A Hope Amidst Sanguine Desolation
By Sealie
Rating: minimum PG-15 or R for those of a sensitive disposition
Relevant Information: AU, horror, original characters in supporting roles, bad language, religious conversations, adult issues, things happening off screen with may squick some people and the boys do not spend every second of the day together… let’s see, I can’t think of anything else… Oh, British English spelling.
Acknowledgements: Grateful thanks to Olwyn for supplying the Latin translation, her exacting scrutiny and spotting inconsistencies in the plot, in addition to grammar help. Susn for both grammar and American terminology, plus finding those pesky words that I have a tendency to skip over. Becky and Cindy, thanks for help back when this was a skeleton.
Notes: familiarity with the stories: ‘Our Unconquerable Soul’, ‘Death in the Family’ and ‘Twenty Four Hours’ is recommended (available on the main page) but not necessary. All you really need to know is that the guys are open to the possibilities of supernatural phenomena
Disclaimer: unsurprisingly the guys do not belong to the fans, they belong to other people.
A Hope Amidst
Sanguine Desolation: Chapter I
By Sealie
"What is it with you and these places?" Jim groused.
"It’s a book sale," Blair crowed. Happy as a pig in mud, he rifled through a stack of books discarding them into two separate piles.
Grimacing, Jim went in search of military history books. Blair settled
cross-legged on the carpeted floor and continued sorting through the
anthropology section of the estate’s book sale. They had intended on going
fishing in a little known spot north of the Cascade forest, but the grad
student had spotted a roadside sign advertising the estate sale. The kid had
immediately started wheedling, finally promising to clean and cook the fish
they caught if they could just… just… have half an hour at the estate
sale. Jim was willing to indulge him; Blair was only just recovering from
meningitis. That was not precisely true, the
anthropologist had been out of hospital for a week and had been going mad with
cabin fever. A gentle fishing trip to the edge of the
Even so, they’d been here an hour. He could only indulge the kid so far…
The deceased philanthropist Willim Raymont had owned the estate for nigh on sixty decades. The old guy had turned out to be a book collector, and, while the first editions and rare books had been set aside for an auction at a later date – Blair had complained vociferously – a large number of other books were up for sale.
The kid was in seventh heaven.
Jim prowled around the stacks looking for something of interest. His tastes ran into the realm of military history and biographies. Blair’s tastes were eclectic, anything from gaudy, predictable fantasy novels to dry anthropological texts caught his attention. Although recently, the student’s tastes had turned esoteric.
A whisper of breath touched the back of his neck. Startled, Jim spun around. There was nothing there. Automatically, his senses expanded, scrutinising the library. The windows of the wood panelled room were sealed in against the outside humidity. The state-of-the-art air conditioning was subtle and wouldn’t ruffle the feathers of a fledgling. Of course, he was a lot more sensitive than any bird.
A mouse scrabbling behind the walls made him jump a foot in the air. Jim came back to earth with a bump. His heart was beating double time.
"Jim?" Blair was at his elbow, peering up at him concerned.
The Sentinel scanned left and right.
"Tone it down, Big Guy." Blair’s eyes slid to the left and then back again. "What’s the matter?"
Jim followed the student’s line of sight; an elderly woman, warmly wrapped in a tweed coat, was glaring at them with an expression somewhere between one viewing a potential rapist and a special needs group. Blair waggled his fingers in her direction and she beat a hasty retreat.
"What’s wrong?" Blair persisted, once they were alone.
"I don’t know." Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck.
Blair cocked his head to the side. "Senses? Focus on something that you’re familiar with…. Hey, why don’t you concentrate on my heartbeat?"
Sighing deeply, Jim concentrated on the student’s pulse. The disturbing undertones withdrew as he catalogued every intricacy of Blair’s very presence: the sallow skin, the hollowed cheeks and the lacklustre curls.
"Cool?" the student questioned, disturbing his quiet place.
Jim barely had time to blink once before Blair began to direct his senses.
"Hearing is your strongest sense; I want you to listen."
Obediently, reluctantly, Jim extended his hearing, but whatever was bothering him wasn’t really impinging on his hearing. It was more like spiders crawling up his spine. Involuntarily, the Sentinel moved backwards. Blair’s large hand rested against the small of his back, warmly.
"What is it, Big Guy?" he asked softly.
"There." Jim watched his hand rise and the finger extend, pointing unerringly at a small, black leather bound book. Gilt or gold filigree decorated the edges.
Blair bounced forward, eager, and reached out.
"No!" Jim yelled, reaching out to grab a too thin wrist.
Blair froze. "What is it?"
"Something’s wrong, I don’t know what. But don’t touch it."
Blair leaned forward, peering over his glasses at the text on the side. "‘A Hope Amidst Sanguine Desolation’ by Tomas. Cheerful title. Do you know what’s the matter with the book?" Blair turned beseeching eyes up at him.
"It’s squirrelly," Jim said informatively. "It’s not good – it’s like that…"
"Yes?" Blair prodded.
"It’slikethatthing-in-the-ground," Jim said in a rush. The demon that had been trapped between the earthly and unearthly plane in a carefully cultivated rectory garden in Cascade.
"Ah." Blair’s fingers went in his mouth, a sure sign that he was unnerved. He twisted his head to the side and stared at the book. "Bad? Good?"
Jim shrugged. A haunted book, who could figure? Why was this his life? Once upon a time his life had been simple; perps, criminals and drug pushers. Now as a Sentinel, gifted and cursed with hypersenses, he couldn’t ignore the spirit world. Walking in the spirit world with his deceased shaman, Incacha, was one thing -- as he could put that down to dreams -- but when he faced down demons, ghosts and little people in the so called ‘real world’ it was a lot harder to ignore.
"What are we going to do?" Blair asked suddenly.
"What? Leave it," Jim said patiently, as if talking to a child.
"Jiiiiiiiim," Blair whined. "We can’t. We can’t just let anyone buy it – who knows what might happen. They won’t be able to cope with it."
"How do you know that? It might not do anything. It might just sit there giving off… bad vibes," the Sentinel finished reluctantly. "We can phone Philip at the Legacy and tell him to come out and get it."
"Can you risk that? Who knows what will happen in the mean time? What if some kid walks in here – all susceptible and innocent?" Blair finished persuasively.
Grinning like a shark, Jim pulled out his cell phone like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat. Blair settled against the book stack, a tiny pout on his face, as the detective called their friend.
The number for the rectory was permanently fixed on his speed dial; Jim wanted to be able to call on knowledgeable assistance in a heartbeat when they faced the unknown. The tones rang on and on. Evidently the priest was elsewhere although usually the housekeeper would be in. He let it ring a while longer, until, eventually, he had to admit that there was no help in that direction.
"I hate you," Jim snarled and speared Blair with a glare.
Blair shrugged innocently, reading the affection under the words. "I’m right though, aren’t I?"
"Grrrr."
The Sentinel glowered at the book. To his hypersensitive eyes it shimmered – a vague outline stood out a hairsbreadth from the leather bound cover. The translucent colours flickered every shade of grey imaginable, from not quite white to a dark lowering storm cloud grey.
