Gothika: Tales of Love and the Supernatural Read online

  Gothika: Tales of Love and the Supernatural by Eli Easton

  First Edition published October, 2020

  These stories were individually printed in the four volumes of Gothika by Dreamspinner Press 2014-2015. They are collected together in one volume in this edition for the first time.

  © 2020 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  Reparation © 2014 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  Among The Dead © 2015 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  The Black Dog © 2015 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  The Bird © 2014 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  Cover Art by Jane Holmes

  Published by Pinkerton Road LLC

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of

  international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution.

  Please do not loan or give this ebook to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means.

  The author earns her living from sales of her work. Please support the arts!

  DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK.

  Contents

  Blurb

  Acknowledgements

  Reparation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Bird

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Among The Dead

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Black Dog

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Also By Eli Easton

  About the Author

  GOTHIKA: TALES OF LOVE AND THE SUPERNATURAL by Eli Easton

  If you’re in the mood for romance with a tinge of darkness, immerse yourself in these four tales of love and gothic horror in this anthology from Eli Easton. Each story is novella length.

  Reparation

  On the harsh planet of Kalan, weakness is not tolerated. When young spore farmer Edward suffers an carriage accident that kills his mail-order bride and his factory manager, Edward has little chance of survival, until Knox—an enormous “reconstitute” slave—plucks him from disaster.

  Recons are part machine, part human remains from executed Federation prisoners. But Knox is different from other recons. He can read and has flashes of brilliance. With no one else to rely on over the bleak winter, Edward forms an alliance with Knox, and against social taboos, they become friends. Edward struggles against his growing lust for the large humanoid, and while Knox thrives in his new life, memories of his past torment him.

  A twist of fate brought Knox and Edward together, but there will be a price to pay in blood when they learn how deeply their lives truly intersect

  “The Bird”

  Colin Hastings is sent to Jamaica in 1870 to save his father’s sugar cane plantation. If he succeeds, he can marry his fiancée back in London and take his place in proper English society. But Colin finds more than he bargained for on the island. His curiosity about Obeah, the native folk magic, leads him to agree to a dangerous ritual where he is offered his heart’s most secret desire—one he’s kept deeply buried all his life. What happens when a proper English gentleman has his true sensual nature revealed and freed by the Obeah spirits?

  “Among the Dead”

  Every since his accident, Neil Gaven sees dead people. He’s isolated himself, unable to bear the constant barrage of sadness and grief. But a gentle ghost grabs his attention on the bus one day. He seems to understand, to have some secret to impart. Neil works to interpret the ghost’s clues. They they lead him to Trist, a homeless young man who is also tormented by spirits. Are they two of a kind? Maybe together they can find a way to live among the dead.

  The Black Dog

  Constable Hayden MacLairty is used to life being dull around the tiny hamlet of Laide on the north Scottish coast. They get occasional tourists, “monster hunters” interested in the local legend of the Black Dog, but Hayden thinks that’s only a myth. A rash of sheep killings, a murdered hiker, huge footprints, and sightings of the Black Dog force Hayden to rethink the matter. With the help of Simon Corto, a writer from New York doing research for a book about the Black Dog, Hayden tries to figure out why the enormous hound is reappearing. Hayden finds himself strongly attracted to another person for the first time in his life. But between the danger stalking the hills, Simon’s inevitable return to New York, and Hayden’s mother’s illness, true love may be more of a phantom than the Black Dog.

  Acknowledgements

  These four novellas were originally published in Dreamspinner Press in four volumes of the Gothika series. Those volumes also included stories by Kim Fielding, Jamie Fessenden, BG Thomas, and Sue Brown. This volume collects all four of my GOTHIKA stories into a single volume.

  The idea for a series of gay romances with gothic/horror plotlines came about as Jamie Fessenden and I, both gay romance authors, discussed our love of horror books and movies. Thanks to Jamie for the inspiration, to Kim, Sue, and BG for sharing the adventure, and to Dreamspinner Press for their work in publishing this series.

  I have loved horror ever since my brother-in-law handed me Carrie by Stephen King when I was twelve years old. It was such a treat to write stories that merge my love of romance and my love of gothic horror. There are bits of many of my favorite books here, from Frankenstein to Wuthering Heights to An American Werewolf in London.

  Don’t be afraid. These tales have more of a gothic setting and tone than any real gore or scares. So cuddle up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and enjoy a dollop of darkness with your romance.

  Eli

  Reparation

  Chapter 1

  Edward opened his eyes and looked up into a hazy purple mist that was struck through with flickering tongues of lightening and swirled into eddies by the wind. A storm. I’m outside and there’s a storm coming.

