Rattling Chains

  He could burn the paper, but again, he’d probably set the door on fire and trap himself in the apartment until the door burned and the ghost could come through at its leisure, if he didn’t die of smoke inhalation first. Fuck.

  Harlan crept away from the door, back onto the bland area rug the living room furniture sat on. He winced every time he heard a floorboard creak. He drew his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and rested his chin on his knees, rocking back and forth a little, hoping the movement would shake loose an idea.

  The banging had gone on long enough that, if anyone were coming to investigate the sound, they would have by now. Either the ghost was somehow keeping everyone else asleep or only Harlan could hear it. Either way, he was on his own.

  He let out a long, slow breath, speeding up when he realized he could see it—the temperature in the apartment was dropping. Fast.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  Bang.

  Bang!

  The rhythm slowed down even more, each thud harder, louder than the last.

  Harlan covered his ears, whimpering, “Go away, go away, go away,” over and over under his breath, after each blow to the door.

  He could see dust raining down all around the doorframe. The ghost might not be able to break the door in half or pass through the wards, but if it could smash the door out of its frame…

  He didn’t have any exorcism supplies in the apartment. The ones he’d used at the Centre hadn’t belonged to him. He hadn’t bought any of his own. Even if he had the supplies, exorcisms required conviction, a presence of mind he didn’t currently possess. He wished popular beliefs were true, that he could simply fling table salt at the spirit and make it disappear.

  There was nothing that worked like—

  Harlan had to uncurl in order to reach into his pocket, which made him feel vulnerable, even though he knew, intellectually, that a few inches of skin, muscle and bone weren’t going to affect the ghost one way or the other.

  He closed his fingers on his phone and pulled it out. He’d charged it during the night, and the ghost couldn’t drain the battery with the door between them. Good start.

  Shit. He didn’t have Charles’ number. He couldn’t remember the name of the club. He kneaded his temples, trying to physically press the memory out, but it was so hard to think with the assault on his door—bang. Bang…bang-bang! The irregular rhythm broke his thoughts, scattering them to the far corners of his mind, striking again before he could gather them into any sort of helpful order.

  Thin curlicues and tendrils of ice were sweeping into the apartment, spreading from the piece of paper under the door, slowly working their way farther into the room, gaining ground centimetre by centimetre. He couldn’t quite see the ice moving, but if he looked away and back again, he could tell it had spread.

  He was shivering, his teeth chattering as the temperature continued to drop. Much longer, and his fingers would be too cold and stiff to type or hold the phone.

  Another bang! This one was the loudest yet, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

  Harlan looked up. The ice had leeched deep into the door and split it. It now had a jagged crack. It wasn’t the entire thickness of the door, so the ghost couldn’t enter, but the door wouldn’t remain a barrier for much longer.

  Frantic, his breath pluming in front of him as he barely held himself back from hyperventilating, he googled ‘dungeon Toronto’. He had to re-enter it a few times, his hands were trembling so badly—dibhein yofiyo, sygeib tieoyi.

  There were only three results. ‘Rattling Chains’. That sounded familiar. No picture, and Harlan wasn’t sure about the address, but… There was a long, tormented squeal of protesting wood, a groan from the door, as though the spirit of the tree it had been made from cried out against the further torture it was forced to endure.

  Harlan clicked the phone number, hit call. Waited. Bit his lower lip.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Fuck. It was the middle of the afternoon. No one was going to be there. Why couldn’t ghosts only come out at night, like in the movies?

  Ring.

  The door creaked again, followed by a thud. Harlan squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Hello?”

  Harlan could hear fast-paced, up-beat music playing.

  “Charles?” Oh, thank God, he’d reached someone. Even if it wasn’t Charles, they’d have his number. He could tell them he was in danger, and they could send help. He didn’t care if he looked like a crazy idiot, as long as someone came.

  It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment to call 9-1-1, Hamilton or even the Centre. That was interesting, but currently irrelevant.

  “He’s not here right now. Can I say who’s—” A muffled thump, like the phone being put down.

