Copyright © 2009 Pepper Espinoza, Jamie Craig, and Vivien Dean
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
If All The Sand Were Pearl by Pepper Espinoza
“Have you ever seen a pearl? A real pearl, not just a picture in a book.”
Drake didn’t look surprised by the strange question. He merely shook his head. “No. I never have. They’re rare in this province, Jag. I would guess only the Vargas family has any in their possession. And they certainly wouldn’t flaunt the fact. There’s also supposed to be one in the Temple. A special gift from the Goddess, but I have never seen it.”
Jag nodded. The ring in his hand wasn’t just a token. He couldn’t believe anybody, even his betrothed, would offer such a gift. He struggled to remember every single detail his mother had told him about the ceremony, certain she never mentioned anything about rings.
“Drake, I’m not sure what to do.”
“About what?”
Jag held his hand out and opened his fingers, revealing the precious stone. It looked darker against his skin, and he had been gripping it so tightly the silver band left deep marks in his palm. Drake inhaled between pursed lips.
“Is that from Rivers?”
“I think so.”
“Nobody mentioned it would be something so dear…” He spoke under his breath.
“So you were expecting this?”
“What?” Drake tore his attention away from the ring and met Jag’s curious eyes. “You don’t have to keep that.”
Jag blinked. “What?”
“You don’t have to keep it. You can send it back. Or you can sell it.”
“I can sell it? That’s…acceptable?”
“Of course it is. It’s a gift. It’s yours now. You can do whatever you want with it. I can arrange the sale for you, if you’d like.”
“Just like that? Brace won’t mind? I can just…sell it? And use the money any way I like?”
“Yes. It’s a sort of good-faith gesture. It’s perfectly acceptable to sell the gift.”
“And then I wouldn’t have to marry.”
“Yes.” Drake’s voice dropped. “But there’s a time limit. You have until the beginning of the second ceremony.”
While the first ceremony was all about sorting the business, the second ceremony involved the personal vows and declarations of fidelity and love. That part made sense to Jag, though it was about the only thing that did. A marriage involved the union of two people and two families; the terms for each partnership needed to be dealt with. Especially since it wasn’t unusual for the betrothed to be meeting the first time on their wedding night.
“That doesn’t seem fair. I mean, that hardly gives me enough time to do anything.”
“You have until tomorrow night. Then you either keep the gift and complete the ritual, or you use it to buy yourself out of the obligation.”
Jag wasn’t sure if his legs would support him. Hope and shock, and even fear, made him weak. He took a few stumbling steps back and slumped against the wall. “Why didn’t anybody tell me this?”
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
Jag looked up with questioning eyes to the man who had always been so patient with him. “What?”
“It’s a test, Jag. It’s meant to prove your fidelity, though it’s becoming more and more of a gesture, rather than an actual rite. Traditionally…the temptation is not quite so extreme. This ring won’t just settle your family’s debts, it could very well make you the wealthiest person in the area. If you find the right dealer.”
Jag didn’t need Drake to point that out to him. The weight of this understanding was still settling on his shoulders and back, working into his skin, burrowing into his flesh. “Why would he give me something like this? Surely he can’t think I’ll marry him if… Does he not want me to marry him?”
Drake shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. And nobody is going to ask about the gift, or try to influence your decision. It’s entirely up to you.”
Once again, Jag wanted to protest that it wasn’t fair. How could they force him into this decision when the only decision he had been allowed to make in this whole affair was what gender he wanted to marry? From his father: Do you want to be betrothed to a man or a woman? We have appropriate suitors either way. From his mother: I’m sorry, Jag. He hadn’t been given names or pictures or even the chance to speak to his potential suitors. He had pledged his troth to a man he’d never met, and now he was expected to weigh his freedom against his family’s word of honor?
Why even bother with all the preliminary steps or the first ceremony? What was the consequence for choosing to sell the gift? There had to be a consequence. Something horrible, no doubt. This choice would have strings attached.
“When will they be coming for me?” Jag asked, his lips numb.
“Midnight. Two more hours. Then you’ll be taken to the marriage suite.” It was actually his parents’ master suite, but they moved out a week before the ceremony and had it transformed. Into what, Jag didn’t know yet. He hadn’t been allowed to see it.
“But we won’t officially be married until…after I decide whether or not to keep the gift?”
“Yes.”
Jag turned back to his room, then paused and looked up to Drake once again. “What would you do?”
“I’d sell the pearl.”
Taken aback by Drake’s blunt declaration, Jag wondered if he was bound to a troll or an ogre of a man. “Have you met Brace?”
“I have.”
“What’s he like?” Which wasn’t the question he wanted to ask at all. He wanted to know if Brace was handsome, or at least attractive. He wanted to know if Brace had all his teeth. If Brace ever smiled. He wanted to know if Brace Rivers was cruel, or shy, or indifferent. He wanted to ask if Rivers would make him happy.
