The Psychic's Tale [Part One of the The Fitzwarren Inheritance]

Published by Silver Publishing

Publisher of Erotic Romance

The

Tale

Part One of The

Fitzwarren Inheritance

A Trilogy from a Trio

Chris Quinton

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The Psychic's Tale

Chris Quinton

From a book written in 1899:

—The History of Steeple Westford by the Rev.

Horace Simpkins—

So in the autumn of the year 1644, Jonathan

Curtess cursed Belvedere Fitzwarren, saying, "I curse you

and your children's children, that you shall all live out your

allotted years, and that those years shall be filled with grief

and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed and

bereaved me."

The Psychic's Tale

Chris Quinton

Chapter One

Mark finished reading the page, then closed the

small leather-bound book and pushed it away from him.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, interested despite the

unease in his gut.

"I found it in the Records and Resources section of

Branches. It's an online genealogy site," his grandmother

added helpfully. "It's amazing what you can find on the

Web."

"No argument there. Okay, so we're descended from

this Curtess bloke," he said, taking off his glasses and

dropping them into his shirt pocket. "But I don't see what

it's supposed to do with us." Alice didn't say anything. Just

pursed her lips and glared, a surprisingly effective tactic

despite her round cheerful features framed by untidy curls

of thick white hair. "I wish you'd never started this

genealogy craze. Just let it go."

"I can't. We can't." Her green eyes blazed with

crusading zeal, and Mark groaned quietly to himself. "An

injustice was done," she continued, "and nothing can repair

the damage it's already caused. But it has to end. If I could

walk farther than the end of the street, I'd do it myself. I

can't, so it's up to you."

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Chris Quinton

"Don't be ridiculous." Even as he said it, Mark

knew he was wasting his breath. Once his grandmother got

the bit between her teeth, she took off like a metaphorical

racehorse—or in this case, a warhorse—and it would take

an Act of God to deflect her. Sometimes he regretted

introducing her to the Internet, especially when she started

hunting down records of ancestors and discovering some

interesting characters. The Renfrews, it seemed, were

descended from an infamous warlock. Or witch. Or

sorcerer…

"I looked them up in the phone book. The

Fitzwarrens still live in Steeple Westford, and the curse is

still working. I found the archive site of the local paper, and

Sir Charles Fitzwarren and his eldest son were killed in a

car crash ten years ago. A tree fell on them in that terrible

storm. No one found them until the next day. Poor souls."

"Gran, accidents happen. Uncle Harry died falling

off a ladder. Dad was pissed as a newt and drove his car

into a tree. No one had cursed them as far as I know."

She took no notice, just carried on over him. "Sir

Charles left a wife, three sons and a daughter. Since then,

the next eldest boy has died of leukaemia, and soon after

that, their mother took an overdose. You have to do

something, Mark." Two pairs of green eyes locked gazes

and glowered at each other. Mark looked away first, a wry

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Chris Quinton

amusement twitching his lips.

"Yes, Gran," he sighed, humouring her. "What,

exactly? How am I supposed to break a centuries old curse

that's probably made up out of whole cloth by an

enterprising yokel to impress the tourists?"

"How would I know?" Alice snapped. "All I can do

is interpret dreams and field the occasional premonition.

You're the high-powered psychic. You work it out!" She

never referred to him as a medium, preferring the more

general term for some reason she didn't seem to feel

obliged to properly explain. "Pass me my knitting and

make me a cup of tea, there's a dear. And help yourself to

the fruit cake. You're too skinny! Even your boyfriends say

so."

That complaint reared its head every time he

visited. "They do not!" Mark protested. "Paddy said I had

interesting bones, that's all, and I haven't been with him for

over a year."

"Exactly!" she said triumphantly.

"He was talking about my face," he reminded her.

"He's a professional photographer, so I'll take it as a

compliment."

"Too skinny," Alice insisted. "If you ever relaxed

and stayed still long enough to sunbathe, they could use

your ribs as a xylophone, and I'm still waiting for that tea."

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Chris Quinton

Muttering under his breath, Mark retreated to the

small kitchen and busied himself with kettle and teapot. No

teabags for Alice Renfrew. Oh, no. Had to be Twinings

Darjeeling loose-leaf tea brewed in her Royal Doulton

teapot and drunk from a mismatched Royal Doulton cup

and saucer. He smiled affectionately as he waited for the

kettle to boil. At eighty-six, Alice lived in a warden-

assisted ground floor flat in Wilton and, on good days,

tottered with her walker frame as far as the nearby post

office. On bad days she used her Broomstick, the scarlet

mobility scooter that had inspired the local kids to grant her

the nickname of Hell's Granny. But, frail though her plump

body might often be, her mind and her wit were still sharp.

Most of the time. He visited Alice once a month, staying

for a few days to do any odd jobs she needed and driving

her out to her favourite haunts. It was no hardship.

Alice had been an anchor and safe harbour most of

Mark's life. For as far back as he could remember, his

father had spent most of his waking hours in a whisky

bottle. Edward Renfrew had died when Mark was ten,

when Mark's own psychic ability had begun to show up

with unsettling frequency. His mother couldn't cope with

either event. By the time Mark reached fourteen, he'd

become pretty sure he was gay, and that proved the final

straw for Sally. She could not, would not, accept it. She had

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Chris Quinton

simply walked out of his life, married her long-term boy

toy and moved to Spain. Twelve years on, the only times he

had any contact from her were cards every Christmas.

Saccharinely pious, religious cards.

"I'm serious, you know," Alice called, jolting him

out of his reverie. "You have the Renfrew Talent, even

stronger than your dad—"

"And he drank himself to death because of it," Mark

interrupted.

"Only because he wouldn't use it! Poor Ed…" She

heaved a sigh loud enough to be audible even in the

kitchen. "He fought it. You don't."

He didn't respond to that. He used the

uncomfortable gift, yes, but from deep cover. He was a

research assistant for the Bristol-based Goldstream Media

and its main product, the highly successful and critically

slated, The Dominic Waldron Experience. The paranormal

reality show would descend on a given setting with

phenomena-detecting gizmos and cameras, and Waldron

would reveal the ghostly apparitions and their stories to an

awestruck audience. Contrary to his publicity, Waldron was

about as psychic as a wet paper bag. Mark wasn't. He found

the sites, found the names and dates from the restless dead,

did the conventional research and passed it on to his

immediate boss, who presented it to the star and got

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Chris Quinton

together with the script writers to produce the scripts for

him. And none of them knew why or how Mark was so

very good at rooting out all the obscure information.

Exactly the way Mark liked it.

The kettle whistled, and he warmed the pot before

spooning in the leaves and filling it up. Letting it stand for

the requisite four minutes, he thought about the Reverend

Simpkins' old book. Steeple Westford was about fifty-five

miles away from his home-base in Bristol, and a ten-minute

drive from here in Wilton. If the story had some basis in

fact, it might make a good venue for a future show. He

could kill two birds with one stone. So to speak. It wouldn't

be that far out of his way to do an initial reconnaissance

while heading back home tomorrow, and it wasn't as if he

had anyone to go home to these days. Mark pushed his

fingers through hair as thick and untidily curling as his

grandmother's. He had inherited the Renfrew mane, that

wouldn't answer to styling, and the chestnut colour, more

than brown and not quite auburn. He probably wouldn't go

bald with age, but he would almost certainly be

prematurely grey. Just like Alice.

"So this is one of your premonitions?" he asked.

"Yes. A strong one."

Mark gave in to the inevitable. "Okay, Gran, I'll

look into it," he said. "But I'm promising nothing."

The Psychic's Tale

Chris Quinton

* * * *

Steeple Westford turned out to be a large village

just on the Wiltshire side of the Wiltshire/Dorset border.

Once it had been centred around St. Michael's, an elegant

country church in a pleasantly refined blending of

Decorated and Perpendicular architecture, and the older

shops were still there, along with the post office. But the

construction of a council estate in the fifties had formed

another centre around a small supermarket, a modern pub

called the Slug and Lettuce, a hair salon and a fish and chip

shop. There were two more inns, one at each end of the

High Street—the Highwayman and the Red Lion.

Mark chose to try for lunch at the Red Lion, it being

the oldest by several centuries, and more likely to have

ghostly happenings that might be useful fodder for

Waldron's TV show. The structure was from the fifteenth

century, while the other had a Georgian facade. Inside, the

main saloon lived up to its promise of age. Black timbers

stretched across the ceilings, patterned the pale yellow

walls and framed the crooked windows. The only level line

in the place was formed by the bar itself, a Victorian affair

in rich mahogany. Even the massive stone mantel over the

huge hearth had a slight angle. Though still summer-warm

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Chris Quinton

outside, a faint smell of wood smoke drifted over the scents

of beer and furniture polish, and he could easily imagine

logs burning in the wide grate during autumn and winter.

Mark leaned on the bar and inspected the menu,

finally opting for chicken and chips, then retreated with his

beer to a table by the window. At the next table along sat a

man of about his own age, poring over large photographs

spread across his table. His long black hair hung forward,

partially screening his profile, and he hummed quietly to

himself as he scribbled in a dog-eared shorthand notebook.

Incurably curious, Mark craned his neck to see what the

photos were, but could make nothing of them. They looked

like something downloaded from Google Earth.

Then the man glanced around, and Mark found

himself caught by silver eyes with a dark ring around the

edge of their irises, eyes that crinkled at the corners and

were set in a lean, deeply tanned face with a mischievous

smile. That smile and the light in the man's gaze sank deep

into Mark's consciousness and resonated through his blood.

That the stranger had wide shoulders and powerful arms,

both displayed well by his blue tee-shirt, was an added

bonus. Not even the white logo Archaeologists do it in

trenches dampened Mark's interest. If they were in the bar

of the Chartreuse Room, one of the gathering places for

gays in Bristol, he would have done his damnedest to

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Chris Quinton

connect with him.

"Um," Mark fumbled for words, unaccountably

short of breath. "Sorry, just being nosy. About the photos."

"It's okay." The man pushed a couple closer to the

edge and nearer to Mark. "They're aerial shots of the local

farms."

"Oh." And because he wanted to keep the man

talking, he blurted out the first thing that came into his

head. "Surveying?"

"Well…" He considered that with his head tilted to

one side, mouth slightly pursed. "Not quite. But close." He

sat up straight and held out his hand. "Jack Faulkner."

"Mark Renfrew," he replied, taking the hand and

shaking it.

"Nice to meet you, Mark." Jack didn't seem to be in

a hurry to let go of his hand. His smile widened a little,

revealing a single dimple in his left cheek, and Mark's heart

jumped a beat. Was that interest or wishful thinking on his

part? It unnerved him a little that he couldn't be sure. "I'll

tell you mine if you tell me yours," Jack said, and Mark

took his hand back with a jerk, feeling his colour rising.

"Okay," he said. "So what have you got here?"

"Look at these," Jack said, tapping the aerial

photographs. They threatened to slide from the table to the

floor, and he lunged to recapture the escapees. He anchored

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Chris Quinton

them with his empty beer glass and looked across at Mark.

"These were taken during one of the hottest, driest

summers in the last twenty years, and look at what they're

showing. See these?" Mark automatically took out his

glasses and slipped them on. Jack pointed to a series of

marks in a brown field. They showed as dark and light

outlines of what might be the floor plan of a building. "This

could be a second century AD corridor villa, and these," he

said, tracing curving lines that radiated away from and

around the possible villa, "are probably ditches and banks

that could signify an earlier British farming settlement. In

case you didn't guess, I'm an archaeologist."

His enthusiasm seemed genuine, and Mark found

himself suddenly at ease with him. "Well, the tee-shirt was

a clue," he said. "So you're going to excavate that?"

"Nope. Not me, unfortunately. I'm a freelance."

"Indiana Jones?" Mark suggested slyly. Jack rolled

his eyes.

"If I had a pound for every Indie-joke, I'd be a

bloody millionaire," he grumbled, his smile widening to a

grin. "I take on short-term contracts anywhere I'm wanted.

For instance, I've just spent a season on Crete, second-in-

command of the excavation of a fourteenth century BC

Minoan palace, and now I'm on a contract to find suitable

training digs for the University of Bristol. Which means my

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Chris Quinton

bank account is healthy, I'm driving around the English

countryside in classic Indian summer weather, and I'm

finding some of the best pub grub and beer available. All in

all, life is pretty good."

"Footloose and fancy free," Mark said lightly. That

grin was blinding against the man's deep tan and gave his

already handsome features, a certain gypsy rover charm.

The untidy mane of black hair falling around his shoulders

added to the image, and Mark silently thanked God he was

sitting down when his cock began to show an inordinate

amount of interest in Jack Faulkner. Oh, please let him be

gay…

"Oh, yes. That's me. Your turn."

"I'm a research assistant for a TV company in

Bristol, but right now I'm doing some family research."

Which was no lie. His grandmother had given him a list of

names as well as the curse-breaking assignment. He did not

want it known he had connections to Goldstream or the

very well known Waldron just yet. "My gran has been

bitten by the genealogy bug, and as she's virtually

housebound, I've been tasked to check gravestones, parish

records, talk to locals, and take as many photos as

possible."

"Sounds like a good way to spend a day or two."

There was that dimple again.

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Chris Quinton

Mark cleared his throat. "Um, yes, it is, actually. So

I'm planning to be here for a couple of days if I can book in

somewhere," he heard himself say.

"No kidding?" Jack answered with pleased surprise,

and Mark's cheeks grew hotter. "Then later on we can

update each other on our various projects."

"Sounds like a plan," Mark said weakly, and

couldn't think of anything else to say. Rescue came in the

shape of his meal, which turned out to be half a roast bird, a

mountain of chips, and a large portion of fresh salad on a

plate approximately the size of a dustbin lid.

Jack scooped his photos into a sheaf and slid them

into a folder. "So I'll see you later," he said cheerfully.

"Ask at the bar about rooms. They do bed and breakfast

here, and the breakfasts are great."

