by Megan Derr
"You haven't come across a story with true supernatural elements since your third book. It was easily worked around in that one. This one seems it will be more difficult to leave those bits out while exploring the truth of the ghosts. The werewolf component is rather key to the story."
"I'll figure something out," Astor replied with a shrug. "I need only prove there are no ghosts, and that I can do without adding werewolves."
Tennyson smiled at him. "Well, whatever you do, I cannot wait to read it. Agent or not, I'm one of your biggest fans. I think I'd love anything you wrote."
Astor nodded and took a swallow of his beer to quell the sudden butterflies in his stomach. He would write the ghost debunking book for this inn. It was what he had been contracted to do, and he loved doing it—the history, the research, the traveling, writing out the truth behind overplayed stories. People liked what he did, even if what he did was call them liars. His books never failed to draw new attention to the places he studied; owners always wrote him letters and emails of gratitude.
It was foolish of him to want to try fiction when he already had so much success, but the story of the inn had sparked an idea that wouldn't leave him alone. He'd already started writing it, and the month he was spending at the inn would give him plenty of time for both of his books.
Once he finished it, however…he just didn't know. Maybe he'd show it to Tennyson. He wanted to show it to Tennyson. Except—well, it didn't matter, not until he had finished it. After he was done, then he'd worry about letting anyone see it.
"So how did you get out of going home for the holidays?" he asked.
Tennyson shrugged. "It wasn't really that hard. They only insist I come so they can harass me about being wealthier than them, having a better job than all of them, and how I should magically ensure they get the same. I've no doubt they're disappointed they won't be able to yell at me, but they'll figure out quickly enough that it's easier to deride me when I'm not there to catch them. You know how they are."
Astor nodded. Family problems were just another reason they got along so well. They both understood what it was like to have families that mostly resented them—though Astor conceded he deserved it more than Tennyson, since Tennyson was at least nice to his more often than not. Astor had decided that if his family kept insisting on acting stupid, then they should be treated accordingly.
"Since I'm not going home, I'll probably just help you, read some manuscripts, and enjoy not drinking myself stupid to avoid committing homicide."
Finishing his steak, Astor pushed his plate away and signaled their waiter for another round of drinks. "What manuscripts?"
"Nonfiction about prohibition, a couple of fiction books I haven't really looked at yet," Tennyson said with a sigh. "I've barely been able to sit still long enough to open my email, nevermind go through it." He took a generous swallow of his fresh martini. "Oh, speaking of holidays and such. I have your Christmas present; don't let me forget to give it to you before I leave." He winked.
Frowning, hating where that wink sent his thoughts because that way lay hopelessness and frustration, Astor replied, "If you had bothered to tell me you were going to be here, I would have brought yours along instead of mailing it to you."
Tennyson smiled. "Didn't know 'til last minute that I would be here, and what's wrong with surprises?"
"They all too often end in disappointment," Astor snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
"Not always, though," Tennyson said, as impervious to Astor as he had always been. "Not even usually."
Astor said nothing, suddenly too worn out to continue sitting there and acting as if everything was fine when it most definitely was not fine and never would be for him. Not until he could finally get over Tennyson.
He drank down the rest of his beer, then threw cash on the table and stood up, stalking from the dining room, relieved and disappointed when Tennyson did not follow.
*~*~*
Astor zipped up his down vest and tucked his digital camera into one pocket and a small notebook and pen into another. His backpack was filled with all the basics; he'd learned the hard way never to travel without certain supplies on even the simplest of hikes. Double checking he had his wallet, keycard, and phone, he slung the backpack onto his shoulders, then snatched up his sunglasses, watch cap, and gloves. All set, he closed his laptop, turned out the lights, and left.
He nodded to the young man at the welcome desk, but did not linger enough to give the guy a chance to speak. The forecast the other day had called for clear skies for days, but sometime in the night everything had changed, because when he'd listened to the weather that morning, he had been assured of pending doom in the form of at least three feet of snow. This high up in the mountains, it was a good bet there would be a great deal more than that.