"And how,
Blair smiled like a cat with a mouthful of cream. "We don’t." He dumped his backpack next to the book stack and then, deftly, he hooked the book with a pen. It teetered precariously on the shelf as he manoeuvred it over the backpack.
"Look, it’s got a latch on it keeping it shut," Blair observed. Once he had it balanced to his satisfaction, he allowed it to fall into the open bag.
"Sandburg!"
"What?" Blair raised his hands to the ceiling in supplication. "You said it yourself. We can’t go up to the man and even begin to explain this."
"Out!" He grabbed the student by the scruff of the neck and propelled him from the room.
Blair hissed and snarled, but Jim was resolute as he dragged the skinny grad student out of the library and into the main hall. The gentleman sitting at a desk beside the exit looked up at them -- alarmed.
"One moment, sir," Jim said politely as he gently planted his recuperating friend out onto the porch.
"Jim?" Blair growled.
"Stay, I’ll deal with you later."
Jim turned back to explain everything to the little man at the desk.
^..^
Blair paced along the porch, scuffing his feet on the marble. How dare Jim treat him like that? What else were they supposed to do? The man was driving him insane. The Sentinel was too over-protective for his own good. Blair candidly admitted that he wasn’t one hundred percent but he was on the road to recovery. Even Jim had to admit that, or they wouldn’t be on the fishing trip.
He pushed his face up against the window and peered into the hallway. He could see Jim talking to the bespectacled little man. The detective flashed his shield and then leaned forward to press his point. The gnome nodded reluctantly, then accepted a wad of cash that the detective drew from his bill fold.
Somehow, Jim had convinced the wizened man to sell them the book. It was lucky that the man hadn’t insisted that he see the book before making the sale. If he had they would have had to get the book out of the backpack. Blair didn’t want to touch the book unless he had purified a room with sage, set up some sort of protective circle and then he would only touch it with silk. Living with a sentinel had given him a deep, abiding respect for spirits, not to mention he had been raised by a true believer and had pretty much been indoctrinated to believe in everything and anything as a child.
Grimacing, he sat on a low wall bracketing the foyer’s entrance. He was so infernally tired. His doctor had sat him down just before he’d been discharged and informed him quite solemnly that you didn’t just bounce back from something like meningococcal meningitis. Blair had expected that in a couple of days after lying around the loft he’d be back to his normal self. But recuperation was taking an inordinate amount of time. Absently, he pulled up his sleeve, he could still see, here and there, the remnants of the pinprick bruises that bespoke of recovery from meningitis and septicaemia.
Jim stomped through the doorway. Blair dodged to the left as the Sentinel grabbed for him. He was too slow and fingers like iron bars gripped his bicep.
"Mother’s gonna peel you a new ass," Jim said loudly.
Blair blinked stupidly up at his friend. Perplexed, he allowed Jim to pull him to his feet and frog-march him towards their Ford truck. The gnome was standing inside the door watching them nervously.
"Talk about making yourself unforgettable, man," Blair chided, confused.
"I was more concerned about the video surveillance camera in the corner of the room," Jim snapped back.
"What?" Appalled, Blair stared back at the house.
"Yes,
Jim threw a video tape into the footwell by Blair’s feet.
"How? How? What?"
"Weren’t thinking, were you?" Shaking his head, Jim set himself firmly in the driver’s seat and slammed the Ford’s door shut. "I do not believe that you did that."
"I was going to donate how much the book would have cost to the ‘Food for the Homeless Fund.’ I didn’t really steal it. I… acquired it… We had to. You would have. Sometimes you have to break the rules," Blair defended himself.
"That will sound really good when you’re hauled over the coals in front of Simon for stealing from a dead guy’s garage sale."
Jim forced the truck into gear and twisted the ignition angrily. He was really annoyed, Blair realised somewhat belatedly. But it had been the right thing to do, how else were they going to get the book out of the building?
"What did you tell the guy at the desk?"
Blair could have sworn that a smile flashed across Jim’s chiselled features.
"I told him that you were a kleptomaniac and under treatment. And as retard, they wouldn’t be able to prosecute you, any rate. Plus mother would be really disappointed that I hadn’t managed to keep you out of trouble, especially since this was the first time you’d been let out of the halfway home in ages."
"You didn’t!"
"I did, thief."
"You didn’t."
"Go back and check, thief, if you don’t believe me. Although remember to drool, you’re supposed to be incompetent," Jim shot back as they pulled away.
^..^
The book was carefully decanted into the tool kit, which was then locked shut.
And there it remained for the rest of the weekend.
And it preyed on Blair’s mind.
^..^
When they returned to the loft late on Sunday afternoon, Jim locked the tool kit in the utility room cupboard. Blair stood at his side craning his neck to watch him padlock the cupboard.
"So you’re just going to leave it in there?"
"I don’t want it in the loft," Jim said, deliberately misunderstanding.
"We should wrap it in silk or something."
The Sentinel sighed deeply. "I don’t have any silk sheets big enough to wrap the tool kit in, do you? You keep harping on about not touching it."
"I just don’t want you touching something that has ‘vibes.’" Blair mimed quotation marks in the air with his fingers.
"Hmm," Jim said abstracted. He rested his hand on the utility cupboard. "It doesn’t feel as bad. I can’t feel the ghost if I can’t see it."
Blair scrutinised the older man. Jim’s body language screamed conflicting tension, his posture was taut but the expression on his face could be classified as dreamy if you could ever describe Ellison in that manner. The Sentinel was inhabiting some sentinel space. Fascinated, Blair leaned closer, Jim was tuned into the supernatural and that a special kind of magic. He had identified the book as being mystically imbued and now he thought that it contained a ghost.
"Ghost?" Blair asked softly, not wanting to disturb his friend’s frame of mind.
Jim snatched his hand away from the door, shaking it as if it tingled. "Ghost, demon – whatever. It’s something that we talk to an informed professional about."
"But what about the ghost?" Blair persisted. "A ghost is not necessarily bad…"
"You’re one of those people who go into Count Dracula’s castle just to make sure that there aren’t any vampires." Jim pushed by the grad student and started up the stairs. "And when you find the pile of dust, just to see what happens, you pull the stake out of the desiccated husk."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Blair stood at the bottom of the stairs glaring up at him.
"It means that sometimes things are better left alone. It’s contained. We don’t know anything about it, so let’s leave it alone."
"How can you say that? That poor ghost…"
"No." Jim stopped and scowled, uncomfortable with the topic he spoke in short, sharp sentences, "It feels bad. Got it? Negative vibes. It stays in the book until we know more about it. None of this experimenting." Message received and understood, he stalked up to his loft. Blair knew that the Sentinel was hunting beers.
Blair found himself drawn to the cupboard. How could Jim resist the mystery? He rested his hand on the cupboard door. The serious scientist within him raised its cold, logical head. Sighing deeply, he realised that Jim had a point. Before they could do anything they needed some more information.
