Title: Enthralled

Author: Scribe

Fandom: Bell, Book, and Candle

Pairing: None yet.

Rating: Eventually NC17

Summary: Shep Hendersan, meet Gilbert Holroyd.

Archive: Mailing list archives and the WWOMB. Otherwise ask.

Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com

Status: WIP

Sequel/Series:

Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them.

Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Warnings: This story will contain themes of witchcraft--NOT Satanism or traditional Wicca. This does not represent the beliefs of the author, who is actually a Southern Baptist, if you can believe that (okay, so not a STRICT Southern Baptist).

Okay, the first version of this was sort of a trial. Here begins the real story, and I'll post through 2/?. There are a few minor changes in part one, since I finally got my hands on a DVD copy of the movie, so I was able to make notes.

Bell, Book, and Candle was a 1958 movie, from a play by John van Druten. The original play has been sited as a representation of gays and lesbians in the fifties. They point to the Greenwich Village local, the 'hidden society', the outsider status, the gathering in special clubs... I thought 'slash', and I thought, "Why not?" *grin* It starred Jimmy Stewart, Kim Novak, Jack Lemmon, Elsa Lanchester, and Ernie Kovacs. I will be swapping a few characters' genders, and 'recasting' a few roles. If you don't agree with my choices, feel free to visualize whoever else you'd like playing the part.

'Cast' list
This will be in the form of Character Name (original name if it is adjusted)--Actor Name--Original Actor

Sheppard Henderson--Harrison Ford (during his Witness phase)--Jimmy Stewart
Gilbert 'Gil' Holroyd (Gillian)--Orlando Bloom--Kim Novak
Nicky Holroyd--Jack Lemmon (Yes, he's so perfect that I'm not changing this one)
Sidney Redlitch--Ernie Kovacs (Same here. Genius comedian of early television)
Mrs. DePass--Kathy Bates--Hermione Gingold
Queenie--Nathan Lane--Elsa Lanchester
Merle Kittridge--Reese Witherspoon--Janice Rule
Coven witches to be designated at a later date.

Enthralled
By Scribe

Chapter One

December 23rd, 1958

"Here ya are, Mac."

Shephard Henderson came awake with a small snort. He hadn't thought that the ride would be long enough for him to fall asleep, but he apparently was more tired than he'd thought. Why the hell had he let Merle coax him into going to that club after they ate? He'd tried to beg off the dinner party--hell, he hadn't wanted to go in the first place. She had scheduled it without consulting him, and the group had been HER friends--not THEIR friends. *Come to think of it, we don't really HAVE any mutual friends, do we?* he thought blearily as he fumbled in his wallet.

He yawned as he handed the cash to the cabbie. "Beg pardon."

"Don't mention it, Mac." The man was tucking the money in his cash box. "Ya shouldn't oughta escort th' milkman on 'is rounds if ya can't handle th' lack of sleep any better'n this."

"It wasn't intentional," he murmured. "I had some urgent work to take care of, and my fiancé wouldn't let me go. I didn't get to the office till one, then..." He trailed off, shrugging.

"Whyn't ya tell 'er ya dint have time t' socialize?" Shep shrugged again. "Damn, man--puss whipped ain't no way t' start a marriage." He drove off.

Too tired to even be offended, Shep fumbled in his pocket for his key as he turned toward his apartment building. He froze, blinking at the unfamiliar facade, then glanced up at the numbers posted over the entrance. He groaned. "1920--not 1820!" The cab driver had dropped him off one block too soon, and now he'd have to hoof it.

As he began to plod wearily up the street, he thought, *I guess I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. I was so groggy when I gave him my destination I COULD have said eighteen instead of nineteen.* Shep had lived at 1802 Oakland in Manhattan for five years before moving to 1920 Greenwood in Greenwich Village. He'd only moved two weeks ago, and he knew that he'd written down the old address and telephone number more than once.

If he hadn't been so exhausted, he might have enjoyed the walk. Greenwich was clean and quiet compared to his former neighborhood. The air was crisp, but not too cold, and the sun was up just enough to make the streetlamps unnecessary. Several of the venerable brownstones housed small shops on the ground floor, with the proprietors living above, or in back. His building was one of them--the entrance to the shop right beside the one that led into the entrance hall.

As he approached home, he noticed that he wasn't exactly alone on the street. A Siamese cat was coming from the opposite direction, moving close to the building, with sinuous grace. It noticed him, and stopped abruptly, staring at him with eyes as brilliant as sapphires. Shep wasn't particularly fond of cats, but he had nothing against them. He called, "Hey, kitty. Don't be afraid."

The cat's ears flicked, and he could have sworn that the glance it tossed him was disdainful. It continued, and stopped right in front of the shop entrance. Then it watched him. Shep had put his hand on the door to the lobby, but he didn't open it just yet. *That cat is waiting for something.* He returned the cat's look. Its tail began to switch in irritation. He felt a little foolish, but was feeling just loopy enough to say, "I can stare just as long as you can."

The cat's ears went back. It turned to the door and hopped up on the little safety railing that ran across the front display window. Shep watched in growing astonishment as the cat balanced on its hind legs, stretched up, and placed its paws against a small doorbell. He could hear the harsh electronic buzz inside the store. The cat leaned on the button, and the rasping sound droned.

After a moment Shep heard footsteps inside the shop. There was the sound of locks being unbolted, and a sleepy, irritated voice said, "Bloody hell! I don't mind you tomcatting all night, but don't go waking me up at this ungodly hour." The door opened. "Why the hell didn't you just let...? Oh."

Shephard found himself blinking at the young man who had obviously just been roused out of bed. He was dressed only in the bottom part of a pair of loose, black silk pajamas, and his skin was milky pale in contrast to the dark fabric. He was slender, but the exposed expanse of chest and flat belly was well toned. The most startling thing about his appearance was the pale blonde hair that brushed his shoulders, and half-curtained his face. Shep knew that styles here in the village tended to be a bit extreme, but he'd never seen a man with hair that long, *Or that beautiful,* he thought absently. *Merle spends a lot of time and money trying to get hers to look like that, and I'm staring. I'd better say something.* "Hello." The young man nodded silently. "Your cat... I've never seen one do anything like that before. It's extraordinary. How did you train it to do that trick?"

The cat hissed, jumped down, and darted past the man's bare feet, disappearing into the shadows of the store interior. "Oh, I never taught him that." The voice was a soft drawl. The speaker reached up, pushing a thick fall of hair off his face. Shep found himself looking into a pair of chocolate brown eyes that glinted with sardonic amusement. The eyes were at odds with the youthful face and frame. They looked somehow older than he would have expected. "He thinks up rude things to do all on his own. If you'll excuse me, it's rather chilly."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. I was just..." The door shut. *Making a fool of myself, I suppose. I ought to know not to try to have conversations when I'm half asleep.* Shep opened the door to the apartment section of the building and went in. He checked his mail at the bank of boxes, finding himself glancing curiously at the window beside it. It was a display window looking into the shop, but right now it was curtained. As he trudged up the stairs, he thought, *I wonder what he sells in there? Damn, I've been here two weeks, and I don't even know what business shares my building. Maybe I ought to drop by later on. I mean, it would be only neighborly, and who knows? He might have something I need.*

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Downstairs Gil relocked the door and stood for a moment, rubbing his arms. Usually the cold didn't bother him much. He noticed that his nipples had drawn up into tight buds, and he idly tweaked one before padding back through the shop, passing through the curtain that led to his apartment. Pyewacket was sitting on the sofa, tail curved around his body, but with the tip twitching. The second Gil entered the room he gave a loud meow.

"Oh, don't start with me! How was I supposed to know that there was someone there? If you weren't so impatient you could have just sat there acted feline for a few more moments. I'm sure he'd have lost interest and gone in, then you could have let yourself in. I really don't appreciate being woke up like this, Pye."

The croaking mew the cat made was almost apologetic. It hopped down and came over to wind itself around the young man's legs, beginning to purr. "You can't wait?" The noise this time was plaintive. "Oh, all right, but it'll have to be cold. I'm not cooking this time of the morning."

In the kitchen, he put down a bowl of milk. As the cat lapped at it, he tore some sliced turkey into bite sized morsels, filling a saucer. "I suppose you were out visiting that Persian three blocks over?" Pyewacket didn't stop drinking, but his whiskers swept back at a jaunty angle. "Rake."

The cat looked up as he set the saucer down, and made a burbling noise. Gil said sharply, "I am NOT jealous! You know very well that I could have a lover if I so chose." A questioning chirp. He sighed. "Oh, I don't know. Haven't you ever just gotten bored, Pyewacket? Ever gotten tired of the same round of partners?" The cat gave him a disbelieving look. "Oh, pardon me. Bored by any offer of sex--what was I thinking?"

