by Jade Astor
“Move and a broken arm will be the least of your problems,” he snarled at Quin, whose only reply was a groan. Finally Argo pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, pulled his cell phone off the table, and punched in some numbers. He had to try more than once.
“Hang on, Everett,” Darian urged. The blood was gushing faster now, soaking both him and Everett and pooling on the kitchen floor. “Argo’s calling for an ambulance.”
“They’re coming.” Argo clicked off the phone and staggered over. “Wait here.” He moved past Darian and Everett, still unsteady on his feet, and disappeared down the hall. He returned carrying an armload of fluffy towels in a variety of bright colors. He dropped to his knees, breathing hard as he struggled to stay alert. “Put pressure on the wound. Try to stanch the bleeding.”
They bent together, struggling to save Everett’s life. The moments passed in a terrible flurry of blood-soaked towels, clothes, and hands. Finally, Argo arranged Everett so that he was lying back in Darian’s arms, a stack of towels pushed against his wound.
“Looks like it’s just his shoulder. Hopefully he’ll be okay,” Argo said. “Stay still, Everett. Help is on the way.”
“As if I have much choice,” Everett groaned.
“What the hell just happened here?” Argo demanded. “I feel like I’ve been kicked in the head by a mule.” He caught Darian’s eyes, frowned, and shook his head a little. He winced as if he instantly regretted that movement. Darian could relate. “Or something equally stubborn, at least.”
“We’re lucky to be alive. Thank you, Everett,” Darian said, giving Everett a reassuring squeeze. “You saved all three of our lives with that pill bottle. You distracted him just long enough for Argo to grab him.”
“He…he tried to drug us with those pills?” Everett’s face went slack with disbelief.
“Yep,” Argo said. “Did the same thing to Aaron. You’re lucky he didn’t put a plastic bag over your head, too. Either Darian and I showed up before he got that far, or he thought you’d just fall into a permanent dream.”
Everett scoffed and then shuddered with pain. Darian tried to hold him still. “Not very likely with that prescription,” he grumbled. “I’ve been after my doctor to give me something stronger for months. Built up a tolerance, I suppose, or they’re just not strong enough. They make me a bit dizzy for a few hours, and that’s about it. Little more than placebos at this point. And you certainly can’t mix them with caffeine. Cancel each other out.”
“Try not to talk,” Darian said. “Conserve your strength. Listen—the ambulance is on its way.”
Sure enough, he heard sirens wailing from a block or two away. The sound was more beautiful than any music he had ever heard. He turned again to Argo, who had dragged himself back over Quin, whose eyes were open now and flashing rage. He sat down on the floor next to him, leaning his upper body on Quin’s back to press him down on the floor, his eyelids drooping and then snapping open again as he fought off a daze.
“Argo, this whole situation is nothing short of insane,” Darian said. “Your deputies are going to arrest us all. No one will ever believe us.”
“I think they will,” Argo said.
“Come on! A guy with a broken arm, a pot of drug-laced coffee, and the whole kitchen covered in blood? Everett with your bullet in his shoulder? It defies credibility!”
“Maybe. But remember I mentioned using underhand methods?”
“Well, yeah.”
Argo pointed to his cell phone, lying on the blood-slicked floor beside the empty pill bottle.
“Turns out I accidentally hit the record button on the way into the house. And Quin was nice enough to set it right here on the table, where the mic would pick up everything. Great going, buddy. That bit of good news will hopefully make up for your busted arm.”
Darian noticed that Everett was breathing harder now, his mouth was working as though he wanted to say something. Tears brimmed in Darian’s eyes as he bent close, fearing he was about to hear his colleague’s dying words.
Everett’s voice came out raspy and weak as he looked down at himself. “What a disaster,” he groused. “I just bought that linoleum last year. And this was one of my favorite sweaters.”
Chapter 19
“Here you go, and I won’t take no for an answer.” Bryce passed Darian an enormous slice of lemon meringue pie down the table. “I’d say a story like that deserves a second helping of dessert. No calorie-counting allowed for our guests. Besides, we have plenty of time before we have to be at the theater. We own the heap, after all—it’s not like they can open the show without us.”
