THE SWEET FLAG

Jeanne Barrack

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The Sweet Flag

Jeanne Barrack

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or
existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


Published by
Loose Id LLC
1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924
Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com


Copyright © May 2008 by Jeanne Barrack
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of
this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing,
photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.


ISBN 978-1-59632-694-1
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader


Printed in the United States of America


Editor: C. B. Calsing
Cover Artist: Marci Gass

Dedication

This story is dedicated to the many different people who affected me in some way --

personally, professionally, profoundly, or emotionally.

To the guys I grew up with in Brooklyn who walked to the sound of a different

drummer.

To my relatives who faced discrimination and overcame it and to those who faced

destruction and didn’t make it.

To Antonio Bandera and the films he made with Pedro Almodovar, from which I

learned that men loving men could be beautiful.

s

To Josh Lanyon for his gentle advice.

And, as always, to my husband for his incredible support.

“…the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.” Walt Whitman

Prologue

My name is Brandon Keats. I’m a freelance journalist specializing in Civil War

paranormal activity. The last case I worked on concerned a little known legend referred to

locally as “The Vigilant Soldier.” Approximately every twenty years on Memorial Day night,

a Civil War soldier returns to the Thorndale Cemetery, in Garrickstown, Pennsylvania, to

stand vigil over the grave of a fallen comrade. Sightings began in 1908 and continued over

the course of the twentieth century. It was said that if anyone visited the grave that night, he

or she would be killed in exchange for the resurrection of the dead soldier. This part of the

anecdote began after WWII, but no deaths have been recorded, and no missing persons have

been reported, ever…

I began my investigation armed solely with the name of the soldier, Matthew Hardesty,

whose grave was the location of the sightings, and then dug further. Delving into public

records confirmed that Hardesty joined the 205th Regiment New York Volunteer Infantry in

1861 as a captain. One of the first recipients (posthumously) of the Medal of Honor, Matthew

Hardesty was the son of a well-to-do Southern tobacco planter. As was customary for many

wealthy young men, he traveled to Europe to “broaden [his] horizons” (quote taken from a

letter to his sister, Susan Marie Hardesty Grayson, from her collection of letters and

documents gathered under the title

A Southern Woman’s Courtship

, Florida State University

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Jeanne Barrack

Library). Apparently, something out of the ordinary occurred during his travels. In letters to

her fiancé, Alonzo Grayson, Hardesty’s sister wrote of her brother’s “unnatural behavior” and

that her father’s hopes were pinned on her to “continue the family line.” In this same letter,

she begs her fiancé to “refrain from mentioning my brother’s name” in polite company.

The Medal of Honor was sent to his sister (as recorded in one of her last letters to her

daughter). I found her acceptance of the award ironic, since both she and her father

considered Matthew a turncoat for sympathizing with the North and hardly the typical

picture of “manly” behavior. Yet she decided to claim the medal after the war. Could his

heroic death have whitewashed his “questionable” activities?

Reading between the lines, it appeared likely that Matthew Hardesty might have

engaged in homosexual behavior in Europe, reports of which somehow filtered back to his

family. This was the first reference, however oblique, to paranormal, homosexual Civil War

activity that I had encountered. Being a gay man myself, it fueled my interest for the project

and I felt compelled to continue digging. Using the Internet, I found an indistinct image of

Hardesty’s headstone. I could barely make out the inscription, so I was grateful that there

was a caption beneath the photo. His regiment and rank were listed on the headstone, as was

the date of his death in an inconclusive skirmish at Wapping Heights.

Hardesty was the only Civil War combatant killed in battle and then buried in

Thorndale. Unlike most of the gravestones in Thorndale, no cross was incised on the stone,

and the wording was also out of the ordinary: “The beauty of Israel is slain upon the high

places.” Could Hardesty have converted to Judaism? There was no record of this anywhere,

and even after sifting through his sister’s voluminous letters, I could find nothing to support

this speculation.

The headstone was raised, according to cemetery records, with funds provided by “an

anonymous friend.” Who was this friend? Could it have been Hardesty’s lover? Was his lover

Jewish, I wondered? Or did the quote simply refer to a warrior killed in battle?

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3

The scene carved on the headstone was quite worn. Thorndale, unfortunately, had

been subjected to vandalism over the course of the years, and this stone was a favorite target.

I continued my search and tracked down a local company engaged in the manufacture

of headstones. Ciavoli Memorial Company had been in business for over one hundred and

seventy-five years. Since the company was so close to my home in D.C., I decided to

investigate, personally, whether they were involved with the creation of Hardesty’s

headstone.

Discussion with the present-day owner provided me with an exciting piece of

information: the actual sketch of the engraving on the tombstone. Ciavoli’s great-great-

grandfather had kept the sketch because he admired the artwork. Ciavoli agreed to meet

with me at his family business on a Monday when it was closed to the public.

I approached the locked door and rang the bell, feeling like a pizza deliveryman

waiting to get his money and tip and leave. A high tenor voice responded to my call and,

when I announced my name, Ciavoli buzzed me inside.

Blank headstones, waiting for the next dearly departed’s name to be engraved, lined

one side of the showroom. A fine layer of dust covered the furnishings and iced the photo

albums lying upon a counter.

“Use the gate on the right and go straight to the back after you hear the buzzer.”

Once more, a disembodied voice directed me onward.

I walked toward a slightly ajar door and entered a workroom. In the rear, a man sat on

a plain, wooden bench with his back to me. A sleeveless, black T-shirt strained across broad

shoulders, flecked on top with dust from a stone cherub, and dust covered the floor around

Ciavoli while he carved into a small marble block. As I watched the play of heavily

developed muscles in his upper arms, I felt my cock stir.

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Jeanne Barrack

“Be with you in a second. I like to use Mondays to do some custom work for people

who want stones other than the mechanically produced ones we turn out nowadays. Find

yourself a seat.”

I was more than happy to relax and observe this craftsman work, enjoying the beauty

of his movements as he did so.

After several minutes, he set down his chisel and stretched his arms above his head.

Christ, the ripple of his muscles was mesmerizing.

He turned and smiled, revealing blazing white teeth in a tanned face. He looked like

the picture I had seen at my grandmother’s house of Perry Como, a popular singer from the

fifties -- wavy black hair, brown eyes, and utterly desirable. He rose from his seat and came

toward me, hand outstretched. When he shook my hand, he held it for just a few seconds too

long, and I knew he knew what I was feeling.

I got right to the point and asked him about the headstone sketch.

Once again, that dazzling smile.

“I have it here in the back office. My great-great-grandfather kept it with some of his

other original work. Come on. I’ll show it to you.”

I followed him to a small office crammed with old filing cabinets and a stand designed

to hold artwork flat. A large drafting table filled up almost the entire center of the space. A

framed picture of a curly-haired man with a handlebar moustache hung on the wall above a

battered, wooden desk. Ciavoli gestured to it.

“Umberto Ciavoli, my great-great-grandfather. I’m named after him, but you can call

me Bert.” He grinned again, a dimple appearing in each cheek. “I probably wouldn’t come if

you called me Umberto.”

He was wrong.

He relinquished the sketch soon after he discovered how good it felt to hear his name

whispered as my mouth sucked and released his cock. “Ummmm-berto.”

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5

I often wondered if, afterward, he asked other lovers to use his birth name when they

were down on their knees?

* * * * *

I waited until I returned home to examine the sketch more closely. The sketch was in

pencil on brown butcher paper. The dimensions were true to size and measured three feet by

two feet. The drawing was quite good and depicted a low-rising hill, a stand of cypress trees

in the upper left hand corner, and a sun casting out stylized rays in the background. In the

foreground, two male figures were garbed in Biblical garments. One figure supported the

other in his arms, in a pose reminiscent of Michelangelo’s

Pieta

. The inscription was beneath

the picture and below that, a faint, tiny signature in the lower right-hand corner. With the

aid of a magnifying glass, I made out the name, Aaron deMonde, and the date of 1863.

Had I found the missing vigilant soldier?

I carefully put away the sketch, determined to learn all I could about Hardesty’s

anonymous friend.

* * * * *

Through archived newspaper and magazine articles, I learned that Aaron had become

one of the most promising young baritones in France, performing at the Paris Opera and

touring throughout Europe and France as a concert artist. In 1856, at the height of his career,

he disappeared.

Had he met Hardesty at one of his performances, fallen in love, and left Europe?

Among the evidence I unearthed was a faded, hand-tinted daguerreotype of deMonde.

Unfortunately, his features were quite blurred. He must have moved slightly. It showed him

leaning against a marble pillar in the stilted poses so popular during the nineteenth century.

His manner of dress reflected the epitome of sartorial splendor. Displayed on his trim form

was a fancy silk vest, decorated with an elaborate pattern and buttons. His frock coat had a

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Jeanne Barrack

wide, velvet collar and turned up sleeves. A soft, silk ascot was tied beneath a firm jaw. On

his right hand, an ornate ring graced his long, supple index finger. I couldn’t tell the design

of the ring.

I wished I could discern his features. And I still lacked the most crucial answer to my

question: were Hardesty and deMonde lovers?

Then a gift fell into my hands. My contact at the Florida State University library found

an early family picture of the Hardesty family. Taken circa 1850, it was a typical stiff portrait

of Hardesty’s father, mother, sister, and a young Matthew, approximately fifteen years old.

One could see from whom he received his good looks. His features reflected his mother’s. A

straight nose, square jaw -- softened in his mother’s face -- wavy, blond hair above a high

brow, and a slight smile with a small dimple revealed a wide difference between the siblings.

Unfortunately, Susan took after their father. A handsome man with a strong Roman

nose, piercing eyes, and dark, straight hair, his features, repeated in Susan’s small, feminine

face, looked overly large. Could she have resented her younger brother’s appearance? After

examining the daguerreotype more closely, I noticed that both he and Susan had their hands

on their mother’s shoulders, as she sat between their standing poses. Their faces were turned

toward each other’s just slightly. Susan was also smiling, and this smile lightened her

features. At least when they were younger, there seemed to be affection between them.

I wondered how he had looked at age twenty-one when he set off for Europe?

Then I hit a roadblock digging up any further pertinent information about Hardesty

and deMonde. There were no descendents of either one. Hardesty’s last living relative had

died several years ago and there was no further reference at all of Hardesty in the family

history other than those few lines in his sister’s letters. I tried to find mention of Hardesty in

letters from other soldiers and officers with whom he may have come in contact, but could

find nothing.

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7

Except for a brief reference in a local collection of folktales and legends, everything

was word of mouth. The author of the collection was no longer living, and since the

sightings only occurred every twenty years, interest had waned regarding this bit of

paranormal activity. If my calculations were correct, this year marked the twentieth

anniversary since the last occurrence. I had no idea why the specter had a twenty-year

repeat pattern. Most likely, he was a residual apparition, doomed to repeat his actions over

and over. Whatever the reason, the next step of the investigation was obvious.

I had to see for myself what would happen on Memorial Day night.

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Jeanne Barrack

Chapter One

Sunset came fairly late -- at 8:28 p.m., to be precise. I had two motion-activated

infrared cameras, one to be placed on the headstone, one at the foot of the grave assuring

pictures from two different angles. Also among my equipment were a Tri-Field Electro-

Magnetic Frequency Detector and a voice-activated recorder to pick up any unusual aural

phenomena. Armed with permission from the cemetery officials and my laptop, I should

have been ready for tonight’s vigil.

I arrived early enough to set up my equipment and conduct a preliminary baseline

reading to ensure that everything was in working order. Then I settled down on a small tarp

with my laptop and a Thermos filled with coffee, black as pitch and just as bitter. Although a

fine mist drifted in the twilight, I wasn’t too concerned. Weather reports showed no

indication of rain, and I was comfortable enough in my all-weather jacket. I didn’t really

expect to see, hear, or record anything. As I sipped the steaming, hot coffee, my thoughts

wandered. Sepia-toned images of deMonde and Hardesty intruded on my concentration.

DeMonde’s tanned limbs entwined with Hardesty’s fair-skinned ones. DeMonde’s pliant

fingers caressed Hardesty’s face and neck, slid down his body along its muscles as he paused

to suck his nipples. DeMonde kneading his flesh. Cupping his penis. The golden glow of gas

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9

lamps gilding Hardesty’s fair skin. When he bent to take deMonde’s cock into his mouth, I

envisioned his wavy hair slipping against deMonde’s thighs.

I could hear their sighs and groans as they pleasured each other. I could almost smell

the scent of sex in the air as their bodies moved against each other. I shared their

accelerating heartbeats. I wanted to be there with them in their bed, feeling silk sheets

against me. Feeling their lips on me. DeMonde’s velvet baritone murmured to us. His

accented words became even more arousing as he switched to French. I was pressed between

their hair-roughened chests. DeMonde’s cock nudged my ass, and his hands fondled my sac,

cupping them, playing with them. Hardesty…I imagined Hardesty’s face as he must have

looked at twenty-one. As his face drew closer to mine to kiss me, he smiled, the same smile

in the photo, and the dimple peeked at me.

I wanted to kiss that dimple.

As his face overwhelmed my sight, I drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

“Get up, damn you! Do you wish to drown?”

A rough, angry, accented voice growled in my ear. A strong hand gripped the sodden

hank of hair on my head and pulled. Hard. I opened my eyes to a torrential downpour, high

winds, and an inky black night.

“I said, get up!

Merde

! Do you wish to wallow in the mud like a pig?”

A voluminous ebony slicker flapped in the wind like the wings of a bat, enveloping the

figure bending above me. The faint backlight from the street lamp did nothing to reveal his

features, hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. A raw, wet gust of wind blew in my face, and I

came fully awake.

“Christ! What the hell is going on?”

“A rain storm, obviously. Grab your laptop and come with me.”

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Jeanne Barrack

“Wait! The rest of my equipment!”

An irritable snarl erupted from my reluctant rescuer, but he scooped up the camera at

the foot of the grave and shoved it inside one of the slicker’s deep pockets. I grabbed up

everything else, dumped it into my equipment bag and stood up.

Or at least, tried to.

The wind, increasing in strength, knocked me to my knees into the slick mud.

His two powerful hands lifted me to my feet, tossed the equipment bag over one broad

shoulder, and he dragged me into his arms. I felt his warm breath for only a moment as he

shifted the bag to his other shoulder and shrugged off the right side of his coat. He draped it

around me, barking out another command.

“Put your arm around my waist and hold on tight. We need to leave. Now!”

Insanely, I remembered the Thermos, still remaining at the grave.

“I left my Therm --”

“Enough! I will buy you a dozen Thermoses. These lazy fools have not trimmed the

trees here for years. A falling branch could kill you!

Vite

!”

We scrambled toward the gate. Each time I stumbled, he hauled me back up. At last,

we reached the arched iron opening and the deserted street. I caught my breath while the

stranger glanced up and down the wet pavement. A torrent created by the deluge roared by

us in the road. The wind slashed our faces, trying to peel the skin off.

He bit out his words. “Where is your car? Give me your keys.”

I responded to him automatically. The keys left my left pocket as I handed them over

without a murmur. I nodded toward the right, and once more, he dragged me onward. At

this point, I can’t say why I let him control me. I’m certainly no lightweight, and my sense of

self-preservation is by no means lacking. But somehow, I felt so secure in his embrace I

didn’t try to escape.

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11

We reached the car, the wind howling at our backs. The stranger supported me,

managing somehow to open the driver’s side, and unlocked the backdoor. He tossed the

equipment into the back seat. I was next. He threw me into the car, told me to relax, and

took command of the steering wheel. Before I could catch my breath, we were speeding

down the rain-slicked streets to an unknown destination.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my home. It’s near the cemetery, and you can dry off there.” I saw him glance at

me through the rearview mirror, his face still shadowed by his hat. I could only judge his

thoughts by the sound of his honey-dipped voice. He must have read mine in my eyes. He

chuckled. “If I wanted to rob you, I could have done so by now.”

“You can still steal my car. Dump me out in some dark, dirty, abandoned alley.”

He laughed aloud. “And then have my way with you? I think not,

mon ami

. I prefer all

of the creature comforts. And that includes clean sheets and a warm apartment.” He paused

and his voice grew even deeper. “Unless dark, dirty alleys suit some exotic fantasy of yours,

of course.”

I gulped. At that moment, I think I would have agreed to a dark alley, as long as it was

with him, my unknown savior. I closed my eyes, savoring the richly erotic scenario that

engulfed my thoughts.

“We’re here.”

I opened my eyes as he turned the car down a narrow lane between two townhouses.

He pulled into a small slot behind one of the two and turned off the car. The wind had died

down somewhat, but the moon still hid behind the clouds. He got out and opened the door

on the other side of the car, retrieving my equipment, and then opened my side. I swiveled

half in and half out of the car, unable to get up, still shaky on my feet.

With a muttered, impatient curse, he hoisted me up, his arm around my waist.

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Jeanne Barrack

“I hope this does not become a habit with you, mon ami. If you were a female, I would

accuse you of playing upon my gentlemanly nature.”

His taunting words had the expected result, and I pulled away from him.

A shaft of sickly, yellow light from his neighbor’s window illuminated his lush, mobile

mouth as he smiled.

“

Bon

. I hoped my aspersions on your masculinity would steel your resolve to walk on

your own. Come. Follow me.”

He led me back toward the street. The wind and rain had picked up again, and I kept

my head bent, my eyes fixed on the bottom of his soaked jeans. I stumbled up the few slick

stone steps to his door. I huddled in my drenched jacket while he paused for a moment

before he unlocked the door and ushered me inside. He flicked on the wall switch, and I was

dumbstruck.

Had we stepped back in time?

A scene from the nineteenth century greeted me.

Tiffany-shaded lamps, set on heavy, dark Victorian furniture, gave off soft, golden

light. Oil paintings in ornate, gilded frames hung on floral wallpapered walls. A baby grand

piano, draped with a paisley shawl, sat in one corner of what could only be called the parlor.

Deep, rich burgundy, greens, and golds created a warm, sensual interior.

The stranger tossed my stuff onto a chair and, continuing farther into the room,

directed me to a deep cushioned couch against one wall. I sank down, grateful to get off my

feet, and tried to gather my confused thoughts.

“There’s an afghan you may use to keep yourself warm. I’ll be right out.”

He kept moving until he opened the door to a tiled bathroom. A large, framed mirror

showed the interior of the room, and I watched him remove his hat and raincoat, hanging

them up on the shower curtain rod where they dripped onto the floor.

