Origination by R.E. Blakeslee

This is a 400 word excerpt from Origination by R.E. Blakeslee. You can find more information on Lillibridge Press at GLBT Bookshelf .

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Blurb
"Confidently we send the Seed with The Betylos encapsulated. He will be reborn on the blue planet and remind the men their women are cunning, lustful creatures. Let them embrace The Philosophy as we have..."

On a rainy night, naïve, eighteen-year-old Eran Aeggle flees his childhood home, stumbling across an extraordinary stone. He picks it up, and with a bright flash of light, he falls unconscious. When Eran wakes he is unable to explain what happened or why he's so fascinated by the peculiar rock. Did it cause the two tattoos of an unknown origin on his shoulders?

Buffalo, New York - 2075

As Eran's need to attend The Alluvium Institute and become a botanist matures, so does his attraction to Simon Duncan, a handsome artist. It seems as if fate has brought them together. However, life is not meant to be an ever-blooming garden... Will Eran nurture their growing love or let it wither from uncertainty? How can Eran accept the destiny aliens set out for him if he doesn't believe? Will he let his turbulent past drag him into darkness?

As wide-eyed citizens of the City of Light live unknowing, a sadomasochistic killer stalks the night. But there is hope - in the moonlight a reluctant hero soars on wings of mysterious illumination. If only Eran could find the courage to realize...

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Prologue

Grant stood at the top of the steps, waiting. He glanced up at the suns, shielding his eyes from their brightness as his robe fluttered in the breeze. He didn’t want to be late. How long should he wait? He shifted his vision and noticed Herald striding up the steps. Finally, he had arrived. Grant hadn’t thought he would show and Herald’s eyes illustrated his apprehension. Yet…here he came. They had bonded when younger, but things played differently now. Herald was, after all, a Believer.

When Herald reached the top step he didn’t say hello. In fact, he said nothing at all. They turned, walking through the Corridors of Mahray.

“Are you going to say anything?” Grant thought as they entered, the door closing behind them.

“What do you want to hear?” Herald asked as they passed through the anteroom leading to the Council Chamber. Large, round windows let in the suns’ light, casting intense beams on the floor that were interrupted by their bodies passing through them again and again.

Grant could think of a lot of things to say, but finally thought, “You support us.”

“I don’t, but I’m here.” Herald stopped, turning to look at him. “Brother, is it not enough?”
Grant smiled at him. It was enough…enough for now. It soothed Sylva, their sister, too. The brothers walked on, but neither of them said another word as they came to the door leading to The Tone. Grant placed his hand on the handle and pulled.

“Wait!” Herald’s loud mental thought unnerved him.

Grant looked at his brother. Lines of frustration ran across Herald’s forehead as if he was older than his age. Grant hated seeing them and knowing they were because of him, but there was no other way. Everything in Grant’s being told him this most importantly. He didn’t know why, but he had always known he would do this: voice his thoughts to the Council of Twelve. Grant believed he could only tread this path. He must see where it led for his wife and for his sister, Sylva. Grant’s mind twisted with doubts…doubts about many things, including the validity of The Philosophy.

Grant couldn’t believe in something hindering his people. Besides, his mind would not let him trust those who were in power. Power distorted The Philosophy and its enforcers’ thoughts, which held a group of people down like the two women who meant most to him. The influence the Council of Twelve wielded kept those less knowledgeable in Darkness…Darkness confused for Light.

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Copyright 2009 R.E. Blakeslee
From the novel Origination by R.E. Blakeslee, published by Lillibridge Press in paperback

From SCORPIO by Mel Keegan

Excerpted by NARC #3: Scorpio by Mel Keegan

Stone drained the coffee and passed the mug back to Paul Estevez with one hand, while the other plucked the white metal datacube out of the machine. “Four hours, Kevin. You want to take a look at Dupre’s file?”

“No,” Jarrat said darkly, but he knew they would look at it anyway, at least the overview. The whole document would unfold in a millrace of video and stats after they boarded the Persephone for the thirty-hour flight to Darwin’s. He stepped back to give Stone space. “Take care of yourself, Paul. Stay the hell out of Aurora, you and your better half.”

“Other half,” Estevez corrected glibly. “I’ll watch out for you in the newsvids. You guys always make headlines.”

The crew quarters were below and aft. Jarrat was silent as the lift went down, returning them to the small, cramped accommodations assigned to them for the training tour. They reminded him too strongly of the Army, and he gave the compartment a glare as he stepped inside. The door locked behind him, and a moment later he closed his eyes, smiled, as Stone’s arms slid around him. Stone’s chin rested on his shoulder, and Jarrat forcibly relaxed back into the bigger man’s embrace.

“Don’t let Jack Brogan get to you,” Stone advised. He feathered a kiss around Jarrat’s right ear. “He’s a sonofabitch, but he’s ... mostly harmless. Starfleet’s full of guys like him. The service is a great way for a kid from the burbs to rise very high and do it while he’s still young. Colonel by the age of thirty-five, if he’s any good. Take the rank back into civvy street, score a job that’ll put him in a penthouse on Darwin’s, or right back on Earth. Think about it, Kevin. Leave the gutters of Rio or Saigon or wherever, return to Earth as an executive. I don’t like Brogan, but you have to respect the man.”

“A social-climbing control freak, so you said.” Jarrat turned in Stone’s embrace, slid his arms around his partner’s waist and laced his fingers at Stone’s back. “What’s that make me?” “A survivor,” Stone said without hesitation. “The only thing Brogan ever had to survive before he got out onto the frontier was mediocrity.” He laid his lips on Jarrat’s, kissed him lightly and then frenched him. “Enough about Brogan. If I never saw his face again, I wouldn’t grieve. You, on the other hand ...”

With deft hands, he broke the seals and plucked open the skinsuit, a few microns of kevlex-titanium to hold pressure, lined with thermotex to hoard heat, laminated on the outer surfaces for radiation screening. Under normal cabin pressures the suits were soft as fabric, but much too hot. Jarrat’s skin was sweat-damp and he made hedonistic sounds as Stone stripped him to the structured jockstrap which safeguarded his balls when the G-forces soared. Stone’s eyes were hot on him, head to foot, and not at all mocking.

He heeled off the boots, kicked away the suit, and stepped into the shower stall. As the strap followed the boots he said, husky and not quite teasing, “Feel free to join me.”

“You trying to tell me I stink?” Stone quipped. The seals on his own suit rasped open.

“Not the word I’d have used.” Jarrat gave him a sultry look over his shoulder as he set the water, and watched Stone drop the suit. He was looking good. The ordeal at the hands of Death’s Head was only a bad memory now. Stone was tanned, supple, his muscles well-worked, the inner man at peace with himself. Blue eyes lingered over Jarrat, bone by bone, and with a deep breath Jarrat ‘opened’ himself to the strange pleasures of another’s sensations.

It was so familiar now, and welcome: the storm in the nerve endings, the surge of feeling which had once been confusing, distracting, even frightening. Jarrat’s half-closed eyes rested on the dark nest of Stone’s groin, and the thick root of him, rosy with growing excitement. They had been too cramped, kept too busy and under too much pressure since they came aboard to be intimate.

The stresses of another assignment were due to begin in a matter of hours, and Jarrat was keenly aware of Stone’s desire to make the most of what little time they could get. In these few hours, before the Persephone docked, they were technically on their own time. They had closure on the Oromon mission, they had officially been recalled from the training tour, yet the Aurora assignment was still no more than a file to view, data to digest.

“Take what you can get,” Stone said quietly as he stepped into the show- er stall. Two large bodies in the stall made for close quarters. His arms wound around Jarrat.