  No, no, no…

  Voices in the background, another thump, then…

  “Hello?” A different voice. This one was familiar—or so Harlan hoped.

  “Charles?” The word was barely a squeak.

  “Who is… Harlan?”

  Harlan was amazed that Charles had been able to recognize his voice from one word. Oh God. Had Charles been thinking about him as much as he’d been thinking about Charles? A fraction as much?

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  He’d taken too long to respond, distracted by Charles’ voice and the beautiful, deadly fractals creeping towards him. The ice was all around the doorframe now, not just the beneath it. “I, uh… Yes. Fuck.”

  A few moments, and the music faded. “Are you okay? You sound—”

  “No, I’m really not.” Cutting someone off, someone whose help he needed, frightened Harlan, but not nearly as much as the slow-motion destruction of his door, the unnatural cold that was making his hand so stiff and clumsy that he was afraid he’d drop the phone. “I’m… I need…help. I need help.”

  “Are you on something?” Charles sounded more sympathetic than accusatory, which Harlan appreciated.

  “N-no, I’m not. Just…please…” The phone went silent. “Hello? Charles?” Nothing. Harlan glanced at it. The screen was dark, and it didn’t respond to any buttons he pressed.

  Oh, shit. The ghost was getting very close to breaking through, if it had drained the battery. Closer, and more powerful. Even if it hadn’t actually killed the phone, ghosts made electronics erratic.

  Dropping the useless hunk of plastic, Harlan pulled himself up onto the couch. It would give him a few more moments of protection from the encroaching ice—unless the door broke before it reached him.

  Chapter Ten

  Harlan hardly opened his eyes when he heard a crash, even though it was only a few feet away. He realized he couldn’t. His eyelashes were frozen together, the condensation from his breath gathering there and turning to ice. He tried to reach up, to clear his eyes, but his muscles were sluggish and unresponsive with cold. He saw a dark shape loom over him, and the only thing he could do was defiantly squeeze his eyes shut. If he couldn’t open them fully, he could at least control how closed they were while he waited for an icy spike of ghostly energy to penetrate him and steal his last remaining breath of warmth.

  “Not my fault… The keys…”

  “You’re not making sense.” Warm hands on his shoulders, pulling him up. Resistance, as his clothes stuck to the ice beneath him.

  He struggled, briefly, futilely, against a much stronger force. He could feel heat blooming, spreading through his skin. He blinked, trying to clear the ice from his lashes, still unable to lift his arms. Warm fingers spread across his cheeks, hot thumbs pressed to his eyelids, smoothing the ice away.

  Harlan opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the melted water. Charles knelt in front of him, his big, warm hands cradling his face, keeping his head up.

  He tried to pull away, but Charles held him fast. He settled for dropping his gaze, but that brought his line of sight to Charles’ chest. That wasn’t much of an improvement. Charles’ shirt was tight enough that Harlan co
uld see his nipples. At least one of them was pierced. He wasn’t sure about the other from this angle—and a swirl of chest hair peeked over his collar. Even the slight swell of his stomach was enticing. Harlan could too easily imagine following that curl of chest hair down, teasing Charles’ nipples with lips, tongue, fingers, his head pillowed on Charles’ stomach while he…

  If he got an erection now, he’d probably die. Literally. Not just because, kneeling between Charles’ legs, Charles was sure to notice, but if all his blood—all his warmth—congregated in one place right now, there wouldn’t be enough for the rest of him. There barely was now.

  “What happened? Was it a ghost?” Charles’ thumb traced a long, slow path of heat down Harlan’s cheek, to his jaw, before starting again from the top.

  “I’m not high.”

  “Uh-huh. What you are is freezing.”

  All he wanted was to get warm—for Charles to warm him. His head was so heavy, and Charles’ hands were so steady and sure, supporting it… His eyes slowly, slowly…

  “Hey! Don’t fall asleep. You might have hypothermia.”

  Harlan laughed. In his present state, the word sounded silly and made up. “Hypothermia isn’t real.”

