Rattling Chains

by T. Strange

  Harlan shook his head. “And don’t call me crazy.” A thin trickle of anger crept into his voice. He would tolerate a lot from Hamilton, but not that.

  Ignoring Harlan’s words, Hamilton’s face went pale and he grabbed Harlan’s arm. “Is that ghost gone?”

  “Yes,” Harlan replied, a little frightened by Hamilton’s reaction.

  “And the other one?”

  “Gone. For now—”

  “Good. We’re leaving.” Hamilton half-dragged Harlan back to the cruiser. Releasing Harlan, he stood behind him until Harlan was in the passenger seat, as though worried he’d bolt.

  His whole body was tense as he climbed into the driver’s side and shut the door. “What,” he said, “the fuck.”

  Harlan swallowed hard, going still beneath Hamilton’s sudden anger.

  Hamilton gestured to the empty air between their heads. “Is this some kind of fucking…side effect of being near you?”

  That startled a laugh out of Harlan, though he immediately regretted letting it out. “What? No!” He went quiet at the sight of Hamilton’s expression. “No. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?” Hamilton asked, each word clipped, almost bitten off.

  “That you’re…” Harlan tried to think of a tactful way of putting it, couldn’t, and went with the first thing that came to mind. “…like me.”

  Hamilton sputtered, then his anger seemed to dissipate all at once. “It’s not you?”

  Still shaken, Harlan shook his head.

  “I was…like this before I met you?”

  Harlan nodded again. “Just a little bit. You might never have seen—you might never see—a ghost, but you can at least tell when they’re around, especially if they’re active.”

  Hamilton laughed. “Well, that explains a few things!” he said, not elaborating. “Let’s get you home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Charles left Harlan at the bottom of the stairs leading down from the bar. “Just give me a minute to get set up.” He left the fluorescent lights off this time, leaving only the pot lights that isolated and highlighted each individual play area, the way Harlan imagined the club looked when it was open.

  He wove his way between the different bondage stations and Harlan could hear him bustling around. Unsure if it was supposed to be a surprise or not, Harlan wandered over to the curtained-off area he now knew was for aftercare. He absently trailed his fingers over the soft, colourful cloth separating it from the rest of the dungeon. “You really don’t mind coming here?” he called out. “I mean, I know I wouldn’t want to hang out in Hamilton’s car if I wasn’t getting paid for it.”

  “I’m sure. I like being here.” Charles chuckled. “Just because I’m bottoming for you doesn’t mean I’m in the habit of doing things I don’t want to.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well?”

  “Ah. Right.”

  “C’mere. I’m ready.”

  Harlan followed his voice deeper into the room. He was surprised to find that Charles wasn’t at the spanking bench they’d used before, but instead at the Saint Andrew’s cross—the one Chris-the-delivery-ghost had died dropping off. Harlan did his best to push that thought from his mind, to concentrate on the here and now with Charles.

  “I know you weren’t up for it last time, but this time I thought you might want to try out some toys?”

  Ducking his head to hide his blush—though the light was dim enough that he probably didn’t have to—Harlan nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” Charles quickly added. “I’ll still keep it simple.” He gestured to a small table sitting beside the cross that Harlan hadn’t noticed until that moment. “I figured we’d just try one each of the basic kinky ‘food groups,’ to see what you like. There’s a paddle, a flogger, a cane and a crop.”

  Harlan picked up each implement, one at a time. He’d never touched most of them in real life. The closest he’d gotten was during quick, frantic forays into sex stores, where he’d desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone before dashing out again.

  The crop was fairly standard, as far as he knew—black, with a leather-wrapped handle and a long, flexible stem topped with a folded-over strip of leather.

  He swung it a few times, enjoying the authoritative way it swished through the air. He glanced sideways at Charles, trying to imagine using it on him. He wasn’t quite there.

