by Reinke, Sara
“How in the hell did you escape?” Julien asked.
“Through the old slave tunnels,” Mason said. “Augustus Noble warned us so we got out in time. The people you saw…heard inside our house…they must have been the house slaves. Father had called them all inside…”
His voice faltered as he realized, to his horror, that Michel must have done so deliberately. He’d known there’d be no convincing Lamar without shrieks coming from within their house once he’d set it alight. He brought them inside…oh God, and left them to die.
“I tried to reach you,” Julien said. “I didn’t know about it, didn’t realize until it was too late. I’d ridden there as fast as I could. I had Aaron with me. He…he’d been…”
“Friend of yours, Morin?” David asked, his loud, booming voice startled both of them. Julien drew back as if he’d been goosed, and Mason struggled to wipe the horrified aghast from his face as he turned around to face his schoolmate.
“Why…uh, yes. Yes, he is, David, a…an old friend, in fact—and dear, besides—from my days in Kentucky. His name’s Julien Davenant. Julien, my man here, David Wood Gorham.”
“How do you do, sir?” Julien extended his hand, his expression softening to a smile with a great deal more ease than Mason’s had. “It’s a pleasure.”
“I do just fine, and the pleasure, sir, is mine,” David said, clasping hands with Julien, accepting his proffered shake. “Tell me, Mr. Davenant, are you a drinking sort of chap?”
“I’ve never been known to turn down a pint, Mr. Gorham,” Julien replied as David slung one arm about his shoulders, the other around Mason’s.
“Good, then you must join us. I absolutely insist,” David declared, turning them around and marching with them abreast of him, toward the tavern entrance. “Morin’s gotten bored, I’m afraid, by all of my stories. I’m in need of fresh ears to regale.”
* * *
God Almighty, it’s good to see you, Mason said to Julien an hour—and at least a half dozen pints apiece—later. He spoke to the younger man telepathically, while beside him at their corner table, David rattled on endlessly aloud.
From his seat in the corner, Julien leaned back, pretending to be interested in David’s stories about food fights and student rebellions, while keeping his mind opened to Mason.
I thought I’d never see you again, Julien said. I still can’t believe you’re here—you’re real.
They hadn’t said anything more, aloud or telepathically, about what had happened three years earlier. Mason suspected the shock on both sides hadn’t fully settled in yet. That, and for his part, Mason didn’t want to dwell on such a dark and terrible truth—not with Julien sitting right in front of him, within arm’s reach, after so long and lonely a separation.
If the truth be told, he didn’t want to be there—not in the tavern, in any case. He wanted to be somewhere with Julien alone; he wanted to grab him by the cravat and pull him near, to kiss him deeply. He wanted to peel off Julien’s suit piece by piece, letting his mouth and hands grow reacquainted with every square inch of the younger man’s flesh.
I can read your mind, you know, Julien remarked, snapping him out of his momentary—and not at all unpleasant—distraction. The corner of his mouth hooked in a wry smile, and he shifted his weight in his seat so that the front of his breeches pulled snugly, taut across the slight outward swell of his cock. I’m still nothing but a bloody anatomy specimen, I see.
A beautiful anatomy specimen, Mason corrected—their old and fondly familiar game—as his gaze traveled appreciatively down the length of Julien’s form. And one I’ve dearly missed.
How’s Edith? Julien asked.
She’s well, Mason replied. She’s home with my father. And Mercy?
Julien had remarried shortly before the fires in 1815. Mason had never had occasion to meet the woman, and Julien hadn’t spoken much of her then. He apparently had no intention of doing so now, either; with a half-shrug, he said, Alright, I guess. I don’t see her much anymore.
Mason had already told Julien about moving to Boston more than a year ago, when he’d first enrolled at Harvard. Although he still dreamed of serving under one of the city’s more esteemed surgeons, Michel had encouraged him to give the college a try, insisting that formal education would be the future foundation for all physicians, not simply apprenticeships.
