To Be Where You Are, page 3
A very long time ago, he’d actually been married for several years. Fourteenth-century mores and his parents’ expectations hadn’t allowed for any other course. Since he was Jewish, he could hardly have entered a religious order.
He’d loved his young wife, but it wasn’t a passionate, consuming love. As devoted a husband as he was, Adin had erotic fantasies dominated by erect cocks and romantic fantasies dominated by the songs of handsome troubadours.
After Margery’s death and the murder of his parents, he’d sought a drastic change. But vampirism further muddied the waters of his orientation. The lust for blood did not discriminate by gender. Adin became, like almost all vampires, carelessly bisexual. True, he’d always suspected he was homosexual at his core—his most significant couplings, at least in terms of duration, were with male vamps—but he’d never given the matter much thought. It was irrelevant to his lifestyle. Satisfying the hunger always came first. Tracking down Birkett, his lifelong enemy, came second.
Everything changed after Birkett was dispatched and Adin subsequently reverted to mortality. With those upheavals came a fearsome clarity he’d never before experienced. No medieval moral code made sexual repression necessary. No craving for blood made men interchangeable with women. No hunt for an evil vampire made emotional bonding counterproductive.
It didn’t take Adin long to realize how fiercely he desired Jackson Spey, his friend of ten years. More, how much he truly loved the man. Adin’s niggling suspicion of his homosexuality became a full-blown reality that clamored for recognition. Unfortunately, the truth didn’t hit him until after he’d begun living with Celia Quill.
Getting up from his desk in the office he shared with Celia, Adin ambled toward the kitchen he shared with Celia in the house he’d bought with Celia. They’d been together for over a year now, and he’d originally had every intention of sharing his future with her.
But that was before…
Thumping in through the backdoor, Celia gave Adin a start as he stood over the kitchen counter, pouring more tea. She was in the mudroom, obviously removing her shoes. He had no idea where she’d been. Out for a walk or run, probably. Maybe she was restless, too.
He turned as she entered the kitchen. “Still have work to do on your article?” he asked. Celia was half science-geek, half journalist. Her feature articles appeared in quite a few periodicals, both large and small.
She vigorously stirred her short blonde hair, fingers working like the blades of a small appliance. “A little.”
“Jackson should be calling today. He’ll let me know when he’ll be finishing up his business in Illinois. You might be able to see him tomorrow.”
The announcement was met with no acknowledgment. Celia merely walked through the kitchen and grabbed a small bottle of cranberry juice from the fridge. After taking a drink, she leaned against the counter beside Adin and lifted a hand to his neck. As she played with his curls—something she did often and unconsciously—Adin had a sudden urge to pull away from her. The impulse surprised and distressed him. Granted, his desire for her had waned considerably in the past six or seven months, but he’d never felt so deep a stab of aversion. Maybe he saw the contact as possessive. After waiting a moment, so he wouldn’t seem to be spurning her touch, he casually eased away and took a seat at the kitchen table.
“That document giving you trouble?” she asked, crossing an arm over her ribcage.
“A little.”
“Where’d it originate? Iran?”
“India,” Adin said distractedly. “It’s in Magadhi Prakrit.”
Celia took another swallow of juice. “Well, looks like it won’t be a very productive weekend for either of us.”
Adin felt another froth of hope at the offhanded statement. “So you are planning to see Jackson?” He watched her expectantly, maybe too expectantly. But his optimism was short-lived.
Celia frowned at him. “No. Why?”
What the fuck? He looked into his cup of tea. There was something wrong with her attitude. It was cavalier and almost dismissive, as if any visit with Jackson had suddenly become unimportant to her.
“But I … I had the impression you were eager to get this over and done with.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Adin?”
Frustration scrabbled beneath his surface calm. “You know damned well what I’m saying. What’s with you today?” It was all he could do not to yell the words. “You were so intent on talking to Jackson. Now it’s as if you’ve … forgotten all about it.”
Helplessly, Adin searched her face for clues. He just didn’t know what to make of this shift. Celia wasn’t fickle. She didn’t change her mind like an adolescent girl changes the glitter graphics on her MySpace page. Moreover, she could hardly ignore his feelings for Jackson, considering how frankly he’d stated them less than two days ago.
A crease appeared in her forehead. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said. Adin’s mention of it seemed to confuse her.
“Then what…?”
Her look of confusion deepened. “I guess I just need more time to think, that’s all.” She shrugged and smiled. “I love being with you, Adin. You know that. As long as you and Jackson can still see each other once in a while, what’s the rush?”
“What’s the rush?” Adin repeated in a raised voice. “We just talked about this! I thought you understood!”
He wanted to tip over the table. The rush was, “once in a while” wasn’t good enough. She knew that. Things had gotten to the point where he had to have all or nothing with Jackson. This arrangement was pushing them both to the breaking point. Because they lived a four-hour drive apart and had jobs to tend to, their periods of separation were unbearably long, and Adin feared he would lose the man he loved if he kept playing Happy Couple with Celia.