"‘A Hope Amidst Sanguine Desolation?’ By Tomas? I guess it’s time to do some research."
The Legacy library at the rectory would be his first port of call.
"Blair?"
Not the casual ‘Sandburg’ or the nickname ‘Chief’, but his first name, Blair realised. The Sentinel had been calling him by his given name recently rather than any nicknames. It spoke to Blair of the degree of fear that his Sentinel had been subject to when he had been critically ill.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothin’." Grinning, Blair gripped the banister and hauled himself up the stairs after his Sentinel.
^..^
Jim pottering in the kitchen woke Blair from the soundest of sleeps. He
rolled onto his side and peered short-sightedly at
the alarm clock beside his bed. He’d done it again; he’d slept for twelve hours
straight through. Swearing under his breath, he turned onto his back. This was
ridiculous; he’d been out of hospital now for over a week -- he should be
better. Their camping trip had been the most luxurious camping trip since the
creation of camping trips. They stayed in a cabin on the edge of the
"Chief? Breakfast’s ready."
He was so grateful that it was the summer vacation or he would be so far behind that he’d never catch up on his marking and research.
Blair forced himself out of bed and staggered out to the kitchen table. That was another thing. It was his morning routine to make breakfast. Jim had outdone himself. Cereal, freshly squeezed juice, French toast and gently percolating coffee. The absolute volume of food was enough to turn his stomach. Blair slid onto his seat.
"Morning." A plate of egg fried bread with cinnamon and sugar was pushed in his direction. "Eat up."
Determined to set his friend’s mind at rest he dived into the meal. He was rewarded by a fragment of a smile flittering across his stoic Sentinel’s face.
"This is really good," he enthused around a mouthful of bread.
"Don’t talk with your mouth full," Jim admonished absently.
Blair wasn’t lying because it was good. "What’s on your agenda today?"
"Grocery shopping; crap like that." Jim flipped over the morning paper. "Anything you want me to get?"
"Why don’t I do it? And you can have a quiet day in the loft?"
Jim cast a sideways glance in his direction. "That’s okay. It will only take me a couple of hours."
"Okay. Uhm, I was thinking: I could go
over to the library at
"On what?" Jim demanded flatly.
"The book."
Jim carefully set his paper aside. Blair could see him hunting for the least inflammatory words. "The doc said that you had to take it easy for a couple of weeks."
"I’d just be in the library," Blair wheedled.
Jim’s jaw spasmed as he visibly fought his first impulse to state emphatically: ‘No!’ This amenable Jim was rather alarming. The kid glove treatment would have been annoying if Blair didn’t know that he would do exactly the same thing under the same circumstances.
"Are you up to that?" he asked through gritted teeth. "You fall asleep all the time, Chief."
Jim had been beyond reasonable in organising the camping trip. The doctor had been pretty specific, he had to indulge himself as a Victorian convalescent: sleep, eat, relax and veg in front of the television. Yes, Blair had to agree, the most disconcerting effect of his convalescence was that he fell asleep at the drop of a hat.
"Okay," the student capitulated. "I’ll surf the web and see what I can find."
Jim smiled widely; content that the world was behaving itself as it should. Guide: well. Guide: safe. Guide: not dying. Blair sighed, eventually he’d have the wherewithal to balk at the Sentinel’s parental behaviour. At the moment he’d just as soon as finish his breakfast. He could always e-mail the library staff and ask them if they could ferret out some references.
^..^
"How’s the kid?"
Jim paused, loft key in hand, and craned his head to see his captain clomping down the short corridor towards him. He had been so intent on opening the front door and creeping in the loft without disturbing the sleeping student that he’d missed his superior’s approach.
"Getting there," he replied, neutrally.
Simon just grunted.
Jim crept into the loft, automatically scanning the area. Blair hadn’t, as he had expected, crashed on the couch but had retreated to his bedroom. Jim manhandled the bags onto the kitchen counter and then waggled his fingers, drawing Simon into the open-plan room.
The detective held his finger to his lips. "Blair’s asleep." He pointed at the doors, ajar.
Simon nodded sagely and crept over to the coffee maker.
Jim slipped into Blair’s bedroom. The kid was curled on his side and an
open textbook lay beside his lax hand. His head was half pillowed on an
embroidered cushion and half on the edge of his balled up quilt. A strand of
hair spiralled over his cheek and lips, wafting as he
breathed. He was dead to the world; his eyes quiescent, not even dreaming. Exhaustion had side swiped the student, crashing over him as he
attempted to study. Curiously, Jim turned over a book – it was from the
Rainier Library. He scowled; had Blair ventured out? A note was tucked between
the pages of another book. Surreptitiously, he eased it out, scanned the
contents and was pleased to note that the chief librarian at
Blair snuggled down into the warmth.
"Fanks, Dim," he mumbled sleepily.
Jim crept out of the room.
Simon nodded at him as he set down a cup of steaming coffee. Jim took a swig, before he started to unpack the groceries.
"Domestic day?" the captain asked.
"Needed to be done."
"He’s asleep?"
"Yeah, flaked out over some dusty old tome." Jim scrutinised a jar of mustard, trying to decide whether or not it needed to go into the refrigerator. He decided on the cupboard. It could go in the fridge after the seal had been broken. Next, he contemplated the dried Shitake mushrooms that he had bought for Blair – he wasn’t too sure how to store them or the lemongrass in water, come to think.
"Buttermilk?" With an extended finger, Simon pushed a full pint of organic milk across the kitchen counter, distaste evident on his face.
"Blair likes it. It’s full of nutritional goodness. Do you think I should put these in the fridge?" He held up a box of algae and a jar of Echinacea pills.
Simon pursed his lips together and valiantly held in a smile. Jim cocked his head to the side trying to figure out what was so amusing.
Simon coughed. "I’d put the slimy algae in the fridge but I think that the eccy stuff can go in the cupboard."
Jim scowled at Simon, knowing that he was missing something. Deciding to ignore the man, he concentrated on putting Blair’s Chocolate Maryland Cookies away.
^..^
"Yeah, I’ll stay for dinner. Thanks, Jim," Simon said. The captain marvelled at his domesticated detective; it was a whole new side of the covert-ops trained ex-ranger. Jim had bought out the store, purchasing a wagon load of sentinel-friendly cleaning products, organic fresh fruit, vegetables and meat, special breads and a very small selection of expensive colour free and scent free personal products in addition to the bits and pieces he had purchased for Blair. He had made three trips down to his truck.
"Are you always so precise about this stuff?" Simon waved his arm, encompassing the products laid on the kitchen bench as the detective put them each in their place.
Jim lifted an eyebrow. "You mean in the cupboards? Stuff we use regularly is at the front. It’s not anal; it’s logical," he finished defensively.
"No." Simon sighed heavily. He picked up a ‘pure’ no colourings/no perfume/not tested on animals bodywash. "All this expensive… How can you afford it?"
"Given a choice between hives and eight dollars a bottle, I’ll choose the bottle."
"It’s really that bad?" Simon did some quick math and wondered how Jim could afford his shopping bill.