  That was his first conscious thought. And then he remembered everything. He was lying on the rocky ground and he tried to sit up, but his right leg screamed in pain. His hands curled into fists at the agony, and he dropped back to the ground. He turned his head, looking for….

  The coach. It laid its side like a dead beetle, its shiny, cream-colored fiberglass splintered and cracked, its undercarriage still smoking from where something—probably a rock—had struck it. Oh gods. Please, no.

  They’d been on their way back from a wedding, that of the Carlson’s firstborn son and heir. The Carlson farm was two hours away by coach, and they had lingered overlong. Anese had been reluctant to leave. She’d clung to the rare social gathering like a child to a favorite toy at bedtime, and guilt had robbed Edward of the will to force her out the door. On the way home, the stor
m had come up from nowhere. Signis had pushed the coach too fast, trying to outrace it. They’d nearly been home, and then—then there’d been a terrific grinding crash as something hit their undercarriage and—

  Anese. Edward gritted his teeth and forced himself to move. He crawled on his elbows toward the carriage, dragging his howling agony of a leg behind. The wound was pumping out blood. He could feel it, hot and slick, soaking into his pants farther and farther down his leg. Moving only made it worse, but what did it matter? Whether he moved or not, he was a dead man.

  The rocky surface of the road dug brutally into his elbows and knees as he crawled. Kalanite, the lovely lavender rocks that made up the planet’s surface, were harder than a priest’s conscience. No wheeled vehicle could survive long; only hydraulic hovercraft travelled the roads of Kalan—or crashed here.

  He reached the coach and pulled himself up the undercarriage, then pried open the door that now faced the sky. He’d been flung from inside, so the door must have opened and snapped shut again, ejecting him into the air at some point in between. It might have been an amusing image, were it a children’s game. It wasn’t.

  The emergency face masks hung inside the door. Edward felt for one and grabbed it, pulling it off the wall. He got it over his head and breathed deep, feeling the sick lightheadedness caused by the spores begin to fade.

  He had not lain there long, then. And the growing wind of the storm helped, blowing the spores away. By all rights, he should be dead already. Invigorated by the filtered air, Edward pulled himself up further to peer into the coach.

  Anese was lying against the far door. Both of her small, white hands lay palm up in her lap as if in supplication. Her eyes were closed, her young face as blank as a winter’s dawn. Her neck was bent awkwardly and unnaturally to the right.

  Edward closed his eyes, breathing harshly and trying to swallow his gorge. His wife was dead. Poor, pretty Anese. She had never loved Kalan, nor Edward for that matter, had never quite fit in here, had wanted so much more from life than he could offer her. At least it looked like she hadn’t suffered.

  And Signis? Edward pulled himself away from the coach door and slumped down against the undercarriage. It was hot and burned his back. He managed to pull himself a foot away from it. And when he collapsed to the ground, weary and weak from pain, he could see as a worm might, eye level with the ground. In the distance was a heap in cheerful livery, tossed like a broken puppet and unmoving. Signus, his adjunct, had been with the family since Edward was a boy. Edward relied on him. The strings of marriage were to be respected, but on Kalan, the ties of mutual need and cosurvival were rooted deep and red. The loss of his right-hand man cut Edward to the quick. He gasped at the raw sting of it and rolled onto his back, not wanting to see the body anymore.

  The wind was picking up now, its light chattering building into a moody, swooping howl as the storm swept closer. He’d loved that sound as a boy, bundled up warm in his room. He’d imaged the wind was some gigantic creature that stalked the Kalanese moors, maybe seeking a friend. He’d been a fanciful child—and a lonely one. I’ll be your friend, he’d told the wind, reaching out a hand to lay it against the thick, shuddering glass of his bedroom window. I’ll be your friend.

  Perhaps it was suitable, then, that he would be part of the wind at last. A true storm could sweep away picks and plows, even coaches if they were foolishly left outdoors. It would surely sweep his body away, tossing him along the rocky surface of Kalan and picking him up again. Would he be smeared like liniment across the hectares of Parmeter?

  Oh, Kalan. My extravagant, harsh, and wretchedly beautiful mistress. You have done me in after all. Edward pulled off the air filter and gasped in the humid air of the storm. The spores or the blood loss would kill him before the wind gained enough strength to take his body. He was not ready to die; he wanted life in this moment more than he could bear. But if he must die, he would prefer it to be quick.

  The mist swirled above him, the curls made lavender by the light reflecting up from the rocks. The eddies grew like waves dashing against the cliffs as something parted them—and then he appeared, huge and looming, his shoulders massive, his face lost as he was backlit against the sky.

  For one insane moment, Edward thought: It is the wind. As if his childhood fancy had come to life. The creature squatted down, his face and shoulders coming into focus, his hair wild in the storm. And Edward recognized him.