Darian thanked him and picked up his fork. No doubt about it, Bryce and his partner’s kitchen skills rivaled Jake’s. On the other hand, meals like this and the number of times he and Argo went out to eat these days were slowly thickening his waistline again. Despite the promise of imminent snow, he’d have to double his daily running time. Late mornings in bed with Argo several days a week made that a challenge, too. But at least he was getting other kinds of exercise.
Beside him, Hanson cut away his pie crust thoughtfully, separating the meringue. “One thing I still don’t get—who told Jeanette about the kiss, and why?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention that? It turned out to be Sebastian Grant. He was convinced his friend’s killer would return to the scene of the crime eventually, so he attached a miniature surveillance camera to a tree. He was putting it up the day I found him by the pond—the day he warned me Timothy had been murdered.” Darian glanced at Argo, who was sipping iced tea. Though it was almost Thanksgiving, and the rest of them were enjoying warm after-dinner drinks, he had sworn off coffee after the escapade at Everett’s. For a long time, Darian wouldn’t drink any he hadn’t made himself, though luckily he was past all that now. Caffeine addiction could be dangerous in more ways than one.
“My colleague, Deputy Cutler, eventually recovered it. We had no idea who planted it until Sebastian’s lawyer marched his Armani-clad ass to the police station and demanded it back.”
“I’m just glad Everett recovered,” Bryce said. “I mean, what he did was despicable, no question about that, but he didn’t deserve the death penalty for it. A few months of intense physical therapy to get his arm working again seems a more fitting punishment. Talk about cruel and unusual! And have you seen what some of these charlatans charge?”
“To this day, Everett insists he never took advantage of a single young man,” Argo informed them. “Even in Timothy’s case, he claims it was all harmless flirtation instigated by Timothy himself. He said he didn’t fight the blackmail because there was nothing worth blackmailing him about.”
“I’m not sure if I believe that, having met Everett a few times.” Pursing his lips, Bryce stabbed at his own fluffy mound of pie. “Then again, this Quin sounds perfectly delusional.”
“I have to admit I haven’t found any evidence to the contrary,” Argo said. “But let’s just say I’m not quite ready to apologize to Everett for having my suspicions about him.”
“I guess you can afford to cut Everett some slack. He did save your lives,” Hanson pointed out.
“And his own,” Darian said. “Let’s not forget that part. Anyhow, it’s all moot at this point. He’s on medical leave now thanks to Quin taking a chunk out of his shoulder with that pot shot. When that runs out after Christmas, he’s planning to retire. With luck, he’ll find a nice age-appropriate companion and settle down at last.”
“There’s a lot to recommend that particular life strategy.” Bryce cast Hanson an appreciative glance, and Hanson smiled back at him. Darian had to smile at their comfortable domesticity. Would he and Argo share similar moments one day? Definitely something he wanted to work toward. So far, Argo seemed to agree.
“He won’t admit anything, though.” While Darian had been fantasizing about their future together, Argo’s mood had darkened. “Including how he let Uncle Rod take the blame for stuff he did. I believe Uncle Rod was going to
turn him in. Thanks to Quin, his memory was tarnished for two decades. Never mind the hell he put my family through, thinking Uncle Rod was someone we should be ashamed of, when he was actually the hero of the story.”
Darian reached over and gave the back of his hand a comforting squeeze. “I know. But it’s all going to come out when Quin goes to trial. The good and the bad. Your uncle will be remembered for the man he really was, not what gossip turned him into.”
“Still, Uncle Rod’s sexuality is going to become news. Just what he wanted to avoid. He sacrificed even the possibility of a lasting relationship so his secret wouldn’t come out. We might not agree with his choice, but we ought to respect it all the same.”
“I’m sorry,” Darian said. There didn’t seem to be much else he could say. “Fortunately, society has changed since his death. I think most people today will be sympathetic to Roderick’s victimization. And let’s not forget that his gender preference wasn’t what got him killed. His desire to protect his students was.”
