by Kim Fielding
“Is that what you want?” Abe asked.
“No.”
Abe looked over his shoulder and shot Thomas a quick smile. “Good.” Then he sighed and swiveled around again. “What do we do? A few stern words and send them on their way? ‘No more killing and dark magic, now, pits’l.’”
Thomas stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Remember what I said before about using their mutual antagonism to protect us?”
“Of course.”
“We can use it as a tool as well.”
Cocking his head and leaning forward like an eager student, Abe said, “How?”
“I’ll need to ring Crespo.”
A woman with a deep voice and disinterested tone answered the number Crespo had given him. Thomas told her the matter was urgent, and she promised to get the message to the agent immediately. After hanging up, Thomas sat on the edge of his desk and mused over how she might do that if Crespo was tromping around Lake Tahoe in search of a dragon. Before he could devise any reasonable scenarios, his phone rang.
“Mr. Donne! I’m very happy to hear from you.”
“Will you make an agreement with me?” Thomas had no evidence that Crespo could be trusted, but his gut said yes and he decided to risk it. What was one more gamble among so many?
“I might. Tell me your terms.”
Although Abe couldn’t hear Crespo’s end of the conversation, he was listening closely to Thomas. He reached over to put one hand on Thomas’s thigh. Nothing precisely sexual about the gesture; it spoke more of support. Still, Thomas couldn’t help but admire those dexterous fingers.
Pay attention to business, Donne.
“We hand you the amulet. In exchange, you make sure something serious and possibly permanent happens to the two blokes behind all of this. Between them, they’ve murdered and worse.”
Crespo took a moment to think about that, during which Abe gave Thomas’s leg an approving squeeze.
“Can you provide some evidence of their involvement?” Crespo finally asked. That was reassuring; it meant he wasn’t willing to act out of simple expedience. It suggested that the Bureau adhered—at least tenuously—to the rule of law.
“What if I get them to confess in front of you?”
Crespo laughed. “You hand them to me wrapped up in a bow like that, along with the amulet? I can guarantee they will no longer trouble you or anyone else.”
“Will Abe and I have trouble from anyone else?”
“Not if I can help it.”
That was going to have to be reassurance enough. “Things are getting hot. How soon can you get here?”
“Where’s here? Your office?”
“Yes.”
“Give me an hour.”
Thomas frowned. “I thought you were in Lake Tahoe.”
Another laugh, this one merry. “Did you know dragons can fly, Mr. Donne?” Then Crespo hung up.
Abe looked at him expectantly. “So?”
“He’ll be here in an hour.” Thomas held up a hand to forestall more questions. “I don’t know. A week ago, I thought the world was a predictable place. Now I have ghosts and magic doodads and bloody dragons, so don’t ask me to explain a thing.”
Abe withdrew his palm from Thomas’s leg and leaned back in the chair. “Do you wish you were as blissfully ignorant as you were a week ago?”
Thomas didn’t have to think about his answer. “No. Because then if I’d known of you at all, I’d have thought you were nothing but a handsome conman.”
“But I am a handsome conman.” Abe batted his eyelashes like an ingenue.
“You are. But you’re more than that.”
Abe’s smile became less gaudy and more genuine, lighting up his eyes and bringing color to his cheeks. “Say it, Thomas. Say it if it’s true.”
“I don’t—”
“Either one of us could die at any minute. I know what regrets are like beyond the grave—I’ve seen the results of them too many times.” Abe lifted his chin in a challenge. “Say it if it’s true.”
Damn. Thomas had faced armies, mobsters, and corrupt cops, not to mention a lover possessed by an evil spirit. But none of those things terrified him as this did. He almost refused. But then he remembered that Abe had let himself be possessed by Birdie, even though it hurt, even though it was bloody dangerous, just so they could get information out of Townsend. Thomas owed him this.