Jim rolled his eyes heavenward. "How does spaghetti carbonara sound for dinner?"
"Fine."
Efficient as ever, Jim put his purchases away and started on dinner. Simon gamely withheld a grin as the Sentinel donned his apron.
"Can I help?"
"Nah," Jim said absently, concentrating on the roux sauce. "Make yourself comfortable in the lounge."
Recognising a chef who preferred to be left alone, Simon retreated to the sofa. Half way to the couch, he detoured to poke his head into Blair’s room. The anthropologist was curled up on his side enveloped in his blankets. Only the tip of his nose peeked out of his cocoon. An unintentional smile crossed the captain’s face.
"What’s the matter?"
Jim was at his shoulder in a flash, nostrils flared as he scanned the room hurriedly.
"Nothing, I was just looking in on the kid." Simon’s brow furrowed. "You know that’s kind of strange."
"What?" Jim asked alertly.
"Well, seeing him there. It just brings it home."
"Brings what home?"
"Well, that you’re roommates."
"You knew that already." Hackles up, Jim retreated back to the kitchen area.
"I know." Simon cast a final glance at the slumbering student. "But he’s asleep, he’s defenceless, you know?"
Jim cast a leery glance at his superior. "No. I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"He doesn’t just live here; it’s his home."
Jim’s expression was becoming more shuttered.
Simon struggled to articulate his thoughts. "He can do his own thing here. He’s not a guest on his best behaviour."
Jim laughed out loud. He slapped his hand over his mouth so as not to disturb his Guide.
"I’m not explaining it very well." Simon chomped down on an unlit cigar.
"No, you’re not." Shaking his head, Jim stirred some flour into the sauce.
"What I’m trying to say is… Aw, forget it. Mushy stuff."
Jim glowered at him. "Parmesan or mozzarella?"
"Parmesan." Simon glanced back into Blair’s room. The student still slept the sleep of the truly innocent or happily secure. He shuffled slightly, his hand emerging from the blankets to rest loosely on one of his embroidered cushions. One of Jim’s shirts was draped over a chair beside his bed. Simon turned on his heel, and scanned the loft. The kid’s artefacts had migrated into the loft proper. This wasn’t lodger and landlord this was… and it galled him to admit it… little brother living with big brother.
‘Shit, they’re practically married,’ he realised.
‘Maybe it’s something to do with the Sentinel & Guide thing? What are
they going to do when one or the other gets married? Will they get married?
Will they split up? Can they even split up? Will I attend the marriage of Blair
and Jim at some point in the near future? Shit!’
Simon looked at Jim as if for the first time. The Sentinel stared back at him, his expression defensive.
‘When Colonel Oliver took Jim, Blair was beside himself. When Lash
kidnapped Blair, Jim put five bullets into the sad son-of-a-bitch.’
"Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?" Jim asked pointedly, as he stirred his carbonara sauce with short, sharp movements. "You’re freaking me out."
"Could you handle your sentinel abilities without Blair?" Simon countered.
Jim raised an eyebrow, he devoted his attention to the sauce for a moment, then he shrugged eloquently.
"Ellison, I’m asking you as your captain."
Jim’s jaw worked. "I don’t think that it would be a good idea," he eventually answered.
"It’s been nearly three years; surely you have a handle on it, by now?"
"There always seems to be something new to fuck them up and then I need Blair."
"Example?"
"You know that I lost my senses after I shot the security guard?" Jim glared at his superior. "Blair brought them back. Why this? Why now?"
Simon reacted to the uncomfortable tone in his friend’s voice. He straightened his colourful vest, at odds with himself.
"It’s just seeing him there." He jerked his thumb into Blair’s bedroom "And in the hospital. And I wondered how you’d cope if you weren’t together."
"He’s getting better, Simon." Jim said shrewdly. He laughed hollowly. "I think it would take some major shit to separate us and then I don’t think that we’d be able to stay away from each other."
"That’s another concern," Simon muttered reluctantly, he continued before Jim could interrupt. "You’re adults… you should be...."
Jim raised his eyes heavenwards and sighed. "Blair believes that Sentinels and their-so-called-guides are polygamous by nature."
Simon’s jaw dropped open.
"Maybe that’s not the right word?" Jim shook his head as he started to cut up the bacon and onions for his culinary creation. "He says even if I’m swept off my feet by a sex goddess and move out, it will probably only be next door."
"And what do you think?"
"I think he’s full of shit. I’m not moving – he can go next door."
Laughing, Simon almost inhaled his cigar. He shook his head. He’d never get them to take his concerns seriously; in fact, they’d probably talked them through already. Or more likely, Blair had talked at Jim about the subject.
"Is there anything I can do to help? Make the salad?" Simon said by way of apology.
"Knock yourself out. Don’t use the spring onions; Blair’s off them."
‘Yup, married already.’
^..^
Simon dug deeply into the spaghetti carbonara that his detective had created. Jim had outdone himself, producing a truly rich and edible dinner. A muffled cough interrupted him from his goal of consuming an impossibly large mouthful of spaghetti. Blair dragged himself out of his room, all mussed and sleepy. He waved absently in their direction and then stumbled into the bathroom. Jim automatically stood and set another plate on the table, followed by a glass of buttermilk and a bowl of salad. By the time he had positioned them to his satisfaction Blair had emerged from the bathroom. Still on autopilot, he stumbled to the dining room table and settled on his chair.
"What time zit?" he mumbled.
"After six," Jim said softly, as he pushed a warm buttered roll into Blair’s reach.
"Smells nice," Blair said absently, before he stuffed a wedge of bread in his mouth. Jim smiled widely and continued to beam as Blair made decent inroads into the meal set before him.
Simon watched as Blair devoted his entire concentration to eating his meal. He wasn’t entirely sure if the student was aware that he was sitting next to the Captain of Major Crime. For an observer, he was being pretty unobservant. It was to be expected; the kid looked like a refugee. He was grey and unshaven, gaunt and too skinny.
Suddenly, Blair started. "Hello, Simon?"
The captain laughed; he couldn’t help himself.
"Hello, Blair. How are you feeling?"
"Uhm… better. Much better, thank you."
"Jim looking after you?" Simon grinned widely.
"Yeah," Blair said slowly, a bit confused.
The Sentinel was bristling.
"Did you have a nice time fishing?"
Blair nodded slowly. "I didn’t do much fishing. We were up kind of late. It was nice just sitting on the river bank, watching the world go by."
Simon had an image in his mind of little Huckleberry Blair complete with dungarees, paddling his feet in the edge of the river as Tom Jim fished with his bamboo rod, safety pin hook and worm.
Simon caught Blair firing an inquiring glance at the detective. Jim shrugged, denying any inkling of what was going on in his mad superior’s mind. Shaking his head, Jim stood, returning to the stove to dole out seconds to everyone.
"How are you really feeling, Blair?"
"Fine."
"Uhm. You want to tell me the truth, son?"