It would hardly be the first time he'd been snowed in while on the job. He'd expected it, in fact, but he had hoped to have a few days to explore and get his notes and pictures done so he could spend the snowed-in days writing.
Of course, for all that it was supposed to start snowing madly in a few hours it was still too damned clear and bright. Stupid sun. He could feel it on his skin like ants. Grimacing, Astor slid on his wrap-around shades then yanked on his watch cap and fingerless gloves.
He headed out across the parking lot toward the sign that said 'Historic Trail' in quaint lettering, but may as well have proclaimed 'Ghost This Way' in flashing neon. He paused to take a few pictures of it and of the inn. His books were as popular for his photography as for his prose, popular enough for a few modest awards (that no one else ever seemed to care about, stupid relatives, who needed them).
Hopefully the snow would clear up enough that he could come out again with his good cameras later. Today, however, was more about research and less about pretty pictures.
"Astor, wait up!"
Astor froze, turned around, and stared in complete shock as he saw Tennyson walk toward him, dressed for the elements like Astor and carrying two steaming to-go cups of coffee. "What are you doing out here?" Tennyson visited him from time to time when he was working, but usually just to soothe the feathers that Astor had ruffled. Even on the rare occasions when he was just dropping in to say hello, he never joined Astor on his explorations. No one did. Why would they? It was hard work; he'd be outside for hours, taking notes, taking pictures, hiking up and down hills, trekking the same paths over and over again until he was satisfied with what he'd learned.
A hands-on approach was the only way to do it, so far as he was concerned. It wasn't hard for anyone to condescendingly dismiss ghosts on 'research' that amounted to little more than web searches and pseudo-science-speak. Astor had made an art of condescending, and he backed everything up with extremely thorough research, digging into the history of his topic to find what had actually happened, pulling up real scientific studies, and crawling over every inch of the locations where the ghosts were purported to be. He knew ghosts didn't exist—better than most realized—but it was the effort he put into proving it that mattered.
"Can't I tag along?" Tennyson asked. "I'll go crazy if I have to stay inside doing work all day, every day, even if that's what I should be doing. Christmas is two days away, anyway, so the work can wait, right?" He thrust one of the coffees into Astor's hands. "Here."
Astor took it because his only other choice was to let it drop, but then he noticed the smell. Peppermint mocha, his absolute favorite. He hadn't realized Tennyson knew that. Ignoring the warmth that spread through him at the realization, he replied, "Thanks. If you don't want to work, I can't see why you'd come out here. I am working, and this is a lot harder than shuffling papers and sending emails."
"It sounds a lot nicer than driving a desk, honestly," Tennyson replied. "I've always wanted to see you in action, but normally I try to stay out of the way." He smiled, and it was the hesitance in it that was Astor's undoing.
"Whatever," Astor groused. "Thanks for the bribe. Come on." Tennyson's s
mile widened, brightened, and Astor really wanted to punch him. He wanted to kiss him even more. Desperate for a distraction he asked, "How in the hell did you obtain a peppermint mocha all the way out here?"
"Charmed the kitchen staff," Tennyson replied. "It's amazing what can be done with a little charm, that's why I keep telling you to obtain some. So what are we doing first? Any way I can help you, or should I just stay back and out of the way?"
"Hold this," Astor said and thrust his coffee back at Tennyson, then pulled out his camera and settled into taking pictures of the landscape. He was never certain what he'd use, what would make the final cut, what he wanted, so he just took pictures of everything. When he was finished, he tucked the camera away and took back his coffee, and they resumed walking.
A few minutes later, in the middle of jotting down some thoughts in his notebook, they both drew up short at the unmistakable sound of a wolf's howl. Astor narrowed his eyes behind his glasses and took a sip of his mocha. "Twenty minutes after we leave the inn, headed toward the spot where the girl's body was found, and we just happen to hear a wolf howl? I'm calling bullshit."