“They own us,” Jarrat growled. “I have a habit of forgetting.”

“Not for the next few hours,” Stone argued. “When we go aboard the courier on Dupre’s orders, we’re on his time. Till then ...”

“Take,” Jarrat echoed, “what you can get.”

And he twisted in the small space, slithering down Stone’s warm, wet body to rest his cheek against the flat plane of his Stone’s belly. Abs rippled, crisp hair tickled Jarrat’s ear and then his lips. He smiled as Stoney groaned, low and deep in his chest, and the flood of sensation rolled through both of them like warm honey. Jarrat’s lips parted. He breathed across Stone’s hard, risen shaft and took the gasp as a kudo. The flashfire of Stone’s excitement thrilled through him, bringing him so close to the edge, his teeth clenched and the breath fluttered in his throat.

“Kevin,” Stone groaned. “Damnit, Jarrat!”

It might have been a warning; it was the last coherent sound in the tiny cabin for some time.


Illustrated by Jade. See the new all-digital Jarrat and Stone here!

Deadly Slumber

The following is an excerpt from Deadly Slumber, # 4 in the Deadly Mystery series by Victor J. Banis

Stanley woke slowly. Even when his eyes fluttered reluctantly open, he was still in darkness, total darkness. He lay for a moment, trying to comprehend, blinking. No glimmer of light penetrated the enveloping blackness. He'd never seen a darkness so complete.
He tried to sit up, but he could raise his head only slightly before it banged against something solid above him. He could barely move at all, in fact.
His hands were folded across his chest. He put them out to his sides. Again, he could move them no more than an inch or two before his fingertips touched cushioned silk. He reached up, and felt silk there too.
At first, he could not understand. Or, would not. The reality of his situation was so horrible, his mind did not want to accept it. He lay unmoving, trying not to think, trying not to accept the truth of where he so obviously was.
Recognition would not stay away, however. He knew. Knew and did not want to accept the truth: He was in a coffin. His breath seemed to crowd into his throat. This couldn't be real. Surely it was only a nightmare, from which he would awaken any minute now.
"Wake up, Stanley," he told himself, actually mouthing the words aloud. "Wake up, damn you. Now."
Even as he said the words, however, he knew this was no figment of his dreams.
He lifted his shaking hands again, tried to shove the lid away, but it did not budge. Not just in a coffin, then—sealed in a coffin.
* * *
Calm, Stanley, calm, just stay calm.
He told himself this over and over again, until his breath returned to something approximating normal and his heart had stopped threatening to pound its way out of his chest.
He blinked into the darkness. His cell phone. If he could reach it…there was so little room in which to maneuver his hands—easier to lift them up than to move them at his sides. He pushed against the silk lining with his elbows, strained to bring his hands up to his pockets. His shoulders felt as if they were being dislocated by the effort. His elbows strained against the walls of the coffin.
At last, an eternity later, his fingers brushed the outline of the cell phone in his right pocket. Yes. There it was. Now if he could just get it out of the pocket. He pushed against it, working it upward, slowly upward with the tips of his fingers.
Finally, the phone slid out of the pocket. He tried to clasp it in his trembling finger tips but it slipped away and dropped to his side. He felt for it, straining his shoulders still further. Again his fingers brushed the sleek plastic surface of the phone. He fumbled, managing at last to get hold of it. He lifted it gingerly above him.
When he flipped the lid open, the light from its face blinded him after the complete darkness. He blinked, squinting, trying to adjust his eyes.
The battery was low. He cursed himself for not keeping it charged up, and hit the "contacts" button, praying that the power lasted.
* * *
"Stanley, where the hell are you?"
"I'm in a b-box, Tom, in a c-coffin."
"What?! Where?"
The phone slipped out of Stanley's fingers.
"Crap," he swore aloud. It bounced of his chest, slid down his side.
He fumbled again, wriggling about as best he could, all but wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets. He got his hand on the phone again, lifted it…and found that the battery had gone dead.
* **
What is this world? What asketh man to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave, Alone,with-outen any companye
The darkness, the lingering effects of the ether, the horror of his situation…Stanley's mind seemed to close down. Not sleep, exactly, but not quite a conscious state, either.
He heard, incongruously, the soft murmur of a fountain, or was he only imagining it, a distant, faint song of water splashing upon itself? It called to his mind the meditation garden at Bartholomew's. He saw the Triton from the pond there, as clearly as if it were in the coffin with him. He was no longer marble, though, and not quite flesh, either, but something in between the two that glowed in the darkness. And the water came not from dolphins, but from the Triton's erect, massive phallus, jetting out of the glans like a monstrous orgasm. Kneeling below him, a satyr opened his mouth to receive the spewing tribute. It overran his lips, his beard, ran down across his shoulders, his shaggy chest. Spilling into a basin in which two pretty young boys cavorted, delighting in the silvery cascade falling about them; and down still further the water ran, overflowing a great chalice, running down the legs of the slaves who held it, down, down, down….
Overwhelmed by darkness and by horror, Stanley sank into something very near to a coma.

From EQUINOX by Mel Keegan

Excerpted from NARC #2: Equinox by Mel Keegan

‘I believe,’ Harry said wryly, ‘the colonel placed you under my supervision! Rest, he said. That was an order.’

An order which was easy to obey. Jarrat was already asleep when Stone stumbled into bed. He laid his cheek on the warm, hard plane of Kevin’s shoulder and closed his eyes. The last he knew was the slight vibration through the frame of the vast building as a Starfleet lighter touched down on the roof far above.

The dreams came later.

He ran, but knew he would be caught. Shadowy shapes pinned him down with crushing weight. A capsule broke with a sharp plastic pop, and acrid golden dust filled his head and stole his thoughts.

Angel.

Horror rampaged through his mind. The drug was like sweet poison. Angeldeath awaited him — no one survived the one-way track into the nightmare. But first came the Angeldreams. Fantasies torn from the deepest realm of the subconscious were clothed in sensual flesh that seemed so real. Stone threshed as the bitter dust stung his nose, choked him, but even then the fantasies had stirred to life.

He saw Jarrat again, the focus of his dreams, now as before. The chimerical creature with Kevin’s face rose from his memory: emerald skinned, winged, his body adorned in paint, gold, rings and chains, he deliberately seduced a man he loved. His beauty inveigled, beguiled, and Stone was lost once more. Engrossed in the golden dust he writhed, frenzied with the drug-induced, fantasy-driven lust which would rage as long as his body held out...

Angel.

The word crept into the midst of the phantasm and Stone recoiled from the incubus he had created. It wore Jarrat’s face and body but it was not Kevin. Lips curled back over razor-like fangs, talons ripped his skin as the carnal dream became horror at the mention of a word.

Now he fought, but knew he could not win. Angel was a disease. Some reasoning part of his mind knew it for what it was. A synthetic, a narcotic designed in the lab, so powerful and seductive that it had built empires, and torn them down.

Angeldreams were the kind a man would die for: he might swim in diamond, hear the song of the stars, master the sky with the power of living flight. Rampant with sexual energy, lord of every scene, he commanded any lover his imagination could conjure. No act was impossible, sensuality was infinite.

Until he was so rotten with the drug and the physical punishment wreaked upon his helpless, overworked body, his existence could not be called living. The only escape was death. Stone fought like a madman as the agonies of withdrawal assaulted him. He could inhale another draught of poison, flee into the dreams, one step closer his end. Or he could die here, tonight, in torment.

