Mark nodded. “I have to go there,” he said without thinking.
“Why? It’s an unregistered site, and I can’t dig without permission from the landowner.”
“Can you show me where this field is on the map?”
“Sure.” Jack made a note of the grid references at the bottom of the photo, then took an Ordnance Survey map from his pack and unfolded it on the coffee table. In a matter of seconds, he had homed in on a point in open country a couple of miles from Steeple Westford. It formed a lopsided triangle with Westford and another village—Eastbridge, where Curtess had held land. Tension shivered down Mark’s spine.
“That’s it. Has to be,” he whispered. “Jack, do you know who owns that field?”
“The Fitzes. They own most of the land around the village, but it’s all rented out to local farmers. Harry Barnes has a good-sized chunk, including this one and the villa field. From what I’ve heard the rents are the only things keeping the Fitzes’ noses above water. Rumour has it the debts are mounting, and people seem to think Charlie Fitzwarren will be putting the whole estate up for sale before too long.”
“And Curtess is laughing in his fucking grave,” Mark growled.
“Whoa back, sunshine. You’re taking this a little too personally.”
“So sue me!” he snapped. “You didn’t see the looks on those people’s faces when they found out I was descended from that sodding bastard!” He got jerkily to his feet and paced restlessly up and down the room. “They blamed me, and she was just lying there, bleeding, like the girl in the attic, their babies dead, and the blood kept on spreading—”
“Stop.” Jack rose quickly and stood in front of him, hands closing hard on Mark’s biceps. “What girl? Where?”
“Red Lion. Emily.” He hadn’t known he knew that.
Barriers were crumbling, and garbled information flooded into his mind, bringing with it the usual headache and incoherence. “Her name was Emily and—” Oh, shit!
“Whoa, whoa.” Jack’s fingers bit into Mark’s muscles. “There’s a girl bleeding to death in the Red Lion?”
“Fuck, no,” he said impatiently. God, he hated this aspect of his talent, hated that it chose here and now, in front of Jack, to break free and manifest itself. “Not now. Then. All she had was a candle—”
“Stop it!” Jack barked, shaking him. “You’re not making any sense. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Mark gazed at him, dazed and bemused and losing the battle. They were the same height, he noted distractedly, but Jack was broader… Belvedere Fitzwarren had been even bigger, a bull of a man—
“N-nothing?” he stammered, and struggled to take back control of the knowledge fermenting in his head. He knew why it was happening. He’d been reluctant to deal with the Curtess/Fitzwarren situation right from the start when Alice had put that book in his hands, so he’d automatically slammed up every defensive wall he had.
The brief lowering of them so he could pick up on anything paranormal that might be going on in the Red Lion had started a hairline fracture, and the assault of the sarsen stone in the church had caused another. Now that strange mediumistic subconscious of his was working overtime to connect the dots on several different frames of reference at once.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Are you on something?” he demanded. “Pull yourself together and tell me about the girl at the inn!”
Yes, concentrate on one thing at a time, but not him, not Curtess. The girl. “Emily.”
“Yes. Her.”
“Her baby died. So did she. Bled to death.”
“No. They couldn’t have kept that quiet at the Lion. The whole village would have been buzzing with it.”
“Then. Not now.” Exhaustion started to seep through his limbs, and only Jack’s hands kept him upright. Fuck it! Got to get him out of here before— But he couldn’t stop the words babbling from him. “Don’t know dates. Eighteen hundreds, maybe?”
“Are you having me on?”
Mark was fairly sure Jack was shouting, but his voice came from a long way off. Shadows were beating at the edges of his vision, and it was too late. “I have to go back,” he blurted. Then everything closed in to an indistinct blur, all but a pair of dark grey eyes burning with anger and concern.
“Blood,” whispered Jonathan Curtess, “to blood…”
* * * *
Something cold lay across Mark’s eyes and forehead. Cold and damp. It felt wonderful. He was lying on the couch, he realised. He stayed still for a moment, trying to let his hindbrain settle the visions and voices into their proper patterns unhindered. It wasn’t easy. He had a vague memory of his own voice speaking the confusion in his head aloud. He hadn’t realised he knew the girl’s name.