But he couldn’t just kick her to the curb. Celia had done too much for him. She’d seen him through one of the most trying periods of his long life and, in so doing, had taken enormous risks. She’d also stoically accepted his bimonthly visits to Jackson’s flat. As a result, Adin felt honor-bound to stay with this woman until she “released” him. Maybe the notion was quaint and old-fashioned and utterly self-destructive, but he couldn’t live with himself if he summarily dumped her.
“We’ve been doing okay with this for seven months,” she said. “It’s obviously working.”
Stupefied, Adin gaped at her. “What?”
Celia frowned back. “Why do you look so upset? I’m not used to you looking like that.”
Adin’s face tightened. Reining in that anger required all the control he could muster. “This has to be resolved as soon as possible,” he said in a low, measured voice. “I feel torn in half. I can’t keep living this way.”
A terrifying thought struck him. What if that conclusion she’d reached hadn’t been irrevocable? Maybe she’d decided she wanted him to stay, even if she had to keep playing second fiddle to Jackson.
Celia took another drink and continued to watch him. “You know,” she said stiffly, standing away from the counter, “I really don’t appreciate being pushed, considering how tolerant I’ve been. We have a home together, Adin. We’ve built a life together and have friends together. My parents know you and like you.”
“But that’s—”
She raised her voice to talk over him. “I think I’ve been more than understanding when it comes to you and Jackson. And you were more than delighted to follow through with my suggestion—my suggestion—that you spend a weekend with him three or four times a year. But then you started taking liberties, and three or four times a year became six times a year. Still I didn’t complain.” Her voice kept spiraling; her face kept reddening. “And now you’re irked because I’m not chomping at the bit to speed down the length of the state and beg your male fuck-buddy to take you off my hands?”
Adin pushed up from the table just as Celia shoved her juice bottle onto the counter and nearly sent it skidding to the floor.
“Jackson is not my ‘fuck-buddy’!” Adin shouted, hands fisted on the table. “I’m in love with him!”
Celia, who’d been about to march out of the kitchen and into the living room, whirled around. “Now I suppose you’re going to hand me that old saw about the difference between ‘loving’ someone and being ‘in love with’ someone!”
“Goddammit, there is a difference!”
“And no doubt I’m the recipient of your hobbling, redheaded-stepchild love instead of the pure, true passion of your soul. Well fuck you, Adin.” Teary-eyed, Celia poked her fingers at her chest. “I’ve earned your devotion. I deserve it a whole lot more than your sometimes-boyfriend!” She executed a clumsy pirouette and disappeared into another part of the house.
Breathing heavily, Adin passed a hand over his damp forehead and blinked at the space Celia had just vacated. What the hell was wrong with her? What was going on? They’d never argued before, much less engaged in a vitriolic shouting match, and they’d never clashed over his relationship with Jackson. Celia had always been supportive. She’d always sympathized with his dilemma. Hell, she was the one who’d urged him to pursue the attraction in the first place. Celia had sensed from the start it wasn’t some passing fancy.
As irate and indignant as Adin was, his overriding feeling was utter bewilderment. It seemed like the earth had undergone a polar shift.
At the moment, there was only one cure for what ailed him. Adin grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen counter and stormed outside.
* * * *
Jackson was stymied at first by Noah’s response. “So you’re saying Perez took off and you don’t know where he went?”
Noah’s civilized veneer had begun to crack. “Something like that.” He sat on the sofa rather than resuming his seat beside Jackson.
“How long has he been gone?”
“Nearly … nearly a month.”
Shocked, Jackson pitched forward. “A month?”
Noah jerked out a few nods. “Nearly.”
“Have you heard from him at all?”
“Yes, twice. A few days after he left, I got a text message saying, On a mission. Don’t fret. I tried calling but could only reach his mailbox. So I texted a question, Mission to do what? His reply was, Solve our quandary.” Noah’s eyes, unblinking, fixed on a patch of nothing between himself and Jackson. “Of course he misspelled ‘quandary.’ Perez never could spell worth a damn.”
“Did you know what he was referring to?”
Noah made a slight, ambiguous movement with his head and shoulders.
Jackson couldn’t interpret it. “Noah? What was going on before he took off? What ‘quandary’ had the two of you been talking about?”
“We, uh … we’d been talking about how much more we’d like to do and see and learn. How wonderful it would be if we could stay together forever, exploring and discovering. And loving each other.”
Already this didn’t sound good. “And?”
“We considered some options but couldn’t decide which to pursue.” Finally, Noah looked at Jackson. “Life is cruel, really. It’s absurdly short. How can anything possibly come to fruition?”
Jackson didn’t want to get into a philosophical discussion. He wanted to know what had happened to Perez, and why, and what the hell Noah expected him to do about it. Because he sure as shit had been summoned down here to help in some way.
“What options, exactly?” Jackson asked warily, trying to get him back on track. Noah and Perez had obviously been discussing life extension. Prolonging one’s time on earth was everybody’s fondest wish.
“I thought Nezrabi’s Prism might hold some possibilities,” Noah said. “And then there are certain rituals that are worth looking into. But there’s another course. The most expeditious one, involving the least research. But it’s … well, it’s rather extreme.” Noah fixed his baby-blue gaze on Jackson’s face. He seemed to anticipate disapproval, even condemnation. “But it would be a sure thing and it would keep us together.”
