by Kim Fielding
Of course, this used to both piss off and amuse Carl, because he was the pushiest bottom imaginable.
“You can say no, Sabbio.” Didn’t matter if he was a slave and a creation of Mason’s brain—Mason wouldn’t force him.
“I am saying yes.” Sabbio smiled and wiggled beneath him. “I am very much saying yes.”
Thank God. Mason resumed what he’d been doing—licking, nibbling a bit here and there, tracing Sabbio’s body with tongue and lips and fingertips. Sabbio responded beautifully to every touch. When Mason mouthed his taut brown nipples, Sabbio groaned and gripped Mason’s hips so hard it hurt. But Mason didn’t care. He would have happily withstood a goddamn whip if it meant he got to keep touching Sabbio.
Slowly, torturously, he worked his way down the firm abdomen, tracing every ridge of muscle, knowing their strength had been earned through brutal work instead of hours at the gym. He played with Sabbio’s dark treasure trail. And he nosed at the creases of Sabbio’s legs, at his balls, at the tender skin behind them, inhaling sweat and a deeply masculine musk that reminded him of rich soil ready for planting. He lavished special attention on Sabbio’s cock—not especially long, but thick, the damp red crown peeking from the retracted foreskin.
He hadn’t dreamed any lube, which was a shame. Spit and precome were going to have to suffice. As Sabbio rocked his hips upward, Mason stroked the length of his shaft and watched pearly droplets appear at the tip. He was just going to use his finger to gather some of the fluid when a loud noise intruded on his senses. It was a musical twang that didn’t belong in Roman Split.
“No!” Mason cried when he recognized the sound: his goddamn phone was ringing. “Not yet!”
But it was too late. He and Sabbio cried out together as everything—the half-built palace, the slaves and guards, the sandy ground, and Sabbio himself—faded away to mist and was gone.
6
Mason woke up achingly hard and really pissed off. He fumbled at the bedside until he found his phone. “What!” he growled.
“You okay?” Adam sounded concerned.
After a few steadying breaths, Mason managed a single syllable. “Yeah.”
“I’ve texted you about a zillion times. I was worried. We all were. I mean, you were going off with the crazy ghost guy and—”
“I’m fine. Viktor and his mother gave me cake and tea. They didn’t kill me.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you text me back?”
“I was asleep.” And dreaming. Fuck. A renewed sense of loss tore at him—this time not for Carl, but for a man who didn’t even exist.
“Oh. Um, sorry. I was just… worried.”
Mason made an effort to sound normal. “Aren’t you supposed to be lazing around an island or something?”
“I am. We’ve been walking around, and we had this amazing lunch with fresh sardines and local wine.” He started going on about castles and lavender and beaches, but Mason didn’t really listen. He was thinking about the taste of salty skin, the tang still lingering in his mouth.
“Hell of a dream,” he muttered.
Adam stopped monologuing. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. I’m… still sleepy, I guess.”
“Okay. Look, it turns out Hvar has a good club scene. We’re gonna take a late boat back. Is that all right?”
“Sure. Have fun.”
“I mean, we could take an earlier one instead.” Adam paused a moment. “If you want.”
“Party the night away. It’s fine with me. I’ll dig up something for dinner and probably turn in early.”
Mason ended up having to assure his brother two or three more times that everything was hunky-dory, but eventually Adam hung up.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mason wanted to cry. But his stupid dick was still hard, so with a defeated moan, he fell back onto the mattress and stroked himself. With his eyes closed, he imagined the hand was Sabbio’s instead of his own. Mason’s palms and fingers were calloused from years of hauling wheelbarrows, wielding shovels and rakes and spades, manhandling rocks and pots and various landscaping materials. But Sabbio was a stonesetter, and his hands were even tougher. Mason could still feel the way they had dragged over his shoulders and hips.
“Sabbio,” he called out as he came.
Afterward, he tried to fall back asleep. He wasn’t optimistic about being able to resume the dream but wanted to try. Sleep eluded him, and with a disgusted growl, he eventually hoisted himself off the bed and stomped to the bathroom. A shower felt good but didn’t really calm him, so he decided to spend some time outdoors.
