Flight of Magpies Read online

  Stephen’s eyes were wide and gold. Crane smiled down. “Yes?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Stephen whispered. “Always, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” Crane said, and pulled him over for a long, deep kiss. Stephen clung to him, breathing hard, trembling, and Crane kissed him with all the force at his disposal, inhaling his scent and feel, crushing the slight body close till Stephen indicated protest.

  “Lucien, I love you, and I would like nothing more than to hold you for hours and then ride you till we’re both exhausted, but you stink of blood and I can’t stand it any more.”

  “God, you’re fussy,” Crane muttered. He hauled them both up, feeling the ache in his bones, and they went through to the bathroom. Stephen began to strip off his stained clothes, but Crane hesitated.

  “What is it?” Stephen asked, and then, “Oh.”

  “They didn’t come back.”

  “No.”

  “There was ink all over Lady Bruton and it stayed there. Do you think—”

  “I don’t know. You could find out by looking.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Crane undid his shirt rapidly, because he didn’t want to undo it at all. He pulled it off, then cursed, staring at himself in the mirror. “Shit. Shit.”

  No magpies. The tattoos that had adorned his body for so long were gone as though they had never been. He pushed down his trousers, saw his thigh and hip bare of ink. “Fuck. I’ve lost them all.”

  “No, you haven’t. The one on your back’s still there, the big one.” Stephen peered around him. “But only that.”

  “Christ.” Crane stared at himself, feeling ludicrously bereft. “My tattoos. That’s years of my life, my memories, just gone from me. Vanished.”

  “Yes,” Stephen said. “I know.”

  Crane pulled him close, breathing out hard. He could feel the future spinning out before both of them without certainty, an endless choice of paths now.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing,” he said. “A new start. Quite literally a clean slate. Except I’ll have to get another one done, damn it. I did think I’d done with needles.”

  “Uh, why?”

  “One for sorrow? I’m damned if I’m wandering around with that on me.”

  “But it’s not one for sorrow.” Stephen turned slightly, showing Crane the single bird that still perched on his own shoulder blade. “Between us, it’s two.”

  Crane reached out and ran a finger down the magpie on Stephen’s skin. It shuffled its feathers and pecked at him as Stephen shivered. “Yes. Yes, it is, isn’t it? I suppose that’ll do.”

  Himself and Stephen. Merrick and Jenny Saint, however that would play out. A few more months in England, and then freedom to go wherever the wind took them, to show Stephen the life he had been missing and find out what happened next.

  Crane put a hand on Stephen’s tattooed shoulder, pulled him over for a kiss, and felt Stephen’s hands move on him, assertive, confident, loved.

  Two for joy. That would do very well indeed.

  About the Author

  KJ Charles is a commissioning editor by profession and a writer by inclination. She lives in London with her husband, two kids, an out-of-control garden and an increasingly murderous cat.

  Follow KJ on Twitter @kj_charles, or find her at www.kjcharleswriter.com.

  Look for these titles by KJ Charles

  Now Available:

  A Charm of Magpies

  The Magpie Lord

  A Case of Possession

  Non-Stop Till Tokyo

  Think of England

  Coming Soon:

  A Charm of Magpies linked story

  Jackdaw

  If you stop running, you fall.

  Jackdaw

  © 2015 KJ Charles

  A Charm of Magpies Story

  Jonah Pastern is a magician, a liar, a windwalker, a professional thief… and for six months, he was the love of police constable Ben Spenser’s life. Until his betrayal left Ben jailed, ruined, alone, and looking for revenge.

  Ben is determined to make Jonah pay. But he can’t seem to forget what they once shared, and Jonah refuses to let him. Soon Ben is entangled in Jonah’s chaotic existence all over again, and they’re running together—from the police, the justiciary, and some dangerous people with a lethal grudge against them.

  Threatened on all sides by betrayals, secrets, and the laws of the land, can they find a way to live and love before the past catches up with them?

  Warning: Contains a policeman who should know better, a thief who may never learn, Victorian morals, heated encounters, and a very annoyed Stephen Day.

  Magic in the blood. Danger in the streets.

  A Case of Possession

  © 2014 KJ Charles

  A Charm of Magpies, Book 2

  Lord Crane has never had a lover quite as elusive as Stephen Day. True, Stephen’s job as justiciar requires secrecy, but the magician’s disappearing act bothers Crane more than it should. When a blackmailer threatens to expose their illicit relationship, Crane knows a smart man would hop the first ship bound for China. But something unexpectedly stops him. His heart.

  Stephen has problems of his own. As he investigates a plague of giant rats sweeping London, his sudden increase in power, boosted by his blood-and-sex bond with Crane, is rousing suspicion that he’s turned warlock. With all eyes watching him, the threat of exposure grows. Stephen could lose his friends, his job and his liberty over his relationship with Crane. He’s not sure if he can take that risk much longer. And Crane isn’t sure if he can ask him to.

  The rats are closing in, and something has to give…

  Warning: Contains m/m sex (on desks), blackmail, dark pasts, a domineering earl, a magician on the edge, vampire ghosts (possibly), and the giant rats of Sumatra.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A Case of Possession:

  “Vaudrey! Vaudrey! Crane, I mean.” The visitor peered through the window. “There you are. Nong hao.”