  He set it down and picked up the cane instead. It looked and felt very much like the crop, but without the leather flap at the tip. Not entirely sure what Charles expected him to do with it—if anything—he snapped it in the air a few times as well, then experimentally brought it down on his forearm. He winced. Either he really wasn’t a bottom, this wasn’t the toy for him or it felt different—and much, much better—on an ass. Maybe all of the above. “It stings!”

  Charles nodded, smiling but not in a mocking way. He just seemed to be enjoying watching Harlan explore.

  Harlan glanced at his arm, where a thin red line had appeared. “Sorry. Was I not supposed to do that?”

  “No, of course not. It’s good to know how all these toys feel on yourself and how hard you can hit before using them on someone else.”

  The end of the cane drooped, almost touching the floor. Harlan’s gaze followed it down.

  “Hey.” Charles touched his shoulder, startling him. “You’re new to all this. Give yourself a break, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” Charles stood on his tiptoes and Harlan obligingly bent down so Charles could kiss him on the forehead. “You’re good to keep going?”

  Harlan nodded. He set the cane down and picked up the flogger. Its handle was wrapped in black leather, and the thick cluster of suede falls alternated between black and teal. He stroked them, enjoying the way the soft, supple leather slid between his fingers. He gave it a snap, surprised by the weight of it as he swung. He wondered if his arm would get tired if he used it for a long time. Charles’ probably wouldn’t, but he actually had muscles.

  He swung it again, extending his arm this time rather than keeping his elbow bent. The tips of the falls ended up a surprising distance away, fading into the dimness surrounding the cross.

  Charles laughed. “Yeah, that’s why I wanted to do this here, rather than at your apartment. Some of these toys have a long reach. Here… Try this if you’re ready.” When Harlan nodded, Charles took the flogger from him and passed him the paddle.

  Harlan found himself strangely reluctant to part with it, but he was quickly distracted with examining this new toy. It was plain—dark brown leather, suede on one side, smooth on the other.

  “Do all of these belong to the club?” he asked, stroking the suede side. This was the last one. After this he’d have to use one of these on Charles—or give up and go home.

  “Nah. These are from my…personal collection.” Charles waggled his eyebrows.

  Harlan grinned, which he suspected was Charles’ intention. He was very good at noticing when Harlan started spiraling and finding a way to bring him back down.

  “Do the different sides feel…well, different?”

  “Why don’t you find out?” Charles asked, his voice edging on a sexy growl.

  “On me or on you?”

  “Either.”

  Harlan smacked his forearm with the paddle, smooth side down, on top of the fading line the cane had left. It didn’t really do anything for him…until he imagined using it on Charles’ naked ass.

  “Ready to try them out?”

  Setting the paddle back on the table, Harlan turned to look at the cross again. Part of him couldn’t help wondering if he was purposefully trying to find something ‘wrong’ that he could use to delay or even stop the scene before it had even properly begun. Then he spotted something that actually did make him hesitate. There were clips hanging from the outermost corners of the cross on both the top and bottom, and one more at the upper junction where the two sides of the X met. “I’m
not sure I’m up for…” They’d used bondage last time, but with the addition of the toys, it felt overwhelming.

  Charles slid between him and the cross, partially blocking his view of it. He kissed Harlan, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “I’m happy to just try one thing at a time.” After a beat, he pulled off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor beside them.

  “Do I need to be naked?” Somehow that seemed like the most daunting part. He knew the club was empty except for the two of them and the door was locked, but the thought of getting undressed in such a large space made him feel very uncomfortable, borderline terrified.

  “Of course not.” Charles kissed him again. “Only what you’re comfortable with. I don’t even have to undress more if you want. I could even put my shirt back on.”

  Harlan shook his head—he definitely didn’t want that. “No. I want you naked.” He tried to recapture the character he’d assumed the first time they’d played at the club.

  “Yes, sir,” Charles purred, sliding both hands down his barrel chest, one resting on his thigh, the other cupping his noticeable bulge before he began undoing his belt.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hamilton slammed on the brakes en route to a ghost assignment.