He was disgusting. Flying, out of his mind, his enslaved body fucked the floor or the bed in its senseless euphoria. He was a user. A rutting Angelhead. In the months to come, the addiction could only deepen, the dreams would fly his mind ever higher while the rest of him decayed. Horror at his own corruption nauseated him and he screamed, hoarse and helpless.

It was not the first time Jarrat had shaken him awake in the night and held him tightly enough to bruise. He gasped air to the bottom of his lungs, buried his face in Jarrat’s chest and inhaled the clean, male scent. This Jarrat was living, real and alive, not the beguiling Angel illusion.

‘I’ve got you. You’re all right, love.’ Kevin was still only half awake, his voice slurred with sleep, trembling with reaction to Stone’s terror, which had invaded his own sleeping mind. Strong arms held on tight. ‘Same dream?’

‘Yeah.’ Stone fought off the last clinging tendrils of the nightmare. ‘Christ, I’m sorry.’ He sat up, chest heaving, skin slick with an icy sweat.

Jarrat stroked his back as they both got their breath back. ‘You ought to tell Harry. He’d be able to do something.’

‘He’s on a NARC research contract now,’ Stone said shakily. ‘He’d have to report this crap I keep dreaming to Dupre. You want me in a psyche clinic?’

‘No.’ Jarrat caught him by the shoulders and pulled him down. ‘Come here. Tell me about it.’

‘Told you last time. It never changes.’ Stone lay against him and struggled to control the leftover shivering. Jarrat’s mouth covered his and he felt a little warmth seep back into his bones.

‘Tell me how to help,’ Jarrat whispered. ‘Is it like what you did for that kid you picked up, Rikki Mitchell? Is it booze, a meal, sex, you need?’

‘I’m not craving. I’m not an addict anymore,’ Stone said gently. ‘Harry saw to that.’

‘Then tell me what to do.’ Jarrat’s fingers tightened.

‘You’re doing it.’ Stone pulled the sheet over their heads. ‘Just don’t let go. It’s rich, isn’t it? Let go of me in the night, and the bogie man grabs me and stuffs my nose with that shit. And I try not to breathe it, but —’

‘Stoney.’ Jarrat’s mouth silenced him. ‘You’re the only man who ever came back from Angel addiction. That makes you one of a kind. No one else ever lived out what you’re going through to know what it’s like. The alternative was a slab in the morgue!’ He gave Stone a shake. ‘Tough it out, try counting your bloody blessings. You have to be alive to feel like hell.’

For the first time Stone glimpsed the absurd privilege of the nightmare. It should have been ridiculous to be grateful for the terror and disgust which assaulted him one night in three, but Jarrat was right. He was alive, and if the price of his life was a cold sweat, broken sleep, it was cheap.

He settled gratefully into Jarrat’s embrace and closed his eyes. ‘I’m okay now. You can let go.’

‘I could,’ Jarrat muffled against his neck. ‘But I’m not going to. Shut up and get some rest.’

‘Romantic,’ Stone accused groggily, but Jarrat was already past hearing. Stone banished the dream with an effort of will. He set his head back on Kevin’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

This time his sleep was peaceful.

Illustrated by Jade -- the new all-digital Jarrat and Stone!

I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon

ISBN: 978-1-60737-455-8
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Price: $3.99
Previous Book: I Spy Something Bloody
Genre: LGBT Erotic Contemporary
Length: Fling

Blurb:
It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan—a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?

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EXCERPT
I let Malik leave first. Waited with the faded clowns and broken toys for his footsteps to die away, listened for the faraway growl of his motorbike to be swallowed by the hungry autumn night.

Silence settled. Sank its claws in.

I couldn't go home yet. Couldn't face Stephen. Not till I'd figured out what to tell him. What was it Dickens said? An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.

A shadowrun. A black op. That was what the Old Man was asking. Sending me in as an illegal, naked into hostile territory. Knowing I was blown, knowing there was a price on my head, he was asking me to go back. Yes, that would take a little explaining. To Stephen—and to myself.

When I decided it was clear, I headed back to where I'd parked. The Range Rover's headlamps blinked as I pressed the key fob. In that flash of light I saw a shadow detach itself from the trees and glide toward me. I laced the Rover's keys between my fingers like makeshift brass knuckles, and when he grabbed me, I went with the momentum, using it against him, flipping him over. He landed on his back in the dead leaves, his breath expelling in a hard oof.

I knelt on his scrawny chest using my left foot to grind his flailing right hand into the ground, my right pinning his left wrist. With my free hand I pressed the point of the longest blade in my key ring against his carotid artery.

“Surprise, surprise,” I said gently, and pressed a little harder just to make my…point.

He wheezed in panic, his eyes bulging. Clearly an amateur. I studied him in the colorless moonlight. Narrow nose; close-set brown eyes; a small mouth; lank, greasy dark hair. An unlovely specimen. I didn't know him.

He blubbered something lost in spit and snot.

“Didn't catch that,” I said. And then, “Don't move if you don't want an emergency tracheotomy.” He held still—if we didn't count the trembling—and I felt around, found his wallet, flipped it open, and checked his driver's ID.

Bradley Kaine.

It meant nothing to me. Age 31. No occupation, but I'd already guessed it: loser.
I made a mental note of his address.

“I'm trying to think of a good reason not to punch a hole in your throat, Bradley. Nothing occurs to me.”

More inarticulate protests.

“What were you doing here? Planning a spot of B and E? Nah. Nothing worth stealing in there. Waiting for some poor old wino to roll? No. Winos are in short supply here. Waiting to rob some kid and his bird? Hmm? That's it, I bet. A spot of robbery and rape?”

He frantically shook his head.

“Course you were. Nothing personal, right? It's what you do. What you are.” The temptation was to kill him, this miserable scrap of an excuse for a man, this predator who waited in the shadows for someone smaller, younger, weaker.

Someone like me—but without my peculiar brand of skills.

I said harshly, “You weren't out here stargazing, we both know that.”

He gibbered something, little flecks of spittle hitting my face.

He was revolting. The perfect companion for an already bad day. I clenched my keys so hard, my hand shook, denting his clammy flesh. It was all I could do to control the disquieting urge to give release to the rage and frustration churning inside me.

He began to cry. The pungent stink of ammonia reached my nostrils. In his terror he'd pissed himself.

“Shut it,” I bit out. “I'm going to let you live. I'm going to give you a second chance. If I ever see you here again, I will kill you. Got it?”

He nodded feverishly.

I took my keys out of his throat, eased my boot off his hand, stood, and stepped back. He continued to lie on the ground, sobbing.

Pitiable. But I felt no pity. Something terrible had had happened to me over the years, had killed something inside me. Were I Stephen, I would feel compassion for him. I would hope that this was a turning point in his life. But being me, I only thought that it was probably a mistake to let him go. Even if it was dark enough to obscure my features, not so many blokes with English accents hanging about. I felt no compassion. I was letting him live because I knew that was what Stephen would do.

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Old Poison by Josh Lanyon

ISBN: 978-1-60737-477-0
Series: Dangerous Ground; Previous Book: Dangerous Ground
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novella
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Price: $4.99

BLURB:
Special Agents for the Department of Diplomatic Security, Taylor MacAllister and Will Brandt have been partners and best friends for three years, but everything changed during a weeklong camping trip. Now Taylor and Will are trying to see if true love is in the cards or if it's just sex. Really, really good sex, granted!

But when Taylor receives a cobra bottled in rice wine for the birthday he nearly didn't live to see, Will fears that something in Taylor's past—something Taylor won't talk about—is going to put an end to their chance of a future romance. Or any future at all.