Was she linked to the Fitzes? No. He shook his head, and the flannel over his eyes slipped away. The light tapping of keystrokes filtered through his awareness, and he concentrated on that instead. The other, deeper intuition would kick in soon enough.
Keystrokes? Someone using his laptop? Indignation gave him energy, and Mark pushed himself up. “Hey!” he snapped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Jack looked round. He was perched on the edge of the computer chair, hunched over the Dell’s keyboard. All signs of good humour had gone from his face. He looked angry, determined.
“Doing some research,” he bit back. “The Dominic Waldron Experience? Is that what you’re up to? Cobbling together a steaming pile of bullshit for that farce of a TV show?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. He came over to the couch and sat down, nudging Mark’s legs out of the way. “I phoned the Red Lion. They only use the attic rooms for storage because people kept on complaining about hearing someone crying. They said Emily Barnes died up there in 1826. In childbirth.” He made it sound like an indictment.
“They don’t advertise it because they don’t want hordes of sensation-seekers descending on them.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Even so, there are a dozen ways you could have found that out.” His last sentence was an accusation.
“Yes,” Mark agreed, a dull ache starting up under his ribs. “I think you should leave.”
Jack ignored that, his concern back at full wattage. “You blacked out. Do you have some kind of epilepsy? A brain tumour?”
“No.” Mark took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. He’d already effectively destroyed any chance of friendship he might have had with the man, let alone sex.
Even so, while he did not want to do this, it was the most effective way he knew to send Jack bolting from the flat in disgust, given his scorn of Waldron. “I’m a psychic,” he said.
“What? You’re kidding me! Like that arse Waldron?”
“Sod it, no! He’s a fraud,” he blurted before he could think. “I’m the real deal.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, wincing when he found tangles that caught and pulled on his tender scalp. “Gran’s right,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have run.”
“Who’s she?” Jack sneered, showing no signs of bolting. “Your spirit guide?”
“Fuck you!” Mark surged to his feet, nearly kicking Jack from the couch as he did so. “I don’t have to take fuck-all from you or anyone! That curse is real, and it’s still killing people, and I have to break it!”
Jack stood up. “You,” he said with conviction, “are off your rocker. Delusional. You can’t break something that isn’t real!”
“Can’t I? You’d be surprised what I can do! Why don’t you just bugger off and let me and my steaming pile of bullshit get on with it?”
“You are the weirdest, most irritating, irrational, intriguing lunatic I have ever met,” Jack growled, taking a swift step towards him. But Mark couldn’t see anger in him now, just an almost wistful hunger. “You are stark staring insane, and I can’t get you out of my bloody head!”
Mark’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he said idiotically.
They were standing toe-to-toe, so close Mark could smell him. Jack, he discovered, was subtle aftershave
and summer meadows dusted with pollen, with the slight, not unpleasant, undernotes of fresh sweat and warm male skin.
“Eloquent,” Jack whispered, and they reached for each other at the same time. At that moment it didn’t matter Jack had doubts. He obviously wanted Mark as much as Mark wanted him, and that was the most important thing.
He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t know what, but Jack silenced him by kissing him. Jack’s mouth fed on his, gently, insistently voracious, in a way that set Mark’s blood on fire and short-circuited his brain. He tasted sweet from the traces of the chocolate biscuits he’d recently eaten. His arms were locked around Mark’s waist at first, then his hands slid down to cup Mark’s buttocks.
Mark rolled his hips, sliding their erections against each other, and Jack gasped into his mouth. Mark took the opportunity to invade Jack’s mouth with his tongue, starting a slow, rhythmic duel in time with the pulsing thrust of his hips. It felt good, deliriously, addictively good, and Mark did not want to stop. It wasn’t as if he’d been celibate for years and desperate for any sexual release that didn’t involve using his own right hand. It was Jack, the scent and taste and feel of him, all mixed up with that embryonic connection of friendship Mark did not want to lose.
“Slow down,” Jack groaned, his stubble pleasantly abrasive against Mark’s cheek, an added stimulant, “or this is going to end too damn quickly. God, I want you! Are you a top or a bottom?” He sounded desperate.
“Either,” Mark managed. “Both.”