  Startled, Harlan glanced across at Hamilton. The policeman’s hands were clenched, white-knuckled, on the steering wheel. His nostrils flared, and he was breathing heavily. He didn’t speak.

  “What?” Harlan finally asked after a long moment of strained silence that stretched between them. “What’s wrong?”

  Hamilton released his breath in a heavy sigh. “You don’t feel that?”

  Frightened now, Harlan shook his head.

  “Remember when you told me you thought I had…a bit of what you are?”

  Harlan nodded. It had only been a month before.

  Hamilton rolled up the sleeve of his uniform shirt, revealing his bare forearm. Every hair stood on end. “I get…feelings sometimes, and I’m getting a fuck of a strong one right now. C’mon.” Barely stopping long enough to actually park the car, Hamilton opened his door and stepped out. His waist was at Harlan’s eye level, and he could see that Hamilton had unsnapped his holster. The gun was still in place, but he squeezed the holster tight enough that Harlan could hear the leather creak in protest.

  “I don’t think—” Harlan began.

  “This is more your shit than my shit. Just be glad I’m coming with you at all. Get out of the car.”

  The last was said in what Harlan thought of as Hamilton’s ‘Cop Voice’. Harlan was already unbuckling his seatbelt before he’d consciously decided to obey.

  As soon as Harlan got out of the car, as though its metal and plastic—or maybe the rubber of the tires, like lightning—had insulated him from the effect, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rose, just like Hamilton’s.

  They turned together, Hamilton with his mouth set in a grim line, Harlan wondering why they were walking toward the source of that prickling instead of away, like sane people. Hamilton, Harlan was certain, was doing it out of a sense of duty, and he couldn’t honestly say he wasn’t doing it for the same reason.

  Hamilton had stopped in front of a large building surrounded by a chain link fence plastered with signs from different contractors. It must have been a Sears until recently. The letters had been taken down, but their outlines still showed, paler than the wall around them. It would no doubt be torn down or renovated soon, but for now it was empty—a rarity in Toronto.

  The first ghost Harlan saw was…tattered, ragged in a way he’d never seen and couldn’t explain. It wasn’t dismembered so much as stretched and oddly distorted, like a Picasso painting or an image printed on paper that had gotten stuck in a printer.

  There were more ghosts beyond it. Some looked disturbingly solid, but others were no more than wisps that were difficult even for Harlan to see.

  “What the fuck?”

  Harlan wondered how much Hamilton could actually see…or sense.

  He looked to where Hamilton had stopped, a few paces behind Harlan. Hamilton stared at an unnervingly solid body part—a ghost’s left arm—in a way that made Harlan suspect he could actually see it. It probably looked like a dismembered limb hanging in midair, and he could almost see Hamilton looking for the fishing wire.

  “Is it—?” Hamilton swallowed hard before starting over. “Is it always like this?”

  Harlan shook his head. The movement felt slow and difficult, like he was underwater or at a distance from himself. “No. Never.”

  “Fuck,” Hamilton said, with feeling.

  Harlan nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  Harlan shot Hamilton a startled frown. Was Hamilton such a blowhard that he’d run the first time he was genuinely frightened? Part of Harlan, he could admit to himself, was happy to follow suit, so it was with a mixture of relief and shame that he watched Hamilton push past him, heading deeper into the oppressive miasma behind the mutilated, shredded ghosts.

  Harlan fell in behind. Hamilton had drawn his gun. Even though they both knew it wouldn’t affect the ghosts at all, its presence was comforting.

  More and more ghosts surrounded them as they walked. Some were mangled and wrong—missing sections of limbs, faces or torsos but strangely solid in places. Others were more like the ghosts Harlan was familiar with—uniformly misty, but more or less intact human figures. Some of their mouths were open unnaturally wide in silent screams. Others crouched with their hands curled protectively over their heads, rocking back and forth. A few were curled in the fetal position, half-sunk in the cracked pavement where their ‘bodies’ didn’t quite line up with the physical world.