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EXCERPT:
That prickle between his shoulder blades meant he was being watched.
One hand on the mailbox, Taylor glanced around. There was a woman pushing a kid in a stroller down the long, shady street. She was moving in the opposite direction. There was a guy in a parked Chevy reading a newspaper. Old Mrs. Wills was in her garden. She was shading her eyes, staring at him.

Taylor raised his hand in greeting.

She fluttered a hand back in hello.

The guy in the Chevy turned the page of his newspaper, remaining mostly concealed behind the tall pages.

A comfortable, quiet street in a small beach community. Old houses beneath old shade trees. But it was a neighborhood in flux. Old residents dying off, new residents not staying longer than a couple of years.

Taylor pulled the mail out of his box. The usual circulars and catalogs of junk he never bought and didn’t want. And a birthday card. From Will.

Taylor studied the pale green envelope for a long moment. He was aware of a tightness in his chest, a confused rush of emotions. Amusement, sure, but uppermost…a sort of…a feeling he couldn’t begin to describe.

That neat, careful cursive with which Will had spelled out Taylor’s name and address. Not like Will’s usual hand. Not that Will’s usual hand was sloppy; Taylor was the one who had to translate his hieroglyphics for the front-office staff. But there was something painstaking and self-conscious about the writing on the envelope.
There was something else in the mail slot. Taylor pulled out a slip informing him that he had a package in the side locker of the mailbox stand. He unlocked the long cabinet, and sure enough there was a rectangular parcel addressed to him. He tucked it under his arm, slammed the metal door shut, and crossed the street.

The guy in the Chevy remained well buried behind his newspaper.

Taylor cut across the patchy, threadbare lawn of his house, took the three front porch steps in one, and let himself into the house.

He locked the door behind him, looking down at the green envelope. Just the fact that Will had mailed him a birthday card. They’d be seeing each other that night -- barring Will getting delayed on his current case -- but Will had taken the time to pick a card and mail it. It was so…

It touched Taylor more than he wanted to admit. Of course this was a special birthday. Not one of the “0” birthdays; Taylor was thirty-two years old as of four o’clock that morning. It was special because ten weeks earlier Taylor had been shot in the chest and had nearly died.

It had been very close. The closest he’d ever come to checking out. He was still stuck on desk duty, although -- thank Christ -- this was the last week of that. He’d passed his fitness exam that very afternoon and Monday he’d be back in the field, partnered with Will again. Life would finally be getting back to normal. The new normal. The normal of him and Will as a…well, couple.

Partners and friends for three years, and lovers for little more than one month. Taylor was still afraid to trust it. It seemed dangerous to be this happy, like it was tempting fate. He couldn’t quite forget that Will hadn’t wanted this change in their relationship, that love had taken him unwilling and off guard.

He tore open the envelope.

It was the usual kind of thing. Sailboats, smooth water, and cloudless blue sky. Happy Birthday to My Sweetheart in sunshine yellow script.

His throat tightened. Hell. He’d never been anyone’s sweetheart before. No one had ever sent him a card like this. Will had even signed the inside Love, Will.

There was a parcel too. A brown cardboard box. The kind of thing wine was shipped in -- or good booze. The label was typed. Taylor used his pocketknife to slice through the tape sealing the box shut. Inside was a Styrofoam shell to protect the glass contents. He pried it out, and sure enough it was a bottle. A wine bottle with a yellow seal. He nearly dropped it.

There was a cobra inside the wine bottle.

Black-brown hood flared, fangs bared, the coiled cobra stared blindly through the clear rice wine.

What the fuck?

It was dead, of course. Dead and pickled. Asian snake wine was an authentic Asian beverage supposedly valuable for treating everything from rheumatism to night sweats. It was also supposed to be a natural aphrodisiac with mystical sexual properties, although what the hell was natural about a cobra in a wine bottle?
Feeling slightly queasy, Taylor set the bottle on the kitchen table.

No way had Will sent that. He searched through the box’s packing materials to see if there was a card or a note. Nada.

Weird.

A joke maybe. Probably. He had a few friends at the Bureau of Diplomatic Security who would find this kind of thing amusing. Except it was an expensive joke. These specialty wines weren’t cheap. And most of his pals at the DS were.

He contemplated the bottle for another second or two, but he had things to get ready before Will arrived. He wanted this to be a very good weekend.

* * * * *

Taylor was not going to be happy.

Will tried to tell himself that Taylor’s happiness was beside the point. Not that it didn’t matter to him, but it couldn’t be Will’s first consideration when it came to work. Taylor was a professional. He needed to understand that this was (a) not Will’s choice, (b) all part of the job, (c) no big deal, (d) all of the above.

The long red snake of taillights slithered to another halt line in front of him. Will sighed and tapped the brakes, rolling to a stop. He turned up Emmylou Harris on the CD player. On the seat next to him, Riley, his five-year-old German shepherd, licked his chops nervously. Riley liked traffic even less than Will did.

Traffic on the 101 was always a bitch these days, and it was especially a bitch on Friday evenings when half the Valley residents seemed to be pouring out every side street and crevice of the smoggy basin for a weekend in the mountains or at the beach.

It could take an exasperating hour just to travel from his Woodland Hills home to Ventura. Lately Taylor had been hinting that they should move in together. Will had ignored the hints.

Not that he didn’t like Ventura. He did. Living that near the beach would be great, in fact. And not like he and Taylor didn’t get along well. They had always got along well, even before they moved the relationship from best friends and partners to lovers.

Lovers.

Not a word Will would typically have used to describe one of his relationships. But then he wouldn’t generally describe his relationships as…relationships.
The cars in front of him began to move again, brake lights flicking off, turn signals flicking on. The sea of traffic rolling forward once more.
And then…stop.

“Goddamn traffic,” Will growled, and Riley flicked his ears.

Will closed his eyes, picturing his eventual arrival, savoring it, momentarily shutting out the smog and exhaust and noise of Friday evening on the 101, seeing Taylor’s face in his mind: that weirdly exotic bone structure; wide green eyes that looked almost bronze; a wicked angel’s full, sensual mouth; the soft, dark hair with that new -- since the shooting -- streak of silver.

He did not want to fight with Taylor over this thing with Bradley. He especially did not want to fight with him tonight when he had been looking forward to this evening -- this weekend -- all day.

They needed this time together. It had been a rough couple of weeks with Will working late most nights and Taylor increasingly frustrated with desk duty. Taylor wasn’t the most patient guy in the world at the best of times. And this had not been the best of times for him.

Will had planned on a long weekend of spoiling him rotten, starting with dinner at Taylor’s favorite Japanese restaurant. But now…

So did he tell Taylor the bad news up front or did he wait till Taylor was properly fed and fucked?

Emmylou sang, “I’m riding a big blue ball, I never do dream I may fall…”

“What do you think?” he asked Riley.

Riley flicked his ears and stared out the window, panting softly.

“You’re no help,” Will grumbled.

* * * * *

Will parked behind Taylor’s silver Acura MDX in the narrow side driveway and got out of his own Toyota Land Cruiser. Evenings were damp this close to the beach. The air smelled of salt and old seaweed -- corrupt yet invigorating.

He let Riley out of the passenger side of the SUV. Riley trotted down the driveway to the large, overgrown backyard, barking a warning to the neighborhood cats.

Will slid the gate shut. The house was an original Craftsman bungalow. It had been in terrible shape when Taylor bought it two years previously. Actually, it was still in terrible shape, but Taylor was renovating it, one room at a time, in his spare hours.