Walking around the palace was an odd experience. On the one hand, he saw weathered limestone, crowded cafés, and shops selling shoes and neckties and trinkets. But at the same time, like a hazy overlay, he saw the walls half-built and freshly white; ragged men labored hard as whip-wielding guards yelled at them to work faster. He felt dizzy and a little lost, and when he staggered his way to the Riva, he saw ghostly water washing over his feet.
He collapsed on a bench and spent a very long time staring out to sea.
By the time he stood again, the sun had set and his legs were stiff. He was hungry but not especially in the mood for a restaurant meal. He strolled to the grocery store—incongruously located adjacent to the ancient palace wall—and bought a roll, a little prosciutto, and a packaged salad. He picked up some dried figs too. Back at the apartment, he supplemented his light dinner with a bottle of wine.
After picking at his food, he sat in front of the television for a while, flipping through American shows with Croatian subtitles, Croatian programs with terrible production values, and something puzzling in German that he thought might be a game show. He went to bed early, before the rest of his group reappeared.
He didn’t dream.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Adam sat on the edge of Mason’s bed, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite his late-night clubbing.
“You’re going to drive me nuts if you keep on asking that.”
“I know. It’s just… there was that whole weird séance thing you did yesterday. And now you’re sleeping a lot.”
Mason glanced at the bedside clock. “It’s not even nine yet.”
“But you’re usually up before dawn.”
“Sure, when I want to get to work before it’s a zillion degrees out. I’m not working today, Adam. I am on vacation, remember?” He poked Adam’s knee.
Adam scooched slightly away. “So does that mean you’ll do something with us today? We only have two days left in Croatia.”
Mason rubbed his head. “Somebody told me we should really see Plitivice Lakes.”
As it turned out, Plitvice was over two hours away. But for some reason, Adam seized the idea like a bulldog, and less than thirty minutes after Mason woke up, all five of them were squeezing into their rented car for the drive north. Mason didn’t even have time for a shower or coffee, and he breakfasted on slightly stale bread as they drove.
It was worth the trip, though. The scenery was breathtaking, with wooden walkways snaking over crystal-clear water, trout floating right underfoot, and waterfalls you could walk behind. Mason could have sworn certain shades of green and blue existed only in the park, and he wished he knew more about the native flora. He recognized many of the plants, but others were new to him.
By the time they got back in the car, he was making mental notes for future landscape designs that might incorporate some of the park’s elements on a much smaller scale. As wonderful as the day had been, though, he’d never quite stopped thinking about Sabbio and that realistic dream.
They went out for a seafood dinner. Mason ate squid ink risotto and drank a little too much wine, but that was okay. He bantered lightly with his friends and family. On the way back, they all paused for a while to listen to an a cappella men’s group singing in the peristyle. Mason couldn’t understand the words, of course, but they sounded mournful.
“Who wants more wine?” Doug asked when th
ey returned to the apartment.
Everybody said yes except for Mason. “I’m gonna shower and then hit the sack,” he announced. “And yes, Adam, I am perfectly fine. Just a little grungy and tired.”
He liked the bathroom. It was nicely tiled, with sleek fixtures and a large, slightly complicated shower stall. Tonight, though, he kind of wished there was a bathtub instead. A soak would have felt nice.
“Spoiled,” he chided himself as he stripped.
As he reached to turn on the water, he caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror—and he froze. Each hip was imprinted with five small, oval bruises, arrayed exactly like someone’s fingerprints.
He stared dumbly at the purple marks, then poked at one experimentally. It was slightly sore.
As he was digesting that development, he took a closer look and found similar marks on his shoulders.
He tried, but no matter how he twisted his wrist or splayed his fingers, he couldn’t duplicate the marks with his own fingertips. He obviously hadn’t caused the bruises by gripping himself.