After a sharp nod, Thomas got off the desk and crossed to the outer office, where he checked to ensure the door was locked. He returned to the inner office and closed the windows and curtains before turning off the lights. He didn’t want to ring Magnus and Townsend until Crespo arrived, and in the meantime it would be nice if nobody realized he and Abe were here. He had no idea how closely his office was being watched—maybe Townsend and the cops assumed he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go there—but it was a good sign that nobody had showed up yet.
Now the room was illuminated by nothing but the last bit of sunlight creeping around the edges of the curtains. Darkness made this easier. Thomas knelt in front of Abe and took his hands. “After Birdie and after the war, I thought I’d never love anyone again. I was too damaged. Damn it, I’m still damaged and always will be—as much as those blokes who lost their limbs or went blind. But it turns out I can still love, and I do. I love you.”
There. He’d survived that.
Abe responded with laughter. Thomas was suddenly certain that this had all been an elaborate ruse, and now that Abe had conquered him, Abe would destroy him. But Abe leaned close and whispered, “Birdie says it’s about bloody time.”
Thomas let out his breath. “Birdie.”
“He knows you loved him, Tom. I told you that before. And he also knows you need to move on. It’s not healthy for the living to hang on to the dead.”
“Tom?” Thomas asked, although that was hardly the important part.
“Yes. Not Birdie’s Tommy, and not Detective Thomas Donne, but Tom. My Tom.” Abe kissed Thomas’s forehead like a benediction.
“Right.”
“I love you too, of course,” Abe said offhandedly. “I guess some people would say that’s not possible since we met only a few days ago. But I know how strong love is. It’s enough to keep a spirit from moving beyond the veil, and it’s certainly powerful enough to take root in a short period of time. Especially when the soil is fertile.”
Thomas might have commented on the awkward metaphor except Abe kissed him again, this time on the lips and with considerable fervor.
“We have some time before our guests arrive, don’t we?” Abe asked.
“You’ve been shot. And possessed.”
“So?” Abe got a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Tom.”
Enough of that. Thomas stood, strode to his overcoat, and pulled the handcuffs from the pocket, making sure not to jingle them. In the darkness, Abe might not realize what he was fetching. Upon returning to the desk, Thomas quickly yanked Abe’s arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists to the chair slats.
“Ah,” Abe said, sounding pleased.
“How fast can you escape those?”
Abe gave an experimental tug. “My back and my head hurt, which will slow me down. Five minutes. Six at the most.”
Thomas could work with that. He dropped to his knees, unfastened Abe’s trousers, and drew out his cock, which was already stiff and eager. “It’s a race,” he said.
“One I’m going to win no matter what.”
Instead of answering, Thomas took Abe into his mouth.
During the war, all Thomas and Birdie could generally manage were a few stolen minutes together without spying eyes. And that was under the best of circumstances. Often all they could do was huddle together under a shared blanket, hands busy at each other’s groins, and hope the other soldiers pretended not to notice. Many of them did the same when they could, because regardless of what their preferences might have been, they were young men and any comfort was welcome in the trenches.
The benefit of all
of this—although Thomas hadn’t seen it at the time—was that he became skilled at giving satisfaction very quickly. He put those lessons to use now, sucking, licking, and stroking for all he was worth. Sometimes he even scraped his teeth along the soft skin, pulling a satisfying moan from Abe’s lips.
The handcuffs jingled. Abe arched his back and lifted his hips, and Thomas didn’t know whether that was part of his escape efforts or simply an effort to bury himself more deeply in Thomas’s throat. It had that effect in any case. Thomas pressed his nose into Abe’s soft curls, loving the scent of him—gin and sweat and cotton and salt. Loving the way Abe’s pulse beat against his tongue. Loving the weight of Abe’s balls in his palm, vulnerable and vital and warm.
“Tom!” Abe choked out seconds before he spilled.
Thomas kissed Abe’s cock and tucked it away, then refastened his trousers. He licked his lips before getting to his feet. “I won,” he said smugly.
The cuffs fell on the floor with a clatter. “No.”
