The Brotherhood 12: Believe It Or Not Page 3

  “How did you get in here again? The windows are locked. The doors are locked. The mail slot is bolted shut. And why am I talking to you like you can understand me?”

  The cat purred smugly.

  “Out,” Harrison ordered, pointing to the door of his bedroom.

  She twisted around to lick her shoulder beneath her studded collar.

  Oh, no, he wasn’t going to take that. Harrison had read up on animal behavior, and he knew what she was doing -- the equivalent of flipping him the finger.

  “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” Harrison picked up the cat, who snuggled, self-satisfied, into his arms, and carried her out to his front door. Depositing said feline on his steps, he put his hands on his hips. “This time, stay out.”

  The cat hissed at him. Flicking her tail up, she strolled away as if she had much better things to do anyway, and he could go screw himself.

  Harrison shook his head as he watched the pest disappear into the Charleston night. Honestly. With her studded collar, the feline clearly belonged to someone, so why had she decided to annoy him? And how did she manage her reverse Houdini act?

  She was a puzzle, but at the moment he didn’t have time to ponder the mystery of the cat. Harrison checked his watch. Better get moving.

  * * * * *

  Harrison showered, shaved, and dressed, absently thinking about how he could possibly use this whole club experience as the start of a paper on gay-circuit party hangouts. That could definitely be interesting.

  With that in mind, once he was clothed Harrison headed for the small room he’d set up as a home office, filled with computers, filing cabinets, and bookshelves with systematically arranged periodicals. The walls were painted stark white and the carpet utilitarian gray. He kept his ergonomic desk neat as a pin and the rest of the room just as organized.

  Microcassette recorder? No. People were often wary when it came to having their voices captured on tape and became extra touchy; they didn't seem to dare chance anyone knowing about their presence at a gay club. He nodded decisively. A small notebook and a pencil would be better; if nothing else, he could jot down notes in private moments.

  Should he give his e-mail a quick check before he headed out? Probably.

  Since he’d never made a secret of how to be contacted, Harrison usually received e-mail by the boatload. Hate letters, fan letters, and correspondence from colleagues. He always took care of business first, but if he had time afterward he liked reading the poison pen letters. The latter were usually much more interesting than the ones filled with praise.

  One such critical writer, who called himself “Martin,” had piqued Harrison’s interest enough to write the man back. Highly intelligent, the man constantly challenged Harrison over one issue or another. Martin swore up and down, blind and sideways, by God, Goddess, a pantheon of other deities, and Gaia that he was an honest-to-whatever Magician, capital “M.”

  Harrison figured Martin was more likely either a canny liar or a highly functional schizophrenic. Although they were firmly planted on opposite sides of the fence, Harrison loved scrapping with Martin.

  He grinned when he saw there was a note waiting from his “nemesis” in his in-box, along with a flashing icon that indicated Martin was online at the moment.

  Harrison,

  You really should be spanked. I had to hear it through the grapevine that you’re going to Amour Magique tonight? I didn’t think that was your style, darling, but what a lucky coincidence -- I’ll be there, too.

  Don’t get spooked, sweetheart!

  Trust me, I’m not stalking you (much). I’m just dying to talk to you in person and see you all dolled up. I’ll bet you look good enough to gobble when you put on the Ritz. Lord knows you look good enough to lick anyway. (I bought your last hardback with the frontispiece, remember? I know what you look like but you don’t know me, la, la, la....)

  I’ll wear a sorcerer’s pointy hat so you’ll know who I am. Not.

  Kisses!

  -- Martin

  Harrison was torn between chuckling and scowling. Martin, also gay, was possibly the most outrageous flirt he’d ever dealt with -- and given that he knew Alex, the Brother who was a former male escort, and Liam, that was saying something. Martin’s teasing was flattering, certainly, but it made Harrison feel uncomfortably wary. So what did he do? Come right back with phrases from the stuffed-shirt lexicon.