Gilbert Holroyd squatted down beside his familiar and scratched it gently behind the ears as it ate. He stared back at the curtain that concealed his shop, remembering how very blue the eyes of the man on the street had been. He'd been going into the apartment section of the building. This had to be the new tenant that Queenie had been telling him about. What was the name again? "Shephard Henderson," he murmured. Pyewacket stopped eating to look up at him. "Hm? Nothing--just saying his name. Shephard Henderson." He smiled slowly. "How perfectly Mundane sounding."

Part 2

December 24th, 1958

Gil tucked another layer of tissue paper around the rough clay figurine and settled it carefully into the nest of padding in the bright gift bag, then quickly tied the handles together with a length of silver ribbon. The resulting bow was not professional, but somehow it was BETTER than a machine-tied effort. It was casual and elegant, and said 'someone did this just for you'.

He gave it a slight push across the counter. "There you are, Mister Reynolds. I'm sure he'll like it."

The portly middle-aged man took the bag. "Thank you, Gilbert. What is it again?"

The young man smiled at him. "It's just what you always buy your paramours--a pre-Columbian phallic figure."

"And a gifted little fellow he is, too," said Reynolds cheerfully. He lifted salt-and-pepper eyebrows at Gil. "Are you sure you won't let me buy one for you?"

Gilbert laughed. "I have plenty, and if you don't stop, I'll tell William that you're flirting again, you old dog."

Gilbert came around the counter to escort him to the door, and Reynolds shrugged good-naturedly. "Can't blame a man for trying."

"And trying, and trying." Gil opened the door for him. "You ought to try to stay with one lover for more than a couple of months. You're going to run completely through the local community if you don't."

"Then I'll look outside the community." Reynolds winked at the young man. "I'm not prejudiced." He gave a parting nod and stepped out into the light snow.

Gilbert shut the door, but didn't return to the counter. He turned and put his back to the door, letting his eyes roam over the interior of the shop. It was a good location--open, with plenty of display space. There were several freestanding islands displaying groups of figurines. Other totems and ritual items lined the shelves that were positioned at staggered levels. The walls between the shelves were hung with shields and masks formed from carved wood or stretched and painted hide. Everywhere one looked there were pop eyes, animalistic features, and bizarre representations of the human form. Many people felt uneasy when they found themselves surrounded by so much that was so completely outside the mainstream. Usually Gilbert found it soothing, but today...

*rrrowr* He lifted his eyes to where a Siamese cat was sitting on a shoulder level shelf. Gil sighed. "Pye, Pye, Pyewacket." He shook his head, looking around. "What's wrong with me lately? I've had a good life here the last few years. Why do I suddenly feel--restless?"

He walked over and reached up, scratching the cat behind the ears. It began to purr. "I've always lived my life--special. In the special, of the special, with the special. Do you know what, Pye?" He stood on tiptoe, his nose almost touching the damp, dark velvet of the cat's nose, looking directly into his bright blue eyes. "I'm BORED with the special."

He sank down and turned his back. As he continued to speak, the cat carefully stepped down to settle on his shoulder. "I know it doesn't make sense, but I am. I'm in a rut, and I can't seem to get out of it." He reached up and pulled the cat down into his arms, stroking its neck. It squeaked softly. "All right, so I'm feeling sorry for myself. But I'm tired of the same old, same old. I want to do something different, MEET someone different." He looked down at the cat. "It's Christmas, Pye. Will you give me something for Christmas--something to cheer me up?"

He was facing the sidewall of the shop--the one with the display window that looked into the lobby of the building. As he spoke, the door to the lobby opened, and a tall man muffled in a coat, hat, and scarf, entered. He paused and removed the hat, shaking snow off it, then plopped it back on his head and unwound the scarf.

Gilbert cocked his head as the handsomely craggy features were revealed. 'That's the man from yesterday, Pye--the one from upstairs. Queenie told us about him." Pye grumbled, and Gil jogged him. "Stop it! It's your own fault for coming home so late." He watched as Shep sorted through his mail, intent on the envelopes in his hands. "He's rather nice looking, don't you think? And he's not one of us." Gil continued to stroke the cat, studying the other man, then nodded slightly. "I think I like him." Shephard glanced up, meeting Gilbert's gaze. He seemed to start for a moment, then half-raised one hand in a sort of tentative salute. Gilbert tipped his chin in a barely there nod, not changing expression.

Shep found himself staring into a pair of sharp brown eyes, and was startled for a moment till he realized he was looking into the building's downstairs shop, and at the proprietor. *He's going to think I'm some sort of creep, staring in like this.* Shep pretended to notice a figurine on a display right before the window, and gazed at it fixedly.

Gilbert strolled to the window, smiling faintly. He tucked a muttering Pyewacket under one arm and held up the figure for Shep's inspection. The man made a show of looking at it, then blinked suddenly, head moving back slightly. It was a phallic figure, the sort that his last customer liked to give the young men he courted. It was a squat wooden figure, most EMPHATICALLY male. The genitalia were rampant, and almost as large as the figure's entire body, proudly supported in both hands. The carved face wore a smug, sappy grin that seemed to say, "Ha! Look what I'VE got!" Gil cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

Shep could feel the heat of a blush sweeping up his face. He tried to look as if he was considering, then shook his head. The blonde man shrugged and replaced the figure. Shep waved, backing toward the stairs, and received a small wave in return. He wasn't looking where he was going, and stumbled on the first step, mail fluttering to the floor as he caught the rail for balance. He heard a faint peel of silvery laughter, and didn't dare look toward the window as he quickly gathered the cards and letters. Stuffing them in his coat pocket, he hurried up the stairs.

In the shop, Gilbert was shaking his head. "Oh, my. Yes, that's about as ordinary as you can get." He glanced down at the cat again, smiling, but his voice was thoughtful. "Why don't you give HIM to me for Christmas, Pye?"

*****

*Stupid, stupid, STUPID, Henderson,* Shep thought as he trudged up the stairs. *My God, could you have looked any more pathetic if you'd TRIED?* It never failed. In business he was perfectly confident, handling temperamental writers and agents with firm aplomb, but in his private life...

Shep sighed gustily. He'd never been at ease around attractive people--male or female. He'd realized back in high school that he was attracted to both, but had firmly put the lid on his more unorthodox desires. He'd dated the quiet, brainy girls, knowing that he didn't have the flash to compete with the jocks and schoolhouse politicos. Besides, it would have been rather awkward competing with a guy over a cheerleader when he'd just as soon kiss his rival.

Through high school and college, Shep had done what was expected. He'd dated on and off, had 'gotten serious' once or twice, had slept with women, and enjoyed it, but... But he kept finding his eyes caught by young men: racing on a tennis court in white shorts, striding along the city streets--serious in suits and ties, bending over him in restaurants, with aprons wrapped around narrow waists, and asking if there was anything they could do for him, anything at all?

He'd endured the gentle, then NOT so gentle hints from his parents that it was past time for him to settle down with a suitable girl and start popping out little Hendersons. He had a feeling that was why he'd settled into his present relationship with Merle. She was the daughter of one of his father's friends, and she'd been waiting patiently in the parlor when he'd made one of his visits home. She'd given him an ironic smile, as if to say, 'Yes, you're right--this IS a set up, but let's make the best of it, shall we?'

Merle was attractive, well educated, chic, smooth, and she was from the same social set as their family. In his parents' minds, she was perfect. Shep hadn't minded dating her. He wasn't exactly sure when they'd become engaged. It just seemed that suddenly Merle and his mother were discussing living in the suburbs vs. keeping a city apartment, boarding school vs. private day schools... His father was talking to him about taking out more insurance, and buying a car 'because a married couple shouldn't have to depend on public transportation, son'.

As he had most of his life--Shep went along. He wasn't particularly interested in marrying Merle, but he couldn't come up with any compelling reason why he shouldn't--except that he didn't love her. And he knew if he tried to tell his parents that he would have been met with blank looks, then gentle, patient reasoning about 'growing into love'. His own parents loved each other, he knew that--but it was more affection and familiarity than anything else. At that point in time, they reminded him more of fond siblings than a passionate couple. He'd found himself seemingly falling into matrimony, with nothing to slow the headlong rush.

It had taken tragedy. First his mother, then his father had succumbed to illness. Mother had dropped of a heart attack at a Ladies Club luncheon. His father *Maybe Dad DID need her more than I thought* had lingered on, vague and unfocused, for another two months, then passed away in his sleep--probably from a massive stroke. As much as he grieved for the loss of his parents, there was a guilty, sneaking sense of relief--because all talk of a wedding had ceased. But that had been almost six months ago, at the start of summer. And just recently, Merle had begun mentioning it again, until tonight...

He was mulling over this as he unlocked his door and stepped into his apartment. He was desperately wishing for something to distract him from what had happened this evening, and his wish was granted. Someone had broken into his apartment. He was hanging his hat on a peg when he heard a breathy, "Oh!" and whirled around.

The person standing behind his desk didn't resemble his idea of a burglar or housebreaker. He was a very short, very plump middle-aged man, and he had the pudgy, sweet features of a slightly naughty cherub. He smiled brightly, "Oh, you must be Mister Henderson. This is your apartment."