“True,” Argo admitted.
“Along with Quin’s repression,” Bryce said as he finished his second slice of pie. Leaning sideways, he speared Hanson’s discarded crust on his fork. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Denial at such a deep level is nothing less than toxic. Rots your brain and eats your soul. Your friend Aaron is another example of that.”
“There’s one more bright spot, too,” Darian smiled at Argo. “Turns out you resemble your Uncle Roderick in even more ways than you thought. You and he both risked your lives to do the right thing and protect the people who depended on you. And don’t tell me that’s only because you were luckier than he was. I think there was more to it than luck.”
“You’re right about that.” Argo glanced down at Darian’s hand, which still lay on top of his. Then he turned it palm upward and curled his big fingers around Darian’s. “Uncle Rod didn’t have anyone like you.” He grinned at Bryce and Hanson. “Did I tell you? He already met my family and didn’t run screaming.”
“Wish I could say the same for you,” Darian said with a laugh. “My moms can be pretty intimidating. We’ll see what happens when we fly down there for winter break.”
The four of them shared a few moments of companionable silence. Suddenly Bryce pushed his plate away, jumped up from the table, and clapped his hands.
“All right, gentlemen, this has been lovely, but we really need to get over to the theater. They’ll want to do a last-minute runthrough. The young woman playing Algernon is fabulous, but she keeps overstepping her marks. I promised I’d put down some bright red duct tape for her. Besides, Hanson needs time to get into his Lady Bracknell costume. The eyeliner alone takes ages.”
At his expert direction, the room turned into a perfectly choreographed ballet of clearing the table, ferrying the plates and utensils to the dishwasher, and rolling up the placemats and napkins so they could be laundered later. If his direction of the gender-swapped Wilde play was half as efficient, Darian reflected, the Granite Carnation Players might have a serious hit on their hands.
Arm in arm, he and Argo walked out to the car behind Bryce and Hanson. “I’m glad we could make time for this,” he said. “Earnest is one of the funniest plays ever written. It’s about time we spent an evening just laughing and being together.”
Argo nodded, but his guarded expression told Darian that it would still take time for him to process all the pain, grief, and loss he had endured over the past twenty years. No matter. He meant what he’d said at the door to Everett’s house. He’d be around to help for as long as Argo wanted him.
“I’m looking forward to that, too. Plus it’s nice to go out with you in public, hold your hand, and show the world that we’re together and we’re happy. That’s something Uncle Rod and Aaron both missed out on.”
“All the more reason we shouldn’t. Right?”
“Right. But you know what the best part is?”
“No,” Darian teased, though he had a good idea. “Tell me, Sheriff.”
“The best part is that after the show, I get to have you all to myself. That, most of all, is the thing I wouldn’t trade.”
While Bryce stood at the car door and called for them to hurry things along, they stopped to enjoy a long, passionate kiss in the middle of the driveway.
Tears stung the corners of Darian’s eyes. “Backatcha,” he whispered when they broke apart.
And don’t miss
Kiss of the Dark Prince
by Jade Astor
Available now on Kindle!
Please enjoy this sneak peek at Chapter 1!
At a British university, American exchange student Luke Martin meets Boris von Schatten, who claims to be a member of the royal family of Shattenberg, a small principality wedged between Austria and Hungary. Though Luke is skeptical, Boris ignites his curiosity with tales of the family castle and his half-brother, Prince Georg, now ruler of Schattenberg after the recent death of their father. Intrigued, Luke jumps at the chance when Boris offers to fly him to Schattenberg for the approaching summer break.
Once Luke arrives, though, the enigmatic but undeniably handsome Georg tells him that Boris has disappeared. Soon mysterious events begin to occur, including two deaths and increasing evidence suggesting that Georg murdered Boris along with a few others who got in his way. Luke finds it hard to believe that Georg is as demonic as people say—he even hears rumors that he drinks human blood—at least until some of Boris’s possessions are found covered with blood in a nearby ravine.