Blair darted a glance at his Sentinel. "I’m getting better, Simon, honest. I know I look a bit… well…. I just seem to sleep a lot. It’s cool. Look, the bruises are practically gone." He held up his arm displaying the last of the fading petechiae. "I figure I’ll be able to come down to the precinct by the end of the week."
Jim growled.
"We’ll see how you feel, okay?" Simon interjected. "You’ll need the all clear from your doctor first."
"Yeah, and my Sentinel."
The detective grinned wolfishly.
Blair smiled back at him. "Who needs a doctor when they’ve got a sentinel?"
The detective looked as guilty as sin for a heartbeat. Simon remembered how dreadful Jim had felt when Blair had been diagnosed with meningitis since he hadn’t correctly picked up on the illness the second that Blair had contracted the disease. He was somewhat prone to taking on the weight of the world. Atlas had nothing on James Joseph Ellison.
"Hey, man, I’ve had enough," Blair suddenly announced. He pushed the plate away.
Jim practically bit his tongue. Simon guessed that the detective would have said something if he hadn’t been sitting at the table.
"So, video tonight?" Jim followed through smoothly.
"Excellent. Did you get one from the store while you were out?" Blair grinned toothily. "You want to stay, Simon?"
‘Stay and watch a video with the mother hen from hell and the
completely oblivious anthropologist. Yeah, why not?’
"What’s on offer?"
Jim pulled a plain plastic video box off the kitchen counter. "National Geographic exposé on the
The captain’s scream was silent.
^..^
The digitally remastered version of ‘Star Wars’ came to its blasting finale. Jim ran his finger around the bottom of the popcorn bucket searching out the last gob of melted butter and salt. Blair was peering at the screen, giving the film the attention that he normally devoted to a dusty old anthropological textbook. Jim guessed that the lights were on but no one was really at home.
"It’s like he’s trying to stay up past his bedtime," Simon mouthed.
Jim hid a smile behind his hand.
Simon yawned theatrically. "The good guys win again. So that’s me – time to go home. Work tomorrow." He rose to his feet.
Blair blinked sleepily. "G’night, Simon."
Jim accompanied his superior to the door. "Going to get your eight hours in?"
"And then some." He shucked into his long overcoat. "Thanks for the meal and the video."
"Anytime, Simon."
Simon opened the door and paused on the threshold. "So when are you coming back to work?" he asked with the patience of a friend.
"Another week?"
They turned to look at the object of their conversation. Blair had succumbed and nodded off, his chin tucked against his chest.
"Okay, another week. You wouldn’t be much use if you came in, would you? You’ll be at my beck and call for months." Simon cackled gleefully and rubbed his hands together. "Beck and call." Still cackling, he made his way down the short corridor to the elevator. "All mine. All mine."
Jim shook his head and quietly closed the door. Still shaking his head he crossed to his partner’s side. He leaned forward, focussing on the still pallid skin and defined cheekbones. The recuperation was taking far too long for his liking. A pliant, agreeable Blair was a scary thing indeed. He wanted pissy and sassy Blair back.
"Blair?" he cajoled. "Blair."
Sleepy eyes opened and peered blearily up at him. "Where’s ‘imon?"
"Gone home. It’s his bedtime. Film’s finished."
"Oh? Bed? Yeah. I can do that." Blair stumbled back to his bedroom, shedding clothes as he walked. Jim picked up his lumberjack shirt and followed as he fell into bed.
"No, Jim." Blair peered up at him myopically. "I can manage, honest. I don’t need help. I like help. I do. But you shouldn’t have to…help. Oh… you’re my fri…"
He surrendered to the sands of Morpheus, asleep as his head touched the pillow.
Jim smiled. It was only
^..^
Blair emerged from his cocoon some hours later feeling measurably
improved. He rolled onto his side and noted with a wide happy smile that it was
only
He dragged his body out of bed and padded into the living area. Enticing summer sunlight shafted through the balcony windows. Like a starving man, he crossed the room and ventured out onto the balcony. Blessed heat warmed his bones - it was a glorious day.
He leaned up against the balustrade and watched the world go by. Today, he decided, he was going to do something. He was going to make it to the park or the library or even the precinct. He wasn’t going to stay in like a good little boy.
"Blair?" There was definite consternation in that tone.
‘Whoops; Blessed Protector mode.’
"Isn’t it glorious!" He waved his arms, encompassing the street.
"Yeah, right. You’re also half-way to flashing the street." Jim raised an eyebrow, regarding the shorts clad anthropologist. "Come on in, it’s cold."
"Oh, please, it’s got to be 70 degrees." He protested but dutifully traipsed back into the loft.
"What do you want for breakfast?" Jim asked en route to the corner kitchen.
"Hey, it’s my turn."
"I don’t mind," Jim said without any hesitation.
Blair pushed by his partner. "Nope, sit down. Eggs good?"
Jim hovered at his elbow as he prepared their breakfast. Watching his every move, flinching as he wielded a sharp knife to slice the bell peppers… Blair glanced sideways at his Sentinel. Slowly realising that he had really scared the old guy when he had been ill.
Another thought occurred. "How come you’re not at work?"
"Simon gave me some time off." Jim said nonchalantly and started to set the dining table.
Blair paused and counted on his fingers. "Two weeks? Three weeks? How can you afford the time off?"
Jim shrugged absently. "The guys are taking up the slack. I’ve only had to use a couple of my personal days and I got some sick days."
"What…?" he demanded. The hissing of the omelette distracted him. As he dealt with the eggs, his mind whirled. Jim: sick days? Jim had been babysitting him for nearly a month. He zoned in his own way on his thoughts.
"Blair, are you all right?" Jim was immediately at his side.
"Yeah." He turned to the table and doled out two portions of the omelette. "Sick days? When have you been sick? Why didn’t I notice?"
Jim rubbed his bristly chin. Blair knew with sentinel sureness that the detective hadn’t intended on saying that. Jim picked slowly at his food, avoiding answering the question.
"Okay, I know why I didn’t notice; I’ve been wandering ‘round half in a daze for weeks. But…but… but…." He spluttered to a halt.
"You’ve been ill, Blair."
"But so have you!"
"I got a bit over tired – that’s really not in the same league as meningitis."
"Over tired?" Blair jumped on the words like a mongoose on a cobra. "You mean exhausted?"
Jim shrugged. He shovelled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "These are really good."
Blair leaned over and swatted the Sentinel’s arm. "What happened?"
"Blair, you were in ICU for six days. I didn’t sleep very well."
"Oh." The student sagged back in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he considered his Sentinel. There was a slight flush on Jim’s pale cheeks. He refused to look straight at the anthropologist. The detective’s spine was rigid and defensive.
Coldly calm and analytical, Blair knew that the Sentinel was being cagey.
"An’ that’s all?" Blair asked.
Jim darted a glance at him. "Yes," he said shortly.
No wonder the guy was so crap at poker.
"Tell the truth and shame the devil," Blair said singsong.
Jim started. "I have. I didn’t sleep very well."
"Yeah, but you’re not telling me something."
"I don’t have to tell you everything, Sandburg." Jim stood, abandoning his breakfast. "I think I’ll finish this later. I need a run."