“Psychosomatic,” he whispered, collapsing onto the closed toilet. God, he really was going nuts. Or maybe the Lulićes had drugged his tea with something to make him very suggestible. The problem with that theory was that he’d felt pretty clear-headed during and after his time in Mrs. Lulić’s apartment. Besides, why would they bother? They hadn’t asked anything of him apart from a recommendation for future tourists.
His life used to be really simple. He dug in the dirt for a living, which he loved and which earned him enough to pay his share of the bills. He had a nice little house and a decent pickup truck. And he had a husband who was brilliant and cute and loving. All it took to change that was one little bullet. And now here he was, naked in a bathroom in Croatia, mysteriously bruised and haunted by a dream.
Pete had a doctorate in psychology, was right in the other room, and wouldn’t make Mason feel like a weirdo. As Mason stood, he decided to consult with him as soon as he could get him alone. In the meantime, he used his phone to snap a couple of photos of the marks. The images could double as proof and as a really bizarre Grindr profile pic, he thought sourly as he got into the shower.
7
The ghost floundered in the pit for an eternity. He’d been torn apart somehow and couldn’t remember even enough to put himself back together. Maybe this is hell, he thought vaguely. He’d heard the Christians preach about it enough times. Had he really been so evil as to deserve this? He couldn’t remember that either.
But even as he screamed and flailed, an image came to him. Stone. Big and solid, weathering over the years but enduring. Shaped by time, by water, by human tools, yet always strong. Yes, stone. He thought very hard about it, and eventually he could feel it between his nonexistent hands. He’d held stone many times before, he realized. He’d carved it, carried it, placed it.
He’d been a mason.
The memory brought an enormous rush of relief—he’d feared he’d never find himself again. His name was Sabbio and he had been a mason. But even as he grasped that precious knowledge, he remembered something else. Another mason. No, a man named Mason. Who was sad and lovely, who’d welcomed Sabbio into his dream and held him, who’d lavished Sabbio’s body with so much care, he’d almost felt alive.
Sabbio mentally transformed a stone into a ladder, and he used it to climb out of the abyss.
He emerged not near the edge of the palace as usual, but in a small room illuminated only by the glowing numbers of a clock. He’d been in the room before. And that sleeping figure huddled under the blanket—oh, gods, that was Mason. He was still here.
Sabbio settled himself on the bed where he could see Mason’s face. He was thankful his ghostly eyesight was better than it had been when he was alive. Mason’s even breathing soothed him, and the memory of what those full lips had done to his body made Sabbio feel warm. He wished he could sit there forever, just watching. But lives were so fleeting. And Mason surely didn’t live in Split. He’d be gone in the blink of an eye.
One more chance, Sabbio thought. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would have to suffice. Just a few more stolen minutes.
He reached out—and then fell into Mason’s dreams.
He found himself somewhere unfamiliar. A wooden fence surrounded him on three sides, while the white stucco wall of a house encompassed the fourth. The ground was nothing but fine dirt spotted with a few scraggly weeds. Overhead, the sky was vivid blue. Mason stood several paces away, naked, his back to Sabbio. He was a little too thin, Sabbio thought, but very fine nonetheless, all long limbs and wiry muscle.
Sabbio made a soft noise, and Mason whirled around. “You’re here!” Mason exclaimed. He rushed forward and grasped Sabbio’s shoulders. “I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”
Grinning at being welcomed—being wanted—Sabbio settled his hands on Mason’s waist. “You are not angry that I visit you?”
“No! But…. Jesus. You seem so real. Look! You left bruises.” He looked pointedly at his shoulder and hip, where fingerprints had turned the skin purple.
“I am sorry! I did not mean to hurt you.”
“It’s fine. It’s… damn, it’s weird, but it’s fine.” He pulled Sabbio a little closer. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Sabbio allowed himself a moment to rest against Mason’s chest. “Where is this place?”
“My house.”
“In California?” Sabbio had heard people speak of the place over the past century or two. He’d gathered it was filled with palm trees, like the ones along the Riva, and famous people in fashionable clothing.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t look like this now. When Carl and I first bought the place, the back yard was a mess. Broken cement, ugly plantings, too much grass. I had to start the landscaping from scratch. This is what it looked like after I’d stripped the crap away. It looks a hell of a lot nicer now.”
