“In the name of God, you must not,” Peter called. He threw his will into the wind and felt it -- the swirling currents of the binding that were the only real body Patrick had now. He pushed at them, making tearing motions with his fingers and feeling the thread of the binding beneath the fingers of his mind. He screamed as he attacked the immense barrier, trying to break Patrick’s power before he could act.
The spirits of the Marys rose out of his body with icy jolts. They flew along the lines of his outstretched hands and merged their pallid blue energies with the complex pattern before him. The figure of Patrick staggered and weakened. The chaos was punctuated with a single piercing shot. Marley.
Peter dared not turn. The binding was a conflagration about him, and he knew that the moment he loosened his grip, it would consume him. He grabbed hold and, with the last of his strength, tore deep into the structure of the binding, waiting for a truer shot to shatter his back. He felt the immense long strands of the binding shrugging off his attack and knew -- it was futile. It would all be for nothing. He reached for the power of the earth, but it would not answer. Here in Ireland, that voice was silent.
Dimly before him, between the writing strands of the binding, he saw a figure wading through the tempestuous sea. Veleur, with strength no man could equal, fought through the sea and ran up onto the shore. “Peter, get down,” Veleur shouted,
With one out-flung hand, he pushed Peter aside. The second shot was almost lost in the elemental chaos around them, in which earth sea and sky could hardly be separated. Peter spun and fell; Veleur, even with his speed, could not have hoped to reach Marley in time to stop her from firing. He stepped into the bullet’s path, jerked at its impact, and faltered to a stop. He stood a moment, and then his knees folded and he crumpled with infinite slowness to the ground.
In an instant the storm fell silent, the boiling clouds slowed, and the rain trailed out. Light fell upon the shore and the rounded backs of the slick stones. The sea mist faded and lifted. Men from the League ran down the beach towards them as Marley stood, still training her gun upon Veleur’s still form.
Peter crawled towards Veleur, everything else forgotten. Veleur lay upon his back, with his legs folded under him and his long hair slicked into the crevices between stones. His face was stark paper-white, and his black clothing all but hid the wound. Peter had nothing to staunch the blood; he put his bare palm against Veleur’s chest, pressing down on the ragged hole in his clothing.
Veleur’s staring eyes fastened on him. “Run, Peter,” he gasped. “Leave me.”
Suddenly it all became quiet. Veleur’s gaze became unfocused; the breath beneath Peter’s hand became shallow and uneven. Peter looked up at the ring of dark-clad men, Father Michael amongst them, Marley with her face now pale and expression shaken. A boat butted up against the stones a dozen metres away, and he could see Wolfy in the water, labouring towards them. She hesitated at the edge of the muted binding.
Patrick watched it all. “Not demons,” he mused quietly.
Three figures swirled into being about him. The Marys. “Do not act in haste, Patricus,” Mary Theresa said. “We would speak to you first. We have waited some time for the chance to do so, and you have waited long enough that a little longer is no matter.”
Wolfy circled the wraiths warily, with wide eyes. “Bring Veleur to us, quickly,” she said.
Peter scooped the elf up in his arms, feeling not the slightest tremor of life from within the slender body. Marley aimed her weapon at them, but as Peter stood and walked away, the silence went unbroken.
“Honoured Saint Patrick, please. This great opportunity is within our grasp,” Father Michael said, with hands outstretched.
“Saint, is it? Well, how foolish men can be, alive or dead. I will do no more until I am sure.”
The figures of Patrick and the three nuns shimmered, and along with all visible evidence of Patrick’s ward, they vanished. Peter waded into the water. As he passed through the ward, he still felt it tingling over the surface of his naked skin. Wolfy all but snatched Veleur from his hands, and fearful of hurting him, Peter did not fight her. He did feel the earth again beneath him and some strange pallid energy from the binding arching along his fingertips.
Wolfy vaulted into the boat with uncanny strength, and Giffen reached to grasp Peter’s arm, pulling him on board. Peter felt so cold now that he could not feel the things he touched, and he was starting to shake. He fought to where Bear and Wolfy tended to Veleur. They rolled up his black jersey and found ... unblemished skin.
You’ve given him something to think about, said the gentle voice of tiny Mary Rosalina. And he has given something to you in return. Be safe, Peter. Give us some time to work on him, and there may yet be hope for redeeming Eire from this long curse.
Veleur coughed and struggled in his friends’ grasp. Giffen cursed the stuttering engine and pulled their small boat away from the shore. The men of the League stood and watched them go, Father Michael pulling Marley’s gun from her hand. Bear reached one hand out to Peter, and he crouched with them in the scant space between the rocking gunnels of the boat. Wolfy brought a blanket from the emergency supplies and wrapped it around Peter and Veleur.