"Yes, it is," agreed Shep, eyeing him carefully. He didn't LOOK dangerous. "So who are you, and what are you doing here?"

The other man looked around cheerfully. "You've done it up very nicely."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Which one?"

Shep stared at him, and received an innocent blink in return. "Both, but feel free to chose which you answer first."

Another beam. "You can call me Queenie--everyone does."

"Queen...?"

"And as to why I'm here, why, it's simple." He began to speak quickly. "I was just going up to my place, and I saw that your door was open, and your window was open, too, and..." he gestured toward the thick flakes drifting past the window, "it was snowing in, so I just..." he made a pulling gesture, "thought I'd close the window for you. So I did."

"The door was locked when I came in."

Queenie looked puzzled. "It was? How peculiar. Oh, well--this is an old house. A lot of odd things happen here."

"Uh-huh."

Queenie's eyebrows arched at the cynical tone. "I was just being neighborly."

"Tell me, neighbor, are you into dramatics?"

One hand went up to pat at Queenie's hair, and he looked pleased. "No. Do I look like an actor?"

"Not really. It's just that I keep hearing you up there, at night. It sounds like you're reciting, or something."

The short man's expression became elaborately casual. "Can you understand any of it?"

"No, it's just words--sounds."

"I'll try to be more quiet from now on." Queenie's mood changed again as he glanced around. "You read a lot--books EVERYWHERE. And gosh, don't you have a lot of correspondence?"

"YOU READ MY LETTERS?" Shep didn't yell, but his tone definitely rose in volume.

"Oh, not really, not really." Queenie made straightening motions at the piles of letters on Shep's desk. "It was such a mess, I just thought I'd tidy up a bit."

"Being neighborly?"

"Exactly! And some of the letters just sort of... dropped out." He picked up one pale pink sheet. "This one is from a girl." He gave Shep a coy smile. "You're fiance?"

Shep was at the desk in one stride, grabbing the letter. "How did you know that if you didn't read it?"

"Well, I didn't! Not all of it, anyway, but she has very DISTINCTIVE handwriting, and certain words just SPRANG out at me. She's very strong willed, isn't she?"

Shep opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped. Strong willed was EXACTLY what Merle was--he'd had ample demonstration of it over the last few months. Still, he wasn't about to launder his dirty sheets in the presence of this odd little intruder. "Look, Duchess..."

The other man giggled--not laughed or chuckled--GIGGLED. "Queenie!"

"Look, can we do the welcome wagon thing some other time?" Shep put down the letter and took hold of Queenie's elbow in a gentle, but firm grip. Guiding the other toward the door. Opening it, he said, "I have some phone calls to make, and I could use a little privacy. Please lock up on your way out."

"Well, if you're going to..." Dismissing him, Shep had gone into his bedroom. Queenie's voice died, and he narrowed his eyes, glaring at the bedroom. Shep might have rethought his first impression of the little man if he'd seen that expression. Queenie looked at the telephone, sitting on a table near the door. "Important calls?"

Shep's voice drifted out. "Yes, important to me, anyway."

Queenie stared at the phone very, very hard, then muttered an incoherent phrase under his breath as he closed his eyes, then shivered slightly, as if a light static electric charge had swept over him. He was nodding in satisfaction as Shep, divested of his coat, came back into the living room and stared at him. Queenie gave Shep a sweet smile. "It's been lovely, but I must be going. You know, the previous tenant of this flat was a theosophist." He paused in the door, hand on the knob and said archly, "HE was very pleasant--very pleasant indeed." With a toss of his head, he shut the door.

Shep stared after his unexpected visitor, feeling slightly stunned and (he had to admit) a little amused. Shaking his head, he sat down and picked up the phone to make his first call. There was no dial tone. Instead there was speech--of a sort. At least he THOUGHT it was speech. It seemed to be a man's voice, and Shep could almost make out what sounded like words in the gabbled noise. But it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He slammed the receiver down quickly.

*Okay. The phone lines in this building are probably old. I must have gotten onto a party line by accident.* He waited a moment, then lifted the receiver again. Brief silence. "Hello?" This time the voice sounded vaguely Oriental, but there seemed to be a lot of burbling and grunting thrown in. He hung up quickly, staring wide-eyed at the machine, then slowly put it back on the table, leery of touching it.

*I've GOT to make these calls, and I need to notify the phone company so they can do something about... whatever the hell THAT is.* He sighed, mentally going over his options. The nearest public phone that he knew of was in a diner almost five blocks away. There was his upstairs neighbor... *Oh, sure. I can just imagine how Queenie would take THAT.* He cocked his head. *There should be a phone in the shop downstairs--if not a business one, then surely a private one in the owner's apartment. He seemed friendly enough.*

Shep got up and headed for the door. *It won't hurt to ask, and this will be a perfect way to introduce myself.* As he started down the stairs, he thought, *I wonder how neighborly THIS neighbor feels?*

Enthralled, 4

Merle pulled the collar of her mink a little tighter against the cold air. It looked like it was going to snow again. This was dreadful. She decided that after she married Shep she'd insist that they spend Christmas somewhere civilized--like Miami or Los Angeles. Snow at Christmas was just too quaint for words. He'd probably kick--he seemed awfully attached to all the frou-frou that came with the holidays. Imagine, he'd actually wanted mince pie at dinner. He even acted a little hurt when she vetoed his order in favor of crepes, but she really COULDN'T let him eat anything so plebian in front of her friends.

She'd tried to make amends by agreeing to leave early with him. Why, it hadn't even been ten o'clock. She'd completely missed going dancing at El Morocco in favor of what? Walking the streets, looking for some undoubtedly grotty little club that no one had ever heard of, simply because he thought his neighbor might be there, and he'd been invited.

"Shep, really, if you haven't found it by now, I doubt that you will," she called.

He was walking a few yards ahead of her. She had to mince along--slick sidewalks and high heels did not go well together. Shep paused and looked back at her. "Oh, it's around here somewhere, Merle. I'm sure of it."

"How can you be sure? You don't even have an address. You couldn't find a listing in the phone book, and that taxi driver was so vague. He just said it was in an alley. It sounds perfectly dreadful."

"I'm sure it's just quirky. And I just FEEL that we're close. The driver said that you really have to look for it. Wait!" Shep stopped, head tilted alertly. "There!"

"What?" Merle glanced around with irritation. "If we go back up the street, we might be able to catch that cab again, and there's still time to catch the floor show at..."

"Listen, Merle," Shep insisted. "Music."

Irritated, Merle stopped and listened. "All I hear is the wind. If you'd..." She trailed off as a thin, distant melody reached her ears. "Well... I guess you're right, Shep. I DO hear something." Her frowned deepened as she picked out a heavy bass line, and occasional shrill notes. "But it sounds pretty strange."

Excited now, he was ignoring her disapproval. "It has to be close by. Hey, look at this."

He was kicking a thin dusting of snow aside on the sidewalk, revealing heavy grating. Faint light filtered up from it, and the music was louder. "This has to be it!"

He brushed away more snow, uncovering a strip of yellow paint. "That's probably just a parking zone marker," Merle complained.

"No, look." He moved on, revealing more of the line. At the end, it curved to the left, and came to a point. "It's an arrow. It's pointing at that space between the buildings, and the cabbie said that it was in an alley." He hurried over and peered into the dimness. Halfway down there was an arched doorway, and above it was a small neon sign. THE ZODIAC CLUB. "Here it is!"

"Oh, wonderful," Merle sighed. *Well, there's no getting out of it now. I just hope that no one I know sees us here.* "Let's go in, then. I want to warm up."

"Okay." Shep tried the doorknob. "It's locked. Well, it's a club, after all. I just hope they let us in."

"Oh, yes. It would be such a tragedy if we were barred."

Shep shot her a glance. Merle was something of an expert with the sweetly snotty remark. There was a bell beside the door, and he pushed it. In a moment the door opened, and a blast of warm air and loud music gushed out over him. He found himself blinking up at what appeared to be the genie from Aladdin and the Lamp. The man was so tall that he filled the door, and dressed in harem attendant clothes--baggy pants and an embroidered vest over a satin, full-sleeved blouse. The image was completed by a turban and a neat goatee. He regarded Shep with a genial expression, but his folded-armed stance indicated that he wasn't going to be moving without a good reason. He bowed slightly. "Greetings."

Shep cleared his throat. "Good evening."

"What is your desire tonight?"

Shep blinked. "I'd... uh... We'd like to come in."

"A most sensible wish, and one which will be accommodated, providing that the signs are favorable." He looked at Shep expectantly.

There was a moment of silence, and Merle snapped, "Well? Are we going in, or not?"

"I don't know," Shep replied. "Something about..." The man gestured toward the sign over his head. "Oh--signs! I'm Pisces. Merle, what are you?"

She stared at him. "A Republican."

"No, you're astrological sign."

"I have no idea."

"When were you born?"

"June 29th."

"Late June. That would be... Cancer."