“You love this place.”
Mason nodded, which Sabbio felt instead of saw. “I do. I xeriscaped. That’s, um—”
“Dry,” Sabbio finished for him. “I know a little Greek.”
“Of course you do. Anyway, I put in some cacti and succulents, a lot of stone. And a bunch of Mediterranean natives, like lavendula, artemisia, and santolina. I planted a couple of olive trees too, but the fruitless kind because I didn’t want a mess. And I built an arbor with grapevines on it, which was nice for shade. Carl and I would sit there most evenings. He said my garden made him feel like a Roman emperor.”
Sabbio could picture it quite well. “Diocletian liked to garden. Even before the palace was finished, he planted things. I caught glimpses of him sometimes.” He’d wondered then what it was like to be emperor. Better than a slave, of course, but still human, still carrying sorrows. At least people rarely plotted to kill a slave.
Mason made a satisfied grunt and kissed Sabbio’s hair. “You feel so real,” he murmured.
“I am. No, I was real. Now I am only a ghost.”
“You’re a hallucination.”
Sabbio had never heard that word in English before, but it closely resembled a Latin term. “You think you only dream me.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Mason sounded sad, and he moved one of his hands down between Sabbio’s shoulders. It felt good—warm and solid.
“Of course there are ghosts. A body dies and the spirit must go somewhere.” Sabbio sighed. “Most move on, like your Carl. I did not.”
“Why not?” asked Mason. He kissed Sabbio again, as if to soften the question.
“I do not know. I think… I was lonely. I never had the chance to love someone. And wherever spirits go when they move on, nobody waits for me there. I was young when I was taken. My family forgot me.”
Mason petted him soothingly. “I’ll remember you. Even if you’re a figment.”
With a gasp, Sabbio stepped back. “That… that is it!”
“What is?”
Sabbio was filled with such excite
ment, he couldn’t remember the words in English. He paced back and forth over the soft soil, muttering to himself in Latin as he thought his idea through. Yes, the concept made sense.
He stopped in front of Mason, who’d been watching curiously. “I think you can help me,” Sabbio said.
“With what?”
“It has been so very long. And until you, nobody has seen me or talked to me. Nobody has touched me.” He gave Mason’s chest a tentative stroke. “It has been a very difficult way to exist.”
Mason nodded, which gave Sabbio courage to continue.
“I do not want to be such as this anymore. I have wished for… for an end almost since I died. But I cannot end myself.”
“I guess a ghost can’t really commit suicide,” Mason said.
“No. But I think that if you believe in me, if you know I existed….” He fought for the right words. “Once a man named Sabbio lived, and he was a good stonemason. He liked to listen to the sea, but he always got ill when he was put in a boat. And he wanted to love. You will remember this and I will end, or perhaps I will move on. It will be very good.” He was crying a bit, the tears burning his eyes, but that was a joy because he hadn’t been able to cry since he died.
“You’re breaking my heart,” Mason said, raspy-voiced. “God, I wish I could help you. But I can’t just force myself to believe in ghosts. I need… proof, I guess.”
“Bruises,” Sabbio said, pointing.
“Psychosomatic.”
Sabbio puzzled over that term for a moment. “Spirit body?”
“Um, mind body, I guess. It means I created the bruises with my overactive imagination.”
That was a very odd idea, but Sabbio didn’t argue. Modern people were far more complicated than ancient dead slaves. But if physical marks on Mason’s body weren’t enough to convince him, what was?
Sabbio walked restlessly back and forth, his feet sending up little puffs of soil. He felt as he had when he was first captured by Roman soldiers so many years ago—trapped, half of him convinced he could escape if he could only figure out how, half already acknowledging he would be consigned to a life of slavery. Of course, the latter half had been right. He’d never spent another minute of his life free. But gods, he couldn’t let this last opportunity slip away. He might have to wait millennia for the next chance.