  Frowning, Charles withdrew, just a little. “I know some basic first aid. It’s a good skill to have, running a BDSM club,” he clarified, seeing Harlan’s blank look.

  “So…are you actually into that?” The words were out before Harlan could take them back, so he did his best to look as though they’d at least been intentional. His jaw clenched, hard, as another wave of shivering struck, then he couldn’t say anything else.

  “No,” Charles said, with a quirked grin. “I’m the co-owner of a BDSM club, but I’m totally vanilla.”

  “Really?” As soon as he’d said it, Harlan blushed. He’d picked up on Charles’ teasing tone a fraction too late.

  “I really think I should call an ambulance,” Charles told him, mercifully changing the subject.

  Not that this one was much better. More people in his apartment, seeing him like this? Harlan shook his head.

  Charles laughed wryly, shaking his own head. “Yeah, I thought you might say that. Let’s get you out of those clothes. They’re cold and wet and probably not helping you any. But if you don’t start improving soon—ambulance.” He started peeling off Harlan’s T-shirt.

  Harlan’s blush intensified. He felt like he was living out a cheesy porno, but he also didn’t want it to stop. “I—” His protests were cut off by Charles pulling his shirt over his head. “Now I feel colder,” he complained.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Gotta get them off, though. They’re just trapping cold air against your skin at this point.” Charles lowered his gaze—and his hands—to Harlan’s groin, quickly and efficiently undoing his fly and button.

  Harlan wondered how many men he’d undressed like this. He leaned forward, his body shaking with effort, barely containing a whimpered plea for Charles to touch his bare skin again, with the warmth and safety he offered. Even though Harlan was almost certain ghosts wouldn’t appear even much farther away from Charles, right now only Charles’ hands on him seemed like enough protection.

  “Can you sit up?”

  Harlan lifted his hips as far as he could, so Charles could slide his jeans down.

  “Blankets?”

  “B-Bedroom.” Harlan pointed, his teeth still chattering.

  Charles left, returning with an assortment of bedding.

  “Don’t slip!” There was still a small patch of ice on the floor, directly in Charles’ path, and he couldn’t see it with his arms full.

  Charles stopped, pressing the blankets to his chest so he could see over them. “On what?”

  “The ice!”

  Brow furrowed, Charles slowly shook his head. “There’s no ice. Not on the floor, anyway. Might be some on you.”

  Harlan leaned forward, peering down at the pale, faux-wood laminate as though something might leap at his face.

  No ice.

  He leaned back, still shivering.

  “Here.” Charles tucked him in carefully, making sure all his extremities were covered in several layers of thick blankets. “Do you have tea? Soup?”

  Harlan paused. He hadn’t bought either of those things, but there had been a lot of cans in the cupboards, and he hadn’t looked through all of them thoroughly. He considered explaining he’d only purchased some of the groceries himself, that the apartment had come pre-stocked, but decided that just made him sound pathetic.

  More pathetic.

  “Maybe?” Hopefully Charles would chalk his uncertainty up to shock or something.

  “Right.” Giving Harlan one last concerned look, Charles disappeared into the kitchen.

  Harlan heard cupboards opening and closing, some clattering, water running, then Charles was back.

  “Earl Grey okay?”

  Harlan shrugged. He didn’t really like tea of any kind, or really know the difference between teas, to be honest, but he was so cold…

  Charles laughed. “I think that was a shrug, but it’s hard to tell.” He set the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of Harlan, where a ring of condensation immediately appeared on the glass. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  For some reason, Charles was blushing. It was the first time Harlan had seen him look so…vulnerable.

  “Ah…I don’t know how much you know about hypothermia… I looked it up on my phone while I was making tea.”

  No. Oh, no. Harlan thought he saw where this was going. He tried to open his mouth, to protest, to insist he was fine, that Charles should leave, now, but another shiver locked his muscles. At least he couldn’t get an erection. Probably.

  “But, well, it’s not safe to put you in hot water. Not yet. The best way to warm you up is to, uh…” Charles’ fingers danced over his simple metal belt buckle, then away. He was still blushing. “I’m not coming on to you!” he insisted, raising his hands.