  Martin,

  Of course I intend to attend the club. I’ve promised the support group I’ll be there. I look forward to meeting you. Perhaps I might interview you, if you would permit that. However, I must remind you that I have always denied -- and always will deny -- your requests for a more intimate relationship. Please keep this in mind during future correspondence.

  -- Harrison

  He’d barely clicked “send” before a new message popped up.

  Harrison,

  Interview me? Any time, lovely.

  But really, though, you’re so pompous in e-mail. You’ve got to be livelier in person. If not, we’ll work on pulling the big old stick out of your ass. I can think of other, more interesting things to put in its place... perhaps we could run a few field experiments tonight after sharing a whiskey and a tango or two?

  And yes, I pay attention to what you say. I always have. I hear you fine -- I just don’t listen. It’s much more fun this way.

  -- Martin

  Harrison rolled his eyes.

  Martin,

  Please understand that it is not my intention to make a fool of myself by either dancing or drinking. And for the last time, stop propositioning me. I am not interested. How clear do I have to be about this?

  -- Harrison

  Martin tried to instant message him. Harrison denied the request and waited for the letter which, inevitably, arrived.

  Harrison,

  Now that was cold, rude, and uncalled for. You’re lucky I’m too smitten to stay mad at you (wink, wink). I have a long way to go to warm you up, don’t I? But yes, yes, don’t flirt, I know the drill. (It won’t stop me from imagining you all I want, though; I know what you look like, and I can imagine that sensual mouth wrapped around my... well... all I like. So there.)

  Now, darling, here’s a secret for you. I’m not just visiting Amour Magique. I live there. I’m on staff (Magician joke).

  I happen to know that you’ll be coming along with Bree, Collin, Simon, Micah, Quentin, David, Laurence, Christian, Alex, Allen, and Liam -- all of whom you have been oh-so-careful not to mention.

  Now ask yourself: how did I know that?

  The answer is simple, lovely: magic.

  -- Martin

  He knew the Brotherhood and the names of its members? How? Harrison had never let the information slip. Martin had to have been snooping in Harrison’s personal life to know anything like this.

  Damn him! Harrison mentally scuttled back like a hermit crab into its shell and hastily typed:

  Martin,

  Apparently, you’ve not only not confined yourself to e-mails that cross the borders of sexual harassment, but you have also been stalking me. I will meet with you tonight as we agreed, but after that I do not want to hear from you again unless I see fit to contact you with regard to a research study. Any attempts at initiating future communication on your part will be forwarded to the police.

  -- Harrison

  Harrison sighed. He hated doing things like this, but he wouldn’t stand for someone prying into his life. Too bad. He thought he might miss Martin.

  Ping!

  A new message popped up. No subject line, but it had Martin’s e-mail address. Harrison frowned as he opened the note.

  Harrison,

  You would be wise to think twice before attempting to browbeat me. I have enjoyed playing the silly flirt because it amused me; however, I believe you underestimate what matter of man I am. I am a Magician, Harrison, a genuine Magician, no matter how you choose to lie to yourself about the supernatural. I am entrusted with the magic that kee
ps Amour Magique running.

  Amour Magique is far more than any silly dance club. If you remove your blinders for a moment when you enter, you may see for yourself; I doubt you will, though, as you remain so stubbornly closed to every scrap of magic in the world.

  I have decided that, aside from taking you in any manner I see fit, I will also bring you face-to-face with enchantments that you cannot deny, and then I’ll demand the truth: do you believe, or do you not?

  I wonder how you will answer.

  But as to the other, make no mistake, Harrison, I do mean to have you. I have lusted after you for no small time now. Although you bluster and bluff about disdaining me, I can read men’s hearts. I know you want me. I say this with no conceit; I simply state a fact.

  We will light Amour Magique ablaze tonight. Yes, tonight.

  To meet me, go through the main entrance and look for a statue of Bastet (I trust you know who she is). Her pedestal blocks a service hallway. Pass the statue and follow the trail I lay out for you.

