I wish so many things, some that can be put into words, others that defy words, even defy thoughts But everything I wish comes back to him. He’s a man now – young and inexperienced, yet still a man. He’s drifting away, but, being a man, it’s his right to drift if he wants to ... and, gods help me, he wants to.

We are Zapatasti, and we’re proud of it. Some of us are proud of it. Mischa doesn’t seem to be. He wears the tattoos, as every man of the tribe wears them, but he’s drawn to the lights and the music, they call him away from the family. Away from me.

We’re camped three miles outside the city. The forest shields us from the road but if you listen hard you can still hear the traffic, and in the west the sky is orange and the stars are dim. The lights of the city wipe away the night as they overwhelm the world. My world, at least ... the world Mischa wants to leave.

Every night this week, since we camped, he’s followed the sounds of music and revelry into the city, and I know he’s met people -- alluring, fascinating people who’ll seduce him away. When he left tonight was dressed to kill ... or to dance. I don’t even know where he got the clothes, but intuition tells me he won’t keep them on for long. Long enough to finish the dance? Maybe. But I know where he’s been running, this last week, and who he’s been running with. He comes home before dawn and I can feel the difference about him.



If this is what he wants – if the yearning to live the city life, dusk till dawn, dance in smoke and lights, sweat and writhe and groan with strangers – there’s nothing I can offer him to tempt him back to the family.

For a thousand years the Zaparasti have wandered – Romany, gypsy, people of the steppes, the forest and the open road. But even in my lifetime it’s all changed, and I’m still young. The horses are mostly gone now; we travel in trucks, we’re told where we can park, we need papers and licenses and documents, or borders are closed to us. I don’t blame the ones who wander away. The life isn’t what it used to be; the magic is vanishing.

But I worry for Mischa. Too young, too beautiful. The city will devastate him. He’ll dance ... he’ll love, and he’ll be betrayed. They’ll use him for his beauty, and they’ll scorn him for what he is. I’ve tried to tell him how it is, but he won’t listen. The truth? We’re outsiders, wanderers, people of the roads – always the first ones suspected if there’s been a crime, and the first ones expelled in times of trouble.

He promised me he’d come back tonight, and I don’t really believe him, but still I’m here, waiting, hoping. Wishing. And I’m tired – it’s been a long day, full of withering apprehension as well as the hard work of the life on the road. I put my back against the tree a while ago; I slithered down, not intending to doze, but dozing just the same.

My dreams are weird. I see things, people, places that shouldn’t exist, faces that are lost in the past, events that should never take place in any reality. I wander in these phantasms for long enough to have lost track of time –

His voice surprises me. My eyes jolt open and I see him clearly against the sky and the lanterns, which have started to flicker out. It’s late. I struggle up, palms pressed against the coarse bark of the old cypress.

“You came.” My voice sounds strange. “You came back.”

“Of course.” He moves like a shadow, a little closer, avoiding the light. He’s beautiful, my Mischa. I’d have said he was the best of us, if he shared the Zaparasti pride. He’s my fifth cousin – an ocean of unrelated blood washes between us, but we share the same name as if by a trick of fortune. “Vanja.” He speaks my name reluctantly, and I hear the catch in the word.

Then I see the bruises. This is why he’s holding to the shadows, trying to prevent me from seeing them and at the same time desperate to tell me, have me know, so I can chew him out, get the anger out of my system, and then hold him. Heal him.

But I don’t want to chew him out – maybe tomorrow, when the fear isn’t choking me. My hands shake as I reach out to him. Bare skin is cold, prickling. “Mischa, what’s wrong? What happened? Where did you go? Are you –”

“I’m all right.” It’s a lie. I hear the untruth in his voice, but I know what he means on the superficial level. His bones aren’t broken. His skin isn’t gashed. He’s not bleeding, he was ‘all right’ enough to walk three miles back to camp, even after his beautiful face was bruised.

He comes hesitantly into my arms, as if he thinks I’ll push him away. I crush him against me instead, hear him yelp and flinch. Ah, so the bruises are not all on his face. I release him a little and he relaxes again. “Mischa —” against his cheek, breathless with dread “— you need a doctor?”

“No.” He buries his face against my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I’m ... done, Vanya. No need to go back.”

“No need?” I go down on the turf under the tree, take him down with me into moonshadows. The lamps are going out. “You danced?”

He pushes me down on the turf and I look up at his face against the stars. “I danced ... you should’ve seen me, Vanya! I was good. They threw money onto the stage. I was going to come home and show you more money than you ever saw before. I was going to take you to Prague and ...”

He says no more, but I can guess. It would have to be the thug, the one with the broken nose, I don’t even know his name. I don’t have to ask – he took the money. I think the bastard also took my Mischa, but I’m not going to ask. He’s learned a hard enough lesson tonight, he doesn’t need to have it said out loud. The words would flay him alive.

His hands on my skin fetch me up in prickles of delight. I squeeze shut my eyes and struggle for the words. “No need to go back? To the city?”

“To the city,” he whispers, touching my face.

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” I can barely speak. “You’ll be with us?” With me?

“I came back,” he said simply, as if those three small words answer everything. Maybe they do.

I go down onto the turf under the weight of him, delighting in the press of his bones, the sharp jab of his knees and elbows, the murmur of his breath on my neck, smelling a hint of ale and spirits. He’s been drinking, too, but I don’t care because he came back. He came home. Nothing is wrong that can’t be fixed –

Tomorrow.


Illustrated by Jade -- inspired by the artwork,
written by Jayne DeMarco.
Posted by Jade.