by Eli Easton
“Our little bird is leaving the nest,” Richard said to me sotto voce and with a teasing smile.
“Philip would have your head if he heard you say that.”
“Very well, our fifty-year-old little bird is leaving the nest. It won’t be the same without him.”
“No. But we’ll be fine.”
“Better than,” he said, giving me a look that made me wish we were alone. He was even more handsome now than he’d been when he first came to Jamaica. His skin was golden brown from the sun, and his hair had lightened to a dark tawny gold. I loved him, and that was worth everything.
“Better than,” I agreed, letting my eyes say the rest.
I WAS closing up the doors to the veranda later that night when I saw a shape perched on the railing in the dark. I froze and felt a frisson of terror wash through me. I knew that shape even though I hadn’t seen it in ten years. With trembling fingers, I pushed the slatted doors farther open so the candlelight from inside fell on the familiar form.
The bird’s black feet were wrapped around the top rail, and it was hunched in on itself, its white and blue feathers ragged, a smear of blood on one wing. Its red eyes stared at me fixedly. Its black beak opened in a silent caw.
“Everyting well?” Jaz asked, coming up behind me.
“Send for Tiyah. Hurry,” I ordered, my voice quaking.
I didn’t move until she arrived. I stood and stared at the bird, and the bird at me. I’d wondered, over the years, what would happen if the bird ever came to ill. Would I sicken and die with it? Was my fate and the bird’s irrevocably linked? It had not been an easy road, these past ten years, but we had made a place for ourselves, Richard and I. I did not want to lose it, or him.
Tiyah appeared at my left hand. “Yes, Missah?”
“It’s the bird.”
“Yes, Missah.”
“Is it…?” I couldn’t finish that thought.
She pushed my arm from where it had been frozen on the handle of the door and moved quietly past me. She approached the bird, but it didn’t look at her. It continued to stare at me.
“Oiseau doux. Oiseau bon. Give it to me.” She held out her hand to the bird, palm up.
The bird shuddered so violently, I startled, sure it was dying right then. But it stayed on its perch and bent its head toward her palm. With two heaves of its chest, its open beak dripped a trail of bright blood and then something slithered from its gullet into her hand. It was the thing, the blood-rich blob that the bird had swallowed all those years ago.
I put a hand over my mouth to hold back a cry of horror.
“Oiseau bon. Vous êtes libre. Allez-y,” Tiyah crooned to the bird.
It raised its ragged wings weakly and flew off, its flight uncertain. It was dying, that much anyone could see. And it had come to return what was mine. A clammy nausea suffused my body.
Tiyah turned to me, the thing in her hand. It was smaller than it had been, the size of a small egg now. It was redder too, more flushed with blood.
Involuntarily, I took a step back. “What…. What happens now?” I asked, my voice weak and my hands slick with sweat. I felt light-headed, as if it was I who was dying instead of the bird. Or maybe I was dying with it.
Tiyah said nothing, just stepped close to me, her dark eyes serious. She held her open palm and the object up to my lips.
I closed my eyes and shook my head in a harsh jolt.
“You must,” she said fiercely. “Take it by your own will, Missah, and nuttin’ will change.”
Take it by your own will.
Richard was down the hall waiting for me. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth.
“Swallow it whole,” Tiyah instructed.
I felt her palm come over my mouth, the blood-rich organ bitter on my tongue—its scent and taste repellent. I gagged, took a breath, swallowed.
When I opened my eyes, Tiyah was gone. With the veranda door still open and no sight of either Tiyah or the bird, I could almost believe I’d dreamed it—if not for the taste of copper in my mouth. I poured myself a finger of scotch and washed it away.
“Colin?” Richard leaned in the doorway, watching me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, love. Everything is fine,” I said. I walked over to him and took his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
ELI EASTON has been at various times and under different names a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fanfiction writer, an organic farmer, and a profound sleeper. She is now happily embarking on yet another incarnation, this time as an m/m romance author.