  Harlan couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. These were pretty terrible circumstances for flirting, and Harlan was a trembling mess, but maybe that wasn’t what Charles had been referring to. Maybe he didn’t want Harlan at all, and the only reason he’d get naked with him was to save his life.

  It was—almost—worth it.

  Charles stared down at Harlan for a few seconds, fully dressed. Harlan slowly realized he was waiting for a response, for permission.

  “Oh! Uh, yeah.” Harlan nodded, sinking farther into the blankets. He’d almost vanished completely by the time Charles took off his shirt. He stopped, peeping his eyes out of his nest. He needed to feel that skin against his own, couldn’t believe he had the perfect opportunity to do just that. He almost felt grateful to the ghost for being his wingman.

  Charles undressed quickly, methodically, without looking at Harlan. This wasn’t a striptease, wasn’t even a wild, passionate, desperate rush to get naked. He was just taking off his clothes, the way he might at the end of a long day. So he could hold Harlan. Naked.

  Charles undid his jeans and stepped out of them, leaving him in just his underwear and socks, the same as Harlan. “Scoot over,” he said softly, waving his hands in a shooing motion.

  Taking his heap of blankets with him, Harlan slid to the far side of the couch, giving Charles as much room as possible, much more than Charles needed if he intended to hold Harlan.

  Almost reluctantly, Charles sat beside him. Sliding over, he groped through the thick layers of blankets, laughing. “I know you’re in there somewhere. Let me in.” Finally, a warm hand found Harlan’s cold, bare thigh. He gasped, and it withdrew for a moment. “Fuck, you’re cold!”

  He managed to separate the blankets from Harlan, and then they were both under the covers. Together. Naked…or close enough.

  Both of them took a long, slow breath, almost together. Paused. There was still a small gap between their bodies.

  Harlan was the first to move, for purely practical reasons. Even beneath a
ll the blankets, he was shivering, every muscle tensed. He could feel the heat of Charles’ body bridging the air dividing them, and his body moved before he could reconsider.

  Charles hissed when he felt Harlan’s cold skin against his, paused for just a moment, then wrapped an arm around Harlan’s shoulders, drawing him close. “Brr! I should’ve made a cup of tea for myself. You’re eventually going to explain why I just rescued you from a blizzard in the middle of your apartment, right?”

  Harlan nodded, distracted, hoping that was the correct response. He would’ve agreed to almost anything in that moment, provided it meant Charles would stay. He could feel warmth soaking deep into his skin wherever their bodies touched, and he was barely aware of Charles’ words as anything but sound. His head was still so heavy that he let it fall to rest on Charles’ shoulder. Charles tensed for just an instant, then his fingers were in Harlan’s hair.

  “Mmm. We should get some of this tea into you before you fall asleep. It should be cool enough by now,” Charles murmured, still stroking Harlan’s soft, brown curls.

  Harlan made a small sound of protest. Charles’ voice rumbled in his chest, the sound deep and soothing. Charles’ heartbeat was a slow, even rhythm that steadied his own too-fast pulse in response. All he could smell was Charles—a faint tang of leather, sweat, his understated aftershave and beneath it all, the soft, simple scent of Charles’ skin. He buried his nose in the crook of Charles’ arm, closing his eyes. He smelled warm and alive, completely different from the chemical reek of the ghost. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to take his arm out of the tangle of limbs and blankets, especially not for tea.

  Charles wiggled his shoulder, gently jostling Harlan’s head. “Mm-mm. Nope. You’ve warmed up a lot already, but I still don’t think it’s safe for you to fall asleep. I’ll give you some tea—me, too, if you don’t mind sharing—then I’ll sit on your other side, to warm it up. Maybe put on a movie?”

  Harlan groaned, but he knew Charles was right—despite how comfortable he felt now, he knew he’d come close to dying. He sat up with a sigh, releasing Charles’ shoulder, shivering anew as cold air touched his skin.