  “What the fuck?” Hamilton breathed. He laughed, the sound almost profane in these surroundings. “I think you might be right about your serial killer.”

  Harlan bit back a sarcastic response, overwhelmed by the sheer number—the volume of ghosts. If he’d felt underwater before, now he was drowning. He managed another few panting steps before he had to stop. He shook his head. The air was thick with ghosts. It felt like he was trying to walk through tightly stretched fabric, breathe through thick layers of wool pressed over his mouth and nose. He could go no farther.

  Hamilton managed to stumble a few more steps, looking like a man walking against a high wind, before he noticed Harlan was no longer following him. He turned and frowned. “What?” Even the single word seemed difficult.

  Harlan shook his head, gasping. “I can’t. It’s…” He leaned forward, his weight supported by the frantic outward press of the ghosts.

  Hamilton sighed. He retreated to where Harlan stood with a look of relief, which Harlan was happy to see.

  Harlan staggered back until he was free of the mass of ghosts and could breathe and move freely again. He hadn’t realized just how badly it had affected him until it was gone. He doubled over, his hands braced on his knees while his whole body shook like he’d just climbed a mountain.

  He shook his head again. “I can’t go any farther. Neither can you.”

  Hamilton shot him a dark look, but Harlan could see sweat glistening on his forehead. Hamilton’s nostrils flared as he tried to disguise his own heavy breathing.

  “I think even a normal—a person without any mediumistic talent at all—might struggle to get through there.” It was true, but he could also see Hamilton was upset by his inability to bull through as usual. He hoped his comment would help soothe Hamilton’s professional pride. “We need—” Harlan cut himself off, blushing to the tips of his ears.

  “We need…?” Hamilton prompted. “What? Backup? Didn’t you just say it wouldn’t be any use?”

  Harlan sighed. He’d avoided having this conversation with Hamilton for as long as possible, with the thought always in the back of his mind that it was inevitable.

  “We do need backup, but not the kind you’re thinking. We need…Charles.”

  Hamilton snorted. “What is that, an acronym for something?”
/>   “He’s my”—a dozen words, none of them quite right, flashed through Harlan’s mind. He finally settled on—“boyfriend.” It seemed inadequate, but this wasn’t the time to explain their relationship. Personally, he hoped that time never came.

  “Your boyfriend can do what a team of trained police mediums can’t?”

  For their sake, Harlan hoped the other mediums’ ‘training’ had been more thorough than his own. He nodded. “Yes. He can.”

  “What? Does he shoot ghost-repelling lasers from his eyes?” Hamilton caught sight of Harlan’s expression and laughed.

  “Not…exactly.” Shit. He hadn’t phrased that well. “I don’t know what it is, but ghosts…stay away from him. We can use him to get through, to see what’s past them.” He waved an arm at the circling ghosts. “Then he leaves and we can take care of the ghosts, or…”

  Neither of them cared to fill in the silence.

  “I take it he’s a civvie?” Hamilton finally asked.

  Harlan nodded. “Can’t you just…deputize him or something?”

  Hamilton snorted. “What do I look like, a fucking sheriff?”

  Harlan suppressed a smile. Now that Hamilton had mentioned it, it was surprisingly easy to imagine him wearing boots, spurs and an oversized cowboy hat with a shiny star to replace his current badge.

  “What do you mean?”

  Hamilton sighed. “No. I can’t deputize your boyfriend.”

  There was a scream from inside the warehouse.

  The two men exchanged looks, and Hamilton’s hand dropped to the butt of his gun again. “Fuck. Okay, I don’t care who this guy is. If you think he can be the help we need right now, call him.”

  Harlan grabbed his cell phone and started dialling when Hamilton closed his fingers around Harlan’s hand. “You were out for a walk with your…Charles…when you heard a scream. You called me, and I decided there wasn’t time to wait for backup.”

  “But that’s not…”

  Hamilton sighed. “That’s our story. Got it?”