Before Blair could protest, he had stomped upstairs. The student could hear him banging around his room. Simmering, Blair stood at the bottom of the stairs. Defensive Jim was back. On a lighter note, it was probably a good thing – it meant that the Sentinel had noticed that his Guide was getting better.
Jim stomped back down the stairs wearing shorts and a cut off sweatshirt. "I’ll be back in half an hour. Don’t go anywhere." With a final wag of his finger, he bolted out of the loft.
No, the big, over-protective Jim Ellison was still in control.
Blair dumped the remains of his breakfast in the bin; he’d lost his appetite. Muttering about uncommunicative ex-rangers he wandered into the shower.
^..^
The book called.
^..^
One hand on the basement wall, Blair picked his way down the staircase. He slowly pushed open the heavy door. The room was as much as they’d left it. Fishing equipment stacked neatly in its place. Jim’s DIY toys and tools were all present and correct.
Chancing a quick peek over his shoulder, he crept towards the cupboard.
It was unlocked.
Heart in his mouth, Blair carefully pulled open the double doors.
The cupboard was empty.
Stunned, Blair simply stood.
The book was gone.
The book was gone.
The book that Jim said was evil.
‘Oh, shit.’
Blair backed away slowly.
Where was it? Who had taken it? Were they still here?
A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder.
Blair jumped sky high. He flailed out, clapping his assailant on the side of the head.
"Jesus, Blair!" Jim swore.
Blair sagged, clasping his chest, trying to hold in his wildly beating heart.
"Shit," he gasped. The adrenaline coursing through his veins seemed to switch off, leaving him enervated.
Jim’s arm enveloped his shoulders. The student leaned into the offered warmth.
"Jesus, Blair." The Sentinel blasphemed again; they seemed to be communicating in curses. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a scare."
Blair tried to control his breathing.
"God! What did you do that for?" He unclenched his fingers from Jim’s sweatshirt.
"I didn’t think you hadn’t heard me."
"The book’s gone," Blair said urgently, remembering the reason for his shock. "Someone has took it."
"Yeah." Jim began to guide Blair to the basement steps. "I took it to Philip’s yesterday."
"What?" Blair froze on the first step. "You moved it and you didn’t tell me?"
"When was I supposed to tell you?" Jim asked defensively. "Simon was here when you woke up. And this morning…"
"Oh, yeah." Blair frowned at his friend.
The Sentinel shifted uneasily.
"What did Philip say?" Blair finally asked.
"Not much. We stuck it in the lab and he said he’d run some tests. And that he’d get back to us."
The anthropologist allowed Jim to shepherd him up the first couple of steps. "Is that all?"
"Yeah."
"Honest?" Blair paused and scowled up at his Sentinel.
Grimacing sarcastically, Jim drew a little cross over his heart with his finger. "He was preparing a sermon for his congregation; once it was contained that was his priority. He asked how you were getting on."
"And what did you tell him?" Blair asked curiously, interested to know what the Sentinel perceived.
"That you still sleep over twelve hours a day but at least you’ve got your appetite back."
Obscurely touched, Blair muttered, "Only when we’re not fighting."
Jim ducked his head in a curt apology. "This isn’t the place to have a conversation."
"Okay – beers on the balcony and talk about it?"
"It’s only just after ten, Junior, it’s too early for beer."
"Algae shake?"
"Blerrgh!" The detective gagged, happily over-exaggerating.
Blair pushed away from his support and stomped up the final set of stairs. "You just wait; I have a great recipe for dessert figs."
Grinning, the detective followed him into the loft. "Look, we’ll talk about it. I promise. I’m gonna grab a shower – then we’ll go down to Gurr’s for some breakfast bagels."
"Sounds like a plan."
If they were in a coffee shop they wouldn’t be able to discuss whatever was bothering the detective. He was avoiding the subject again, but Jim had promised to talk about it, so they would talk about it. Jim kept his promises.
^..^
Jim played with his salmon and cream cheese bagel, watching Blair dissect his chocolate muffin, pulling out the chocolate chips.
How was he going to talk about this? How could he ever so casually drop into the conversation that he thought that he’d…
"Why don’t you just say it," Blair advised, interrupting his thoughts. "Assuming that you can talk about it here." He nodded at the hubbub of life outside their booth.
Jim concentrated on a lonely coloured sprinkle on the table. He rolled it back and forth under his fingertip. Eventually he looked up to see that Blair had created a pyramid of chocolate drops surrounded by a moat of cake.
"Maybe a chocolate castle would work better?" Blair mused.
"Naomi could probably explain it better than me," Jim blurted.
Blair focussed on him intently. He didn’t move, just waited patiently.
"You improved when I was there and… faltered when I wasn’t."
Blair rocked slightly, but didn’t speak; he was quivering with tension.
"I slept all the time. I was exhausted, more than I would be normally." He swallowed audibly. "I think that…."
Blair leaned forward.
"I don’t know what happened, Blair. Honest. It’s nothing that I can put into words."
The Guide smiled sadly. "I understand, Jim. Thanks for being there for me. I don’t think I would have made it without your support."
Jim’s hands clenched and he shredded the bagel in two. The kid was as perceptive as ever. It was borderline cruel of the little goober to put him through this emotional stuff. Although, he reflected, he had to give the kid a few clues before he could make his intuitive jumps.
"You would have," Jim said brusquely. "You’re strong."
"Yeah, but maybe I’d be minus a few toes or my hearing."
"Don’t say that!" Jim hissed.
"I’ve read the literature, Jim. I had type ‘B’ meningococcal meningitis. I presented with both septicaemia and inflammation of the meninges. I haemorrhaged internally…"
"Shut up. Shut up!" Jim slammed his palm on the tabletop. "I was there."
"Sorry." Blair apologised immediately. "You were there. Even when I thought that I was dying, you were there. I understand, Jim. Thanks. I do understand, now."
"Understand what?" He didn’t like it; he’d lost track of the conversation.
"I really need some fresh air today. Can we go to the park, Jim?"
Ellison blinked, knowing that he’d lost control of the conversation, but only because he really wanted to.
"Yeah, sure. But only for half an hour or so."
"Cool." Blair bounced in his seat.
^..^
Blair threw the remains of his muffin to the duck on the pond. Jim had somehow given him energy when he was ill; helping him heal. Unsurprisingly, the piss poor-communicative ex-ranger did not want to talk about it.
None of his research into Sentinels & Guides had yielded any information on an innate healing ability being one of a Sentinel’s gifts. There had been more than enough opportunities for Jim to display such a gift – during the debacle with Quinn when he had been shot or during the numerous times when he had been hit on the head.
Blair sat on the warm grass and picked at the final healing blood blister on the tip of his index finger. Jim had remade the connection when the hallucinogenic drug, Golden, had blinded him. Jim reacted unfavourably to any number of drugs. Jim was a pretty special guy. Jim had a spirit guide and visions. A healing ability wasn’t that unusual and in a sentinel who fought, it was probably a good talent for a warrior-guardian. A healing touch manifested itself in many forms.
