To Be Where You Are, page 2
And that was exactly what Adin wanted to hear. “I love you like crazy, you know.”
Almost imperceptibly, Jackson nodded. “I love you too, baby. I’ll be in touch.”
Baby. It was the first time Jackson had called him that. Adin thought he would melt off the chair.
Chapter Two
Every time Jackson drove up to the three-story Illinois farmhouse, he played the game What doesn’t belong in this picture? The place was Norman Rockwell perfect at first sight, a pretty wedding of Queen Anne and Gothic Revival styles. The wholesome Midwestern sun shone on a wraparound verandah with turned posts, parades of gingerbread trim along the roof’s gable edges, a domed turret complete with ornate lightning-rod.
However…
Imaginary pen poised, Jackson drew imaginary circles. Whoops, Rockwell wouldn’t have put a plaque above the front door that read Vivida Vis Anime, “the living force of the mind.” He wouldn’t have hung a pentagram-centered wind chime opposite that pot full of feathery fern. The rectangular garden off the southwest corner of the house would be appropriate if its vegetable-to-herb ratio favored the vegetables and its herbs were primarily for cooking, but neither was the case. And that vintage Harley-Davidson shovelhead chopper sure as hell didn’t belong in front of so genteel a tier of front steps.
Well, Jackson thought, maybe he shouldn’t circle the bike. It was his.
The pale sage-green house with its white and pewter and Venetian red trim was the home of Noah Curry and Perez Pei, two men who’d been lovers for six years. It also served as the unofficial headquarters of the Phratry, a loose brotherhood of powerful and accomplished practitioners of magic. The society had no bylaws, no rigid criteria for acceptance, no induction ceremony. An Adept was simply invited to “stop by the farm sometime,” and that meant he’d passed muster with his peers.
The Phratry didn’t have members. Accepted magicians were called “Worthies.” They visited the Illinois house at whim, usually to catch up on news, seek advice, or share knowledge. Once in a great while, somebody requested a conclave, although attendance wasn’t mandatory. Inclusion in the Phratry carried no obligations, aside from those relating to ethical behavior and the occasional, special “summons.” Advanced practitioners of magic didn’t much appreciate being told what to do or how and when to do it. Worthies came and went as they pleased.
Jackson had received his invitation to become part of the group eight years ago. From that time on, he drove down to the farm once or twice a year, although he adhered to no schedule. Today he was here because Noah had specifically requested to see him, and Noah did not make capricious requests.
When Noah Curry stepped out of the front door with its leaded-glass lights, Jackson circled him, too.
Like the house, Noah didn’t appear all that unusual at first. Of average height and build, he was a clean-shaven, conventionally attractive man in his mid thirties who dressed in a casually conservative fashion. His light brown hair, parted on one side, had the slightest hint of natural wave and hung to the base of his neck. Jackson had always thought he looked a bit like Prince Valiant without the bangs. But as unremarkable as Noah seemed, he sure didn’t belong in a Rockwell illustration. He was a Dartmouth graduate and trust-fund kid, had been openly but quietly gay since his late teens, and wore a few strange pieces of jewelry, rife with symbolism.
Jackson lifted a hand in greeting. There was something else wrong with this picture, something other than Noah’s unique presence. It was the unique absence of his beloved partner, Perez. They invariably stepped outside together to greet their guests.
Noah was smiling at him. “Are you afraid to come closer, Mr. Spey?”
Jackson ambled up the winding walkway. “I was just wondering,” he said, “when the hell you’re going to change the name of this organization. ‘Phratry’ sounds like ‘frat tree,’ which makes me think of a bunch of nineteen-year-old college pranksters hiding in some ancient oak in front of a house with Greek letters on the facade.”
“What would you prefer?” Noah said. “’Magic Unlimited?’ Or how about”—he lifted his arms and wiggled the fingers—“’the Order?’ Wouldn’t that be mysterious … and original?”
