Sweet Dreams, My Love

Sweet Dreams My Love by Julie Lynn Hayes

Dreamspinner Press www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright ©2011 by Julie Lynn Hayes First published in 2011, 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Sweet Dreams My Love by Julie Lynn Hayes

CONTENTS Chapter I Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Epilogue Sweet Dreams, My Love (C)Copyright Julie Lynn Hayes, 2011 ****

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Chapter I The click click click of Toulouse Lautrec's cane was a measured accompaniment to the perambulations of the artist and his youthful companion. The streets of Montmartre were uneven, cobblestoned, and given to steep inclines. Even the short distance that Toulouse and Damien had to traverse was difficult on the artist, but he never let it show, and his protege was young and too intent upon their destination to notice. The artist had not been born with this disability, but during his youth he had suffered from problems with each leg which, exacerbated by the close genetic tie between his parents, who were first cousins, had stunted the growth of his limbs even though the rest of him continued to grow, causing the legs to not be in proportion to the rest of his body. Although the stories that were told about Toulouse were quick to affirm that nature had not shortchanged him in the areas which were of immense interest to his lovers, perhaps by way of compensation for his lack of stature. "Pere Toulouse, will I be allowed absinthe this night?" Damien leaned in toward the artist, slumping a bit to ease communication between them, to compensate for the eight or nine inches he towered above. For although the young man had been raised, as were most French youngsters, used to the consumption of wine, albeit watered, the green liqueur had always been off-limits. Tonight was a very special night. This was Damien's eighteenth birthday, and it was also the night of his coming out party. And he was going to spend it 4

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with his twelve fathers at the infamous Moulin Rouge nightclub. Twelve fathers? A biological impossibility! Naturally. And indeed, none of the twelve could claim the actual title of pere to this beautiful young man. But spiritually, all twelve of the artists who titled themselves the Dreammongers were his sires, for they had raised him among themselves ever since the fateful night, just eighteen years ago, when he had come into this world and their lives, while the Dreammongers were holding their annual revelry at the Moulin Rouge. "Mais oui, mon fil," the artist said with a nod. "Tonight you shall." Damien smiled. He could hear the sighs of the nighttime ladies of the Montmartre as he walked by, could feel their eyes upon him, aware of their attraction to his pearlescent beauty. He was very, very pale, a soft pallor which invited touching, and his platinum hair hung in lazy waves down to his broad shoulders, while his eyes were the green of sea foam, with traces of gold in their liquid depths. His full, rosemadder lips wore a perpetual smile, one which simply begged to be kissed. Damien was a very happy boy, and he loved his life here in Paris, and he loved his dozen fathers very much. And now the nightclub itself lay just before them. That infamous den of iniquity. Electric sex. That's what came to Toulouse's mind each and every time that he glimpsed the slowly rotating blades of the red windmill. The Moulin Rouge. Debauchery personified. Electric sex beckoned to him; it called his name and begged his participation. Lithe young limbs and warm embraces. 5

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Passion and music. Absinthe and opium. The Moulin Rouge was a purveyor of dreams. And Toulouse Lautrec was a most willing dreamer. He was an habitue of the most infamous nightspot in Paris, spending more time entangled in its spider web of sensuality than anywhere else besides his studio. The Red Windmill was the ambrosia with which he fed his muse, the nectar for his passions, and the fellow dreamers who frequented it became the impressions upon his canvases. Toulouse paused for a moment, jostled by a pedestrian whose path bisected his own, also headed toward the nightclub. The gentleman in question had his head bent, his hat pulled low over his brow. "Pardon," he muttered before disappearing inside. From within, the sounds of gaiety spilled into the night, fingers of frivolity designed to ensnare the interest of the casual passerby. Toulouse paused, temporarily taken aback. For just a moment he had thought... but no, that was not possible. He would not dare to show himself here. Not after all this time. Damien held the door for him, and the two men entered the Moulin Rouge, intending to pay their respects to the regulars before going to their private party. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 2 The nightclub was alive with the sounds of people frantic to have fun. Gentlemen garbed in their nighttime finery milled about in clusters, alternating between gaining courage from the presence of their friends to showing off their skills with the ladies to those same peers. Toulouse recognized many of them, for they patronized the Moulin Rouge on a regular basis, just as he did. They spent their time and their money on the colorful ladies who were eager to entice them to dance, to drink, and to make love—all in the pursuit of that transitory condition known as happiness. And Toulouse was more than happy to capture them upon his canvases. Whirling red dervishes with gartered limbs; love for sale— and if not love, the next best thing. They shook their hips and pursed their lips, promising everything and nothing with each smoldering glance, with the darting tips of their moist tongues, and the illusion of beauty they donned for each and every potential customer. Toulouse smiled as he spotted the bold and brassy Emmeline pirouetting for the delight and edification of a white-haired gentleman in a black top hat, raising and lowering her skirts enticingly, darting just close enough to afford a quick glimpse of what lay beneath, then backing away before wandering hands could close upon her bright green skirts. Or anything else. Her laughter was high-pitched and yet contagious, and she kept her admirers on a tight leash, which they all adored in their own frustrated way. 7

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Toulouse knew of the lady's charms from first-hand experience, and appreciated them. Toulouse was very proud of the greetings and glances which his son garnered as they strolled through the midst of these rollicking revelers. Sometimes he wished that he could have him for more than his allotted month each year. But then he realized that they all felt that way, no doubt. And having twelve homes, although it appeared to be an odd lifestyle, and some might say it lacked a certain continuity which a growing child would need—well, it was also a very diverse education that he received, at the hands of twelve of the most celebrated artists in France. One of the can-can girls, a brassy buxom girl with copper tresses and over-rouged cheeks approached the duo, sashaying her skirts just enough to hint at what might be obtained beneath them, depending upon the color of one's coin. "Buy me a drink, Damien," she begged, her eyes hungrily devouring his lithe figure, her fingers reaching toward him as if she intended to rip off every last button on his white waistcoat. "Non." Toulouse lightly slapped at the coquette's hand. "Not tonight, Marie, you must work your wiles on the boy another time." "Oh, but Toulouse," the pouting girl protested, "tonight's his special night. I can help him to become a man. Just give me some time with Damien..." With all of the grace of a trained courtier, Damien bowed most elegantly. "My apologies, Mademoiselle Marie," he murmured, "would that I had the time, I would indeed 8

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become your willing student but, alas, I must plead a previous engagement." The girl giggled, pinching his cheek. "You are such a heartbreaker, cherie." She laughed before running off, turning her attention to actual paying trade. Toulouse gave his son a questioning glance as they walked on. "You like the girl, non? Do you wish to have her teach you what she knows of love?" "Non," Damien replied, his cheeks reddening slightly, for he found none of the women in the Moulin Rouge to his taste, and never had he been tempted to lie with any of them, despite the many offers he had received since the onset of puberty. To be honest, his natural inclinations ran in other directions. But luckily, as he had discovered over the years, his fathers possessed the same inclinations. In abundance. He had grown up in the company of their models, having the run of their studios since birth, and he was used to the sight of nudes of both sexes, who posed for the paintings with which the artists fed their hungry public. But some of these works of art were for more private consumption: young men with beautiful bodies that Damien delighted in the very sight of. And although he had never touched one of them, or been touched—indeed he was still quite virgin, at the advanced age of eighteen, by his own choice—he dreamed of finding a special young man of his very own. One who would touch his very heart and soul in such a way that no one else ever could. If he was a romantic, blame the men who raised him, for they were, too, and had instilled in their charge a great deal of their joie de vivre, and a feel for all things artistic. 9

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Toulouse smiled to himself. He had known better, but it was not for him to decide, it was and always would be Damien's choice. They paused in their perambulation across the room, this time near the orchestra section of the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse had spotted a familiar shining dome, whose upraised arm beckoned to them both. The musicians were currently on break and relaxing, but the patrons made up for the lack of music with their own particular background noise: laughter, flirtations, and the sounds of seduction. "Bon soir, Toulouse, Damien." He nodded, indicating the table where he sat with a wave. "Join us, please, let us buy you a drink. To celebrate." At the table sat his young wife, Sarah. They were only recently married, smitten with one another, and obviously in love, if their intertwined fingers and their constant exchange of glances was any indication. Ordinarily, Toulouse would have accepted the request, for they were his favorite people at the Moulin Rouge, and many a happy hour had he spent in their company, sketching, and soaking in the ambience. But not tonight. "Another time, please," he said, and Damien echoed his sentiments, excusing themselves as they headed toward the hall which led to the entrance to the private area, where the others awaited their arrival. The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the only illumination slender torchieres which served as glowing guides as they wound their way through the passage to the secret places. Excitement coursed through Damien. He had long dreamed of this night, of being permitted to be one among his fathers in 10

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their annual revelries. That day had finally arrived, the day of his eighteenth birthday here at last—and Damien was about to come out! What exactly coming out entailed, Damien didn't know, but he had a feeling it was bound to be good, judging from the excited whispers of the artists whenever they got together to discuss the subject. They invariably ceased their chatter when he drew near. Therefore it must be very good. Considering the venue the party was being held in, drinking was a given. Absinthe was his greatest desire, and Toulouse had already admitted to his receiving that. Dancing girls, maybe? No, knowing his fathers, more likely dancing boys. Damien tingled at the thought of watching pretty boys undulate for his pleasure. Sex, maybe? His introduction to the world of men, tutored by a lovely youth with big strong muscles, and perhaps a major talent? Somehow he didn't see that happening, though. His fathers might be enlightened artists, and practicing homosexuals, but they were still fathers, after all. Damien had already expressed his desire to pose for them tonight and had prepared a tableau of his own choosing. It would not be the first time he had played model for them, but this would be something completely different. They reached the door which led into the private backroom of the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse threw it open with a grand flourish. "After you, mon cher," he said, motioning Damien inside with a wave of one hand. As if on cue, all activity within the room froze at that instant, all eyes directed toward the door, and the two who now made their entrance, for Toulouse had timed this very 11

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well, just for this reason, to make sure that everyone else was there and in place before them. Spontaneous cheers arose from twelve proud fathers on beholding their beautiful progeny, their voices joined by a chorus of the young men of the Moulin Rouge who were set to wait upon them this night. "Happy birthday, Damien!" [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 3 The room was a veritable study in scarlet—the favorite color of the Red Windmill, after all, the walls simply dripping with the color—a flocked wallpaper done in two shades of red, which stretched from the floor to the rich cherry wood wainscoting. Above that the walls were decorated in murals which, had they been removed from their positions, cut into pieces, and sold on the open market, would have fetched the most princely of sums. For they were the work of these artists themselves, these Dreammongers, reflecting their varied styles and perspectives. From the ceiling hung an ornate crystal chandelier whose prisms scattered reflected light upon the assembled company. Done in a Neo-Baroque style which was popular during the Second Empire, it was a copy of one which graced the apartment of Napoleon III himself, and Zidler had paid a pretty franc for it, but it was well worth it. Four low tables were arranged into a quadrangle, permitting three artists per table. Silken pillows, elaborately embroidered in luscious lavenders and purples and blues, were to serve as their seats for this event. Large and fluffy and quite Bohemian. Damien, as the birthday boy, was free to wander as he wished, able to divide his time among his beloved peres. Upon a larger table, near the back of the room, gifts of all sorts awaited Damien's inspection. Even from a distance, he recognized the bottle of absinthe, anticipating with excitement a much closer relationship with the liqueur. 13

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The artists had risen to their feet at the entrance of the pair, applauding the birthday boy. Wasting no time upon their own arrival, each was already in a state of au natural, as were the sweet young serving men who waited upon them. Damien's gaze went from one to another, his love for them fierce, his pride in them immense, for there were none such as these to be found anywhere else in the world, and he felt himself to be the luckiest young man ever. They were illuminati in their fields and in his heart. In no particular order, other than the way they were seated at the tables, he took note of his fathers, they who comprised the Dreammongers: Renoir, Gaugin, Degas, Pissarro, Van Gogh, Seurat, Cezanne, Matisse, Manet, Monet, Sisley, and of course Toulouse who, even now, was shedding his own clothes and taking his place at the table with the last empty space. Two lovely young specimens of manhood approached Damien. They were employed by Charles Zidler to cater to the tastes of those of his clients whose preferences did not run to females. They helped him to disrobe, and once he was down to his bare glory, he made his rounds of the room, greeting and hugging and kissing each and every father. All twelve of them had brought their sketching materials, naturally, for it is what the Dreammongers did together; brought them to a private place where they could fully express themselves— drinking and dining and drawing to their hearts' content on subjects not intended for public consumption. No, the completed drawings were solemnly bound together once the night was done, and the finished product was available only 14

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for their own private enjoyment. At least until sometime after they had all shuffled off this mortal coil, and were well beyond the cares of public opinion. Although some of them confessed to having arrived at that juncture already. "Damien." Pere Degas smiled at his son. "I have some things to show you, mon fil, a few changes I have made since last you were home." Damien was due to take up residence with him in a few days time. Smiling, he suspected that the changes his father spoke of were ballet related, as this father had a fondness for ballet dancers. His private sketches were filled with young men in tights and toe shoes, en pointe and in flight, as well as in well-balanced pairs. "The pond has missed your presence," Pere Monet said eagerly, sipping at a fluted glass of Dom Perignon, held for him by a very winsome young man with a most engaging smile—and a rather huge talent. "By the time you arrive in Giverny, I shall have added to the mural in your room." Each of his fathers maintained a room for their shared son, and in each one was to be found murals upon his bedroom walls, painted by each sire. "I have new home for you," Pere Van Gogh informed him, his French spoken with a thick Dutch accent, "it is at Auverssur-Oise. I think you shall love it, and I shall paint you new mural." Damien moved through the room, from father to father, accepting their glowing tributes, their words of love and devotion, their hopes and dreams and plans for him, the 15

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unexpected windfall in their collective lives. His heart filled to overflowing with love for all of them. "May I pose for you now?" Damien asked, once he'd duly greeted each of his fathers, and paid them their proper filial affection. He was eager to show them what he had planned for them, with Toulouse's hush-hush assistance. Everything was in readiness, having been concealed from curious eyes in the very middle of the room by a drop cloth. Once the drop cloth was removed by two of the pretty boys, and the proverbial curtain raised upon the tableau, everyone in the room oohed and aahed at the sight. Damien had selected the birth of Venus as his theme, with himself playing the part of the goddess—or, in this case, the god—of love. He stood poised within a paper-mache clamshell which Toulouse had helped him to construct and paint. Completely nude, other than for a single strand of pale pink tulle which looped about his neck and down his back, one hand lay modestly across his heart, while the other arm was outstretched, plaintively, toward his audience. Lying upon his open palm was a large black pearl (not really a pearl, but a reasonable facsimile thereof). A backdrop of the sea, with the day moon a thin crescent in the background completed the picture that he made. "Bravo!" "Bravissima!" "C'est magnifique!" The cries of approval rang out. Each artist hastened to his appointed spot, where each had his implements of creation. Damien smiled at the sight, satisfied that he had wrought it. Was Damien an artiste in his own right? Non, he was not, not in the acknowledged forms and styles of his devoted dozen. Yes, he 16