It wasn’t something that he could stick a wire on and measure. ‘Hey,
Jim, hang on while I go and stab myself in the abdomen and see if you can heal
me.’
His team had died in
"Here." Jim passed him a hotdog with all of the trimmings. "We haven’t had breakfast yet."
"Third time lucky?"
Jim growled and sat on the grass beside him. "I see you got a new friend." He nodded at the duck.
"Yeah, he likes cake – but I don’t know if ducks can eat chocolate. You want the chips?" Blair offered.
"Nah, they’ll’ve melted." Jim turned up his nose.
Blair tossed the chips into his mouth and then licked his palm.
"So what do you feel like doing today?" Blair asked around a mouthful of hotdog.
Jim viewed him fastidiously. "Well, it hadn’t escaped my notice that we’re at the park overlooking Philip’s rectory."
"Gee--" Blair batted his eyelashes, "--that’s a coincidence."
"Hey, look!" Jim suddenly pointed at the sky.
"What?" Mouth open, eyes scrunched, Blair peered at the puffy white clouds against the blue expanse. "What?"
"There’s a flying pig."
Blair swung around and batted his Sentinel on the arm. Jim flashed him a shit-eating grin. Still grinning, he sagged back on the warm grass, folding his hands behind his head.
"Gorgeous day. I could lie here all day."
"It’s kinda nice." He settled beside his Sentinel. The sun was almost at its zenith and the heat baked his bones. He felt almost human.
"Just for half an hour, we don’t have any sunscreen."
Blair hid a smile. Once a Blessed Protector, always a Blessed Protector.
^..^
"Blair! How are you?" Philip sang out. As Jim pulled up, he bounced recklessly down the rectory steps. Mirroring his smile, Blair began to open the Ford truck’s door, only to find the priest yanking it open.
It was the most animated Blair had ever seen the normally morose priest.
"I came around the hospital a couple of times but you were sleeping." Philip stepped back and scrutinised him from head to toe. "You look good."
Blair stepped out of the truck and resisted the temptation to turn in a circle. "I do that a lot: sleep."
"Come in." Philip guided him gently towards the rectory. "The housekeeper has made a light lunch."
"More food?" Blair said weakly.
Philip wasn’t listening. As he helped Blair along, he craned his head to speak to the detective. "You’re looking brighter, Jim. In fact it looks as if you’ve caught the sun."
Jim touched his nose. There was a delicate flush to his pale skin that spoke of freckles in the near future. "We’ve been in the park. I fell asleep on the grass."
"I wish I’d had my camera," Blair interjected. "He jumps three feet in the air if you drop ice cream on his nose."
"It’s a good job he’s recuperating or I would have dumped him in the lake."
With the priest on one side and Jim on the other, the latter supporting him with a warm hand on the small of his back, Blair felt like a prince with an entourage.
"I thought that I would call Mrs. Banks and invite her over."
"Nah, nah… I’d like to see her, but we won’t be able to talk about the book if she comes over. We’ll pop in later."
"Ah, the book."
"Have you done any research?" Blair asked eagerly.
"All I can tell, without opening the thing, is that there is something supernatural associated with it. I don’t really want to open it until I know what I’m dealing with."
"You didn’t find anything in the library? The author?"
"Nothing," Philip sighed apologetically. "I have my
associates in
"Where is it?" Blair looked around the hallway.
"Safe." Philip gently directed him into the sitting room.
Blair gritted his teeth. They weren’t going to let him anywhere near it.
"It’s in the lab. In a safe. Look – sandwiches." Philip smiled and pointed to the food so decoratively laid out on the coffee table.
Jim darted forward, rubbing his hands together. "I smell beef and mustard."
"Human garbage can." Blair shook his head fondly.
Any more food and he was going to turn into a tub of lard.
^..^
It had been a long day for the student. Jim glanced affectionately at his younger friend. Blair had crashed as soon as they had driven away from Mrs. Banks’ house. He leaned into his safety belt, drooling down the fabric.
Beef and mustard on rye bread at the rectory and then cookies and cake at Simon’s aunt’s house. Jim was feeling pretty gluttonous. Checking the immediate road ahead, he chanced undoing the top button of his jeans. The day had started out badly but it had only got better. He fancied something different for dinner, maybe Indian.
Driving with more care and attention than normal, he slowly turned into
"Come on, Chief," he cajoled, "wakey wakey."
"Uh?" Blair lifted his head. Confused, he looked around the Ford cab as if trying to figure out where he was. "Oh, God, not again. This is ridiculous."
"What is?" Jim reached over and popped open Blair’s door.
"This napping. I should be better." Irritable, he picked at his shirt as if finding it uncomfortable. "All I do is eat and sleep."
Jim opened his mouth.
"Don’t say I’ve been sick. I know I’ve been sick. I want to be better. I’m sick of being sick."
The detective shrugged eloquently.
"I want my energy back." He pushed his hair back from his face. Grumbling, he slunk out of the truck.
Jim watched him walk to their apartment. The late afternoon sun caught him in profile, accentuating the newly defined planes of his cheekbones and broad brow. In that photographic instant, he saw the too baggy clothes enveloping the too skinny frame. Blair paused at the threshold, pushing back a lank lock of hair behind an ear. He nodded at the door, encouraging the detective to leave his truck and join him.
Jim grabbed the heavy grimmoires and tomes that Philip had loaned to the student while he recuperated. At least a few intriguing books would keep him sequestered on the couch. Juggling the books, he locked his sweetheart truck and hurried after his partner.
Blair had the kettle on by the time he had waited for the elevator to descend and made his way to the loft apartment.
"Peppermint tea?" Blair asked.
Jim gagged and helped himself to a beer.
Peppermint tea in hand, Blair set the kitchen table for a serious study session: laptop; modem; books and dictionaries.
"I’m going to see if there’s anything on Willim Raymont, the guy who owned the estate. Since the book’s a mystery maybe Raymont’s a starting point."
"Good idea." Intrigued, and against his better judgement, Jim settled next to his partner as he logged on.
^..^
Jim flicked through one of the weirder texts that Philip had foisted on
the student. He sincerely hoped that his Guide would not dance around
‘sky clad’ the next time they went camping. It would be a rare night in
"You know this is really weird." Blair interrupted his meanderings. "According to this, Raymont was 90 and according to the local library he was 120."
"So the library got it wrong."
Jim glanced at the laptop screen. Blair was reading an ID link in the Cascade PD DMV page.
"How did you get on that? It’s password protected."
Blair smiled tremulously, gave up on the pretence and then just grinned evilly. "Simon wanted me to check something out once…. Forget that--" Blair waved his hands, "--ninety is a pretty impressive age to still be driving."
"They hadn’t lifted his licence?"
"According to this, his sight and co-ordination were fine."
"It happens. Does it say how he died?"
"Crashed his Mustang."
"Obviously, he didn’t see well enough."
Blair continued, ignoring his comments. "Apparently, according to witnesses, he was being pursued by this ‘big, black car’ that bumped him off of the side of a cliff and he was killed in the fireball when the car exploded."