Julien had been more evasive when the matter came to being in Boston, so much so that after about ten minutes of ducking around Mason’s questions about it, an idea had occurred to him.
You ran away from home, he said.
Julien arched his brow as he took a drink of beer. What?
That’s it, isn’t it? Mason asked. That’s why you’re here. You always talked about it with me—leaving the farms, coming to Boston to be free of the Brethren. He grinned. You finally went and did it!
Julien shrugged, taking another swig from his glass. It was all of the affirmation Mason needed.
You should come with me to Philadelphia, Mason said, as this was where the Morins had originally relocated. Lisette would love to see you. Phillip’s such a boring lout. I used to try and take her out to the theater or to dance, but she’s probably bored senseless now that I’m away at school. She—
I don’t think I can do that, Julien interjected mildly. When Mason must have looked momentarily puzzled, if not somewhat wounded, he chuckled aloud. I have a job, you bloody bastard—don’t look at me so.
So I was right. Mason grinned. You did run away from that son of a bitch father of yours. Have you been here in Boston all of this while?
More or less, the past three years. Julien shrugged again, cutting his gaze away.
So what kind of work do you do? Mason asked. Did you get in with a smithy or a carpenter, like you’d planned?
No, Julien said after a momentary hesitation, his expression uncertain. Leaning forward, he reached out with both hands to take Mason’s and David’s glasses. “Looks like we could all use another round. My turn to pay.”
With a smile, he stood, carrying the glasses together. As he walked away, heading for the bar, David clapped Mason on the shoulder. “I like him,” he declared. “Any man who buys me a beer is a fine chap in my book. He doesn’t talk much, though, does he? Though it’s hard to get a word in on me edge-wise, I know.”
David continued talking as Mason’s gaze wandered, distracted, to follow Julien through the crowd. He caught sight of him standing at the bar, waiting on the bartender to draw up three fresh pints. Another man, older and balding, with a paunch and a bushy, handle-bar mustache stood beside Julien, leaning close enough for Mason to be able to tell they were talking. Curiously, it felt like Julien’s mind was closed to Mason now, but Mason dismissed this as the result of the crowded room, and all of the competing psyches interfering with his telepathy.
Julien’s exchange with the larger man was brief, but seemed cordial enough. At first, Julien shook his head, but he was smiling, and whatever he said next redirected the man’s gaze directly toward their table—and Mason. Feeling his cheeks flush, Mason jerked his gaze back to David before either Julien or the man at the bar noticed his trespass. After a long, grueling moment, he risked cutting another glance in their direction, and saw they were still talking. The man had put his hand on Julien’s sleeve and leaned closer to him as he spoke. Julien continued to smile and after a moment, he nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Whatever he’d agreed to, the man with the mustache seemed pleased. He grinned, toothy and almost leering, then clapped Julien affably on the shoulder.
“Who’s that?” Mason asked Julien when he returned to the table, carrying all three glasses at once.
“Who?” Julien looked puzzled as he set the glasses on the table, foam slopping over the rims and spattering the battered table top. When Mason cut a glance back at the bar, he said, “Oh. That’s John. Just a fellow I’ve met around before.” He passed Mason a glass while David leaned forward to take one for himself. “You gents fire off a couple sl
ugs. I’ll catch up when I get back, alright? I need to step outside, take a piss.”
“Sounds good,” David said. “Take your time. We’re in no rush!”
“You alright?” Mason caught Julien by the hand as he turned to walk away.
“Sure.” Julien smiled. There was something strange about it, though—strained, almost—and his mind was still closed.
“You’re certain?” Mason asked—because now he wasn’t. Julien’s exchange with the larger man had seemed friendly enough, but Julien wasn’t acting right now. He seemed…skittish, like a long-tailed cat in a room full of toddlers. Mason remembered similar behavior in Kentucky, whenever Julien had known he would likely receive a beating—or worse—from Lamar.
“Of course.” Julien laughed, giving Mason’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Except that I’m about to piss my breeches. If you don’t mind…?”