“He’s lonely. I don’t think he ever expected to be married.”
“Why?” Jag could hear the trepidation in his voice. “Is he some sort of monster?”
Drake shook his head. “No, but he wouldn’t accept a woman. And most families would not agree to marry their sons to another man. There’s no chance for grandchildren or carrying on the family name. Your parents were an exception because they were sorry they had to do this to you at all.”
Do this to you. Like it was a punishment. Or a crime. His parents were committing a crime against him. A criminal act inflicted on Jag’s passive body; they had promised him the priesthood, and then they took it away because they had the right and the need to do so. He knew that’s how the household viewed the situation, but Jag couldn’t quite see it in those terms. “Thanks, Drake.”
“You’ve always been a good kid, Jag.” Now his grim face and stiff posture softened, and for a moment Jag thought Drake was going to embrace him. But the moment passed, and Drake stepped back, maintaining the same professional distance between them he always kept.
Jag shut the door behind him and returned the ring to its box. He didn’t have time to think about it right now. He needed to dress himself. The wedding costume was elaborate and he would need Drake to help him get it on. Brace would have to help him undress. Which only brought up more questions about his bridegroom. Would he have the patience to unbutton what seemed like a thousand tiny gold buttons? Would he have the dexterity? It was too easy to imagine a man with huge paws, bent, chubby fingers and rough skin. He worked with horses, didn’t he? It seemed possible that he would have mangled hands.
Jag needed to meditate. But meditating just reminded him that he needed to prepare himself for his wedding night. If he understood Drake correctly, it didn’t matter what Jag decided to do with the pearl, there would still be a wedding night, a chance for the couple to meet, to talk, to decide if they were compatible. It was generally perfunctory, but Brace’s gift changed everything. Their night together was the only positive thing about the whole situation. He didn’t know if he would even be attracted to Brace when they met, but he did know it would be good to feel a hand on his body that wasn’t his own. Even if the hand might be rough and twisted.
Jag had wanted to be a priest since the day he understood who the men were in the Temple. He had been fascinated by the richly attired men, watching as they paid alms, bowed in prayer, lit incense, and most importantly, aided the visitors in their worship. A large, perfectly sculpted, divinely crafted image of the Goddess oversaw everything from her lofty perch. His parents had encouraged his fascination with the Temple, taking him to visit often, and allowing his education to emphasize the mysteries of the Goddess’ existence. Despite his devotion, he had dreaded the vows of celibacy. He understood he could not be distracted with the worldly concerns of the flesh. Even so, he had spent countless nights imagining what another man must feel like. A hard body. A hairy chest. Large hands. A full mouth. Another erection, with smooth, velvety skin and a wet tip. He always imagined a masculine body…
No Fear in Love by Jamie Craig
Mark emerged from the pub in a halo of smoke and laughter and shouts for him to come back. He waved, yelled, “Settle down, you lot!” and put his arm around Weston’s shoulders. They leaned on each other as they walked down the street, silent until they reached the car. After a short argument, Weston conceded to letting Mark drive. He didn’t go far before stopping for Guinness and a pack of smokes, and then they were on their way, Mark chattering the whole time about whatever subject came to his head. It felt good riding with Mark like this. Familiar. A part of him wished the other man didn’t plan
to head back to London the following week.
But Mark could never stay in the village. They both knew it, so Weston didn’t consider bringing it up. Not seriously. Mark enjoyed the occasional visit, and sometimes he showed up around the holiday season, but the day he moved to London, he had vowed he wouldn’t return. When Mark left, it had felt like he had moved to another planet. A part of Weston never quite got over that hurt. Or entirely forgave it. The rest of Weston
couldn’t have been more proud of his friend.
Mark carried the case of beer once they exited the car, so Weston was forced to rely on his own powers to make it up the walk. He ignored the vague disappointment, as well as the temptation to at least hold Mark’s shoulder.
“Welcome to my humble home,” Weston announced, flinging the door of his cottage open and turning on the light.
It wasn’t large, but it served him well, the lounge close and cozy, the narrow hall leading back to the kitchen that took up the rear of the house. The cottage had served as residence for the church’s ministry for over two centuries. At one point there had been two bedrooms, but someone in the fifties had knocked out the wall separating the two tiny rooms so that there was one large space, more than adequate for a single man’s sleeping quarters. That’s all Weston ever did there.
Mark sprawled on his tiny couch, taking most of it and forcing Weston to stand there awkwardly as he debated where to sit now.
“You’ve got pint glasses, right?”
“Sure do.” When Weston returned with two full glasses, Mark was in the exact same place. “Just don’t try smoking in here. That’s frowned upon.”
Their fingers grazed each other when Mark took the pint. “I don’t know how you do it.
What do you do for fun, Wes?”