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13

He ran his fingers through curly, brown hair. I saw his profile -- strong nose and jaw,

and then he turned. His face, reflected in the mirror, made me gasp. Amber-colored eyes and

lush, sensual lips -- the face of an angel. He peeled off his t-shirt, revealing a lean, swimmer’s

physique.

Then he unzipped his pants and turned around again, exposing a firm, muscled butt.

For one brief, tantalizing moment, his cock flashed in the mirror, and I moaned softly.

Even at rest, he was big. I pulled the afghan over my lap, concealing my massive hard-on.

His husky voice called to me from within the bathroom as I watched him pull on a

terrycloth robe and belt it.

“It would make sense for us to know each other’s names,

n’est pas

? My name is Ron

Tayvail. And yours?”

“Brand. Brandon Keats. Thanks for rescuing me.”

“My pleasure.”

He paused in the bathroom doorway in his bare feet, casually towel-drying his hair.

Then he dropped the towel and leaned against the doorframe, and I started.

His casual, elegant stance mimicked Aaron deMonde’s pose.

Had I become so enamored of my vision of deMonde that I wanted to believe that Ron

was my vigilant soldier?

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Jeanne Barrack

Chapter Two

“Are you all right, Brandon? You turned white.” Ron moved toward me and knelt at

my feet. He grabbed my hands and rubbed them. “Your hands are like ice.” He let them go

and then pushed my damp hair back from my forehead, shaking his head. “I am an idiot.

Wait. I’ll get some dry clothes for you.”

I obeyed without a word. What could I do or say? Where could I go? He had my keys,

the rain still beat against the windows, and my clothes were sopping wet. And how could I

leave my vigilant soldier when I had just found him?

I closed my eyes and waited.

“Here. They should fit.”

I hadn’t heard him come back. I opened my eyes and looked up at Ron standing in

front of me. He had brushed his hair, tied it back from his face, and had put on a burgundy t-

shirt that hugged his body. He’d pushed the long sleeves above his elbows, and I could see

the fine hairs that dusted his arms. Low-slung black jeans embraced his lean hips, but his feet

were still bare.

I wanted every part of him to be bare, too.

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15

He thrust the clothes he held in his hands into my face. “Well, take them. I’m sure they

will fit. Go into the bathroom and change. Leave the door open, and we can talk. You can

tell me why you were at the cemetery in the dead of night.” He helped me to my feet and

pushed me toward the bathroom, seating himself in the same spot where I had just been,

ignoring the damp cushions.

I took the clothes and went into the john and stripped off my sodden shirt,

unbuttoning the buttons slowly as crazy thoughts jumbled through my mind.

Did he know he could see into the bathroom from this position on the couch?

What was

he

doing at the cemetery so late at night?

Why was he so strong?

Who the hell was he?

Did he have a lover?

“Well, did you turn mute? I would think you owe me the courtesy of a response since I

saved you from pneumonia.”

I shrugged and let the shirt drop to the floor since Ron had neglected to give me any

hangers. “I’m a parapsychologist. I’m doing research on a local legend called “The Vigilant

Soldier”. They say one of Hardesty’s comrades appears every twenty years or so. I planned on

recording any unusual paranormal activity tonight.”

I toed off my sneakers without unlacing them, pulled off my socks, and stuck them in

my pockets, unzipped my jeans and pulled them down with my briefs. I stood there, buck

naked, holding my clothes in my hands, and then tossed them on top of the closed toilet seat.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. I took good care of my body.

When I wasn’t leafing through aged, crumbling books and surfing the Internet, I enjoyed

hiking and biking. I had nothing to hide. If he wanted a peep show, I was more than happy

to oblige.

I hoped he enjoyed himself.

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Jeanne Barrack

“And have you found much information?” he called to me again.

“Not much. That’s why I decided to see for myself if there was any truth to the stories.”

I took a breath and decided to tell him the primary reason I was interested in Hardesty’s

grave. “I heard that Hardesty was gay. There’s not much in the literature about gay

paranormal activity. If a specter manifested, I was going to attempt to question it and

confirm this theory.” No response from Ron. I’d thought this would elicit some comment.

Maybe he’d react later.

I unfolded the garments he’d given me: long-sleeved, navy blue t-shirt, blue jeans, and

soft, thick socks. No briefs. Had he forgotten or did he not care? “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

“Well, get out here. Let me see if the clothes fit you.”

So, he wanted to pretend he hadn’t scoped me out in the mirror. “I’m almost ready.

They fit okay.”

I grabbed a towel and strolled back into the room, vigorously drying my hair. I raised

my arms, knowing that the movement showed off my body. Two could play at seduction. I

might not have that French accent or those pouting lips, but I wasn’t chopped liver, as my

grandmother would have said. I heard his muffled voice as I dried my face.

“Bon. They fit well. I’ll make us something hot to drink. Stay in the parlor.”

Once again, I obeyed him without resisting while he left the room to go to the kitchen.

It made sense not to leave while rain pummeled the window. And he still had my damn

keys.

I prepared a list of questions while I waited for him, but they all boiled down to one.

Who the hell was he?

I leaned back to wait for his return, sinking deeper into the cushioned comfort of the

sofa.

“Here. I’ll join you on the couch. You look so relaxed there, you needn’t get up.”

Again, I didn’t hear him come in. The man moved like a damn ghost.

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17

He hooked his foot around a hassock and dragged it over in front of the sofa, and then

set a tray with a teapot and fine china cups on top. An unfamiliar aroma assailed my nostrils.

Not unpleasant, just strange. Ron poured us each a cupful of the brew, then shook his head

and rose from his seat.

“I forgot the most important part of the tonic.” He went over to a side table displaying

rows of liquor bottles and selected one. “Brandy, from a private source I have.”

He sat next to me on the couch, our thighs nearly touching, splashed a healthy dollop

of the amber liquid into the fragile china, and declared the drink fit for consumption.

“I hope you enjoy the flavor. It’s an old family recipe made from the calamus root and

other ingredients. It’s a family favorite.” He chuckled. “Perhaps it is the brandy that has

made it so popular.”

I sipped it cautiously, after waiting for him to take a drop before I did so. He didn’t miss

my hesitation.

“So, you think I am going to drug you and have my way with you?” He sighed. “If I

wished to make you my slave, I have other methods of doing so.” He smiled, and his voice

deepened. “But perhaps you enjoy being submissive, yes?”

Once more, his words goaded me to assert myself. I placed my cup carefully on the

tray, enunciating each word as I spoke.

“I’d enjoy knowing what the hell

you

were doing at the cemetery so late, who the hell

you really are, and what the hell you want with

me

!”

He set his cup next to mine just as carefully and then grabbed my face, crushing his

mouth against mine. I didn’t push him away. God, there was no way in hell I wanted to push

him away. I hung onto his shoulders and opened my lips, letting him invade my mouth. He

tasted of brandy and the concoction we had both drunk. The sweetness of the liquor and the

astringency of the tonic boosted my energy and escalated my passion. I didn’t want to stop

kissing him. His teeth nipped my tongue, sending little sparks of pleasure and pain through

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Jeanne Barrack

me. His beard-roughened skin abraded mine. I cupped his head, pulling off the tie that

bound his hair, and sifted my fingers through the loosened, silky strands. Our tongues battled

together until finally he dragged his mouth from mine. He grasped my arms and panted for

breath, staring into my eyes.

“You are right. This

is

what I want from you. I was at the cemetery because I am

always informed if anyone shows an interest in Hardesty’s grave. My family has had a long

term, close connection to Hardesty. I am the caretaker of his grave. That is who I am.” He

dropped my arms and rose, pacing back and forth while I took in what he had told me and

tried to come to grips with the overwhelming desire that I felt. “Well?”

He stopped, waiting for my response. I tried to focus on the most important piece of

information he had offered me.

His family had a long term, close connection with Matthew

Hardesty

. I shot off a barrage of questions.

“What do you know about Hardesty? Do you know about his relationship with Aaron

deMonde? What do you know about the legend of the Vigilant Soldier? What can you tell

me?”

He looked down at me as I sat glued to the couch. My legs were still weak from the

power of his kisses, and I held my breath, waiting for him to answer me.

He nodded slowly, as if making a decision, and then knelt at my feet, just as he had

done earlier. This time, he grasped my knees while he spoke, his voice more warm and

melodic than before.

“Everything. I know everything about the legend. I know every detail about the

relationship between the two men. I know everything about Matthew Hardesty and

deMonde.” He took a moment and then rose a bit to lean in closer to me. His hands crept up

my legs to my thighs and converged at my crotch, hovering above my zipper. “I will tell you

the true story about them if you will do one thing. Let me show you what I want.”

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19

He pulled down my zipper and thrust his hand inside, pulling out my dick and fondling

it. I groaned and closed my eyes, throwing my head back against the couch. He handled me

more gently than I expected, even as I waited to hear him say precisely what he wanted.

I felt his warm breath on my flesh just before he kissed the tip of my cock. As if he

were putting a piece of fragile crystal back on a shelf, he tucked me into my pants and slid

the zipper closed.

“Open your eyes, Brandon. Look at me while I speak to you. I want you to know that I

am not trying to trick you. Here is my bargain. Stay with me for a week, in my bed, as my

lover, and I will tell you all I know.” He paused, and a smile slowly formed on his lips. “And

I assure you -- I know everything.”

I clung to that devastating smile on those lips that I had just kissed, and I nodded.

His smile broadened. “You know what you are agreeing to, yes? No backing out. You

cannot leave before then if you want to know…everything.” He frowned. “Tell me you

understand.”

I cleared my throat, trying to speak.

“I understand, and I agree.”

He smiled and then broke into a grin, the dimple in his cheek deepening and his eyes

crinkling at the corners. He lifted me to my feet with one hand. He drew me into his arms

and cupped my jaw.

“Then let us celebrate our agreement.”

And he led me up the stairs to his bedroom.

* * * * *

I don’t know exactly what I expected, certainly not the ultramodern room in cool tones

of blue and gray. The bed was over-sized, a contemporary version of a four-poster with pale

gray drapery. Two sleek armoires, one on each side, flanked a long, narrow window. Old

20

Jeanne Barrack

houses seldom had any built in closets, so I should have been prepared for their absence,

judging by Ron’s masterful recreation downstairs. A large mirror hung opposite the bed,

placed over a low, wide chest of drawers in a dark wood and positioned so it would reflect

the occupants. To the right, another door led to an opulent master bathroom, far more

modern than the rest of the house. So, the bathroom downstairs was a guest bathroom. I

should have realized that this man wouldn’t be satisfied with having to leave the comfort of

his bedroom to bathe.

He flicked a switch on the wall, turning on the lamps set upon the nightstands by both

sides of the bed. These fit the rest of what I had seen of the house. Two beautifully matched

Tiffany lamps, their shades made of blue and gray stained glass, cast a cool glow in the room.

He dropped my hand and entered the room to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Come, what are you waiting for?” He grinned. “Time to celebrate, yes? Like the song.”

He held out his hand and I took the few steps to reach it. Then he pulled me into his

arms. For a moment, he just held me, his hands gripping my ass, pressing me against his

crotch. Then I bucked, wanting to see what he’d do when he felt my bulging cock bump

against him.

He went nuts.

His hands surged up and pulled my t-shirt over my head. He tossed it on the floor, bent

to take one flat nipple into his mouth, and suckled. I don’t have too much hair on my chest.

Some guys mind; some guys don’t. He didn’t seem to give a crap, just sucked hard on one

nipple while his fingers played with the other, pulling and pinching, twisting what I had. He

bit me lightly, then licked the pain away. Then he did the same with the other begging

brother. The cool air on my damp skin made me shiver a little, but he was instantly aware of

it. He pulled away, his eyes seeming to glow, and stood up. I realized he was just a bit shorter

than my five-eleven. Somehow, downstairs, I’d thought he was taller. It didn’t really matter.

He was so much fucking stronger than me.

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21

He pushed me down to sit at the foot of the bed and, kneeling before me, picked up my

discarded t-shirt, offering it to me.

“You’re cold? Do you want to put this back on?” He smiled when I shook my head and

then threw the shirt back on the floor. “No matter. I’ll soon get us warm. Lean back. Relax.

Let me do the work for now.”

I rested on my elbows on the bed, watching his reflection in the mirror. He pulled off

my socks and sucked my toes. Christ, I never knew my feet had a direct connection to my

dick. None of the other men I’d been with had taken the time or interest to do anything that

felt as good as this. Usually, it was just “slam, bam, thank you, man,” and it was over. Ron

took his time, making me squirm, making me ache. I bucked again, almost kicking him in the

face.

He dropped my foot, sat back, and laughed.

“Enough foreplay, I think. Lift up, mon ami, and undo your zipper. I’ll pull down your

jeans for you.”

I was so eager, my hands shaking so hard, I almost caught my cock in the zipper’s teeth.

I winced.

“Easy, easy. We have time.” He tugged hard, and the denim slid down my legs to pool

at my feet. My cock sprang straight up, and my balls tightened. I scooted up the mattress

until I was leaning against the padded headboard. I could see my reflection in the mirror

since Ron still was kneeling at the foot of the bed. He rose and stared at me, a strange

expression on his face as if he were lost in thought. He shook his head briskly and sighed.

“What are you thinking?” I didn’t want to hear that he had suddenly had second

thoughts. Not now.

“Do you want to use a condom? I know it may be a bit like” -- he grinned, with a

mocking glance in his eye, and said -- “how is it said, locking the barn after the horse? We

did exchange ‘bodily fluids.’” He teased, then grimaced and shuddered. “What a horrible

22

Jeanne Barrack

phrase that is. But I know you are not ill…I can sense it, and I swear to you, I would never

hurt you. But, if you wish, we can use them.”

I hadn’t even thought of this. You’d think I’d always be careful, and usually I was. Even

when Umberto and I had had that little quickie, I asked him to use a sheath. I wanted to tell

Ron no. I wanted to trust him, but I wasn’t that nuts. I had bargained my freedom

temporarily for the information I needed, but damned if I was going to bargain my life. But

maybe I was kidding myself. Maybe I wanted to believe that Ron didn’t seem dangerous,

because he was right that, at any time, he could have beaten and raped me and cut me into

little pieces. He had given me clothes and hadn’t locked the door. The only thing keeping me

here was my own curiosity and the fact that he was the most intriguing person I had ever

met. A mass of contradictions. I was as interested in him as I was in finding out more about

the vigilant soldier.

But I wasn’t that foolhardy.

“Get them, please. I’ve tested negative, but I really don’t know you.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“And do you always fuck strangers? What if I did decide to beat you and take you?”

I patted the bed next to me.

“C’mere and find out.”

And he laughed again.

He drew his t-shirt over his head and tossed it on one of the chairs by the window. He

smiled. God, I would remember every one of his smiles. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he

placed his hands on his hips, unbuttoned the top of his fly, and pulled down the zipper. Then

he turned and faced the mirror as he bent over to get out of his jeans. I licked my lips as his

tight butt was revealed once more for me. Then I sighed as his cock sprang free: hard, heavy,

long, and fully erect.

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23

“I thought you’d enjoy an encore of my earlier performance.” He stood and turned back

to face me, smoothing his hand along his penis. “I know I enjoyed yours. In fact, I give it a

standing ovation.”

I groaned and grabbed one of the down-filled pillows and threw it at him. He caught it

easily and tossed it back onto the bed. He grinned, and then his smile faded.

“The condoms. They’re in the bathroom.”

My gaze latched onto his ass as he went to get the protection for which I’d asked.

Damn, just watching his butt and thighs as he moved almost made me come. His legs were

hairier than mine but not too much. No tattoos anywhere, which I liked. Some guys thought

having tattoos automatically made them more macho. Idiots.

He returned quickly, a small box in one hand and a miniature cut-glass bottle in the

other. He was still hard, his penis bobbing as he approached the bed. I smiled.

He looked down at his cock, bouncing as he moved, and grinned. “We men are

ridiculous-looking creatures, aren’t we?”

I shook my head. “You’re incredible.”

He smiled. “Wait until we’re through here, and then tell me I’m incredible.”

He set the bottle and box on the nightstand and lay down next to me on his side. We

stared at each other in silence. Had he changed his mind? He reached out and touched my

cheek.

“You have eyes like sapphires. Like his eyes. Like Matthew’s eyes.”

I grabbed his hand and kissed the palm, and then a thought struck me.

“You know the color of his eyes? How?”

“I know the color of his eyes and hair. They are there in his portrait.” He gestured to

the wall behind me. I turned and found the picture.

24

Jeanne Barrack

Matthew Hardesty in his twenties. Hand-tinted to display blond hair and the blue eyes

of which Ron spoke. The face of a young man who didn’t live to see his thirtieth birthday. I

felt Ron’s hand on my shoulder and his warm breath on my neck.

“You remind me of him, Brandon. A little. Enough.” His hand slid down my arm and

around the front to my cock and lingered there, waiting for permission to touch. He kissed

me behind my ear and whispered. “Let me touch you.”

For answer, I pressed my backside against his thick erection, twined my fingers with

his, and placed his hand on my penis. His cock nudged between my butt cheeks, and I felt his

furred chest against my back. His voice was hoarse as he murmured incoherently against my

shoulder, pressing hard kisses, biting me. His fingers were like a vise wrapped in velvet as he

worked me. His heart beat erratically as his voice grew louder and his English turned to

French.

I came far too quickly, my cum spilling onto his fingers. As it coated his skin, he gasped

and pulled his hand and his body away from mine. I thought at first he was pissed at me.

Then, he rolled me over roughly to face him and held his sticky hand to my lips.

“Taste.”

I took his fingers, one at a time, between my lips. No one had ever asked me to do this.

I held his hand as I sucked each finger, licked and swiped with my tongue until he was

shuddering in my hand. I had him. He was mine.

He tore his hand away and ripped open the box of condoms. His fingers trembled as he

tore the package and placed the condom in my palm.

“Put it on me. Do it now.”

I fumbled a bit.

Ron grabbed it from me, impatient. His movements quick, sure, he covered his penis,

shielding it from me. I thought for sure that he’d flip me over on my face and just shove his

cock in me.

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25

I was wrong.

He took a deep breath. “Forgive me. I want -- too much.” He swung his legs over and

sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, his head in his hands. In control, this man

seemed so far to be always in control and now, suddenly…

I got another condom from the box, reached around him, took hold of his hand, and

shoved the packet into it.

“Here, put it on me. Please.” I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I want too much, too.”

I stretched out on the bed on my back, waiting for him to join me, hoping he’d do what

I asked. Then he shifted so that he was half-sitting on the bed facing me, a slight smile on his

face, and he ripped open the small, square envelope.