Will got his duffel bag of the backseat and the heavy, blue-and-gold-wrapped birthday present. He felt self-conscious about that present; he’d spent a lot of time and a fair amount of money on Taylor this year.

Hard to forget that Taylor nearly hadn’t lived to see this birthday.

Speak of the devil. The side door opened, and Taylor came down the steps, an unguarded grin breaking the remote beauty of his face. There was a funny catch in Will’s throat as he saw him alive and strong and smiling again.

“How was traffic?”

Will opened his mouth, but the next instant Taylor was in his arms, his mouth covering Will’s in unaffected hunger. They were safe here. The cinder-block wall was high, and the bougainvillea draping over the edge of the roof neatly blocked out the view of this driveway from the street.

“Man, I missed you,” Taylor said when they surfaced for air.

“You saw me this morning.”

“For three minutes in front of Varga, Jabowitz, and Cooper. It’s not the same.”

“No,” agreed Will, “it’s not the same.” His gaze rested on Taylor’s face; his heart seemed to swell with a quiet joy. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Taylor’s smile widened. “Hey, I got your card.”

“Oh.” Will was a little embarrassed about that card. To My Sweetheart or whatever it said. Kind of over-the-top. He’d bought it on impulse. Taylor was smiling, though, and with no sign of mockery, so maybe it was okay.

“Is that for me?” Taylor asked as Will retrieved the tote bag and parcel he’d dropped when Taylor landed in his arms.

“Nah. I’m heading over to another party after I get done here.” Will shoved the blue-and-gold present into his hands. “Yes, it’s for you.”

“Okay if I open it now?”

“You’re the most impatient guy I ever met.” Will was amused, though.

“Hey, I waited three years for you,” Taylor threw over his shoulder, heading up the stairs into the house.

“Yeah, remind me again how you whiled away the hours in that lonely monastery as you waited?”

Taylor’s chuckle drifted back.

Will heeled the side door shut and followed Taylor through the mud porch and into the kitchen.

This was one of the first rooms Taylor had renovated: a cozy breakfast nook with built-in window benches, gleaming mahogany cabinets and drawers with patinated copper fixtures, green granite counters, and gray-green slate floor. The numerous cabinets were well designed and well organized. The care and priority given the kitchen might have deceived someone into thinking cooking played a role in Taylor’s life. In fact, the kitchen had been designed to please Will -- the only person who had ever cooked a meal in that house.

There was a German chocolate cake on the table in the breakfast nook. Will’s card was propped next to it with a couple of others: To Our Son, To My Son, To My Brother, What is a Brother? Happy Birthday, Uncle. Greetings from the whole tribe. To the side of these was a wine bottle-shaped science experiment gone awry.
“What the hell is that?” Will peered more closely at the pickled contents of the wine bottle. What it was, was a fucking cobra. The cobra stared back sightlessly at him, fangs bared.

“It’s my snake. I’ve been waiting all day to show it to you.” Taylor wiggled his eyebrows salaciously.

“Funny,” said Will, glancing at him. “Where did you get it?”

“It came in the mail.”

“Who sent it?”

Taylor shrugged.

“You don’t know?”
“The card must have got lost.”

They both studied the bottle.

“What is the liquid?”

“Rice wine.”

“Is it poison?”

“It’s not supposed to be. In fact, it’s supposed to be a cure-all -- and an aphrodisiac.”

“I bet bourbon works just as well, and you don’t have that nasty cobra aftertaste.”
Taylor’s smile was preoccupied. Will gave him a closer look.

“You don’t have any idea who would have sent something like this?”

Taylor shook his head. Will laughed and threw an arm around his wide, bony shoulders.
“Spooked?”

“Nah.” But Taylor’s brows were drawn together as he continued to gaze at the bottle. “Weird, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Taylor had some weird friends. And weirder acquaintances. He had been in the DS longer than Will, signing on right out of college, and he’d been posted to Tokyo, Afghanistan, and briefly, Haiti. The next time he was posted overseas it would be as a regional security officer responsible for managing security operations for an embassy or for a number of diplomatic posts within an assigned area. That was one reason Will was hesitant to move in with him. Not a lot of point in setting up house when one or both of them could be stationed overseas within a year or so.

Taylor didn’t see it this way, of course. Taylor’s idea was they should move in together immediately and they’d deal with the threat of a future separation when -- if -- it happened. He’d always had a tendency to leave tomorrow to take care of itself, but getting shot had cemented his determination to live every day as though it were his last.

Will understood that. He even agreed with it, in principle, but what happened to him when Taylor was posted overseas for three-or-so years? Things weren’t as simple as Taylor liked to pretend.

He glanced at Taylor’s profile. He was frowning, and Will did not want him frowning on his birthday.

“Hey,” he said softly. Taylor’s head turned his way. “Want to open your present?”
“Sure.” Taylor started to pull the gold ribbon on the parcel he was carrying. Will put his hand over his.

“Your other present,” he said meaningfully, and Taylor started to laugh.


Buy Here:

From DEATH'S HEAD by Mel Keegan

A mere snippet from the first of the NARC Books ... Jarrat is MIA; Stone has tracked him halfway around a planet and come within fifty yards of him, only to leave. And Jarrat? He was left for dead, and still can't fathom who he is, who Stoney is -- but memory is coming back in hot flashes...

Pain scythed through his skull, stress and dread finding every laser-weld, every repair, and testing it without mercy as he watched the scene out in the yard. Evelyn had stepped back into a patch of shade under the old cypress tree. The NARC took the young man in his arms for a moment and they kissed briefly. John’s innards lurched painfully. Then both strangers climbed up the hardpoints, into the cockpit. The NARC pulled on a helmet as the canopy whined down, locked. Repulsion howled like a hurricane. The main engines ignited with an earsplitting crescendo of noise, the tailpipes jetted flame, and the aircraft was gone. It looped up into the sky in a backbreaking arc and climbed away into the northwest. Half a minute later even the echoes of its engine thunder had faded to nothing.

“Shit,” Simon muttered. “I could have cut his guts out.” He ran into the forecourt, still carrying the rifle, and called his sister’s name. “So what did the bastard want with us?”

John followed, wary and silent. His muscles trembled in reaction and he held his tongue as the sun dried the sheen of sweat on his skin. Evelyn looked from his face to Simon’s and back again. “He wanted John.”

“The NARC wanted you,” Simon said through his teeth. “I was right! You are a crimmo! A dealer? A money man? A mule?” He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. “And I was about to defend you.”

“Don’t point that thing at me unless you intend to use it,” John barked in a tone of voice Evelyn and Simon had never heard before. Normally he spoke softly, but not now. He took the HK out of Simon’s hands in one clean swipe. “And if you do, you better be ready to have your ass kicked from here to Eldorado. Besides, these weapons are illegal in civvy hands.”

“It isn’t illegal, it’s mine,” Evelyn said loudly. “I’m a veteran still listed with the Airlift Reserve. I’ve got a license. You know cannons?”

In answer, without thinking, he shouldered it, chose a limb on a tree a hundred meters back from the road and emptied the whole clip, dead on target. The wood splintered away and the limb fell heavily. His whole body remembered the feeling of the big weapon braying and vibrating. He felt the familiarity in his bones, and a voice spoke in the back of his mind, called him by name, and the name danced away again like a firefly.

The concussions rang back off the building. When they were silent once more Simon swore. “A shooter. You were a shooter.”

“Is he right?” Evelyn asked very quietly. “Were you, John? Come on, man! I just fed a crock of shit to that NARC, he’s coming back with a Tac intrusion permit. You can’t stay here much longer, not unless you want to go with him, maybe in manacles, maybe in a bodybag. He came here for you and, God help me, I almost handed you over without thinking! Your bullet scars, the conditioning of your mind. You could be Tac or NARC.”