Grinning, Jackson jogged up the porch steps. Noah gracefully extended a hand, and Jackson immediately grasped it. They leaned into a quick embrace, stubbly cheek grazing smooth cheek. Adepts often kissed on the lips when they met—the ratio of gay and bi to straight magicians was roughly the opposite of what it was for the general population—but Jackson almost always refrained. At first he’d done so because of his delusions of macho grandeur; now he did it because of his very real commitment to Adin Swift.
“I see you cut your hair,” Noah said, eyeing it.
“Twice.” Jackson’s smile became more self-conscious as he fingered windblown strands back from his face. “I’m shortening it in stages just to minimize the shock.”
“Nice cut. Very nice.” Noah lightly fluffed some of the ends. “Masculine but not severe. It flatters your face. You found a good stylist.”
Jackson shrugged. “If you say so.” He didn’t know shit about hair stylists, so he must’ve gotten lucky.
“My favorite ringmaster,” Noah murmured, drawing back just far enough to regard his visitor. His smile was contemplative and a bit wistful. He gently curled a hand around the side of Jackson’s face, his thumb skating over the cheekbone. Then, like a summer breeze, his head wafted forward and he briefly sealed his lips to Jackson’s.
His tongue didn’t break the seal. The kiss carried a subtle, complex passion, but it wasn’t meant to be sexually suggestive. It was emblematic of a unique bond.
Still, Jackson found the contact both surprising and stirring. He and Adin had been apart for over three weeks now, and his hormones were getting restless. Noah was a superb, careful lover. Jackson knew, because they’d once worked the Circle together in a rite that involved sex magic.
The kiss broke naturally. Jackson cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Curry, I take it you’re glad to see me.”
The observation drew another smile. “I’m always glad to see you. I’m especially glad to see you on this occasion.” Noah turned toward the door and laid a hand on Jackson’s back. “Thank you for coming.”
“Where’s Perez?” Jackson asked, letting himself be steered into the house.
His host closed the door behind him. “We’ll get into that later. First, we have some catching up to do.”
The spotless house was full of sunshine and antiques. And Perez Pei. A light, spicy incense sent tendrils of scent around his artistically draped scarves and sashes, capes and hats and jewelry. His boldly colored paintings patterned one wall. Photographs of him in ornate frames populated a sideboard.
Gorgeous, exotic Perez, the love of Noah’s life. Statuesque and sensuous. Perez always dressed in flamboyant clothing, much of which he made himself. Motley scraps pieced together with a variety of stitches, decorated in unexpected places with all manner of fringe and bling. The end product was like a quilt on crack, shocking but somehow harmonious. Perez altered his hair and makeup to match his outfits. Again, the results were invariably stunning.
Perez seemed to embody the quintessential male and female principles. It had taken Jackson a while to realize that Perez wasn’t a trans-or intersexual—he cherished his masculinity and wouldn’t have traded his genitals for command of the universe—but he wasn’t precisely a transvestite. He didn’t object too strenuously to the term drag queen, but he didn’t quite fit that mold, either. Rarely was he flouncy or shrill, and he hadn’t adopted a female name.
One thing was certain. If anybody was comfortable in his own skin, it was Perez Pei. And his skin, which bore testimony to his Brazilian and Polynesian heritage, was flawless.
After offering his guest some tea and scones, which Jackson declined because he hated drinking out of bone china cups and eating dainty things off bone china plates, Noah folded himself onto a settee.
Jackson sat beside his host. He was always aware of his rough edges when he was here. Noah and Perez weren’t exactly denim-and-leather guys who liked the smell of motor oil and sawdust and fresh sweat. Resting an ankle on his knee, Jackson cringed when he saw the road dirt on his boots and jeans. Wouldn’t do to brush it off now, though.
“So,” Noah said, crossing his legs far more elegantly, “it seems you’ve finally come home to yourself.”
Jackson gave him a befuddled look. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve given up the pretense.” Noah ran a finger along Jackson’s leg from the top of his dusty boot to his calf to his thigh. Pointedly, he stopped just short of Jackson’s crotch. “The man in you has welcomed having another man in you. And on you, beneath you, beside you.”
“Have you been inside my head again?” There was no other way Noah could’ve learned about Adin.