"Not very subtle," Tennyson agreed. "Speakers or something, you think?"
"Maybe," Astor said, glancing around at the dense forest. "Seems unreliable, though. I'd be willing to bet they have a werewolf on payroll. I'll die of shock if we don't see a wolf while we're out here."
"Wolves that shift independent of the moon aren't very common," Tennyson said, frowning.
"But they're not exactly rare, either," Astor countered. "Some are just naturally inclined toward being flea-infested, ill-bred mongrels."
Tennyson laughed. "Personnel grudge against werewolves?"
"Not really," Astor said. "One of my ex's was a werewolf and a jerk, but I only hate werewolves the way I hate everyone." That particular ex had been the violent one, but he'd learned real damn fast that striking Astor had been the biggest mistake of his life. Astor changed the subject, not in the mood to discuss ex-boyfriends. "Should you really be staying here? The forecast warned of bad snow, and if you don't head out you'll be stuck."
"Probably," Tennyson said with a shrug. "If I'm a distraction, I can go—"
"I don't care," Astor cut in irritably. "But I doubt you want to get trapped here indefinitely. I'm the only one who came prepared to stay here for an entire month."
Tennyson smiled. "I've been in worse situations, believe me. Now, come on, let's go see a ghost."
Stifling a long suffering sigh, Astor took back his mocha and followed after him. It was slow going to the cabin, as he stopped every dozen or so steps to take pictures, consult his notes on what the surroundings had been like back when the events took place.
By the time they left the forest for the clearing where the cabin had once stood—regretfully burned down several decades ago by careless morons—his mocha was sadly gone and they'd heard the howling wolf half a dozen times more.
Tennyson wandered over to a small display featuring pictures and a pedestal with a book on it that contained more pictures and several pieces of type-filled papers. "It says they're going to rebuild the cabin this coming summer, some historically accurate replica—"
"Replica implies it's historically accurate," Astor snarked, and pulled out his camera to take more pictures. "It's not a replica if it's not accurate. Then it's just a lazy imitation."
He ignored the way Tennyson chuckled and wandered away to take pictures somewhere else. There was no way he was going to survive an entire month being more or less alone with Tennyson. He wasn't certain he was going to survive the day. He was hungry, which was bad, but Tennyson was also making him restless and that was worse, given he knew all too well how fucking good it felt to sate both needs with Tennyson.
Seriously, he was going to leave the bastard dead in the forest. It was the only logical recourse. Astor took a few more pictures, then tucked the camera away and pulled out his notes again, frowning thoughtfully, peering at the expanses of unexplored forest.
"She died somewhere out there, right?" Tennyson asked, startling him.
Astor glared to hide the fact that he'd jumped, and shoved his notebook back into his pocket. "Yes. I think I'll save that exploration for another day. It feels like it's going to start snowing soon, and that will provide a more authentic study. For now, I want to hike a bit of the original trail."
"Is any of that left?" Tennyson asked, surprised.
"No, but there are maps enough and bored people enough that I have a pretty good idea of it," Astor said. "This forest was as bad then as it is now, so I'm getting an excellent feel for how easily they could have become lost."
Tennyson gave him a quizzical look.
"What?"
"How does this help disprove the ghost? I would swear you're researching the werewolves more than the ghost."
Astor shrugged. "I just want a picture of how everything happened, even if most of it doesn't make it into the book. You know that." He also wanted information and more ideas for his novel, but he was not discussing that with Tennyson no matter how strong the urge. He pulled out his notebook again. "They came from that direction," he said, and pointed east, back toward the inn. "Headed for California because nobody in this country has ever had sense."
"I was born in California you know," Tennyson said with amusement.
"Yes, and you had the sense to leave," Astor said.
Tennyson's mouth twisted. "Leaving isn't always the sensible thing."