The doorman nodded. "The Crab." Merle stiffened, glaring at him, but the man said blandly, "Both affiliated with water. The stars are aligned favorably for water signs. Enter, and may you find all that you seek here." He stepped aside, bowing them in.

They found themselves on a narrow landing, overlooking a large, dim, smoky, NOISY room. The floor was a sea of small tables and booths, all crammed with chattering patrons. There was a small stage on one side, and it held a jazz combo, which was putting forth very rapid and bright music. There was also a singer, a slender man all in white who was singing with great verve--in French.

Shep smiled at Merle. "Looks like a lively place."

Merle surveyed it with barely concealed distaste. "I think 'manic' would be a better term."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't seem so confused once we sit down and have a drink. Let's go find a table." They started down the stairs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Queenie was returning to their table, squeezing through the crowd much more easily than one would think a man his size could manage. He picked out a specific conversation from the babble around him, and it made him pause. A man sitting nearby was fawning over his table companion, a middle aged woman who was as stout as Queenie. "But my dear Mrs. DePass--your skill, your' finesse... No one comes close to you in brewing..."

"Except Gilbert Holroyd," said Queenie loudly. The man and woman swiveled to look at him, and he defiantly stood taller, staring at them dauntingly.

Mrs. DePass smiled, murmuring, "Dear Gil is very, very talented--for an armature."

Queenie sniffed. "Not everyone chooses to prostitute their talents." He sailed away.

Behind him he heard Mrs. DePass saying, "I still say he can't touch my ointments. Anyway, this singer is from our Paris contingency, and the song is very amusing. His lover threw him over, so he drowned himself, and there he is in the river. He's been there for ten years, and he's miserable. No food, no alcohol, no girls, and what is worst..." she listened, then laughed. "He HATES water!"

"Vain old wench," Queenie muttered. He quickly wiped the annoyance off his face as he got back to his table, though. Gil was still moping, and he didn't want to depress the dear boy any more if he could help it. He dropped into his seat, then proceeded to bounce in it, head swiveling constantly to take in the scene. "You see, Gil? I told you that EVERYONE would be here tonight."

Gil sighed, turning the drink that sat before him. "Yes, Queenie. Same old crowd."

Queenie made a face at him. "You! You just don't WANT to have a good time." He beamed toward the stage. "Isn't Nicky doing wonderfully tonight?"

Gil glanced at the stage, his eyes gravitating to the young man who was sitting cross-legged near the edge, playing the bongos. Nicky was watching the singer with rapt attention, hands stroking and patting the skins of his instrument with unconscious precision, even though he was obviously paying more attention to the man than the music. "Yes. Now, if he'd just devote that kind of concentration to something that actually brought in money, he'd be quite a success."

"Gil," Queenie scolded. "You know that he's artistic. He'll be a success, once he finds what he's meant to do."

"Yes, yes, I know. He's 'finding' himself. What I'd like to know is just when he actually got lost."

"You're very cynical, dear."

"I'm a witch, Queenie." He sighed again, and glanced around. "Mrs. DePass, Katrinka van Kokolach, Missy Terwiliger, Preston Cleveland, Cheryl Bloomberg... People I've known all my life, or people THEY'VE known all THEY'RE life, and all of us doing the same thing we always do." He leaned his chin in his hands. "It's Christmas. I wonder what it would be like to attend a midnight mass in a church, listen to carols..." Queenie was regarding him with something akin to horror. "What would it be like to spend a holiday quietly, not with a noisy crowd, but with just one person--someone who mattered?"

"Mister Henderson, perhaps?" asked Queenie slyly.

Gil smiled at him. "I don't think I'd mind."

Queenie was looking past him. "That might be a good thing."

"Mister Holroyd?"

Gil looked up at the slightly familiar voice, and found himself gazing at Shepherd Henderson, who was smiling down at him. Queenie looked from Gil, to Shep, then back to Gil. "Dear, I really wish that sometimes you'd tell me how you do that."

Gil stood up, accepting the hand that Shep offered. "It's Gil, remember? How nice to see you. I didn't think you'd make it. Weren't you going out with your lady friend?"

"He was." The tone was cool, and it made Gil's spine prickle with instinctive hostility. A small blonde in a sumptuous mink moved out from behind Shep, giving Gil and Queenie a dubious look. "But he decided that he wanted to go exploring, rather than spending time with our friends."

"Oh, now, Merle, you know that they won't miss us. Gil, Queenie--this is Merle Kitteridge."

"His fiancee," said Merle pointedly. None of the three offered to shake hands, opting instead for small, formal nods. "Shep, there isn't a free table anywhere. We ought to go."

"I wouldn't think of it," said Gil swiftly. "You must join us."

"We couldn't impose, really," said Merle with false sweetness.

"They have room," said Shep, "And if someone else drops by, I bet they could find a spare chair or two." He was pulling Merle's mink off her shoulders, and Queenie, eyes twinkling, hopped up and gallantly pulled a chair out for her.

"How gracious," said Merle, not quite gritting her teeth as she sat.

Shep took the seat between Merle and Gil, and looked up at the waitress who had appeared at his elbow. "Two martinis, please." He looked back at Gil, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here."

Gil returned the smile. "Yes--fancy."

There was a moment's silence, then Shep said quickly, "Where are my manners? Gil, this is..."

"Merle Kitteridge. We've met, actually."

That got him surprised looks from all the others. Merle said, "I don't seem to recall..."

"Really? Surely your memory isn't that bad, Merle. It wasn't so long ago." He looked at Shep. "It was in college. We shared several classes. In fact," he turned enigmatic eyes on Merle, "We collaborated on a project one semester. Come on, Merle--you remember me. I attended class barefooted."

Merle's expression was stiff. "Yes, I do recall something like that."

Gilbert laughed, the sound silvery, but a little brittle. "If I recall, you noticed it quite particularly." He leaned toward Shep. "A harmless eccentricity, right? Shep, did you know that someone wrote a note to the Dean about it? They were trying to get me expelled for impropper foot attire."

Shep frowned. "Sounds a little petty to me."

Merle and Gilbert were making eye contact. "That's what I thought. There was a little annoyance, but it... blew over."

The music had stopped, and the French singer took a bow, to enthusiastic applause. Nicky hopped up and took the microphone, saying, "Wasn't he fantastic, ladies and gentlemen? That's his set for the night, so you make do with just instrumentals now," he grinned, "But believe me--we'll make it worth your while. Any requests?" A few hands were raised, and he squinted around the room.

"I think we need a special number in honor of our guests," drawled Gilbert, raising his hand languidly.

Nicky spotted him, and smiled happily in recognition. "Put your hands down, everyone. We're swinging with nepotism tonight. My big brother has a request, and his wish is my command." Gil had pulled a small notebook from his pocket and was scribbling on a page. He ripped it out, and handed it to the waitress, who carried it up to the stage. As she made her way up, Nicky said, "Don't sweat it, friends. Gil has impeccable taste, and I'm sure anything he chooses will be the coolest of the cool." He accepted the paper, then unfolded it. It read 'Stormy Weather. Nicky--SPECIAL version'.

Nicky raised his eyebrows in pleases surprise. *What's Gil up to now?* He looked out and examined the others sitting at Gil's table. Gil tilted his head minutely toward the nervous, snotty looking blonde, and Nick grinned. *Oh, ho. That can be only one person. Looks like Gil is ready to continue to exact revenge, and I am MORE than happy to help.* He turned and spoke to the combo. "Grab your insturments, boys. We are about to become strolling players." He whispered to them, and soon they were all nodding and smiling.

After he'd sent the note to the front, Gilbert said, "Oh, I don't guess I should have used that expression."

"What expression?" asked Shep.

"'Blew over.' It's bound to have unpleasant connotations for Merle."

"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

"Oh, then you're over that little problem you used to have with thunderstorms?" asked Gil innocently.

The combo had started playing as they made their way down into the crowd, and began edging toward them. The music of Stormy Weather started out as mellow and gentle as any rendition that had ever been played. They gathered around the table occupied by Gil, Queenie, Shep, and Merle, pushed in close by the crowd.

"Problem?" asked Shep.

"Just a little nervous condition," said Merle, glancing around at the musician. The music was rising in volume and tempo. A sudden breeze ruffled her hair, and she looked up sharply. They were in an enclosed room--where would a draft have come from? Then she noticed the ceiling fan just overhead. It must have just been turned on. As she watched, the slowly spinning blades began to revolve more quickly, stirring the air more strongly.

"Nervous condition? I should say so. Her roommate said she was TERRIFIED of them. I believe she used to hide in the closet if there was a really bad one," said Gil. "That semester was really hard on you, wasn't it, Merle?" He looked at Shep. "The weather was quite unusual that year. There was an unprecedented number of storms."

The music was getting louder, and more rapid, approaching a frantic pace. Merle found herself gripping her glass so hard that her nails were digging into her palm. The air from the overhead fan seemed to be gusting--dying, then rising fitfully. And it smelled... moist.