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dabbled. How could he not with such shining examples of the best of the art world his to consume on a daily basis? It would be surprising if he did not. And it wasn't that he was untalented. Non. He was a fair artist, in his own way. But the difference between him and them was that his heart was not in it in the same way. Although they all dreamed of beauty, the artistes brought it to life, while Damien simply wished to live it. And this he did by being their muse, allowing them to use his beautiful being as inspiration for their own canvases, allowing them to use his love for them as a basis for their own artistic endeavors. And he was very content that it was so. Tonight Damien was in his full glory, standing there before them, as they drew, sketched, and painted him. Impressions of beauty caught on canvas, on paper, or—in Gaugin's case— on linen napkins in bold Tahitian shades. In the case of Seurat, he drew his son as a closely knit scattering of the tiniest dots which when perceived from the proper perspective would blend into the colors of Damien, while Renoir's colors were softer, his images more gentle. Each artist had his own style, his own way of doing things. But in the end it all came down to love. Upon each of the artist's tables was a bottle of familiar green drink, the infamous absinthe, distilled with the notorious wormwood, purveyor of absinthine dreams. Lovely young men with pert bums held glasses of the liqueur up to willing mouths, while the talented hands of the painters were otherwise occupied. For those who wished it, other pleasures were available for the asking. And yes, it was quite possible 17

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to be artistically active while being orally pleasured. The proof was to be seen within this very room. Not surprisingly, Degas's choice fell upon a delicately boned young man with soft lips, while Gaugin's was almond-eyed and golden skinned. As his fathers worked, Damien sent surreptitious glances toward the bottle of absinthe, situated as it was upon the gift table. He peeked at it longingly, wishing to taste its lovely contents, although he never said a word of complaint, content to stand there, basking in their admiration. Toulouse could not help but notice his son's blatant desire. He nodded to the young man whose hands so lovingly grasped his own erection. "Please pour my son his absinthe." "My pleasure, monsieur," the garcon willingly acquiesced, interrupting his previous occupation to do so, wiping his hands on a serviette first. "Take a break, Damien," Toulouse encouraged the young man, "that we may drink a toast to you on this special day." He rose from where he sat, approaching Damien with a smile. He handed his son down from his paper-mache clamshell, as the server brought a tray with all of the necessities, a ritual which was being duplicated at each of the four tables. The comely young man poured a small glass of the green liqueur into an elaborately beveled glass. He laid a flat spoon upon the glass, and upon the spoon he set a single sugar cube. Taking an ornate silver ewer, he slowly poured the icecold contents over the sugar, causing it to methodically melt into the absinthe. Finally, he stirred the mixture slowly, using the same flat spoon. 18

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"To Damien!" The cry was caught up and echoed throughout the room. Twelve glasses of the infamous green drink were raised, Damien's making the thirteenth. "To love!" he toasted in return. He drained the glass in one fell swoop. It was warm and heavily saturated with the taste of licorice, the sweetness of the sugar only slightly diluting the strength of the anise taste. Mmmm, this was definitely a pleasurable warmth which burned its way through his veins, already lighting a fire within him. Damien gave his fathers a languid smile, and they smiled at him in return, knowingly. "More," he demanded, holding out his glass. His server hastened to fill it again, and Damien drank it greedily, the fire continuing to lick through his veins. He licked at his lips and handed the empty glass to the young man, motioning to him to step back, in order to give him a little more room. Damien began to dance—an impromptu solo performance which displayed far more grace and agility than the frantic dancing offered by the very ladies of the Moulin Rouge themselves. Slowly and languidly, he spun about on an unseen axis, undulating his limbs in the most sensual of poses—positions which drove his fathers to frantically attempt to catch his beauty for posterity. Only Toulouse did not sketch, his hand arrested upon the sketchpad before him. He watched Damien with open admiration, yes, but also with a growing concern. Something did not seem right to him. Even taking the absinthe into account, his behavior seemed off to the artist. 19

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Damien crumpled to the floor in a slow-motion fall. Toulouse grabbed the bottle of absinthe and sniffed at it. "Poison!" he screamed. "The bottle has been poisoned. Who brought this here?" All sound stopped in a heartbreaking moment, the artists looking from one to another, before they rushed to surround their son, who now lay writhing in agony upon the cushions which littered the floor, their dozen faces mirroring their horror. And then one of the serving youth began to sob. "I didn't know. I didn't know!" he cried. Toulouse grabbed his wrist, urgently, in order to focus his attention. "What have you done?" he asked him. "Tell me now!" "The monsieur. He said... he said... it was a special gift... for the young gentleman. He said not to tell... a sursurprise..." the unfortunate youth sobbed. "Who?" Monet demanded to know, a question that was echoed by a dozen voices. "Who has done this to our son?" But Toulouse knew. The knowledge sickened him. "The madman," he moaned, "he has done this, the crazy bastard." "Surely you don't mean... no, not him," the artists protested. "But why, why after all these years?" As if in answer to the question, the door to the private room opened, and in stepped a strange figure with demented eyes and elaborate curled moustaches wearing a bright purple cape which he twirled about him like a matador about to face the bull.

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He stalked through the room as if he had every right to be there, standing over the unfortunate youth, whose entire body was trembling now, sweat glistening upon his pale brow. Shaken from his temporary inertia, Toulouse pushed one of the waiters toward the door. "Get a doctor!" he cried. "Get Zidler! Bring some help, quickly!" The youth set off at a trot, skirting the newly arrived madman. Toulouse stood before Damien, shielding him with his own body from the intruder, while the other artists gathered about the fallen youth. "Dali," he snarled. "Little prick," the other intoned in a flat Spanish accent. "You should not have told me no. You should not have left me out. I told you. I told you some day I get even. That day—she has come!" A piteous moan from the poisoned youth drew their attention back to where it belonged. Only the vertically challenged artist continued to defy the man with the crazy eyes. "It was not his fault," Toulouse protested. "He did nothing to you. It was all our fault, not his...." Tears welled from his eyes, fell down his cheeks. "He did nothing...." Toulouse knelt beside Damien, picked up one hand, clasped it tight. Already, it felt cold. Too cold. His heart gave a lurch within his breast. And twelve voices began to keen. A blinding green light filled the room. Toulouse closed his eyes against the glare, and when he opened them once more, she was there—a small, but well-proportioned woman scantily clad in chartreuse and sporting a set of wings. "It is she," he intoned in unabashed awe. 21

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The Green Fairy. The small but feisty patroness of absinthine dreams. She knelt beside the distressed youth, helping him into a sitting position, while the others looked on anxiously. Holding a vial to his lips, she forced him to drink. He did so, draining the contents, before falling back upon the pillows once more, immobile. "Is he...?" Pere Degas dared to ask, and all held their collective breaths, awaiting the response. "He lives," the Green Fairy replied. A great exhale resounded through the room. "But I could not completely counteract the poison," she went on. "What do you mean?" Pere Van Gogh demanded. "He is not dead. He is sleeping," she replied in her enchantingly lilted voice, "and sleeping he shall stay, until...." "Until?" they asked as one. "Until his one true love finds him and wakens him with a kiss." That didn't sound so horrible, did it? The dozen artists looked upon one another, questioningly, then back at the Green Fairy. How hard could it be to find a young man to kiss Damien and awaken him? But alas, life is never that simple. And as they watched, horrified, the beautiful young man disappeared from view. "He must find him first," the Green Fairy commented, "and that will not be easy. I can do no more." And in the blink of an eye, she was gone. For a few moments, a stunned silence reigned among the men that remained in the room, artists and garcons alike. The 22

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silence was quickly replaced by panicked shouts and cries begging that something be done. Zidler was called for and the excitable nightclub owner quickly came, accompanied by the even-tempered Satie. But of course there was nothing that Zidler could do, other than to try to placate his distressed clientele, while Satie murmured his heartfelt condolences. The Dreammongers disbanded upon that night and never again held another meeting, although they continued to patronize the infamous nightspot, forever mourning the loss of their beloved lost son. As for Dali, he slunk out of the room immediately after the Green Fairy had made her pronouncement, an evil smirk upon his lips, to be seen by them no more. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 4 Jakob opened his Nokia, not for the first time. He peered at the time in the glow from the streetlamp, shivering slightly. A mere fifteen minutes later than the last time he'd looked. Time literally crawled this night, despite his best efforts to make it run. It was far too early to expect to see any sign of his erstwhile cousin. By now, he estimated, Albert had probably chosen his Liebling die Nacht, his little love of the night, and was closing the deal that would make him his. Making the same mundane chitchat he did with all his other boy-toys, before taking them to a discreet hotel where cash spoke volumes, and no one asked unnecessary questions. Jakob Kohl was all too familiar with the braggadocio-filled pick-up lines that were the heart of Albert's pathetic repertoire. He'd heard them far too often: building himself up to be better than he was, boasting about his important job and the people that he knew, promising physical bliss beyond compare in the bedroom, and emphasizing discretion above all else. Albert's philosophy was that what his nagging wife Ida didn't know wouldn't harm either one of them. Didn't all unfaithful husbands say that, though? The nagging part, that is. The attempt to rationalize what they were doing in order to assuage the guilt. Their wives were nags, scolds, and shrews. They didn't understand them, didn't really care about them, didn't meet their needs. Et cetera, et cetera, and so forth, and so on. 24

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All Albert really needed to be fulfilled was a healthy dose of cock, on a regular basis. This was information that only Jakob, as his companion, possessed—companion in the paid employee sense of the word, not as a friend of the heart definition, not by any means. It was bad enough being a paid companion for this second cousin he barely knew, having to give up his studies at the Hochschule fur Musik Karlsruhe, at least for a while, without being forced to act as a beard for him too. Jakob being gay himself was simply the icing on the proverbial cake, and a great boon to his cousin. Once, one of Albert's one-night stands managed to ferret out his address. He showed up at the house unannounced and heavily liquored, looking for love of the Albert kind. Luckily, Jakob was able, with a great deal of persuasion and a little bit of Albert's money, to diffuse the situation. When it came time to explain matters to his wife, Albert managed to pin all the blame on Jakob, painting him as a lover scorned. He himself emerged unscathed, reputation intact. Life had gotten very hard for the young man since his mother had become ill. The convalescent home where she was slowly recovering was far from cheap. So Jakob had put away his dreams—temporarily, at least—of being a classical pianist, and accepted the position with Albert, demeaning as it was, so that his mother could get well in comfort, with the best care that he could afford. But once she did... then he would return to school, where his best friend/confidante waited for him, Abram Strauss by name. Abram was a musician as well, who possessed grandiose dreams of 25

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becoming Germany's answer to Jean-Pierre Rampal someday. And only a text away should Jakob need him. The sound of approaching footsteps woke Jakob from his reverie. He looked up to find a man standing before him, a not uncomely fellow, even if he had a good twenty years on Jakob. And an obvious question in his eyes. With a flash of intuition, Jakob realized that perhaps standing beneath this streetlight might not have been his best idea. "Would you like some company tonight? You seem a bit lost," the other began his opening gambit. Jakob was in no mood for games. Although he knew instinctively that he was interested in other men, he'd never been with any. He blamed himself for that, feeling that perhaps he was too demanding, had greater expectations than he should have. A different idea of what love should be, as well as happily ever after. Regardless, he was not into onenight stands and never would be. He shook his head, gave the man a rueful smile of apology. "Please do not take offense, but I am not interested in anyone. I do appreciate the offer, though." And nodding once, Jakob passed on, continuing up the Adlerstrasze, toward the Karlsruhe Schloss, the beautiful palace that sat at the hub of the city, everything radiating outward from it. Perhaps by the time he once again made the circuit of the building, which was lit to a brilliant golden hue and most resplendent in the waxing moonlight, and then resumed his position outside of the club where he had left Albert, his cousin might hopefully be ready to move on. Or he might actually decide to go home. After all, they were leaving in the morning for Paris. A little sleep would be a 26

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nice thing. Not that Albert cared; he could sleep through the entire journey if he wanted. But Jakob was playing chauffeur, and he was funny that way—he had no desire to fall asleep behind the wheel. Jakob hoped that for tonight his cousin was unlucky in love. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 5 As close as Paris was to Karlsruhe, less than six hundred kilometers, Jakob had never been. He'd always dreamed that someday he'd go, hopefully in the company of the man of his dreams, maybe even on his honeymoon. Not that he had a lover or even a boyfriend, now or ever. His relationship with Abram, although close, was strictly platonic. But the reality of the situation was that he was going with Albert, and he supposed that was better than nothing. Plus he was getting paid for the experience. Perhaps he could return some day, whenever he found the man of his dreams. If he ever found him. It had been a rather late night. Albert had gotten lucky after all, to Jakob's dismay, and as a result he had found himself up until the wee hours of the night waiting for Albert to be done. And though he'd managed to grab a quick doze in the car, it was certainly not a sufficient amount of rest, by any means, and he was bone tired, but fighting it. He kept his Nokia out of Albert's sight in his jacket pocket, which wasn't all that difficult to do as his cousin was stretched out in the back seat, sound asleep. If he had had any idea that Jakob and Abram were texting one another, while Jakob was driving, he would have been infuriated. Best to let the sleeping cousin lay. Don't forget to take pictures for me. Especially the Mona Lisa. Jakob had to chuckle. As if he hadn't heard these instructions a thousand times since announcing that he would 28

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be going with Albert to Paris. And don't forget the Moulin Rouge. No problem. Jakob had no doubt Albert would want to go to the infamous nightclub, and dazzle locals and visitors alike with his smooth style and rapier wit. Jakob figured he could live with it, especially considering they never stayed together in places like that anyway. His cousin said it cramped his style. Such as it was. He had also received instructions from his bedridden Mutti, whom he had visited the day before. Or rather, a request, if her beloved Jakob would not mind. She wanted him to bring back a souvenir Eiffel Tower for her. Jakob promised to obtain one, although in his heart he hoped he could return with something better than such a shopworn cliche. First, though, what Jakob desired more than anything else upon their arrival in the City of Lights was a close and intimate acquaintance with the hotel shower, followed by a satisfying friendship with a comfortable bed, for at least a few minutes, before he found himself chauffeuring Albert about gay Paree in his cousin's black Audi. Not that he had any idea of how to get around, of course. But his suggestion that his cousin might want to use cabs to take him where he wanted to go was met with stony impermeability—Albert was tight, and loathe to spend any more euros than necessary, if he could help it. Besides, that was Jakob's function: to be his chauffeur, guide, beard, and anything else he needed or chose him to be. Such was the lot of a paid companion. Lovely. In preparation for this trip, Jakob bought both Baedaker's and Michelin's guides to Paris. Luckily he was 29