Astor's heart gave an alarming lurch, started hope pumping. He ruthlessly closed the valve, and continued on with his rambling. "They found the cabin. According to records, and I confirmed them in several places, the snow was as tall as you. They barely made it here. Traveling the way they were, they should have had horses, wagons, cattle—but they were on foot, with only what they could carry."
"They had to abandon everything?" Tennyson asked. "But if they had wagons and all of that, it would have been safer to stay with their supplies. A covered wagon would have held against the snow as well as the cabin, which I doubt was in great shape. Once the snow piled on and buried them, they might have even been able to trap heat. I think?"
"You're correct in that they would not have left the wagons if they'd had them," Astor said. "I don't think they abandoned anything. I think they were attacked or robbed or something. The werewolf is probably the only reason they made it to cover. What I can't determine is whether she turned them all before or after they got to the cabin. It would make sense if she did it before; it would explain how they survived the presumed attack or robbery and endured the snow long enough to get to the cabin."
Tennyson cocked his head thoughtfully. "You've really thought about this. When you recounted the tale at dinner, it seemed you were just getting warmed up but I wasn't sure. You're always thorough, but this isn't the direction you usually take, especially since you'll have to minimize the werewolf element in the book."
Astor shrugged again, squashing yet another urge to talk about his novel. But Tennyson hadn't been willing to take a chance on him—on them—so Astor was no longer certain he could take any chances at all on Tennyson. Bad enough Tennyson had set him aside; he did not know what he would do if Tennyson hated his novel.
So he kept his mouth shut. "The werewolf element is interesting. It really is a shame I can't include it in the book. Come on, I want to explore where the old trail…" He trailed off as the world steadily began to fill with white flakes.
Scowling, Astor stared up at the sky. "Couldn't wait three more fucking hours?" He weighed his chances, then decided it was better to be stuck in an inn with Tennyson than stuck in the woods. Spinning around sharply on his heel, he nearly crashed into Tennyson. "Come on," he said tersely, stepping around him. "By the look of those clouds and the weather reports I read this morning, if we don't head back now we'll be reenacting bits of the story I prefer to avoid altogether."
"No, thanks," Tennyson said, and walked alongside him as they headed back acros
s the field toward the woods. "It still amuses me that things like werewolves and vampires exist, but not ghosts. Seems a shame."
Astor rolled his eyes. "I prefer the money that a lack of ghosts brings me, thanks."
Tennyson laughed. "My dad used to get the biggest kick out of telling everyone he was married to an evil bloodsucker. My stepmother rolled her eyes a lot like you. Must be a vampire thing."
"Is that why you're so used to vampires and all?" Astor asked, before he could catch himself. He never had gotten around to asking, that one night. There had definitely been better things to do at the time, and he had stupidly thought he had all the time in the world.
Later, it just seemed too much like a question a friend or a lover would ask, and he was painfully aware that Tennyson considered him neither. They had become sort of friends over the month they'd worked together, but Astor still did not ask personal questions. It was one of his things, as his family would say.
Tennyson looked at him in surprise. "Well, yeah. Haven't I told you?"
"No," Astor said stiffly.
"Oh," Tennyson said, and winced. "I was sure I had. Umm. So, yes. My mother died when I was a baby. When I was three, my father remarried. When I was six, I caught her feeding. Cried for hours and refused to leave my room for days."
Astor laughed.
Tennyson stuck his tongue out. "After my dad finally calmed me down, they explained everything to me. Mostly, they played up that I had to keep it a secret and be a big kid, which totally works on six year olds. The older I got, the more they told me. My first boyfriend was a vampire," he added thoughtfully. "He was cute, but a really bad poet."
"A poet? Really?" Astor sneered at that.
"Oh, shut up. I'm sure you've got something similar in your history, I've already heard about a good number of your bad boyfriends. You don't get to make fun of my poet."
Astor scoffed at that. "Yes, I do. It's a poet. What could be worse than dating a poet?"
"I'm sure there's worse, but I'm also hoping I don't find out what," Tennyson replied, making Astor laugh.