“Thank God. Just don’t ask to toss a coin. I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the moment I saw you, and I couldn’t work out if you were straight or gay, and it’s been driving me craz—”
Mark stopped the babble with a deep kiss, his fingers busy with belts, buttons and zips. Jack didn’t seem to know what he was doing until Mark slipped his hand inside Jack’s boxers and palmed his cock. It was smooth and hard, hot against his skin, the exposed head glossy with pre-come. The scent of it made Mark’s mouth water.
“The bedroom’s through the door behind you,” he said huskily, but Jack didn’t seem to be in such a hurry anymore. He freed Mark’s cock and wrapped his fingers around it, smoothed his thumb over the glans, spreading the seeping liquid with a gentle, calloused touch. Mark pushed helplessly into the firm grasp, his own fingers tightening, and Jack’s hips jerked. Reluctantly, Mark eased away and braced his hands on Jack’s chest, holding him at bay.
“We’re slowing this down, remember?” he said with a firmness he didn’t feel. He wanted it fast and hard, bent over the back of the couch if necessary, but taking their time had its own benefits. “I want to see you with your kit off.”
“I like the sound of that,” Jack said, smiling ruefully. “I’ll think of cold showers and Arctic snow.”
Mark laughed, took Jack’s hand, and led him into the bedroom, peripherally glad he’d actually made the bed that morning. First impressions… They undressed quickly, and Mark caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored door of his wardrobe: lean, angular, knobbly joints, and a fine dusting of reddish-brown hair that ran across from nipple to nipple. Jack’s body was a far more interesting view.
He looked strong without being muscle-bound, the kind of build a man developed doing hard manual labour rather than hours in a gym. From watching documentaries, Mark had the vague memory that archaeology involved carrying soil-filled buckets and pushing heavy wheelbarrows, as well as painstaking work with trowel and brush. Black hair covered Jack’s pectorals, a pleasing contrast to his nut-brown skin. His tan ended low on his hips, the line of it just above the darkness of his pubic hair, and his skin there was creamy white with a fine blue tracery of veins beneath. His thick cock, flushing red and fully erect, jutted above the heavy balls hanging below it.
Jack’s long, strong legs were tanned from mid-thigh, and his feet showed evidence of sandal straps, pale against the brown.
Without being paranoid, Mark knew he himself didn’t look nearly as good. But Jack’s warm and appreciative smile and the hand he stroked across Mark’s chest and down to his hip showed his eagerness.
“You have freckles,” Jack murmured, clearly delighted. “I’m going to lick every one.”
That surprised a laugh out of Mark, and Jack stepped close, wrapping him in his arms. Their cocks touched and slid together, drawing slick lines on their bellies, and they pressed closer, trapping hot urgent flesh between them.
Mark’s heart pounded against his ribs. Jack’s breath drifted warm on his cheek, and the man’s eyes had deepened to slate as his expanding pupils met the dark ring in his irises. He smiled, his generous mouth kiss-swollen, and Mark leaned in and kissed him again, slow and easy.
Jack’s tongue met his languorously, in no more of a rush than Mark now. An all-pervasive glow coiled through Mark’s blood and bone and rooted deep in his heart as well as his groin. Awareness of his surroundings slid away.
Only Jack was real. Jack and the mouth that gently fed on him, the tongue caressing its way in to seek his tongue, and the lean, powerful body that moulded itself to his.
For Mark there had always been something special about the first time he had sex with a new lover, or even with his rare one night stands. It was never only the physical pleasure and release. Learning a new body, all the similarities and differences of needs and reactions, he found as fascinating as exploring a familiar lover. Locked together in a slow dance as if to some seductive music, they moved towards the bed. The edge of the mattress caught Jack behind the knees, and he sat then fell back on the duvet, taking Mark down with him and rolling them both.
Pinned by Jack’s greater weight, Mark almost lost it there and then. One of Jack’s calloused hands curved under Mark’s hip, and the other pushed between them, wrapping around Mark’s straining cock. Mark shouted and bucked beneath him, trying to begin a rhythm that would drive his cock against Jack’s belly and bring him the release he craved. Then Jack loosened his hold on Mark enough to slide his own cock into the tight channel of his palm and fingers. With a groan of ecstasy, Mark felt again the incandescent shock of their erections pressed together. He cried out and locked his legs around Jack’s waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, riding him from beneath, urging him on.