“Sit down,” she said. “Or you’ll have us all capsized and drowned.”
Peter felt tears in his eyes. The binding stayed as it was, not greater or smaller. In the end, they had achieved nothing.
“But lost nothing, either,” Bear said, obviously reading Peter’s grim thoughts as he guided them to a seat. “And with enemies like ours, that is an achievement in itself.”
Giffen piloted the small metal-hulled dinghy out to where a sailboat wallowed in the waves.
Epilogue
The sloop ploughed towards England, slicing through the back of each broad wave. Peter held the rail hard, Veleur tight against his side. A few feet away, Giffen stood at the wheel, a distant look in his eyes.
“What do you see?” Veleur asked him.
For a long time, Giffen made no answer. Peter looked to Veleur, who shook his head. They waited, and at last Giffen spoke.
“I wasn’t kidding, Peter,” Giffen said, raising his voice above the hiss of water and the sibilant winds. “When I said that losing the sight was a great pleasure. But it is one that is coming to an end. Do you know about prophecies?”
He looked over at Peter rather as if Veleur was not there at all. Peter shook his head.
“Whole sentences and lines of speech that come to seers,” Veleur whispered, probably too low for Giffen to hear clearly. Giffen braced both hands on the small metal wheel, his head bowed and water slicking down his punkish hairstyle and highlighting the grey amongst his dark locks.
“No one knows where they come from, these things, these prophecies,” he said.
“God, perhaps,” Peter offered.
“It’s as good an explanation as any,” Giffen said in that way that only atheists do. “Here it is, for any good it will do: ‘The pilgrim heart finds what it seeketh; the heart aflame shall venture forth. A lone heart drawn to the shades that break it. A trinity gives freedom birth.’”
“That is a bit ... ambiguous,” Peter offered.
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense at all,” Giffen snapped.
He directed his anger out to the storm, not even looking at them. Veleur tipped his head, suggesting they leave him alone. Down below, Wolfy and Bear were singing some sea shanty they hardly knew any of the words to. A battery lantern dangled from the ceiling, painting the scene in a swaying golden light. They laughed and welcomed Veleur and Peter in.
‘A pilgrim heart finds what it seeketh.’ Peter thought he recognised that part, at least. He smiled and took a warm tin of beer from Wolfy’s hand.
“I guess you’re all right after all, boy,” she said.
“A little better than that, I assure you,” Veleur said with unusual levity, and they all laughed. Peter looked back at the dark hatchway, where Giffen could just be seen standing
pensive against the darkening sky. It’s only just beginning, he thought. But Veleur leaned over and kissed him, his lips flavoured by the wine he drank. Peter kissed him back, without embarrassment or restraint.
He prayed, for all their sakes, that there would be some respite -- some time for friendship, love, and rest before the creaking wheel of fate drove them on to fulfil the remainder of that dire-sounding prophecy. He knew one thing for sure -- his pilgrim heart, having found its prize, would never let it go again. For one brief, shining moment, Peter felt no fear or doubt, and he was the happiest of men.
Emily Veinglory
Emily Veinglory is an animal behaviorist by day, freelance writer and illustrator by night. Author of previous novellas Broken Sword and Alas, the Red Dragon, she loves to write gay romance and erotica in fantasy settings. When not writing, she is busy walking a hyperactive collie and trying to make a living. For more information, visit www.veinglory.com.
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Read on for a tantalizing glimpse of
Dealing Straight
by Emily Veinglory
Available Now from Loose Id
Dealing Straight
The house had a living room and kitchen area, which was cozy but large enough for the purpose. A fire burned in the grate, giving the only light. In its light, everyone's faces seemed to glow with health and life. Richard imagined that even he might seem a true and virtuous son of the soil in such a light and company.
The two boys lounged on the sofa, nodding into sleep even as they took advantage of the chance to stay up late. Theresa and her daughter shared a great easy chair, and Sam sat on the floor at her feet. A strangely congruous pose in that he obviously loved his wife deeply in a way that Richard could perceive but barely understand. Richard and Wayne sat upon the bench seat that had been pulled inside for them. Wayne leaned back and rested his back against the high-stacked firewood.
Wayne and Sam had whiled the hours away in reminiscence; all stories of the things a band of wild brothers do, growing up on a remote farm. Richard could not help but compare it to his own stifled childhood in lonely rooms and callous private schools. He felt an irrational rage that whilst he had been wasting so many of the apparently few years of his life, these men had been riding horses, hunting, ranging, playing, fighting, and living. As if it were somehow their fault that he had suffered from the blight of urban privilege upon the proper place a child should have in a world that still had some nature in it.
At last Theresa rose and rested her hand on the head of her youngest son, now fully surrendered to sleep.