“Just for a brief visit. You’ll soon know why.” Noah withdrew his hand from Jackson’s thigh. “Do you have any remaining inclination to swing the other way?”
Jackson’s first impulse was to say, I won’t know until the opportunity arises. But that impulse was a clinging remnant of his old self-image, like a dead skin-cell that hadn’t yet been sloughed off. Fact was, opportunities to be with women had arisen … and he hadn’t been too keen on pursuing them.
“Right now, no,” he answered, thinking of that recent round of webcam sex with Adin. “And probably never again,” he added, thinking of all the feelings that had come with it.
Noah gave Jackson’s thigh an encouraging, fraternal pat. “I knew it was only a matter of time. I’m sorry you had to struggle with it for so many years.”
Jackson looked down, trying to conceal his suddenly superheated face.
“You needn’t blush.” Noah chuckled—a restrained, cultured sound. “It isn’t as if a pink bow suddenly sprouted from your hair. I’m very happy for you. The others will be, too.”
Mutely, Jackson nodded. Soon the whole Phratry would be aware of recent developments in his personal life. Jackson Spey isn’t just sporadically, conveniently bisexual. He doesn’t just get cozy with men when rituals call for it. He has a boner-fide lover. He’s turned the corner.
Jackson knew he’d better get used to being out, and fast.
Jesus, there seemed to be no end to this journey.
Noah startled him yet again by saying, “You have a breathtaking lover. When I stopped at your place over the holidays, I couldn’t help noticing the photographs. He’s truly, classically beautiful.”
“I’m aware of that.” Despite his brittle-sounding voice, Jackson was finally able to look at Noah and muster a smile. The mere mention of Adin had allowed him to do both.
“He’s a former vamp, yes? One of those rare breeds in which reversion is possible.”
Jackson nodded. “His name is Adin. Adin Swift.”
“I know. An Englishman. And Jewish.”
“Yes. We’ve been acquainted for a number of years. Since before you invited me to the farm.”
“It always works out best if you’re friends first,” Noah said with sincerity. “I hope you’ll allow me to meet him sometime.”
Jackson fidgeted, camouflaging his discomfort by repositioning himself on the settee. This was new territory for him—discussing a heretofore private, precious relationship with others, introducing Adin around as his partner. Hell, they weren’t even officially a couple yet, and they sure weren’t together enough to suit Jackson. Adin still hadn’t resolved his relationship with Celia, even though she’d known about them for months.
“You probably will meet him,” Jackson said, “when the time is right. We’re still…” He shrugged, not knowing how to explain it, not knowing if he should.
“Yes, it takes a while.” Noah watched him with a tentative smile. “I assume it would be foolish of me to ask if you’d ever consider a ménage.”
“Extremely foolish.” Jackson knew his eyes had flashed, but he’d had no time to prevent it. Sometimes he could anticipate and control his shifts in eye color; sometimes, especially when he was caught off guard, he could not.
Noah’s soft smile tilted toward a smirk. “Ah, those wizard eyes. Hazel fading, amber emerging. You couldn’t conceal your feelings if you tried, Jackson.” Absently fingering his tailored pants, Noah sighed. “I’d keep Perez to myself if I could, but he’s such an incorrigible slut.”
His gaze moved over the photos of his lover the same way Jackson’s gaze moved over pictures of Adin. Jackson not only saw the similarity, he felt it. He also began to feel something was very, very wrong. Noah was taking his time divulging the problem, but that was nothing new. He was often circumspect.
No point in asking how he knew so much about Adin. It was self-evident. Magicians all had areas of expertise.
Jackson was primarily a “ringmaster,” an Adept of considerable power who had complete mastery within the Magic Circle. He could summon and banish a wide variety of entities based on a combination of kabbalistic savvy and keen instinct. He’d also garnered considerable respect for his ability to work “extemp” or extemporaneously, a ballsy risk most Adepts hesitated taking. It was these accomplishments combined with others that made him a wizard—only one of two within the Phratry.