“Now who has to slow down?” Jack chuckled >breathlessly. “Condoms? Lube?”
“Drawer, bedside cabinet,” Mark answered and forced himself to relax and release Jack from the vice-like grip of his legs. He watched hungrily as Jack found the packets and bottle and fitted a condom onto his cock. Then Jack smeared the lube over the latex and carefully worked a liberal amount into the clenched ring of muscle that guarded the opening to Mark’s body.
With a gasp of triumph, Mark thrust into Jack’s confining hand, then back onto the fingers that stretched him. Three times he rode the jolt, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, then Jack removed his fingers. He sank into Mark’s body and did not stop until he was buried almost to the root of his cock.
“You’re amazing,” Jack whispered. “I’ve dreamed of this—” He gave a thrust that changed the angle of his entry slightly and sank deeper. Mark arched his back and surged to meet him, demanding more.
Orgasm came swiftly. Pleasure took Mark soaring, and the fiery rush left him drifting in free-fall, their bodies locked together. The spread of his semen was warm between their bellies, and a soul-deep peace filled his heart.
He didn’t want to move, though he knew Jack probably would, now that passion was spent, hunger fed. At the very least Mark would have to do something about the cream drying on his belly. Their minds were obviously drifting along the same lines; Jack fetched a tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet and wiped him clean, then got rid of the condom. Mark sighed contentedly, and Jack shifted so that Mark lay beside him, his head on Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s hands gentled through Mark’s hair, smoothing it back from his face, and they rested in comfortable peace, catching their breaths.
“So what happened?” Jack aske
d into the silence between them. Still floating on the ebbing bliss of orgasm, Mark didn’t respond fast enough. “What made you black out?” he elaborated.
Mark came back to earth with a jolt. He rolled away from Jack’s embrace and stared up at the ceiling. Apart though they were now, he could still feel the weight of Jack’s lean body on his. He wanted it back but didn’t reach for him. “Told you,” he answered warily. “You don’t believe so why bother?”
“Because I’m asking? Tell me again what you think caused it. You scared me half to death, damn it, and I need some kind of an answer. Especially if it’s likely to happen again.”
Mark shifted restlessly. “It probably won’t.”
“Not good enough. C’mon, sunshine,” he pleaded. “I really want to know, and it’s not going to make me run for the hills.”
“Okay.” Mark sat up, folded his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees, unsure where to start. He wasn’t used to having to explain himself at the best of times, and certainly not while naked in bed with a man he found himself strongly attracted to and whom he’d only known for a day. He had hoped this would have been the beginning of a friendship as well as an affair, but despite Jack’s words, Mark knew that prospect would soon be galloping for the horizon. “Just do me a favour and don’t interrupt, alright?”
He waited until Jack nodded, then fixed his eyes on the end of the bed and started talking. “Background first. Not all ghosts are ghosts. There’s not a single cause for a haunting any more than there’s one source for the common cold. Some events get imprinted into the place and replay over and over. Sometimes a person is so sad, happy, angry, content, they don’t want to or can’t leave.
“I’m psychic. A medium. I can see, hear, feel and interact with those events and with the ghosts. But only if the ghosts are still hanging around for whatever reason. I don’t summon them; I don’t exorcise them. Sometimes, once they’ve had their say, they move on. Sometimes they stay around, but they’re… happier? Less intrusive?” He paused for a moment, but Jack didn’t speak, and he didn’t dare glance at him, not wanting to see scorn. “That’s what I am. This is what I do with it. I use the information the spirits give me to research the circumstances, find what facts there are, write it up and pass it on to my immediate boss. If he thinks it’ll make a good show, he’ll liaise with whoever owns and/or lives in the place involved, and if they’re willing, contracts and cash are exchanged. He and the script team turn my report into a programme for Waldron, adding special effects and dramatic re-enactments as necessary. They don’t know what I can do. I’m just an assistant who’s good at ferreting out stories.
The Fitzwarren Inheritance Page 4