He dropped Mason a wink as he turned and walked away, easing his way through the crowd once more. From across the room, the larger man with the mustache—John—watched Julien leave, meeting Mason’s gaze briefly. He offered a nod, and puzzled, Mason returned it out of courtesy’s sake, even though he had no earthly idea what it meant. Mason couldn’t help but notice that John then stepped away from the bar and almost appeared to follow Julien, or at least, he moved in the same direction toward the front door.
He might not have thought anything more about it, except that Julien seemed gone for a long time to him, which meant he was stuck nursing his beer and listening to David drone on about other misadventures he’d had in school over the years. He took his pocket watch from his fob pocket and turned it over and over idly in his hands, opening the gilded lid and snapping it closed again. Finally, he noticed that more than ten minutes had passed, and with a frown, he pushed his chair back and stood.
“I’ll be right back,” he told David, cutting his friend off in mid-sentence. Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and started wading through the crowd. He was worried; he couldn’t help it. The more he thought about it—and God knew ten minutes alone in David’s drunken, babbling company felt like a bloody eternity—the more suspicious it seemed, the fellow, John, following Julien outside.
There were thieves in Boston. Mason knew that. And the area of town they were in was hardly renowned for its low incidence of crime. Julien was strong and tough, but he was also short compared to many other men. To a larger man like John, he might have seemed like an easy target—because he always had to his father and older brothers—especially if he’d taken notice of Julien’s money when he’d paid for the drinks.
Outside, the night air was cool and damp. He could smell the bittersweet scent of the sea. The sidewalk was still crowded, but he managed to cut his way along the side of the tavern, a dark, narrow alley separating it from the neighboring business.
“Julien?” he called quietly, his eyes automatically adjusting to the deepening shadows as he stepped into the alley. His pupils expanded, increasing his light-sensitivity, and improving his view as he gazed around him. He saw a man on the ground beside the tavern wall, curled onto his side, either drunk and asleep—and snoring lightly—or passed out. Another man nearby stood doubled at the waist with his hand planted against the wall to steady himself as he retched. A third appeared to be urinating, but was too tall to be Julien, while another stood farther back among the shadows. He would have been indistinguishable had it not been for Mason’s heightened vision; he could see a woman on her knees in front of the man, performing oral sex on him in the dark.
Splendid, he thought with a frown, as he turned and left the alley. He opened his mind, trying again to sense Julien, but there were too many people around him. He couldn’t concentrate or narrow his focus enough. He couldn’t discern Julien’s scent, either, among the crowd. The odors of vomit, ale, smoke, snuff, perfume, sweat, and sex all intermingled in a choking cloud enveloping the tavern.
Just as he’d made his way to the other side of the tavern, and started to duck into the alley there, he again nearly ran headlong into Julien as he walked out of the darkness.
“Hey,” Julien exclaimed with wide eyes as he clumsily reclaimed his footing. As soon as he recognized Mason, he laughed, drawing his hand up to wipe at his mouth. “You bloody scared me half witless! What are you doing out here?”
“You were gone so long, I started getting worried,” Mason said.
Julien clapped him on the shoulder, steering him around and out of the alley again. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He turned his head, spat once, then dabbed at his lips again with his fingertips. “Did David drink my beer?”
Mason managed a laugh. “No.”
“Oh, good.” With a sideways glance, Julien added, “He seems…nice.”
Mason didn’t miss the unspoken inference and laughed again. “He’s a school chum. That’s it. God Almighty, he talks so much I’d just as soon shoot myself as try to bugger him.”
Julien laughed too. As they walked back into the bar again, Mason glanced to his right. He couldn’t help but notice the not-quite-inconspicuous way that the man with the mustache, John, stepped out from the same alley where he’d found Julien. His cheeks were flushed, his balding pate greasy with a sheen of sweat, and he seemed somewhat out of breath as he tugged at his belt, as if settling it more comfortably against the outward swell of his belly. Again, he turned enough to meet Mason’s gaze—and this time he smiled, a quick, sly little sort that made Mason’s skin want to crawl.
* * *
“What time is it?”