  It was one of the recons. The one called Knox.

  Edward stared up at the monolith, too weak to move. Knox’s eyes surveyed him head to toe as if assessing a bit of scrap metal. The recon could easily crush the remaining life out of him. He certainly looked the part. But recons were programmed against violence, Edward reminded himself. And when Knox gently took the air filter from Edward’s hands and pressed it against his face, there was tenderness and compassion in his eyes.

  A trick of the light was Edward’s last conscious thought as he slipped into darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Life is sacred. Life is sacred.

  Knox heard the words over and over in his head as he cradled the master to his chest and stumbled through the mist toward the house. The words were not part of what he thought of as his must dos. He knew what those felt like: cold and frozen, like a knife in his mind. This, this was a deeper imperative, born of some moment of personal conviction that he no longer remembered.

  Life is sacred.

  The other two were dead—the mistress and the one called Signis, who ran the factory. But this one, the master, was still warm and soft. His heartbeat was thready but determined, like a mouse Knox might hold in the palm of his hand, frightened but suffused with life.

  He pictured that small creature, willing its heart to beat on as his heavy boots ate up the rocky ground. The master was so very young—too young for that heart to stop beating. The wind gusted and screamed and tried to drag Knox off his feet. It would be easy to get lost in this mist, but he had an image in his mind of where the house was and he headed for it doggedly. Finally, just when he was sure he was off course, the lights of the windows appeared, playing hide-and-seek with the vaporish mist.

  At the door, he shifted the master’s weight, cradling it in his left arm. It was awkward. The master was not heavy but he was tall. Knox turned the door handle. The wind screamed in the entryway and then he was through, pushing the door shut behind him. A small woman, round as a fat sausage, bustled into the room.

  “Oh lords! Oh heavenly stars!” She stopped in horror, staring at Knox and the bundle in his arms. Knox was aware of the picture he must make, saw it in the terror in her one good eye—the other was shot through with mist of its own. Knox knew her, but only from a distance: she was Moll, the cook who made the pans of food Signis delivered to the recon barracks.

  He forced speech. He disliked speaking and had little need for it. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his voice sounded foreign to his ears. “Accident. The coach. Need help.”

  This was sufficient to set the little woman in motion. She moved as if to take the master from his arms and then realized the futility of this. She changed direction and led Knox, with hand motions and soft words, as though he were a dangerous animal, up the stairs to a bedroom. Knox laid the master on the bed. His right pant leg was soaked through with blood. Too much blood. His face, always pale next to his brown hair, was now white.

  Moll hovered over the master as if unsure what to do. “I must call the doctor.”

  “Won’t come. Storm,” Knox said roughly.

  Moll looked frightened. She covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a sound. “Where is Signis? He’ll know what to do.”

  “Dead. Mistress too. Coach overturned.”

  “Oh lords, no.” Moll’s one good eye glistened with moisture. “Oh, poor Edward.”

  Knox could have turned around and left. He’d delivered the master to the house. Nothing compelled him to do more, nor even to have done that much. But that voice insi
de him spoke again. Life is sacred.

  An image appeared in his mind of the master, sitting tall on his mount against the stark beauty of the purple rocks and the orange Kalan sky. That first week after Knox had arrived, the master had watched him harvest the lichen, had gotten down off his pony to show him how to marry the blade to the rock, how to carefully pry up the preternaturally green clumps so they slipped up the suction hose as intact as possible, preserving the spores. The master never raised his voice, never beat them. His face was noble, handsome, and kind. And if his eyes shied away from making contact, from really seeing Knox, it was no more than Knox deserved.

  If the master died, what would become of them?

  Knox stripped off his heavy coat. “Hot water, medicine, bandages. Get these things.”

  Moll hesitated. She wanted to throw him out, Knox could tell. Her face held a look of disgust. But perhaps she decided he was better than nothing, for she finally nodded and left the room.

  Knox stripped the master quickly, rending his clothes as if they were paper. Pale skin emerged, perfect skin, cold from the want of blood. Knox did not allow himself to dwell on it or on the uncomfortable sense of wrongness of being in the big house, of touching the master this way, as if Knox were someone, as if he were not just a slab of meat meant for labor. He ripped the bloodied pant leg carefully, pulling the fabric away and discarding it.. He averted his eyes, did not look at what lay between the legs before he gently rolled the master onto his stomach so he might see the wound.

  A long gash split the skin and meat at the back of the thigh. It still oozed blood, but slowly now, the bright flow thick as syrup.

  Do not die.

  Knox searched his mind in frustration. Sometimes skills would come to him when he needed them, like nuts that had been squirreled away just below the surface of his consciousness. He did not remember how he knew these things. He looked at the gash now, willing himself the skill to attend to it.