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halfway fluent in French, as Albert spoke no French and very little English. He decided that he might just survive the experience without becoming terribly lost in the process, and perhaps gain some enjoyment from it as well, despite his cousin and his penurious ways. The six-hour drive went faster than he had thought, excitement serving to pump some adrenaline into Jakob's system, although he was careful to pace himself on the freewheeling autobahn, for he was a cautious young man, despite the fact that he was sporadically texting. But once they'd entered the parking garage of their hotel, a midscale establishment located at the foot of the Sacre Couer, within easy walking distance of the infamous Moulin Rouge nightclub, Jakob's hopes of a respite were quickly dashed. It seemed that Albert had arranged a little rendezvous with a young Frenchman, with whom he had corresponded over the Internet—apparently an easy way to make erotic play dates— and Jakob was to take him to the restaurant where they were to have a late lunch and espresso at a cafe along the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. Jakob muttered, deliberately pitching his voice low, even as he texted his woes to Abram, while his forty-year old cousin—fresh as a daisy and ready for love—changed his clothes in the adjoining suite. He counted himself lucky not to have to room with him, actually, but undoubtedly Albert considered his presence to be a hindrance to his lovemaking. So be it. Shalom, his friend counseled, and Jakob could envision him saying those very words even as he texted, looking most 30

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wise as he offered his sage advice. You can't fight Fate, bubeleh, what will be, will be. Fate. Jakob had to snort at that. This wasn't about fate; this was a distinct case of a man with an itch to scratch, one who was indiscriminate about where he scratched it. Fate was when two people were in the right place at the right time, when something was meant to be. This was nothing but a whole lot of tawdry going on. But he was too tired to fight it, and too tired to change his clothes, not without that longed for shower. He shoved his Nokia into his trouser pocket, threw the guides into a small bag and headed for the lobby to wait for Albert, which gave him time to question the concierge as to directions before they left the hotel for the cafe. Once Albert was safely dropped at his destination, Jakob decided to fulfill Abram's request first, as it was closest. The clipped tones of the GPS eased his search for the museum— much easier than trying to thumb through the street guide while he drove. He chose a parking spot not too close and yet within walking distance. Walking through the Cour Napoleon, past I.M. Pei's deservedly famous pyramid, Jakob paused to admire the intricate structure. Being daylight, it wasn't lit, but even so it was breathtaking, the sun glinting off the gold and reflecting it back upon the tourists who stopped to gaze at its beauty. Once inside the museum, he quickly made his way to the Salle des Etats, where the world's most famous painting hung. He stood before it, gazing through the bulletproof glass at La Giaconda, feeling his heart surge unexpectedly within his chest. He hadn't expected to have such a reaction to an 31

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image he, and most people in the world, were quite familiar with. "Sehr schon," he murmured to himself as he gazed. Yes, the Mona Lisa was beautiful, there was no denying that. Despite the fact that it was a well-known image, one that had been the focus of varied forms of advertising and humorous riffs over the years, not to mention uncounted inexpensive prints and lithographs which were available from vendors all over the world, including those at the Louvre, there was still something about standing in the presence of the original that was downright awe-inspiring. Jakob took several shots—sans flash of course, as per the instructions which had been given to him upon his entrance into the Museum. There, that should satisfy Abram. Maybe he'd pick him up a small knockoff in the gift shop as well. According to the website it came in different forms, including posters, watches, bags, and DVDs. He moved away from the painting to allow other visitors access. Rubbing at his eyes, he stifled a yawn while he considered his next move. Now that he had accomplished his original mission, he still had quite a bit of time to kill. Perhaps some espresso would not be out of order, or anything that packed a jolt. More people crowded around La Giaconda now, and he felt himself moving backward, almost not of his own volition, until he was in the next room, no longer able to clearly see the object of such intense veneration. Maybe his cue to leave? "She's overrated, you know." A cool voice spoke, right in his ear. Jakob jumped, unaware that he had crossed over into someone else's space, as he had felt nothing behind him. An apology sprang automatically to his lips, as he turned to 32

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behold the most beautiful young man he had ever seen, and the words died stillborn in his throat. He was tall and lithe and graceful, platinum blond tresses spilling onto the most perfectly proportioned shoulders, and eyes of a beautiful green, reminiscent of the sea. He had lips that were not red, and yet not pink, but a shade somewhere in between, that looked indescribably kissable. And he looked as if he had stepped from a whole other era, for surely men did not dress quite so formally in this day and age, did they? None that he knew of, anyway. The beauty wore a black Highland frock coat, close cut and obviously tailored to the well-developed body beneath, with a matching vest and trousers. Mother-of-pearl buttons gleamed on the vest and jacket, the top button rakishly undone, revealing more of the simple black silk tie beneath which, to Jakob's surprise, was not bound in a typical Windsor knot, nor even a four-in-hand. In fact, he wasn't aware that a tie could be tied with such a knot, for it appeared to his limited experience to be done in a lover's knot, but there it was, so it must be. He shook his head slightly, in order to clear it. The apparition, for such it was that he almost seemed to be, given the suddenness of his appearance, never moved, instead offering Jakob a smile of bemusement, which only served to cause the German youth's heart to go ba-dump ba-dump as in the way of romantic novels of the male/male persuasion. Not that he admitted to reading such novels. At least not within Albert's hearing; his cousin denigrated them as tripe and smut every chance he could. Interesting double standard. 33

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"Don't you think so?" the boy continued, leaning in to Jakob as he spoke, in a most familiar manner. "A bit of a cliche almost. And while I admit da Vinci was not untalented, far from it, there are others who are far more deserving of our interest, don't you agree?" That voice, that utterly beautiful, throaty, velvety voice. It was doing things to Jakob, things he could not explain, in the most perfect, yet stilted French. He had to struggle to give attention to the words, to make some sense of them in order to form an appropriate response. Jakob stammered something, he couldn't be sure what, but it didn't seem to matter. He glanced about him almost expectantly, as if perhaps seeking another member of the troupe, for surely this was a performer, probably one among many, engaged to entertain the museum goers with some sort of historical re-enactment of a bygone era? Though to what purpose, Jakob could not imagine, but it was Paris after all. Anything was possible. He found no one who even came close to resembling the stranger, either in beauty or in style. "What is your name?" the blond asked, eyeing the dark youth up and down as if he could see through his clothes to the body beneath. "Jakob. Jakob Kohl." Jakob blushed, under his scrutiny. "Ya-kob," he repeated, cocking his head as he tasted the name upon his tongue. "I like that." The boy smiled as, without warning, he placed his hands on either side of Jakob's face, and brought it within reach of his own, until their lips were mere micro-centimeters apart, and Jakob's breath was 34

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mingling with the strange young man's... closer... closer... until their lips were almost, but not quite touching. An electric shiver coursed through Jakob as for that split second he closed his eyes, his entire body reeling from the sensation. But when he opened them again, he found himself quite alone. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 6 Jakob glanced around, confused. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the typical museumgoers paying their homage to the well-protected painting. But wait. A flash of movement caught his eye. There, in the doorway leading into the next gallery—there he was, mischievous smile affixed upon luscious lips, one long finger beckoning to Jakob. And without thought or hesitation, Jakob followed, never once questioning what it was he did, simply following his instincts. Why not? It wasn't every day that one came upon a beautiful and playful young man while visiting the Louvre. He should make the best of it, nein? Ja was the resounding answer that filled his brain. He caught up with him in the Richelieu wing. The blond stood before one of the paintings affixed upon the wall there, as if mesmerized by it, seeming not to take any notice of his surroundings, immobile. Jakob laid his hand upon the young man's arm, perhaps with the intent of anchoring him there, at least until he'd gotten a chance to question him, find out something about him. But he was taken aback at what he saw: a single teardrop, sliding down that alabaster cheek, those perfect lips slightly agape, as if in singular awe or perhaps in agitation. What could have disturbed the youth so badly, Jakob wondered, turning toward the painting upon which his attention was so sorrowfully riveted. The name plate read Toulouse Lautrec, and Jakob recognized it for one of his many 36

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bohemian outpourings, his slice of life scenes painted within the confines of the Moulin Rouge. Bright, and colorful, filled with gaiety and life and energy, but surely not sorrow. Jakob cast a confused glance over at the young man, instinctively reaching for his hand, squeezing it for comfort. His lips moved, but Jakob was unable to hear the words that were uttered in a low-pitched voice. "Verzeihung?" Jakob asked, automatically slipping into his native tongue, before remembering himself, and repeating in French, "Pardon?" The blond turned to face Jakob full-on now, his eyes brimming with tears. "I miss them so much," he answered in anguished tones. "Please, Jakob, help me to find my way home. Please!" Without warning, he pulled Jakob to him, winding his arms warmly about him, their lips meeting intensely. Jakob was all too aware of that muscular body which pressed against him, felt the need and desire that throbbed against his own aching groin. He returned the embrace without hesitation, answering the other's need with one of his own, a hunger that he was unaware he possessed until this moment. All thought of where they were fled his mind, as well as the chance of discovery. Nothing mattered but this one moment, this one kiss. The strange young man pulled back abruptly, just far enough to whisper into Jakob's mouth, his wet green eyes beseeching him, "Help me, please." And then he was simply gone. 37

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Jakob opened his eyes, unaware that he had ever closed them. He was standing in the same spot where he had been before, leaning against an empty plinth. He could see the room he had been looking into before, the Mona Lisa in its accustomed place upon the wall, lines of tourists passing by, paying their homage. But, how? Alarmed, he approached one of the museum attendants, who stood respectfully at attention, keeping a watchful eye upon the orderly throng. "Excuse me, monsieur," he said, trying not to say too much, nor too little, "the young man, the one I was talking to a moment ago, did you see which way he went? A tall blond, about so high...." He obligingly raised his hand to a height a few inches above his own, in an attempt to be helpful. "Non, monsieur," came the disappointing response, "I have seen no one else with you since you came in a moment ago." A moment ago? Jakob was distinctly confused now, as he had been with the youth for longer than that. It had been at least a few minutes that they had spent together, between this gallery and the other. Yet how to explain how he had gotten back here, where he had begun? Had he fallen asleep, on his feet, and had he imagined the whole thing? Was it possible to feel a dream so very vividly? He wrinkled his brow in perplexity, turning to leave. "Excuse me, monsieur," the guard stopped him with a quick hand upon his arm, before stooping to retrieve an object from the floor. "You dropped this. If you would take care not to litter, please. We have strict rules here." He thrust the object into Jakob's hand, his humorless eyes clearly sending a message concerning those who littered in his 38

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museum before turning back to keep an eye on the visitors in the adjoining room. Jakob knew he had dropped nothing, yet he couldn't help but glance at the flyer in his hand—a brochure for the Eiffel Tower. Somehow he suspected this was a message meant for him from the blond. If only he hadn't left so precipitously. If only he'd gotten his name. Life was full of so many "if onlys." A quick glance at his phone served to remind him that Albert would be expecting him soon. The Eiffel Tower would have to wait until he found out what it was that his cousin needed him for next. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 7 Albert kept him waiting, of course. He was extremely inconsiderate in that way. But what did he care? Jakob was just a paid companion, even if he was a distant relative, and Albert was obviously enjoying himself; nothing mattered but his own pleasure. He'd left Jakob a message as to where he would be, and when to pick him up. In the meantime, Jakob occupied himself, while he waited, with texting to Abram the details of the mysterious beautiful stranger, and their single erotic kiss. You have to go to the Eiffel Tower. It's fate, was Abram's expected advice. Not only was he a believer in Fate, but in Destiny also. It's a coincidence, Jakob texted back. Don't read too much into this. So, if he didn't believe it was Fate, why did he intend to go there as soon as possible? Because his mother wanted a souvenir, his logical mind told him. Yeah, right. Pull the other one. After retrieving his cousin from the hotel where he had ended up with not one, but two eager and agile French youths (Albert's words, not Jakob's), Jakob hoped that a nap, at least, was in order, as he returned them to their hotel, only to have his hopes dashed once again. Albert hopped in and out of the shower, after quickly checking his email on his laptop, and announcing that he had another date, this time at a small cafe on the Avenue des Mars. No rest for the horny, 40

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apparently. Who knew his cousin was such a sexual dynamo? He must own stock in Viagra or something. Jakob sighed, but said nothing, obedient as always, which could also translate to being spineless. Or it could simply mean that this was his chance to go to the Eiffel Tower, even if he didn't believe in so-called signs. It was the off-season for tourists, for which Jakob was grateful. He wasn't partial to fighting through crowds for any reason. Once he traversed the brief line that snaked up to the entrance, he entered with the intention of going to a gift shop, stopping in at the first one he found on the ground floor of the immense iron tower. He purchased a tiny replica of the famous structure, which he stowed in the bag which hung about his neck and rested upon his hip, along with his traveler's guides, a couple of ink pens, some tissues, and a few souvenirs he had acquired while he was at the Louvre. Making conversation with the pleasant middle-aged woman behind the counter, he made discreet inquiries as to whether she had seen a handsome young man fitting the description of his mystery blond from the museum, but of course she could remember seeing no one such as he. Jakob was not really surprised. Stifling his disappointment and dodging the overly friendly photographer who snapped his picture in the lobby and then offered to sell it to him for a mere French song, he bought a ticket, then waited for the next elevator making the ascent to the second level. A few other people rode with him, but one quick glance about the small car ascertained that none were the one he sought. Naturally. Why should he have expected any other 41

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ending to his story? He was on a fool's errand. Someone had dropped the pamphlet on the floor of the museum, a careless gesture and certainly not an act of any misguided Fate. Was it so surprising that a tourist might be interested in seeing both the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower? Two of the biggest attractions in Paris? Of course not. What was surprising was that Jakob, who normally possessed more common sense, had even considered the possibility that it had been a sign. He attributed that to Abram's influence, even from distant Karlsruhe. At the second level, he got off. There was a separate elevator that went to the top. He presented his ticket, waiting for the next car to come. The elevators were self-service, but a simple press of a button was all the complicated that it got. This time he rode alone, arriving at the first of two platforms, set one above the other, one enclosed, the other open to the air and the Parisian breezes. Jakob opted for the first, appreciating not being able to fall off the Eiffel Tower. Not that he really believed that to be a possibility, safety standards being what they were. But why take a chance, right? A few people milled about when Jakob got off at the third level, taking in the view through the observation telescopes that afforded close-up and personals of various landmarks of the Parisian skyline. These paid him no attention, conversing together in various languages, laughing, oohing and aahing at the panorama their unique position afforded them. And none of these were the man that he sought. 42

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Jakob felt really stupid now. At least he'd gotten the souvenir for his mother, so it wasn't a total fool's errand. So what now? Returning to the hotel made no sense. He'd barely have time to do anything but turn around and get his cousin. Certainly not enough time to get any sleep. But much as he had always desired to visit Paris, he wasn't in a touristy mood either, too tired to care about seeing any sights at the moment, other than the one afforded by closing his eyes. He moved away from the others, to a spot that offered a rather lovely view of the Seine, and leaned against one of the telescopes, gathering his thoughts, mentally ticking off his options. The metal of the telescope was cool to the touch, almost soothingly so. Not that he was warm. Not really. He felt his eyes begin to close of their own volition. "Hello again." That voice. In his ear. Again. Jakob jerked away from the telescope, and found himself falling directly into the open arms of the mysterious blond. Too stunned to say anything, much less move, Jakob tilted his head back to regard his savior, his mouth falling open in surprise, before he found the presence of mind to push himself away, despite his body's protests not to do so. "You!" he managed to splutter, and then the words that insisted on spilling from his lips before he had a chance to think them through, "I was looking for you." "Looks like you found me," came the bemused reply. "You found my message. Good."