Gil was continuing, "In fact, I believe it set a record. They just seemed to go on for days, without a break. Quite violent."

The music kept rising. There was a sudden hissing sound, and a bright flicker of light. Merle jumped in her seat, staring around frantically. A few yards away, a club employee was standing on a chair, fiddling with a light bulb in an overhead fixture. As she looked, he jiggled it again, and there was another flash--just as the drummer (who had of necessity remained on stage) crashed his cymbals. She squeaked, just as Gilbert was saying, "In fact, I believe that she went home early for... a rest. That's what I heard, anyway."

The light was flashing again, the music almost seemed to shriek, and Merle felt buffetted by some sort of undefined power. Her nerves were already stretched, and the next time there was a flash and crash of cymbals, she screamed...

Just as the music stopped.

Her shriek echoed through sudden quiet. Even the surrounding crowd had fallen silent, and now all eyes turned toward to her. Shep, shocked, said, "Merle?"

Merle stood quickly, snatching up her mink. "Shep, I have a splitting headache. I need to go. I need to go NOW."

Shep looked helplessly at the untouched drinks, then around at the staring crowd, then at Gil. Gil made a soft tsking sound. "The holidays can be quite a strain on some people, can't they?"

"Look, I'm sorry." Shep stood and began to help Merle on with her mink. "It's... Things HAVE been a little stressful. Maybe we can..."

Merle grabbed his arm in a grip that seemed too firm for such a self-consciously ladylike woman. "Shep! NOW!"

"Merle," he whispered, tipping his head meaningfully toward their companions.

Merle glared at Gilbert and Queenie. "I'm sorry we have to run. Thank you for your hospitality. It's been lovely." She turned and began to make her way toward the stairs.

Shep hesitated, looking bewildered. "I don't know what's gotten into her. She's usually so self-possessed. I apologize, Gil--Queenie."

"No need," said Gilbert.

"No, really. I was enjoying the company."

"Well, if you want the company again, you know where to find me," said Gilbert quietly. "Any time."

Their eyes met, and Shep found himself thinking that the poet's had it wrong--it wasn't only blue eyes that could be fathomless pools.

"Shep!"

He winced. It wasn't quite a bark, but it came close. "Careful, I might take you up on that." He turned and followed Merle.

Gil watched him go, murmuring, "I really hope you do."

Enthralled, 5

Queenie sniffed, pulling his collar a little higher as he, Gil, and Nicky strolled up the street. "Why couldn't we go to that party with Euphemia?"

"Euphemia," said Gil quietly, "is more of a cat than Pyewacket."

"And she's more of a bitch than any dog," Nicky added cheerfully. "Besides, you don't even like her."

"I don't," Queenie admitted, "but it was an invitation, after all."

Nicky slung an arm around Gil's shoulders. "It was just to get Gil to her tatty little soiree, and you know it. She has the hots for my darling brother, and just can't understand why it isn't mutual." Nicky gave Gil a fond squeeze. "Want me to tell her? I'll say, 'Pheamy, old girl--drop the knocker for block-and-tackle, get extensive plastic surgery, then have a complete personality transplant, and maybe Gil won't shudder every time you get within ten feet of him."

Gil shoved Nicky away, but he was smiling. "Careful, Nicky. She might not be much to look at, but she can wield a hex with the best of us."

"Not you," said Queenie complacently. "No one holds a candle to you, Gil. You're a... a... prodigy. All the others are jealous."

Gil sighed. "Yes, jealousy is one emotion we do quite well."

Queenie and Nicky exchanged glances at Gil's wistful tone. Nicky said, "Say, Gil--are you...?"

"I thought it would be nice to go ahead and exchange presents tonight." Gil managed to break into Nicky's question without seeming hurried. As he knew it would, the mention of presents took hold of his companions' thoughts, leaving no room to feel curious about his own state.

They walked a little farther, Queenie chattering along cheerfully, gossiping without shame about everyone they'd seen at the club. Gil noticed that Nicky had fallen a little behind. He paused and turned around to check up on him. Nicky was gazing up at a streetlamp, his expression intend--and mischievous. Queenie finally noticed that he was walking alone and came back, looking between his two nephews. "What, pray tell, is going on?"

"Watch this." Nicky stared at the lamp. The air around him seemed to thicken for a moment, as if he were in the midst of a faint, contained fog. Then Nicky flung his hand out toward the light. There was an almost inaudible sound, like out-of-tune wind chimes, far, far away--and the light went out.

Queenie squealed, hopping up and down, clapping his hands. "Nicky, that's MARVELOUS!" Nicky made a flourishing bow. "Do it again!" Nicky repeated the performance, and another street lamp farther up the street winked into darkness. "Wonderful!" Encouraged, Nicky snuffed out still another lamp. "Oh, I could never do that. I'm sure it would just exhaust me. Isn't it terrific, Gil?"

Gil nodded indulgently. "Very impressive, Nicky."

Nicky's smile was smug. "I've been practicing."

"Tell me--can you re-light them?" Nicky looked at him silently. "I'm just thinking that three street lamps going dead, for no apparent reason--on our block--might make the Mundanes just a wee bit curious."

"I thought..."

"No, Nicky--you didn't think. That's the problem."

Nicky drooped. "I just wanted..." he trailed off.

"You just wanted to show off a little, and that's okay. You SHOULD be proud when you learn something new." Gil went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. His voice was firm, but gentle. "Nicky, dearest, you have to THINK." He glanced at a glum Queenie. "Both of you. I swear, sometimes you make me feel a hundred years old. That's going to come soon enough without your help, darlings, so have a little mercy on my nerves. I'm not trying to be mean, you know that." Both the other men nodded. "It's just that you're both such children, and this family has to have at least one adult. It seems I've been designated." He smiled. "But children need their presents."

That perked them back up, as he knew it would, and he walked the rest of the way, ignoring their teasing for clues. Gil was satisfied that he'd avoided awkward discussions of emotions when, out of the blue, Nicky said, "Say, you like that Mundane guy, don't you?"

Queenie jumped on the new topic like Pyewacket confronted with a mouse. "He DOES! It's perfectly obvious. Even that dreadful woman Mister Henderson was with could tell, I'm sure." Queenie nodded sagely. "Jealous, and rightly so. Who WOULDN'T prefer our Gil?"

Nicky swung around a lamppost. "True. And hey, there's nothing wrong with having a little fun with a Mundane every now and then. Some of them can be pretty interesting. So, you going to take him away, Gil?"

Gil stopped, shooting him a stern look. "I am NOT."

Nicky blinked at him. "But you like him, right? All it would take would be a quick..." He wiggled his fingers.

"You'll never believe it, Nicky," Queenie confided, "but Gil feels it wouldn't be right to break up Mister Henderson's engagement, just because he fancies him."

Nicky laughed. Then he looked more closely at Gil, and said wonderingly, "You MEAN that! Gil!"

"I'm not a beau-snatcher, Nicky. I'd like to think I'm above deliberately trying to worm a man away from someone else just because I fancy him, and..." Gil's lip curled, "I DIS-like the someone."

Nicky shrugged. "Well, if you're going to get all ethical at this stage of the game..."

They'd reached the shop. Pyewacket was sitting in front of it, tail curled neatly around his feet. He squeaked at Gil, and the young man bent down and picked him up. He scratched the cat under the chin. "If I did decide to go after him, I'd like to do it the normal way." Queenie and Nicky lifted their eyebrows. "You know what I mean." He nuzzled Pyewacket. "Without any help. Just myself. I believe that, with a little time, I could woo him away from that bitch." Gilbert sighed, then set Pyewacket down and started to reach into his pocket.

Queenie grabbed at his arm. "Wait, wait! Oh, Gil, let me!"

Nicky eagerly jostled closer. "No, me! C'mon, I'm hot tonight!"

Gil had his keys in his hands. "Honestly, you two."

"Please!" It was a chorus.

"Oh, all right, but just one of you. If you both try it, the door is liable to blow off the hinges, like it did last year. I got the oddest looks from the repairmen."

Queenie and Nicky squabbled vigorously for a moment over who would open the door. Nicky eventually won by looking pathetic, but he had to promise Queenie to get the older man a discount on his next purchase at the herbal store that employed Nicky. Nicky concentrated and gestured at the door as he had the street lamps, and there was a subdued click as the lock disengaged. Queenie and Gil applauded, and he took a bow before they went in.

They gathered around the small tree back in the living quarters, and Gil handed Queenie and Nicky gaily wrapped packages. "Happy Christmas, dear hearts."

Nicky admired his package, then sighed. "I haven't got much for you, Gil. I've just barely been able to make ends meet. Why is it that even the ones of us who are really GOOD at magic aren't rich?"

"Gil could be, if he wanted," said Queenie, shaking his box experimentally. "Gil could just turn and twist Wall Street any way he wanted, if he really put his mind to it."