As an avid reader of such, she is tickled pink when an author manages to combine literary merit, vast stores of humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, three bulldogs, three cows, and six chickens. All of them (except for the husband) are female, hence explaining the naked men that have taken up residence in her latest fiction writing.
Her website is http://www.elieaston.com.
Twitter is @EliEaston.
You can e-mail her at [email protected].
By ELI EASTON
Bones (with B.G. Thomas, Jamie Fessenden, and Kim Fielding)
Closet Capers (Dreamspinner Anthology)
Heaven Can’t Wait
A Prairie Dog’s Love Song
Puzzle Me This
Steamed Up (Dreamspinner Anthology)
Stitch (with Sue Brown, Jamie Fessenden, and Kim Fielding)
SEX IN SEATTLE
The Trouble with Tony
The Enlightenment of Daniel
The Mating of Michael
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
THE BOOK OF
ST. CYPRIAN
JAMIE FESSENDEN
Chapter One
THE BOOK was evil. It was said that to own it—or merely to touch it—was a great sin. An ancient tome attributed to St. Cyprian of Antioch, yet containing magical spells so dark that those who did own a copy took precautions to constrain its influence. Alejandro knew the moment he laid eyes on the intricately carved wooden box, wrapped with a metal chain in the shape of a cross and secured with a rusted padlock, that he’d stumbled across it: El Gran Libro de San Cipriano.
“Do you have a key to this lock?” he asked Miss Passebon.
The willowy young woman turned from surveying the rows of dusty shelves of books, candles, jars, and other items in the abandoned botanica to eye the box in his hands with disinterest. “I really don’t know. I suppose it might be on the key chain.” She searched in her purse for the keys she’d tossed into it after opening the front door. She fished them out and handed them to her guest, clearly indicating he could take the time to search for it, if he cared to.
Alejandro examined the keys closely while Miss Passebon walked down the aisle, an expression of dismay on her lovely face.
“Most of this will probably have to be thrown away,” she muttered. She pointed at a row of saint figurines, some of them over a foot tall. “I suppose these will cause me all kinds of bad luck if I chuck them in the trash?”
“Definitely,” Alejandro replied. He could tell she didn’t believe, but he knew his grandmother would throw a fit if she heard anyone talking about throwing those figurines away. “We can pack them up and ship them back to Abuela if you can’t sell them,” he continued. He didn’t have a fortune to ship the entire contents of the botanica back to New Hampshire, but he would salvage what he could. Old Grand-père Passebon had been a close friend of the family when Abuela had lived in New Orleans. Alejandro hadn’t even been born then. But the old man had instructed his granddaughter to contact a number of his close acquaintances and allow them to take whatever they liked from his possessions. That included both his house and the botanica.
Alejandro hadn’t been the first to arrive—the old man had kn
own several people still living in New Orleans—so the truly valuable furniture and artwork had already been taken. Some specific items had been removed from the botanica. Alejandro wasn’t sure what they’d been, but there were intriguing spots on the shelves where circular or square patterns in the dust indicated something had recently been carried off. Still, he felt a bit guilty grabbing something that could be very valuable. The others appear to have missed it because it had been tucked far back on a top shelf behind the counter. “Do you know what this is?”
Miss Passebon shook her head.
“Well, I’m not sure until I get it open….” One of the smaller keys fit the lock. He turned it and met resistance, but a slight pressure caused it to rotate with a scraping sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Then the lock snapped open. He set the box on the countertop and pulled the chain away. Holding his breath, he lifted the wooden lid.
There it was, discolored and brittle with age, the cover made from paper glued onto cardboard, peeling away now, and bound to the pages with loose stitches of heavy cotton thread. Somebody had made this copy by hand a long time ago, crudely reproducing an illustration of a sorcerer surrounded by skeletons and devils on the cover. He’d seen a reproduction of that etching online, from the 1893 Portuguese edition in the Library of Lisbon. The fact that it was a copy was a little disappointing. It probably wouldn’t be all that valuable to a bookseller. But what was really important was whether or not the spells inside had been copied down faithfully.