“We'd best get these two to bed, and you, too, Mary ...”
The girl scowled but made no protest as she helped her mother bundle the two boys off to their beds. Sam watched them go with a fond smile.
“We've just the one bed for guests, but I don't reckon you'll mind,” Sam said.
There was a knowing edge to his voice that made Richard look at him sharply. It was not an accusation -- an acknowledgement perhaps, and the last thing Richard would have expected from a man so upright as Samuel Sneddon.
Wayne merely smiled as Sam showed them through to a small, clean room with a wide box-bed and a high, narrow window. He set a smoky candle on the mantle and left them alone with conspicuous alacrity.
“He knows,” Richard said quietly.
“Oh, aye. He knows. We grew up together, and I've always been what I am.”
Richard shook his head, quite unable to understand how simple things seemed to be for Wayne. No doubt he was at least as bemused in return, or more so, by the way Richard twisted himself in knots and achieved only unhappiness as a result.
Wayne stripped off his clothes, but, perhaps for the first time, he did not seem entirely at ease. Richard kicked off his boots and wondered what the hell was about to happen.
“Best not waste the candle,” Wayne said as he pinched it out.
Richard stood frozen in the perfect darkness. He heard the soft creak as Wayne got onto the long-promised bed.
“Come here,” Wayne said.
Richard reached forth tentatively and found the edge of the bed. He set one knee on its low surface. Wayne's hand, groping in the darkness, found Richard's shoulder. It moved slowly to his back and drew him forward. In the darkness, Richard knelt on the soft bed and listened to his own heart beating, and Wayne's breath.
Wayne's hands were slow and deft, unbuttoning Richard's shirt and smoothing back the cloth so that it fell from his shoulders and slipped down toward the floor. Richard closed his eyes. He reached forward and fitted his hands around Wayne's waist, the skin warm and surprisingly soft beneath his fingertips. He could feel Wayne's breath upon his face.
“Not kissed a man, eh?” Wayne said.
“No.”
Richard's voice seemed a little nervous even to his own ears. Wayne cupped Richard's face gently.
It was probably the hardest thing Richard had ever done, but he drew back. “No, Wayne. The illness. You shouldn't breathe in the air that I ...”
“Shh, we'll talk about that another time.”
Wayne's hands moved slowly down Richard's neck. His lips settled upon Richard's throat, trailing kisses down to his shoulder. Richard leaned in, then pulled Wayne toward him, splaying his fingers across broad shoulders. Doubt was slipping away as he heard Wayne's breathing become rapid and harsh.
Wayne fumbled with Richard's belt and the metal buttons of his trousers. He broke away from their embrace and laid Richard back onto the mattress. There was a strange lack of urgency in their movements, as if the moment was to be savored, not rushed toward its conclusion.
Wayne stripped Richard's clothing from him slowly. His hands lingered briefly here and there. His fingers traced one hipbone, thigh, and shoulder. He straddled Richard's thighs and bent over him. Richard was conscious of the rough stubble on his chin rasping against Wayne's fingers. He was even more aware of the death in his right lung, which might leap from his lips to Wayne's if given the chance.
He wondered how his own thin and scruffy form could be of interest to Wayne, no matter how welcome such attention and deft caresses were. He knew the better thing would be to push Wayne away lest he doom his lover in more ways than one.
Richard lay at ease on his back as Wayne's mouth pressed down upon his brow. Richard's left hand lay lax atop the covers while his right reached up and twined itself in Wayne's silky hair. It felt as he had always imagined it would -- soft as goose-down.
Wayne leaned back so that a palm's width separated their faces in the close darkness.
“I cannot imagine that I was worth the wait,” Richard said softly. He could hear the long-banished Boston lilt edging its way back into his diction.
Wayne exhaled with a long, sad sigh. “Sometimes, Rick,” he said. “Sometimes ...”
“Sometimes, what?”
Wayne's hard cock lay against his thigh. Richard felt a deep pang of desire run down his body and resound in his groin. His back arched as sweet tension ran down his body. He parted his legs, and Wayne moved to kneel between them. Richard placed his hands on Wayne's waist and made his invitation clear.
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What people are saying about
Dealing Straight
Emily Veinglory’s writing is what made Dealing Straight so entertaining. The style is clear, direct and purposeful. Overall Dealing Straight is an entertaining quickie.
-- Sin St. Luke, Just Erotic Romance Reviews
A host of strong characters really make this story sing, and you’ll be drawn in by Ms. Veinglory’s rapid-fire dialogue and erotic M/M scenes. Dodging bullets and marriage proposals was never so interesting and sensual as it is in Dealing Straight.
-- Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews
Maewyn's Prophecy: Pilgrim Heart Page 10