Sparring With Shadows by Erin O'Quinn

Author:Erin O'Quinn [O'Quinn, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gay & Lesbian
Publisher: Amber Quill Press, LLC
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Michael awoke with the conviction that a hand was searching his pocket. His first instinct was to seize that hand and break it. The first instinct failed when he found his hands securely fastened somehow, and he began to curse.

"Sod off! Or face me like a man, ye bloody bastard!"

"Mr. Michael, hush. They'll hear ye, fayder."

He knew instantly, by the piping voice and the badly pronounced Gaelic word for "maybe" that Squeak had come to save him. He lifted his head and tried to grin, but the pain behind his right ear caused him to lie back and curse again, much more quietly.

He knew, as soon as his head fell back onto the floor, what had happened to him.

He had waited an extra ten minutes for Simon to return, belly down near the wall, scanning every square inch of ground between there and the buildings, knowing by the knot in his gut that his lover had met with the evil shadow named Chanda Gopala.

He had made his way to the west-facing window, hoping his partner was still there. All was silent. The drizzle had ended, and he had a clear view of the room beyond the window. The sight of Simon, writhing against the wall with his hands shackled together, momentarily robbed him of all reason, all sense of caution.

Too late, he realized he was gazing on a well-baited trap. And the next thought was obscured by a pain so profound he vomited before his world turned black.

Now, lying with hands and ankles bound in chains, he heard a word he had often wished to hear, from the man he would lay down his life for.

"Michael."

"Simon, are ye hurt?" Even as he spoke, he realized the words had come out as a stream of gibberish punctuated by a groan. Again, he tried to raise his head to look at his partner, and again, he collapsed back. The effort of rising had brought vomitus to his throat and fresh blood into his eyes. He barely remembered how the bastard had brought his foot to his forehead in an almost casual kick that had opened the skin like that of a battered fisticuffs boxer.

He felt Squeak's hand again in his kaffies, and he relaxed. He forced himself to speak slowly and clearly. "Squeak, me billfold. Open it... bring... tools."

He saw, even with his head on the floor, that the boy had extracted his two lock-picking tools. "Know how, lad?"

"Aye."

"Can ye open...padlock?"

"Fayder."

Michael knew better than to rush the boy. He was a born thief, was Squeak, and no doubt had fingers as sensitive as his own. Michael lay quietly, trying to catch a glimpse of Simon. But his head was squarely back, and his position in relation to his partner made it impossible for him to see anything but the ceiling and a part of one corner of the room. Besides, his head felt as though someone had attacked him with a bludgeon. He fought to stay conscious.

He could see Squeak's large ears and earnest eyes as he worked on the padlocks.

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