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"Who are you?" Jakob blurted, unable to take his eyes away from the other man, although he resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. For now. "What is your name?" "I am Damien," was the quiet reply, "and I remember your name is Ya-kob." Hearing his name pronounced like that sent shivers up Jakob's spine. It had never sounded as good on anyone else's lips. "Where are you from, Ya-kob?" "Karlsruhe. Germany." He stepped boldly closer to the other man, as if fearful that a sudden gust of wind might find them and throw them from this precipitate height. A groundless fear, of course, for that could never happen. Or perhaps it was a pretense to explain his motion to himself? "Are you an artist?" Damien asked, leaning in to Jakob, towering a few inches over him. "Me? No." Jakob shoot his head. "Not me. What about you? Are you one?" "Not me either," Damien admitted. "My fathers, they are. Were, I mean. I think they are all gone now, but I can't be sure. Time... it is not right for me." Jakob frowned, perplexed. Damien's words made no sense to him whatsoever. Perhaps his French was faultier than he had imagined. He could have sworn he'd used the plural word for father, but of course that was not possible. Suddenly, Damien drew Jakob to him and kissed him again, and the German youth could not even pretend that wasn't exactly what he had wished to happen. He capitulated quickly, returning the kiss with what he considered to be reckless abandon, there, in the open, in a very public place. 44

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"Ya-kob," Damien whispered into Jakob's receptive mouth, "I need your help. You're the only one that can help me. You're the only one that can even see me." What? "That's ridiculous," Jakob glanced about at the few people who populated this level of the Eiffel Tower. A preposterous idea. He tapped the arm of a young man and his girl as they drifted by. "Excuse me," he said in his best French, but they never paused, kept talking to one another as they passed over onto the other side. As if Jakob himself did not exist. He turned to Damien in his perplexity. "What is going on here?" he asked in a trembling voice. "This is a dream," Damien took Jakob's face in his hands again. "I am but a dream here, in this world. And you have come into my dream, somehow. Without your help, I cannot return to the real world. You must help me, Ya-kob, please." His eyes were wide and pleading, pleading with his entire being for this thing, and he seemed to be in great earnest. "We can't be in a dream," he protested, "and certainly not the same dream. That isn't logical." Damien took Jakob's hand, and led him up the stairs to the higher level. Jakob allowed himself to be led, his mind attempting to take in everything that was happening, all thoughts of his cousin fading. There was no one at this level, not at this moment which, in light of what was about to happen, was perhaps serendipitous. Damien took Jakob's hand in his, and made as if to climb upon the railing. Jakob resisted, cold fear grabbing him. 45

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"What are you doing?" "You'll see," Damien promised solemnly, never slowing, as he continued to heave them both upon the narrow railing. Nothing Jakob could do would dissuade him. He kept his arms about Damien's waist, with the intention of throwing his weight backward, to bring them both down. But instead, Damien took advantage of his proximity to take flight, leaping in a graceful arc, arms entwined about Jakob, from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Jakob's heart pounded, his brain screamed that death was imminent, and he never loosed his hold from the beautiful but crazy blond who was plunging them both to their deaths. A dispassionate side of him wondered how long it would take a falling body to splat upon the ground and what sort of a mess it might make. The other side realized that he would never live to find out. Whatever the answer, it shouldn't take as long as this. He buried his face against Damien's chest, wondering if it were possible for them to be together in death somehow. Albert would have to figure out how to get around Paris on his own, and he wouldn't be too happy about it. But that was Jakob's problem no longer. Damien gently pulled his face back, until they were gazing into one another's eyes once more. Jakob realized that not only had they not plunged to their deaths, but that they were no longer at the Eiffel Tower. He blinked about them in amazement, his heart pounding, his pulse racing at the neardeath experience. They were now standing outside of a sidewalk cafe. In fact, it was the same one at which Albert had dined at this very day. 46

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What the hell was going on here? Jakob turned wondering eyes toward Damien, who nodded, a very knowing look evident in his mien. "A dream," he repeated. "Only a dream." "Yours or mine?" Jakob wanted to know, confused. "Ours now, I think." Damien seemed slightly at a loss for words. "I mean, I'm not sure. This part has never happened before." "What part? Part of what?" "The part where anyone else ever sees me or talks to me. You're the first." Jakob shook his head, making an attempt to clear it. He wasn't buying this dream business. But he also couldn't explain leaping from the top of the Eiffel Tower and ending up alive—anywhere. "I don't understand, can you please tell me what's going on? From the beginning?" Damien lifted one of Jakob's hands to his lips and kissed it softly. "Oui, mon petit," he said. "I will do my best." Jakob felt, rather than saw, the transition this time. It was less jarring, but just as surreal. The two of them sat on a bench facing the Seine. He gazed around him at the passing people, those brave souls who did not mind braving the early November cold to traverse the streets of Paris. Couples walked by hand in hand. A mother with her brood of small ones, clucking at them to stay together. A pair of priests, lost in conversation, heads bent toward one another. Two women occupied the bench beside them, their lips locked together, oblivious to the world. No one took notice of Damien and Jakob. 47

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"How can I be asleep and dreaming when I am clearly awake?" the bewildered Jakob asked. "You... you don't feel like a dream. You feel too real to be a hallucination." He ran one hand in wonder along Damien's arm, felt the warmth of it, the musculature beneath the soft skin. His lips had felt too real to be a dream. None of this made any sense. Damien shrugged. "I do not know how it is, just that it is." He gazed toward the river, at the life which streamed along it, the barges, the pleasure boats, the sounds of life all about them—and yet not a part of their reality. "What year is this?" he asked, almost abstractedly, as if unsure he really wished to know the answer to the question. "What year? Two thousand and ten, of course, why do you ask?" "Two thousand? And ten?" Damien echoed, a tone of wonderment in his voice. "I have been dreaming for over a hundred years..." "A hundred years? That is not possible," Jakob replied. "No one can sleep for that long." And people cannot visit one another's dream worlds, either, but here you are, his inner voice maintained. "Please tell me what you are talking about." Damien rose from the bench, reaching for Jakob's hand, and he gave it. Twining their fingers together, he led him along the banks of the Seine, speaking softly. Not that others could hear, but it drew them together in their singularity. His voice possessed an otherworldly quality, as Jakob strained to make sense of his words. "Let me start at the very beginning. My beginning, that is. I came into this world in a rather unusual way," he began, 48

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"part of the story I do not possess, but I shall tell you what it is I do know. My mother gave birth to me on November 4, 1882, at the Moulin Rouge. You are familiar with the Moulin Rouge, oui?" "Ja," Jakob affirmed, "although I've not gone there. Not yet." "You should. It's a wonderful place." Damien offered his companion a sad smile. "I was taken there constantly, by my fathers. We loved it there." Jakob replayed the sentence in his own mind. He still did not understand, credited the error to faulty translation. "I am not understanding you. I thought that you said fathers?" "Oui. Mon peres." He smiled at Jakob's evident confusion, lifting Jakob's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his hand softly. "On the night that my mother stumbled into the Moulin Rouge, there were twelve artists there. They called themselves the Dreammongers, and once a year they met in secret inside the Moulin Rouge." "Like a club or something?" "Oui, something like that," Damien agreed. "On this night my mother, she had gone into labor, and somehow she ended up inside the nightclub, and she happened upon where the artists were having their bit of fun, in their secret back room. That must have been funny to see." He chuckled at the thought. "They said there was no time to call a doctor, so they did what they had to do: they delivered the child, myself. And when my mother said she was going to throw me in the Seine, they stopped her from doing so, and they took me from her, deciding to raise me themselves. So that is how 49

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it began. My mother left, never to be seen or heard from again, and they became my fathers. They decided I would not live in one of their homes, but that I would spend time with each of them. And thus every month, I go to stay with a different father." Damien paused. Jakob could hear him take a deep breath. "I mean... I did. I realize that they are all gone now. All gone." He fell silent, bowing his head sorrowfully, unable to speak. Thoughts swirled in Jakob's brain like confused butterflies. He couldn't help a natural incredulity over Damien's claim to have been born in 1882, especially as young and beautiful as he appeared to be. Jakob was not normally one to believe in fairy tales. And yet he also found himself torn between feeling sorry for Damien for having been abandoned by his mother in such a callous manner, and feeling sympathy at the realization that the fathers he loved were no longer alive. He put a compassionate arm about the other, offering the comfort of his touch, the warmth of his presence. It didn't seem like much, but he could feel Damien relax into him, so it must be enough for now. In a flash of insight, he realized what it was that he had seen within the Louvre, what it must mean. "Toulouse Lautrec, was he one of your... fathers?" "Oui, Pere Toulouse, he was one of my fathers. A very great man, he was, and very kind to me. Always thinking of others, never himself." He fell silent, and Jakob held him tightly, as if he could take the other's pain into himself.

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They stopped walking, simply held one another, while humanity roiled about them, oblivious to their presence, but neither cared. "Damien," Jakob began hesitantly, for he was loath to intrude upon the other's grief. "That does not explain why you are here, and now, when you were here, and then..." "I will tell you what I remember," Damien said thoughtfully, pushing one hand through his platinum locks, almost wearily, "from the last time that I was in my world." He told of the night of his eighteenth birthday, of the celebration that was held at the red windmill, doubling as a birthday party and his officially entering the world of the Dreammongers. "Pere Toulouse and I had had dinner at a restaurant nearby, and we walked from there to the Moulin Rouge. We took our time, because of his cane." Damien paused, visualizing the petite artist in his mind, on their last night together. "He promised me absinthe," he said softly. "I'd always wanted to try it." "I've never tried it," Jakob admitted. "Is it any good?" "It was delicious," Damien admitted with a smile. "It tasted like the best licorice, except that it was liquid. It was then that I began to feel strange, in such a way as I'd never felt before. Like I was falling backward, very slowly, and I could not stop myself, and I could not move, nor could I speak. Everyone around me was in motion, and they were speaking to me, but I could not understand what they were saying. I could see my fathers were upset, they were hovering around me, but I could not tell them that I was not there, not in my 51

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body. I was floating outside of it. I know, that sounds very strange," he apologized softly. "No, go on," Jakob reassured him. Not like he hadn't heard of out-of-body experiences before. Just not any which involved time in any way. "There is not much more to tell," Damien apologized, "other than this. I saw the Green Fairy herself. I think she saved me and sent me to the place where I awoke. Where my body still is. But I do not know where that is. If I think about places that I have been, in Paris, I find myself there, without making any effort of my own to go there. But when I try to talk to any of the people, it is as if I do not exist. Until you." "Until me?" Jakob repeated, trying to understand. "I think that you were the one meant to find me. You are the brave prince who comes to rescue the helpless maiden. Except that I am not exactly a maiden, but you are still my prince." He cast his eyes down demurely, more than acutely aware of his maiden status, in more ways than one. Jakob did not believe in fairy tales or in myths or in legends. But his logical mind wasn't giving him any alternative solutions to the enigma that stood before him, the beautiful enigma whose very touch was enough to take his breath away. The one his body was reacting to, very strongly. "Are you saying you are outside of your body now?" Jakob queried. "Oui, I am. My body lies somewhere else, in darkness, as naked as I was upon my birthday, when it all happened."

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The thought of Damien naked sent a surge of energy through Jakob, one that went straight to his cock, eliciting an unexpected moan. "If this is a dream, then we are both dreaming, ja?" "Oui, we are dreaming, as I said. Together dreaming." "Then there must be a way to reach your physical body, also together, and bring you out of the dream state, don't you think?" Jakob's mind raced frantically, seeking answers, even incredible ones. He wasn't sure he believed what he heard, but he wasn't entirely sure he disbelieved, either. "I think you may be right," Damien said slowly. He drew Jakob closer to him, close enough for Jakob to feel the warmth of his breath. "There is something I wish to tell you. Something I have never said to another person." His lips hovered near Jakob's ear. Jakob said nothing, frozen by the desire to hear the words which Damien seemed so anxious to say. "I want you, Jakob. I want to be with you. I want you to be my first." He brushed his lips against Jakob's outer ear gently, instinct guiding him where knowledge did not yet exist. Jakob melted at the other's touch. Unsure what to do, he found that he wanted to do it all. But how? Where? He closed his eyes, as Damien nuzzled his neck, pressing closer to the soft blond, who was hard in all the right places. Another moan arose in the back of his throat. He knew that he wanted Damien, too, wanted Damien to be his own first. But shouldn't they be trying to get to the bottom of this perplexing riddle they were faced with? Seriously? 53

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Or perhaps not. The city of love had cast a spell upon him, and he gave himself over to its tender clutches. Damien pulled back, his head raised, his eyes wide. "No," he protested, "not yet, please not yet." "What's wrong, what's the matter?" Jakob demanded, clutching at Damien as the trembling blond cast an imploring glance heavenward. "No, please no," he murmured, trying to hold on to Jakob, as if by so doing he could anchor himself there. But already they were slipping through one another. Damien knew what that meant. He didn't want it to be so. Jakob gave a dismayed cry as Damien grew misty, losing substance, his body seeming to shimmer and shift. "Don't go!" he cried, reaching around his rapidly diminishing form. "Don't go, Damien!" Too late. Jakob reeled, hitting his head on something hard. Opening his eyes, the cold metal of the observation telescope pressed against his temple. He stood on the platform at the Eiffel Tower. Quite alone. Obviously he'd fallen asleep on his feet. Or had he? He was so very confused. And so very tired. What had happened to Damien? Where had he gone? And would he ever see him again? What was going on here? A quick glance at his watch confirmed what he feared: it was Albert time. He would have to ponder the mystery later, as he hastened toward the elevator, praying that he would make it on time, thoughts of the beautiful blond filling his mind, and his heart. [Back to Table of Contents] 54