His hands stayed on my penis after he put on the condom, stroking me, fondling my

balls. I clenched my eyes, arching against his fingers. Loving the feel of his hands through

the thin latex. Wanting more. Wanting to feel his hands and hair and mouth again on the

rest of me. The sandpaper of his jaw against my belly.

“Turn over.”

I flipped over, offering him my backside, squeezing my buttocks in anticipation.

Several sensations hit me at the same time.

A scent that was strangely familiar.

Firm fingers kneading my backside, slipping between the cleft between my butt,

coating my skin with a silky lotion that tingled even as it lubricated, finding access inside

me. I gasped.

“What the hell is that stuff?”

I heard his chuckle even as he slid a second finger deeper within. “Also an old family

recipe. Some of the calamus root mixed with this and that.” He smacked my ass with one

hand. “It’s said to increase the sensitivity and one’s energy.” He managed to slide in another

finger, moving them, easing me open even more. His voice took on a crooning note, sinking

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Jeanne Barrack

to that rich baritone as he coaxed one shudder after another from me. “How do you feel,

mon

cher ami

? Are you more sensitive? Are you ready for more?”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving me aching for him to fill me with something

thicker, harder, longer. I felt his warm breath as he blew across my butt, heating the lotion.

His lips touched me, kissing me. His mouth opened, and his tongue lapped the unguent from

my flesh, swirling along my cheeks. His tongue dipped deeper along the cleft, pricking the

small, heated entrance to my body. I grabbed the headboard and curled my knees beneath

me, my actions a silent response to his question.

I heard that fruity chuckle once more.

“

Oui

. You are ready for more.”

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27

Chapter Three

Whatever the hell that lube was made from, it did exactly as Ron said it would. He slid

his penis into me slow and easy. I was usually resistant at first, but not with him. The

agonizing friction as he penetrated was only agonizing because he took his time when all I

wanted was for him to grab my ass and fuck me senseless. I rocked against him, urging him

to move faster, harder, deeper.

He just laughed.

“Nice and easy does it,

cher

, as in the song.”

What the hell song?

I squeezed my inner muscles, and he groaned.

What the hell was he waiting for? Fuck

you, Ron

.

Then he laughed again. And grabbed my hair. “Who is on top right now?”

“You, fuck you.”

He tugged my hair. “Not yet, mon ami. Your turn to be top dog will come…perhaps,

but since you insist…”

And he picked up speed, grabbing the headboard for better balance, twining his fingers

with mine, driving into me until the bed rocked, and I came, every part of me tightening,

28

Jeanne Barrack

then spilling into the condom, waiting for Ron to climax. He wasn’t far behind, his shout as

he ejaculated ringing in my ears.

He pried our hands from the headboard, rolling with me to the side, and bringing our

hands together in front of me. He withdrew from my body slowly, our skin slick with sweat,

smelling of sex and the family lubricant.

What sort of a family has a one-of-a-kind lube?

“Let me clean us up,” he offered.

He got rid of the used condoms and came back from the bathroom with a soft, warm,

damp towel. He wiped me down, every part of me, soothing me with his touch. Then he

took the towel and held it to his face, inhaling the scent of sex that lingered on it. Christ, I

almost came again just watching him. The man gave new meaning to the word sensual.

He wiped his own body off more briskly, tossed the towel on top of his t-shirt on the

chair, turned off the lamps by the bed, pulled me into his arms, and sighed.

“I suppose you want to know about Hardesty and deMonde, now, yes?”

I had almost forgotten, but I couldn’t let him know that. “We have a deal.”

“Oui, we have a deal. Listen. Aaron Maurice deMonde was born September 20, 1830 to

a member of minor French nobility, and his mistress, Marie Renee Rochambeau, a Haitian --

so she claimed -- of mixed parentage. Her mother was a French Jewess whose family raised

sugarcane. Her father was one of the field hands trained as a carpenter. A love affair began

when Moses, the carpenter, carved bedroom furniture for Malka Rachel, the youngest

daughter of the house. She was cast out when she became pregnant, and Moses was sold to

another plantation owner. The family reclaimed the infant when the daughter died in

childbirth. The child, a female who passed as white, was brought up as a part of the family

and named after her mother. After a fire, in which the entire family died, destroyed her

grandparents’ plantation, she discovered that the Rochambeaus’ financial manager had

embezzled all their funds. Destitute after selling the last of the jewelry left to her by her

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29

mother to enable her to leave the country, she traveled to France, became one of the

demimondaine

, you know, a prostitute, and met Aaron’s father. Although discarded by her

lover once he knew her mixed heritage, he continued to provide for Aaron’s support and

musical training.

“DeMonde and Hardesty met at a private party --”

“I knew it!”

He pinched my thigh. “

Tais-toi

, who is telling this? To continue, they met at a private

party where deMonde was performing. It was for a select group of people from the

bourgeoisie, invited back for a more intimate gathering after a sumptuous debut for the

eldest daughter of a prosperous businessman who had delusions of grandeur.”

“I thought only upper class and nobility had debuts for their daugh -- Shit! That hurt.”

“I told you, the man had delusions of grandeur. Besides, he was fishing for a husband

for the girl. Along with the wealthiest, most prominent families, any unattached males

between the ages of twenty and forty with money or a title -- better yet, with money

and

a

title -- were invited back to the villa for fancy desserts, drinks, cigars, and music. The few

with titles came because they owed the man money for unpaid bills and loans. The man had

promised concessions to anyone who would attend the soirees. The others came to criticize

everything about the event, from the food to the entertainment.

“DeMonde was to sing, offering a selection of lieder and chanson, presumably to

encourage a relaxed, and perhaps romantic mood, in the guests. Unfortunately, the eldest

daughter decided that deMonde was to be her quarry for the evening.” Ron took a breath. I

felt him shrug. “Perhaps it was the novelty of capturing a male from a lower class and an

entertainer as well. Who knows? But she followed after him until he lost her within the

immaculately manicured grounds. The evening was cloudy, the grass was damp, and

deMonde relied upon her lack of desire to get her shoes muddy to aid in his escape. He found

30

Jeanne Barrack

his way to a charming gazebo equipped with its own miniature chandelier, the lit candles

providing enough light to see that it was already occupied.

“A young man lounged carelessly on the cushioned bench, a thin cigar between his

sensual lips. Smoke swirled from its tip, and the heady aroma wafted toward deMonde.

DeMonde turned to go, but the young man called out to him to join him.”

I halted Ron’s story. “Hardesty.”

“Who else?” This time, he didn’t pinch me.

“The closer he came to the gazebo, the clearer the man’s feature’s became. He was

so…blond, so young, perhaps five years younger than deMonde. He looked like an angel to

deMonde.”

I started. To me, Ron looked like an angel. A fallen angel, true, and one with a

magnificent dick. If I remembered correctly, though, angels had no sex organs.

“Are you paying attention? I thought you wanted to know how they met?”

I collected my thoughts and focused on his words. “Go on.”

He shifted until his cock was wedged in the cleft between my buttocks, nipped me on

the shoulder, and growled in my ear. “If you are not attentive, I will not continue, and I will

leave this bed.

Comprendre

?”

I nodded, the threat of his leaving finally regaining my concentration.

“To go on. Matthew offered deMonde one of the cheroots he had in his case. After brief

introductions were exchanged, they fell silent, then burst simultaneously into speech, and

then into sweet, shared laughter.

“Matthew said to deMonde, ‘I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.

I’ve never been much for this type of music -- my sister, Susan, calls me a barbarian -- but,

when I heard your voice…’ He hesitated and deMonde encouraged him to share his

thoughts.

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31

“The American blushed, enchanting deMonde with his shyness, then took a deep

breath and spoke.

“He told deMonde, ‘When I heard you sing, I thought that this was how Orpheus

sounded when he tried to regain Eurydice from Hades.’

“DeMonde’s heart stopped beating, and he fell in love.”

I interrupted him again. “How can you know this much? How could you know such

intimate details?”

I felt Ron’s lips form a smile against my back as he shifted to press his mouth against

me. “I have deMonde’s diary…and Matthew’s.”

I pulled away from him, turning to face him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re

not lying.”

“I am not lying.”

“Where are they? What condition are they in? How did you wind up with them?

When can I read them?”

He laughed. “They are here in the house, in excellent condition, they were left in my

care, and you cannot read them.”

“Why the fuck not?”

He shuttered his eyes, and his hand touched my penis and stroked it like it was his pet,

like he owned it. Then his fingers gripped my cock like a vise, getting tighter and tighter. He

opened his eyes, and in the darkened room, they seemed to glow. I blinked, and they were

back to normal. His voice froze my blood.

“We have a deal, remember? If you were to read the diaries, what need would you have

of me? You would take them and try to leave.” He ground out the next words. “And I would

not let you. I would have to prevent you.” He relaxed his grip, then stroked me once more. “I

don’t want to hurt you, Brandon. I swore to you I wouldn’t. Please, let me tell you their story

in my own words.”

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Jeanne Barrack

I took his hand and brought it to my mouth and kissed his palm. He understood the

gesture then remarked, absentmindedly, “Your fingertips are calloused, and for one so blond,

your beard is rough.”

I smiled against his skin then dropped his hand. “You don’t know everything about me.

I have my own secrets. Nobody else knows, but I play bluegrass guitar. My beard always

grows in coarse and darker than my hair, a family inheritance. At least that’s what my

grandmother told me.”

I could see him better now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the room. He

nodded. “Now I know one of your secrets.”

I shook my head. “And I know none of yours.”

“You went to the cemetery to learn Hardesty’s secrets, not mine. If you will keep quiet,

perhaps you will learn them.”

“Yeah, right, just keep talking!”

He laughed mockingly. “I thought you’d never ask. They spoke for several hours, lost

in their own private world, but deMonde had enough sense to insist they return separately to

the house. There was also an old-fashioned maze on the grounds, and they concocted a tale

for Matthew that he had lost his way in it, until finally stumbling upon the exit. They each

had their own carriage and, with Matthew’s calling card in deMonde’s pocket, they planned

to meet at Matthew’s rented townhouse.

“First, deMonde had to get rid of a little problem of his own.”

“The bourgeois’s daughter?”

“No, his lover.” He leaned in and kissed me. “You are worse than a female.” He gripped

my jaw and lightly smacked me. “The sooner I finish this bit of business, the sooner I can

fuck you. Now, be quiet!”

He leveled his gaze and went on.

The Sweet Flag

33

“Now, deMonde had not had that many lovers. He had only discovered the pleasures of

being with a man a few years before. Clermont, a veteran singer in the Paris Opera, had

invited him for some private coaching, and the naive youth had succumbed to the man’s

seduction. To be fair to the older man, he had observed signs that deMonde’s interests lay

more toward the tenors and basses in the troupe than the sopranos and contraltos. One

particular up-and-coming favorite of the public, noted for his soaring tenor, seemed to have

captivated deMonde’s attention. Clermont knew that this younger man, Boulanger, had male

lovers and, with youth and beauty on his side, it was only a matter of time before deMonde

fell prey to his blandishments. First come, first served, was Clermont’s motto, and so he

introduced deMonde to the joys found cock to cock.

“By the time deMonde decided to go out on his own as a concert artist, he had already

parted on good terms with the older artiste and slept with most of the other men in the

troupe. DeMonde’s manager, Georges Mercier, became his lover, agreeing to a reduction of

his take of the fees in exchange for access to deMonde’s bed.”

Ron grinned. “According to deMonde’s diaries, deMonde, quite an egotist, was a lover

tres formidable

, and Mercier was more than happy with the arrangement.” Ron sobered.

“But when deMonde met Matthew, it was over for any other man. When Mercier arrived to

pick up deMonde, he was told that their arrangement was finished. He’d receive the

additional percentage of his fees to compensate. Mercier grew furious. He was a vulgar man,

built like a bear. He cuffed deMonde with the back of his hand, cutting his cheek with his

ring. He stopped the carriage in the middle of the road and threw him out, shouting at him

that his career was over. He would tell the world that deMonde’s voice was gone. He

threatened to tell deMonde’s sire that his son practiced lewd and unnatural sex acts.

“Unfortunately, deMonde didn’t believe him. He couldn’t, at that time of his life,

comprehend the depths of vindictiveness that Mercier held. He trudged the few miles to

Matthew’s home, arriving dirty, disheveled, and aching, but filled with happiness to be with

Matthew. That night was heaven for the two men. Matthew had only been with one man

34

Jeanne Barrack

before, his neighbor’s son back in America -- a fumbling, inexperienced, selfish lover -- and

in deMonde’s arms, he learned what it meant to be with --”

“A formidable lover?” I taunted him.

“A real man.” He took a deep breath and continued. “They awoke the next day to

reality. There appeared to be no outright rumors of deMonde’s ‘unnatural behavior,’ but

without his manager’s skill in getting new venues, and with Mercier dropping hints of the

unfortunate condition of deMonde’s voice, deMonde was forced to give up his apartments

and move in with Matthew. That, of course, could not destroy their happiness. Then, one

day, a discreetly sealed envelope arrived addressed to deMonde. When he opened it, sheet

after sheet of paper fell out, each one a bill for clothes, hats, shoes, food, wine, cigars, even

his barber. All overdue. DeMonde was flabbergasted.

“He gazed at Matthew and spoke in bewilderment. ‘

Mon pere

, he pays for all of this.

He agreed to do so when he parted ways with my mother. Why is he doing this to me now?’”

“Matthew looked inside the envelope. Stuck inside was a folded card, embossed with a

coat of arms. He unfolded it and handed it to deMonde. At first, deMonde couldn’t focus on

the words slashed in black ink upon the heavy paper. He read them, once, twice, then

carefully ripped the card in half and then again.

“Matthew took the pieces from his hands and asked in a soft voice, ‘What did he say?’

“DeMonde couldn’t speak. He cleared his voice, shook his head, and cleared his throat

again. ‘He said…he said, that it wasn’t enough that my mother was a Jewess, and her father a

Negro. He had done his best to overlook that and honored his debt to support me.’ Here,

deMonde’s voice broke. ‘But he could not condone his bastard son engaging in unnatural

behavior. He gives me my current unpaid bills with the wish to sever all communication

with me. He will not support me in my debauched lifestyle.’”

I listened to Ron relate this part of Hardesty and deMonde’s story, trying not to notice

that tears had gathered in his eyes. I knew he wouldn’t want me to see how the story had

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35

affected him. Could he be related by blood to one of these men? An unknown descendent of

Hardesty’s sister, perhaps? Why else the interest in the gravesite? Since deMonde’s father

had disowned him, even if there were legitimate half-siblings, it seemed hardly unlikely that

they would have acknowledged any connection to their father’s bastard or had an interest in

Matthew’s grave. But, who knows? Perhaps some later descendents felt guilty over the way

deMonde had been treated and took it upon themselves to take care of his lover’s grave.

Ron bent his head and regained control. He lifted his face and attempted to smile, but

it became a grimace. He took a deep breath.

“They didn’t care. For a year, they led a carefree, quiet life with few friends, but they

were happy. Clermont came to visit and often would sing duets with deMonde to Matthew’s

delight. But it couldn’t last. DeMonde needed to sing like others needed to breathe and not

just for Matthew. He could not be happy unless he was performing before an audience. And

then --”

“And then?”

Ron smiled, completely in charge of his feelings again. “‘And then,’ mon ami, will wait

for tomorrow night. Stay there. I’ll bring us something to revitalize us.”

He left the room, stark naked, and went back downstairs. I was glad for the time to

assimilate everything he had told me…and how it had affected me. And Ron.

As Ron became more caught up with the story, his voice changed. His accent grew

stronger, his speech patterns shifted. The diaries must be incredibly detailed if they could

have such an effect on him. My hands itched to get a hold on them and see for myself. If I

got the chance, I determined to look for them.

For now, I leaned back against the pillows and waited for Ron to come back upstairs.

I smelled Ron’s exotic tonic before he reached the bedroom. The aroma alone was

enough to make my penis twitch. If the drug companies ever got their hands on it, it could

put any other aphrodisiac out of business.

36

Jeanne Barrack

He entered the room, pausing to flick the light switch by the door, holding a tray with

the same fine teapot and cups, a jar of honey, and the bottle of brandy. He was still stark

naked. He moved gracefully to the bed, balancing the tray before setting it down on the

nightstand.

“Here, let me add some brandy to your cup and more honey. It will alleviate the

bitterness of the brew.” He poured at least a jigger of brandy into our cups and several

spoonfuls of honey. He took up his cup and sipped, his eyes closing in delight. He smacked

his lips and opened his eyes, waiting for me to join him.

I drank slowly, and Ron’s gaze never left mine as I swallowed every drop. A strange

lassitude swept over me, different from the feeling I’d received earlier. Ron took the cup

from my limp fingers and pushed me back against the mattress.

And I let him. I lay there submissively, waiting for him to make the next move.

He bared his white teeth in a feral smile unlike any he’d displayed thus far. He swung

his legs to either side of me and knelt so that his face hovered near mine. Then he whispered,

the heady smell of the tonic, brandy, and honey wafting from his mouth. His smile softened.

“Do you still wish to be the alpha dog,

mon coeur

? Or will you graciously accept what I

offer you?” He brushed the tip of his cock against mine, and I jumped. He bit my jaw and

then licked it. “I shall take that as a ‘yes.’ It was good to be the bottom,

d’accord

? You

enjoyed it.” He pushed my hair away from my forehead, and his eyes crinkled. “I turned on

the lights so I could see us better when we are together.”

He retrieved two condoms from the bedside box, sheathing us with brisk, businesslike

motions. I glanced over his shoulder into the mirror, enjoying the play of his muscles as he

shifted. I could look at his ass for days. And that’s more than likely what I would have been

doing if I hadn’t been able to force my body to move.

“What did you --? Why can’t I --?”

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37

“Move? I added a little something special in your cup.” He placed his hands on my

shoulders and leaned into me. “Consider this a kinder, gentler type of bondage.” He ran his

hands down my arms until he reached my hands. He lifted them to his mouth and kissed the

inside of my wrists. “I would never want to see the skin abraded from your body, mon ami,

but I prefer to be the master.” He brought my hands to his penis, and I instinctively closed

around him. He threw back his head as I squeezed hard, then released him.

He looked down on me, his gaze narrowed. I returned his look. Slowly, Ron’s features

relaxed. He sank down next to me and drew my head to his chest. His hand slid up and down

my arm, and then he said softly, “Please touch me, mon coeur.”