“Or you could be syndicate,” Simon added. “I’ve been listening to the Tac band. There’s something on, something huge, and Death’s Head’s going to play rough, with real hardware. S’what they’re saying, Eve.”

She took a breath. “That’s not what I’m thinking.” She looked searchingly at John. “You probably are, or at least were, from Tactical. But you could be in trouble. Real trouble. On the run, between a rock and a hard place. NARC would bury you and ask questions later. Tan Del called Chell Tac, asking if they had an MIA fitting your description.” She shook her head. “Not a one. Which probably means you left Tactical not long ago. We just don’t know why.”

Fired, resigned? Convicted — justly or wrongfully? On the run from Tac, NARC and the syndicate? John handed the weapon to her. “Christ almighty, I don’t know. I wish I did. Thanks for getting rid of ... of him.” Sweat broke from every pore again as he turned away, left them, retreated to the house and flopped belly-down on the bed.

He took his skull in his hands and rubbed his forehead hard. The face of the NARC haunted him. The blue eyes glittered at him, but whether in mockery or welcome he could not tell. “Remember, goddamn you,” he groaned, “you sonofabitch, remember!”

The man’s face was still there, tormenting him as he exhausted himself and sank into a fretful sleep filled with acid-hot, dislocated dreams.

Excerpted from NARC #1: Death's Head by Mel Keegan

Illustrated by Jade with 3D art drawn from JADE'S ADVENTURES IN 3D

THE SECRET TRILOGY by Francine Saint Marie

EXCERPT: 'Seduction' Scene/Book One of The Secret Trilogy (Three novels. Two women. One epic love story.) By Francine Saint Marie
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After an eternity of foreplay Sharon still wouldn’t penetrate her and Helaine’s womb had begun to hurt from aching for it. The excitement in her chest had turned against her, too, and she felt a sadness there instead, a desire to weep. She sighed miserably into her lover’s neck and upon hearing it Sharon stopped what she was doing, rested her weight on Helaine so she couldn’t get up from the bed.

"Don’t want to play, doctor?"

"Sharon…" Helaine let go of her back and tried to slide out from underneath her, but Sharon went rigid and wouldn’t permit it. "Sharon, please," she said in frustration. Her breasts were tender and the weight on them was unpleasant. She shifted her body to throw her off and Sharon grabbed her by the wrists and pinned her to the pillow. She tongued her stomach, pushing hard into the belly button and Helaine arched her back and sighed again.

"Make love to me, Sharon," she urged. She felt her biting at her nipples again and defensively jerked them away from her mouth. "Don’t. Just make love to me."

"I hate that word," Sharon warned, biting at her neck.

"Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?" Teasing, teasing. She groaned in exasperation. "Make love to me, Sharon."

Sharon laughed into the pillow. "That word. You know I–"

That’s right. Forgot. It had been so long. "Then fuck me–fuck me, if that’s what you like."

Sharon let her wrists go. "Like? What I like?"

"Like. Want. I don’t know," Helaine murmured, rolling onto her stomach. "Whatever."

Every part of her ached. She lay still, thoughts churning, searching for something better to say. Nothing came to mind. Between her legs she was quite swollen. She closed her eyes tight. The brilliant lights. She wanted them off now. Perhaps she could sleep, sleep away the fog that had settled on her soul tonight. Beside her Sharon had fallen ungodly quiet. She could feel the woman’s malice and wasn’t sure where it had come from. Tonight was bad. It was as if she had been watching herself all evening. Nothing seemed natural. She put her hand over her eyes. She hated being speechless.

"How long have I been gone, Helaine?"

"Sharon?"

It had been nine months. Helaine desperately needed sex. Playing games all night had made it an impossibility, too awkward. The woman beside her felt like a stranger, an immovable stranger in her bed, laying motionless and hostile. Why, she didn’t know. "Sharon? What is wrong?"

No response. Perhaps because she hadn’t gone to the flat to look for her? Sharon hated coming uptown. Not her set. Too quiet. "Sharon…?" She listened to the sound of Sharon’s body snaking across the sheets toward her. The touch of a stranger. She jumped at the feel of it and waited for her to speak, trying to interpret her silence.

"Masturbate for me," Sharon finally said, lying heavy on Helaine’s back and probing along her sides.

Helaine tried to turn over. "Sharon…no." A police hold, or something like it. "Don’t be rough with me. I don’t like it."

"Don’t? How long have I been gone, I asked."

"Shar–" Harsh hands. "Nine months."

"Like? Want?" She pushed Helaine’s face into the pillow. "Whatever?"

"Sharon, you’re hurting me. I can’t breathe."

"Love," Sharon teased as she leaned into her, "masturbate for me, I said."

"Sharon…"

"Or else."

"I don’t like this. I really don’t."

Sharon felt between Helaine’s legs. "Liar."

Helaine brought her legs together. It was difficult to breathe.

"Call me darling, Dr. Kristenson. You haven’t–open your legs–called me darling all night."

Darling? Was that true? All night? Helaine lay quiet and still.

"Against your will then, doctor. What do you say to that?"

"I would never forgive you for it."

Sharon attempted to pry her legs apart. "Open, darling," she whispered, jabbing her chin into Helaine’s shoulder blade.

"If you don’t want to you don’t have to. Leave me be, Sharon."

"That would be darling, Dr. Kristenson."

Helaine felt her legs giving. "Please...I said forget it."

"Spread your legs for me."

"Listen to–"

"Do it."

"Sharon, I don’t–" her legs were open now.

The women lay locked in an ugly silence.

Helaine could hear her Sharon’s rapid breathing. Hot breath on her back. "Sharon?" She strained to see her, but couldn’t maneuver it. Sharon pressed down harder. "For godsakes, Sharon," she said through her teeth. "Let me go!"

Sharon released her arms. Helaine tried propping herself up on her elbows and was pushed down again. She listened behind her. "Darling…?" There she said it. The sound of breathing, more weight on her back. "Talk to me, Sharon. Tell me what I’ve done."

"I don’t want to talk. I’m concentrating."

"Concentrating? Please! On what?"

"Fucking you."

Helaine took a quick breath, exhaled. "Then at least let me turn over." More weight. She laid her face back into the pillow.

"You have such a perfect ass, Dr. Kristenson."

Sharon fondled her, running her hand up her sex. Helaine felt moist on her backside.

"The nicest I’ve had in months," Sharon drawled, feeling Helaine’s body stiffen at the offense. She pushed against her anus.

"Sha–"

"You heard about all that, didn’t you?"

Helaine tried once more to get up and failed.

"Easy," Sharon warned, tightening her grip.

Helaine froze.

"Perfect, Helaine Kristenson." She licked the small of her back and entered her in the rectum.

Helaine gasped and tried to fight her off.

Sharon withdrew and held her down again.

"Sharon, don’t do this to me. Please."

"We’ll just take a little ride, Helaine." She dragged the blond kicking across the bed and bent her over the edge of it.

They were both out of breath, the sheets massed around them.

"You’re ruining me, you know? I can only do blonds now."

Ruined. Helaine was silent, her hair sticking to her neck and shoulders, stuck to her face. She tried to raise herself. Sharon leaned against her damp body and entered her once more. She stifled a scream.

"Where are you when I’m not fucking you, Dr. Kristenson?"

"I’m–this is–I’m–" Sharon had been hostile ever since she stepped through the door. Helaine tightened. "I’m not ready for thi–"

"Because you’re too tense. Relax doctor."