"No," Gil said flatly. "You know very well that there are risks involved in something like that. It wouldn't just affect me, it would affect thousands of others--if not millions. No, magic is tricky enough when you use it to change your own life. If you change other peoples' lives it can be hazardous."

Nicky shrugged, then started to rip open his package. "There go those pesky ethics again. Ya know, they can really cramp your style." He held up his revealed present joyfully. "A record! 'Get You Kicks With Hot Licks, by the Too Cool Combo'!" He hugged it. "Oh, I've been wanting this! Thanks, Gil. It would be the most perfect gift I'd ever gotten--if I actually had a phonograph."

Gil's lips quirked in a faint smile. "You'll find a surprise when you get home."

Nicky whooped and swept over, enveloping his brother in a hug. "Isn't he GREAT?"

"He's a wonder." Queenie had opened his package, and pulled out a long, colorful swath of fringed silk. "A shawl. Oh, Gil, it's beautiful." He draped it over his shoulders, stroking it. "So many colors! It'll go with absolutely everything." Queenie paused, then said significantly, "What does it do?"

Gil kissed him on the cheek. "It makes you look fantastic."

Queenie looked interested. "A glamour?"

Nicky laughed, and Gil said, "No, it brings out the color of your eyes, and it will keep you warm."

"Oh." Queenie's voice fell a little. "It's... a shawl." Gil nodded. Queenie perked up again, looking at himself in a mirror on the wall. "Still, it's very nice. I love it. Thank you, Gil."

"You're welcome." He held out his hand toward Nicky. "You said something about a present."

Nicky snapped his fingers, then went to where he'd hung his coat and dug in the pocket. "Queenie gave me half for this, but I picked it out, so it's from both of us." He handed a small package to Gil, who unwrapped it to reveal a small glass jar. "Merry Christmas, Gil. It's a summoning spell. It's supposed to be able to call someone to you. Supposed to." He shrugged. "We couldn't afford one with an unconditional guarantee."

Gil turned the jar in his hands. "I've heard about these. Do you suppose it works."

Queenie, eager for any excitement, rubbed his hands together. "We could try it."

Nicky looked at Gil. "Is there anyone you'd like to summon?" Gil smiled. "Oh, come on, Gil--not Henderson. He lives upstairs--it wouldn't be a fair test. We need a challenge."

"I have an idea," said Gil. "How do we work this?"

"Wait--I have instructions." Nicky pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. "First off, we need a picture of the person you want to summon. Hm, so this will only work on known quantities. You can't just demand the man of your dreams."

"That's not a problem." Gil picked up a book and tore the back off the dust jacket, handing it over to Nicky.

Nicky looked at it, reading the caption. "Sidney Redlitch. Hm." He gave a cheerfully carnal smile. "Can't fault your choice."

"I'm so glad you approve. What else?"

"We have to paint the liquid on the picture, then burn it."

"Queenie, look in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I think I have an old pastry brush there. Nicky, get that bowl over there. No, no--not the ceramic--the bronze. That's the one. Everyone gather here at the table."

They converged on the couch, Nicky putting the large bronze bowl in the center of the coffee table. Gil opened the jar, and Queenie handed over the slightly shaggy pastry brush. Gil dipped the brush in the jar and brushed a thin layer of slightly green liquid over the author's picture. "Mm. Smells like limes." He placed the picture in the bowl. "Do we need to let it dry?"

Nicky had pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. "They don't say so. Ready?" At Gil's nod, he lit the match with a flick of his thumb and dropped it in the bowl, on top of the photo. There was a small, immediate burst of flame, licking up to the rim of the bowl.

"Do we need to chant, or anything?" asked Queenie.

"No," said Nicky, "but we need to..." he read, "we need to concentrate on the one we're trying to summon. Do you know where he is now?"

"Acapulco," murmured Gil, eyes fixed on the flames. They were green.

"Great. Let's all think about Acapulco, and Sidney Redlitch, and how much he needs to come here." They all fell silent and stared at the flames, which gradually rose, as the photograph was consumed. Soon they were flickering a good two feet over the rim of the bowl. It was mesmerizing.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Shep was passing through the lobby, ready to go upstairs to his apartment. It had been a hell of an evening, and he badly wanted his bed. But he glanced reflexively at the window that led into Gilbert Holroyd's shop, and his eye was caught. He frowned, coming down off the step and going closer to the window. Something was wrong. Instead of complete darkness, or a steady, dim light there was flickering. He felt a stab of alarm. *Like fire! But green?*

He hurried back outside, going to the shop door. He raised a hand to knock, instinctively grabbing the knob to rattle it. The knob turned easily. Normally he'd never do such a thing, but if there was a chance of fire... He pushed the door open and went in quickly.

The curtain wasn't quite drawn closed across the back of the room, and the flickering light was coming from back there. He hurried over and swept back the curtain.

Queenie, Gil, and Nicky were all sitting on the couch before a bowl full of green flame. None of them looked the least alarmed--not by the fire, or by Shep's sudden appearance. Queenie did look a little puzzled, though. He said, "Well, we weren't expecting YOU."

Shep indicated the bowl. "I saw your fireworks. Is everything okay?"

"It's a family game," said Gil smoothly.

"Isn't that a little dangerous?"

"Not when you know how to control it." He picked up a silver drinks tray and slid it over the bowl. When he removed it there was no more flame, only a few wisps of greenish smoke.

Shep looked from Gil, to Queenie, to Nicky. "Who won?"

Nicky chuckled. "I think Gil did."

Gil said, "Shep, how did you get in?"

"I thought I saw flames, and the door was open," said Shep.

"Oh, it was? I was sure I locked it." Gil gave Nicky a hard look. "I wonder if the locking mechanism was somehow tampered with."

Nicky cleared his throat. "Queenie, sweetheart, it's time for you and me to toddle, dontcha think?"

"But Mister Henderson just got here," Queenie protested.

"Exactly."

Queenie raised his eyebrows. "O-o-h. Yes, you're right. Lovely to see you again, Mister Henderson," said Queenie as Nicky helped him into his coat.

Nicky raised his voice to Gil. "You'll let us know how that thing works out, huh, Gil? I'm dying to know." He gave Shep a wink and led Queenie out.

When they'd gone, Gil said, "Thank you so much for being a good neighbor, Shep."

"Not at all. Honestly, I was, uh, sort of hoping I could take you up on that rain check for a drink."

Gilbert smiled at him warmly. "Of course. Brandy?"

"That would be excellent."

"Take off your coat, have a seat."

Gil went over to a sideboard and got two snifters, then reached for a decanter. Shep said, "I'm not sure I should... I mean, I don't want to just gulp and run, but I can't stay long. I really need to get to bed. It's been a long evening, and I have a big day ahead tomorrow."

"Shep, brandy is not meant to be drunk quickly--it's meant to be savored and considered. Now, take off your coat and get comfortable."

Shep smiled. "Yes, sir." While Gil poured amber liquor into each glass, Shep took off his coat, draped it over the couch arm, and sat down.

"So, did you enjoy the Zodiac Club?"

"Yeah, I did."

"You sound surprised."

"I am--a little. I would have thought it wasn't my type of place. But while it was more like Halloween than Christmas, I really enjoyed myself." Pyewacket came out of the kitchen, trotting over to jump on the couch beside Shep. "Hey, kitty." Shep reached out toward the cat. Pyewacket hissed sharply, batting at his hand. "Oops, sorry!"

Gil had turned back in time to see the attempted scratch. "Pye! That is horribly rude." He went to the couch and handed a glass to Shep, then shoved the cat off the couch. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Shep came over here to save us from a horrible death by burning."

Shep chuckled as Gilbert sat beside him. "I'm no hero."

"Maybe not, but you ARE a good neighbor." Gilbert sipped his brandy, leaning back on the couch. "I feel better knowing that you're just upstairs--in case anything happens."

Shep took a sip of his own drink. "That's very flattering. I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to make you feel secure much longer, though."

Gil frowned. "You're not moving? You just moved in. Surely you have a lease?"

"Yes, I do, and it's going to be just one more hurdle I'm going to have to jump. I swear, Merle doesn't work at making things easy for me."

Gil's eyes narrowed. *I might have known she'd have something to do with it.* "Yes?"

His tone invited Shep to confide in him. Later Gil cursed the fact that all witches were not precognizant, like some Mundanes seemed to think. He wasn't himself, or he was sure he'd have been better prepared for what was coming next.

Shep sighed, staring into his glass. "I'm getting married--tomorrow."

Chapter Six

Shepherd was busy looking into his glass, and he didn't see Gilbert's eyes narrow. In fact, they almost seemed to slant a bit. In that instance, despite the fact that his eyes were brown instead of blue, Gilbert looked quite a bit like Pyewacket. Still, his voice was calm as he said, "I knew you were engaged, but I gathered that the nuptials were at some undefined point in the future."

"That's what I thought, too. Merle was making noises about a June wedding. That was fine with me. I mean, considering the elaborate plans she was making, I'm sure it would take at least six months to arrange everything to her satisfaction."