“There’s bingo on Thursday nights.” The joke fell flat, and Weston shrugged. “I didn’t sign up for this gig because I thought it would be fun.” He hoped Mark didn’t ask why Weston had made this decision, because he wasn’t sure he could articulate it. Especially since it had something to do with Mark. “You just learn to make adjustments for the things you can’t have or do.”
“Still sounds lonely.” There was something wistful in Mark’s voice, a softness that didn’t usually color his words, but it was gone by the time he gestured in annoyance toward the empty space next to him, splashing a little of his Guinness against the back of the couch.
“I suppose I could get married. Nothing stopping me, after all.”
“Right. That’d solve all your problems.”
“It’d solve a few, I imagine.”
“Are you really standing there telling me you’d get married? Have you ever even touched a woman, Wes?”
“No.” Or a man, for that matter, but he didn’t need to elaborate. Mark knew why the suggestion of marriage was ridiculous on its face. He’d be miserable. He’d make his potential wife miserable—not that he knew any women who would be remotely interested in marrying a gay priest.
“You can bloody sit down, you know. This hovering makes me nervous.”
“Sorry.” He settled on the couch and sipped his drink. “Enough about my boring life, anyway. What do you do for fun in London?”
Mark shrugged. The cotton stretched over his shoulders, highlighting how much broader they were now than when they’d been younger. “Oh, you know. Pull gorgeous blokes. Take ’em home. Shag their brains out.” He took a long swallow, his gaze unwavering. “Wish they were you.”
Weston coughed violently as a mouthful of beer went down his windpipe. He doubled over, working to clear his lungs and try to make sense of what Mark had just said. The individual words were understood, but the gist of Mark’s statement was a mystery.
“What?” he finally gasped once he could breathe.
A strong hand clapped down between his shoulder blades, knocking more of the air back into his lungs. “You heard me.” How could Mark sound so calm about it? “It’s not like you didn’t know I was gay, Wes.”
He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It’s not that. It’s the other thing. The part where you wish they were me.”
“You’ve looked in a mirror lately, right? Wearing a cassock hasn’t made you blind?”
“What? No. But, Mark…” Weston floundered for words, wishing he hadn’t had so much to drink. Maybe he could think of something to say if his brain wasn’t clouded. “We’re friends. We’re just friends. That’s all. Just good friends.” If the insistence sounded a bit too desperate, it was only because it had been Weston’s mantra since they were both fifteen.
Slowly, Mark drained the rest of his Guinness and set aside his empty glass. Reaching forward, he closed his cool, damp fingers over Weston’s where they curled into his pint, holding him for what felt like seconds soaked in molasses before prying his hand away from the glass.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate how gorgeous you are,” Mark said, placing Weston’s Guinness out of the way with his own. His hands were mercifully gone then, leaving Wes to stare at him, dumbfounded. “Is it such a bad thing? I mean, everybody fantasizes. Wondered. Even you do, remember?”
“Yeah. But…” They shouldn’t even be having this conversation. His tongue was thick, his mind slow, and he knew that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He should be sending Mark on his way. Letting the conversation continue was so bad. It was very, very bad. Was Mark closer now, or was that just his imagination? Weston opened his mouth and you should leave became, “What do you wonder about?”
A warm weight settled on his thigh. Wes glanced down, and the same long fingers that had just held his were stroking his leg.
“All sorts of things.” Mark’s voice was huskier than normal, low enough to reverberate through skin and sink straight into muscle. “I wonder…if your cock still does that little bend to the right when you get hard. Didn’t know I noticed that, did you? And I wonder…what it would feel like to have all of you covering all of me so that I can’t move and I can barely breathe except to breathe in you. Sometimes, I just wonder what it would be like to finally kiss you.”
A cacophony of alarms and warnings sounded in Weston’s head. But he seemed powerless to do anything about it. He had thought of Mark in that way many times, before and after entering the priesthood. And he didn’t want Mark to stop touching him. It felt so good, and unlike anything he had ever experienced. Nobody had ever touched him with such deliberation.
“I’ve…wondered what it would be like if you did kiss me.” It might not have been wise to admit as much, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie to Mark.
Mark slowly tilted his head. His gaze dropped from where it had been locked with Weston’s, and it lingered on Weston’s mouth.
“Shame for both of us to be left in the dark, don’t you think?” He leaned closer, his hand moving along Weston’s thigh until his fingers grazed the edge of Weston’s growing erection and his lips hovered a breath away. “Can’t count how many times I’ve come, wishing I was with you.”
He should be praying. He should be praying to God for strength. He should be praying to God for forgiveness for going as far as they had. It wouldn’t be the first time he had sought forgiveness because of Mark, but it would be the first time his sinful thoughts had crossed into reality. Weston couldn’t think of the words. People had tried to pull him before—being a priest seemed to encourage as many people as it discouraged. Weston had always been able to neatly and politely sidestep their advances. None of them had Mark’s piercing eyes. None of them smelled as good as Mark did in that moment. None of them knew him, could see through him, like Mark.