Did that mean Jack was staying at the inn? If so, all

the more reason to book in. "Thanks, I will." Mark watched

him walk out, taking note of the long legs and strong thighs

showing to good advantage in well-worn, close-fitting

jeans. "Oh, God," he sighed. "I need my head read." While

he wasn't in the closet, neither did he broadcast his

sexuality to the skies. He didn't often indulge in random

pickups, but his attraction to Jack had been immediate. He

hastily reviewed his brief conversation with the

archaeologist. Had Jack been flirting or was he deluding

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himself? He couldn't decide. He would just have to play it

by ear from now on, until he could be sure either way.

* * * *

There was a room available at the Red Lion. Like

the saloon downstairs, level surfaces were in short supply.

The floor had a slight tilt down towards the outside wall,

and the double bed faced the window, its two end legs

wedged up on shallow wooden blocks. The wardrobe and

dressing table were similarly adapted to the eccentric

flooring, and a comfortable-looking, high-backed armchair

faced a small TV in the corner. Mark dumped his holdall on

the bed and gazed out of the window at the view. The tower

of the church soared above beech and oak trees not yet

showing autumn colours, and beyond them the downs rose

in smooth curves of patchwork fields, green and brown and

stubble-gold. It was peaceful as well as beautiful, and he

opened the window to breathe in the fresh air. Off in the

distance he could hear a tractor chugging away. Close by, a

dog barked, pigeons purred and cooed, and sparrows

squabbled in the bushes below. All of it was a far cry from

his second floor flat in Staple Hill, a suburb of Bristol. But

at least his job allowed him to visit places like this right

across the country.

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Chris Quinton

That thought reminded him he had a dual purpose

for being here, and he seemed to be in the best place to gain

local information. But first he'd investigate the Red Lion

for any paranormal phenomenon, and then take a look

around the churchyard for some of the names his gran had

given him while there was good light for photography. So

Mark sat in the armchair, rolled his shoulders to stretch out

any tension, and leaned back, closing his eyes.

When he was seven or eight, when the voices and

the images had begun to assault him, scaring him into

hysterical tears and bed-wetting, his grandmother had

gently taught him to visualise the perfect playroom, with

cheerful curtains over the windows and a brightly painted

door. That door had a lock, and a shiny golden key to hang

on a chain around his neck. He and his talent lived in that

room, and only he could draw back the curtains, only he

could open the door.

It had taken a while, but as soon as he had built the

picture in his head and somehow anchored it in place, the

voices and attendant images fell under his control and

could be kept outside the walls, unseen and unheard unless

he chose otherwise. The details of the Safe Room had

changed as he grew older, but the purpose remained the

same.

Now he opened his inner eyes in that room. There

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Chris Quinton

he lounged on a long, wide couch, facing a huge wall-

mounted, flat-screen TV. Instead of pulling back the

curtains to look for who or what might be there, he picked

up the remote and turned on the television. A burst of white

static flared across the screen and slowly resolved itself

into a series of faint slideshow images.

In a kitchen that no longer existed in this time, a

small boy had curled into a corner. The child was intensely,

vibrantly happy. He had a warm, safe place with regular

food for the first time in his short life, and all he had to do

to earn it was turn a spit. The joy of it had sunk into the

very foundations of the inn.

In an attic room above Mark, a scrawny girl wept

over her stillborn infant in a storm of grief and fear and

betrayal. She'd wrapped the tiny body in bloody rags, and

her own blood poured from her. Somewhere else in the inn,

a voice called insistently, repeatedly, for George…

Three entities. That was all, and only one of them

distressed. Later on, if he had the chance, he'd see what he

could do for the girl. Mark turned off his inner TV and left

his Safe Room.

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Chris Quinton

Chapter Two

Mark found none of the names on Alice's list in the

churchyard,

but

lack

evidence

the

Curtess/Fitzwarren feud. There were a lot of Fitzwarrens

buried there, and the dates of births and deaths gave added

weight to the story of the curse. A sense of all-pervading

angry sorrow hung around the Fitzwarren crypt and

surrounding graves, an invisible cloud far more than just

the echoes of grieving. Mark didn't dare open up to it, even

though he trusted the wards around his inner room

implicitly. Instead he made the barriers stronger. There

were too many restless souls here, all trapped by

resentment of their untimely deaths. In a blinding instant,

he knew those deaths had been caused by a thirst for

vengeance so great it had not cared to separate the guilty

from the innocent.

The curse was sickeningly real, and he did not have

a clue what he could do about it. A headache began to

pound in his temples, and Mark retreated to the church in

the hope there'd be some respite from the anguished

miasma emanating from the dead Fitzwarrens. Sure

enough, as he pushed open the heavy arched door, the

pressure fell away, and he walked down a modern non-skid

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Chris Quinton

ramp into the nave of St. Michael's. The place had that

musty old stone-dust-flowers-and-beeswax smell peculiar

to Church of England establishments. No incense here, no

odour of sanctity. Just peace and quiet. There were a couple

of people down by the pulpit, so Mark strolled towards the

west door to inspect the stained glass in the ornate window

above it.

Malice struck at him, and he staggered, going down

on one knee before he could catch himself. He must have

cried out because running footsteps came towards him and

hands steadied him.

"Are you alright?" a man's voice asked, and he

looked up at a handsome face. He guessed the man to be

perhaps a few years younger than himself, and a couple of

inches taller, with grey-blue eyes and short, neatly styled

light brown hair. Where Mark was angular, he was slim.

"Yes, I think I tripped," Mark said, shaken and

desperate to be out of the range of that corrosive hatred.

"The flagstones are uneven. Come on, let me help

you." He proved more hindrance than help as Mark lurched

to his feet.

"Is your ankle alright?" a girl asked, staring at him

with concern. Her hair was a straight bob, a few shades

lighter than the man's and brightened with sun-streaks. She

had a pretty face, freckled across her cheekbones and

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Chris Quinton

without makeup. They were obviously brother and sister,

like enough to be twins. A modest engagement ring

sparkled discreetly on her left hand, Mark noticed

distractedly. "Help him to the pew, Phil. It's not the first

time someone's come a cropper just here," she added with a

frown at her companion, as if she blamed him.

"Don't start, Di," he muttered.

"I'm okay, really," Mark put in quickly. "I think I'll

go outside."

"See?" she hissed, her frown becoming a scowl.

"It's that bloody stone, isn't it? One day I'm going to take a

sledgehammer to the blasted thing!"

"What?" Mark gaped at her. "Stone?"

"Di, pack it in! Take no notice; she's being a

superstitious idiot."

"I am not! Sorry, we should introduce ourselves. I'm

Di Fitzwarren, this is my brother, Phil, and we're cursed,"

she finished. Phil sighed and rolled his eyes, but said

nothing.

"Mark Renfrew," Mark replied. "What stone?"

"Renfrew?" The girl drew back from him as if he

had suddenly contracted the plague. "Renfrew? I don't

believe it! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Whoa!" Phil exclaimed. "Di, stop it! He's no more

responsible than we are!"

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Chris Quinton

"Sod off!" she snapped, and stalked out of the door,

slamming it behind her. No mean feat, given the weight of

the thing. The massive boom echoed through the church,

and the two men gazed at each other in consternation.

"Sorry," Phil said before Mark could speak. "It's a

long story, and that stone is part of it." He gestured behind

him towards a table. It had the usual religious leaflets and

church booklets spread over a heavy white cloth that

reached the floor. "Listen, I think we need to talk. Do you

have time?"

"Not now," Mark said. He wanted to be out of there

as fast as he could make it. "But I'm staying at the Red

Lion."

"Great. I'll meet you there in half an hour?"

Mark hesitated for a few seconds. "Alright," he said

reluctantly.

"See you later, then. I better get after Di before she

finds that sledgehammer." He disappeared out through the

door at a run, and Mark wanted nothing more than to

follow him. Instead he forced himself to walk the few paces

that took him to the covered whatever-it-was, and lifted a

corner of the cloth.

Beneath the table lay a nearly six feet long slab of

sarsen stone, one of those time-worn boulders that littered

Salisbury Plain, aftermaths of the last Ice Age, deposited as

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the ice sheet retreated. Thousands of years ago, people had

dragged some to sacred sites and planted them in circles

and avenues and used them as facia for long barrows.

Gritting his teeth, Mark folded the cloth right back

and knelt to give the stone a closer inspection. It hadn't

been shaped, but what looked like a lot of words had been

carved into it. He couldn't read them, and he simply

couldn't stay near the stone and the bitter darkness that

seeped from it any longer. He let the cloth fall and hurried

out of the church.

That had to be the curse-stone. But if a consecrated

church couldn't dispel its malevolence, how could he?

* * * *

Trade had slackened off by the time Mark returned

to the inn, and the twenty-something barmaid who pulled a

pint for him proved happy to chat with a customer. It

helped that Mark was good-looking in a rather gaunt,

harassed librarian kind of way, and wasn't above using that

fact to his advantage when it came to getting information.

Charlie and Carol Fitzwarren, Josie told him,

looked on the Red Lion as their local pub, and often used to

drop in for a pint. But not recently since she'd become

pregnant again. Phil, the younger brother, was also a

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Chris Quinton

frequent patron. Diana, the middle sibling, was supposed to

be getting married in St. Michael's at the end of the month,

but they might have to postpone the wedding again if Carol

lost another baby.

"The Fitzes have had a lot of problems," Josie said

with quiet sadness. "I feel so sorry for them. Sometimes I

think that silly legend might almost be true. It just not fair,

you know?"

"I know what you mean," Mark said with quiet

sympathy. "But more often than not bad luck is just that."

"Huh. Then the Fitzes have been having bad luck

for four hundred years."

"Yes, well… So, um, what's the story behind that

stone in the church? The sarsen?"

"That's the Fitzwarren Inheritance," Josie said, a

wry twist to her mouth, but she didn't elaborate further.

"There's writing on it," he persisted.

"Yes," said Phil from behind him. "As Di said, the

family's cursed. But the curser, who happens to be an

ancestor of the Renfrews incidentally, left us some helpful

hints on how to lift it. The stone reads, When the one who

reads the earth joins with he who sees beyond, when the

warrior and the healer stand to swear a sacred bond, when

the one who seeks in danger is sworn to the landless lord,

then shall my curse be lifted and all the lands restored.

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Very helpful, isn't it?"

"That's on the stone in the church?" Mark stared at

him, baffled. "It felt more like the bloody curse!"

"Did it?" Phil frowned. "What do you mean felt?

That's why you went down?"

"I—tripped. Uneven flagstone."

"Bollocks. You felt something. And you're a bloody

Renfrew." But he sounded more bemused than angry.

"Yes, I'm a bloody Renfrew." Mark took the

Reverend Simpkins' small book out of his hip pocket and

slapped it on the bar top. "This was written in 1899 by the

vicar of St. Michael's. He doesn't mention that stone being

in the church, just the curse-stone up at the castle."

"That's because they only found it when the

wheelchair ramp was put in fifteen or so years ago. It had

been the threshold stone for the church porch and laid on its

side. The words couldn't easily be read, so everyone must

have forgotten about it."

"So what did your family do about it?"

"Do?" Phil snapped scornfully. "What do you think

we bloody well did? Dad guessed the sees beyond meant

psychic and contacted as many as he could. Most of them

talked a complete load of bull, and a few nearly passed out

when he showed them the stone. Just like you did."

"So what did they tell him?"

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"Nothing! Fulfil the requirements and the curse

would go. Simple, right? Josie, a whisky, please."

"And I'll have a coffee, please. Put them both on my

tab. Come on." Mark picked up his book and retreated to a

corner table. Thankfully they were nearly alone in the bar,

though they were collecting some stares from the few old

men nursing beers across the room.

"So what did you feel?" Phil asked as he joined

him.

"Vindictiveness," Mark answered shortly. "He

didn't intend it to be lifted, just wanted to twist the knife. I

read some of my grandmother's genealogy research before I

came here, but I found nothing on that stone in the church,

and not a lot about your family at all, just names and

dates."

"Thank God. We don't want a lot of freaks poking

about in our business. Sorry. That wasn't aimed at you. But

why are you here? Genealogy, you said?"

"My grandmother's addiction." He explained briefly

about the family tree hunt, but no more.

"So you came to see how the curse was coming

along?" Phil asked bitterly.

"No, sod it! Gran only showed me the book

yesterday, and that's the first I'd heard of it. And the

Fitzwarrens. I knew she'd been tracking down family

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Chris Quinton

connections like some kind of elderly bloodhound, but

this… I didn't believe it was real until that stone hit me."

"I can understand that."

By mutual consent they paused when Josie brought

Mark's coffee. She slammed it down on the table so hard

the liquid slopped into the saucer and splashed the book.

"Suddenly I'm persona non grata?" he snorted.

"Does everyone know the Renfrew connection? Are they

all genealogists or what?"

"Pretty much," Phil answered. "The curse has

affected the whole village, one way or another. It's well-

documented that Curtess's son reverted to his mother's

family name when he grew up. She was a Renfrew."

"Look," Mark spoke loud enough for the retreating

girl to hear, "I can't be held responsible for what my

ancestor did nearly four hundred years ago, any more than

you are for what yours did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Phil snapped,

suddenly hostile.

Mark shrugged. "From what Simpkins says in

here," he said, tapping the book, "the Fitzwarren of the time

wanted Curtess land, so he accused him of crimes that in

that century would whip up the most frenzy. Witchcraft and

sodomy. At least, I'm assuming that's what 'unnatural

practices' mean, given another poor bugger got taken and

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burned by the mob. So Fitzwarren instigated the hunts that

ended up with two people suffering horrific deaths so he

could buy out the widow at well below the going rate."

"That's—" Phil began hotly.

"And my ancestor," Mark continued over him,

"struck back with way too much viciousness. I can see he

would want revenge, who wouldn't? But what he did was

out of all proportion. So your man wasn't exactly

blameless, but mine was patently a vindictive bastard.