A flash of pain. Helaine groaned. "You’re being too–" Sharon pushed deeper inside and Helaine moaned low in distress.

"When I’m not fucking your gorgeous ass, Helaine, where do you go?"

There was nothing to grab onto. It was pointless to answer. Sharon pushed into her and pulled out suddenly. In, then out again. Helaine put her hand over her eyes. They were wet.

"Relax your legs for me."

"Christ–" Her feet barely touched the floor. She grabbed for the sides of the bed but couldn’t reach them.

"Chill, I said."

Her arms were falling asleep. "Give me…a second. I’m–" Her rectum felt full. She felt it begin to move in spasms. Pleasure for the first time in months. She hated herself for it. Sharon pressed against her stomach with her free hand and raised her up slightly from the bed. She clutched at the sheets around her in protest.

"Did I keep you waiting, doctor?"

"Wai–"

"Did I?"

Helaine’s insides rippled in waves, giving out without her consent. "What–what do you mean?"

"Waiting for me. I kept you waiting?"

"Waiting," she repeated. "I–" spasms. Pleasure and pain. "Yes." And hatred, coming in waves. Tidal. She couldn’t prevent it. "Jesus…" Cries filled her throat, slipping off her tongue and falling from her lips into the bed sheets. She put her face into the pillow to smother them. Moans, sighs, cries, Sharon’s favorite. She hadn’t earned them tonight. "You’re hurt–"

"Then relax for me."

The pillow was wet. "I…slower…can’t."

"Call me darling then."

"Slower. Slower then…darling."

Slower. Helaine relaxed her legs. Slow. She clamped her hand over her mouth. Slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow.

"Love," Sharon whispered. "God, I missed you."

Pleasure. Nine months. Helaine moaned.

"Ahh…you’re a slut, Dr. Kristenson," Sharon murmured, kissing her shoulders and neck. "Do it for me. Masturbate."

Helaine shook her head.

"Pretend I’m someone else."

She would not. "Let go of me, Sharon."

"Never--did you miss me?"

Her legs were closing once more. They were forced open again.

"Want to hear some highlights from my trip, Dr. Kristenson?"

Helaine winced.

No reply. Sharon pushed deeper inside her. "Lift," she demanded.

"I…my feet."

Sharon inched her further down. "Bend, Helaine."

"I can’t."

"There," Sharon urged, placing a pillow under her stomach. "Now bend."

"You’re going to hurt me...?"

"No. Bend for me. Put your knee here."

Helaine lifted her knee. Sharon pushed. "You didn’t answer me."

"You’re–why are you–"

"Say more, like you missed me. More, darling."

NO.

"More, Helaine. Then I’ll be gentle."

"I’m–I’m…more."

"More, darling."

"Shar–"

Sharon dropped her weight.

Pressure. Too much pressure. "More, darling," Helaine finally whispered, "gentle."

"Gentle what?" Sharon nudged.

"Gentle, darling...."

Slow and gentle and more.

"Say it, Helaine."

Her legs ached. "What–more?" She regretted letting Sharon in tonight.

"Fuck me–say it."

Helaine buried her face into the sheets. Pain more than pleasure now. Sharon’s face was close to her own. She turned away from it. "Fuck me," she muttered, clenching her fists.

"Italy. Beautiful country, Helaine."

Helaine sucked in sharply.

"Italy, dear doctor."

Pressure. Helaine cried out.

Such a beautiful count–"

"Shar–"

"Warm. Affectionate blonds," Sharon teased, now stroking Helaine’s sex.

Helaine let out an anguished sigh, a series of muffled sobs. Then silence. Sharon held her closer. "So fucking beautiful. Such a beautiful little–" she backed her body into hers. "You’re so w–"

"Sharon, Jesus…please…please, don’t talk to me anymore." Her arms and legs felt broken. She let them fall slack.

"Dr. Kristenson?"

Helaine pressed her mouth into her arm and made a sound in her throat.

"Beautiful," Sharon murmured into the blond hair. "Beautiful," she said again, removing her hand from Helaine’s stomach and stroking between her own legs. "Helaine," she called softly...

Chapter From CROSSROADS: Showdown - Keta Diablo

Hi all,
First off, wishing you a blessed Holiday Season (right around the corner).


Here's a chapter from my new release Crossroads: Showdown from. Phaze Publishing This is gay fiction with intense sexual scenes like Crossroads and Crossroads Revisited. Find out more about the Crossroads trilogy at one of my *fave* sites on the web: THE GLBT BOOKSHELF


CROSSROADS: Showdown, Keta Diablo
Keta's Haunt

Chapter One

Present Day

Baltimore’s humid, subtropical climate of June crushed Frank, more so after the air conditioning in his office went on the fritz that morning.

He pushed the intercom button on his phone. “Grace, are you there?”

“Every fan we own is working overtime, Frank.” A chuckle followed his assistant’s words. “Do me a favor so I can get some work done. Take the rest of the day off.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, but Hayworth is expected within the hour.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “When the hell is that repair man supposed to arrive?”

“An hour ago, so let’s hope he shows before tomorrow.”

“Gotta love your sense of humor, Grace, while we struggle to breathe.”

“I’ll buzz you when either Hayworth or A-One Air arrives.”

Frank hung up the receiver and stared across the desk at the picture. Taken in happier days, the people he loved most in the world smiled back at him—Quinn, Emily, and their kids, Rand and Marlow. The children looked to be about nine and six respectively, the parents in their early thirties. The snapshot was taken long before his ex-partner, Quinn, had been gunned down in a run-amuck drug bust. Like he said, ‘in happier days.’

An exasperated sigh left Frank’s lips. Trouble brewed. What kind of trouble he didn’t know, but like the fans in the office, the precognitive cells in his brain had been working overtime for a week. Then a call came from Rueben Hayworth, the FBI agent from Washington, solidifying Frank’s suspicions. Rueben couldn’t discuss the conundrum over the phone, but requested a face-to-face meeting with him. Uh-huh, evil rode the wind again, and just when his relationship with Rand had finally reached a measure of accord, if not mutual contentment.

Rand had brought his pre-med grades up to A’s, Frank’s PI business flourished, and their sex life . . . well, Frank couldn’t even think about Quinn and Emily’s son without tamping down his perpetual hard-on. Mutual contentment, hell. Their relationship had advanced far beyond raw, primal lust, so why couldn’t he just accept it, admit it?

Frank rose from the chair behind his desk with a disgusted shake of his head. A moron, that’s what he was, a white-livered coward who couldn’t face his own demon. In his case, the demon stood on common ground with the word commitment. And, contrarily, one tiny word from him―love—would rock Rand’s world. “Say it out loud, you chicken, ‘Rand, I love you.’” A growl came from his throat. Why was it so hard to say when it would mean so much to Rand?

Annoyed with the heat and with himself, Frank yanked on the heavy curtains in his office until they met in the middle. If he intended to connect with his inner spirit, he had to set the stage first. He walked to the light switch, dimmed the overhead track, and slumped into his chair again.

The subliminal messages arriving this time were so unlike all the others. Nothing haunted his dreams at night, but rather scenes flashed through his head during his waking hours. They nibbled away at his thoughts until he could think of little else. But that’s all they were at this point—a montage of snapshots, blurred and innocuous at best. The time had come to clear the mental barriers from his mind, engage in concerted mediation.