When their lips finally touched, Weston sighed.
Walk Among Us by Vivien Dean
Another voice whispered, What’s he going to do to you in such a public place?
As Calvin slid into the booth, the man waved for the waitress again. “Don’t get the vegetable soup,” he warned. “It’s too salty.”
Calvin sat up a little straighter. “Who said I was eating with you?”
“You joined me.”
“Mostly because I’m not sure you’re not a ghost.”
Ripples floated across the surface of the soup as the man held his spoon in front of his mouth. “A ghost wouldn’t have burned his tongue on his damn dinner.”
The man’s smile threatened to shake Calvin’s resolve. Casting a glance around to make sure they weren’t going to be overheard, he lowered his voice anyway. “Aren’t you afraid of being caught by sticking around here?”
The man took a bite. “Did you tell the police about me?”
“Well, no.”
“Then why should I be afraid?”
Calvin hesitated. He couldn’t figure out if the guy was cocky or just really stupid. “You really don’t think you’re going to get in trouble for what you did.”
The lines returned where the man’s full mouth turned down. “Ah, now I never said that.”
The soft tread of the waitress’s tennis shoes approaching their table prompted Calvin to tilt the menu up and scan it. His stomach growled. It didn’t care that he was about to eat dinner with a murderer, apparently.
He ordered the pork and red cabbage, handing back the menu with a polite smile.
“You’ve been here before,” his dining partner commented.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that could be considered dangerous to order. Easy to mess up. Only someone who knows they won’t will risk it.”
Calvin eyed the soup the man still toyed with. “I grew up here. But I don’t remember you.”
Sad eyes weighed Calvin for a few seconds before the man shrugged. “I’ve always moved a lot. But I’ve been in the area a couple years now.”
“Helping at the Y.”
“How’d you know that?”
“People around here talk. A lot.” Calvin frowned. “You live here and you don’t know that?”
“I don’t get into town nearly as often as whoever told you I did.” The man set down his spoon in order to reach across the table. “Matthew Soto.”
Now he had a name. If he spoke with the police, he’d know exactly where to point them. Except then they’d ask why he didn’t tell them in the first place.
“Calvin Schumacher.”
The clasp of their hands was firm and even. Expected. Normal. The heat leaping from Matthew’s was not. His skin felt flushed with fever, far warmer than the diner’s interior should have allowed, like it might combust at any moment. It enflamed Calvin’s flesh and charged up his wrist, into his arm, only dissipating when it hit his chest.
His eyes leapt to Matthew’s. A small line had appeared between his thick brows, and he stared at Calvin as if it was the first time they’d met.
Pulling away was like turning his back on a new painting that had stolen his breath. When Matthew picked up his spoon to resume eating, Calvin fought the urge to reach across and twist their fingers together again. As it was, he couldn’t stop staring at the bronzed skin, or how delicately Matthew held the utensil.
“So did you sneak out of the wake?” The calm question shattered Calvin’s stasis, and he lifted his gaze to meet Matthew’s. “I can understand that. Too many people have good intentions. They don’t realize they end up doing more harm than good.”
“No, there wasn’t a wake. Or if there was, I wasn’t invited.” Truth be told, he hadn’t even considered the fact that someone might have a party after the funeral.
Matthew frowned. “I thought it was your father who died.”
“It was. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms. For about the last decade.”
“Oh.” This seemed to resolve whatever disconnect he had with the idea. “It’s a shame that it took his death to bring you back together. Though not unusual, unfortunately.”
He sounded like he knew a lot of mourners. And Eli had said he talked to the kids at the Y. Maybe he was a psychologist? A psychologist out on a rampage. Maybe he showed up at the graveyard to kill off a patient he particularly hated. It made as much sense as agreeing to eat dinner with a murderer.
That reminded him of something Matthew had claimed earlier.
“You said there wasn’t going to be a body.” Calvin lowered his voice even further. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“So you have an accomplice?”
Matthew snorted and shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone else.”
“But then who’s taking care of the body?” He couldn’t let it go. He needed an answer to this, if nothing else. “That’s why you’re not worried about the police, you said.”
His spoon clicked against the bowl, the only sounds between them as Matthew continued to eat. “Did you know the man?” he asked without looking up.
Calvin frowned. “No, but I don’t know a lot of my father’s friends.”
“I’ll bet nobody else knew him either.”
“How did you know that?”
Matthew scraped the last of the soup from the bottom and ate it before pushing the empty bowl to the edge of the table. “Because he wasn’t human.” He smiled. He actually smiled. It wasn’t broad, and he didn’t show any teeth, but the curve of his full lips was most definitely upward. “Now aren’t you glad you asked?”
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