Agreed?"

Phil sat there in silence for a while, his fists

clenched as if he wanted to beat Mark into a pulp. Then he

slumped a little and nodded.

"Agreed," he said grudgingly. He might have added

more perhaps, but a young girl rushed into the saloon,

white-faced and shaking.

"Mr. Fitz," she gasped, clutching his arm and

tugging. "Mrs. Fitz has fallen down, and there's blood all

over!"

Phil shot to his feet. "Where?"

"Just down the street."

Phil didn't hesitate. He ran out of the door, Mark

sprinting after him, and the inn's few patrons trailing in

their wake.

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* * * *

A small crowd huddled on the pavement. Phil

pushed through to kneel at the fallen woman's side. Before

people pressed between them, cutting off Mark's view, he

saw an obviously pregnant twenty-something sprawled

awkwardly in a widening pool of blood. Her eyes were

closed, and a deep gash in her scalp bled profusely. Mark

felt sick.

"Poor girl…" whispered a middle-aged woman

beside him. "This'll be the fourth she's lost. Has someone

gone for Doctor Lester?"

"That evil, evil curse!" her companion sobbed.

Then there came a mutter from behind him and a

sharp prod between his shoulder blades. "Him. He's a

Renfrew, a Curtess."

"Curtess?" The two women rounded on Mark, and

the hostility in their faces sent him back a pace, forcing the

man behind him to shuffle aside. It was one of the old men

from the inn.

"This isn't my fault!" Mark protested. "It's an

accident!"

"A Curtess?" someone snarled. "Where?"

That was enough for Mark. He wasn't a coward, but

he wasn't a fool, either. He continued to back away, then

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Chris Quinton

turned on his heel and walked quickly to the Red Lion.

When he reached his table, he found a cigarette stub

floating in his cooling coffee.

Mark could take a hint. He went straight up to his

room, grabbed his backpack, left enough cash to cover his

meal and drinks and the night he wouldn't be staying, then

hastened down to the car park behind the inn. His heart

didn't stop racing until Steeple Westford was miles behind

him.

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Chris Quinton

Chapter Three

As soon as he reached home, Mark phoned his

grandmother.

"It's real," he said when she answered the phone.

"Well, of course it is, dear," she answered

imperturbably. "I told you so. Have you decided what

you're going to do?"

He gave an unamused snort. "Yes, stay in Staple

Hill. By the way the locals reacted when they discovered I

had a connection to the Curtesses, the bloody thing could

have been cast last week. If I hadn't got out of there fast, I

might have been tarred and feathered."

"Mark, you can't just up and leave!" Alice said

quickly. "You have to do something!"

"I can try," he replied. "I'll research all I can from

home. The malicious bastard left a virtually impossible to

interpret crash course on How to Lift a Curse."

"He did? What is it?"

Mark recited the quatrain as accurately as he could

and won an irritated sound from her.

"He's a nasty sod, and no mistake," she muttered.

"Is he still hanging around?"

"No idea. I only found one of the curse-stones, the

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Chris Quinton

one in the church. The other is, I suppose, still in the castle.

It's possible I can find out enough that'll give the

Fitzwarrens the chance to fix it themselves." He hesitated

for a moment. "Gran, I think Carol Fitzwarren has just had

another miscarriage."

"Oh, no! Then you need to be quick. Never mind

the stones. Find the place where he died or where he's

buried. Either of those might give you an edge."

"Yes, I know."

"Mark, dear," she said with a gentleness in her

voice that provided all the warning he needed, "I think you

shouldn't have left. You must go back."

"No. Absolutely not. I can do everything necessary

from here. Gran, you have no idea what that stone was

radiating. Even with all my walls up, it nearly knocked me

flat."

"Yes, I'm sure, but… never mind. See what you can

discover, then decide. I have to go now; my TV show is

starting."

"Okay, Gran. Take care. Love you," he added. He

so very rarely said it, and right now, it seemed important to

him that he did.

"You, too, sweetie."

* * * *

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Chris Quinton

Mark's flat took up the whole of the second floor of

a Victorian terrace house. It had been his from his second

year at Bristol University; a warm, welcoming place and a

familiar haven. Back then he had shared the rent with three

others, but over time he had gradually become the sole

occupant. Now he had a living room, two bedrooms and a

study as well as a recently modernised bathroom and a

good-sized kitchen. It was home in a very special way.

But Mark could not settle. Restless, on edge, vague

doubts swirling around in his head, he prowled study and

living room, unable to be still. That didn't change

throughout the remainder of the day, and when he finally

went to bed, he couldn't sleep for a long time. Random

thoughts kept running in circles like rats in a wheel.

Jack Faulkner. Talk about missed opportunities. He

might have had a chance there… He should have left a

note, but Josie would probably have burnt it. Perhaps his

grandmother was right. He should have stayed. Or at least,

not left the area completely. He should go back. There were

other villages with pubs. He could set up a base nearby and

work on the puzzle within striking distance of the Fitzes.

Carol Fitzwarren. God, all that blood. Another life

lost, maybe two.

Blood. Mark turned over, barely awake, and kicked

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Chris Quinton

off the lightweight duvet. The Indian summer still pumped

out warm weather day and night, but he couldn't summon

up the will or the coordination to get out of bed and open

another window.

Jack. Regret became a sullen ache in his chest. It

would have been good to have dinner with him, talk over

their day, maybe even bounce theories and ideas off him.

But it would be more likely Jack would be a sceptic and

pour derision on the whole paranormal scenario. That was

his dates' usual reaction, when he was unwise enough to tell

them what he did for a living. Ghost stories and curses were

great in novels and films. In real life, they were jokes and

treated like it by most people Mark knew. Including

Goldstream and Dominic Waldron, off-camera. So perhaps

not. He did not want to see that amused condescension on

those gypsy features. Or, even worse, scorn. The ache grew

sharper. He turned his pillow over and rested his cheek on

the cool cotton, then flopped onto his back and spread-

eagled across the double bed.

Blood to blood.

If he found the circle…

And Mark drifted into a deep sleep, carrying the

thought with him.

Blood…

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* * * *

BBC Radio Four's Today programme jerked Mark

awake at seven-thirty, snatching him out of a dream when

he was just about to discover whether Jack Faulkner's tan

stretched all over his remarkably toned body. His cock lay

hot on his belly, morning-hard and secreting pre-come slick

on his skin. Tuning out the presenter's mellifluous voice, he

cupped his testicles in his hand, gently kneading the sac. It

had been a while since he'd had a lover. His relationships

were casual and rarely lasted more than a few months, each

one drifting to a close without recriminations or regret on

either side. He didn't really need anyone in his life, but

waking up beside a lover and indulging in slow, sweet

morning sex was always a plus.

He didn't consciously think of Jack Faulkner as he

slowly worked himself towards orgasm, his other hand

teasing his nipple. But in his head it was Jack's mouth kiss-

biting the pebbled nub, not his own fingers lightly

pinching. And the so-soft brush of the sheet over his

sweating skin became the sweep of Jack's long hair as he

bobbed over Mark's cock, taking it deep into the wet cavern

of his mouth and sucking. He climaxed with a hitching

gasp, the unexpected force of it catching him in mid breath.

After breakfast, Mark did what he should have done

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Chris Quinton

right from the start, before he even set foot in Steeple

Westford. He Googled Westford Castle. The image that

arrived on his screen was no full-blown castle. It was more

of a fortified, but not very defensible, Medieval manor

house. Two squat towers sat one at each end of a

continuous range, consisting of a hall with huge windows

and private apartments set between the hall and the south

tower. Along with the more ruinous north tower, none of it

looked to be fit for habitation.

The gatehouse was another matter. It had been built

a lot later and was far larger than just a simple gatehouse. A

long building, its ground floor walls were part chalk blocks,

part flint in the local chequerboard tradition, while the two

upper storeys had once-white plaster between dark, crooked

timbers. Curtains graced the small, lead-paned windows,

and smoke rose from the chimneys. A cobbled road led up

to the gatehouse through the wide arch that divided the

ground floor in half and into a grassed courtyard. Bright

flowerbeds could be seen through the arch. It could have

been a postcard in a souvenir shop.

The account that went with the picture claimed that

Westford had been built by Lawrence Fitzwarren in the late

thirteenth century and was the finest and best preserved

fortified Medieval manor house in England. After giving a

brief history, the article stated that the castle still belonged

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to the Fitzwarren family, who lived in the gatehouse, and

they did not open it to the public. Then it went on to

elaborate on what Mark had already seen in the Reverend

Simpkins' book:

Like any historical site, Westford Castle has its fair

share of stories and ghostly happenings. The most well

known is that of Sir Belvedere Fitzwarren. The rivalry

between the Fitzwarrens and the Curtesses of nearby

Eastbridge began in 1281 when Lawrence acquired the

land that Julian Curtess also wanted. It culminated in

1644, in the middle of the English Civil War, with Sir

Belvedere accusing Sir Jonathan Curtess of witchcraft and

unnatural practices. He led a mob that drove Sir Jonathan

out of his home and caused a young man of the household

to be burned alive at the stake. It is said that Sir Jonathan

lived for a month in the wilds of Salisbury Plain, hiding in

a shepherd's hut near an ancient circle of standing stones,

and there, crazed with grief, he carved his curse into one of

the stones of the circle. According to local legend, it read,

"I curse you and your children's children, that you shall all

live out your allotted years, and that they shall be filled

with grief and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed

and bereaved me."

Sir Jonathan was indeed betrayed and captured, but

instead of being brought before a judge to face his

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accusers, Sir Belvedere had him burned to death in the

centre of the stone circle. Sir Belvedere then bought

Eastbridge Hall and all its estate from Sir Jonathan's

distraught widow, Sarah, for a token handful of sovereigns.

Needless to say, the circle has never been found, though

legend has it that Sir Belvedere, believing he could break

the curse, had it pulled down and the stones reused in the

refurbishment of Westford Castle, laying the carved stone

as the threshold to his gatehouse, so he and his heirs could

show their contempt of Sir Jonathan and his curse by

trampling over it every day. But it seems that the curse was

too potent. Tragedies have followed the Fitzwarrens ever

since, and the ghost of Sir Belvedere has been seen and

heard in the Solar and Great Hall, bewailing his grief and

guilt.

"I bet you are," Mark said aloud, and emailed the

link to his grandmother. "So where the hell is that bloody

circle?"

Remembering Jack's aerial photos, Google Earth

was the next logical step. But although the display showed

him plenty of strange markings on the ground, he hadn't a

clue how to interpret them. So that opened up an interesting

option. Mark searched for the Red Lion and dialled the

onscreen phone number. A man answered, and Mark

breathed a sigh of relief. If it had been Josie, she might

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Chris Quinton

have recognised his voice.

"Good morning," he said. "Could you put me

through to Jack Faulkner? He's staying with you for a few

days."

"Just a minute." A long pause, then, "Sorry, sir. Mr.

Faulkner isn't in his room and probably won't be back until

this evening. Can I take a message?"

"Yes, please. Ask him to call his research assistant

as soon as possible." He reeled off his mobile phone

number before the man could ask for his name. "Thank

you," he finished, and ended the call. Hopefully Jack would

remember swopping job details with him and be intrigued

enough to call back.

For the rest of the morning, he worked on a couple

of Goldstream assignments, writing up the information he'd

gathered over the last week. Needless to say, Steeple

Westford and the Fitzwarrens would not be added to the list

of possible Waldron investigations.

After lunch, while it could not be said Mark had

forgotten about Jack and the Fitzwarrens, a headless

horseman who haunted a crossroads in Somerset had all his

focus. So when his mobile rang at just past one o'clock, he

nearly fell out of his chair.

The small screen informed him it was an unknown

caller, and a rush of pleased surprise ran through him when

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Chris Quinton

Jack's voice answered his crisp, "Mark Renfrew."

"Hiya," the archaeologist said cheerfully. "Are you

okay?"

"Um, yes?"

"Good. I was a bit worried when you disappeared so

quickly. Phil Fitzwarren told me about the accident and that

some of the villagers were looking for a scapegoat. Which

completely horrified him, by the way. He isn't blaming

you."

Mark snorted, indignation covering his relief. "I

should bloody well think not! How's his sister-in-law?"

"Not good." Jack's voice became sombre. "They had

to give her a Caesarean. The boy's nearly three months

premature, apparently, and he's in Neonatal ICU at

Salisbury. She's in a coma. Hit her head on the curb when

she went down and fractured her skull. She's in ICU as

well."

"Oh, shit," he groaned.

"Yup. That just about sums it up. Add it to all this

hysterical claptrap about a centuries-old curse, and things

are a bit hairy over here in Steeple Westford. But I'm

thinking you didn't want to get in touch about that," he

continued, the smile back in his voice. He sounded hopeful,

Mark realised, and something warm grew under his ribs,

taking him by surprise.

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"Well, I, uh, wondered if I could take another look

at your aerial photos," he said, unaccountably off-balance.

"Oh. Okay. No problem." This time Jack sounded

almost disappointed. Then his tone brightened. "Tell you

what. I'm going to give a preliminary report to The Powers

That Be first thing tomorrow. I could bring them to you this

afternoon, if that's okay?"

"Yes," Mark grinned. "That would be great! Thank

you. I appreciate it."

"No problem," he said again. "Give me the address

and you can tell me what the research assistant I didn't

know I had needs my photos for."

Mark's grin faded. "If you want," he said, trying to

keep the reluctance out of his voice. "Flat 3, 79 Carnegie

Road, Staple Hill."

"I do want." Yes, there was a definite purr in the

three words, and Mark flushed. "Damn. I have to go. Josie

has just brought me the biggest steak in captivity. See you

later, Research Assistant."

Mark put down the phone and leaned back in his

chair. An uncomfortable mixture of trepidation and elation

settled in his belly. He had no more doubts. Jack was gay,

and interested in him. After the unpleasantness at Steeple

Westford, it was a welcome discovery.