Frank closed his eyes and studied the pop-up screen behind his eyelids. Moments later, patterns of light appeared. Drawing on a reservoir of meditation knowledge and experience, he focused on that light with relaxed attention. His consciousness altered course, the catalyst for a gradual shift to the highest level of consciousness. That’s right, come to me baby, give me all you got. As if to command it, the screen displayed a vignette of crystal clear shots, that is, crystal clear in physical appearance, although they meant nothing to him.

Picture one—a child, a young girl to be exact. Two—blonde and small for the age of nine or ten. Three—frail, large, round eyes, her other features almost elfin in nature. Four—an aura surrounded her. Oh, Christ, she was dead. Even in his meditative state, Frank felt a chill run down his spine. He hated working on cases that involved dead children. Five—her face masked in sorrow, she rose and walked toward him. Toward him! And she kept on coming, like walking toward the lens of a camera. Her image grew larger and larger, but she didn’t retreat or list off to the side. Frank’s heartbeat launched into an erratic rhythm. The game had changed. He wasn’t just communing with the dead in this case; he had called forth the dead. The waiflike creature had walked directly into his mind . . . and into his life.

The phone buzzed, jolting Frank from his meditative state. If he thought it hot in the room before, nothing compared to the sauna that engulfed his body now. Sweat streamed from his armpits, ran in rivulets down his forehead and soaked the collar of his shirt.

He picked up the phone. “A-One has arrived,” Grace said. “Toolbox in hand, and he’s working on the air as we speak.”

“So there is a God?”

“Speaking of thou Most Holiest, Hayworth just walked in and wants to know if we moved your office to the Sahara.”

“That’s my Grace, always the comedian. Show him in, please.”

* * *

“Jesus, Frank, had I known you couldn’t afford to pay your electrical bill, I would have come sooner to offer you a gig.”

With a flourish of his damp arm, Frank pointed to the chair. “Have a seat, Rueben. With any luck, we should feel a cool blast soon.”

Rueben slumped into the chair opposite Frank’s desk with a chuckle. “I saw the repair crew on my way in.”

“And for the record, before you begin your sales pitch, I don’t need a gig. I’m up to my balls in missing person cases.”

“You haven’t heard my offer yet, or the gut-wrenching details.” The agent tossed a folder onto the desk and slid it across to him.

“Gut-wrenching? Ah, shit, it does involve children?”

Rueben gave him a knowing look. “Have you been having strange dreams?”

He shook his head.

“You said, ‘Ah shit―’”

“I know what I said.”

“How do you know it involves children then?”

Frank leaned back in his chair, locked his fingers together and placed his hands at the back of his head. “I liked you right off, friend, even more by the time we closed the case on the maniacal Dr. McBride, but I told you before, dabbling in perfections is a hobby for me, not a lifestyle.”

“Which means?”

“It’s imprecise, vague, thus, the reason I don’t offer myself up to every Fed who calls my office.”

Rueben’s face took on a somber expression. “I liked you right off too, and I believed in you then, like I do now. I’m not just any Fed, but your friend. If I didn’t think you were the right person for this job, I wouldn’t waste your time . . . or mine.”

A cool blast of air floated down from the ceiling. Frank arched his neck back and closed his eyes. “Man, what did they do before the invention of air conditioning?”

“Frank, stop changing the subject, and answer my question.”

He blew air through his lips and picked up the folder. “I know you won’t leave until I look at the file.”

Rueben shook his head.

“What was the question again?”

“How do you know this involves children?”

“What would you say if I told you that just before you walked in and ruined my already shitty day, I saw images?”

“I knew it!”

A chill came over Frank and not from the air conditioning. His office was still steamier than a Turkish bathhouse. “Blurred images, Rueben, nothing more. They could mean anything.”

“But you saw a child?” He leaned forward. “A boy? A girl? What did she look like?”

“Whoa! Who said I saw a girl? In fact, who said I saw a child?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Frank. I’ll fill you in while you’re looking over the file.”

The song came to Frank on a tiny voice, filled his head or at least he hoped it was in his head. He hadn’t heard the tune before, but most definitely a small, heavenly voice recited the lyrics—something about dreams and the color blue. Frank looked at Rueben out of the corner of his eye and half-expected to see him scan the room for the sound.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you hear something?”

Rueben grew still for a moment. “Other than muffled voices through the door and the blessed whisper of the vent overhead, no. What should I be listening for?”

“Nothing,” Frank said and opened the file. “Three missing girls?” He looked at their pictures after spreading them out on his desk. “West Virginia, huh?”

Rueben nodded. “Ever been kayaking, Frank?”

“No,” he said distractedly. “Can’t say that I have. Do you expect me to search for them in the river?”

A deep-throated chuckle escaped Rueben. “We don’t think they’re in the water. Just a guess, but . . . .”

“Then why the question about kayaking?”

“They disappeared from some little towns in Barbour County. Home to Audra State Park, the area is known for hiking, fishing and white-water rafting. I thought maybe while you were―”

Frank’s head came up. “I never said I’d take the case. I agreed to meet with you and look at the file to see if I could give you some pointers.”

“Why me? You have a shit load of special agents that work on missing children cases? And besides,” Frank smiled. “It’s smooth-sailing at home right now, and I don’t want to rock the boat.”

“How is Rand?”

“Doing well in college now, and I’m busier here than a one-legged man in a shit-kicking contest.”

Rueben clucked his cheek. “Damn.”

“What aren’t you telling me about this case? Why is it so important to you or should I say important to the FBI?”

“One of the missing girls is the daughter of Judge Kenton, that’s the Honorable Parker Kenton, brother to one of the upper echelon at the Bureau.” He put his hands in the air, palms up. “We’re looking rather foolish at this point. Three girls missing without a trace and the heat is on.”

“Think they’re dead?”

“God, I hope not. If they were, wouldn’t you think the cadaver dogs or the search parties would have found something—a shoe, a piece of their clothing?” He paused. “A grave?”

“Well with all that water you’re talking about, it would be pretty easy to dump their bodies in a river, a stream. They float downstream, never to be seen again.”

“Something would have washed up by now.”

Frank studied the pictures again. “They’re all about the same age. Hmm, and they resemble one another.”

“Not a coincidence, I’m sure.”

“It’s not uncommon. A child molester tends to pick similar-looking victims.”

“There are no child molesters within sixty miles of Barbour County. It’s not a very populated area, and below the poverty level.”

“Great. Can’t you ever ask me to go to a city with some five-star hotels? I’d be more than happy to turn in my receipts for such accommodations.”

“Sorry, Frank, I don’t pick the locations.” Hope laced his words. “What do you say? The Bureau is prepared to double your hourly rate on this case.” He dug into the pocket of his suit coat and tossed an envelope on the desk. “Two thousand up front, the rest when you find them, however long it takes.”

“Dead or alive?”

Rueben nodded. “They want it over. After ten days, the story is beginning to make national news. Doesn’t look good for the Bureau, and Judge Kenton is on us like ticks on a dog.”

Frank looked at the envelope. Talk about an offer you can’t refuse falling into your lap. Rand’s face floated before him. He wouldn’t be happy about this, not when things had been running so smoothly between them. Still, maybe he could soften the blow with a promise he wouldn’t be gone long, and when he returned, they’d take the money and head off to Mexico for a week. Reluctantly, Frank said, “All right. I’ll take the file home with me and call you in the morning.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Barring a scene at home that would make the Apocalypse look like a picnic, that’s a yes.”

Rueben came to his feet and shook Frank’s hand. “Call me in the morning and I’ll have my assistant make the necessary room reservations. Sorry to say it won’t be the Ritz, but a Super 8. Can you leave tomorrow?”

“Might as well get it over with.”

When Rueben left his office moments later, the young girl’s voice trailed him out the door.