Several hours had passed. Mason and Julien had long since trundled David’s drunken ass into a hackney coach to deliver him home. After that, the two had started walking, following the winding streets of Boston’s Beacon Hill toward the harbor. Even though it had been three years since they’d seen each other last, they had been together for twenty years prior to that. Amazingly, the comfortable ease that had always existed between them remained; to Mason, it felt in many ways as if they’d never been apart. Aside, that is, from the nearly overwhelming urge to get Julien alone and undressed as soon as possible.
“Time for you to get a watch,” he remarked in response to Julien’s inquiry. He dug his elbow playfully into Julien’s ribs as he laughed, reaching beneath the flap of his overcoat for his fob.
“I had a watch.” Julien planted his hand on Mason’s shoulder and gave a light shove. “I sold it.”
“What, along with your gloves?” Mason asked, laughing again. “And why the bloody hell would you sell your watch?” As a medical student, he lived and breathed by his pocket watch, or so it felt like. He couldn’t imagine life without it.
“I needed the money.” Julien shoved his hands down into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, his smile faltering. “Are you going to tell me the time or do I need to pick your bloody damn pocket to see for myself?”
Mason thought about quipping that the latter might not be so bad, although Julien would find more than just a watch awaiting his touch. But he could see Julien felt uncomfortable now, as if the teasing—meant only in good fun—had touched a genuine sore spot. He pulled out his watch—a gift from Michel—and turned back the gold-filigree lid. “It’s quarter past eleven.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting home?” Julien asked. “I don’t want you to oversleep and miss your classes in the morrow.”
“It doesn’t matter if I do,” Mason said ruefully. “Seeing as how I’ve no classes to miss anymore.”
They had been so absorbed in their telepathic conversation back at The Crow’s Nest that Julien had missed this particular revelation during David’s description of the great Harvard College Food Fight Rebellion. His eyes widened in surprise as Mason relayed it now.
“The whole bloody class given the boot?” he exclaimed. With an incredulous bark of laughter, he added, “Holy shit, Mason!”
“Yeah.” Mason shrugged.
“You could write to them. Explain you had no part in it all. Ask th
em to let you back.”
“Oh, I will. And they will…I’m fairly sure, at least. Only not this term…not until the spring.”
“What will you do?”
“I’d planned to just lie low and hope that Father doesn’t catch wind of it all,” Mason remarked. Then, with a sly sideways glance, he added, “Although I can think of other ways to pass the time now.”
Julien laughed.
“How about you?” Mason asked. “Don’t you have to work in the morning?”
“As luck would have it,” Julien said. “I have tomorrow off…”
His voice faded. They’d abandoned the sidewalks and narrow roadways for the boardwalks by the inner harbor and for the first time, overheard a ruckus: a chorus of voices from a large group of men gathered along one of the shipping warehouses nearby. Some had lanterns among them, and torches, too, which cast ragged slashes of dancing orange glow against the building’s outer walls.
“What the hell…?” Mason asked, drawing to a wary halt. The crowd sounded raucous, and looked even more rough-hewn. Not exactly the sort one walked headlong and heedlessly among on a cold night.
Julien, however, suddenly grinned. “The Midnight Rounds!”
“What?”
“This must be the Midnight Rounds,” Julien said again, catching Mason by the hand and tugging him along as he quickened his stride. “Fisticuffs at midnight, down at the waterfront. I’ve only ever heard rumors of them. Come on!”
“Fisticuffs?” Mason frowned, planting his feet to bring Julien to a stumbling halt. Getting in some sort of brawl wasn’t his idea of a good time by any stretch of the imagination—and with the lot ahead of them in particular. “Now wait just a minute. I’m not fighting anyone.”
“Not you. Me,” Julien said. “From what I’ve heard tell, there’s a thousand dollar prize for the man who can last more than five rounds against Ivan the Great, the reigning bare-knuckles champion.”
“Ivan the Great.” Mason frowned, dubious.
“He’s from Russia. A huge son of a bitch.”