Noah was a “mentalist.” Often underrated, these Adepts used magic to read and influence the thoughts and, sometimes, the will of others. There were degrees of influence, of course, ranging from subtle manipulation of attitudes to out-and-out mind control. Exercising this ability required treading a fine line. Any magician who sought full and permanent domination of someone else’s mental state would certainly suffer grave karmic consequences. Even minor, temporary incursions called for a deft touch. Mentalists had to exercise sensitivity and respect.
Noah read the Adepts in the Phratry when he felt it was necessary. Never unduly invasive, he simply did a quick “flyover” now and then to get an overview of an individual’s primary concerns and general mindset. Obviously, Jackson’s preoccupation with Adin had caught his interest.
Now he glanced at Jackson and smiled. He moved his hand, which rested on the back of the settee, to the nape of Jackson’s neck, lightly massaging the tendons and idly playing with Jackson’s hair. “I’ve always wanted you. Physically, that is. Many of us have. Perez even said he’d bottom for you … and consider it an honor.”
Another furious blush. Jackson tried to counter it with laughter. “Are you trying to embarrass me, Noah?”
“Sorry. We can’t help being attracted to you any more than you can help being attractive.”
Everybody who knew Jackson probably assumed he was a power top. He didn’t confess how much bottoming for Adin turned him on. Even subbing to Adin, who could be pretty damned dominant when he was in the mood. Although they both embraced versatility in their sex-play, Jackson was always on the receiving end when bondage was involved. It just came naturally and felt right. The excitement that gripped him during those encounters was so acute, it was nearly painful.
Noah’s expression sobered. “Tell me about your brush with Nezrabi’s Prism.”
Not that, too. Jackson briefly closed his eyes and rolled his head back against Noah’s ministering hand. “I guess I should have anticipated Ivan Kurtz running his mouth.”
“Of course you should have. You know how he is.” Noah removed his hand from Jackson’s neck. “So is the Prism actually in his possession? He’s been boasting about having acquired it and nearly trapping you in it.”
Jackson allowed himself a wry, private smile. “I’m pretty sure he has it, or had it, but he came nowhere near ‘trapping’ me.”
“Why didn’t you turn to the Phratry once you’d learned of his scheme?”
“None of you could’ve helped,” Jackson said. “You wouldn’t have known anything more than I knew about the Prism. Besides, contacting every Worthy and launching some massive research-and-strategy effort would’ve taken too long—if, that is, the threat had been real. But Ivan’s a bumbling idiot, so he posed no threat whatsoever.”
There was more to it than that. Much more. But that was nobody’s business.
“He offered to sell it to me.” Noah got up and glided to a mahogany table placed behind and parallel to a Victorian sofa.
Jackson watched him with raised eyebrows and all but held his breath.
The master of the house poured tea from a chintz pot into a matching cup, added some crystals of specialty sugar, and sipped. “I declined.”
Jackson exhaled. “Good. You really don’t want to be messing with that thing.”
A dainty clink sounded as Noah set his cup on a saucer. “I confess,” he said, “I was tempted.”
Jackson frowned at him. “What on earth for?” That damned Prism was one mysteriously powerful object with a lot of potential to do harm. Noah wasn’t a megalomaniac like Ivan. He was content with his life, particularly now that he had a partner he cherished.
Noah’s expression became grim and distant. He didn’t answer Jackson’s question. Instead, he turned his eyes to the gold and silver thicket of picture frames. Perez—coquettish, haughty, delighted, seductive, drunk, and unabashedly theatrical in all his joie de vivre glory—gazed back through thirty pair of painted eyes.
Alarm slithered through Jackson’s belly.
“Noah,” he said quietly, “where is Perez?”
The teacup trembled on its saucer just before Noah set them down. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Three
Adin couldn’t concentrate on the document he was translating. As the minutes ticked by, he became increasingly more preoccupied, wondering when Jackson would call with an update on his plans. The delay ate at him. A line from an old song had been going through his mind for months, something’s gotta give, and the words were becoming strident.
Adin saved his completed work and shut down the file. Elbows propped on either side of the keyboard, he rested his head in his hands. It wasn’t surprising he was in this mess. Regrettable, yes, but not incomprehensible. The bizarre circumstances of his life had prevented his sexuality from finding a firm pivot point … until recently.