“Five minutes, you said.”
“I lied.”
Thomas captured him in a brutal kiss, making sure Abe tasted himself on Thomas’s tongue, knew this meant that Abe was now his. No amount of slipping out of chains would change that. Judging from Abe’s eager response, he understood the message and welcomed it.
Finally, and reluctantly, Thomas pulled away to sit on the desk, leaving Abe panting in the chair. “Strategy,” Thomas said.
“Okay.”
“You’re the one with the gifted tongue—”
“That’s not what I’d say after your recent performance.”
Thomas tapped his shoe lightly against Abe’s leg. “—so this will be your performance.”
To his enormous credit, Abe didn’t quail. “Give me the story.”
“Come up with an excuse for Crespo’s presence—one the others won’t question. And sweet-talk them into confessing.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“I’ve seen you work. You can get someone to tell you exactly what you need to know in order to convince them the spirits gave you access to their secrets.”
Abe nodded, an indistinct movement in the deepening darkness. “But those are everyday rubes who want to be conned. This is Emil Magnus, who taught me half of my tricks, and Townsend, who’s no fool himself.”
“You’ll just have to be more clever than they are, love.”
“Call me that again—and mean it.”
“Love. My love. Beloved.” Thomas huffed. “If you expect me to start reciting love sonnets next, you’ll be disappointed.” Secretly, though, he thrilled to hear those words from his own mouth, and to know that they were true.
“I’ll be as clever as I can be,” Abe assured him.
After that, Thomas paced the room and wished he could open the windows and breathe in the fog. Abe remained at the desk, alternately sipping gin and playing with a coin, making it dance between his fingers like a living thing. If Thomas listened very closely, he caught the faintest sound of the Alcatraz foghorn, warning of danger ahead.
But nothing worthwhile was perfectly safe, was it?
He was beginning his hundredth lap of the room when a knock sounded on the outer door. “Crespo,” said a voice.
Time for battle.
22
Thomas had said he loved him, and meant it, and that outweighed every lingering pain in Abe’s body. Made all his aches and trials worthwhile. If he died tonight, regrets and sorrow wouldn’t cement him on this side of the veil—but he hoped he’d get to live.
After turning on the lights, Thomas strode to the door and let Crespo in. His thinning hair was disheveled and his suit crumpled, but a broad smile offset all that. “I’m really glad you called me. Where’s our punks?”
“On the way as soon as I ring them,” Thomas replied.
“One of them is Townsend?”
“Yes.”
“Figured. The other?”
Abe answered. “Emil Magnus.”
That made Crespo whistle. “I thought you two were pals.”
“You seem to know a lot about me, Agent Crespo.”
“The Bureau likes to keep tabs on certain folks. Can’t say I pegged Magnus on this one, though. He’s never shown signs of being interested in anything more than money and handsome young men.”
“Apparently his tastes are more diverse than that,” said Thomas.
“Hmm. Okay. Are those two working together?”
“No. The opposite, in fact. Magnus likely hired Gage to steal the amulet from Townsend.”
“Hmm.” Crespo tended to project an image of careless cheer, but Abe—good at reading people—saw the sharpness of Crespo’s eyes. The agent understood more than he let on, and he’d be a formidable foe. But Abe hoped Crespo was on his side. His and Thomas’s.
Crespo threw himself into a chair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and rolled his head. “I’m sore. Need something to work the kinks out.” Then he appeared to rally. “All right, boys, what’s the plan?”
Thomas finished rolling a cigarette and put on his hardest expression, which scared Abe a bit but also made his cock stir. Greedy thing.
“You’re going to keep your gob shut and play along with what Abe says.” Thomas lit the cigarette, his fingers steady as a rock, and blew a cloud of smoke in Crespo’s direction. “Got it?”
Seemingly delighted at this turn of events, Crespo grinned and nodded.
Thomas stared at him, narrow-eyed, for a moment, then turned to Abe. “Ready?”