Jackson sighed. “Damn it, Noah, you already adore each other. Isn’t that enough to—”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? We want something to keep us together.”
The shrillness in Noah’s voice was like the whistling of a teakettle. He was going through an emotional boil-over. Obviously aware of it, he forcefully composed himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I should explain how this started.”
Troubled by Noah’s volatility, Jackson felt his own anxiety-level rise. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes,” Noah said, gathering his composure. “Yes. Well, it began last winter. I had a rather bad case of food poisoning. Perez improvised some folksy remedy that seemed to help. But being that ill was terrifying … for both of us.”
Improvised a folksy remedy. Perez could’ve done a lot more than that if he’d ever bothered to cultivate his natural abilities and channel his energy. Given his heritage as well as his flair for the dramatic, he could’ve become a “dollmaker,” an Adept with a mastery of sympathetic magic. His background was saturated with Brazilian Candomblé and exotically spiced with Polynesian mythology. Great sources of power there, but they had to be tapped and mastered. And that required self-discipline.
“Ten days after I recovered,” Noah went on, “Perez was almost run down by a bus in the city.”
Jackson slumped as the situation became clearer to him. So, they’d both been shocked within a short time by reminders of their mortality. A phrase popped into his mind, something he’d overheard at his own father’s wake: Life sucks and then you die. One of his dad’s biker buddies had uttered it over an appropriately blank-eyed salmon on the buffet table. That bit of street philosophy now felt like an ice cube rolling down Jackson’s spine.
He kept listening, said nothing, and tried not to jump to any conclusions. But Noah’s talk was headed in a bad direction, one that surpassed life-extension.
“We went out on May Eve to a club in Chicago, and we met … this very compelling couple. A striking, raven-haired man who was with a beautiful woman.” At his point Noah looked up, guiltily. “It may disturb you to hear this, Jackson.”
“That’s all the more reason I want to hear it.” Determination aside, his heart began pattering.
Noah cleared his throat. “The conversation turned to occult pursuits. I talked about my involvement in magic. That’s when the couple asked if Perez and I knew you.”
Tension suddenly packed the house’s silence. Jackson’s muscles reflexively tightened. He lowered his right leg from his left knee, and his booted foot sounded like a frying pan hitting the floor.
He admonished himself not to overreact to Noah’s revelation. So far, it was no big deal. Chicago was only ninety miles from Milwaukee, give or take, and he had a reputation.
Shrugging, he said, “That doesn’t mean anything, except that people have heard of me.”
“I’m afraid those particular people have more than heard of you. And your lover.”
The mantel clock chimed the hour. Jackson’s whole body seemed to contract in response, as if the clock’s mallet had struck his coiled nerves. He stared at Noah.
“Adin? They knew Adin?”
“Yes. And you. But knew him much more … intimately.”
The blood seemed to drain from Jackson’s body. As the echo of the final chime faded, his cell phone trilled and nearly sent his nerves through his skin.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Partially rising from the settee, he fumbled to extract the phone from its sheath on his belt. He was about to set it to silent when he saw the caller’s number. It was Adin’s. He waited until the ringing stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, “but I have to return this call. Do you mind if I step outside for a while?”
“Not at all.” A corner of Noah’s mouth hooked up. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t eavesdrop. Either aurally or psychically.”
“You’d best keep in mind that you have no right to eavesdrop. Dear.”
After that acerbic reminder, Jackson strode out of the parlor, through the entry hall, and onto the porch. Although he trusted Noah, he wanted privacy. And the more the better.
He returned the call as he walked far into the front yard and sank down beneath a plum tree. Moisture wicked into his jeans from the thick, damp grass.
Great. A day spent sitting around on a wet ass. A ride home on a wet ass. And in between, deeply troubling business with a friend who wanted something from him and knew far too much about his personal life.
Chapter Four
Lying in a hammock strung between two aspen trees, Adin dropped his arm to his midsection. His hand still clutched the phone as disappointment washed through him like dirty dishwater. Then the cell sang against his belly.
Eagerly, he lifted it to his ear. “Hey. Say something to make me feel good.”
After a brief pause, as if he hadn’t expected this greeting, Jackson said, “You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, and your cum tastes like buttercream. Adin, do you know any people in Chicago who know me? Or know about us being together?”
What the hell? “You got off to a good start, Jackson, but it sure didn’t last. What’s going on?”
“I’m at Noah’s.”
Adin put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, shit, that’s right. I’m sorry I interrupted. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, I’m sorry. Whatever’s going on with you is a lot more important.” Jackson’s voice modulated, becoming solicitous. “Are you feeling bad about something?”
“Let’s get this out of the way, first,” Adin said, “since it seems to be bugging you. The only people I know in Chicago are the people I’ve worked with. Professionally. They don’t know the first damned thing about my personal life.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s my life.” Adin got the impression Jackson wanted to pursue this, and he knew why, but Jackson let it go.
“Tell me why you feel bad,” Jackson said. “Talk to me about it.”