It was still difficult for me to move with any speed, but it didn’t matter. I worked him

slowly, making him moan and thrash as his breathing quickened. I switched position until

my mouth was at his crotch and his penis between my lips. I suckled him, wrapping my

tongue around his dick as much as I could. Since I couldn’t fuck his ass, I tried my damnedest

to give him the best I could. His belly twitched, and he heaved up from the bed. Sweat

dripped from my forehead onto his skin, and with each drop, he gasped as if it burned him.

He jabbed deeper into my mouth, almost gagging me, but I didn’t stop sucking. His voice rose

as he drew closer to coming.

“

Merde! Bai e-moi! Maintenant! Mainte -- Merde

!”

s

He came. His hot seed filled the condom. I started to choke as he jerked up. Somehow,

he heard me, sensed the situation. I don’t know. I only know that he reached down and

pushed me off him and finished without my lips on him.

Damn him.

Once more, he took care of removing the used condoms, but came back to bed, turned

off the lamps, drew me into his arms, and just held me. The room smelled of sweat and cum

and the mingled aromas of the lube and the drink.

38

Jeanne Barrack

He fell asleep almost immediately, but it took me a while to follow suit. Ron’s embrace

was loose, but I didn’t move. Not because of the concoction he gave me, but because I no

longer gave a damn about moving. I yawned and let myself relax.

* * * * *

I awoke from a dream that someone was sucking my dick to find that someone

was

sucking my dick.

Ron.

I could feel the softness of his lips and the warm, wet heat of the inside of his mouth on

my naked penis.

“What the fuck!”

He lifted his head and released my cock. His half-closed eyes and slight smile reminded

me of a cat that had just lapped up a bowlful of milk.

“Don’t get yourself excited.” He chuckled. “

Non

, get excited. Don’t become agitated.

You were too delicious looking, and I trust you when you say you have no, ah, STD. Trust

me. How many times must I tell you that I would not harm you? What must I do to make

you believe me?”

What

could

he do that would make me believe him? I took a deep breath.

“Swear. I’ll take your oath.” I took another deep breath. “And if I find out that you lied,

I’ll come back and kill you.”

He stared at me, his eyes wide with astonishment. Then he dipped his head slightly in

agreement.

“I swear on the love that Matthew and deMonde had for each other.” He grinned then.

“So ferocious, mon ami. You nearly frightened me.”

He bent to take me into his mouth again when my stomach decided to announce its

need for sustenance. He sat back on his heels and laughed.

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39

“I see you hunger for food more than for me.”

“What time is it?” All the lights in the room were turned on, and there wasn’t any

clock by the bed. I’d taken off my watch downstairs, leaving it in the bathroom. He had

drawn the heavy, lined drapes over the one window in the bedroom, hiding the outside

world.

“Eight o’clock.” He spoke with deceptive casualness, avoiding eye contact.

“Morning or evening?”

He hesitated then shrugged. “Evening.”

“Son of a bitch!”

I had slept away an entire day.

I dragged myself from the bed, still a bit woozy from whatever the hell he had given

me last night.

Last night! Fucking bastard

.

“Fucking bastard! You swore you wouldn’t do anything to me. I guess you don’t

consider drugging me the same thing as harming me.” I grabbed the jeans he’d given me and

pulled them up, sitting at the side of the bed to shove my feet in the borrowed socks.

He hurled himself against my back, his arms trying to shackle mine. I threw him off,

surging to my feet, facing the mirror that reflected his damned angel’s face.

Desperate. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the thick curls, then clenched

his fists and shut his eyes.

“Please, Brandon, the tonic is harmless. It is only made of roots, herbs, honey, and the

brandy I added. You were exhausted from the other night, and I let you sleep as long as you

wanted. You must be driving yourself too much with your research. The excitement, our

lovemaking…”

He was babbling, frantic to have me stay. He got off the bed, stood in front of me, and

gripped my arms.

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Jeanne Barrack

“Stay. You’re hungry. I’ll feed you.” He touched my jaw. “You want to know what

happened next to Matthew and deMonde, yes? I’ll tell you.”

“Get out of my way!” I shoved him aside and picked up the shirt, drawing it over my

head. “I know what happened. They moved back to America. Hardesty joined the Army and

died. End of story.”

“He tried to kill himself.”

“What?” I stopped mid way, the shirt still bunched up under my arms.

“Matthew. Something happened, and he tried to kill himself.” He sank to the floor at

the foot of the bed, one knee bent, and rested his face against his raised leg. “It was before

they left for America.”

I shoved the shirt into my pants and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Tell me

what happened.”

Ron looked up at me. “Let me dress first. I will tell you downstairs.”

He got to his feet as if every bone in his body hurt. Grabbing some fresh clothes, he

entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

I sat there, immobile, waiting for him to tell me what had gone so freaking bad with

Hardesty and deMonde.

I no longer had any wish to leave.

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41

Chapter Four

I listened to the sound of the shower. Any other time I would have joined him. There’s

hardly anything that feels as good as soaping your lover’s cock and balls. Every part of your

body is slick, clean…hot. The smell of shampoos, gels, conditioners -- I don’t know, they

turn me on. Steam seeped from beneath the door and with it, the scent of whatever products

Ron was using. I felt gritty, sticky. I should be with him.

I shed my clothes and tried the bathroom door. Locked.

Fuck this shit

.

I pounded the door. “Open up, you

shmuck

.”

I could use the john downstairs, but why the hell should I? I raised my fist, ready to

bang the door again, when it was flung open. Ron stood there, a towel draped precariously

around his waist, his curls plastered to his head, his lean muscles glistening with drops of

water. Steam billowed out from the shower, carrying a hint of that familiar, astringent

aroma. He looked…clean, relaxed…fuckable. He eyed my nudity and quirked an eyebrow.

“What do you want? I’m not finished yet.”

“What do you think I want? A shower. I smell.”

He snorted. “You stink.”

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Jeanne Barrack

I took a step toward him. “I want to brush my teeth.”

He moved aside, bowed slightly, and ushered me in with a sweeping gesture. “There is

an unused toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. It’s all yours.”

I brushed his body as I passed. The towel couldn’t hide his rising erection. I halted in

front of him and made a grab for the plush terry cloth. He gripped my wrist and stared into

my eyes while I slipped my other hand beneath the flap and found him. His nostrils flared,

and he clenched his jaw. I brought my mouth to his and whispered against his lips.

“And are you all mine? Am I yours, too?”

He dropped my hand, dropped the towel, and dropped all pretenses that he didn’t want

me. We stumbled back into the shower stall. The water drummed on our bodies, soaking my

hair, drenching him again.

He squirted liquid soap into his hands and lathered up, spreading the cleansing foam on

my body, finding every crevice. There was little subtlety in his actions. He found my penis

and soaped the length, teasing my balls. The shower rinsed off the last of the foam, and he

knelt, my hard dick waving in front of his face. I thought he’d take me in his mouth, but he

didn’t, not right away. First, he shifted just a bit below me, clutching my thighs. And then,

he licked my balls, rolling his tongue around them, sucking them. I gasped and grabbed at

the showerhead, holding on while my balls grew tighter and tighter until he finally took me

into his mouth.

Christ, the feel of his hot mouth enveloping my prick.

This time, I’d finish in his mouth. Nothing would interrupt us. I flexed my muscles,

moving in and out in quick, short bursts. I felt the strain, felt my balls tense even more,

knew I was close. Then he reached around to the cleft between my buttocks and slid his

finger into my hole.

I came with a roar, my cum spurting into his mouth. He gripped my ass, holding steady

while he took every drop. Leaning his face against my legs, his hands left my butt as his arms

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43

dropped to the shower’s tiled floor. I braced my hand against the wet wall, trying to catch

my breath, trying to ignore the fact that I already wanted to do him again.

Why the hell was I so horny

?

Everything seemed to turn me on: his words, his voice, his looks. Yeah, I could deal

with those, but everything else pushed the buttons. The house, the bedroom, the bathroom.

The soft sheets against my skin. The scents in the air. The drink -- I’m an idiot. The drink.

The damn drink. And the lube. The soap.

Fuck. What the goddamn hell was in that shit?

Ron stood up in front of me and turned to shut off the water. He ducked beneath my

raised arm and grabbed two towels from the nearby towel rack, tossing one to me and

wrapping another around his waist. The towel was warm. Damn, a heated towel rack. Not

too shabby. He snagged a terry robe hanging from the door and threw it to me. Then, darting

out to the bedroom, he returned with a thin silk one for himself. It clung to his body

wherever he hadn’t done a complete job of drying off. I found myself staring then quickly

turned my back to him and moved to the sink.

“Where’s that toothbrush?”

I could see his reflection in the mirror while he frowned as he responded, “In the

medicine cabinet. Where else? Shave. You need to. I’ll leave some clothes for you on the bed.

When you’re finished, join me downstairs. I’ve much to tell you.”

He left the room again, and I could hear him opening drawers and banging them shut.

What did he have to be pissed about? I’d given in. I was quickly becoming his possession.

Kept submissive by the promise of learning the most exciting story of all of my years of

research as a paranormal investigator. I grasped the rim of the cool porcelain sink. Who was I

kidding? It wasn’t the words that were keeping me here. It was him.

And the fucking tonic.

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Jeanne Barrack

Well, I could try to avoid that at least. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I

hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. I hadn’t planned on fasting. He’d better have some

food waiting downstairs.

* * * * *

“Bon. You look more presentable. I made something for you to eat. Some bread and

butter, cheese, and salad. I have oil and vinegar for you if you wish to add dressing. I’ve eaten

already.” He smiled, his voice teasing. “You took your sweet time coming down. You

are

worse than a woman.”

I decided to ignore his none-too-subtle jabs.

“Everything looks good.” I tore off a hunk of the warm, crusty bread from a basket and

slathered it with butter. I sliced off a piece of the pungent cheese -- extra sharp cheddar. I

sampled the salad and poured on a splash of the oil and vinegar. Nice. “Are you a vegan?”

“There are vegans who do eat eggs and milk.” He shrugged. “Since I don’t know your

palate, I felt this would be a safe choice for your first meal here.” He laughed. “I assure you. I

am no vegetarian.”

First meal. Yeah and he owed me something.

“Okay, Scheherazade, what happened next?” I choked a bit on my words, and he

shoved the glass he was drinking from into my hands.

“Here. Sip a little and clear your throat.”

It was cool and sweet, and I needed something to wash down the piece of cheese I’d

caught in my throat. It was also the damn tonic. I almost choked again, but swallowed the

amber liquid down.

“Better?” He chuckled. “Scheherazade, eh? I suppose, but you know she told her master

the tales to prevent him from executing her.” He put his hand on my leg. “I don’t think you

plan on killing me, do you, Brandon?”

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45

No. Just taking the diaries. I’d leave him a check. I had some grant money I could tap

into. That should make us even for his keeping me here against my will.

When the fuck was

I going to stop lying to myself? I wasn’t here against my will

.

“Well? You are disturbingly silent. Do you plan to murder me? I warn you, I am not so

easily killed.”

“I was just trying to think how to do it.” I took his hand and planted it on my crotch.

“Maybe with my dick?”

He cracked up, but he didn’t take his hand off the bulge beneath my zipper. Not right

away.

“I’m glad we shared some laughter now, because what happened between Matthew and

deMonde was tragic.”

He sipped from the same glass I had, his mouth finding the place where my lips had

been, and set it back down.

And continued the story.

“Matthew and deMonde were content. They went out to dine at the cafes and

occasionally took carriage rides in the park. Once, deMonde took Matthew to meet his

mother.”

“DeMonde had a mother?”

He pinched my leg. I was going to be black and blue at this rate.

“Idiot! You know he had a mother. Though she wasn’t always as motherly as one might

wish, she did love him and wanted the best for him. That is why she gripped his ear and

smacked his face when they visited her at the brothel where she was the madame.

“She was very good at it, let me tell you. There were many, many brothels in Paris at

this time. DeMonde’s father purchased it for her as part of her…severance package.

DeMonde grew up there for the first few years of his life and had his first sexual experience

there.” Ron sighed. “It did not go well. Perhaps in the back of his mind, he knew that it was

46

Jeanne Barrack

the male customers who attracted him the most, but he did try. It was not until he had his

first orgasm with Clermont that he understood what the kindly coquette meant when she

told him that she was not his type.” Ron shrugged. “No matter. DeMonde introduced

Matthew to his mother, and she embraced him, recognizing him for deMonde’s true love.

Then she chided them both for their stupidity in revealing their nature to the world.

“She told them, ‘My darlings, you will have to leave here one day. The world is jealous

of all happy lovers, whoever and whatever they are. If you ever have need of me, I will help

you.’

“They laughed, still secure in their tiny bubble of happiness.” Ron shook his head, and

his mouth thinned. “Fools, indeed.

“One day, Clermont brought the latest rumor to them. He always knew what was going

on in the musical community and shared every bit of gossip. He had great news. Offenbach

was mounting a new production. A madcap retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice. Matthew and

deMonde greeted his information with mixed feelings, both of them recalling the night

they’d met, when Matthew compared deMonde’s voice to Orpheus.” Ron paused. “Was it

fate that this farce should drive a wedge between them?

“The next time he visited, Clermont brought the sheet music with him. They went

through the parts, singing the female roles in falsetto and bringing Matthew to tears of

laughter. But when they sang the male arias, he quieted. The vocal part of Jupiter was for a

baritone. It was perfect for deMonde’s voice. Clermont noticed how quiet Matthew had

become while deMonde read the music and damned himself for a fool. He loved the two of

them, had not one jealous bone in his body. He wished them to remain as they were -- the

epitome of romantic love in his eyes. And now, he had become the snake in their little

Garden of Eden.”

I butted in. “And they knew this how?”

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47

Ron sighed. “Wait. You’ll see later.” He sipped some more of the tonic and leaned back

against the couch, sliding closer to me and playing with my hand. He brought my palm to his

mouth, and I waited for his kiss.

The son of a bitch bit me!

“Be quiet, or next time it won’t be your palm that I bite!” Then he licked the fleshy

mound beneath my thumb that he had bitten and placed my hand on his thigh. “To go on,

deMonde enjoyed singing outside in the little garden behind the townhouse. He usually

awoke before Matthew, and while he waited for him to dress, would serenade him. A

harmless, little ritual between the two of them until the day that someone else noted the

song and found the door to their haven.

“Raveneau was wealthy, a member of the upper class with influences in many different

worlds. He knocked upon the entrance to their town house and bullied the ancient servant

to let him into the foyer. DeMonde had just reentered from the outside, and Raveneau

recognized him at once. The perverted performer. Oh, this was too good for him to pass up.

He moved forward, his hand outstretched and grasped deMonde’s.”

I wanted to ask Ron how deMonde or Matthew knew what this guy Raveneau was

thinking, but decided to play it safe. I needed to keep the use of both hands.

“Raveneau beamed. ‘Marvelous! That was you singing outside,

n’est-ce pas

? It was

magnificent! But why are you not performing on stage? It is a crime for such a voice to go

unheard by others.’

“‘I hear him.’ Matthew had come down stairs, deMonde and Raveneau oblivious to his

entrance. Raveneau immediately recognized an adversary. ‘But of course, and how delightful

and fortunate you are to have him for your court…musician. But do you not wish to share

him, M’sieur…?’

“‘Hardesty, Matthew Hardesty. Who let you in? And who the hell are you?’

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Jeanne Barrack

“‘Antoine Raveneau.

Pardonnez moi

, I strong-armed my way past your servant. I had

to meet the magnificent voice singing so joyously.’ He smiled at deMonde. ‘You will forgive

me, I hope, M’sieur?’

-

“Matthew noted that Raveneau didn’t ask for deMonde’s name, but doubted if

deMonde realized it. He seemed mesmerized by the honeyed flattery flowing from the man.

And then Matthew caught the word ‘perform’ and returned his attention to the seduction

going on in front of him.

“Raveneau turned to Matthew. ‘I have been trying to persuade your friend to join me at

a little party I am throwing for some friends. I am hoping that Troyer might attend.’ He

turned back to deMonde. ‘He should hear you sing! And you must join me, too, Hardesty.’

He coughed as though he had just realized that he had not invited Matthew.

“Matthew answered for them both, a mistake, of course. He bowed briefly and then

strode to the door, flinging it open. His words were curt. ‘We do not go out to parties. We do

not perform at the drop of a hat. I want you to leave.’ Matthew curled his fists. ‘Or you can

give me the pleasure of throwing you out myself.’

“Why did he choose to say ‘we’? If he had not done so, would deMonde have gone

without him? I don’t think so. DeMonde missed performing. The lure of singing before one

of the great impresarios was too strong. Although Raveneau departed, he left his card with

deMonde as he exited.

“The argument began as soon as the door shut behind him.

“DeMonde shouted, ‘You had no right to tell him that! I am not your slave. I am not

my

grandpere

! I have a chance to sing again on stage. How could you not understand what

this means to me?’

“Matthew tried to reason with him. He grabbed his hands, but deMonde threw him off.

Matthew went down on his knees before him, begging for him to listen to him, to forgive his

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49

high-handedness and understand what he had seen in Raveneau’s eyes. ‘He wants you in his

bed, not on the stage! He didn’t ask for your name; he knew who you are, you idiot!’

“DeMonde would not listen. He pleaded with Matthew to go with him to the party that

night, but Matthew refused. DeMonde went alone. Matthew spent that evening pacing back

and forth, waiting for him to return. At one point, he almost decided to hire a hack and go to

Raveneau’s home. What a fool he would appear to be if he did that! So, he waited and fell

asleep in a chair in the parlor, not waking up until the next morning when the butler

brought in a note to him.

“The words were blunt:

Send my belongings to the address you see. I hope you will

attend my return performance to the stage

.”

Ron shuddered and closed his eyes. He drained the last of the tonic in one swallow and

shuddered again. I held my breath, waiting for what happened next.

“Cold. The words were so cold. And not part of the message written by deMonde.

Raveneau had altered the missive unbeknown to deMonde, leaving only the request for a

change of clothing and the hope that he would attend deMonde’s performance. The bastard

had read his original, naive message, in which he asked Matthew to forgive him for not

returning the other evening. The soiree had lasted until the wee hours while Raveneau’s

friends showered him with praise. The evening had been a success, although Troyer had not

attended. Several of the guests had asked him to perform at intimate gatherings of their own.

He told Matthew that he stayed the night in Raveneau’s guest room. He was so happy and

asked Matthew to share his joy and show his acceptance by joining him for lunch at

Raveneau’s home. He asked him to send a change of clothing. He couldn’t wait to see

Matthew when he performed on stage.