Abe gave the question serious consideration. This wasn’t going to be like one of his shows, where the patter was fully rehearsed. It wouldn’t be like a séance either—neither Townsend nor Emil had any interest in conversing with the dead, and Emil knew all of Abe’s tricks. He’d taught Abe many of them. The stakes were higher than any Abe had ever faced, and— Wait. He had stood on the planks of a dozen or more stages, the bright lights in his eyes, the audience rapt, and he’d instructed his assistant to point a gun at him and pull the trigger. And every damn time, Abe had caught the bullet. Hell, he’d caught one for real just two days ago—albeit in a very different way—and he’d survived that as well. Sure, the stagecraft relied on certain trickery and his recent survival on the intervention of a spirit. But the risks had been both real and deadly, and he’d lived. This was going to be nothing but another performance. He could do this.
After taking a swig of gin big enough to make Crespo’s eyes widen, Abe nodded at Thomas. “Ready. Go ahead and call Townsend. But I’ll call Emil.”
“Right.”
“What do you want me to tell him?”
“That we have the amulet.”
The conversation with Townsend was short, Thomas barking his words without emotion or explanation and hanging up the phone with enough force to knock it over. “He’s coming,” he said as he set it aright.
Now it was Abe’s turn. Mrs. Li answered at Emil’s house, sounding irritated. She didn’t thaw even when he identified himself and asked for Emil, but she did fetch him promptly.
“Abe, my boy! So good to hear from you.”
Vicious anger roiled in Abe’s gut, but he kept his tone light. “Hello, Emil. I have something here that might interest you.”
“Oh?” Was that a catch in Emil’s voice? Maybe. “What’s that?”
“The Prince of Gandhara.”
Emil answered as smooth as oil. “How interesting. But I thought I advised you to stay away from it.”
“Which is why I’d like to give it over to you. For safekeeping.”
“Of course, of course. Well, bring it on over then. I’ll be home for another hour.”
It was a weird game, with each of them pretending nothing had changed between them while the truth loomed sharp and glistening. And neither was sure exactly how much the other knew. It was like dancing at the edge of a pit, uncertain whether your partner might push you in.
“I can’t come there, Emil. It’s not safe
. I’ve already been shot once.”
Emil’s gasp might have been genuine, considering he wasn’t the one who’d sent Munroe. “Shot! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. But you’ll have to come here. I’m at Mr. Donne’s office on Montgomery Street. I don’t know how long I can stay, though, so you need to get here quickly.”
“Of course.”
If Abe had held any doubts about Emil’s involvement, they disappeared: Emil’s agreeableness gave him away. He usually hated having his plans disrupted and wasn’t keen on entering unfamiliar spaces. Abe gave him the address and ended the call.
“Were you really shot?” asked Crespo.
“Yes.”
“Who did it?”
Thomas answered for him. “Someone Townsend sent. Detective with the San Francisco police.”
“And where’s the detective now?”
“The morgue,” Thomas replied with a death’s-head grin.
Crespo whistled and shook his head. “You two have been having adventures.”
He looked like he wanted to ask more, but this wasn’t the time. Abe looked at Thomas. “You need to play along too, okay?”
“I will.”
“You trust me?”
Thomas’s mouth stretched into a slow smile. “I don’t trust anyone. But I distrust you less than most.”
That was plenty to satisfy Abe, who took another long pull of gin.
“Do you do that because of spirits?” Crespo asked, nodding at the bottle.
Although Thomas had placed himself physically between them, as if protecting Abe even from personal questions, Abe simply gave a shrug. “What makes you think that?”
“’Cause I knew an agent at the Bureau who did that. He could drink a whole bathtub’s worth of moonshine without getting drunk. He said it kept the chindi away.”
Curious despite himself, Abe asked, “Chindi?”
“Evil spirit of the dead. A Navajo word, I think.”
Interesting. If Abe survived, he might want to do some research and find out what other cultures thought about the things he called dybbuks. “You used the past tense about this agent.”