  “Nong hao, Rackham,” said Crane, and went to let him in.

  Theo Rackham had been something of a friend in China, as another Englishman who preferred local society to expatriates. Rackham was himself a practitioner of magic, though not a powerful one, and it was he who had introduced Crane to Stephen Day a few months ago.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

  Rackham didn’t answer immediately. He was wandering about the room, peering at the maps tacked on the plastered walls. “This is your office? I must say, I’d have thought you’d have somewhere rather better than this.” He sounded almost affronted.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s in Limehouse. You’re rich. Why don’t you act like it? Why aren’t you at grand parties in the West End instead of slaving away in the Limehouse docks?”

  “I do act like it, on occasion. This coat wasn’t cut on the Commercial Road. But my business is here, not the City, and certainly not in the West End.”

  “I don’t see why you have a business at all. You don’t need any more money.” There was a definite note of accusation in Rackham’s voice.

  Crane shrugged. “Frankly, my dear chap, I’m bored, and I would not be less bored in the West End. I need something to do, and trading is what I’m good at.”

  “Why don’t you go back to China, then?” Rackham demanded. “If you’re so bored with England, why are you still here?”

  “Legal business. My father left his affairs in the devil of a state. It’s taking forever to resolve, and now I’ve got distant cousins popping up out of the woodwork demanding their cut. Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.” Rackham scuffed a worn leather toe against the skirting board. “I suppose there’s been no recurrence of your troubles?”

  “You mean the matter in spring? No. That’s all resolved.
”

  “Day dealt with it.”

  “He did.” Crane had been afflicted by a curse that had killed his father and brother, and Rackham had put him in touch with Stephen Day, a justiciar, whose job was to deal with magical malpractice. Crane and Stephen had come very close to being murdered themselves before Stephen had ended the matter with a spectacular display of ruthless power. Five people had died that day, and since Crane had no idea if that was general knowledge or something Stephen wanted kept quiet, he simply added, “He was highly efficient.”

  Rackham snorted. “Efficient. Yes, you could say he’s that.”

  “He saved my life on three occasions over the space of a week,” Crane said. “I’d go so far as to call him competent.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Day? He’s a pleasant enough chap. Why?”

  Rackham concentrated on straightening some papers against the corner of Crane’s desk. “Well. You were with him at Sheng’s last week.”

  “I was,” Crane agreed. “Did you know I’ve taken a thirty percent share there? You must come with me again sometime. Tonight, unless you’ve anything on?”

  Rackham, who never turned down free meals, didn’t respond to that. “What did Day make of Sheng’s food?”

  Crane repressed a grin at the memory of Stephen’s first encounter with Szechuan pepper. “I think he was rather startled. It didn’t stop him eating. I’ve never met anyone who eats so much.”

  “Have you had many meals with him?”

  “I’ve bought him a couple of dinners as thanks. Is there a reason you ask? Because really, my dear fellow, if you’re after any particular information, you know him better than I do.”

  “I know he’s like you,” Rackham said.

  “Like me.” Crane kept his tone easy. “Yes, the resemblance is striking. It’s like looking in a mirror.”

  Rackham gave an automatic smile at that. Stephen Day had reddish brown curls to Crane’s sleek and imperceptibly greying light blond, and pale skin to Crane’s weather-beaten tan; he was twenty-nine years old to Crane’s thirty-seven and looked closer to twenty, and mostly, he stood a clear fifteen inches shorter than Crane’s towering six foot three.

  “I didn’t mean you look like him,” Rackham said unnecessarily. “I meant…you know. Your sort.” He switched to Shanghainese to clarify, “Love of the silken sleeve. Oh, come off it, Vaudrey. I know he’s a pansy.”

  “Really?” This wasn’t a conversation Crane intended to have with Rackham or anyone else. Not in England, not where it was a matter of disgrace and long years in prison. “Are you asking me for my assessment of Day’s tastes? Because I’d say they were none of my damned business or yours.”

  “You dined with him at Sheng’s,” repeated Rackham, with a sly look.

  “I dine with lots of people at Sheng’s. I took Leonora Hart there a couple of weeks ago, and I defy you to read anything into that. Come to that, I took you there and I don’t recall you gave me more than a handshake.”

  Rackham flushed angrily. “Of course I didn’t. I’m not your sort.”

  “Or my type.” Crane let a mocking hint of lechery into his tone and saw Rackham’s jaw tighten. “But even if you were, my dear chap, I can assure you I wouldn’t tell your business to the world. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”

  Rackham took a grip on himself. “I know you, Vaudrey. You can’t play virtuous with me.”

  “I don’t play virtuous with anyone. But since Stephen Day’s love life is no concern of mine—”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Rackham.

  “Did you just call me a liar? Oh, don’t even answer that. I’m busy, Rackham. I’ve got a sheaf of lading bills to reckon up and a factor to catch out. I assume you came here for something other than lubricious thoughts about mutual acquaintances. What do you want?”