"What? This guy was like 100 years old."
"Just because he’s old doesn’t mean that he couldn’t have enemies."
"The guy should have been in a motorised wheelchair."
"You know what’s really weird."
"More weird than hobs and goblins?"
"According to the local paper, he was a recluse and he only came out after dark."
"So this sad, old philanthropist who hurt nobody was terrorised and driven off a cliff by persons unknown?" Jim felt his hackles rise.
"And he had a book that’s haunted."
"You think they’re connected?" Jim pondered.
"If I’m reaching… If the person who killed him was after the book, I would have assumed that he’d have burgled Raymont’s mansion after killing the old guy."
"Maybe he didn’t know what he was looking for?"
"I still think we’re reaching."
"You were the one who decided to look into Raymont’s background to see if anything suspicious had happened. And look: you found something suspicious."
"Maybe there’ll be some more clues at Raymont’s mansion?"
"Well, everything’s been itemised and catalogued for the auction, so I guess any clues would be disturbed," Jim mused. "When did this happen?"
Blair ran his finger down the laptop screen. "Last December, the eighteenth."
"Nine months?" Jim deflated; against his better judgement both the case and the book were intriguing him. He doubted that after nine months he would be able to ‘pick anything up’ from Raymont’s house. "There’s absolutely nothing on the identity of the driver of the black car?"
"No. There’s a report by the local sheriff and she says that there was insufficient information to pursue any lines of inquiry."
"Bastard." Jim leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. "I suppose we could go back to the mansion…"
Blair perked up. "Seriously?"
"Yeah." Jim grinned wickedly, his mood changing mercurially. "Don’t forget, though, you’re a mentally challenged young adult on a day trip from the half-way home."
Groaning, Blair dropped his head on the table. Evidently, he had forgotten the ruse that his helpful Sentinel had used to ‘acquire’ the book.
End of Chapter I
^..^
A Hope Amidst Sanguine Desolation:
Chapter II
Blair smiled inanely at the wrinkly little man sitting at the desk. Judging by the widening of the doorkeeper’s eyes, he recognised them. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Don’t worry; I’ll keep an eye on him," Jim butted in.
"But, but…" he began to splutter. "What if he steals something?"
"He won’t, will you, Buddy?" Jim gazed paternally at the anthropologist.
Blair kept his mouth shut and nodded, fervently – while resisting the temptation to kick the Sentinel on the shin.
"I… I… don’t…think it’s a good idea," the gnome hissed.
Blair batted his eyelashes as he slipped his hand into Jim’s grip. He smiled winsomely as the detective bit his bottom lip.
"I’ll keep an eye on him," Jim gritted out again. He held up their linked hands for all to see. "There was a book that I was interested in purchasing, we will not be going anywhere near the Ming Vase display."
The man continued to splutter.
Ellison leaned forwards. "You know this isn’t a very politically correct attitude you’re displaying. It’s not Tarquin’s fault that he’s challenged. He so enjoys these trips to the country and he gets a lot out of them. I’d hate to think you’re discriminating against him. By the way, who’s in charge?"
"Mr. George is in conference with the auctioneers. He asked not to be disturbed," the doorkeeper said precisely.
"I don’t mind waiting."
"As long as you’re sure… If you can assure me…" the man struggled to phrase his words correctly. "Yes, you can come in. But you’re responsible for any breakages."
"He won’t break anything, will you, Tarquin?"
Blair allowed the Sentinel to drag him away from the desk. The wizened man watched them with a great deal of trepidation.
As soon as they were out of listening range, Blair grated, "Tarquin?"
Jim shrugged his shoulders. "If you break anything, we’re taking it out of your rent."
"If we break anything you’ll be selling the loft to pay for the damages," Blair pointed out. "And what about that guy! What a creep – someone should talk to him about his people skills."
Blair pulled his hand away from Jim’s grip and stomped heavily in the direction of the library. The detective trailed, lackadaisically, in his wake.
The auction was scheduled for that day at
A young man, who looked like a student complete with backpack and laptop, was working through a pile of journals on the floor, but otherwise the room was empty. Blair drooped tiredly into a seat beside the oak table dominating the library and began to flip through the catalogue.
"It’s just occurred to me." Blair deliberately lowered his voice. "That if everything has been catalogued, everything will have been touched."
Jim shrugged. "We knew that before we came. Maybe we’ll get lucky; maybe we won’t."
The Sentinel began to pad around the stacks, his antennae out. Pensively, Blair flicked through the author listings section in the catalogue. There were no other references relating to Tomas other than the one they had found, although there were a couple relating to Thomas.
Working his way along the stacks, Blair found an uninteresting thesis relating to the study of mosses in the Shrewsbury Meres and a discourse on the heritage of the Timshim Peoples that did sound interesting. He settled cross-legged on the floor to scan through the texts just in case there was something relating to Tomas.
"I’ll go check the books in the auction section," Jim announced. He held out his finger. "Don’t break anything."
Blair pulled a face at the absolutely hilarious Sentinel. Left alone, Blair leaned against the stack. He’d hoped that if Raymont had had one book by Tomas he would have another. There was nothing relevant in the book, just a badly written, poor assessment of the Timshim People. He sighed tiredly.
"Hey, man?" The young man spoke up. Blair raised his head, the other occupant of the room stood over him, a look of wary concern on his pale, spotty face.
Blair blinked, and then struggled to his feet. "Hi?" he ventured.
"Are you all right, man?" The bespectacled student stepped back a pace, covering his unease by rubbing his nose.
"Yeah, fine." Blair sagged back into his seat. "Getting over the flu."
"Yeah, summer flu – the worst. Okay, uhm, I’ll just go back to work." He pointed aimlessly over his shoulder and then made a hasty retreat back to the stacks.
"Thanks." Blair was going to let him continue uninterrupted but he couldn’t resist asking, "What are you looking for?"
The younger man shuffled, unaccountably blushed and then spoke, "I’m doing some research into cultural mores and the interpretation of gender roles in the late 1900s."
"Sounds fascinating."
"Really?" he said sceptically. "This is usually where people’s eyes start to glaze over."
"I’m a Ph.D. student studying the myth of the Peruvian Watchmen," Blair volunteered.
"Cool," he nodded understandingly. "You know how it is, I get a bit sick of explaining what I’m doing and seeing the – I don’t know – utter disinterest in other people’s eyes."
"My favourite one is when they say ‘so what’s the point of your research?’ and the tone is ‘you sponging student, you’ve got it so easy – I have a wife and nine kids.’"
"Exactly!" Blair’s new-found friend laughed. "Cos getting a Ph.D. is a walk in the park, because, of course, every night we’re out clubbing and doing drugs – we just do a couple of hours work a week."
"As if our grants could support that!"
They laughed, enjoying the camaraderie. "Hi, I’m Kurt."
"Blair."
"So there’s papers here on – what did you call them? – Peruvian Watchmen?"
"Possibly. I’m looking for any books authored by a guy called Tomas."
"There’s nothing in the catalogue?"