“Raveneau poisoned deMonde’s mind. He told him that Matthew was jealous of his

talent. That when he received his note, he wouldn’t believe that he had not spent the night

in Raveneau’s bed. He wouldn’t even respond, he insinuated, just send him his possessions

and wipe his hands of him. He whispered in deMonde’s ear like the serpent whispered into

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Jeanne Barrack

Eve’s. And just like her, deMonde believed him. But how could he not when that morning

he received his packed bags and no other words from Matthew?

“He threw himself into his singing and into Raveneau’s bed. Raveneau doled out his

caresses like other men doled out allowances to their wives. He fucked him only after he

performed at his friends’ fetes. Each time, deMonde was told that this director or that

impresario would be present. Each time, there was an excuse as to why they were not there.

Each time, they returned in the evening, and Raveneau would screw him.

“As time went on, his demands became more and more brutal. DeMonde gritted his

teeth and complied. And then one night, Raveneau tied him up and whipped him before he

took him. He left him bound in the study, his back bleeding from the whipping, tears of

impotent rage falling from his eyes. Raveneau had stuffed his cravat into his mouth so he

could not be heard as he fucked him repeatedly. Then he left him without a word.

“Perhaps Raveneau forgot he was still there. The next morning, deMonde heard

Raveneau usher someone into the foyer. They stood before the slightly ajar door, unaware

that he was listening.

“Raveneau said, ‘Oui, he was rather in good voice last evening. You have no idea what I

must go through to have him perform. I actually have to fuck the creature. He’s like a trained

monkey. I fuck him, he sings. Bon. I will reserve next Friday for you. Perhaps we will tell

him that Offenbach himself will be in attendance!’ And they laughed and left.

“Raveneau had completely forgotten him. DeMonde remained tied up until the maid

came in later that morning to dust. Appalled, she undid his bonds. Raveneau had gone out to

one of his clubs and was not expected back until late that afternoon. As quickly as he could,

deMonde got dressed. Every part of him ached, and his wrists were raw from the leather

straps that Raveneau used to restrain him. Moving like an old man, he gathered a few of his

clothes and, after swearing the horrified little maid to silence, walked out the door, never to

look back.

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51

“He arrived later that afternoon at Matthew’s home. As he trudged the last few blocks,

he recalled the first time he had gone to him, right after breaking off with Mercier. With his

humiliation at Raveneau’s hands fresh in his memory, he decided to forgive Mercier’s actions

because had he not allotted his bed to Mercier instead of money? Had he not treated him as

an object? By the time he reached Matthew’s door, deMonde had grown up a little.

“He rang, but no one answered. He knocked, but no one came. He pounded on the

door until finally he heard a sound from inside. The door swung open into the darkened

interior. Matthew lay on the floor, his clothes filthy, his hair unkempt. The stink of liquor

rose in great wafts from his body. DeMonde rushed inside, shutting the door behind him. He

fell to his knees beside the semiconscious form of his lover and gathered him into his arms.

“He pushed back Matthew’s hair from his forehead, and Matthew opened his eyes and

smiled. ‘An angel,’ Matthew whispered. ‘I am dead, and an angel is embracing me.’ He raised

a trembling hand to deMonde’s face, and his voice slurred as he felt the tears streaking down

deMonde’s cheeks. ‘My love, is it you? Why are you crying? You came back to me? Will you

leave like everyone else did?’

“DeMonde tried to stem his tears. Matthew was so thin. He lifted him up and carried

him to the study. Hardly any furniture remained, and the place was filthy with dust. What

had happened? He laid him down upon one of the two chairs remaining and strode to the

window.

“He opened the draperies and shuddered as the daylight poured into the room. Finally,

he saw Matthew clearly.

“He was filthier than deMonde had first thought. Matthew had lost so much weight,

his clothes hung on him. DeMonde knelt by his feet and took Matthew’s hand in his and

asked the questions he had to. ‘What happened, mon coeur? How could this occur in just a

few months without me?’

“Matthew gestured to the desk. ‘Read what you find there.’

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Jeanne Barrack

“And deMonde did. There was a note from Matthew’s father. DeMonde smoothed the

wrinkled paper and read. Reports had gotten back to him of Matthew’s obscene escapades.

He was no longer his son. As deMonde’s parent had done, so too was Matthew cut off from

any additional funds. He was not to communicate with anyone in the family. Scattered on

the desk were bills for everything, a note from his bank informing him that his account was

closed, letters of resignation from the servants. A note from Clermont informing them both

that he had decided to retire to his niece’s home in the West Indies, with his address

enclosed, and asking for forgiveness for disrupting their lives. And everything dated at least

two months ago. Also on the desk was a loaded pistol.

“All this time, deMonde had been unaware of what was going on. He had been so

focused on his own selfish desires he had divorced himself from Matthew.

“He bowed his head on the desk and wept. He felt a tentative hand caress his neck and

then a kiss fall upon his head. Matthew.

“He spoke in a dry, dusty whisper as though he had not used his voice for some time.

‘Do you forgive me for not understanding how much your singing meant to you? I’m sorry I

haven’t been to any of your performances, but as you can see, I’m not really presentable.’

“DeMonde surged to his feet and embraced him, still weeping. He told him everything

and everything was forgiven. Raveneau’s duplicity was revealed, and the two swore they

would never part again. The rent on the town home was paid up for the next three months,

and deMonde went to his mother for further assistance. She gave him sufficient funds to help

him nurse Matthew back to health, and when he was strong enough, they boarded a ship and

sailed to New York. Matthew vowed never to return to Florida. And he never did.

“But he did not keep one directive from his father.”

Ron stopped.

“Well? What didn’t he do?” I begged him to continue.

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53

Ron stretched and yawned. He glanced at me and smiled. “Enough for now. You have

eaten, and I am hungry.”

“Son of a bitch. You’re going to make me beg for everything you know about them,

aren’t you?”

He grinned. “And that would be so difficult because?”

I shook my head and fisted my hands in his shirt, shoving my face an inch away from

his. “It’s too fucking easy.”

I ground my mouth against his, loving the fact that my skin was still so sensitive from

the shave earlier that his beard scraped my mouth. He gripped my head and held me,

plunging his tongue frantically. I bit his lip, and he moaned and climbed on me. My erection

slammed against his, and we tore our mouths apart, breathing hard. He caught his breath

first.

“Fucking is easy. Making love is hard.”

I was in no mood for philosophy. I yanked down his zipper and shoved my hand in his

pants drawing out his penis. He was so stiff, you could swing from his cock.

“Yeah, making love

is

hard.” I ran my hand up and down his penis, taking in his moans

as I squeezed and released him, palming the slick crown, moving with him as he rocked back

and forth. I opened my zipper one-handed, pulling my cock out and jacking off as I jacked

him off.

Our cum ran together on our clothes, and our shouts came together as we climaxed.

He bent his forehead against my head, gasping, then took a deep, shuddering breath

and lifted off my lap.

He looked down at his crotch and then at mine.

His words were bitter as he spoke.

“You are right. Fucking is hard, too. Clean yourself up. Use the downstairs bathroom.

Your clothes are dry. You can leave if you wish.”

54

Jeanne Barrack

He turned and stalked upstairs.

I sat there and watched him leave, feeling like Matthew must have when deMonde left

him.

Feeling like shit.

The Sweet Flag

55

Chapter Five

I used the downstairs john to clean up and changed into the clothes I’d worn the night

Ron rescued me. They were folded neatly on top of a rattan hamper. When had he washed

them? I heard the shower upstairs run briefly and then nothing more. I put on my socks and

searched and found my shoes underneath one of the tables by the couch. I expected them to

be crusted with dried mud from the cemetery, but they were clean.

When had he done that?

I sat on the couch, holding my left shoe in my hand, and my gut clenched.

What the hell had he done to me to make me want to stay?

I sat there, trying to rationalize the decision I had just made. Fascinating as Hardesty

and deMonde’s story was, there was nothing of a supernatural or paranormal nature to it. Of

course, the more back-story one gathered about paranormal activity, the more credence

attached to the events. Obviously something happened after they came to America. I had to

learn more. So, that was my reasoning and that’s what I would tell Ron when I went upstairs

and told him I wasn’t leaving.

At ease now, I climbed the stairs two at a time and knocked on the closed bedroom

door.

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Jeanne Barrack

“What, are you still here? I release you of our bargain. Take your equipment and go.”

I tried the door -- closed but not locked -- and opened it.

Ron had opened the drapes, letting in the moonlight. He lay on his back on the bed,

barefoot, shirtless, wearing fresh jeans. One arm was flung across his eyes, the other one lay

at his side.

I smiled, although I knew he couldn’t see me. If he had not wanted me to be there, he

would have locked the door. I moved forward and sat next to him, the mattress sagging, and

unshielded his eyes. I touched his stubbled jaw and teased him.

“You really are

such

a girl.”

“And you really are

such

a bastard.” He pressed his hand against my mine, and I felt his

teeth clench. He reached up with his other hand, dragging my face close to his. “But I am

glad you stayed.”

He brought my mouth to his, thrusting his tongue and biting my lower lip. Pleasure

and pain combined. Our tongues and breath mingled. We devoured each other. My cock

pushed against the restriction of my pants, demanding to be released. I pressed against him,

frantically dry humping him.

He grabbed my ass with both hands, slowing my pace, and laughed.

“

Lento, mon ami. Legato

. We have time now.” He squeezed my butt and grinned.

“

Voila

! You are top dog, see?”

I nodded and lifted off him. I moved from the bed and stood at its foot. Riveting his

gaze, I started to strip. I pulled off my shirt, unzipped my jeans, and slowly pulled them

down with my briefs. My penis sprang free.

He bit his lip.

I palmed my cock and then stroked my balls.

He groaned and his fists twisted the sheet. “You are killing me!”

“Not yet.”

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57

I strutted over to him and put one knee onto the mattress.

And he howled with laughter. He sputtered and choked and finally gasped out, “Your

socks!”

I looked down. Green and yellow Argyle socks. Very sexy.

“My feet are cold, dammit!”

He hauled me down, laughter still rumbling in his chest. He pinched my backside,

rolled me over, and then found the entrance to my body. I was dry, and I clenched my ass.

“No way. I’m the alpha. Take off your pants.”

His eyes crinkled as he grinned wider. “

Oui, maestro

.”

He lifted from me, and I lay on my side, watching as he shimmied out of his pants,

kicking them off the bed. He shifted onto his belly, and I laid my cheek against his butt. He

twitched.

He spoke, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Get the lube. We’re dry from all that

showering, eh?”

The damn lube. That magic lotion that turned me into a fucking rabbit. Laughter

jerked from me, but I reached over and got the fragile glass bottle and poured the lotion into

my palms. Yeah, they advertised products with a tingling sensation, but this wasn’t the same.

How can I describe it? I can’t, not really. I only know that when I smoothed the aromatic

substance on our skin, it was like leaving my body behind and becoming a tangled knot of

nerve endings that needed to join with his.

I sank my penis into him as deep as I could and moaned. I started to move in quick

thrusts. I was the top, but he directed me like a conductor leading a choir.

“

Lento

,” he whispered. Slowly.

“

Legato

.” Smoothly.

“Ah!

Sforzando

!” I attacked, stronger.

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Jeanne Barrack

“

Staccato

.” Short, sharp jabs.

“

Accelerando

.” I moved faster as he urged me on.

He flung back his head, the tendons in his neck straining as we moved together. He

stopped guiding me, too caught up in his own fight to gain release to worry about mine.

And when it came, it was incredible.

* * * * *

We lay quietly, our legs entwined, his hairier than mine, but not too furred. I played

with the bushy curls around the base of his shaft, idly noting that he was circumcised. Very

observant. Right.

“Are you Jewish?” I asked

He stiffened. “You just noticed? Does it matter?”

I shrugged. “Not a bit. My grandmother’s Jewish.” I poked him with my penis. “Didn’t

you notice?”

Now it was his turn to shrug. “Parents have their children circumcised in the hospital

for all sorts of reasons. In America, it’s done more often than not.” He paused. “Your

mother’s mother?”

I pulled away and looked him in the eye. “Yeah. I’m really a Jew. My dad didn’t give a

damn about religion and told my mother she could raise me any way she wanted as long as it

didn’t interfere with his life, the shmuck.” I continued in a rush. “They divorced when I was

five, she died in an accident when I was ten, and my grandmother raised me.” I smiled. “And

demanded I was bar mitzvahed when I turned thirteen.” I bowed my head. “She died a

couple of years ago. She was my whole family.”

He hadn’t said a word. Now he drew my head to his chest and sighed. “

Vraiment

, we

are both orphans.”

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59

He settled back and relaxed. His heart beat slowly and evenly, lulling me to sleep. Then

he spoke and thoughts of sleep left me.

“So, when Matthew and deMonde landed in New York, they were almost penniless.”

“What happened on the trip over?”

He pinched my earlobe. “Nothing of any importance to the story. The journey was

uneventful. Thanks to deMonde’s mother, they shared a cabin. They traveled on one of the

American lines that had sprung up during those days and made good time, docking in New

York in a shade less than two weeks.” He stroked my hair absentmindedly and continued.

“Non, it is what transpired after they landed which is of importance.”

“They brought few pieces of luggage with them, just one trunk each, deciding to

purchase any additional clothing after finding accommodations. Matthew had transferred

what was left of the funds from deMonde’s mother into gold currency after they left France

and reached London. Though not much, he determined that it might be sufficient to rent

some rooms while they searched for employment. And so they hailed a cab and traveled to

the only bank with which Matthew had had any dealings -- his father’s Northern bankers.

DeMonde remained in the cab with their luggage while Matthew entered the imposing

edifice, returning far more quickly than deMonde had expected.”

“They didn’t want to do business with him?” I asked.

He pulled my hair. “Will you remain silent while I speak?” He fondled my ass and

sighed as though sorely put upon. “You may ask questions after I am finished.”

“Which you may or may not choose to answer. I know the drill, and it pisses me off.”

He tugged harder on my hair, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes glowed in the

moonlit room. Then he blinked, and they were back to normal. That weird tonic was making

me see unbelievable things. He spoke softly, his words carrying more weight than when he

had hurled them at me earlier.

“Remember, you can leave at any time. I am not holding you hostage here.”

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Jeanne Barrack

“Son of a bitch, go on with the story,” I ground out.

Ron nodded and continued.

“Matthew returned to the carriage, excited beyond speaking. At first, deMonde thought

as you did, that he’d been denied credit. Then, after taking a deep breath, Matthew spoke,

setting his worries to rest and offering them the first true ray of hope they’d had in a very

long time.

“Matthew smiled and then showed deMonde a letter written in a feminine hand.

DeMonde read, with growing amazement, a missive from Matthew’s sister. She wrote,

%%Matthew, I am going against our Father’s direct orders because of the Love I bore you

when we were children in responding to your plea for Compassion. Before our Grandmother

Buchanan went to her Eternal Rest, she established a trust fund for each of us which should

have been made available when you reached the age of twenty-one. Our Father never

informed you of this, for he doubted your ability to prove your Worth. In his eyes, your

latest Actions have indeed proved his Lack of Faith. However, he has not touched the

Money, nor can he. It is yours to do with as you wish and with the interest accrued, should

prove sufficient for your needs. Please do not attempt to Communicate with me any further.

I wish you well and hope that you will come to your senses and return to a Godly Life.%%”

I listened in increasing wonder as Ron repeated the words in Hardesty’s sister’s letter as

if he had read it and committed it to memory. And maybe he had. Maybe among the diaries

were letters and other correspondences from the 1850’s. What an incredible find. Perhaps he

had a collection of letters between Hardesty and deMonde?

“What? No comment? Have you finally learned prudence?”

“I’m just tired of getting black and blue! So, they had money, and Hardesty didn’t have

to soil his hands -- dammit!” I rubbed my ass as I lay on the floor where Ron had shoved me.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

The Sweet Flag

61

Ron leaned over the edge of the bed and spat out his words. “You have no idea how

difficult it was to find work in those days. If you had family connections or money, you

could support yourself. But if you had to work with no capital to fall back upon, things might

not be so good. Remember, they would not part from each other. To maintain their desired

proximity with each other, deMonde acted as Hardesty’s valet. Even with their own

establishment of a household in a Brooklyn brownstone, they maintained the appearance of

servant and master. DeMonde had his own room in which he seldom slept, but the woman

who cooked and kept house for them never knew this. Their subterfuge was perfect, and

once more they settled into a quiet routine.”

He reached down and offered me his hand, pulling me up easily from the floor as if I

didn’t weigh over a hundred and eighty pounds. I got back on the bed, and he drew the sheet

up to our waists. He grabbed my hand and slid it under the cover to his belly, Ron knowing

full well where it would eventually land.

“I forgive you because of your ignorance, but I am growing tired of your attitude

toward Matthew.” He paused. “Perhaps you are jealous of him? He was the embodiment of

the heroic ideal of that time. In fact -- listen. One day, Matthew became the object of

adoration of…well, I would not wish to bandy about his name.” He smiled slyly, knowing I’d

take the bait.

“Don’t fucking pinch me, but you know damned well I want to know who you’re

talking about.”

“Since it cannot be proved one way or the other, I’ll tell you what I know. Matthew

caught the eye of the great Walt Whitman.”

“No shit?” The light slowly dawned. “Wait a minute. You’re not going to tell me that

Matthew was the mysterious ‘M’ he wrote about?”

“So, you have heard of him? You know then that Whitman trolled for boys and young

men. Usually, lower class types, but one day he spied Matthew as Matthew was leaving a

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Jeanne Barrack

neighborhood eatery and was struck by Matthew’s manliness. Whitman found out where

Matthew lived and deluged him with gifts. Cuban cigars, liquors, fine linen handkerchiefs,

cravats, and walking sticks all arrived at his door with impassioned notes of undying love.

Whitman created a non-existent love affair. He hounded Matthew to the point that he could

not leave the house for fear of running into him. At last, deMonde had had enough. He

arranged to meet Whitman at a café in Manhattan in a part of town where neither man was

known. He knew Whitman would be there, for he had signed the letter with Matthew’s

initial and intimated that he had finally succumbed to Whitman’s ‘courtship.’

“Whitman arrived early, expecting Matthew’s arrival. Instead, deMonde sat down at

the secluded table for two and introduced himself as Matthew’s lover. At first, Whitman was

disbelieving. It wasn’t until deMonde described Matthew’s body in loving, intimate detail

that he conceded defeat. DeMonde’s delineation could only come from one who had seen

Matthew naked. His portrayal of Matthew’s physique exceeded the brief look Whitman

glimpsed one morning from the sidewalk as he gazed up at Matthew’s bedroom window.