  Rackham looked away. His sandy hair was greying and his thin face was pouchy and worn, but the gesture reminded Crane of a sulky adolescent.

  “I want you to make me a loan.” He stared out of the window as he spoke.

  “A loan. I see. What do you have in mind?”

  “Five thousand pounds.” Rackham’s voice was defiant. He didn’t look round.

  Crane was momentarily speechless. “Five thousand pounds,” he repeated at last.

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Crane carefully. “Well, I’d be the first to admit that I owe you a favour, but—”

  “You’re good for it.”

  “Not in petty cash.” The astronomical sum mentioned was ten years’ income for a well-paid clerk. “What terms do you have in mind? What security would you offer?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of terms.” Rackham turned, but his eyes merely skittered across Crane’s face and away again. “I thought it would be an…open-ended agreement. Without interest.”

  Crane kept his features still and calm, but the nerves were firing along his skin, and he felt a cold clench in his gut at what was coming, as well as the first upswell of rage.

  “You want me to give you five thousand pounds, which you in effect propose not to pay back? Why would I do that, Rackham?”

  Rackham met his eyes this time. “You owe me. I saved your life.”

  “The devil you did. You made an introduction.”

  “I introduced you to Day. You owe me for that.”

  “I don’t owe you five thousand pounds for it.”

  “You owe it to me for keeping quiet about you and Day.” Rackham’s lips were rather pale and his skin looked clammy. “We’re not in China now.”

  “Let’s be clear. Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “That’s such an ugly word,” said Rackham predictably.

  “Then it suits you, you pasty-faced junk-sick turd.” Crane strode forward. He had a good six inches on Rackham, and although he was often described as lean, that was in large part an illusion caused by his height; people tended not to realise how broad-shouldered he was till he was uncomfortably close.

  Rackham realised it now and took a step away. “Don’t threaten me! You’ll regret it!”

  “I haven’t threatened you, you worthless coward, nor will I. I’ll just go straight to the part where I break your arms.”

  Rackham retreated another two steps and held up a hand. “I’ll hurt you first. I’ll ruin Day.” He pointed a trembling finger. “Two years’ hard labour. You might be able to buy your way out of trouble, perhaps, but he’ll be finished. Disgraced. They’ll dismiss him. I’ll destroy him.”

  “With what, tales of a dinner at Sheng’s? Go to hell.”

  “He goes to your rooms.” Rackham moved to put a chair between himself and Crane. “At night. He came back with you after Sheng’s and didn’t leave till ten the next day, and—”

  “You’ve been spying on me,” Crane said incredulously. “You contemptible prick.”

  “Don’t touch me! I can ruin him, and I will, if you lay a finger on me.”

  The faeries at the bottom of the garden are coming back—with an army.

  Bomber’s Moon

  © 2012 Alex Beecroft

  Under the Hill, Part 1

  When Ben Chaudhry is attacked in his own home by elves, they disappear as quickly as they came. He reaches for the phone book, but what kind of exterminator gets rid of the Fae? Maybe the Paranormal Defense Agency will ride to his rescue.

  Sadly, they turn out to be another rare breed: a bunch of UFO hunters led by Chris Gatrell, who—while distractingly hot—was forcibly retired from the RAF on grounds of insanity.

  Shot down in WWII—and shot forward seventy years in time, stranded far from his wartime sweetheart—Chris has been a victim of the elves himself. He fears they could destroy Ben’s life as thoroughly as they destroyed his. Chris is more than willing to protect Ben with his body. He nev
er bargained for his heart getting involved.

  Just when they think there’s a chance to build a life together, a ghostly voice from Chris’s past warns that the danger is greater than they can imagine. And it may take more than a team of rank amateurs to keep Ben—and the world—out of the elf queen’s snatching hands…

  Warning: Brace yourself for mystery, suspense, sexual tension, elves in space and a nail-biting cliffhanger ending.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Bomber’s Moon:

  Ben bolted out of sleep, halfway to his feet before he realised he was awake. What was that noise! Something was wrong—he could feel it pressing under his breastbone. He thought he’d dreamed of a subterranean groan, felt again the rush of sticky re-breathed air and then the smoke. God! The smoke, pouring through the shattered windows of the train…

  But this was his bedroom. Look, there—the alarm clock cast a faint green light on the claret duvet and gold silk coverlet, familiar as closed velvet curtains and his suit trousers hanging on the back of the bathroom door. 3:14 a.m.

  His breathing calmed slowly. Was that what had woken him? Just another flashback? Or could there be an intruder downstairs?

  Tiptoeing to the wardrobe, he eased open the mirrored door, slipped on his dressing gown and belted it, picking up the cricket bat that nestled among his shoes. The closing door showed him his determined scowl—not very convincing on a face that looked as nervous and skinny as a whippet’s. Licking his lips, weapon raised, he seized the handle of his bedroom door, eased it down.

  And the sound came again. All the doors in the house fluttered against their frames, the ground beneath him groaned, tiles on the roof above shifting with a ceramic clatter. A crash in the bathroom as the toothbrush holder fell into the sink. He jumped, crying out in revulsion when the floor shuddered and the carpet rippled beneath his bare feet as if stuffed with snakes.