Pyewacket, after his eviction from the couch, had been sulking on the far side of the room. He immediately picked up on Gilbert's mood shift. Gil had been feeling warm and cozy with this other human, radiating interest and anticipation. Now the overwhelming sense Pyewacket was getting from his was annoyance, bordering on indignation, or actual anger. Oddly enough, it wasn't directed at the man sitting beside him. No, his interest in that fellow had markedly sharpened. When Gil was this involved with someone, it was time to take an interest in them, too.

Pyewacket trotted over to the end of the couch and leaped up on the back. Shep gave him a slightly startled glance as Gilbert said. "It just seems very sudden."

"It is," Shep agreed, eyeing the cat, who had begun to step daintily along the couch back. "I have to tell you, I'm at a loss. Yesterday she was looking over lists of caterers, showing me swatches of material for bridesmaid dresses... They were godawful colors, by the way. Sort of like lurid sherbet--lime, pineapple, or raspberry."

"I've heard that brides deliberately give their attendants hideous dresses, so as to make themselves look that much better on their wedding day."

Shep laughed. "I'd never heard that, but it does sound like something Merle would do." He realized how that must sound and said hastily, "Not that she's a spiteful girl. She's just devoted to looking her best at all times." Pyewacket had approached almost to his shoulder and had lifted his head, sniffing delicately at Shep. Shep sneezed. "Excuse me. No, she was having phone conversations with my mother about whether there should be a wedding supper, or a wedding breakfast, how many tiers we should have on the cake..." Pyewacket was nuzzling his shoulder. Shep sneezed. "Excuse me. He seems to be feeling a little friendlier toward me."

"He's getting to know you. It sounds like Merle was willing to invest a lot of time and effort into this." *And a lot you your money.*

"Yeah. But then suddenly this evening she decides we ought to elope." Shep grinned sheepishly. "I almost tripped into the gutter when she told me. It's such... such..."

"Such an un-Merle thing?"

"Exactly! It happened right after we left the Zodiac club. I think I'd just said something about maybe we should see about getting together with you for cocktails, or dinner, or something. You know, start building a circle of mutual friends instead of just her friends, and just my friends."

Shep finished his drink and was setting aside the glass, so he didn't notice Gil's expression. *And that's it, isn't it?* Gil thought angrily. *Little Miss Merle scented some interest on my part, and more importantly, on your part, too. She doesn't want to lose you, Shep, but losing you to ME--that would gall her most bitterly. She never has forgiven me for turning her down. She's not about to risk having us take an interest in each other, not even for a Vanity Fair wedding. So, she's moving to get you tied up, nice and legal, before anything can happen. Because after that nothing would happen, would it? You're not that kind, Shep. When you take a vow, you'll break your neck trying to keep it, won't you?*

When Shep had leaned forward to set down his glass, Pyewacket had walked behind him. When Shep sat back, the cat leaned against the back of his head. Shep found himself with a tail tickling one cheek, and whiskers tickling the other. He sneezed violently, three times in a row. "Excuse me. You know, I think I may be allergic to your cat. It's funny--I've never noticed other cats affecting me like this."

"Pyewacket is special." Gilbert set down his own glass and reached over, plucking Pyewacket off the sofa back.

Shep had taken out a handkerchief, and now he blew his nose. "You don't say 'bless you'."

"I'm sorry."

"A lot of people don't. I guess it's a little old fashioned."

"I only call down blessings on serious matters. I WILL say gesundheit... Let's see... five times." Shep smiled at that. "There--you're smiling again. You were looking a little worried." He cuddled Pyewacket in his arms, and began rhythmically stroking the cat's head.

Shep considered this. "I hadn't thought of it before, but I suppose you're right. I AM a little worried. I mean, Merle and I have known each other for some time, and I was happy enough with the way things were going, and now it seems like she's just... just..."

"Jumping the gun?"

"Jumping at me." Shep flushed. "That didn't sound right. She's a lovely girl."

*Oh, sure she is--for someone. But not for you, Shep. I have to do something about this.* Pyewacket started to purr, and began kneading at his arm, claws barely pricking. *Yes, Pye--WE have to do something about this. All right, my little imp. You know what I want. Help me get it.*

Shep was continuing. "I mean, not just physically. Oh, there is that. But... but... her sense of style. Yes, Merle is very stylish. Dash, I think she calls it. You know, stylish, without being extreme or..." his eyes flicked to Gil for the briefest second, "exotic." He swallowed, then said firmly, "But she has a lot of wonderful characteristics, too."

*Isn't he sweet? Trying to convince himself. Nothing overwhelming, Pye.* The cat twisted his head to look at Gil questioningly. *No, I mean it. Don't force him to love me. I don't think that will be necessary. I think that all we need to do is just... set him free. You know--lower the inhibitions.* Gil watched the way Shep was gesturing as he tried to enumerate Merle's good qualities. Such big hands. *Bring them WAY down, Pye. I want them to hit the floor. I want him to have absolutely nothing between himself and an awareness of what he really wants.* The cat made a breathy, assenting sound, and turned his eyes back to Shep. The purring intensified.

"She's intelligent. She was in the top ten percent of her class at Vassar, you know. And it isn't just cold intellectualism. She's interested in philosophy, too. If it's been discussed in the Sunday supplement, by golly, she's going to read up on it. She can hold her own in any cocktail party you set her down in."

Even as he spoke, Shep realized that Merle was sounding a tad shallow, despite his best intentions. He was trying to be fair and loyal, but somehow... Somehow with the cat's blue, and Gilbert's brown, eyes fixed on him, he just couldn't sound as sincere about Merle's sterling qualities as he meant to. And he was glad that he hadn't decided to start praising Merle's physical charms, because every time he looked at the man sitting beside him, Merle began to seem a bit--overblown.

*Why is he staring at me like that? It's making me feel like my clothes are a size too tight.* "And artistic. Merle is very artistic. She paints, you know."

"Mm." Gilbert's voice was soft. "I seem to recall floral still lifes. Lots of them. I remember thinking they'd look rather good on a greeting card--or perhaps a box of chocolates."

"She's trying to get away from that. She's trying to be more modern, but you're right--they do come out looking like something someone would give for Mother's Day. Unless she goes to the extreme. Her housekeeper once said they looked like something you might find growing on Mars. Merle didn't think that was funny." He blinked. "Come to think of it, she fired the woman soon after that."

"Let me guess--she drank?" said Gil dryly.

"Merle was convinced she stole one of her pins. Y'know, the funny thing is, I saw Merle wearing that brooch a week later, and she said she'd found it pinned to a suit. Apparently she'd just forgotten it. She never hunted the woman up and gave her the job back, though."

"Surprising." Gil snuggled Pyewacket higher, resting his chin on the cat's head, and he began to hum.

"And she works for charities. That's a big thing among the women of her circle." He laughed a little nervously. "Sometimes you'd think there was a competition as to who had their names on the most committees. I told her once that it seemed like all they ever did was have luncheon meetings to plan balls and bazaars." He seemed to think of something. "And I remember once I asked her how much of the money they raised went to the charity, and she said something about costs, expenses, administration fees..." *He's humming. What is that tune? I feel like I ought to know it.* "When I asked for a round figure she got kind of huffy. Said she'd have taken business courses if she'd thought she was going to have to account for her generous endeavors." *God, that's infectious. I'm going to be hearing that tune in my sleep tonight. It sort of gets into the blood.*

There was a soft thud, and Shep looked over to find Gilbert toeing off his other shoe. "You don't mind, do you?" He wiggled his toes, and Shep found himself captivated by the supple flex. "I've already confessed how I like to be comfortable."

"No, no. It's your home, after all."

"But I want you to feel at home, too, Shep." Cradling Pyewacket in one arm, Gil reached up with the other, and tugged free the tie that was holding his hair in a ponytail. The shining blond tresses spilled free, brushing over his shoulders. "I want you to be comfortable here." Shep stared at him. One lock had fallen, half covering the side of his face. Shep found himself thinking that Veronica Lake was the SECOND best looking person ever to use that hairstyle. "Are you, Shep?"

Pyewacket's purring was louder, a soft, steady rumble. *OhjesushecaughtmestaringandhethinksI'mweird.* "Am I what?"

Gil smiled. "Comfortable?"

"Oh. Well... I'm all right, I suppose." Gil's eyes were fixed on his face. Shep felt like no one in the world had ever really SEEN him till this man, at this moment. He began again desperately. "I know that Merle isn't exactly the most demonstrative woman in the world. Some people think she's a little cool." *He's humming again. God, I can feel it in my BONES. It's like I'm vibrating in tune with his humming and that cat's purring.* "And maybe she's a little, uh, fastidious about physical..." He stopped, blushing hotly.

Gilbert wasn't going to let him escape that gaffe, though. "Yes? That's how she's always struck me, too. I get the feeling that Merle isn't at ease with her sexuality." Shep swallowed hard, and Gil tsked. "Oh, now I've shocked you. But Shep, that's something you have to consider, if you're going to marry. Physical intimacy is vital to a loving relationship. Doesn't Merle enjoy making love?"