  You will come.

  You don’t want to make me angry, Harrison. I will take a great deal for the sake of entertainment, but you can only push me so far.

  Now, you are quite piqued after reading this, aren’t you? So: forget. Get up from your computer, finish dressing -- don’t forget to make sure your socks match -- and come to the club knowing only this: above all else, you are there to meet me along the Bastet path. You must meet me, though Hell itself should bar the way.

  Oh, and to hurry things along a bit, you will be fully aware of the attraction between us. Indeed, as you come to meet me, you will burn and shiver with the need to fuck and be fucked.

  So mote it be.

  -- Martin

  Harrison sat back in his computer chair and frowned in confusion. What had he... had there just been an e-mail? He could have sworn he’d been reading. But, no, his screen was bare of any new messages. Not a thing from Martin tonight aside from a quick, friendly note saying he’d be at the club, too, suggesting they meet for a casual chat in person.

  No flirting, which was strangely disappointing. Harrison’s pulse quickened as he stood, interest and excitement building at the thought of actually meeting the little vixen.

  A momentary flash of a blond man in an opened purple robe flashed through his mind. A blond man whose cock jutted out, demanding to be serviced. He was as appealing as honey wine while he whispered wicked secrets.

  Harrison blinked in surprise. The vision vanished.

  Huh. What was I just thinking about?

  He turned in a slow circle, trying to put his finger on what he’d been pondering. So annoying when one forgot things like that.

  What time is it? Blast. I’ll be late. I can’t miss this.

  Grabbing the rest of what he needed -- keys, breath spray, and so forth -- Harrison headed for the door. He stopped briefly, prompted for some odd reason to check that his socks matched. Then, shaking his head, he moved on.

  After the apartment door had closed, the small black cat Harrison had ousted earlier minced into his office, preening her whiskers.

  Silly man, to think locks and doors could keep her out.

  Foolish man, not to believe in even the ordinary magic all cats possessed.

  Very, very stupid man, not to recognize a big dog even when it wore a cat’s body.

  Lilith-the-cat hopped up onto Harrison’s computer chair and summoned up the dissipating remnants of Martin’s last e-mail. When she needed the mouse to scroll down, she shifted easily into her human form, long black nails clicking on Harrison’s scrupulously clean desk. In her opinion, when she wore feline shape, mice were only good for one thing.

  “Well, well, well,” she murmured. Like her son, Lilith talked to herself and didn’t give a damn what people might think. “Not bad, Liam. You’ve got balls, son, trying to match these two. You’ll make me all kinds of proud if you don’t watch out. But, okay, fine. I’m not touching the rest of that crowd with a ten-foot pogo stick; they’re all yours. I think I’ll have a little fun with these two guys, though.”

  She grinned the sort of grin that would have sent linebackers running away in tears. “No need to let sonny-boy know I’m fiddling around unless I have to, I think. And I don’t believe I will. Oh, yeah. This should be fun.”

  Shifting back into cat form, Lilith licked one paw, tapped the air, and created a portal. She hopped through with a flick of her tail, headed for Amour Magique.

  And they said you couldn’t find quality entertainment anymore.

  Chapter Two

  “Well, that was amusing,” Martin murmured.

  Satisfied with how the night’s work had begun, he closed the lid of his sparkling new laptop and carelessly shoved it onto an overflowing nightstand. In doing so, he knocked over a half full cup of tea, three unlit tallow candles, a small silver bell, a plastic figurine of a black cat, and a nearly new bottle of lubricant. The entire collection landed with a tremendous clatter and made one hell of a mess.

  “Oh, honestly.” Martin clicked his tongue. Just his luck. Taken individually, the assortment of junk was harmless trinkets. However, the way they’d landed, the items had come together as perfectly arranged elements of a spell. Couldn’t just tidy them up. They were already humming with magic, and nature hated a vacuum. The energy had to be used for some purpose.