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Chapter 8 Jakob was exhausted. He couldn't think clearly, and what thoughts he did have were disjointed and bizarre. His eyes were bloodshot, and his body weighed a ton, his arms and legs responding in slow motion to the commands which he gave them. Falling asleep in public and dreaming of a beautiful blond man was proof that he needed to slow down, at least a little bit, and collect his thoughts on what was actually happening to him. Whatever that might be. Luckily, Albert rather haughtily declared that Jakob's presence this evening was not required, as he was being picked up by tonight's lucky escort, and Jakob was free to sightsee however he wished. Jakob didn't delve into details or comment on which of them was actually the lucky one. At that point in time, he truly didn't care. All that he heard was that he didn't have to be at his cousin's beck and call, even if sightseeing was not exactly on his agenda. Rest was the last thing on his mind, with the mystery of Damien looming large in his memory, his touch still lingering upon his skin, his scent clinging to his nostrils. How could such a thing be a dream? And yet how could it be anything else? So Jakob did what he invariably did in times of trouble—he pulled out his Nokia and phoned Abram. "So tell me, how is gay Paree? And the mystery man with the great lips, how is he? Tell me you went to the Eiffel Tower to meet him, or I'll be very disappointed in you, Jakob!" 55

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Jakob laughed, welcoming the release of built-up tension he'd been holding in. "Shut up for a minute, and I'll tell you." Abram listened silently as Jakob told him everything that had happened from the moment he first met the mysterious and elusive Damien until his return to the hotel. He left out nothing, and when he was done, he heard Abram let out a long low whistle. "Am I crazy, Abram?" Jakob almost wished the answer were that easy. But somehow he didn't think that was the case. "Jakob Kohl, you are the most un-crazy person I have ever met," his friend reassured him. "I don't think you have that kind of imagination, you know? Not that I'm saying that's a bad thing, mind you. You're a wonderful musician. I know someday you will give Liberace a run for his money, God rest his soul. You're a very practical person. If you tell me this happened, then I believe you. Now the question is, what does it mean? And what can we do about it?" Jakob breathed a long sigh of relief, fraught with worry at the same time. He was definitely out of his league here, up to his ears in things far beyond his ken. But he knew that he had to do something to help Damien. It appeared that he was the blond's only hope; he didn't want to fail him. For many reasons. "I wish I knew. Abram, he's counting on me." There was a moment of silence between them. Jakob found that he could not keep from yawning. "It seems to me that if dreams are the key to this mystery, then you need to dream again, my friend," Abram said at last, 56

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"and not on your feet, standing in public places. That's what they make beds for, you know." Jakob smiled at Abram's unfailing common sense. Although he really didn't understand how he had fallen asleep standing. But then Albert had been running him pretty ragged. Perhaps he should take advantage of his cousin's propitious absence, put out the Do Not Disturb sign, lock his door, and get some real sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. "In the meantime, I think I shall consult with my rabbi. Dreaming is serious business, my friend. We don't want to schmutz this up." "Thanks, Abram." Jakob yawned uncontrollably, which made his words come out a bit garbled. Abram chuckled good-humoredly. "Go to sleep, Jakob, call me in the morning, whenever you awaken, or whenever your Casanova of a cousin drags you out of bed." "I will, Abram." Jakob managed to get out a mumbled, "Good night," before he clicked off. He set his phone's alarm, not for morning, but for an hour. He didn't know how to meet Damien on purpose, but if his first dream didn't succeed in finding the troubled blond, he could wake up and try again. Stripping, he laid his clothes neatly on a chair beside the bed, then loosened the tight corners of the sheets which suffocated the mattress. He hated that tightness, hated the way it made his legs and feet feel imprisoned, as if they were attempting to prevent him from rolling over in his sleep. Satisfied that it was loose enough, he slid beneath the cool sheets, turning onto his side, the pillow sandwiched between his head and his hand, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. 57

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When he opened his eyes again, he stood on a wide boulevard. Probably the Champs-Elysees, but he couldn't be sure. He could see no street signs, and when he tried to stop one of the passersby, they ignored his question, as if they hadn't heard. They were all shrouded in dark cloaks, their faces blank, pushing past him and around him, completely ignoring his presence there. From behind him, Jakob could hear a gleeful cackle. He whirled about to see who was there, who was laughing at him. He saw no one. No one other than the silent-moving masses. Where was Damien? He searched the faces as they filed around him. Their features began to melt together into a disturbing homogeneity, nothing to distinguish one from the other. Suddenly, they changed direction en masse and began to converge upon him. Their mouths moved, but he could hear nothing. And yet their very silence was deafening. He covered his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to make himself small and unnoticeable so that they would leave him alone. They grabbed at him. Their fingers poked, prodded, and pinched, surrounding him, cutting off all avenues of escape. He screamed, and even his scream possessed no resonance. Jakob sat up with a start, bathed in sweat, brought to awareness by the rhythmic beeping of his phone alarm. Reaching for it, he pushed it off and lay in the bed, breathing hard. It hadn't worked. Not that time. Good thing he'd set the alarm. He still had time to try again. Assuming he could get back to sleep. But that didn't take long. He closed his eyes, thinking about Damien, seeing the 58

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blond's lovely features before him, and before he knew it, he was locked in Morpheus' embrace once more. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 9 The pressure of another body upon the bed woke him. The dip of the mattress, the peeling back of the blanket and sheet, the warmth of that body pressed up against his. Jakob opened his eyes to find himself staring into Damien's. "How did you find me?" he breathed in amazement. "You must have been here before, yes?" "Never," Damien asserted with a shake of his head. "I would remember if I had. But I was still able to find you, somehow. I don't know how. Does it matter?" "It might," Jakob said softly, trying to think, to put this new information into some sort of perspective. "At least we know if we get separated, that you can find me again. I'm guessing that's how this works. At least that is my theory." "Good." Damien kissed him lightly, propping himself up on his side. "Then I like how this works, as long as it leads me back to you." Jakob dared a covert look. Not that that was actually necessary, as Damien was far from shy, and made no attempt to cover himself in any way. Jakob could see that the other man was as stark naked as he was. Quite gloriously and visibly so. Considering that he was a dream phantom, he had the most beautiful body Jakob had ever seen, lean and muscled, with a pleasing uncut cock, thinner than Jakob's own shaft, but longer. It lounged indolently against one pale muscled thigh, and Jakob had to force himself to look away, back to Damien's eyes, lest he betray his lust. 60

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"I want to help you," he told Damien, reaching out to stroke the long platinum tresses, silky smooth to his touch. "There must be a way to get you out of there, to bring you out here." With me, he added mentally, afraid to speak the words aloud. "As soon as possible, please, Ya-kob," Damien whispered, almost fearfully. "I'm afraid this place is changing." "What do you mean?" "Sometimes I think I hear someone else. Someone other than us, I mean." "Someone else? How? Who? Does this person speak to you? What does he say? He or she?" he hastily amended, not wishing to assume the presence of a potential rival. Hoping the contrary. "No words, just laughter. Strange laughter." Jakob's blood froze, as he recalled the laughter from his own dream. Coincidence? Somehow he didn't think so. "That doesn't sound good." He frowned. "Do you feel like you might be in danger?" "Maybe," Damien admitted, with a slight shiver. "The laughter... it doesn't sound normal." Jakob instinctively drew the other man closer to him, protectively winding his arms around him. Their bodies touching intimately. Leg against leg. Chest against chest. Warm skin touching warm skin. He could feel himself hardening at Damien's closeness. He wished he knew what to do, how to proceed. All he had were gut feelings to guide him, and he couldn't be sure that they were right or that Damien felt the same way about him, had the same desires. But then 61

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he recalled his words as they held one another, the moonlight glinting off of the Seine, and he knew that Damien wanted him too. The flow of Jakob's thoughts was interrupted by the pressure of Damien's mouth against his. He responded without hesitation. Everything about Damien felt right. How could this be wrong? Perhaps it was simply meant to be. Perhaps that was the reason that Damien had found his way to Jakob's hotel, and into his bed. This must be their Fate, and who was he to fight against such a thing? Jakob had never been in such intimate proximity to another man before, certainly not while naked, and the most indescribable sensations were coursing through him, flooding his nerve centers. He could feel the warmth of Damien's body against his, and he never stopped to question how that could be, or to consider that this was but a dream. It felt too real not to trust it. But of course, is that not the reality of dreams? They make the unreal seem real, thus the power which they possess. As Damien's mouth passionately crushed his own, Jakob had no doubt as to just how much the other man must want him, too, Damien's need rubbing against his own. His own cock stirred, rising to the occasion, even as he felt a low moan in the back of his throat, signaling his great need. What should he do? Should he touch Damien, or wait to be touched, or what? Then he remembered that the blond was just as innocent and clueless as he. But perhaps, having had the fathers that he did, they had given him some counsel on 62

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the subject? Not that it mattered. Jakob wanted to be with him, regardless of who knew what. The demands of their lungs dictated that they pause to take in air, lips reluctantly parting, though not distancing themselves from one another. For a few moments both were too occupied with breathing to speak. Jakob slid his fingers through Damien's silky locks. He couldn't get enough of touching him. His hand gravitated to him. His own hair was so uninteresting in comparison: a warm chestnut, cut almost in a pageboy style, his bangs covering his forehead, but not long enough to be in his way. He had brown eyes. Not much to say about them—they weren't the sort that poets yearned over. They were just there. And sensitive lips. Maybe a little feminine. Certainly not as lovely as Damien's. "Did your fathers...?" he began softly, as he caressed. "Did they... say anything...?" "Say anything, mon petit?" "You know. About... that is... I mean, did they ever tell you how to make love?" He spoke almost hesitantly, as if he were afraid of breaking this enchanted spell that had been woven between them, torn as he was between their lovemaking and the desire to save the other man. When Damien broke into a smile, Jakob's heart fluttered in response. "Alas, in some respects they were a little prudish," he admitted. "I've caught them with their lovers before. Touching and kissing one another in..." He giggled slightly. "In rather intimate places, let us say. I think that's when I realized that men's bodies can be very beautiful. But when I 63

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asked them questions, they told me I was too young, and none would explain." He pushed aside the hair that covered Jakob's ear and began to nibble softly, which elicited a moan from the dark-haired youth. "You and I, we must do as we feel," he murmured, "and let l'amour be our guide." Jakob felt the warm and tender lips as they began an eager exploration of his body, beginning with his ear, and continuing along the line of his neck, kissing and licking and sucking by turn. Jakob fairly vibrated with pleasure, attuned to every little move that Damien made, wishing to reciprocate and hoping he would be able to, and that his attentions would be received as favorably. He softly stroked along the length of Damien's back, tentative pats at first, but as he grew bolder, he began to experiment, allowing his fingertips to gently glide across the surface of the smooth skin beneath them. He explored the contours of the blond's shoulder blades with fascination, marveling at the strength which lay beneath his touch; he followed the ridges of Damien's spine down, down, down his back, until he came to the dip before his ass. Damien nuzzled at Jakob's neck, performing his own inquiries there. When Jakob paused, unsure for a moment of his right to do what he was thinking of doing, Damien kissed his lips softly, and whispered, "Touch me anywhere, mon coeur, anywhere you like." In tandem accord, the two young men rolled a bit, maneuvering themselves in the best way to facilitate their mutual explorations. Jakob was still on the bottom but both arms were now free to reach around the body of the gorgeous Damien, whose weight rested so lightly atop him. He slid his 64

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hands over his buttocks a shade more confidently, admiring both their roundness and their taut musculature. Damien proudly flexed his muscles, and laughed at the surprised look on Jakob's face when he felt the movement beneath his hands. Damien shifted his weight to his knees, placing one on either side of Jakob's hips. "Go ahead. I like the way that feels," Damien encouraged him, having no inhibitions where his body was concerned. As Jakob alternated between squeezing and stroking, Damien was licking his nipples, slightly darker than his own, against the pallor of Jakob's pale skin. Their cocks rubbed together as they moved. "We have to decide something," Jakob, ever the logical one, found the breath to say, even after his fingers slid between those inviting twin globes and lightly brushed across Damien's perineum, across his hole. "What's that?" "Um, which one of us is going to do what? Know what I mean?" "Um hmmm," Damien responded, mouth full of one taut nub, his fingers rubbing the other stiffening soldier. Jakob was rapidly coming undone, so turned on by what they were doing that he wasn't sure how to maintain any sort of control. He could feel seepage from his cock, and having experience in self-love, he understood what that meant. But he also realized that knowing what was going to happen was not as important as living in the moment. It wasn't always necessary to think ahead, simply to feel. 65

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He wasn't sure what he felt for this beautiful blond, but his heart told him there was something, and he wanted the chance to explore these feelings that were so very new to him. See where they led. But that could only happen if he brought Damien safely into his world. Assuming he could. He pushed the negative thought aside, concentrating on the gorgeous blond above him. He would find a way somehow. Hungrily he reached for Damien's lips and took them into his own. Their tongues tangled gloriously between their fused mouths. Jakob arched up into Damien, so that their cocks were pressed tightly together, the friction of their movements only serving to fan the flame of his desire. He reached between them, his fingers fluttering over that sweet skin, brushing across his pebbled nipples. He knew what he wanted to touch, but did he have the nerve to do it? Gazing again into Damien's eyes gave him the answer. He found that he did have the nerve, as his hand snaked downward, continuing its exploration of Damien's smooth body until it reached the object of its desire and boldly closed around it, surprising both of them. His fingers wrapped naturally about that slender girth, as if he were touching himself, but better. It was slick to his touch—between them they were both leaking a good deal of pre-cum. Jakob found that that slickness facilitated the passage of his hand along that length as he pumped it. He could feel Damien's moan through their joined mouths, and the sound pleased him. Jakob wondered how Damien would taste, wanted to explore him with his tongue and lick all his juices dry, but his 66

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desire to find out was held in check by his desire to hold on to what he now had—literally. They paused to breathe again. "You feel so good." "You too," Damien whispered, his own hand joining Jakob's, and encompassing his cock as well, in one slippery meat sandwich. Jakob released a breathy groan, their joined hands inducing the most glorious sensations. His body was on fire with desire for Damien, to the point where all rationality was taking a back seat to sheer carnality. He didn't have long, and he knew it. He could feel the familiar tightening in his balls, feel them shrinking back against his body, preparing to loose their load. He didn't know the protocol here—if he should announce his intentions or make some attempt to back them down. He knew that last was a losing battle, though. Should he ask Damien if he were close himself? He didn't have time to debate the matter; Damien's hand was too good at what it was doing. It was ripping sensations from him he didn't know he was capable of. He didn't have the self-control to stop it. Or the desire. This reminded him of when he was a young boy first learning to masturbate, experimenting in the privacy of whatever home he was in at the time, possessed of a tendency to go off without warning until he gained mastery over the feat. Now, as then, his cock began to spasm, his body to quiver as he tightened his own grip about Damien, still working that beautiful cock for all it was worth. He stained their hands with his fluids, splattered them on Damien's chest, before effecting a cease fire. 67