When he confronts Georg about his suspicions, Georg confesses that he is the victim of a curse and is powerless to stop it, though he denies murdering anyone. Luke longs to believe him—until attempts on Luke’s own life begin.
Chapter 1
A tolling bell over the city shattered what little concentration he’d mustered. Two solid hours of sitting in the empty chapel with his notebook balanced on his knees, and all he had to show for it was a jumble of scribbles and a few disconnected jottings. Cursing, Luke slammed his pencil against the mostly blank page. Only afterward did he remember where he was. Did swearing in a church count if no one else was around to hear it?
Then he realized someone had.
“Best be careful.” The deep voice, salted with a European accent he couldn’t quite place, came from the shadows. “As I crossed the street, I saw a few clouds gathering overhead. We wouldn’t want to provoke a strike of lightning.”
Luke watched as the man who had spoken stepped into view. Tall and well-dressed in a black silk shirt, knee-length leather jacket, and tailored black slacks, he carried what appeared to be an oversized sketchbook under one arm.
A moment passed before Luke found his voice. “Sorry about that. I let my frustration get the better of me.” He squinted into the filtered light provided by the stained glass windows. The man seemed too old to be a student but too young to be a professor or—luckily for him—the vicar. A graduate student, perhaps, though his carefully tousled dark hair and perfect cheekbones suggested something more along the lines of an actor or a male model. Luke doubted he would be that lucky, however. “You don’t think lightning would strike indoors because of what I said, do you? I mean—that’s impossible.”
The man inclined his head to the left, a smile tilting the corner of his soft-lipped mouth. “Why is it impossible? I have seen much stranger things—things many others might hesitate to believe.”
“Okay,” Luke conceded. How could he argue with that? Given the choice between their own perceptions and cold logic, most people went with what they believed, irrational or not. Besides, even he had given in to a touch of superstition a moment earlier. Maybe being in a church reputed to be more than a thousand years old had an effect on people’s imaginations. “I guess it never hurts to be careful.”
“That is true in most cases. Not all.” His grin widening, the man came closer. His eyes dropped to the notebook and pencil in Luke’s lap. “Are you a writer?”
&n
bsp; Up close and in better light, he seemed to grow even more handsome—definitely the reverse of what Luke had experienced in the bars and clubs he’d visited both at home and here in England. Generally the ones he spotted from far away didn’t hold up to a closer inspection.
“Hardly.” Luke laughed. “My tutor’s making me write an essay about this place. As you can see, I don’t have a clue where to begin.” He tilted the notebook to show his pathetic collection of scribbling.
“You’re a student, then. And you’re American.”
“Yeah. My parents wanted the prestige of sending me to a British college. It kind of ticks me off, though, to think I could get the same degree by hanging out at the back of some huge auditorium and pretending to take notes. Instead, I have to sit here all day and try to come up with five hundred words about how the architecture of Saint Whoever’s cathedral symbolizes Anglican spirituality, or whatever the f… whatever my professor said.”
“Ah.” The man trailed a slow, appreciate gaze across the high, arched ceiling. “Then I know how you should begin your essay. You must explain that the cathedral itself was built in the shape of the cross with the altar positioned to face the rising sun. Everything else—the vaulted ceiling emulating heaven, the illumination from the stained glass windows, and so on—is secondary to that basic principle.”
Startled, Luke looked up and saw at once what he was talking about. Why had it never occurred to him before?
“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He cast a curious glance at the sketchbook the man carried. “You must be an artist. That’s why you see things differently than other people—or me, anyway.”
“In a sense.” The man sat down in the pew opposite Luke and placed the sketchbook on his own knees. He opened it and began flipping the pages to reveal stunningly detailed drawings of every sort of Gothic-style building Luke had seen in the city, from the time-worn walls dating from the twelfth century to the sneering gargoyles that topped the pointed spires of the numerous colleges and churches. “The architecture of this place fascinates me. I traveled here to study it in detail. I will take these sketches home and use them to restore certain damaged sections of my own family home.”