  Leaning over the edge of his bed, kicking aside rich purple sheets in annoyance, Martin examined the grouping. It appeared there were two ways the spell’s power could be directed. He could summon up a panther, but the animal would probably be more than a little pissed off at being magically yanked away from his jungle. Cats had their own brand of sorcery and didn’t take kindly to others tangling in their affairs.

  His second option would be to conjure up a full English high tea with little cakes in the shape of tabby cats.

  What to do, what to do? Releasing a peeved panther in Amour Magique would be tons of fun; on the other hand, he could really use a snack.

  In the end Martin opted for munchies over mayhem, and with a wave of his hand -- purely for show, even if there was no one else there to see it -- rolled in his own version of room service. Mmm. Smelled good.

  Taking a hearty bite of a watercress sandwich laced with wasabi, Martin reflected that if he’d just let the cleaning staff of Amour Magique into his rooms to tidy up, as management was always pestering him to do, he wouldn’t get himself into these situations.

  As if.

  Martin had nothing against housekeeping, but honestly, a man’s home was his castle. He deserved at least a little bit of privacy. And if an accidental spill of his own could conjure up bloodthirsty beasts, who knew what would happen if a member of the cleaning staff decided to dust off his Work table where he composed most of his spells or poked a bit of this or that to see if it was “real” magic?

  Shudder. No, thank you.

  He put the thought from his mind as he selected a scone, slathered it with raspberry jam, and bit in with relish. There were other, more enjoyable things to occupy his thoughts with.

  For one, Harrison.

  Martin hummed around a mouthful of raspberry goodness. Harrison had first caught his eye when another, lesser magician had offered Martin one of Harrison’s books as a joke. Martin had been bored to tears by the dust-dry babble about physics and practical applications of science and yet highly entertained, too. He’d never met a man so utterly stubborn in his belief that if something could not be scientifically or laboratory-proved, it did not exist.

  Ignorant scholar. Naïve expert. Harrison really had no clue, did he?

  Or perhaps he did, and deliberately blinded himself. Probably six of one and a half-dozen of the other.

  Martin shrugged as he finished his sweet and reached for a dainty china cup of good strong Earl Grey. Two sugars and a dab of cream. After all, he didn’t have to worry about gaining weight, just as he didn’t have to concern himself with wrinkles or silver hairs.

  He hadn’t changed
in the slightest since first entering Amour Magique over two hundred years ago. A nice little perk for those employees so inclined to take advantage.

  Martin, who knew he was vain as a peacock, had happily opted to stay forever young. Who’d get old and wizened when they could stay young and pretty? Besides, fresh-faced innocence worked to his advantage. People who didn’t know him didn’t take him seriously. He liked keeping them off their guard.

  All the better to really get them good if need be.

  Draining the tea, Martin set his tray aside, balancing it on the laptop. If there were any crumbs or spills, he could always conjure up a new computer. It wasn’t as if he needed an actual machine to cruise the Internet or send e-mail, anyway; he simply enjoyed doing so.

  But what had he been thinking about? Ah, yes. Harrison. Martin had first been attracted to the man’s mind, entertained by his mulish insistence that nothing but the concrete physical could possibly exist. He’d entertained ideas of teaching Harrison a lesson or two that would send the man screaming into the night.

  Then, he’d seen the frontispiece on the book and decided he’d rather have Harrison screaming in his bed.

  Although he knew the man’s features by heart, Martin summoned the well-thumbed book into his hands and flipped it open to the picture page. “Yes, you are delicious, aren’t you?”

  Exactly the type he went for. Harrison had a definite appeal even in a black and white photo. Tall and solid, with the promise of delicious muscles -- no doubt the man exercised according to a scientifically calculated regimen. A face that was not handsome but unique and interesting. A great deal of character in those features, no matter how Harrison tried to squash it down. Eyes wide enough to see miracles if he’d only let himself look for them, and a generous mouth made for spinning yarns instead of dry lectures, not to mention kissing, sucking, nibbling, and other good things.