Alejandro lifted the cover carefully to look at the first page, a strange sensation going through his body when he did so, as if he’d eaten something that disagreed with him. The pages seemed to be… greasy somehow, though he knew that was impossible. Grease would make the paper translucent, and it wasn’t. He knew what his grandmother would say about something making him cringe when he touched it, but at nineteen, he was still skeptical about some of her beliefs, even though he respected them. He shrugged the unpleasant feeling off.
The book was in Spanish, thank God, which possibly meant the person who copied it had also translated from Portuguese. Alejandro might be able to struggle his way through a Portuguese edition, but this was so much easier. His family spoke Spanish at home.
Miss Passebon peered over his shoulder and laughed. “It looks like something a kid put together,” she observed.
“No,” Alejandro said, shaking his head. “Somebody copied it by hand, and translated it, maybe. But I recognize some of it from fragments I’ve seen online. I think it may be complete.”
“A complete what?”
“The Great Book of St. Cyprian. It’s a very old book of magic—black magic. A lot of the spells are used today in hoodoo magic, but it’s really unusual to come across a complete copy. Many people wouldn’t want to see a complete copy.”
She gave him a look of disbelief. “Why not?”
“They say you should never touch it, if you value your soul. And if you dare to read the whole thing from cover to cover, the devil will come for you.”
She laughed, obviously not taking any of that seriously. “Oh well, then you’d better get it out of here!”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You might be able to get a good price for it.”
She put one hand on her slender hip and waved the other in the air to take in the shop that had been locked up since Grand-père Passebon passed away a month ago. “I just want to unload all of this stuff and get back to New York. Grand-père was a sweet old man and I want to carry out his wishes, but I don’t have time to get appraisals or anything like that. Take what you like, and the others can take whatever they want. First come, first served.”
Alejandro carefully closed the book and placed the cover back on the box. He’d been hearing about this book his entire life, but he’d never seen it. There were no more than fragments of it online. The feeling of excitement that welled up in him now was almost overwhelming. Still, he had enough presence of mind left to realize he had one big obstacle to overcome if he was going to bring this book home with him.
His grandmother would never allow it into the house.
MATTHEW HAD known the Varela family since he moved to New Hampshire six years ago. Alejandro had stood in the doorway of his apartment building, leaning against the weathered green frame as he watched the moving van being unloaded. He was barefoot and shirtless, his skin smooth and tanned, his torso thin but well-defined. And he was handsome. Very handsome. Short, dark brown hair and eyes so brown they seemed black, set under an angry-looking brow.
Matthew had just hit thirteen, but he already knew he preferred boys to girls. And it was only the fact that his new neighbor scared the crap out of him that prevented him from saying hello. Instead, he helped his mother and her current boyfriend, Frank, carry stuff into the building, watching the Latino boy out of the corner of his eye.
It was Alejandro who spoke first, when everyone but Matthew was inside, out of hearing. “Do you know what street you’re moving in to?”
Matthew stopped and stared at him a moment before giving what he thought was the obvious answer. “Wilson Street.”
The boy—Matthew didn’t know his name yet—made a rude noise. He gestured at the doorway behind him. “This building has my family—the Varelas—and the Perezes living upstairs. Your building has the Riveras on the first floor and the Castillos on the third.”
“So?”
“What’s wrong with this picture?”
Matthew frowned at him and set the box he was carrying down on the walkway. “Nobody told my mom we had to be Hispanic to move in.” What was obvious about the houses on the street was that they were all rundown and broken up into as many apartments as the landlords could fit. This was a poor neighborhood, and Matthew and his mom were poor. So why couldn’t they live here too?