"I shouldn't be discussing this," Shep said faintly.

"I'm sorry. I AM being rude. Perhaps..."

"I wouldn't know." Shep stared at Gil, and his shoulders drooped a little. "We haven't."

"Oh."

Shep sighed. "Kind of strange for this day and age, huh?"

"No. A bit old fashioned, perhaps, but rather sweet."

Now Shep's voice was a little frustrated. "I'd agree, if I thought it was for honor, or purity, or whatever you want to call it." He shook his head. "I think Merle just doesn't want to deal with the bother and the mess."

Gil shook his head sadly. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Neither do I."

"I believe that if you're really attracted to someone--if you want to be with them--well, you should show it." His voice dropped a little. "In every way." There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other. "Shep, you're flushed."

"I'm all right."

Gil let Pyewacket slip to the ground and half turned. He bent his left leg at the knee, planting his foot on the sofa, while his right foot stayed on the floor. The pose was casual--and wanton. He reached over. "But you're breathing has gotten heavier, too. I'm concerned." Long, elegant fingers loosened the knot on Shep's tie. "Let me try to make it a little easier for you."

"Gil..."

"Yes, Shep?" The tie dropped to the coffee table. Gilbert began to unbutton Shep's collar. "Just a moment, and you'll feel much better." He smiled. "Freer."

Shep reached up and caught Gil's wrists, stopping his hands. He was staring right into Gil's eyes. "I'm going to marry Merle."

"So you've said," Gil said softly.

"I am." His hands tightened on Gil's wrists. *What am I doing? I can't just touch him like this. I'm holding him too hard. It must hurt. Why doesn't he say something? Why doesn't he tell me to let go? Why doesn't he look disgusted, or afraid? He looks... he looks...*

Gilbert didn't pull away. He leaned forward. "If that's what you really want, Shep. I only want you to have... what you really..." Shep was staring at his mouth. Gilbert smiled a little as he breathed, "desire."

Shep made a strangled sound. He lunged forward, his mouth coming down on Gilbert's. At the same time he tugged on Gil's wrists, pulling till the man's hands were on either side of Shep's waist, almost as if he were embracing him. He'd kissed Merle before. Hell, they were engaged--of course he'd kissed her. But it had never been anything like this.

Gilbert's lips were firmer than Merle's, but still soft. And they didn't stay primly pressed together. To Shep's near bewilderment, they parted, and he felt Gil's tongue dab delicately at his mouth. With a moan he opened, and Gil's tongue flicked inside, stroking over his own in a touch that sent a surge of blood through his body, the heat seeming to coalesce in his crotch. He could feel himself starting to get hard--just from this one, brief kiss.

Shep jerked his head back, but he didn't let go of Gil. He was gasping, and Gilbert's breath was coming more deeply, too. There was a slight pink tint in the younger man's cheeks, and his brown eyes were wide, and sparkling. Shep murmured, "I don't know what..."

"Shep Henderson," the tone was a low, sensual growl. "If you dare to apologize for kissing me," he smiled slowly, "I'll have to punish you."

"I just... Gil, I don't know why all of a sudden I..."

Gil turned his hands. Without seeming to strain, he'd pulled loose from Shep's grip, and now he was holding Shep's wrists. His thumbs stroked over the underside, feeling the pulse. "Don't you? And it really isn't all that sudden, is it, Shep? Haven't you been feeling it since we met? Haven't you felt things like this before?"

Shep licked his lips. "Nothing like this."

Gil dipped his head, letting his hair trail over the back of Shep's hands, smiling secretly as he felt the other man shiver. "But something similar, if not as strong?"

"Yes," Shep said faintly. *Oh, God, I was never going to admit that to anyone.*

"You've looked at other men before and wondered what it would be like to touch them, to have them touch you."

"Yes. But I didn't--I never did."

"I know." Gil leaned toward him again, lifting his face. "Maybe you've just been waiting for the RIGHT man."

This time Gil kissed Shep. Shep's lips parted quickly, and after that first touch it was Shep who took control of the kiss. His lips moved on Gilbert's hungrily, his tongue explored and tasted. Still holding Shep's wrists, Gilbert leaned back slowly. Shep followed him down, till he was half lying on top of Gil, between his legs.

Shep groaned into Gil's mouth as their groins came together, and he jerked felt the firm press of another man's erection for the first time. The look he gave Gil was wondering, but almost stricken. Gil moved quickly, wrapping his legs around Shep's waist, whispering, "Sh, it's all right, Shep." He humped up, rubbing against Shep, whispering. "It's all right to feel like this." He caressed Shep's cheek, smiling when the other man turned his face into his palm. "I want this, too."

"You do?"

Gil nodded almost solemnly. "This, and a lot more. I'll show you." He reached down between them, finding Shep's belt. Shep drew in a breath, and Gil said, "Don't be afraid. We're not going to hurt each other, Shep--not in any way." He had the belt open, and was unzipping the fly. "Just relax. I'll make you feel good, and I'll show you how to do the same for me."

Shep closed his eyes as he felt Gil's hand slip into his trousers, warm fingers stroking over the cloth-clad solidness of his erection. "You've done this... lots?" *Oh, damn, why don't I just call him a slut?*

Gil's voice was amused rather than insulted. "More than a monk, less than a prostitute." He kissed Shep softly. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Shep said honestly. "I'm glad one of knows what he's doing."

Gil laughed. "Always a good idea. What have," he'd found the comfort slit in Shep's boxers, "we here?" Shep dropped his head, pressing his cheek against Gil's shoulder. "Mmm, I think this is going to be my very favorite Christmas present." Shep humped, thrusting his cock deeper into Gil's grip. "I KNOW it is."

Shep's voice was muffled. "I don't know what to do."

Shep's ear was convenient, and Gil took the opportunity to nibble it. "I think you'll learn quickly." He squeezed, and chuckled in delight when Shep responded by growling. "But we'll keep it simple this first time." He unhooked his legs. "Lift up for a minute."

Shep pressed his hands on either side of Gil, levering himself up a few inches, and Gil quickly shoved the other man's pants and underwear past the curve of his ass, half-way down his thighs. Gil reached for his own belt, and was a little surprised when Shep shifted quickly, kneeling on the couch between Gil's spread legs, and catching his hands. "Let me." Gil lay back as Shep unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, then reached into the gap. Gil closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as Shep closed his hand around his hard on--and gave it a firm stroke. "You're hard already."

Gil's voice was throaty. "You do that to me, Shep."

Shep stroked him again. "I want to do more than that to you."

Gil lifted his ass, shoving his own clothes down. "Then do it." As Shep lowered himself again, Gil reached back, and gripped the older man's ass, fingers sinking slightly into the crease, massaging. Shep had never thought of his ass as an erogenous zone. He could see he'd have to rethink things. Even the very slight prick of Gil's nails as he tugged him down more firmly was erotic. "Just do what feels good." As Shep started to move against him, Gil sighed, "There'll be plenty of time for picking and choosing later."

The thought that, should he wish, this did not have to be an isolated encounter, fired Shep's blood even more. He thrust against Gil, relishing the firm muscles, the sturdy frame. When he was with a woman, he always felt like he HAD to be gentle and careful--for their safety. With Gil he felt like it was a choice. If he became more forceful Gil wouldn't break. In fact, he was urging Shep on to stronger efforts, shoving up to meet him, murmuring encouragement, telling him how good it felt, how much he was enjoying it.

It was different. He was used only to the wet clasp of a woman's body, but he found to his surprise that this was even more pleasurable. Then Gil pulled his head down, kissed him, and whispered, "I want you to fuck me later, Shep. I want to feel you inside me," and Shep realized that something akin to what he was used to WAS possible. A thought of himself buried in Gil's body, feeling heat and tightness, hearing Gil make pleased noises, flashed through his mind, and he went a little crazy.

Gil just held on, throwing his head back as Shep's hot, hard flesh rubbed against his own, rubbing slickness along his length, across his thighs and belly. Shep buried his hands in Gil's hair, holding his head firmly, and kissed him again, hard, sucking on his tongue. Gil whimpered as he felt the strong, hot gush of Shep's seed on his belly. An instant later his own orgasm struck him, and he clutched Shep's shoulders, listening as his new lover gasped out his name.

They lay there for a few moments, breath slowing. Pyewacket watched from his perch on a bookshelf. Then he jumped down, landing so lightly that there was no thump to disturb the lovers. He strolled out to the front room, thinking that if he could manage to get the front door open, he might go pay that Persian another visit.

Gil ran his hands through Shep's thick brown hair. He knew that at this moment he ought to be discreet, but he just couldn't. He was feeling too satisfied, and a little smug. Besides, it might be a good idea to test how strongly Shep was caught. "Was I as good as Merle?"

Shep sighed, dropping a kiss at the corner of Gil's mouth. "Merle who?"

END PART 6