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* * * *

Two hours, twenty-three minutes later, Mark's

doorbell rang. He loped down to the ground floor and

opened the door to see Jack smiling at him, the afternoon

sunlight striking reddish highlights in his black hair. He had

a pack on his back and an A4 folder in his hand.

"Door to Door Deliveries at your service," he

announced, executing a snappy salute with the folder.

"Thanks." Mark returned the smile, ridiculously

pleased to see him. "Come on up."

He led the way up the wide staircase, very aware of

those sharp grey eyes on his back, and recalling too well his

wank-fantasy of the morning. He was glad he'd put on his

light brown cargos that morning. They were baggy enough

to hide any embarrassing reactions he might have around

his guest.

"Nice," Jack said appreciatively when Mark ushered

him into the flat. "You work from home?"

"Yes, but I'm on the road a fair bit as well. Can I get

you a coffee? Tea? Something cold?"

"Long and cold would be great. Preferably non-

alcoholic though," he added regretfully. "I could kill for

several beers, but I have to drive."

"Take a seat, I won't be long."

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Chris Quinton

When Mark came back from the kitchen carrying

two condensation-dripping bottles, Jack had sprawled on

the couch with his long legs stretched out, completely at his

ease. He looked, Mark admitted wistfully to himself, as if

he belonged there. He had spread out the photographs on

the coffee table in front of the couch, so Mark put the

bottles within easy reach of them both and dropped into the

armchair.

"So here they are," Jack said. "What exactly are you

looking for? Come to think of it, you never did tell me what

kind of research you did. You're not a rival digger, are

you?"

"No, nothing like that. Well, maybe slightly similar.

Local history, mainly. A little genealogy." Perhaps this

wasn't such a good idea after all. Jack seemed the type to

ask a lot of questions Mark did not want to answer. He

picked up one of the photos, put it down again. "Can you

leave these with me?" he asked. "I only need them for a

short while."

"Nope. No can do. Tell me what you're looking for,

and I can probably point you in the right direction."

"If an old circle of standing stones had the stones

taken away, would you be able to see the site in one of

these?"

"Almost certainly. The pits where the stones had

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Chris Quinton

stood would show up dark in a ploughed field, as greener

features in crops. Is that it? A robbed-out circle?" Mark

nodded. Jack gazed at him, frowning slightly. "Not the one

in the Fitzwarren fairytale, surely?" he asked in disbelief.

Mark reddened and glanced away.

"Yes," he said coolly. "Is that a problem? After

what happened, I want to find out everything I can." He

didn't want to hear ridicule from this man.

"Okay." Jack shrugged, his expression unreadable.

"In that case I may have to disappoint you. I haven't noticed

anything like that among these. Admittedly, I haven't been

looking for one," he added thoughtfully. "The Neolithic

wasn't in the Uni's remit." He twisted the top off his bottle

and took a long drink, then started to examine the images

more closely, one by one.

"I'm probably being a moron," Mark said, "but why

dark or green?"

"Hm? The foundation pits? Because they get silted

up and that shows in a chalky ploughed field. All that depth

of soil means plants can put down deeper roots, so in a

drought they stay greener than the crops around them. The

layers of dirt over the remains of walls are thinner than the

rest of the field, so plants are parched quicker in hot, dry

conditions." He rooted out the villa photo. "The walls show

up really well on this one, and the ditches of the earlier

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Chris Quinton

settlement are these dark shapes." Mark slipped on his

glasses and peered at it.

"Got it. It's easy when you know what you're

looking at," he said wryly.

"On chalk downland, it is," Jack responded,

smiling.

They fell into a companionable silence, Mark, with

his glasses in place, studying each photo as Jack discarded

it. After a while, the archaeologist started to point out the

features that showed up on them, and Mark began to pick

them out before Jack indicated them, even though he

couldn't interpret more than a few. But a lot of his attention

was on his visitor. Jack had pulled his hair back and used a

rubber band to fasten it into a ponytail. That threw his

aquiline nose and strong jaw into prominence, and the

shadow of a day's stubble accentuated his cheekbones. His

rather heavy black eyebrows were drawn down in a slight

frown of concentration. Silver gleamed in his earlobes; one

ring in his left and two in his right. Definitely piratical,

though the impression was a little lessened by the small

happy smile that curved his generous mouth. Mark just

wanted to kiss him. Among other things. But this was

neither the time nor the place. There was another

consideration. What had been sheer lust and nothing else

was transmuting to something more. The desire, hunger,

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Chris Quinton

Chapter Four

Two dozen images in, Mark got up to make coffee

for them both. When he came back with a tray of steaming

mugs and a packet of chocolate biscuits and placed it on the

end of the coffee table, Jack held up a photo.

"Hold on to that one," he said, handing it over. "It's

a possible."

"Okay." Mark stared at it. An expanse of yellow

grain filled most of the picture, bounded by hedges on three

irregular sides and on the fourth by a stretch of woodland.

Close to that boundary and spaced out between the corners

were faint hints of a greener gold, two patches and another

half of one disappearing under the hedge between field and

copse. If he squinted he could just make up out a curving

smudge of greenishness running outside those possible

cropmarks. Mark knew there were psychics who could

dowse maps. It wasn't part of his talent, but he found

himself wishing for it. The photo told him absolutely

nothing.

He needed to be there, in that field.

Jack had finished going through the rest of them

while he was studying it. "Can I take another look at that

one?" he asked suddenly, and Mark startled. "What's up?

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Chris Quinton

You're a bit on edge, aren't you?"

"Sorry. Got a lot on my mind."

"That business at Steeple Westford really shook

you, didn't it?"

"You have no idea," Mark muttered. "Yes, you

could say it did."

"Don't let it get to you, sunshine." Jack leaned over

and patted his knee. "We'll get it sorted, one way or

another. Right. What we might have here could be

foundation pits, and this might possibly be an enclosing

ditch and bank, making it your typical henge monument. If

it is, then the rest of the circle is in the trees. Or they could

be natural features, where trees were felled when the field

was extended into the copse, and that's an older boundary

ditch. It'll take an excavation to tell which it is, or if it's

something completely different."

Mark nodded. "I have to go there," he said without

thinking.

"Why? It's an unregistered site, and I can't dig

without permission from the landowner."

"Can you show me where this field is on the map?"

"Sure." Jack made a note of the grid references at

the bottom of the photo, then took an Ordnance Survey

map from his pack and unfolded it on the coffee table. In a

matter of seconds, he had homed in on a point in open

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Chris Quinton

country a couple of miles from Steeple Westford. It formed

a lopsided triangle with Westford and another village—

Eastbridge, where Curtess had held land. Tension shivered

down Mark's spine.

"That's it. Has to be," he whispered. "Jack, do you

know who owns that field?"

"The Fitzes. They own most of the land around the

village, but it's all rented out to local farmers. Harry Barnes

has a good-sized chunk, including this one and the villa

field. From what I've heard the rents are the only things

keeping the Fitzes' noses above water. Rumour has it the

debts are mounting, and people seem to think Charlie

Fitzwarren will be putting the whole estate up for sale

before too long."

"And Curtess is laughing in his fucking grave,"

Mark growled.

"Whoa back, sunshine. You're taking this a little too

personally."

"So sue me!" he snapped. "You didn't see the looks

on those people's faces when they found out I was

descended from that sodding bastard!" He got jerkily to his

feet and paced restlessly up and down the room. "They

blamed me, and she was just lying there, bleeding, like the

girl in the attic, their babies dead, and the blood kept on

spreading—"

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Chris Quinton

"Stop." Jack rose quickly and stood in front of him,

hands closing hard on Mark's biceps. "What girl? Where?"

"Red Lion. Emily." He hadn't known he knew that.

Barriers were crumbling, and garbled information flooded

into his mind, bringing with it the usual headache and

incoherence. "Her name was Emily and—" Oh, shit!

"Whoa, whoa." Jack's fingers bit into Mark's

muscles. "There's a girl bleeding to death in the Red Lion?"

"Fuck, no," he said impatiently. God, he hated this

aspect of his talent, hated that it chose here and now, in

front of Jack, to break free and manifest itself. "Not now.

Then. All she had was a candle—"

"Stop it!" Jack barked, shaking him. "You're not

making any sense. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Mark gazed at him, dazed and bemused and losing

the battle. They were the same height, he noted

distractedly, but Jack was broader… Belvedere Fitzwarren

had been even bigger, a bull of a man—

"N-nothing?" he stammered, and struggled to take

back control of the knowledge fermenting in his head. He

knew why it was happening. He'd been reluctant to deal

with the Curtess/Fitzwarren situation right from the start

when Alice had put that book in his hands, so he'd

automatically slammed up every defensive wall he had.

The brief lowering of them so he could pick up on anything

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paranormal that might be going on in the Red Lion had

started a hairline fracture, and the assault of the sarsen

stone in the church had caused another. Now that strange

mediumistic subconscious of his was working overtime to

connect the dots on several different frames of reference at

once.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Are you on something?"

he demanded. "Pull yourself together and tell me about the

girl at the inn!"

Yes, concentrate on one thing at a time, but not him,

not Curtess. The girl. "Emily."

"Yes. Her."

"Her baby died. So did she. Bled to death."

"No. They couldn't have kept that quiet at the Lion.

The whole village would have been buzzing with it."

"Then. Not now." Exhaustion started to seep

through his limbs, and only Jack's hands kept him upright.

Fuck it! Got to get him out of here before— But he couldn't

stop the words babbling from him. "Don't know dates.

Eighteen hundreds, maybe?"

"Are you having me on?"

Mark was fairly sure Jack was shouting, but his

voice came from a long way off. Shadows were beating at

the edges of his vision, and it was too late. "I have to go

back," he blurted. Then everything closed in to an indistinct

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blur, all but a pair of dark grey eyes burning with anger and

concern.

"Blood," whispered Jonathan Curtess, "to blood…"

* * * *

Something cold lay across Mark's eyes and

forehead. Cold and damp. It felt wonderful. He was lying

on the couch, he realised. He stayed still for a moment,

trying to let his hindbrain settle the visions and voices into

their proper patterns unhindered. It wasn't easy. He had a

vague memory of his own voice speaking the confusion in

his head aloud. He hadn't realised he knew the girl's name.

Was she linked to the Fitzes? No. He shook his head, and

the flannel over his eyes slipped away. The light tapping of

keystrokes filtered through his awareness, and he

concentrated on that instead. The other, deeper intuition

would kick in soon enough.

Keystrokes? Someone using his laptop? Indignation

gave him energy, and Mark pushed himself up. "Hey!" he

snapped. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Jack looked round. He was perched on the edge of

the computer chair, hunched over the Dell's keyboard. All

signs of good humour had gone from his face. He looked

angry, determined.

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"Doing some research," he bit back. "The Dominic

Waldron Experience? Is that what you're up to? Cobbling

together a steaming pile of bullshit for that farce of a TV

show?" Jack didn't wait for an answer. He came over to the

couch and sat down, nudging Mark's legs out of the way. "I

phoned the Red Lion. They only use the attic rooms for

storage because people kept on complaining about hearing

someone crying. They said Emily Barnes died up there in

1826. In childbirth." He made it sound like an indictment.

"They don't advertise it because they don't want hordes of

sensation-seekers descending on them." He stopped and

cleared his throat. "Even so, there are a dozen ways you

could have found that out." His last sentence was an

accusation.

"Yes," Mark agreed, a dull ache starting up under

his ribs. "I think you should leave."

Jack ignored that, his concern back at full wattage.

"You blacked out. Do you have some kind of epilepsy? A

brain tumour?"

"No." Mark took a deep breath and let it out in a

sigh. He'd already effectively destroyed any chance of

friendship he might have had with the man, let alone sex.

Even so, while he did not want to do this, it was the most

effective way he knew to send Jack bolting from the flat in

disgust, given his scorn of Waldron. "I'm a psychic," he

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said.

"What? You're kidding me! Like that arse

Waldron?"

"Sod it, no! He's a fraud," he blurted before he

could think. "I'm the real deal." He dragged his fingers

through his hair, wincing when he found tangles that caught

and pulled on his tender scalp. "Gran's right," he mumbled.

"I shouldn't have run."

"Who's she?" Jack sneered, showing no signs of

bolting. "Your spirit guide?"

"Fuck you!" Mark surged to his feet, nearly kicking

Jack from the couch as he did so. "I don't have to take fuck-

all from you or anyone! That curse is real, and it's still

killing people, and I have to break it!"

Jack stood up. "You," he said with conviction, "are

off your rocker. Delusional. You can't break something that

isn't real!"

"Can't I? You'd be surprised what I can do! Why

don't you just bugger off and let me and my steaming pile

of bullshit get on with it?"

"You are the weirdest, most irritating, irrational,

intriguing lunatic I have ever met," Jack growled, taking a

swift step towards him. But Mark couldn't see anger in him

now, just an almost wistful hunger. "You are stark staring

insane, and I can't get you out of my bloody head!"

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Mark's jaw dropped. "Oh," he said idiotically.

They were standing toe-to-toe, so close Mark could

smell him. Jack, he discovered, was subtle aftershave and

summer meadows dusted with pollen, with the slight, not

unpleasant, undernotes of fresh sweat and warm male skin.

"Eloquent," Jack whispered, and they reached for

each other at the same time. At that moment it didn't matter

Jack had doubts. He obviously wanted Mark as much as

Mark wanted him, and that was the most important thing.

He opened his mouth to say something, he didn't know

what, but Jack silenced him by kissing him. Jack's mouth

fed on his, gently, insistently voracious, in a way that set

Mark's blood on fire and short-circuited his brain. He tasted

sweet from the traces of the chocolate biscuits he'd recently

eaten. His arms were locked around Mark's waist at first,

then his hands slid down to cup Mark's buttocks.