That wasn’t good enough for deMonde. He demanded and received Whitman’s assurance in

writing that he would never reveal the name of his fixation. When, the next year, a volume

of Whitman’s poetry was published, they knew at once that Whitman had adhered to the

agreement, but only marginally.”

I stared at Ron, convinced yet still somewhat incredulous. “The ‘Calamus’ poems.”

He nodded.

“You mean Hardesty was the guy who nearly pushed Whitman over the deep end?”

“If you mean Whitman’s melodramatic response to the ending of his imaginary

relationship, then yes. Did you know that the calamus plant was often called “the sweet flag”

and named after the river god Calamus who mourned for the drowning of his young male

lover? Whitman did. Poor Walt always vacillated over his own nature. Why do you think he

left the identity of “M” a mystery? It is ironic that he and deMonde met again in quite

different circumstances several years later. But that is a story for another time.” He shifted so

The Sweet Flag

63

that we faced each other. “I would rather not speak any further.” He rubbed his cock against

mine and smiled. “I would rather use my mouth in a far more enjoyable manner.” He

stopped rubbing, holding still while we both hardened in anticipation. He cocked his head.

“Silent, again, eh? You are an apt student and deserve a reward. What shall it be?”

I grabbed his hand and curved his fingers around my dick, gripping his shoulder with

my other hand. “You know damn fucking well what I want. The same damn thing as you!

Fuck me!”

And he chuckled softly. “Good answer. And I will not spare the rod for fear of spoiling

the student.”

He crushed his fingers around me and squeezed.

And there was no more talking.

* * * * *

I awoke early the next day, at least compared with the past two nights. Ron lay on his

belly, his face turned to the side. Sometime during the night, he must have gotten up and

drawn the curtains, for the room still lay in darkness. I knew it was earlier though. There

was a sense of heat leading me to believe that the temperature outside had climbed, and

twilight hadn’t arrived just yet. I shifted off the mattress, taking care not to disturb him, but

he didn’t twitch. He didn’t even respond to the loud rumbling of my stomach.

Damn, I was starving!

I pulled on my jeans and moved quietly down the stairs. There had to be something in

the kitchen I could grab. This time, I’d prepare some food for both of us.

The kitchen had cost big bucks to fit in with the style of the townhouse and yet fulfill

all the requirements of a modern chef. Butcher-block worktable, marble counter tops, built-

in fridge concealed behind a front that blended in with the cabinets. And everything

immaculate as if they had seldom been used.

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Jeanne Barrack

The contents of a refrigerator can tell a lot about a person. Ron’s told me little because

there was little inside. Some salad greens from an earlier meal. A loaf of half-finished French

bread; an open, foil-wrapped stick of butter. A small wedge of cheese with one shallow gouge

cut from it. A clear decanter half-filled with amber liquid. The remnants of the meal from

the other night.

And nothing else.

Two condiment cruets sat on the counter, one containing olive oil, the other, vinegar. I

knew because I had tasted a drop from each the other day. No coffee, no tea. There was a jar

of honey on the small worktable in the center of the room. I opened the oven door of the

retro-styled gas range. Clean.

What the fuck?

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry. My appetite had left me, and my curiosity had returned

with a vengeance.

I reentered the parlor and went over to the roll top desk. Locked, of course. I attempted

to jimmy it open without any success. I tried a door leading, I presumed, to a basement. Also

locked. I felt above the doorframe, trying to find a key to unlock it.

“Don’t strain yourself, mon ami. The key is not there. If you’re looking for a way out,

try the front door.”

Shit, that bastard moved like a ghost

.

I turned around and faced him. Like myself, he was barefoot and shirtless. His jeans

were still unbuttoned, and the fly partially zipped. He shook his head, zipped up his fly, and

buttoned his jeans while I stammered like a choirboy caught sucking the choirmaster’s cock.

“I was looking for some food. There’s bloody nothing to eat in the fridge.”

He laughed without mirth.

“And so you thought to find something in the desk or the basement?”

He’d seen me from the minute I’d gone back into the parlor.

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65

Why the hell hadn’t I seen him?

“Silent?” He shook his head and tsked. “If you had checked the cupboards more

carefully, you would have found tuna fish and instant coffee. In the freezer are some steaks.”

He sighed. “I haven’t had a chance to shop for a while.”

I didn’t buy his explanation -- who could resist cooking in a kitchen like that? -- but I

couldn’t think of a better one. I wondered if tuna, coffee, and steak would be the only things

I’d find if I looked.

“I’ll open the tuna, and you can have some with bread. I’ll put the kettle on for the

coffee. I’m sorry I have no milk. The last of it turned sour, and I dumped it.” He went over to

the antique Victrola and unlocked the cabinet, chose a recording, and placed it on the

turntable. “While I prepare the food, why don’t you sit back and enjoy some music.” He

stood there for a moment, his eyes shut, listening in delight, then opened his eyes and

walked without another word into the kitchen.

The tinny sound couldn’t completely disguise the quality of the baritone voice issuing

from the speaker.

I recognized the song -- Jerome Kern’s “Old Man River” from

Showboat

. A former

lover had been a dinner theater waiter. Three months of heartburn and four operettas and

musicals, but I did develop an interest in classic American shows. The period of history in

which

Showboat

was set was fascinating, and the story was a cut above anything before it.

I recognized incredible singing when I heard it. The performance was done as a solo

with piano and included an introduction and arrangement I’d never heard before. The

recording came to an end, and I went over and lifted the needle from the record while the

disk continued to revolve silently.

“Did you enjoy the song?” Ron’s voice drifted back to me. I heard the kettle whistle,

and then he came into the room, carrying a tray with the tuna fish artfully arranged on a bed

of lettuce on a china plate, a chunk of bread, some butter, the carafe of amber liquid and a

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Jeanne Barrack

glass. The copper kettle sat on a trivet with a jar of instant coffee and a single mug. He set the

tray down on the hassock and gestured for me to join him. He poured a glass of tonic for

himself and sipped it before speaking again.

“You didn’t answer me. Did you like the performance?”

“The guy has a great voice. Who’s the singer? There was no label on the record. I’ve

only heard modern recordings of the show.”

“DeMonde.”

“Yeah, right. Do you think I’m an idiot?

Showboat

was written in the nineteen

twenties, assuming deMonde was still alive, he would have been in his nineties!”

Ron laughed. “Of course he would have been in his nineties. I just wanted to tease you.

Eat.” He leered and twirled an imaginary handlebar mustache. “You’ll need the strength

when I have my wicked way with you.”

“Join me, m’dear,” I retorted in my best imitation of Snidely Whiplash. “We’ll both

need all our strength.”

But he didn’t join me. He watched me eat and urged me to share his drink with him,

holding the glass to my mouth and doling out the liquid between the two of us. And when

the glass was empty, he set it aside, leaned back against the arm of the couch, and watched

me expectantly as my eyes traveled the length of his body.

The dark swirl of hair on his chest arrowed to his waistband, and I knew exactly where

it led.

He narrowed his gaze while I reached out and unbuttoned the jeans’ brass fastener and

pulled down his fly. His penis nestled in the dark curls, thick and heavy and already semi-

erect.

“What are you waiting for? I can smell your arousal.” His voice was calm.

It pissed me off until I dragged my eyes from his erection and looked up at his face. His

nostrils flared, and his mouth was a slash in his face.

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67

I smiled.

“I can’t smell yours. I’ll have to get closer.”

I lowered my face until my breath moved the fine curls of his bush. Taking my time, I

licked him from base to tip.

He groaned.

I spread his pants open wider, and he lifted up as I pulled the denim down below his

buttocks, leaving his legs restrained. His dick was hard; a drop of precum glistened on the

crown. My mouth still hovered by his groin as I breathed in his scent. He’d moved his legs

until they were half off the couch, his knees nudging mine, and I could feel them

trembling -- my knees and his.

“What are you waiting for?

Merde

, what are you waiting for?” There was desperation

and need in his voice.

Just what I was waiting for.

I took his cock in my mouth as deep as I could, whirled my tongue around him, and

sucked hard. I waited for him to tell me to slow down. To play me as if I were merely an

instrument for his pleasure.

But he didn’t.

He jerked, and his gasps grew louder. He forked his fingers in my hair, pulling it,

tugging my head up.

I slid my lips off his cock and looked at him.

His eyes blazed, and then he shuttered them. When he opened them again, his

expression had changed from hunger to need. A difference. You can hunger for something

and not need it.

Ron needed it. Needed me.

“

Baise-moi

.”

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Jeanne Barrack

I said nothing, did nothing.

He clenched his eyes.

“Fuck me.” He took a deep breath. “Please.”

I nodded and moved so he could take off his jeans. He stood, naked, fully aroused. He

picked up the carafe and walked toward the stairs. He paused at the foot and looked over his

shoulder.

“Come with me.” He paused and held out his free hand. “I need you.”

And he waited until I moved ahead of him and led him up the steps.

The Sweet Flag

69

Chapter Six

The climb to the second floor was the longest in my life. If I could have, I would have

carried him just to get us there faster. I dropped his hand, and we raced up the steps, me,

half-dressed, Ron nude, playing an insane game of “last one on the bed is a rotten egg”. I

won, but wound up losing by default because I got off the bed to strip. When I did, Ron

claimed the victory since he was the first one naked on the bed.

“Who said it only counted if you were naked?”

“My house, my rules. And it’s my rules in everything.”

“Oh?” I picked up my jeans from the floor and tossed them on the chair. “And if I don’t

want to play by your rules? What are you going to do about it?”

He hesitated, then rose to his knees. His penis jutting toward his belly, so firm, so erect

I ached just looking at it. Ached and hardened. There we were, two naked men, both

wanting each other so much and neither ready to give in.

“What am I going to do about it? This.” Ron’s whisper echoed in the silence. He lay

back and stretched out on the bed. He closed his eyes and smiled. His fingers circled his

shaft’s crown and gradually slid down the length, then back up. I stared, hypnotized by the

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Jeanne Barrack

steady, slow rhythm as he moved his hand up and down, over and over again, until a drop of

precum pearled.

“Bastard.”

“My rules.” His fingers tightened and moved faster. He bit his lower lip.

“Son of a bitch.”

He smiled, eyes still shuttered. “Come play with me, Brandon.”

“Fucking bastard!”

He grinned. “Not yet, mon ami…but soon.”

I took the two steps to the mattress and threw my body next to his, pushing his fingers

off his cock and replacing them with mine. I fisted him, milking him, making him jerk and

twitch. I positioned my mouth so that it was near his root and licked his sac. He bucked off

the bed. I remembered how much it turned me on and figured it would do the same for him.

It did. I took his balls deep in my mouth and sucked hard. He arched his back in the air and

called out.

“Merde! Jesus, Brandon!”

My hand took the place of my mouth and twisted just slightly.

He groaned so loudly I eased the tension immediately.

“Non, non,” he gasped. “Do it! Do it! I like it when you play rough. No one has ever

dared to do so with me. Suck me off. Don’t make me wait. Do what I tell you.”

I didn’t need any further encouragement. I licked him. Sucked him. Bit him just a

shade too hard. Fondled his balls and had him writhing on the bed, rolling and hitching,

until he shot his seed in my mouth.

And faintly, in the back of my mind, I wondered what he meant when he said no one

had dared to handle him harshly.

* * * * *

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We lay together, our arms and legs tangled, our lips making forays to whatever part of

our bodies we could reach. Ron had stripped and remade the bed. The fresh sheets smelled of

the shampoo and soap we used. In the shower, I’d lathered him gently, trying to make up for

how rough I’d been after I nearly castrated him. He moaned and arched in my hands,

threading his fingers through my hair and massaging my scalp, forgiving me with his actions.

We stepped from the shower into the steam-filled room, and Ron grabbed the plush,

heated towels and threw me one. They scraped our sensitive skin as we dried each other, the

friction shooting straight to our dicks.

We couldn’t get enough of touching.

When we got back into bed, we cuddled.

Christ, tenderness had seldom been part of my love life. Self-indulgence, a quick fuck,

the occasional one-night stand that sometimes lasted a couple of months. While Ron

complained that his lovers hadn’t been forceful, I had the memory of several of mine who

hadn’t given a good goddamn about how rough they’d been.

I liked the cuddling. I liked the touching. I liked the fact that it didn’t have to lead to

sex.

He shifted away from me, and I heard the clink of two glass objects striking against

each other. The all-too-familiar aroma of the tonic conquered the sheets’ clean scent. He’d

placed the tonic-filled carafe on the nightstand by his side of the bed, and now, he brought a

glass to my lips.

“Drink, mon coeur. It will boost your strength.”

I twisted around so I could see his face. A smile clung to his lips, but determination

glinted in his eyes. His fingers dug into my shoulder as he raised his arm, supporting my back

and assisting me into an upright position. If I drank, would it have that effect on me? Would

it flip the switch and turn me into the Energizer fucking rabbit? Was that what generated

this intense response he gave me?

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Jeanne Barrack

I couldn’t believe that. What would happen if I didn’t drink?

I took a deep breath. “I don’t want it. I don’t need it. You drink.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then nodded.

“Bon. I won’t drink it either.” He tipped the glass, and it splashed down my chest,

pooling at my crotch. I yelped and jumped, but he held me down easily. He tsked and then

chuckled. “I will have to change the linens again. Thank God I have plenty of sheets.”

It seemed I didn’t have to drink the stuff for it to effect me. It seeped through my pores

and set off my erection like a rocket. By the time he’d licked his way down my rib cage, I

was stiff and begging for him to fuck me senseless.

He did, draining me of every bit of energy the tonic had restored.

I showered first while he stripped the bed and remade it. Too weak to respond to his

tight butt as he passed me to take his turn in the shower, I stumbled into bed.

* * * * *

Ron lay on his side facing me, not touching. I looked back at him, unwilling to hear the

next phase of Hardesty and deMonde’s story. The closer we’d come to the end of their lives

together, the sooner I’d have to leave. He’d have nothing more I’d need to know. I’d have no

excuse to stay with him.

I wanted an excuse. I needed one. He wouldn’t believe that I was falling in love with

him. I could hardly believe it myself. It

had

to be the fault of the tonic.

Didn’t it?

He curled his fingers as though trying not to reach out to me, looked down at the

mattress, and then spoke.

“He did it for deMonde.”

“What?”

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“Joined the army, joined the fight for freedom. He feared if the South won, there

wouldn’t be even the slightest possibility of their relationship, their love, continuing. If it

ever became known that deMonde was of mixed blood, a Jew

and

a Negro, they’d find the

tallest tree and string him up. It was dangerous to pass yourself off as white, and Jews were

often stigmatized. Matthew’s close association with deMonde could restrict or bar him from

polite society, but Matthew believed fervently that the freedom the North touted would

truly mean freedom for all.” Ron blew out his breath. “They fought bitterly, DeMonde so

much wiser in the way he viewed the fervor that swept the young country. It came to a crux

the day Matthew stormed from the house and didn’t return until late that evening.

“DeMonde spent the hours convincing himself that Matthew just needed time alone.

That he’d come to his senses. He paced his bedroom hoping that he was right. He had no

stomach for food or drink and found himself praying to whatever God would listen that

Matthew wouldn’t throw his life away.”

Ron raised his eyes, a sheen of tears clinging to them. Even if I hadn’t known the

outcome, it would have been easy to guess. I wanted to hold him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d

push me away or if my touch would send him over the edge.

“DeMonde knew as soon as Matthew entered his room that his fears had been realized.

He merely asked him, ‘When?’

“Matthew’s response was to the point, ‘Soon.’

“Time enough to give their housekeeper her

congè

for a few weeks without the worry

of keeping their guard up. Time enough to indulge in making love in every room of their

home and in every way possible. Time enough to exhaust deMonde’s efforts to sway his lover

from his foolishness. Time enough for deMonde to convince the military that, as a

Frenchman, he wished to join his American brethren in their fight for

liberté, egalité, et

frate nité

and, greasing the right palms, join Matthew as a junior officer.” Ron paused and

took a breath. “Thankfully, things were not so by the book as they are these days, yes?”

r

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Jeanne Barrack

I nodded. Military regulations were far more chaotic back then. Entire towns, counties,

groups joined up as volunteers and elected their own officers. This laissez-faire attitude

would have made deMonde and Hardesty’s situation a little easier.

“They had vowed they would never be apart, and despite the war, they kept that vow.”

He paused. “At least, they did their best to keep that vow.”

He stopped abruptly, shook his head, and then tried to speak. He wrenched out each

word as though it tore out his heart.

“They went through two years of campaigning. Two years of battles and skirmishes.

DeMonde always at Matthew’s back. They found that if they were discreet, they could be

together in every way. They shared a tent and made love quietly. It helped that both were

without fear on the battlefield, and Matthew’s men admired his bravery. Often around the

campfires, deMonde would sing for the men, everything from popular parlor songs of the day

to operatic arias. They applauded them all, stamping their feet and whistling. The sound of

his voice comforted the soldiers on both sides of the fray. Memories of home grew brighter

listening to him, and often he’d sing requests from the wounded men, whether hymns or

love songs. They proved their worth, these two men, and no one cared if they were more

than Damon and Pythias to each other.”

He poured a glass of the tonic and sipped it, offering some to me that I turned down. I

wanted to focus on his words and not on his voice.

“The Gettysburg Campaign began on a hellish day in June and continued far past the

third of July. Everyone saw the irony of fighting on the day that marked America’s freedom

from England. The men were dispirited. They had lost so many battles. The Union Army had

had so many commanders, and each one seemed worse than the previous ones. Meade took

over that month with little hope of changing the course of the War. And now they faced

Robert E. Lee, the greatest Confederate general. You know how bloody the battle was, but

miraculously, Matthew and deMonde came through with only minor wounds.” Ron gulped

and cleared his throat before he spoke again.

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75

“Keeping up the advantage, Meade followed Lee as the Confederates retreated into

Virginia. They fought at Williamsport and Boonsboro in Maryland, regrouping; the Union

troops always close on the heels of the Southerners. The men were eager to pursue them,

their spirits high from the victory.”

Ron’s voice grew more hoarse as he spoke, emotion ripped through him as he struggled

to get the next words out. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to see how much it cost him to

continue.