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Damien's own release came but a couple of minutes later. Jakob was enchanted at the feel of the other youth's orgasm, and continued to hold on to him, even once his flesh had ceased its spastic dance inside his grasp. "I'm going to get you out of there, Damien," Jakob promised him, reaching for his lips. They kissed sweetly, passion momentarily spent, tenderness claiming them for its own. "But you've got to help me find you. You must know something about where you are, some little clue that can guide me." They shifted positions once more, spooning together, Damien's strong arms circumnavigating Jakob's chest, holding him tightly. Damien lightly kissed one bare shoulder. "Go to the Moulin Rouge," he said at last. "That is where everything began. Maybe there is a clue there." That made some sort of sense. As much as anything did in the situation in which they found themselves. "I have to leave you," Damien announced suddenly. "What? No, please stay. At least a little while longer," Jakob pled. Just then they both heard it. The sound of laughter. Disturbing laughter. "I can't let him find you," Damien whispered. "I'll find you later. I promise. Go to the Moulin Rouge." Their lips met once more with a feverish urgency. Jakob knew Damien was being logical, but for once logic held no interest for him. He wanted them to stay together, just like this, for as long as possible. 68

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But again Damien vanished. And all that was left behind was the warmth of his kiss upon Jakob's lips. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 10 Feeling more refreshed than he had since he'd first arrived in Paris, Jakob called Abram as soon as he woke. His voice reflected his more than happy state, which earned him a chuckle from his friend. "Sounds like somebody got lucky," he teased Jakob, "and I don't mean your cousin." "Never you mind," Jakob laughed, before turning serious. "Did you get a chance to talk to your rabbi? What does he think? Does he even believe us, or did he tell you to call the men in the white coats for me?" "Jakob, please, have some faith in me. And my rabbi. He is taking this very seriously, I assure you. He wants to look up some things before he offers an opinion. He's very careful that way. But as soon as he does, I will let you know. Okay?" Jakob took a steadying breath. "Okay, Abram. I trust you." Words which Jakob did not use lightly. "What is on your busy schedule for today?" "I won't know till Albert gets up. Who knows when that will be?" "Well, then, here is my suggestion for you," Abram said. "You should do some research on your end, look up your friend, and find out all you can about him, historically." "Oh, you mean like at the library?" Jakob asked. "Exactly. Perhaps you can find something which will give you a clue as to where he might be. I'll call you back when I 70

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learn something. Feel free to call me first if you find out anything." "That sounds like a good idea. I'll have my phone with me, no matter what, and no matter where I end up." The phone on his bedside table began to ring, almost imperiously. "That can't be good. I gotta go," he said. "Talk to you later." "Later," Abram agreed as they both hung up. Naturally it was Albert. Who else would call Jakob there? Although for the space of one moment, Jakob's heart had jumped, thinking it might be Damien, but that was a forlorn hope at best. Then Albert's instructions gave him a new belief in Fate, as his cousin told him that they were to dine that night at the Moulin Rouge, and to arrange for two tables. One would be for himself and a guest, the other for Jakob. As Abram would say, "God forbid they should be seen at the same table. What a putz." But for once, Jakob didn't mind. He couldn't help but feel that he was getting one step closer to saving Damien. He was trying not to think beyond that, not right now. First things first. Jakob took a long, hot shower, the memory of Damien's touch imprinted upon his mind. And on his body. He was surprised to discover how much he missed the blond he had known for such a short time, how much a part of his mindset he had become. How much he wanted him to be there with him, wanted to talk to him, longed to delve into the other man as deeply as possible. He had never felt this way about anyone before. Could it be love? Was that even possible? He 71

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didn't honestly know. Perhaps there was more of a romantic nature hidden beneath his practical exterior than even he had imagined? While waiting for Albert, Jakob called the Moulin Rouge and booked the requisite tables. Dinner was served at seven, and the nightclub was not open before that time, naturally. He then called down to the front desk and received information on the National Library of France, the famed Biblioteque nationale de France. There were two branches: the Richelieu library and the Francois-Mitterand library. His desire to delve into history was held up, however, by having to attend upon his cousin in his usual lackey performance. Albert had gotten it into his head that he needed new clothes for the dinner at the Moulin Rouge, and nothing could dissuade him otherwise. And nothing Jakob said made any impression on him either. He was adamant in having his company, if not his advice. Of course, Jakob didn't dare to speak a word to Albert about Damien. He was sure that would produce only the crudest of comments from his cousin. So he had no decent excuse for not going, plus he was only too well aware that he was there on Albert's euro. Anyway, if he didn't go, Albert would be unable to converse with the shopkeepers, as he spoke no decent French. On the plus side, Albert insisted on buying Jakob something to wear tonight as well. On him. That was a bit of a shock, coming from Mr. Miserly. Perhaps Paris had managed to loosen him up, in more ways than one. They visited three salons in the space of just a couple of hours, beginning with one that catered to those with deep 72

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pockets and a desire to appear trendy. Jakob quickly discovered that expensive did not equate to good-looking. He managed to maneuver Albert away from some very grotesque suits. One was checked. Surprisingly, his cousin did not complain, acquiescing to Jakob's taste. The second salon was better, but had nothing which either of them liked. The third shop was a surprising choice: a re-sale shop specializing in vintage clothing. They each found what they wanted there, with a little bit of digging through the huge selection. Jakob was even able to haggle the price down to something rather reasonable. After all, that was the European way of doing things, unlike the Americans who simply paid what was on the tag without question. Albert got an armful of nice-looking clothes for a decent price. He was pleased. And Jakob was pleased, both with his new suit and with the not unpleasant morning spent with his cousin. He thought for a brief moment about telling Albert about Damien, but in the end he held his tongue, preferring to err on the side of caution. The suit which Jakob had chosen for this evening at the theater was a vintage, three-piece, black zoot suit with thin white pinstripes. It had a matching hat. At first, Jakob was reluctant to get the hat, thinking it would be too much. But then he tried it on. And once he'd done that, taking a peek at himself in the full-length mirror, he found that he couldn't not get it. There was a certain magic to it that he couldn't explain. It seemed to add a certain panache, upping his desirability quotient, at least in his own eyes. The tail of the tape would be what Damien had to say when he saw it. 73

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Assuming he saw it. Assuming he got to see Damien again. It was silly to worry, he told himself, just because hours had passed with no sign of the blond. That meant nothing. He had to believe that he would see him again. And that everything would work out well. Which meant that at some point, Albert needed to do something other than shop, because Jakob had things to do. Relief came at lunchtime. Jakob dropped Albert off at another hotel, where he had arranged to meet someone for lunch. Interestingly, the same someone from the day before. The one that had monopolized his entire day. Jakob was curious, but he didn't stop to analyze the situation, hastening to the Rue de Richelieu and the National Library there. If Jakob had had more time, he would have loved to roam about the Rue de Richelieu, gaze in wonder at the beautiful stone houses with which the street abounded, the various shops it was home to, not to mention the Academie de Musique itself. How his heart yearned to enter that building and plumb its musical depths. But he held fast to his intent and went straight to the library instead. From the outside, the edifice wore a foreboding look, but once he'd entered its portals, his first impression changed. The older of the two libraries, it still housed important collections of great interest. The reading room was wondrously immense. It possessed nine terracotta domes as well as a glass ceiling, giving it the air of a literary cathedral. Jakob was overwhelmed by its beauty as he walked into the room. Apparently the French were very proud of their heritage, and their library, and access was not restricted. 74

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Jakob wasn't sure where to start first. The oval room was ringed by a series of iron arches, inset with decorative leaves, behind which could be seen several floors of book stacks. He decided that first he should ask someone who knew the library where he might find either books on the history of the Moulin Rouge, or perhaps even old newspaper articles from around 1900, the period in which Damien said that he lived— and disappeared. However it was not quite that simple. The austere older woman at the Accueil desk informed him, almost icily, that his request was impossible. Access to the stacks was strictly forbidden. If he wished to fill out a research request, however, that would be permitted. She handed him an overly long form, which seemed to be several pages long. The look on her face told him he should find somewhere else to fill it in. And by the way, permission would take anywhere from a week to a month to be granted. "I do not have that long, Madame," Jakob protested. He found it difficult to be very vehement in a tongue which was not his own. "It is imperative that I gather some information today. As quickly as possible." "It is a matter of life and death?" she asked sarcastically, her eyebrows arching so high they seemed to touch her bouffant hairdo. Jakob started to nod yes, before his common sense took over. She would not believe that any research into the 1900 Moulin Rouge could possibly be so urgent. And yet it was, very much so. "For a research paper I am writing," he amended his statement, crossing his fingers surreptitiously 75

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behind his back, hoping to offset his lie of necessity. "I do not know how long I shall be in Paris, and my professor told me he would give me honors points if I were to do my research here." "Then your professor is an idiot." Obviously the woman was not going to be swayed into sympathy. "He should know that that is not allowed, unless perhaps he set you up for failure?" Jakob had no comment ready regarding his imaginary professor, so changed the subject. "I am looking for information regarding the Moulin Rouge, and an incident which happened there in 1900, involving some sort of mysterious disappearance." The librarian eyed Jakob sternly. "Are you having fun at my expense?" she asked. "Do you take the National Library to be some sort of book depository for supernatural stupidity?" She glanced about him suspiciously. "Are you filming us for one of those reality TV shows? Ghost Seekers or Ghost Finders or whatever they are called?" Jakob had no idea what she was going on about, but he could see that he would get no cooperation from her whatsoever. He opened his mouth to offer another suggestion, which would probably only have upped her paranoia quotient, when someone caught his attention. A pretty young girl about his age with long, straight dark hair, and bangs which almost fell into her eyes, was gesturing to him from behind the older woman's back. She placed one finger on her lips in the universal gesture for silence, then 76

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pointed toward a row of nearby tables, some of which contained computer monitors, only half of which were currently occupied. "I am sorry to have bothered you, Madame," Jakob amended his statement, giving the older woman a polite nod. He turned away and made his way down the row of tables. Once he felt he was out of view of the librarian, he picked a table at random and took a chair. And waited. He felt a rush of air as the chair beside him slid back and became taken. Jakob glanced inquisitively at the occupant, waiting for her to say something. She was the one who had beckoned to him, after all. Surely she had a reason for doing so. He was not disappointed. "Monsieur, I must apologize for Madame. She is very protective of the library. She meant no disrespect to you, I am sure. You are German, yes?" "Ja." Jakob nodded. His accent invariably gave him away. Not that he was trying to hide it. "I heard you ask about the Moulin Rouge. You are doing research on it, for a paper?" Jakob hesitated. Lying did not come naturally to him. It had been hard enough to lie to the older woman, but this girl seemed nice, and was making every effort to be helpful. "Not exactly," he admitted. "Wait." He laid his hand upon her arm, afraid she was going to leave at his admission. She didn't move. "It is very urgent that I get some information about something that happened at the Moulin Rouge. I don't have an exact date, but I think it was in the fall of 1900 some time. 77

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It involved a group of artists who once frequented the nightclub. They called themselves the Dreammongers." The girl scrunched up her nose in thought, her brows drawing together in concentration. "I'm sorry. I am not familiar with that name." "There is more. A young man, an associate of theirs, maybe a protege, disappeared about that time, without a trace. His name is... was... Damien. I do not have a surname." Jakob tried not to hold his breath, waiting for her reply. Again she shook her head. "No, monsieur. I am sorry." So this was a dead-end. He couldn't get access to the books to do any research. He couldn't even find someone who knew what he was talking about. He felt the beginnings of panic inside his soul, swallowed hard, letting the momentary disappointment roll through him, willing it to pass. He would just have to find another way to rescue Damien. No matter what it took, he vowed to do just that. He began to rise. This time, it was she who kept him there. "I cannot promise anything, but I do know someone who may know something of that time." Jakob sat back down, listening intently. "My Grand-mere. She has stories of Paris from around that time, stories told to her by her grand-mere. I do not know if she will know of your story or not, but her memory for things is remarkable. And she enjoys talking." Jakob's heart skipped a beat. "You think she would talk to me? How soon? Perhaps now?" he asked hopefully. 78

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The girl checked her watch. "You are in luck. She is still at the cafe and will be for a few more hours. It is just down the street. If you like, I can take you there, and introduce you to her. But first, you must tell me one thing?" "Anything, anything," Jakob hastily promised. "What is it you wish to know?" "Your name," the girl laughed. "I can't very well introduce you without having that, now can I?" Jakob chuckled at her words, blushing. "You are right, of course. Forgive my manners. My name is Jakob Kohl. And you?" "Lisette Perrot." She smiled at Jakob. "Wait for me outside. I will tell that I am going to lunch now, and I will meet you there. You have a car, yes?" "I have a car, yes," he replied, thinking that of course it was Albert's car, if one wished to be technical and correct. She arched her brows at him in a question. "You are going to go now, yes?" "Oh, ja, I'm going." He pushed off from the table, wondering where his mind was. With Damien, of course, as he exited the beautiful reading room without further delay. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 11 Jakob waited on the sidewalk for only a few minutes before he was joined by the young librarian. They walked together to Albert's Audi. Jakob was hoping that he was not wasting his time on something that might end up going nowhere. But at the moment he had no other leads. An iffy lead was better than nothing. Lisette gave him directions to the small cafe which, as it turned out, her grandmother owned, and still worked at, although now she worked truncated hours. It was situated on a quiet side street, and the lunch rush being over, the diners that remained were enjoying their meals in a leisurely fashion. Lisette led him to a small black wrought iron table which enjoyed just enough sunshine to be comfortable, with the proper amount of cool breeze upon one's face. An older woman sat there. She wore a bright, blue flowered dress, which fell gracefully to the ground, from beneath which lacy ruffles peeped. A lavender shawl lay across her shoulders, demurely covering a surprisingly low decolletage. Jakob was surprised, having somehow expected a more grandmotherly image—the proverbial old lady swathed in black, with matching finger gloves and fingers busily engaged in knitting. Lisette greeted her grandmother with a hug. Jakob hung in the background while they exchanged greetings and kisses. Finally, Lisette motioned him forward, crooking her finger at him. 80

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"Grand-mere," she said, "I would like you to meet a friend of mine, Jakob Kohl. He would love to talk to you about the old Moulin Rouge. I told him you have stories your grandmother told you that you will share with him." Grand-mere Perrot smiled in welcome at Jakob, giving him an unabashed appraisal, top to toe, before turning to her granddaughter with a look. Lisette flushed and laughed. "No, Grand-mere, he is here to talk to you, just you. I must go back to work." The woman motioned to Jakob to take a seat at her table. "Do you have time for a latte, Lisette?" "Non, sorry, I will be back later to take you home, Grandmere." The petite brunette bent, kissing her grandmother's cheek before turning to Jakob. "I wish you luck, Jakob. It was nice to meet you." She gave him an unexpected kiss on the top of his head before dashing off. Grand-mere chuckled at the youth's blush. "So, you wish to hear stories of the old Moulin Rouge, do you?" Her eyes searched his face piercingly. She raised one hand in a beckoning gesture. A young garcon approached them quickly. "Yes, madame, there is something you wish?" "What would you like to drink?" she questioned Jakob. "One cannot talk without a beverage. It is uncultured." "Tea, please. And thank you." "Bring us two cups of the lemon zinger, please," she requested of the young waiter, "with a plate of madeleines." The garcon bowed, and left them. 81