Mark rolled his hips, sliding their erections against

each other, and Jack gasped into his mouth. Mark took the

opportunity to invade Jack's mouth with his tongue, starting

a slow, rhythmic duel in time with the pulsing thrust of his

hips. It felt good, deliriously, addictively good, and Mark

did not want to stop. It wasn't as if he'd been celibate for

years and desperate for any sexual release that didn't

involve using his own right hand. It was Jack, the scent and

taste and feel of him, all mixed up with that embryonic

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connection of friendship Mark did not want to lose.

"Slow down," Jack groaned, his stubble pleasantly

abrasive against Mark's cheek, an added stimulant, "or this

is going to end too damn quickly. God, I want you! Are you

a top or a bottom?" He sounded desperate.

"Either," Mark managed. "Both."

"Thank God. Just don't ask to toss a coin. I've been

wanting to fuck you since the moment I saw you, and I

couldn't work out if you were straight or gay, and it's been

driving me craz—"

Mark stopped the babble with a deep kiss, his

fingers busy with belts, buttons and zips. Jack didn't seem

to know what he was doing until Mark slipped his hand

inside Jack's boxers and palmed his cock. It was smooth

and hard, hot against his skin, the exposed head glossy with

pre-come. The scent of it made Mark's mouth water.

"The bedroom's through the door behind you," he

said huskily, but Jack didn't seem to be in such a hurry

anymore. He freed Mark's cock and wrapped his fingers

around it, smoothed his thumb over the glans, spreading the

seeping liquid with a gentle, calloused touch. Mark pushed

helplessly into the firm grasp, his own fingers tightening,

and Jack's hips jerked. Reluctantly, Mark eased away and

braced his hands on Jack's chest, holding him at bay.

"We're slowing this down, remember?" he said with a

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firmness he didn't feel. He wanted it fast and hard, bent

over the back of the couch if necessary, but taking their

time had its own benefits. "I want to see you with your kit

off."

"I like the sound of that," Jack said, smiling

ruefully. "I'll think of cold showers and Arctic snow."

Mark laughed, took Jack's hand, and led him into

the bedroom, peripherally glad he'd actually made the bed

that morning. First impressions… They undressed quickly,

and Mark caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored door

of his wardrobe: lean, angular, knobbly joints, and a fine

dusting of reddish-brown hair that ran across from nipple to

nipple. Jack's body was a far more interesting view.

He looked strong without being muscle-bound, the

kind of build a man developed doing hard manual labour

rather than hours in a gym. From watching documentaries,

Mark had the vague memory that archaeology involved

carrying

soil-filled

buckets

and

pushing

heavy

wheelbarrows, as well as painstaking work with trowel and

brush. Black hair covered Jack's pectorals, a pleasing

contrast to his nut-brown skin. His tan ended low on his

hips, the line of it just above the darkness of his pubic hair,

and his skin there was creamy white with a fine blue

tracery of veins beneath. His thick cock, flushing red and

fully erect, jutted above the heavy balls hanging below it.

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Jack's long, strong legs were tanned from mid-thigh, and

his feet showed evidence of sandal straps, pale against the

brown.

Without being paranoid, Mark knew he himself

didn't look nearly as good. But Jack's warm and

appreciative smile and the hand he stroked across Mark's

chest and down to his hip showed his eagerness.

"You have freckles," Jack murmured, clearly

delighted. "I'm going to lick every one."

That surprised a laugh out of Mark, and Jack

stepped close, wrapping him in his arms. Their cocks

touched and slid together, drawing slick lines on their

bellies, and they pressed closer, trapping hot urgent flesh

between them.

Mark's heart pounded against his ribs. Jack's breath

drifted warm on his cheek, and the man's eyes had

deepened to slate as his expanding pupils met the dark ring

in his irises. He smiled, his generous mouth kiss-swollen,

and Mark leaned in and kissed him again, slow and easy.

Jack's tongue met his languorously, in no more of a rush

than Mark now. An all-pervasive glow coiled through

Mark's blood and bone and rooted deep in his heart as well

as his groin. Awareness of his surroundings slid away.

Only Jack was real. Jack and the mouth that gently fed on

him, the tongue caressing its way in to seek his tongue, and

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Chris Quinton

the lean, powerful body that moulded itself to his.

For Mark there had always been something special

about the first time he had sex with a new lover, or even

with his rare one night stands. It was never only the

physical pleasure and release. Learning a new body, all the

similarities and differences of needs and reactions, he

found as fascinating as exploring a familiar lover. Locked

together in a slow dance as if to some seductive music, they

moved towards the bed. The edge of the mattress caught

Jack behind the knees, and he sat then fell back on the

duvet, taking Mark down with him and rolling them both.

Pinned by Jack's greater weight, Mark almost lost it

there and then. One of Jack's calloused hands curved under

Mark's hip, and the other pushed between them, wrapping

around Mark's straining cock. Mark shouted and bucked

beneath him, trying to begin a rhythm that would drive his

cock against Jack's belly and bring him the release he

craved. Then Jack loosened his hold on Mark enough to

slide his own cock into the tight channel of his palm and

fingers. With a groan of ecstasy, Mark felt again the

incandescent shock of their erections pressed together. He

cried out and locked his legs around Jack's waist, heels

digging into the backs of his thighs, riding him from

beneath, urging him on.

"Now who has to slow down?" Jack chuckled

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breathlessly. "Condoms? Lube?"

"Drawer, bedside cabinet," Mark answered and

forced himself to relax and release Jack from the vice-like

grip of his legs. He watched hungrily as Jack found the

packets and bottle and fitted a condom onto his cock. Then

Jack smeared the lube over the latex and carefully worked a

liberal amount into the clenched ring of muscle that

guarded the opening to Mark's body.

With a gasp of triumph, Mark thrust into Jack's

confining hand, then back onto the fingers that stretched

him. Three times he rode the jolt, mouth open, eyes

squeezed shut, then Jack removed his fingers. He sank into

Mark's body and did not stop until he was buried almost to

the root of his cock.

"You're amazing," Jack whispered. "I've dreamed of

this—" He gave a thrust that changed the angle of his entry

slightly and sank deeper. Mark arched his back and surged

to meet him, demanding more.

Orgasm came swiftly. Pleasure took Mark soaring,

and the fiery rush left him drifting in free-fall, their bodies

locked together. The spread of his semen was warm

between their bellies, and a soul-deep peace filled his heart.

He didn't want to move, though he knew Jack probably

would, now that passion was spent, hunger fed. At the very

least Mark would have to do something about the cream

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Chris Quinton

drying on his belly. Their minds were obviously drifting

along the same lines; Jack fetched a tissue from the box on

the bedside cabinet and wiped him clean, then got rid of the

condom. Mark sighed contentedly, and Jack shifted so that

Mark lay beside him, his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack's

hands gentled through Mark's hair, smoothing it back from

his face, and they rested in comfortable peace, catching

their breaths.

"So what happened?" Jack asked into the silence

between them. Still floating on the ebbing bliss of orgasm,

Mark didn't respond fast enough. "What made you black

out?" he elaborated.

Mark came back to earth with a jolt. He rolled away

from Jack's embrace and stared up at the ceiling. Apart

though they were now, he could still feel the weight of

Jack's lean body on his. He wanted it back but didn't reach

for him. "Told you," he answered warily. "You don't

believe so why bother?"

"Because I'm asking? Tell me again what you think

caused it. You scared me half to death, damn it, and I need

some kind of an answer. Especially if it's likely to happen

again."

Mark shifted restlessly. "It probably won't."

"Not good enough. C'mon, sunshine," he pleaded. "I

really want to know, and it's not going to make me run for

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the hills."

"Okay." Mark sat up, folded his legs and wrapped

his arms around his knees, unsure where to start. He wasn't

used to having to explain himself at the best of times, and

certainly not while naked in bed with a man he found

himself strongly attracted to and whom he'd only known for

a day. He had hoped this would have been the beginning of

a friendship as well as an affair, but despite Jack's words,

Mark knew that prospect would soon be galloping for the

horizon. "Just do me a favour and don't interrupt, alright?"

He waited until Jack nodded, then fixed his eyes on the end

of the bed and started talking. "Background first. Not all

ghosts are ghosts. There's not a single cause for a haunting

any more than there's one source for the common cold.

Some events get imprinted into the place and replay over

and over. Sometimes a person is so sad, happy, angry,

content, they don't want to or can't leave.

"I'm psychic. A medium. I can see, hear, feel and

interact with those events and with the ghosts. But only if

the ghosts are still hanging around for whatever reason. I

don't summon them; I don't exorcise them. Sometimes,

once they've had their say, they move on. Sometimes they

stay around, but they're… happier? Less intrusive?" He

paused for a moment, but Jack didn't speak, and he didn't

dare glance at him, not wanting to see scorn. "That's what I

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am. This is what I do with it. I use the information the

spirits give me to research the circumstances, find what

facts there are, write it up and pass it on to my immediate

boss. If he thinks it'll make a good show, he'll liaise with

whoever owns and/or lives in the place involved, and if

they're willing, contracts and cash are exchanged. He and

the script team turn my report into a programme for

Waldron, adding special effects and dramatic re-enactments

as necessary. They don't know what I can do. I'm just an

assistant who's good at ferreting out stories.

"As to why I do it, that isn't quite so simple. Gran

calls it the Renfrew Talent. It can be more of a bloody

nuisance, and for some of us, it's a curse in its own right.

Gran gets premonitions. She says Dad had the same version

as me, only not as strong. But he couldn't cope with it,

didn't want it. He tried to suppress it all the time, and it

nearly drove him crazy. He started to drink." Jack's arm slid

around his shoulders and eased him into a loose embrace.

"Basically, he drank himself to death. Drove his car into a

tree. I was ten when he died. My mother couldn't cope with

her husband and son having the Talent. She washed her

hands of me, played the part of a token mother, and Gran

brought me up. When I was fourteen, she buggered off and

lives in Spain now."

Jack's hold tightened, but Mark shook him off. "I

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didn't tell you that for sympathy," he snapped. "But to show

you the kind of fallout that can happen, okay? Gran uses

her premonitions when she can. Dad suppressed and paid

the price. I use it just enough to do my job and ease the

pressure. If I'd just sat on it the way Dad did, I'd be in the

loony bin by now because all the psychic connections can

build up in your head. They need an outlet, a voice, and to

be listened to. If they don't get it, you go into overload and

basically shut down. That's what I did with this Curtess

connection. And paid the price."

Jack didn't speak for a few moments, then said,

"Okay. I promise I'll keep an open mind. Can I hold you

now?"

Mark gave a choked laugh and turned to him,

finding open arms waiting and an unsmiling, anxious lover

ready and willing to offer whatever he needed. Right then,

he needed to hold and be held, and for a long time, that's

what he received. Jack wrapped him close, tucked Mark's

head under his chin, and pulled up the sheet to cover them

both. He didn't say anything, just rubbed gentle circles on

Mark's back and pressed random kisses to his brow while

the day wore on.

Late afternoon became evening, evening deepened

into night, and the something tentative that had come into

being while they studied the aerial photos began to

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consolidate into a deeper connection. Their silences were

comfortable, and when they did talk, it was easy and light.

At Mark's prompting, Jack talked about his travels, the

excavations he'd been on, and some of the outrageous,

hilarious things that had happened on those digs. His love

of and enthusiasm for his chosen career came through

every word, and Mark knew he was falling ever more

deeply for this man. He couldn't bring himself to care that

there would inevitably be heartache further down the line.

"It's getting late," Jack finally murmured into

Mark's hair, but made no effort to move. "I should go." He

didn't sound enthusiastic about the idea.

"Stay," Mark said.

"Okay."

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Chapter Five

Waking came too soon for Mark, courtesy of Radio

4. He awoke enough to turn off the alarm, then sank back

into enfolding arms. Jack muttered something indistinct

into his neck and snuggled closer, a warm solidity at his

back. A hard cock nudged the back of Mark's thigh, and

Jack stroked his hand down Mark's belly to cup his cock

and balls in a gentle but proprietary hold. Mark edged his

hips back into the curve of Jack's body and wriggled

slightly. Jack chuckled and pushed back. His cock slid

along Mark's perineum to nudge his balls, and they both

gasped.

"Morning sex," Jack whispered. "Gotta love it."

"Mmm," Mark agreed drowsily. Jack eased away

and fumbled under the pillow, and a pleased grunt told

Mark he'd found what he was looking for. Moments later,

Jack smoothed cool lotion between Mark's thighs, then his

slicked-up hand took firm hold of Mark's interested cock.

They rocked together, slow and lazy, and Mark just

let himself float on the pleasure as Jack lifted them on that

leisurely sweet climb to completion. He was beginning to

get the idea that Jack was more of a top than a bottom, and

right then Mark was more than happy about it. The time for

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facing breakfast and the rest of the day —and with it the

Fitzwarren/Curtess tangle— would arrive soon enough.

* * * *

Breakfast was as easy and comfortable as their

growing relationship. It was a time for plans as well as

fuelling up on toast, fried eggs and bacon.

"Are you going to be here all day?" Jack asked,

helping himself to more tea. Mark nodded, then shook his

head.

"The morning, yes. I want to do some research on

the Curtess/Eastbridge side of things, book into a pub or

B&B if they have one."

"Thought you would," Jack sighed. "I'll be honest, I

don't believe in all this curse and psychic stuff, but

obviously you do. So if you like, I'll come along to make

sure you keep your feet on the ground."

Mark's heart lifted. "You will?" He grinned. "That's

great!"

"Yes, well, archaeologists deal in solid hold-in-

your-hand facts, and it seems to me you need someone

around with a good grasp on reality. Besides, if Bristol Uni

decides on the Romano-British villa site, and I think they

will, I'll be going back that way to wheel and deal on their

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behalf with Farmer Barnes and Charlie Fitzwarren." He

paused. "I can stay in Eastbridge as easily as Steeple

Westford," he added. "Not being pushy or anything, but I

like being with you."