The boy shrugged. “You can live wherever you want.”
“Fine,” Matthew retorted. “I’ll move into your place.”
To his surprise, the boy burst out laughing. “You gonna sleep in my bed, huero?”
The word, Matthew would later learn, meant “blond boy.” But all he could think about at the moment was the implication behind the question. He knew it was just teasing, but it still made his face feel hot. It was probably safest to just ignore it and go back to what he was doing, but he couldn’t resist answering, “Only if I get to be on top.”
Ugh. Did I just say that? He’s gonna kick my ass!
Fortunately, the boy just laughed harder. Matthew quickly scooped up the box and hurried inside, dodging Frank on his way out the door. “Whoa, there, kid! Watch where you’re going!”
Matthew ignored him. Frank was just some guy his mother had met at the diner she worked at. He’d be gone in a few months, just like all the boyfriends she’d had before him. Matthew only spoke to him when he had to.
MATTHEW’S PREDICTION about Frank came true even sooner than expected, when his mother caught one of the other waitresses at Frank’s apartment a couple of weeks later. But the Latino boy next door stayed. For six years, they lived side by side while the neighbors on all sides of them came and went. Not surprisingly, almost all the new neighbors were Latino.
Matthew learned the boy’s name was Alejandro Valera, and when he wasn’t being a wiseass, he was a surprisingly cool guy. By the time they entered high school, they were best friends.
Alejandro was the first person Matthew came out to. Matthew had been a nervous wreck, but Alejandro was totally cool about it. About a year later, when they were both sixteen, Alejandro finally admitted he was gay too. Unfortunately, despite the fantasies that revelation stirred up in Matthew’s lustful teenage mind, nothing happened between them. They remained friends, but Alejandro never showed any sexual interest in Matthew, so Matthew learned to accept that they would always just be friends.
Wilson Street wasn’t strictly a Latino neighborhood, but it was close enough. If anyone had a problem with the huero and his mother living in their midst, however, it was never ment
ioned. Matthew suspected that might be due to his friendship with Alejandro and who the boy’s grandmother was. Abuela, as Alejandro called her—as everybody called her, though it simply meant “grandmother” in Spanish—had lived in the neighborhood a very long time. More importantly, she ran St. Peter’s Botanica a few blocks down, one of the few Santeria botánicas in the city.
Abuela was ancient—or at least she’d always seemed so to Matthew—tough, and generally cranky. She was also very tiny. Neither boy was particularly tall, but they’d towered over her since their second year of high school. She spoke very little English, and her face wore a perpetual scowl. Matthew had been convinced she hated him the first couple of years. But Alejandro began tutoring him informally in Spanish, starting with insults and obscenities and gradually moving on to more coherent phrases. Eventually, Matthew grew interested enough to take Spanish in school. Alejandro helped him with his homework, and once Abuela saw that he was putting some effort into learning the language, she began to talk to him too. Matthew didn’t always understand the first, or even the second, time she said something, but she was more patient than he’d expected. By his senior year in high school, Abuela treated him like a second grandson. She still scowled at him and her manner was still curt, but now there was an undercurrent of humor in it.
And that’s how he came to be working in the botanica. Abuela didn’t like strangers working in her shop, so she refused to hire anyone she didn’t know. And she didn’t know anyone—not really. She was known in the neighborhood and people respected her, but Matthew got the impression she made a lot of people nervous. Some would come to St. Peter’s for herbs or protection sprays, floor washes to drive out dark magic, holy water, powders for money or love, or Florida Water—a cheap cologne Abuela was fond of that used to be common in the eighteen hundreds and was now used for spiritual cleansing. Many people consulted the old woman for advice, both magical and otherwise—she read cards, cowry shells, and coffee beans. But few people came to her apartment for just a friendly chat. So she worked the botanica alone and drafted her grandson, when he was old enough. By the time he was eighteen, Matthew was allowed behind the counter to help out.