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"It is very kind of you, Madame," Jakob began, unsure of just what to ask now that he was here, and unsure of just how much he dare to reveal. But he had to offer something, surely, in order to direct his inquiries, and her storytelling. Much as he would love to hear all of her stories, time was at a premium. "I love to talk about the past. Call me Grand-mere, please. Here I am everyone's grandmother." Grand-mere's eyes were a piercing blue, her smile was warm, designed to make her guests feel at home. "Yes, Ma—Grand-mere," Jakob agreed. He glanced about the cozy cafe. People chatted together at the intimate tables, drinking, and snacking upon sweet pastries. It was a pleasant day to be outside, although he could see other patrons make their way inside as well, in a fairly steady stream. The waiter soon returned, and a few minutes were spent in setting up their tea and dessert, before he took his leave. "Have you been to the Moulin Rouge?" she asked. "Not yet. We have dinner reservations this evening." Grand-mere picked up the delicate china cup, sipping at the hot liquid, as she glanced at Jakob over the rim. "So how do you know my granddaughter?" "To be honest, I don't know her. Not really. We just met at the library, and she was kind enough to help me," Jakob admitted, hoping that his honesty would not get him summarily dismissed. "Lisette is a very sweet girl and prone to champion the underdog. So tell me, Jakob, what is your interest in the old Moulin Rouge, and what would you like to hear about?" 82

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Jakob held the cup of tea between both hands, welcoming the warmth of the brew that permeated the china, considering his words. He didn't wish to reveal too much, afraid he would alienate her. Yet too little information would not help his search either. "I am doing research for a friend," he said cautiously. "Have you ever heard of a club which met once a year at the Moulin Rouge? I believe they called themselves the Dreammongers?" Grand-mere gazed off into the distance, replacing her cup on its saucer. She reached for the creamer, added a small bit to her drink, and stirred it thoughtfully. "I have not heard that name in many years," she said. "The Dreammongers. My grand-mere spoke of them to me. A very long time ago that was. Very long." That was a beginning. And a hopeful one. He picked up one of the madeleines. He wasn't really hungry, but it seemed rude not to eat at least one, since she had gone to the trouble of ordering them. He took a small bite, washing it down with tea. "Very delicious," he was quick to compliment the pastry, although he barely tasted it. "The Dreammongers," she repeated softly, as if she hadn't heard him. "They were the artists, weren't they? Yes, they were. My grandmother knew them. Her father worked at the Moulin Rouge. He led the orchestra there." What amazing good luck. He hardly dared believe it. Dare he hope for more? It seemed too fortuitous to be a coincidence. At that moment, he didn't know what to believe, 83

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but he found himself crossing his fingers and taking a deep breath. "His name was Satie," she went on, "so he would have been my great-grandfather. I never knew him, of course. He died before I was born. Grand-mere doted upon him." She brought the cup up to her lips, glanced at Jakob. "They were an unusual group, you know? The Dreammongers. Very talented, but also very wild." "That is what I have heard." Jakob nodded. "Did your grandmother meet them, then?" "I do not believe so. Perhaps some of the artists, individually, yes. But as a group... non, I do not think so." She took a sip of the tea, set it back down. "I have heard stories about that, but sometimes it is hard to know what is true, and what is just a fantasy. People do like their fairy tales, don't they?" She smiled at Jakob. "Do you?" "Do I what?" "Do you believe in fairy tales, Jakob?" "Not really," he admitted. "Usually there is found to be some sort of a foundation for the stories in fact, but the details are generally very much embroidered to suit the audience." "Indeed," she agreed, nodding, "much in the way of a painting. What it contains is not perhaps what the world sees, but it is what the artist sees, and by sharing his vision, in the form of his painting, he is drawing us into his world, so we can see as he does." "That is an interesting way of looking at it, yes." He took another bite of the madeleine, trying to couch his next 84

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question. "Do you believe in dreams? I mean, that they can be real? Or do they exist only in our minds?" "I do believe in dreams. They are the threads of our existence, but upon another plane. When we sleep, we cross over from one reality into another." "Do you think it's possible to bring something back from the dream world to this world?" Grand-mere gave Jakob a sharp glance and made no immediate answer. "Tell me," she said at last, "what exactly you wish to know about the Moulin Rouge? And dreams?" Jakob flushed. He hadn't meant to be so transparent, but the older woman had seen through his inept questions. He might as well ask what he really wanted to know. "Have you ever heard a story," he began, slowly, "of a boy, a young man, who belonged to the Dreammongers, a protege, or son, even?" "Ah, you have heard the story of the disappearing boy, have you?" Jakob's reaction gave him quite away. "Why do you ask about that? It's an old story. Very old. My grand-mere told it to me. Her father knew the boy. I believe he was an adopted child. But one day he disappeared." "D-disappeared?" "Disappeared," she repeated, lifting her hands up and outward in a gesture of emptiness. "Gone. Vanished. Without a trace, and never an explanation of what happened to him. No body was ever found. They say the artists were inconsolable, and never met together again." 85

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"Did... did the police look into the matter? Would there be records of their investigation?" Grand-mere shrugged. "There was little that anyone could do. Satie said that the artists swore he was taken away by the Green Fairy, but the authorities... they said maybe the artists were a little crazy... too much absinthe. So they were not believed." She reached across the table, and took Jakob's trembling hand in one of hers. "What is this boy to you that you seek these stories? Have you seen him in your dreams, perhaps? And that is why you asked me about dreams?" The easiest thing to do would have been to deny it, to stick with his claim of having to do research for a college paper. Or even a newspaper article. Anything but the truth. But the truth is what came tumbling out. "He has been in my dreams and I in his, and all I know is that I have to find out where his body lies and rescue him." Even to himself, knowing everything that he knew, his words sounded crazy. He waited to be told that he was crazy and demented and on a fool's errand, at the very least. But she said none of these things. Grand-mere squeezed the hand that lay so helplessly within her own. "I wish I could help, mon petit, but these are just legends. Stories handed down from one generation to the next. What is the boy's name?" "Damien." "I wish I could tell you what happened to this Damien. He seems to mean a great deal to you. Do you love him?" Jakob nodded, mutely. "Love. It is a very powerful thing." 86

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Jakob's phone began to ring. He had no choice but to answer it, withdrawing his hand in order to do so. It was Albert, of course. Ready to be picked up and taken back to the hotel. Reluctantly, he rose from the table. "Forgive me. I am afraid that I must go. You have been very gracious. I appreciate your hospitality very much." He stood there for a moment, forlornly. He watched as the older woman rose, as well, coming around the table and hugging him. "Believe in yourself, Jakob. And believe in Damien." He returned her embrace. Attempted to smile. He turned with the intention of leaving, when suddenly he was arrested by the sound of the grandmother's voice. "Wait! One moment. I just remembered something else. I do not know if this will help you or not, but when they met, these Dreammongers, at the Moulin Rouge, they had a special meeting place, private, inside the nightclub." Jakob digested this bit of information. He pursed his lips in thought. "Private, as in members only? Or secret? Like no one else knew about it?" "Both, I think. A secret room where only certain people were privileged to go. I don't know if that will help you or not, but Godspeed, cherie. I hope you find your heart's desire." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 12 Albert was in unusually good spirits when he got into the Audi. In fact, he took the shotgun position in the front of the vehicle, beside Jakob, rather than his usual place in the back seat. Was he actually humming to himself? Jakob wondered. He didn't ask, afraid that he might inadvertently spoil his mood. On the way back to their hotel, his cousin volunteered information about the young man he had met. More information than Jakob had ever thought of asking for. Or wanting or needing. By the time Jakob left Albert at his room in order to get some rest for the evening ahead, he could practically write Philippe's biography. That was the man's name. Philippe. And Albert was seeing him again tonight. At the Moulin Rouge. Jakob was almost tempted to tell Albert about Damien, as a sort of tit for tat, but he suppressed the desire, deciding that discretion was still the better part of valor. Jakob felt a bit overwhelmed by everything that had transpired that day. It had given him a great deal to think about, and to tell Abram. But his excitement at the knowledge he had acquired—and it remained to be seen how useful this information actually was—was tempered by his not having seen Damien. Not even once. That worried him. Worried him very much. He stretched out on the freshly made bed, kicking off his shoes for now, as he called Abram. He described his entire 88

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day to his friend, step by step, omitting nothing. Other than an occasional question, Abram said nothing, simply listened. When Jakob had finished speaking, Abram cleared his throat. "It sounds like the Moulin Rouge is at the heart of everything, doesn't it? It can't be a coincidence that you are going there tonight, I think. Hopefully you will be able to solve this mystery and rescue your fair beauty as quickly as possible." There was something in Abram's voice that set Jakob's nerves on edge. A sense of urgency that hadn't been there before. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "You make it sound like a matter of life and death. Do you know something that I don't?" There was a moment of hesitation. "I didn't want to unnecessarily alarm you, but I've had a long talk with my rabbi. He explained to me many things about dreams and their importance. He believes that Damien is actually caught up in an intermediate Dream World, one that is neither our own, nor the actual place of dreams. A place where time has stood still for him." Jakob was relieved to know that Abram and his Rabbi both believed Damien to be real. It bolstered his own sagging selfconfidence. And yet... "So why are you telling me to hurry? Is something wrong?" "Maybe so, yes. I told him about the crazy laughter, and he thinks that it isn't necessarily another person, but it may be indicative that this world is collapsing. The sooner you find Damien and get him out, we think, the better, my friend." 89

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A shiver ran along Jakob's spine at his words. That did make sense, though. Rather than somebody else simply wandering into this place, threatening Damien's existence, it was the entire structure of the world he temporarily inhabited. The infrastructure was suffering the ravages of time perhaps. Unless it was maybe tied to the sudden activity of its sole occupant. There was just so much he didn't understand about this rather unique situation. But he also didn't have the time to learn everything about it. Not now. His first priority had to be saving Damien before it was too late. "I've been worried about Damien," he blurted out his confession with relief. "I'm afraid that something is wrong with him." "That isn't good," Abram clucked. "Do you have a reason to be worried, something you haven't told me? Or is this more of an intuition thing on your part? Which would be surprising coming from you, but then again, not surprising, considering the bond I think that exists between you now." A bond. There definitely was a bond of some sort between them. Of that Jakob was convinced. Whether he understood the nature of it or not. And whether he understood his feelings for the lovely blond young man or not. But that was food for future ruminations, first things first. "No, it's because I've not seen him all day. Not since he left me last night." Jakob was quite surprised when he heard the chuckle. And more than a little disconcerted. "It's not funny, Abram, why are you laughing at me?" 90

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"I am not laughing at you, Jakob, I promise you. It's so refreshing to me to hear you show such feeling for someone. It does my heart good." "I'm happy, Abram, but that still doesn't explain why I haven't seen or heard from Damien," Jakob protested. "I'm sorry. I should not take such a cavalier attitude," Abram apologized, "not when you are so obviously worried. Why do you think you've not seen him?" "If I knew I wouldn't ask." Jakob couldn't help sounding just a little testy. "What did you do last night, after Damien left?" "Do? I didn't do anything, of course. I was sleeping." "You were doing what?" "I was sleeping. You know, that thing that you do when you climb into bed and close your eyes and—" Suddenly Jakob understood what Abram was driving at. "Aaaaaaaaaah, I see what you mean." "Yes, you were sleeping. Real sleeping, in a real bed. Deep sleeping. That is why you've not seen him today. You have been too awake to fall asleep on your feet. Do you know what they call that, what you were doing?" "No, what?" "Micro-napping. That's the fancy name for it, anyway. Being so tired that you fall asleep without realizing it. My rabbi believes, and I concur, that it was because of your micro-naps that Damien was able to find you. Somehow you were able to blur the lines between your world and his. You see? It's meant to be, bubeleh. You and him. I rejoice for your good fortune." 91

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"Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of yourself?" Jakob felt obliged to protest, although in his heart he felt the same way. Plus it helped to make sense out of everything that happened so that he didn't think he had gone crazy. "Then I must wait until tonight, when I go to bed, to see him again? Is that it?" He was assuming nothing. "Yes, tonight when you go to sleep. Perchance to dream." Another chuckle. "Tell me something, my friend, when you catch your little bird by his tail, so to speak, what will you do with him then? You might just have to make a decision—to stay with him there, in Paris, or bring him home with you, to Karlsruhe." Jakob hadn't thought that far ahead, but he could see the validity of what Abram said. For now, he simply wanted Damien safe. He would worry about their future—if they were to even have a future—after that. "I don't know, Abram. I really don't know. I'll call you after I get back tonight from the Moulin Rouge. If you're still up, of course." "If I'm not, my voice mail will be," Abram laughed. "Don't worry about the time. Call me anyway. Call me from there, if you think I can hear you over everything that's going on." "I will," Jakob promised. "And Jakob? One thing...." "Yes, Abram?" "Try to have fun tonight, enjoy yourself, and don't spend every waking moment worrying about your Damien. Just half of every waking moment." "I'll do my best." 92

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Jakob clicked off with a final farewell. He couldn't help but worry about what this night might bring. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 13 When Jakob had originally made the reservations at the infamous nightclub/restaurant, he had been tempted to call his cousin and confirm that that was what he really wanted. The meal which he had specified that Jakob order, the Belle Epoque, cost 180 euros! Granted, it was a very fine meal— beginning with a lobster bouquet, Parisian style, it included scallops, as well as a choice of turbot or lamb, with the possibility of chocolate panacotta for dessert. Plus it included a half bottle of champagne. And an assortment of wines to choose from. Not to mention the world-famous show. But this was behavior rather unheard of from the penny-pinching Albert. Jakob was at a loss to explain the change. On the other hand, he only stood to benefit from it, so why argue? It was a beautiful night, the threat of rain having been pushed off into the wee hours of the morning. Since at that time Jakob planned to be long abed, he was more than content. They walked from their hotel, as it was so close to the Moulin Rouge. Jakob suspected that it was a ploy meant to show off their newly acquired finery but he didn't mind. The cobblestones echoed with their footsteps. The two men maintained a companionable silence, until they came in sight of the infamous red windmill. Brilliantly lit, it beckoned to them. "It's really rather beautiful, isn't it?" Albert commented. 94