"The feeling's mutual," Mark said, giddy delight

bringing a flush to his face.

* * * *

According to Google, Eastbridge had two pubs.

One, the Burning Man, Mark rejected out of hand on the

strength of its name alone, and he phoned the Bridge Inn.

He and Jack had already discussed arrangements, so he

booked two rooms, though a double room would have been

their preferred choice. Neither were sure how that would

have gone down in the village, and Jack might have to

spend time in the area until the training dig deal went

through.

Halfway through the morning, Mark received a text

from Jack.

Good news - they've gone with the villa, and they

want me to be assistant site director for the season. Don't

know how long I'll be here finalising. See you at the Bridge.

Take care. J.

He needed to know nothing else. Mark threw

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together an early lunch, and as soon as he'd eaten it, he

loaded his case into his car and drove out of Staple Hill,

heading east.

* * * *

Eastbridge turned out to be a smaller version of

Steeple Westford. The Bridge Inn stood right where it

should, beside the old stone bridge and backing onto the

river. Mark's large, airy room overlooked the beer garden

and the river. The one allocated to Jack was opposite his

and faced the main road through the village.

As soon as Mark entered his room, he looked up the

Fitzwarrens in the phonebook conveniently supplied along

with tea and coffee-making facilities. He made a note of the

number, purely for future reference, but within five

minutes, he reached for his mobile without really knowing

why or what he planned to say.

"Hello?" said the vaguely familiar voice, and Mark

took the chance he'd guessed right.

"Phil Fitzwarren?" he began. "This is Mark

Renfrew. We met briefly—"

"Yes. I remember." The man wasn't exactly hostile,

but he wasn't welcoming either.

"I, um, can we meet? I'd like to talk to you about the

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curse."

"No. What's done is done."

"I might be able to help."

"What?" Phil sounded taken aback.

"Will you meet me and give me a chance to talk?

Anywhere you want. I'm in Eastbridge at the moment."

The silence stretched, and Mark began to think Phil

didn't intend to answer. "Here, and as soon as you can make

it. Turn left at St. Michael's into Castle Lane and keep on

driving. I'll be waiting." He ended the call in the middle of

Mark's heartfelt, "Thank you."

He stayed long enough to send a text to Jack, letting

him know not to expect him to be at the Bridge Inn, where

he was going and why, then hurried down to his car.

Ten minutes later he turned his car into Castle Lane.

It wound an erratic course between high overgrown banks

with hedges growing rampant on their crests and was so

narrow the weeds brushed the sides of Mark's car. The only

passing places were where field gates broke the line of the

banks. If he met another car or, God forbid, a tractor, one of

them would have to back up.

Then Mark rounded another corner and saw the

non-ruined tower of his destination showing above a line of

trees. A few more bends and the gatehouse sat before him,

a wide gravelled space in front of it. A battered and mud-

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plastered Range Rover sat there, and as he pulled up beside

it, Phil got out and waited for Mark to join him.

The image on Mark's computer screen had not done

justice to Westford Castle. The seventeenth century

gatehouse, with the backdrop of older towers, was more

than impressive. It was beautiful.

"Not bad, is it?" Phil said as Mark paused to take it

all in.

"It's amazing," he answered sincerely. "I can see

why you'd fight tooth and nail to keep it."

Phil shrugged. "We've done our best for centuries,

but now…the odds are stacked against us. But we had one

piece of good news this morning. Carol's awake, and they

expect her to make a full recovery. She came round last

night."

The relief that swept over Mark came close to

weakening his knees. "Thank God," he said. "Um, her

baby?"

"Not so good. He's only had twenty-nine weeks in

the womb, so he'll be in the NICU for ages. His lungs aren't

developed properly, he doesn't weigh much over a pound—

" Phil's voice broke, and he coughed to clear his throat.

"Sod it, she'd only gone to the post office to buy a bloody

lottery ticket!" He looked away for a moment, obviously

fighting emotion. "We're not accusing you, Mark. None of

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us are, not even Di once she'd cooled down."

"Even so…" The words trailed off as he tried again

to find something to say that wouldn't make him sound as if

he was channelling Dominic Waldron.

"You said you can help," Phil said. "How?"

"Well, I'm a psychic," Mark admitted cautiously.

Phil shrugged. "So what makes you think you can

do better that the other psychics Dad hired?"

"For one, I don't need paying. I'm not in this horror

story for the money. Two, I've got a vested interest in it as

well, being related to the bastard." He hesitated, choosing

his words carefully. "There's an outside chance I can find

out how to interpret that writing in the church."

"That would be useful, I suppose." Phil sounded

doubtful, and Mark couldn't blame him.

"So I'd like permission to go onto your lands and

look for the circle."

"The—?"

"Where Jon Curtess and maybe that other poor sod

died."

"How can that help? It's been lost for centuries."

"Won't know until I find it," Mark answered. "Will

you let me try?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you can. But it's not down

to me," Phil said. "Charlie is the one you have to convince,

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and right now he's with Carol in Salisbury District

Hospital. So lay out your sales pitch, and I'll do my best to

bring him onside."

"Well, I pretty much have," Mark replied, and Phil's

gaze became quizzical.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" he drawled.

That stung. "No, I'm not," Mark snapped. "I've

spent most of my life hiding what I can do, not advertising

it. Let's get down to business, shall we? Starting with the

curse-stone?"

"Okay." Phil turned away. "It's one of the threshold

stones in the gatehouse archway. Come on."

Side by side, they walked up the wide cobbled path

towards the house. As they grew nearer, Mark slowed

down, bracing himself for an impact similar to the one from

the stone on St. Michael's. It didn't come. He halted inches

from the first slab. Nearly three feet wide, the grey and

weathered sarsen stretched the breadth of the passageway

through to the courtyard beyond. Wheel ruts had been worn

across its surface, and the stone held no trace of Jonathan

Curtess.

"This isn't it," Mark said, and strode quickly to its

brother at the inner threshold. "Nor is this. Where is it?"

Phil didn't speak. Mark looked around and across the grass

ahead of him he saw the thirteenth century hall. The porch

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towards the north end of the structure seemed to be of a

later date, on a par with the gatehouse. Seventeenth

century, then. It drew him like a lodestone, and he started

towards it, almost running.

"Whoa!" Phil caught his arm. "Slow down.

Remember what happened to you in St. Mike's."

"It's there," Mark said accusingly, pulling against

the restraint. "In that doorway, not the gatehouse."

"Yes," he admitted. "Just wanted to be doubly sure

you're genuine. You'd be amazed how many so-called

psychics threw wobblies back there. That's how Dad

winnowed them out. Let's go back to the house. You don't

need to go closer to it."

"Yes," Mark said grimly. "I do." Phil let him go,

and he started walking.

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Chapter Six

The vindictive hatred that struck him was ten times

worse than before, and it sent Mark to his knees, doubled

over and retching. Phil grabbed his shoulders and tried to

pull him back, but Mark shook him off and struggled to his

feet. He felt as if his heart and lungs were being crushed,

but he managed to put one foot in front of the other until

he'd edged close enough to see the words engraved on the

sarsen. Only at the ends of the stone were they still visible.

Centuries of footfalls had worn the inscription away from

the centre. He forced himself to take the final step that

would put the stone under his feet.

A reddish haze obscured Mark's vision, and sudden

warmth spread over his upper lip. Phil shouted his name, a

rising panic in his voice. Then strong arms closed around

him, and he was lifted, swung around, and half-carried,

half-dragged away from the threshold. When the world

finally stopped spinning, he found himself lying on grass,

head and shoulders supported against a familiar chest, and

Jack's upside-down face bent over him, pale and anxious.

"Mark?" he said. "Are you with us? What the fuck

are you trying to prove?"

"Hey!" bellowed another voice. "Phil, who the hell

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are these people? What's going on? Why is he bleeding?"

"Bleeding?" Mark wheezed, raising a shaking hand

to his face. Blood was sticky around his mouth, and he

could taste its metallic tang in the back of his throat.

"You've had a nosebleed," Jack said quietly. "Don't

try to move, just stay still for a moment."

"Who is he?" the newcomer demanded. He stood at

Phil's side, and the similarities between them told Mark this

had to be Charles Fitzwarren. A couple of years older than

his brother, he was taller, heavier, and he currently had a

pugnacious thrust to his jaw that spoke of temper barely

held in check. Phil gave him a fast explanation, and

Charlie's expression went from anger to contempt to a

reluctant hope.

Mark didn't pay them much attention. He stared at

his gory fingers, and fury grew in him.

"Fuck this," he hissed and twisted out of Jack's

embrace. He lurched to his feet but didn't get very far

before he fell to his knees, blood flowing from his nostrils

again. So he crawled, despite Jack's efforts to stop him,

until he reached the stone. Then he slapped his wet hand on

it, leaving a dark print on its gritty surface. "Blood to

blood, Jonathan Curtess! I'm serving notice, you vindictive

son of a bitch! I am going to stop this."

"Sure you are," Jack sighed, hoisted him into his

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arms, and carried him back to the centre of the courtyard.

"This is insane," Charlie growled as Jack set Mark

on his feet, but there wasn't much conviction in the words.

"All of us, in the house, now. I need coffee, and we are

going to talk. Do you need a doctor, Mark? I can get Doc

Lester here. He's a good friend of the family."

"No, I'll be fine," he replied, red-faced and

embarrassed by his melodramatic outburst. "Can I go

somewhere to wash my face?"

"No kidding," Phil muttered. "And change out of

your shirt. You look as if you've just walked out of an

abattoir. I'll go and get one of mine."

"Thanks." Mark carefully took stock of himself. His

head throbbed, but not quite on the edge of actual pain, his

chest still ached from that implacable compression, and his

nose seemed to have stopped gushing. He could have felt a

lot worse. Jack, though, hovered as close as a lioness with

one cub. While Mark appreciated his protectiveness on one

level, it wasn't a good idea to advertise it quite so much in

front of a man they wanted to work with. Surreptitiously he

dug a sharp elbow into Jack's ribs and moved away from

him. He hadn't been subtle enough.

Charlie gave him a wry smile. "Don't bother on my

account," he said. "Phil's as gay as a rainbow flag. Come on

into the kitchen and get cleaned up."

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Jack obviously decided that was all the permission

he needed and hooked his arm around Mark's ribs as they

followed Charlie up a couple of steps and into the

gatehouse. "I don't like that kind of scare," he said into

Mark's hair. Mark didn't answer. He wasn't particularly

fond of them himself, but he did enjoy the feel of Jack's

supportive arm.

The large, shabbily comfortable kitchen looked as if

it hadn't been modernised in the last sixty years. Phil took

him up the winding stairs to the bathroom, where the claw

foot cast iron bath and old-fashioned chain-pull cistern

above the toilet reinforced his initial impression. When he

had washed off the gore and changed into a dark blue polo

shirt Phil provided, he returned to the kitchen. The others

were sitting around the massive refectory table, staring at

each other. Mark pulled out a chair and sat down.

Charlie cleared his throat. "Okay, I know why

you're here." He nodded at Mark before fixing his gaze on

Jack. "But how about you?"

Jack shrugged out of his backpack and took out the

folder. He sorted through it and brought out the photo of

the villa. "I was coming to see you about this."

While he talked Charlie through the archaeological

significance of the site and what the university wanted to

do with it—and pay for the privilege—Mark met Phil's

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gaze.

"According to what I read online, Belvedere's spirit

is over there. Can I get into the hall without crossing the

stone?" he asked.

"Yes, easy. There's access via the south tower. Want

to go now?"

"Yes, please."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he insisted.

Phil gave him a smile and stood up. "Charlie, I'm

just going to take Mark over to the south tower. We won't

be long."

Jack pushed back from the table and rose to his feet.

"Count me in. Sorry, Charlie, can we finish this later?"

"Of course. I'm coming along too."

"Bloody hell." Mark sighed. "Why don't you call

your sister as well? She can sell tickets. I don't know if I

can do it with an audience."

"Tough," Charlie said grimly. "You've got one. In

fact—" He slid open one of the drawers of a Welsh dresser

and took out a small camcorder. "—I can record it. If you

don't mind," he added with something of a challenge.

"No skin off my nose," Mark said. "I doubt it'll

show anything other than me apparently asleep, but you can

try."

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Chris Quinton

* * * *

The spiral staircase in the south tower was narrow

and steep, winding up from the ground floor to the

crenellated roof. When it reached the first floor, it opened

on the left to a spacious circular chamber and on the right

into a large rectangular room inhabited by spiders and

shadows as far as Mark could tell. And pigeons. The birds

scattered through the wide arched windows in both end

walls. The delicate stone tracery that remained hinted at the

expensive glory the windows would have been in the

castle's heyday.

"This is the solar, one of Sir B's places," Phil said,

the lightness of his tone belying the tension in his

shoulders. "Or we can go down into the hall. The chapel's

through that door, and the bedchambers are above."

"I'll try here first," Mark said quickly. The hall was

the last place he wanted to be. The stone seats in the

window embrasures were intact so he walked to the far

window and sat down. The stone struck cold into his thighs

and buttocks. He could feel the pressure of three pairs of

eyes on him, and it unsettled him to say the least. But he

pushed it all to one side of his mind, closed his eyes, and

leaned back against the wall.

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Chris Quinton

The autumn sun warmed his upturned face. He

could hear the disgruntled cooing of the pigeons and the

faint rustlings of uneasy movements from the watchers.

Tuning them out was difficult, but gradually awareness

faded, and he opened his eyes in his Safe Room, the remote

in his hand. He turned on the TV.

White static flared across the screen then settled

into a moving image. A large man paced restlessly back

and forth in front of a window. The window opposite him,

Mark realised. Slowly the details refined themselves into a

room with wood-panelled walls and dark furniture lit by

sunlight pouring in through the now-glazed windows. And

the image of the man sharpened. He wore a brown coat,

loose knee breeches with black boots, and long brown hair

curled around his very broad shoulders. Wide white lace-

edged collar and cuffs gave some colour to his outfit. He

wore a moustache and goatee and was handsome in a

florid, heavy-boned way. His expression was tortured.