“The battle of Wapping Heights was a footnote in the War. It began at dawn on the

twenty-third of July as the Union soldiers attempted to cut off the Confederates at Front

Royal, Virginia, by guiding them to Manassas Gap, an opening too narrow for a speedy

retreat. The day was hot and dusty; the wool uniforms clung to the men and scratched the

tender skin of the young flag bearer that deMonde had taken under his wing. The youth

loved music and often played the harmonica as accompaniment to deMonde’s more frivolous

songs. He gave the boy his handkerchief to cover the uniform’s stiff collar and reminded him

that he’d want it back after the battle.”

Ron gasped out a laugh and flung himself on his back, clutching his stomach as if he’d

taken a knife to his gut. Laughter changed to anguish, and I reached out to comfort him. He

seized my hand and hauled me into his arms. He gripped my hair and ground his lips against

mine, bruising my mouth and abrading my skin against his five o’clock shadow. He

wrenched his face away and whispered fiercely, “No more. Not now. I cannot. Later. Please.

Later.”

I rocked him in my arms and didn’t give a damn if he never told me what happened

next.

* * * * *

We slept through the night, or at least we tried to. Ron thrashed and moaned, often

calling out Matthew’s name. He whispered “Non, non,” and tears rolled down his face. I

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Jeanne Barrack

drifted off once, waking to find his fingers gripping my throat and had to pry them off since

he couldn’t or wouldn’t wake up. At last he slept, exhausted by his struggle with his

unknown demons. I followed suit, drifting off into darkness again.

I awoke to find him sitting cross-legged on the bed, already dressed and staring at me

intently. He handed me my watch. One o’clock. It was the earliest I’d awoken since we’d

made our bargain. He held his gaze a moment longer then broke it, looking down at the

rumpled sheets.

“I woke up earlier, but I let you sleep. I know I was restless last night. I always am

whenever I --” He stood. “Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I fixed some lunch.”

He turned without a further word at the door he shut behind him.

I fully expected him not to join me, but he did eat, though not much. He’d melted the

cheese on the bread, sliced some tomato, and sprinkled some basil on top, grilling it briefly

under the broiler. Simple but delicious, and when I saw that he wasn’t going to finish his, I

snagged it. He offered me both the heated tonic and the instant coffee. I poured a deep

draught of the family brew, infusing it with some honey. He smiled at my choice.

“You’re developing a taste for it, I see, even though you turned me down last night.”

I laughed. “It was either that or the lousy instant you have. Not much of a choice.”

“You’re right, and sometimes there is no choice, or only a choice between two terrible

options.”

He cleared the table, placing the dishes in the sink, and picked up his cup and mine,

leading me into the parlor. I sank down onto what had become my accustomed place on the

couch and waited until Ron set my cup on the hassock, took a sip from his, and put it next to

mine before I said anything. I didn’t plan what came out of my mouth.

“You don’t have to tell me anything more. DeMonde brought Hardesty’s body back

north and buried him. I guess since Hardesty’s the only Civil War battle casualty buried

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there, rumors popped up around the grave.” Once those words came out, I couldn’t stop the

next ones that rushed from me. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with you.”

His reaction wasn’t what I expected.

With a snarled curse, he swept the cups onto the floor, ignoring the china that smashed

into smithereens. He gripped my shoulders and slammed me inches near his face. His eyes

glowed with an unearthly fire that I couldn’t blame on the light. He ground out his words,

his accent so thick I could barely understand him.

“You will leave this place today. I cannot have you here.” He barked out a laugh.

“What am I saying? If I tell you everything, you will not wish to stay. You will run

screaming from me.”

Still breathing hard, he pushed me back against the arm of the couch. His lips twisted

into a grimace and he sneered.

“And you’re lying anyway. You are dying to know what happened. You know there is

more than that to their story.” He breathed deeply, gritted his teeth and uttered insane

words. “I am deMonde.”

I laughed. “And I’m the Pope.”

He dipped his head. “Your Eminence.”

I grinned. “Ah, I knew you were kidding.” I leaned forward, placing my hand on his

knee. “I’ll stay if you want me to.” I faltered. “You do want me to, right?”

He shrugged, but left my hand where it lay. “You do not believe me. Listen to what I

say, and if you wish to leave after I tell you my story, I promise, I will not prevent you. And

if you please, try not to ask questions.” He smiled, his expression so full of longing I almost

came.

I made to take my hand away, but he clasped it tightly and brought it to his lips,

rubbing his shadowed jaw against my palm before releasing it.

* * * * *

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Jeanne Barrack

“My name is Aaron deMonde. My

mere

gave me the name deMonde to encourage me

to treat the world as mine. She told me stories of my birth and of her family, though I have

no idea if everything she told me was true about her background. The only things I believed

of her were that I am a Jew and the grandson of a slave. From where?” He shrugged. “I am

not certain. That part of her story often changed. I also kept the promise I made her not to

reveal my father’s identity” -- he grimaced -- “though he did not deserve this courtesy, the

trou de cul

.” He stared at me. “Everything I have told you happened as it did to Matthew and

me. Me!” He drew his body up proudly. “Matthew was as good and sweet and brave… When

I found out he had died without me by his side…” Ron closed his eyes, pain etched in every

line.

I stared at him, unable to believe his insane story, but I remained silent, unwilling to

stem the flow of his words.

He opened his eyes, and a sad smile crossed his face. “I see you have finally, truly

learned the art of listening.” He looked at the debris cluttering the floor around the couch

and rose. “Let me take care of this while you try to convince yourself to stay with a

madman.”

Picking his way carefully around the china shards, he went into the kitchen, and I

tried to come to grips to the fact that all my investigation of paranormal phenomena hadn’t

prepared me for irrefutable proof of its existence.

I needed proof. What exactly was Ron? A vampire? He had a reflection. Wouldn’t he

be bothered by religious objects? He most likely had a mezuzah, a small case on his

doorframe that contained a rolled parchment with Hebrew writing and the name of God.

Maybe that brief pause at the doorway that first night was when he stopped to kiss the

mezuzah. Shouldn’t it have burned him when he touched it? Or was that just a myth?

I laughed. This entire scenario was a myth. The reason why vampires were so popular

in fiction was that each author could create their own rules, and as long as they were

consistent, who was to say they were wrong? I never did go for the ones that said they

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became soulless monsters as soon as they were turned. Some said vampires were born that

way. Some said they grew fangs only when they fed. What were the constants?

Long lives. Greater strength. More acute senses. Faster. Draining energy -- sexual

energy or life force -- and usually blood from their victims. Sunlight could hurt them and, in

some stories, kill them. But not always. Garlic, holy water, crosses, silver? Or was that

werewolves?

Christ, I was losing it!

I closed my eyes and leaned forward, my hands clutching my head.

A laugh brought me back to the here and now.

“I leave you alone for a moment, and you drive yourself crazy. Bon. We will be two

madmen fucking each other senseless, yes?”

I raised my head. Ron stood with a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other, so

commonplace, so…normal.

“What are you?”

He looked away, dropped the dustpan, and started sweeping. I knelt to help him gather

up the pieces in the pan, and in silence, we disposed of the remnants of the cups. I followed

him back into the parlor and listened quietly while Ron answered my question.

“You ask me what I am, and I tell you I am not sure. I am not the hideous

nosferatu

you see in films, nor am I the soulless bastard portrayed in so many books.” He smiled. “As

Popeye said, ‘I am what I am.’ I am Aaron deMonde, and I almost died on the battlefield on

July twenty-third, eighteen hundred sixty-three.”

“What happened?”

A smile broke across his face. “Ah, I thought you would never ask. It was so hot and

dusty that day. We choked on the dust stirred by the feet of the men in our unit. As usual, I

was by Matthew’s side. We had become something of a good luck charm. When the men saw

us together on the field, they knew that all would go well. This time they were wrong.

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Jeanne Barrack

“As the day went on, Major General French grew impatient. He knew the men needed

something more aggressive than this steady marching, and so around four o’clock, he

communicated to the officers to ready the men for an all-out attack.

“The fighting was intense. The blood mingled with the dust like some mud pie made by

an evil child. The metallic smell filled my nostrils. Small, isolated groups of soldiers fought

with each other, and somehow amidst the confusion, Matthew and I became separated.”

Ron’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How? How could this happen? One minute we fought

back to back, the next he was gone. I wanted to search for him, but I was fighting for my life.

I remember the satisfaction I felt when I pulled my sword from the soldier’s belly, and the

blood spurted from his body. I bent to scoop his bayonet lying by his hand, determined to

start off in the last direction I saw Matthew, and then a cry made me turn my head.

“‘Mama!’ The flag bearer called for his mother. I could see him fighting an older soldier

who taunted him, dancing out of the way of the pole young Tom used as a weapon. I looked

away for a second from the fallen man. Just a second, but that was all the time it took.” He

licked his lips and shook his head as if even now he couldn’t believe it. “The

fils de pute

rebel

shot me! The bullet tore through my thigh, and I fell. For one brief moment, I saw his

satisfied smile. Then all was blackness.”

“You didn’t die.”

“Obviously. But I thought I had. I awoke hours later. Night had already fallen, and I

could hear the cries of the wounded. The corpse of the Confederate still lay next to me, his

eyes wide open in death. My pants were soaked, and I thought I had pissed them, but it was

blood. So much blood. The night was warm, but I felt chilled. I knew I was still in shock. I

knew I was dying. I couldn’t speak. I tried to wet my lips, but I couldn’t. I croaked out

Matthew’s name, closed my eyes, and waited for either him or death to find me.

“And then I felt a gentle touch on my forehead. I opened my eyes, and I knew I had

died. An angel knelt by my side. A small lantern cast a glow around features too perfect to be

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anything other than heavenly. How could I have known how unholy he was?” He shook his

head. “Non, I must be fair. He was not unholy, only human.

“His first words to me made no sense. He said, ‘Choose. Life or death. Eternity or

finality.’ What a ridiculous question. Of course I chose life. Only God can offer eternity.

“After I made my choice, he raised me in his arms, easing me up against the fallen

soldier’s knapsack, and offered me a cup filled with a concoction that soothed my throat and

revitalized me.”

Ron took a deep breath, but before he could speak, I moved forward and grabbed him

by the collar. “That stuff I’ve been drinking! Son of a bitch! What the fuck have you done to

me?”

Ron grabbed my hands, but didn’t remove them from his shirt. He inched closer to my

face until my eyes unfocused. I felt his breath as he spoke.

“Nothing. Only increased your energy. I have done nothing harmful to you. Yet.” He

pulled my hands off him and brought them to his lap, holding them against his thighs. “But

what he did to me that night…” He shuddered. “The first sip went down easily. While I

drank, he told me his name was Kazvan.” He chuckled. “I finally realized that the man

supporting me had an eastern European accent, not French or German. Slavik, perhaps? His

English was perfect, just not his first language. When I was able to speak, I thanked him.

“‘Oh, don’t thank me now. I haven’t given you eternity yet.’

“Then he took a knife, slit his palm, and let his blood combine with the brew. I tried to

turn my mouth away, tried to rise from the ground, and almost passed out as the pain from

my wound sliced through me. He pressed me back against the knapsack, easily overcoming

me, then pried my mouth open, and poured the liquid down my throat. Although it gagged

me as it went down, I swallowed it. He licked the liquid that had dribbled from my mouth,

moaning as if he tasted ambrosia. Finally, he bound my wound, and then, without any effort,

he lifted me in his arms and carried me away from the field. Away from Matthew.”

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Chapter Seven

“I don’t fucking believe it,” I said, but Ron did, and the more I assimilated everything

he’d told me earlier, the more I started to believe him, too.

Ron laughed. “I didn’t fucking believe it either. Not at first. I didn’t want to believe it,

but how could I refute the fact that this unearthly being carried me far into the night

without straining…and without any light to guide him? I went in and out of consciousness,

the blood from my wound soaking the makeshift bandage. While he ran, he kept up a

murmured monologue, not expecting me to answer, but as if it were a customary thing to

talk to himself. He spoke in a mixture of several languages, some words I understood. French,

German, Italian, Spanish, English, and others I couldn’t identify. None of what he said made

sense to me at the time. But later…

“I had no idea how far we traveled, but at last, when the sky began to brighten, we

came to a stony outcrop and an opening several feet above us. For the last while, I had been

awake. My wound finally stopped bleeding, and the nausea had subsided. I felt far better

than I should have for one who had received such a terrible injury. For the first time since

the start of his marathon, the madman spoke directly to me. He chose to communicate in

French to make sure I understood him.

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83

“He said, ‘I’ll have to leap with you in my arms to reach our home. Hold on tightly to

me.’

“I didn’t argue. I clung to him like a barnacle, and he sprang upward, with a deep bend

of his knees. We landed on a narrow ledge and then entered the cave.” Ron paused. “Would

you unclench your fingers, Brandon? You are hurting me.”

I looked down at my right hand that held his thigh in a white-knuckled grip. My

fingers sprang apart like a trap, and I stroked him. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he kissed

my palm and drew me into a comfortable embrace. Fuck it, he wasn’t crazy.

He took a deep breath, let it out, and continued. “For the next few days, I drifted in and

out of consciousness. Every time I awakened, Kazvan was there with his bloody brew,

compelling me to drink it. Several days passed before I awoke more clearheaded than I had

felt since the battle. Kazvan sat cross-legged by a campfire, his back to me, a kettle full of

some aromatic brew bubbling noisily on the fire. The first words from my mouth were those

inane questions you read of so frequently in novels.

“‘Where am I?’

“He spoke without turning to me. He said, ‘In our home, Aaron, my love. Once you are

strong enough to travel, we shall find more…comfortable lodgings.’

“Idiotically, the next question I asked was the least important. ‘How do you know my

name?’

“Kazvan turned, and I was struck again by his uncanny beauty. I hadn’t imagined it. He

smiled and rose with a loose-limbed grace to his full height, the top of his auburn curls

brushing the roof of the cave. He glided to my side as I lay on top of a cushion of blankets at

his feet. He dropped to his knees and smoothed my hair from my forehead without

responding. For one long moment, he said nothing, just looked at me his blue eyes filled with

desire.” Ron trembled. “God help me. I felt my cock stir! My breath hitched, and I gasped,

taking in a lungful of air.

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Jeanne Barrack

“His hand drifted to my bearded jaw, rubbing the several days’ growth, and I pressed

my face against his caressing fingers. Why was this happening to me? I clenched my eyes,

and he finally spoke in a voice now hypnotic and strangely seductive.

“‘I found your name on the frontispiece of a book of poetry in one of your pockets.’

“His voice changed and so did his eyes. They glowed as brightly as the campfire flames,

and he snarled, ‘Who is ‘M’? Your lover, perhaps?’ He leaned toward the right and then held

aloft a book of poems Matthew had given to me. His lips drew back in a feral smile, and I

caught a glimpse of what appeared to be exceedingly sharp teeth. He scuttled backward like a

crab to the fire and held the book near the flames and, with an awful grin, dropped it into

the smoldering embers.

“I cried out, but could do nothing. Tears seeped from my eyes and ran unheeded down

my face. It was the only thing of Matthew’s I had with me, and this vile creature had

destroyed it.

“‘Do not weep, beloved. You could never return to this person. You are mine now. You

are as I am -- a blood drinker.’

“I gagged at his words, unable to refute his vile accusation. He chuckled, his laughter

on the brink of madness and his next words taunted me.

“‘Is your mouth dry? Your throat parched? Here, let me give you something to refresh

you.’” He dipped a ladle into the pot and held the heated liquid to my lips. I struck the

noxious stuff from his hand and found my voice.

“‘Your words are lies. I’ve heard old wives tales of creatures who drink blood. They’re

grotesque beings who skulk during the night and burst into flames when they set foot into

the daylight. They bite their victims to make them into one of them.’ And then I played my

trump card. ‘And I could never become one such as you. They’re all Christians. My mother

was Jewish. I have never heard of a Hebrew vampire.’

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“Kazvan threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You are so young and

ignorant! There are many ways to become a blood drinker. Do you think only Gentiles are

susceptible?’ The humor left his voice as he shared his story with me.

“‘If you were a scholar, you would know that my name means ‘liar.’ When I learned

that most of what I had heard about vampires were lies, I took that name for my own. I

became a liar to exist among humans.’ He sighed. ‘There are many ways to become a blood

drinker. A bite on the neck, a draining of your blood is the cruelest of ways for that binds

you to your maker.’ He closed his eyes, and his voice rumbled in his chest. He rocked back

and forth and his hands found their way to his crotch. As he spoke, he fondled his penis.

‘When you are bitten, the connection is sexual. As you grow weaker, as your maker feeds on

you, if they will it, you share their lust. It becomes an addiction. If your maker wishes to

reward you, they engage you in the actual sexual act.’ He moaned as his cock hardened. ‘The

glory of fucking your maker while she feeds from you cannot be described.’ His hand moved

faster while he became lost in a seductive vision.

“I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him. He ceased speaking, oblivious to me,

completely absorbed with one goal -- reaching fulfillment. He fumbled at the buttons

covering the placket of his fly, and drew out his cock, stroking the veined rod. He grunted as

he sped up the tempo until he came with a shout, his cum spattering the cave’s dirt floor. He

opened his eyes, smiled, and wiped his flaccid penis with a small cloth. Relieved of his need,

he covered himself. And smiled again.

“Of course, the

fils de chienne

knew I watched. He expected it. He continued, and his

voice filled with satisfaction that he could control me.

“‘Drinking the

alukah

potion is a more benign way to turn your target and is what I

have done to you. This concoction is made from many different components. The roots of

the calamus plant are blended with other, shall we say, exotic ingredients. Even without

blood, it is a potent tonic and aphrodisiac that speeds up healing and can bestow upon a

blood drinker some immunity from the rays of the sun.’ Kazvan paused. ‘Some parts of the

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tales about vampires are true, but not all. Sunlight can burn us, but drinking this will shield

you. The more often you imbibe it, the stronger the protection, especially when laced with

blood. Human blood, of course, but animal blood will do, though you will need more of it.’

Kazvan sighed. ‘I shouldn’t taunt you, for at one time, I, too, believed that the vampire was a

myth. You see me now, and you cannot believe from what heights I have fallen. A hundred

years ago, I was a scholar. I studied the ancient books of our people and explored the works

of the Gentiles. I learned as many different languages as I could to satisfy my hunger for

knowledge. My reputation spread beyond the confines of our village, and I was asked to visit

the home of a noble whose thirst for learning overcame his hatred of our people. My father

and my rabbi begged me not to go. They thought the lure of expanding my education would

be too strong, and I would fall from the ways of our people.’