Mark's finger pressed the remote's volume key. "Sir

Belvedere," he said. The man spun on his heel, moving

with surprising speed given his bulk and stared out of the

screen, gazing through and beyond Mark. "You're trapped

here. I want to help you move on." He could have opened

his door and walked out to meet the man face to face.

Should have, perhaps, but he did not dare.

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Chris Quinton

Sir Belvedere didn't seem to hear him. He returned

to his pacing, his lips moving soundlessly. Mark raised the

volume until he could hear the anguished whispers.

"May God forgive me, may God forgive me." He

said it over and over again. Then, "It was a madness. A

great sin. But I loved him. Ah, God above, I loved him so

much!"

"Who?" Mark murmured.

"He bewitched me. How else could I have fallen

into such a foul sin! And then he turned his face from me,

and there was that slip of a boy—scarce twenty summers!

How could I endure that?"

"Who?"

"Devil take them both, I say! They shall burn in the

deepest pit of Hell! He walked away from me! From me!

God's Blood, but he'll pay for that! I'll take it all—his

catamite, his land, his life— Ah, Jonnie, my bright

warrior!" The figure began to fade, even as a guttural howl

of agony cut through Mark's head. "No! Do not leave me!

To betray me with that cursed youth—foul warlock! Did

you cast your unclean glamour on him as you did me? I'll

see you burn for all eternity!" Another agonised wail rang

out and died away into silence as the white noise peppered

across the screen. Mark switched it off and left his room,

blinking his eyes open.

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Chris Quinton

Stone walls and three anxious men filled his sight,

and he relaxed with a sigh.

"He wasn't a lot of help," he said, rubbing his hands

across his face. "I got a few interesting details, but nothing

that'll help us lift the curse." No one answered. He looked

up. They were staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

"What?" he demanded nervously.

Wordlessly Charlie pushed the rewind button, then

the playback on the camcorder and held the little screen

under Mark's nose.

He saw himself lounging in the sun, head back, eyes

closed. The light seemed odd, probably because it had been

filmed almost directly into the sun coming through the

windows. Dust motes were caught in the rays, flaring like

small glowing orbs. He heard himself speak, a pause, and

then a burst of static blurred across the picture.

"Who?" his recorded self asked, faint and tinny

from the camcorder's tiny speaker. Static.

"Who?" he said again. More static. Then, with

shocking clarity, a cry rang out so grief-laden and bereft it

stood Mark's hair on end. The sound became lost in the

sharp crackles, and Charlie pressed the stop key.

"Fuck coffee. We need whisky," the Fitzwarrens

said in unison.

"Then," Charlie continued, "you can tell us what all

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Chris Quinton

that static meant."

"A bloody triangle," Mark replied. "This whole

mess had very little to do with your man wanting Curtess

land. He wanted Curtess, and he was dumped for a younger

man."

* * * *

After that, Charlie didn't hesitate in giving Mark

and Jack free rein to go where they wanted on the estate

and to do whatever they needed, as long as they were

careful around the sheep and cattle in the various fields and

didn't leave gates open.

They drove back to Eastbridge in a convoy of two,

and after Jack had dumped his meagre luggage in his room,

he joined Mark.

"I believe," he said simply, wrapping his arms

around him. "I have never been so scared in my life as

when that thing shrieked like a bloody banshee. Not to

mention you doing a good imitation of a man bleeding to

death from a nosebleed."

"Yes, well, that doesn't happen very often," Mark

said, happy to lean into the tight embrace. "It was a good

idea of Charlie's to record up in the solar. To be honest, it's

never happened before. The nosebleed, that is."

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Chris Quinton

"If it's all the same to you, I'll be pleased as punch if

it never happens again," he answered, and closed his mouth

over Mark's, his tongue probing deep in a voracious kiss.

"God, I want you so badly I think my balls are going to

spontaneously combust if I can't get inside you very soon.

Please say we don't have to go circle-hunting until

tomorrow."

"We don't," Mark chuckled.

* * * *

Sometime in the early morning, kisses and gentle

caresses awoke Mark, but nothing more.

"See you at breakfast," Jack whispered and slid out

of the bed. It was dark, but not pitch black. He was a vague

shape, rustling his way into his jeans and gathering up the

rest of his scattered clothing. Then the door closed quietly

behind him, and Mark sighed. He rolled into the warm

place that smelled of Jack and sex, but the bed still seemed

too empty.

For a long time he just lay there, cocooned in

comfort, half asleep and drifting. His thoughts were

freewheeling, circling mainly around Jack and his

increasing importance in Mark's life. So much so that Mark

fervently hoped it would be a long while before the

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Chris Quinton

Chapter Seven

They left Jack's old Toyota four-by-four parked in

front of the gatehouse and set out on foot. They had a large

scale Ordnance Survey map of the area with footpaths and

farm tracks marked, and Jack had put an X over the

coordinates from the aerial photograph. If they could have

travelled in a straight line, the journey would have been a

lot shorter. Following the various paths round field

boundaries more than tripled it, and the steadily rising

ground didn't help either. Mark was panting when the farm

track finally levelled out, and Jack stopped by a long metal

field-gate.

"This is it," Jack said as he folded the map and put

it away in his backpack.

"Thank God," Mark muttered, leaning his hands on

his knees. "I am not fit."

Jack chuckled and patted his back gently. "You'll

do," he said affectionately. "You just need to build up some

muscle, that's all. You're only a little bit on the skinny

side."

"Fuck you. I will never let you meet my gran." Then

he froze. That sounded as if he expected Jack to be around

long enough to do the meeting-the-family thing, when in

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Chris Quinton

reality it was more of a desperate hope.

Jack's chuckle became a laugh. "Sunshine, you

won't have a choice. I'll track her down and introduce

myself, and then we'll gang up on you."

"Huh," Mark grunted, his face flushed with more

than exertion and a silly grin growing. To hide it, he turned

around and looked back the way they'd come. The wide

valley spread out below him in a picturesque sprawl of

cottages and houses, ancient and modern. The silver ribbon

of the river wound through the valley and village, St.

Michael's pale exclamation point of a spire punctuated the

sky, and the free-flowing shapes of trees softened the

angularity of the buildings. Westford Castle itself stood

right at the forefront, fitting into the landscape like a jewel

in its setting. The beauty of it gave no hint at all of the

canker in its heart.

The sky was very blue, and only the raucous

scoldings of blackbirds as they mobbed a pair of magpies

high above the two men disturbed the tranquillity.

Jack's arm settled around Mark's waist and drew

him close to his side. "I love this part of the country," Jack

said softly. "People have lived here for thousands of years,

shaping it and shaped by it. That means a lot to me."

"Even after Egypt? Greece? Peru?"

"Even. It's always good to come home."

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"I know what you mean. I've only travelled around

the UK, but I feel like there's a continuity…" Mark

hesitated, not sure what he was trying to say, but Jack

seemed to understand and nodded.

"Come on," Jack said cheerfully. "Let's get this

show on the road, then we can take a look at the villa site."

The field was…a field. Mark could see no sign of

the cropmarks that might be something or nothing at all. He

saw assorted grasses, some thistles that had tufted white,

grazing sheep, all encompassed by hedges ripe with scarlet

berries and the pale drift of wild clematis gone to seed.

Molehills dotted the ground, and rabbits had burrowed into

the banks. On the far side of the field rose a stand of trees

that spread over the crest of the hill and spilled down until

it was curtailed by more fields. The trees—a mixture of

oak, ash and beech, with hazel around the perimeter—were

showing only a hint of russet and gold.

They climbed over the padlocked gate and strolled

across the pasture. The sheep lifted their heads, stared

stupidly, and casually drifted out of their way as if they'd

intended to move in any case.

"Here's where the possible boundary ditch is," Jack

said suddenly, coming to a stop.

"You're sure?" Mark could see nothing to indicate

it.

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Chris Quinton

"Pretty much. Modern ploughshares will have done

a hell of a lot of damage to any ground features. They dig a

lot deeper than the old ploughs." He took the photo from

his pack and studied it. "We're about here," he continued,

tapping it lightly. "The nearest pit…here." He took three

long paces, angling away from Mark. "The one that

disappeared under the bank is over there," he said, pointing

to his left, and then he pointed to the right. "The other one

is over there. Getting anything?" He made a vague circling

gesture at his temple, which either indicated his opinion of

Mark's sanity or his psychic ability.

Mark shook his head. He had his walls well and

truly in place, reinforced with everything he could pour into

them. Which, he admitted to himself, rather defeated the

objective.

"I'm not exactly looking forward to this." But it was

why he was here, so… He looked around, saw a small gap

in the hedge that might allow him through, and started

towards it. "I think I should be nearer the centre."

"If there is one," Jack reminded him. "These silted-

up pits are just as likely to be natural as manmade."

"I know."

The gap provided only a thinning in the otherwise

healthy hedgerow, and it had been made sheep-proof with

three strands of barbed wire. The two men managed to

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scramble over without tearing their jeans or castrating

themselves and pushed through the hazel barrier.

A pleasant, sun-dappled place, the copse seemed

alive with birdsong and the breeze through the leaves. They

worked their way steadily into the heart of it, finding it to

be comparatively easy going. The undergrowth wasn't as

heavy as Mark had expected, and there were paths, narrow

ones, winding among the trees. But they hadn't been made

by human feet.

"Deer," Jack said, pointing to narrow slotted hoof

prints. "And rabbits. Badgers and foxes as well, probably."

"Jack Faulkner, last of the Mohicans." Mark smiled,

the attempt at humour only partially disguising the tension

shivering down his spine.

Jack chuckled quietly and patted his shoulder. "Any

time you're ready, Merlin."

"Damn it." He sighed and stopped. They were in a

small clearing around the grey-green hulk of a long-ago

fallen tree, and Mark decided it was as good a place as any

to check for phenomena. So far he had picked up nothing,

and since he had been expecting something like the psychic

assaults he'd suffered in the church and the castle, he didn't

know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

The downed tree offered the possibility of a seat,

and Mark found a makeshift resting place where the trunk

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forked. He wedged himself into it, the moss-coated bark

striking chill and damp through his jeans and tee-shirt.

"Okay," he said with a confidence he did not feel, and

closed his eyes.

The Safe Room formed around him, familiar and

secure. Very secure, though it had never been tested by

anything as powerful and malevolent as Jonathan Curtess.

Mark turned on the TV. On the wide screen, static resolved

into an indistinct shades-of-grey image of the hilltop,

blurring and rippling as if it lay behind thick, distorted

glass. No fields, no hedges and trees. Just coarse grass—

and right in front of him stood the bulk of a sarsen

embedded on end in the ground. There was nothing nearby

that would allow Mark to get an idea of scale. The sarsen

could have been anything from five feet tall to fifteen, a

comparatively slender pillar of weathered stone. Beyond it,

he could see more stones, smaller, blockier, set in a curving

line, and part of a shallow bank. The circle, then, with a

central monolith and surrounding ditch and bank, just as

Jack had suggested it might be.

Formless shadows drifted around the central stone,

moving with seeming purpose. Mark had the impression of

daylight, but there was no colour, no definition, and no

sound but a faint static when he upped the volume.

"Mark?" A distant voice seeped into his awareness.

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"Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine." His own voice sounded as if it came

from a long way off. It felt very strange, actually talking to

a living someone while he was in his Safe Room. "This is

the place. It's got a taller stone standing in the middle. All

the others I can see are squarish, lower. And it's got a bank.

Not high, but there. It's all hazy, though. Indistinct. Can't

hear a thing. Can't feel a thing…"

"That's good, right?" Jack sounded nervous.

"Don't know. Maybe. But I can only see what's in

front of me. I need to see more."

Mark got up from the couch and moved to one of

the windows, pulling back the curtains. Yes, the circle was

out there, and there were two additional taller stones in it, a

wider gap between them to make an entrance of sorts. The

shadows were still there, ten or more milling around.

People, his gut feeling told him, doing whatever they'd

done four hundred years ago. Not ghosts, exactly, just an

imprinted replay of the event. Jonathan Curtess's death?

Possibly. He shivered.

Quickly, Mark drew open the other curtains, but

gained no more information. The scenes were remarkably

similar in their lack of colour and substance.

"Mark?"

"I think I have to go outside," he said reluctantly.

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Chris Quinton

"I'm not getting anything in here."

"In where? The circle?"

Mark didn't answer. He unlocked the door and

stopped, his hand on the bright brass handle. He did not

want to do this. Curtess had died a cruel death here. But the

curse had to be broken, lifted, ended somehow, and every

instinct insisted it had to start with Curtess himself.

"Okay," he said, and opened the door on a bright

summer day.

The moment he crossed the threshold Mark became

an unseen extra in the scene, an ephemeral entity, buffeted

by the hurrying bustle of grim-featured men under the

direction of the unmistakable Sir Belvedere. He moved

back until he stood outside the circle, farther back, and he

found himself among a small herd of restless, uneasy

horses. They shifted away from him as if they could sense

his presence, but he paid them no attention. The drama

being enacted inside the stones held his increasingly

horrified gaze.

They were piling brush and logs around the central

stone. They must have brought the logs with them because

there were no trees at all on the hill. He did not want to

watch this, but he could not move away. He reached blindly

for his door, but for the first time in his life, he couldn't find

it.

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"Jack?" he said. "Jack!" No answer. Two men

strode towards the herd, and he turned to watch them.

There were three carts behind the horses, all but one loaded

with logs. From that one they dragged a man, letting him

fall to the ground. He had been bound hands and feet with

thick ropes, his white shirt torn and stained with blood and

dirt. His head lolled, eyes closed, long blond hair trailing in

the grass. Beneath the bruises and muck, he was handsome,

almost pretty, and young. Very young. And Mark knew in

his gut this was not Jonathan.

Martin… The name came to him even as the man

stirred and began to regain consciousness.

"Bring him!" Sir Belvedere shouted, and Martin

was hauled to his feet and half-carried towards the circle.

"No!" Martin screamed, struggling convulsively.

"Nonono! My lord, have mercy!" But tied as he was, he

could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. They lifted him

onto the stacked logs, and chains were looped about him,

binding him to the stone. More logs were piled around him,

covering him to his waist, and the contents of a small keg

were being poured onto the pyre. Now he hung slack and

silent, and Mark prayed that he'd passed out. He himself

felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't shut his eyes to it,

nor block his ears, nor look away. Something other than his

own will held him there. He fought it with everything in

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100

him, but though the scene wavered and for a while became

insubstantial, he could not break free. When it snapped

back into focus, Mark wished it hadn't.

The flames were almost colourless in the sunlight,

but they burned with a fierceness that made him wonder

what the hell had been in that keg. Martin hadn't fainted.

His screams became ragged animal howls while the blaze

devoured his clothing and his hair burned away, and

finally, mercifully, he fell silent. The blackened body

sagged in the chains, curling in on itself as tendons

contracted in the heat. And still the murderers stacked on

more logs.

Rage and grief such as Mark had never known

seared through him. They had been there all the time, he

realised, hovering on the edge of his awareness, waiting.

Now the madness claimed him. He wanted to

destroy every man on the hill. Kill them as slowly and

painfully as his lover had died. But for Belvedere, oh, he

had other plans. Belvedere would suffer all the torments of

the damned…

Mark fought to regain his sanity, his sense of self,

but he could not tell whether hours or minutes had passed

before he could force his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, the moon hung full in

a night sky. The circle was empty, and the blackened

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monolith hulked, surrounded by ash and charcoaled jagged

things that might be narrow branches. Or bones. He walked

towards the stone, waded through the still warm ash and

cinders and things that cracked under his feet, took out his

knife and the hammer-flint he'd found and brought along

for just this purpose, and began to work. First, he opened a

long gash down the outside of his left forearm. Then every

word he carved into the sarsen he anointed and sealed with

his own blood. Every word, so that when he had finished,

the curse showed black in the moonlight and his arm ached

with a pain that was only an echo of the agony in his heart.

He stood back and surveyed his handiwork, a

savage satisfaction in his soul. But still it wasn't enough. It

needed one final twist. He thought for a moment, and on

one of the tall entrance stones, he began to cut more words.

When he who sees beyond…

"Mark!"

The moon reeled above him, days and nights flared,

corrosive malice ate at his very soul, and all he hungered

for was revenge.

"Mark!"

Then he was chained to the stone as Martin had

been chained, and he laughed in Belvedere's hated, beloved

face. He spoke aloud the words of his curse, knowing his

death would be the final irrevocable seal, shouted their

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venom and rejoiced in it.

"My gift to you, sweet love," he spat, the pain of the

flames not touching him. Not yet. "A legacy for your

children and their children. Written in stone—"

"You devil's cur!"

"No!" shouted a familiar voice, and a man stepped

from behind Belvedere's bulk. "This is wrong!" A flurry of

movement and a knife flashed through the air to sink to its

hilt in Jonathan's chest, just below his breastbone.

"Traitor!" Belvedere's roar of fury and his

backhanded blow sent the smaller man staggering back.

"Damn you! Do you think I won't punish all who betray

me?"

"Mark!"

* * * *

He came awake, half-lying on grass, and there were

arms around him, cradling him close. He could hear the fast

beat of a racing heart where his head was held against an

erratically breathing chest.

"Mark, for God's sake, say something!" A pleading

whisper, desperate and terrified. "Mark!"

He dredged up the name that belonged to that

panicky voice. "J-Jack?" he managed. Dry lips pressed a

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fervent kiss on his forehead.

"Thank God!" Then relief and terror transmuted

into anger. "What the fuck was going on? What happened?

Are you insane? Don't you ever do anything like that again

or so help me, I'll-I'll—" And Jack took his mouth in a

ferocious, desperate kiss, tongue probing deep, as if he

sought both compliance and reassurance at once. Mark

worked an arm free and hooked it around Jack's neck,

giving himself up to the kiss with the same kind of

desperation that fuelled it.

"It's okay," he said shakily. "I'm okay. Just got a

replay of-of what happened here. It wasn't pretty." They

were a short way away from the tree, he realised, right

where the monolith had stood—the monolith that was now

the threshold for the porch to the hall at Westford Castle.

"More ghosts?" Jack demanded, not letting him go.

If anything, his embrace tightened.

"No. A replay. Only I was there, part of it." He had

been Jonathan, feeling what he had felt, doing what he had

done, but he couldn't tell Jack that. Not yet, maybe never.

Blood to blood.

Jonathan hadn't known what he'd been doing. He

was mad with grief and rage, acting on blind instinct, and

maybe he'd had a talent similar to the Renfrews'. Maybe his

had been closer to Alice's than Mark's, and the words had

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come from the future to that past. And as if a switch had

been thrown, Mark saw the pattern and could have kicked

himself for not seeing it sooner.

When the one who reads the earth… That surely

meant Jack. He'd watched him read the aerial photographs

as if they were clear as a printed page, for fuck's sake.

Joins with he who sees beyond… That had to be

himself, of course, linked to this whole unholy mess

through Curtess, and he and Jack had already joined in the

best possible way.

When the warrior and the healer stand to swear a

sacred bond… The healer had to be a doctor, and there was

one already in the Fitzes' circle of friends. The sacred bond

could be the upcoming wedding, he supposed, and

wondered if they knew any soldiers.

When the one who seeks in danger is sworn to the

landless lord… God knows who or what the first part was,

but the landless lord might be Phil Fitzwarren.

"Mark, are you floating off again?"

"No," he answered. "Just enjoying being here."

Being with you. He tugged Jack down for another kiss,

hungry for the living taste of him. All the shadows from the

past had dissipated, the sun was warm, the air moved

softly, and no hint lingered of the agonies and deaths that

had happened here. Poor innocent Martin certainly wasn't

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hanging around, and Jonathan… Mark did not doubt he'd

ended up locked into that threshold stone, trapped by his

own curse. Perhaps if… No, when the curse was lifted, he

and Belvedere would be free… A calloused hand stroked

up his ribs under his tee-shirt, and he caught his breath.

"Mmm," Jack said. "So am I. Is all this over now?"

"Not yet. But it will be." Mark wondered briefly if

he should tell the Fitzes his interpretation of the curse-

lifting conditions, and decided he couldn't tell all of it. He

had the feeling that if they were forced into play, it would

negate the deal. It had to happen naturally, an unplanned

progression of relationships. But there remained something

he could do. "Do you have a knife on you?"

"Yes, a Swiss Army job. Why?" he added

suspiciously. "Will you please tell me what happened while

you were out of it?"

"Yes, later. First I want to try and get Jonathan out

of that stone."

"What? How?"

"Gut instinct," Mark replied with a wry smile. "I

need a chunk of chalk and something to dig a hole with."

"I'll dig the hole," Jack said, reaching into his

backpack and taking out a small trowel. It had no sharp

corners any more. They had long since been worn into

rounded edges. "Though I had hoped to explore a different

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kind of—"

"Later," he interrupted, smiling. "I think I saw some

lumps of chalk in the molehills. I'll go and grab one. Can

you dig it here?" He patted the ground beside him. "This is

where the monolith stood."

"Okay."

By the time Mark found a piece of chalk with

enough surface area for what he wanted, Jack and his

trowel had excavated a small pit about a foot deep. Part of

one edge showed the natural chalk bedrock of the sarsen's

foundation pit.

"Not a lucky guess, I'm thinking," Jack said grimly

as he handed over his knife.

"No," Mark agreed. Holding the chunk of chalk

carefully, he carved Jonathan's initials into the soft

material, and taking care not to crack it apart, he gradually

cut a deep groove between them. Then he made a small

nick in the fleshy part of his left thumb and smeared the

blood into the J and the C. The red was shocking against

the whiteness of the chalk.

"Blood to blood, Jonathan Curtess," he said,

ignoring Jack's startled, "What the fuck?" Mark had no idea

whether it would work, or if he was making a complete fool

of himself, but he had to try. "Blood to blood."

Heat exploded around him, bringing searing agony

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with it. He felt again the knife that had slid home in

Jonathan's heart even as the fire charred his flesh from his

bones. He fought to keep the past at bay, and holding on to

his own identity with frantic strength, Mark broke the chalk

in half. Flames and pain disappeared, and he dropped the

pieces into the hole, kicking the excavated dirt after them.

* * * *

Slowly, they walked back down to the castle and

Jack's car. A warm, rich silence bound them one to the

other. They were comfortable together, needing nothing but

the closeness between them. It might be early days yet, but

Mark was optimistic. This relationship already felt different

from his previous ones, and he hoped it would last a lot

longer. Jack's arm lay over his shoulders, his wound about

Jack's waist, and they were in perfect step as they moved

down the rutted tracks.

They reached the Toyota and stopped, turning to

face each other. Jack slid his hand slid down Mark's back to

the curve of his buttock, and Mark rested his hands on

Jack's hips. They swayed closer, pressing together from

thighs to mouths in a long, searching kiss.

"You work from home, you said," Jack whispered,

lifting his head a little. "Could you work from the Bridge

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for a while?"

"No problem." A giddy delight zinged through him.

"I think," Jack continued, "I'm falling in love with

you."

"Oh, good," Mark answered. "Because I know I am.

Falling for you."

"Oh, good," Jack echoed him, and they both

chuckled. "Does this mean you're going to take me to meet

your gran?"

"Maybe. Can you give me a few more minutes

here? I need to take another look at the stone."

"Mark…" he began, exasperated.

"I'm fairly sure it'll be okay. I have to be certain I

evicted him."

"Alright," Jack agreed reluctantly, and they walked

together through the gatehouse and into the courtyard

beyond.

Charlie came out of the kitchen and joined them. "Is

everything okay?" he asked nervously.

"It's getting there," Mark answered. "I haven't been

able to break the curse, but I have weakened it a little I

think. The rest will follow in due course; I'm certain of it.

Things will work out for the best," he added earnestly.

Charlie grunted but didn't say anything.

By unspoken agreement, they stopped a few feet

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away from the curse-stone and gazed at it in silence for a

moment. To his almost overwhelming relief, Mark picked

up nothing from it but a background buzz of directionless

malice. Then Charlie stepped forward, frowning.

"Is that a crack?" he asked. There was a hairline

fracture across the middle of the stone, and Mark bit his lip,

holding back the urge to laugh and punch the air in

triumph.

"Yes," he said, satisfaction in his voice. "Curtess

was in there. He's gone now. The curse is still in play, but

it's on its way to being lifted."

"It is?" Charlie sounded sceptical, to say the least.

"Yes," Mark said. "I promise. It's like the domino

effect, and the first one has fallen. But I can't say anything

else. I have to go now. Goodbye, Charlie. Things will work

out, even if it doesn't seem like it yet."

They shook hands solemnly. "I've heard that

before," he answered coolly. "I hope you're right, Mark, but

I doubt you are. Thanks for trying, though."

"You do notice, I hope," Jack said helpfully, "that

Mark is standing here fully conscious and on his own two

feet, without a nosebleed?"

"I noticed," he admitted. "What about the training

excavation? Are we still going to discuss that?"

"You bet. I'll be back in a day or so, if that's okay.

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110

We can finalise everything then."

"Good. I'll look forward to it."

And that was that. As they walked back across the

courtyard, Mark slipped his fingers into Jack's hand. The

warm clasp welcomed him, and a thumb gently teased his

palm. He had a feeling he'd be suffering nightmares of fire

and chains and standing stones for a while but he also knew

he wouldn't be waking alone. Jack would be there.

The End—or not…

About the Author

Chris started creating stories not long after she

mastered  joined-up  writing,  somewhat  to  the  bemusement
of  her  parents  and  her  English  teachers.  But  she  received
plenty of encouragement. Her dad  gave her an already old
Everest  typewriter  when  she  was  ten,  and  it  was  probably
the  best  gift  she'd  ever  received—  until  the  inventions  of
the home computer and the World-Wide Web.

Chris's reading and writing interests range from

historical,  mystery,  and  paranormal,  to  science-fiction  and
fantasy,  mostly  in  the  male/male  genre.  She  also  writes
male/female  novels  in  the  name  of  Chris  Power.  She
refuses  to  be  pigeon-holed  and  intends  to  uphold  the  long
and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of
her  ability.  In  her  spare  time  [hah!]  she  embroiders,  quilts
and  knits.  In  the  past  she  has  been  a  part-time  and  unpaid
amateur archaeologist and a fifteenth century re-enactor.

She currently lives in a small and ancient city in the

southwest of the United Kingdom, sharing her usually
chaotic home with an extended family, two large dogs,
fancy mice and sundry goldfish.

Her websites are:

http://chrisquinton.com and http://chrispower.me.uk

Email:

chris.quintonwriter@ymail.com

Blog:

chris-quinton.livejournal.com

Facebook:

http://tinyurl.com/67o4mrm

Twitter:

http://twitter.com/#!/Chris_writer

Also by Chris Quinton

Available at Silver Publishing:

Starfall

THE FITZWARREN INHERITANCE

The Psychic's Tale

The Soldier's Tale by RJ Scott (June 11)

The Lord's Tale by Sue Brown (July 2)

Available at All Romance Ebooks:

Dark Waters

Available at Manifold Press:

Sea Change

Aloes

FOOL'S ODYSSEY TRILOGY

Fool's Errand

Fool's Oath

Available at Torquere Press:

Breaking Point

Clue Game

As Chris Power

Available at All Romance Ebooks:

Argent Dreaming

with Terri Beckett

Available at All Romance Ebooks:

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