“Kazvan laughed, a sound laced with irony. ‘They didn’t think it would be the lure of

the flesh. The nobleman’s daughter had already become a blood drinker. When she saw me,

she wanted me, and -- God help me, I wanted her, too. She seduced me first before she

introduced me to the intense pleasure of making love to her while she fed from me. Her

father knew what she was, but he didn’t care. She was his daughter, and he loved her. As

week after week passed, excuses were conveyed to my family regarding my delay in

returning. Under her influence, I signed a note that I had joined his household to tutor his

daughter and would remain with them. I found out later that without knowing what I had

become, my family and friends mourned for me. They imagined me eating non-kosher food,

drinking wine served by Gentiles, forgetting my daily prayers, and walking with my head

uncovered.’ Kazvan bowed his head and gripped his hair, rocking back and forth as he

squatted on his heels, his grief softening my fear and anger.

“He raised his face, and there were no tears. ‘I cannot weep. No tears remain,’ he said.

‘Only despair and loneliness…and hunger, never ending hunger.’ When he spoke, his eyes

glowed red, and the fear came rushing back to me.

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“Kazvan shrugged. ‘There is little more to tell. As the weeks wore on, I begged her to

either kill me or turn me. She considered seriously, thinking it an interesting experiment to

see if she could turn one of my kind into a blood drinker.’

“With a grandiose gesture, Kazvan spread his arms wide and then pointed to his chest.

‘It worked. How could I know that bringing me to the heights of sexual ecstasy while

draining almost all my blood and infusing hers with mine would make me even more of a

prisoner? I couldn’t be away from her presence for more than a few hours at a time or

physically distant for more than several hundred feet. I became her lap dog and helped her

seduce both men and women to her bed. I gave up my studies and my prayers, for how could

I profane the holy words? I stayed with her for over thirty years while we never aged, and

her father died, leaving her everything he possessed.’

“‘Then her greed knew no bounds until finally, one brave soul struck her head from

her body to avenge his daughter’s death. I wasn’t with her when he executed her, thank

whatever powers that be, but I felt it.’ Kazvan shook his head, still holding me enthralled

with his history, feelings of pity, fear, and anger fighting within me. ‘I screamed when the

blow fell. Then it felt as though a heavy, iron chain was unlocked, and I knew I could walk

away a free man.’

“Kazvan’s laughter rose, growing more and more crazed.

“‘A free man! A free man! A creature that drank blood, could not walk in the sunlight,

and that had lost his God. I fled before the revenging parent remembered the woman’s

accomplice and sought after me.’ Kazvan’s eyes darted left and right as though he feared he

might still be found. ‘He became a hero, you know. A legend. I read about the battle he

fought with her hellish minions of which, he said, there were at least a hundred.’

“‘I fled but took with me the ingredients of the alukah. With experimentation, I

learned that the more blood in the potion, the greater my endurance to the sun and the

longer I lived and the stronger.’ Kazvan offered this information as though giving a lecture

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Jeanne Barrack

and then added a footnote. ‘Of course, human blood is more efficacious than animal blood,

and when taken directly from one’s target, offers the greatest enjoyment.’

“I gazed at the glorious looking male who sat at my feet and felt no desire, no fear, and

no anger. Only a deep well of pity for him and a desperate need to escape. Was it too late?

“‘What do you want from me?’ I asked.

“‘You and your lover. Bring the one you love to me. Think, you’ll live forever, always

young, always beautiful, always…vigorous.’ Kazvan drew closer to me and cradled me in his

arms, showering my face with kisses, using his strength to keep me from turning away. ‘I saw

you fall when you fought that soldier, and I could not let such beauty die. I would even share

you with another if you would stay with me. I am so alone.’

“And then I thought of Matthew. I’d escape, find Matthew, turn him, and we’d live

forever. And so I kissed Kazvan and whispered, ‘Give me the tonic.’”

* * * * *

I pulled out of Ron’s arms, staring at his pale face, at the lines of grief etched around his

eyes. “You believed this madman?”

Ron smiled. “You believe

me

, do you not?”

And I realized that I did -- completely. All my years of researching paranormal activity,

of debunking claims after exhaustive investigations, had prepared me for the truth. Too

many details of Ron’s story could be corroborated through records of the time. The fabric of

his life was too tightly woven to be torn apart by any doubts.

“Do you have any physical record of what you’ve told me? Diaries, letters, anything?”

Ron nodded. “I didn’t lie when I told you that I have Matthew’s journals and mine. I

kept everything I could pack and cart away from our Brooklyn home.” He smiled. “I have

clippings of my concert performances before Matthew and I met.” His smile faltered. “I kept

poems Matthew wrote to me.” And then his tantalizing smile returned. “I even have a copy

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of the agreement from Whitman to refrain from mentioning Matthew by name.” He paused

again. “And I have the most powerful proof -- the alukah potion. You can’t deny the effect

it’s had on you. I figured the only way to keep you here was to keep you in bed. What better

use for the tonic?” He drew me back into his arms, his voice teasing. “Or do you always fuck

like you’ve just escaped from solitary confinement on Devil’s Island?”

I shook my head. “It may have kept me horny, but it didn’t make me want you.” I

turned my head and looked at him. “And you haven’t added any blood, have you?”

“Not yet. I had planned to tonight, but I found that I couldn’t do it. I am not Kazvan. I

realized I couldn’t turn you into a blood drinker and take your freedom from you. Not even

to ensure your staying with me.”

An uneasy silence fell between us.

“Matthew died before you could turn him,” I blurted out.

It wasn’t a question. If Matthew had been alive when Ron got away from Kazvan, they

would still be together.

Ron nodded. “But of course, I didn’t know that then when I made my decision to stay.

Kazvan kissed me, but refrained from making love to me. He treated me as if I were his

betrothed. Coddling me, taking care of all my needs, shaving me and cleansing my body as if

he were my servant. He found clean, ill-fitting clothes for me, from where I hesitated to ask.

And I waited for the right moment to escape. Though my wounds healed quickly, I feigned

weakness, causing him to feed me even more of the noxious brew. Each day he’d prepare a

fresh batch to ensure its potency, and I watched him carefully, noting the measurements,

casually asking what this or that ingredient was. And as I fed, both my need for blood and

my desire for sexual release increased.”

Shifting me from his arms, Ron stood and paced back and forth, his hands shoved in his

pockets.

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“I wanted to fuck that beautiful bastard and drink his blood. I knew I had to escape

before I succumbed to his plans. Perhaps two weeks after he told me his story, he announced

that that evening would be our wedding night! It would be my last chance to flee and find

Matthew. That night, I lay on the blankets naked, waiting for him to join me like a maiden

awaits her bridegroom. He stripped, his body eliciting the reaction he craved from me. My

cock rose, and he smiled at my eagerness. He filled an ornately carved, heavy pewter goblet

with the alukah, knelt, and offered it to me, drinking from one side and then presenting it

for my lips. I knew he would become suspicious if I didn’t drain it, and after I did, I laid it

nearby and opened my arms for him.”

“He embraced me, fondled my cock, and moaned that he had never made love to a

male before without his maker in bed with him. He vowed that he had never turned anyone

through biting, though he had fed from both men and women. He had left his food sources

alive, leaving a trail of weakened, confused victims behind him until he fled Europe and

journeyed to America. The casualties of the War became his fodder. He followed behind the

battles drinking the blood from isolated soldiers until the day he saw me fall and fell love

with me.”

Ron sighed. “I kissed him, rolled him beneath me, and whispered to him to prepare to

receive the greatest fucking he had ever known.

Pauvre con

, he never knew what hit him. I

took the mug and struck the back of his head over and over until I knew that, though he still

lived, it would take time for him to heal, time enough for me to take the ingredients for the

alukah, find Matthew, and make him immortal. I dressed quickly, gathering what I could of

clothing and supplies he had taken from those fallen soldiers from whom he had drank, and

stuffing it into the knapsack I’d used as a pillow.

“In the dead of night, I found my way to Front Royal and the Union camp, fortunately

coming upon a guard from our unit who recognized me. He brought me to the commanding

officer who questioned me. I told him of losing my memory while a kindly farmer and his

wife took care of me until I regained my strength and recalled who I was. I told him I had

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fled during the night until I stumbled upon the encampment. He didn’t believe a word of the

fantastic tale. Luckily for me, the remaining men from the unit vouched for me, and I was

ushered to the makeshift tent-hospital for my imaginary wounds to be seen.

“No one had the heart to tell me of Matthew’s death, but as it turned out, it didn’t

matter. Almost immediately upon entering the tent, I encountered the last person in the

world I would have expected. The male nurse to whom I was directed had his back to me as

he dressed the wounds of one of the men. I cleared my throat to gain his attention, and he

asked me to wait while he finished tending the fellow lying so still on the cot. If I could

walk, my need wasn’t as great, he told me.

“He turned, and we gaped at each other. I stared into Walt Whitman’s face, and he

cried out and hauled me into his embrace, tears gushing from his eyes as he cried over and

over, ‘He’s dead. He’s dead.’

“I knew at once whom he meant. Perhaps I knew all along that Matthew was gone. I

hadn’t known that Whitman had traveled to the front lines and remained to nurse the

wounded men, but I thanked God he had when he told me what happened after Matthew

and I became separated that day of the battle. When Matthew couldn’t find me, he went to

pieces, rushing from one part of the scattered action to another, seeking me until he fell from

a shot to the gut. When they found him and carted him to the hospital tent, he was barely

conscious. Whitman recognized him at once and cared for him himself, listening to him cry

out to me even as he grew weaker and weaker. Despite Whitman’s best efforts, the wound

quickly became infected, and at the last, Whitman held him in his arms as Matthew died

calling my name.”

Ron’s last words were wrenched from him, and he fell to his knees by the couch. He

gripped my hand as he continued.

“It was due to Whitman’s intervention that Matthew’s body was embalmed by one of

the surgeons and placed in a zinc-lined coffin standing by to be transferred to a Northern

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cemetery rather than waiting among those to be buried with a numbered headboard behind

the hospital tent.

“Whitman said, ‘I know Matthew was from the South, but I believed he would wish to

be buried in the North, would you agree?’

“Of course I did, and I knew that for me, the war was over. With Matthew dead, I no

longer had any fervent need to fight. I wanted time to mourn him. So I took a chance and

asked if Whitman had the power to intervene with the authorities and grant me permission

to accompany Matthew’s body North. I was unaware that Whitman was so admired for his

nursing that his words carried enough weight to accomplish this miracle. I was assigned to

the Quartermaster’s Corps and, taking care to sup generously each day of the alukah,

remained in the wagon that held Matthew’s coffin and those of others destined for Northern

burial.”

Ron leaned against the couch, and I rested my hand on his shoulder while he glossed

over the difficulty of controlling his thirst for blood and his growing sensitivity to daylight

on the long journey North.

“When we reached Garrickstown, near Gettysburg, I knew I had to leave the men or I

would wind up feeding from them. I played upon their sympathy for a fallen hero and asked

if I could take Matthew to be buried in the nearby Thorndale Cemetery, since I said I knew

that his family came from the area. When they saw how emotional I was, not realizing that it

was hunger that made me weep, they allowed me to take Matthew’s body away. My next feat

was importuning the caretaker of the cemetery to allow this brave soldier of the North to be

buried there. Of course, it helped that I greased his pockets with almost all the money I had,

but within three days of leaving the Corps, Matthew was buried and a temporary marker

placed on his grave.”

Ron took my hand and pressed his stubbled jaw against my palm as if to imprint it on

my skin. He gripped my fingers and held them as if he feared I’d jump up and leave him.

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Idiot.

“I went on a feeding frenzy. I found a boarding house, and while I waited for

Matthew’s burial, I availed myself of a nearby butcher’s supply of blood kept for those cooks

who made blood puddings and sausage. I bought whatever he had to sell and mixed it with

the alukah until my strength returned. Then I found a male prostitute, a gal-boy as they were

called, at a local tavern. I took that poor lad to my room and fucked him senseless, feeding

from him until he ached, and I awoke with him in my bed, the life barely left in him.”

I felt Ron shudder as he forced himself to continue.

“Eventually, I learned how to control my hunger and feeding. I learned as Kazvan did

not to stay in one place for too long, though not until after I settled Matthew’s affairs. I went

back to Brooklyn and closed up the house. I went to Matthew’s banker and learned that he

had made me his heir, and so I sold the house and stored our furnishings until I purchased

this townhouse with the money he’d left me and transferred everything here. I informed his

family of his death in action, and when Matthew received the Medal of Honor, his sister

accepted it as his only known survivor. She had no wish to meet me and wouldn’t accept

anything of Matthew’s other than that fucking medal.”

Ron took a deep breath.

“Until I met you, I also did as Kazvan, not turning anyone through either biting them

or the alukah. But unlike him, I

found

God. Witnessing the depths of his despair at being cut

off from his community and having so much time on my hands, I decided to learn about his

heritage and mine, and I took to heart the admonition of our sages. We are given a choice

between life and death, therefore choose life, and so I did. I’d lived through the greatest

moments in history, and I’d grown content and reconciled to my loneliness…until I met you.

“I learned how to change my features and my identity. I kept to myself and never

bothered anyone. Over the years, I visited Matthew’s grave less frequently, though never

moving from this house. After a while, I decided that the safest action was to visit his grave

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only so often and only at night, away from prying eyes. How could I know that a legend

would spring around those visits? I never approached anyone, male or female, who stopped

there. I presumed the legend would die, as it did to an extent. My lovers… Well, shall we say

I trolled far from home?

“I kept apprised of any interest into Matthew’s grave and, thanks to the Internet,

occasionally checked to see if anyone delved into the few facts around our lives. I, too, have

contacts at the University in Florida and as for Umberto…” I felt Ron’s smothered laughter.

“Umberto was the nearest lover I had here. He told me that someone was interested in the

headstone, and since he thinks I am a descendent of the artist, asked for permission to show

you the sketch. For some reason, I also told him to use his judgment and give it to you if you

asked for it. After your visit to Ciavoli’s, I followed your progress and realized that

eventually you’d have to visit the grave.

“Of course I knew what night that would be and watched and waited while you set up

your equipment. I’m not sure if I would have approached you if the storm hadn’t broken --

Non, I must be truthful. You know the expression,

coup de foudre

-- to be thunderstruck? I

saw you, and that is how it was. I couldn’t help myself. I saved you and brought you home --

the first one who’s ever been here in my bed -- and the rest… You know the rest. And now,

if you wish to leave, you may.”

He fell silent then, waiting for what I would say or do.

And there was only one thing that I could do.

I got up from the couch and went into the kitchen and returned, in one hand a glass of

the alukah, and in the other, a knife.

And I watched as he took the knife, slit his palm, and drop by drop, turned the liquid

crimson with his blood.

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Epilogue

I took my fingers from the keyboard, looked at the last few words in the file, and spoke

to Aaron.

“There. It’s finished. Do you think anyone will believe me?”

He spun the desk chair around so that I faced him and rested his hands on the chair

arms, leaning down so that our faces were inches apart. He smiled that smile that made me

draw my breath in wonder.

“Does it matter?” He moved the few inches closer that brought our mouths together

and kissed me, our tongues thrusting with each other. I moaned into his mouth and groped

for his zipper, ripping it down and releasing his prick, running my thumb over the soft

crown, pressing down. He gasped and broke the kiss.

“

Ne joue pas avec moi

! Don’t play around when I have your tongue in my mouth! You

almost became a mute!” Then he looked down at his cock, still nudging my fingers, and

laughed. “Put that back where you found it. How can you expect me to think clearly when

you’re holding my dick in your hand?”

I smiled. “Didn’t realize you were such a dickhead,” I joked but after one more squeeze,

zippered him back up.

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I shut down the laptop, and we moved over to the couch, the months we’d now spent

together cementing our comfortable relationship and giving us the patience to relax before

we rushed to make love. I still remember the first time I experienced the incredible sensation

of his fangs piercing my neck while his cock rammed my ass, the rush of desire while he

drained me. My heart stuttered as I swallowed his blood and the alukah down my throat and

the fucking began all over again until my fangs punctured his skin, and we could feed on

each other for hours.

I lay against Aaron’s chest, listening to him breathe, and attempted to maintain the

tight control he’d taught me. It was difficult when all I wanted to do was bite his neck and

fuck him.

“If it makes you feel more secure, change things around a bit. That is if you wish to tell

others what happened,” he murmured.

“I have to. I have to share deMonde and Matthew’s story -- your story -- even if no one

believes it. Maybe I’ll pass it off as fiction. My agent has been bugging me to write something

longer than articles for magazines. Maybe he can sell this. Who would ever accept any of this

as truth?”

“Kazvan?”

I started. Kazvan’s name was never mentioned between us.

“Do you think he’s still alive?” I asked, dreading his answer.

“The last time I saw him, he still breathed, though his injuries were severe. I did leave

him a small amount of the alukah. I never saw him after that. If he lives, he’s never contacted

me, and he’s had ample opportunity. He wouldn’t hide behind a false identity. He would

want me to know he’d found me. His ego wouldn’t permit anything else. Perhaps he learned

to accept himself and found his way back to God. I hope so. At the end, I felt more pity for

him than anything else.”

I grasped Aaron’s hand.

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“As long as he leaves us alone, then I’ll share your pity for him, but nothing else.”

“Mon amor, everything else I have is yours.”

* * * * *

I’ve decided to do as Aaron suggested, and with the necessary alterations, send our

story to my agent as a paranormal novel of the Civil War titled

The Vigilant Soldier

.

Now that Aaron and I are together, there will be no more need for midnight visits at

Matthew’s grave. We can show our love and respect for this brave man unafraid in the light

of day.

Garrickstown, Pennsylvania

September 29th on the eve of the Jewish New Year

Jeanne Barrack

I'm a native New Yorker, born and bred in Brooklyn, married for thirty-odd years (and

they have been odd) to my high school sweetheart. Is it any wonder I became a romance

novelist? I now live on a mountain top in rural Pennsylvania.

Although we haven't been blessed with children, we've had the pitter-patter of little

Tibetan Terriers paws throughout our married life. Tibetan Terriers are called the "good

luck" dog and they have been for us.

I play guitar and studied voice privately with a coach from Juilliard. I sing everything

from folk music to Grand Opera - in ten languages including Gaelic and Hebrew.

My day job involves music therapy for seniors. Over the course of many years I have

been inspired and astonished by the wealth of knowledge and experience of the elderly.

Imagine meeting a survivor of the sinking of the Titanic and someone who actually knew

Tyrone Power!