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"It is," Jakob agreed, his thoughts going to the beautiful Damien. He would never again be able to hear a reference to the Moulin Rouge without having him come immediately to mind. They were inextricably tied together now, and always would be. People were already trickling into the restaurant in a steady stream. It was still early. They had made sure to leave the hotel with time to spare. The closer they got to the entrance, the more animated Albert seemed to become. More alive, even. Friendlier. Something had certainly gotten into his cousin, and Jakob blessed it, whatever it might be. And then he understood. A man in evening wear stood apart from the other diners. As soon as Albert saw him, he moved away from Jakob, toward the man, as if he'd forgotten that his cousin was there. The two men quickly closed the gap between them, kissing lightly. As Jakob came abreast of them, they had just linked arms. Jakob was shocked to see the enormous smile upon Albert's face. So this must be Philippe. Albert made the introductions, pleasantries were exchanged, and the three men entered the fabled Moulin Rouge. Jakob was prepared, based on what Damien had told him, to be impressed with what he saw. What he didn't expect was to be completely bowled over. They were guided into the restaurant/theater area which comprised the bulk of the Moulin Rouge. Canned music issued from speakers overhead—"Le Marseillaise", the French national anthem. Red and gold were the order of the day, with striped canopies overhead. Rows of tables for two were 95

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pushed together into lines which formed arrays in the dining area. The tables were covered by linen tablecloths of soft gold, and on each sat a pink-shaded lamp. The rounded red chairs were reminiscent of a bygone era, perhaps even from when Damien and his fathers were frequent guests. Although Jakob suspected that the establishment had undergone extensive changes since that time. The tables were all angled toward the immense stage at the front of the room. The various sections were separated by iron rails worked with hearts, while old fashion street lamps dotted the floor, perhaps reminiscent of the atmosphere which once prevailed in this notorious nightclub/brothel. All seats had a splendid view of the huge glistening wooden dance floor. On the stage itself was a backdrop of the Moulin Rouge and the shops which surrounded it, waiting for its dancers to emerge and begin the next show. And over all, a deep dark canopy above them, the ceiling rose, a myriad of twinkling stars to complete the setting of the scene. Jakob was moved to silence at the enormity of what he was seeing. He couldn't help but think of Damien, wishing he were here to share this moment with him. It turned out that tables were actually assigned on a firstcome first-served basis, so they ended up sitting near one another. Before moving to their own table, Albert and Philippe stood and spent a few minutes chatting with Jakob. Philippe appeared to be in his mid-twenties, which put him about fifteen years younger than Albert. They were a study in contrasts. Philippe was slender, and graceful, with wavy black hair that barely touched the top of each ear, and dark eyes. 96

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Not handsome in the classical sense, he could easily be considered cute. Albert was about five-ten, carried a little extra weight on him but not overly so, with light brown hair just beginning to recede, and brown eyes. Yet together, they seemed to almost make a cute couple. And they were obviously very much taken with one another. To his surprise, Jakob found Philippe to be bright, witty, and possessed of a great sense of humor. The obvious question was: what was he doing with Albert? But Jakob forbore from asking him that. It was apparent they were very much into one another, even in the brief time which they spent with Jakob. He had never seen his cousin laugh quite so much, highly amused at everything which proceeded from Philippe's lips. And Philippe seemed to enjoy touching his cousin as much as possible. He constantly stroked his arm, patted his hand, or left sweet kisses upon his cheek. Jakob had not forgotten the true reason that he was at the Moulin Rouge, of course, which wasn't dinner and dancing, but was to try and learn the location of the secret room which may or may not be there. The one in which the Dreammongers once met, so very long ago. What if Damien were there now? What if his lover were actually that close, the victim of a heinous near-death experience, caught in a world which was not quite this one, not quite the other? The thought both excited him and induced an anxiety attack. This was so far outside of his usual experience, that he felt overwhelmed. His intention never swayed, though—to find Damien and bring him home to him. But he wasn't sure quite how best to accomplish his goal. 97

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The Moulin Rouge was filling up now. Jakob was seated closer to the back of the floor. People flowed around him seeking closer seats. He heard the rustle of skirts behind him, and he automatically stood for the woman who was seating herself beside him. Regaining his seat, he glanced in her direction. To his amazement, it was Grand-mere. She wore a red organza dress, styled in a manner that might have been popular when the Dreammongers were alive. The neckline was scalloped, trimmed with gold and silver threads. The same threads wove an intricate pattern in the overskirt, while the ruffle was done in hand-tatted lace. Delicate finger gloves completed the picture. A true vision from another era. She grinned at his baffled expression. "You did not expect to see me here, did you, Jakob?" "No, I did not," he admitted, giving her a polite bow in deference to her years and their recently having become acquainted. "It's a pleasure to see you, Ma—Grand-mere," he hastily amended. "A pleasure to see you as well, Herr Kohl." She inclined her head briefly in response to his bow. "And your next question is to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" "A gentleman never questions the presence of a lovely lady." Jakob had very good manners. His mother had schooled him well. "Well said, well said. I will tell you why I am here then. To have a lovely dinner with a lovely gentleman, to dance with that same gentleman on the dance floor of the Moulin Rouge. But only once, I fear. At my age it isn't good to overexcite oneself. I mean overexert, of course." Her sparkling eyes 98

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belied her flirtatious words. "Ask me what then, young Jakob." "What then, Grand-mere?" Polite, but definitely curious. "And then I shall take you to meet the current owner of the Moulin Rouge, and ask him to show you the secret room." Jakob thought at first that he had misheard the woman. Heard what he'd wanted to hear. Or perhaps it was worse than that. Perhaps he was actually dreaming, and hadn't realized it yet. In that case, shouldn't Damien be here somewhere? A brief pinch upon his hand convinced him otherwise. She was all too real. And she had pinched him. "You are not dreaming," she assured him, as he carefully rubbed his hand. "I am real. You are real. This is real. And hopefully the room is real. And still there." Jakob's heart began to thump, almost painfully. His first impulse was to jump up immediately and go to see that worthy gentleman, now, to demand that he show them the hidden room where he was convinced that his love lay. The man he realized he would do anything for. Anything to save him. But his common sense told him that that was not the way it would work. He visualized Abram, wagging a lean finger at him, and giving him one of his patented looks, telling him to relax and enjoy the journey. Grand-mere patted his hand sympathetically. "Soon," she promised. "Very soon." The dinner began promptly at seven. The service was excellent, with a flavorful wine to complement the diner's chosen dish. Jakob decided against the wine. He wanted to keep his wits about him. He barely tasted the food. Not even 99

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the lobster. His stomach was too agitated, churning at the agony of being so near and yet so far from Damien. Grand-mere enjoyed her food with great gusto. Jakob suspected that was the way in which she lived her entire life. She flirted outrageously with their waiter, and conversed easily with the people around them. Laughter flowed as freely as the wine. A small band took its place upon the stage while everyone ate. Their music was soft and melodious, a fitting accompaniment to the meal, as well as a contrasting prelude to the energetic show that would follow them. As couples finished their meal, two by two they made their way to the dance floor. What was a trip to the Moulin Rouge after all without being able to say you actually trod the infamous boards? Once Grand-mere had eaten and drunk her fill, she nodded to Jakob, who rose to pull back her chair, before taking her hand and leading her out upon the dance floor. Albert catcalled good-naturedly as they passed by his table. Jakob knew he should stop and introduce them to one another, but not right now. He was afraid of what might be said, and time was too precious. Perhaps later. If there was a later. The older woman moved easily. She was more graceful than Jakob. He knew that. He was a passable dancer, no more. To his credit, he never stepped on anyone's feet. He held her in the proscribed method for a gentleman and lady, one hand held out at shoulder height, the other delicately laid against her back. 100

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Jakob was surprised to see his cousin also take to the dance floor moments after they had. He and Philippe danced unabashedly close together, oblivious to the people around them. This Albert was a far cry from the unfeeling cousin he'd arrived in Paris with. He suspected he knew the cause. Philippe. It had to be. But even if that were so, would Mr. Hyde turn back into Dr. Jekyll once they left the city? Even if the analogy weren't a perfect one? "My granddaughter thinks you are cute." Jakob was surprised by her words. He hadn't really thought of Lisette since she had left him at the cafe. Sure, she was nice and all that. But not quite his type, even without taking Damien into consideration. "Oh," he said, unsure just what to say, but her laugh told him that she was teasing him. "I told her about your young man. She thinks it's very romantic." Jakob blushed. He didn't know what else to say. He felt time slipping away from him, and he didn't know what else to do. He felt helpless, and he hated feeling that way. "Come," she said, interrupting their dance. She took his hand and led him from the dance floor, off to the right of the stage. They moved past the tables, and the people dining there. Ahead of them he could see a hallway. On either side, public restrooms were situated, people in a constant state of flux, in and out. At the end of the hall was a door. A light was visible through the frosted glass. Grand-mere took the initiative and knocked at the door. A gruff voice called out, "Entrez!" 101

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Jakob played gentleman and opened the door, as they walked into the office of the manager of the Moulin Rouge. Unlike the theater, it was more utilitarian, surprisingly so for being part of the Moulin Rouge. But one glance at the walls gave little doubt as to its patronage. Sandwiched between original Toulouse Lautrec posters were photographs of some of the women who had once danced on the very stage they had just left. The man behind the desk appeared to be in his fifties, grizzled yet handsome, in a very leonine way. He held a pen in his hand, taking notes upon a ledger. At their entrance, he glanced up and immediately laid the pen down. "Madame!" he cried, rising. "Why did you not tell me you were coming? I would have arranged something special." "Not necessary, Henri," Grand-mere protested, submitting to his kiss upon her cheek, and waving away the chair he offered. "I am here tonight, not to see the show, I'm afraid, but for another reason." She turned to Jakob. "This is my friend, Jakob, from Germany. Jakob, this is Monsieur Henri, manager of the most infamous nightclub in all of Paris." "Enchante, Monsieur. Any friend of the Madame is welcome at the Moulin Rouge." He glanced at the older woman curiously. "If you are not here to see the show, might I inquire what has brought you out?" "Henri, you know the old stories of the Moulin Rouge, from back in the days when my great-grandfather, Satie, led the orchestra here?" "Which old stories do you mean?" he asked, spreading his hands wide. "There are many, as many as the bottles of 102

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absinthe that have been consumed within these walls." He winked at Jakob in a friendly manner. "The ones about the Dreammongers. You remember. The artists that came here? The ones with the, shall we say, unusual proclivities?" Henri chuckled at her words. "That's one way to say it, but yes, I do know. What about them?" "Do you know the story of the young man who disappeared from the Moulin Rouge, their adopted son, or something, I believe?" "But of course, there are some who say he haunts the premises still." He shrugged in a typically Gallic manner. "Have any seen him?" "Non, no one. But that does not keep people from talking. You know how people are." "I do." Grand-mere nodded. "My great-grandfather Satie told my grandmother of a secret room hidden inside the Moulin Rouge, a room where these Dreammongers were allowed to meet, in secret. And where their ward disappeared. What was his name again, Jakob?" "Damien," Jakob quickly replied, intent on the exchange between the other two. "Are you familiar with that story?" Grand-mere asked, again politely refusing the seat he offered to her. "I have heard of it," he admitted. "I understand that the original owners made sure that the story never reached the press. Not so much fear of bad publicity for the club. It would probably have brought in more traffic than it kept away. But rather because of the artists involved." He shrugged again, 103

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glanced shrewdly at Jakob, then back to the older woman. "Might I ask as to what your interest in the matter is? Are you a student, monsieur? Are you wanting to write a paper on the ghosts of the Moulin Rouge?" "Nothing quite so esoteric," Grand-mere replied for Jakob. "We would like to know if we may visit the secret room where the young man disappeared? It's very important to Jakob, for reasons I am not free to discuss. You may take my word for it that I find them to be very compelling reasons." "Madame, I trust your word implicitly," Henri replied, "and I believe that it is very important to this young man. But alas, I cannot comply with your request." Jakob forced himself to remain calm, even in the face of such blatant rejection. "Please, monsieur, I beg of you. It is a grave matter of life or death. We will cause no harm to the room or its contents, I assure you. That is not our intention." "It has nothing to do with your word or your intentions. It is beyond my scope to do anything." He gave a small moue of apology. "As I said, I've heard the stories, and I do not know if they are true or not. But what I do know is that after the disappearance supposedly occurred, Zidler had the room sealed, and shortly thereafter it was demolished during some renovations that were made to the original structure. So you see, I cannot help you, as the secret room ceased to exist long ago." Jakob stood there, stunned, as the words echoed in his brain. The room does not exist. The room does not exist. Does not exist. What did that mean? That he was on a fool's errand? That this whole thing was a figment of his demented 104

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imagination? Or was it something far more sinister? That Damien was somewhere else, somewhere beyond his ability to help? He heard the voices of the man and woman as they conversed, but the words held no meaning. He was trying to think, but his mind refused to cooperate. What was he going to do now? What could he do to find and save Damien? In all the scenarios he had envisioned for what he was doing this night, this had not been one he'd imagined, the room no longer existing. "Damien," he whispered to himself, the name a mantra he needed to hold on to. "Damien." He barely felt the woman put her arms around him. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he might faint, actually lose consciousness, let the world mercifully go to black. But he managed to hold on and pull himself together. Apparently she had asked him a question, and was waiting for an answer. He stared at her, not comprehending. "Your hotel. Shall I take you back to your hotel?" Good idea. He could call Abram. Yes, a very good idea indeed. He nodded at her offer. Jakob politely thanked M. Henri for his time, thinking now, letting his logical mind take over, setting his emotions aside. He had to call Abram, tell him what had happened. And then he needed to go to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 14 Jakob's memory of leaving the Moulin Rouge would always be vague. He couldn't recall any of the dancers who filled the stage, some of them topless, all of them moving and shimmying to roisterous music. He never noticed that there were topless men as well. Nor did he care. He moved through the crowd but was not a part of it. He did remember that he found Albert and Philippe, told them he was returning to the hotel, saying that he was unwell. His cousin expressed concern, actually offered to go with him, but Jakob insisted they stay. He'd be fine. Grand-mere insisted on driving him the short distance and told him to please call her the next day. He thought that he promised her he would. Once inside his room, he pulled out his Nokia and called Abram. Luckily his friend was a night owl and still awake. Not that it mattered. Jakob would have called anyway. "Isn't is early for you to be home?" Abram asked. "Tell me you had a wonderful time, and you have news for me?" "Yes, I have news. The Moulin Rouge was a dead end. The room I was looking for is gone." He filled Abram in on the dismaying events of the evening. When he was done, Abram was unusually silent. "Abram, I can't fail him. Just because that was not the right place, doesn't mean the right place doesn't exist. You do believe me, don't you?" "Of course I believe you, Jakob. I do. I'm just thinking, that's all. Trying to make sense of things. You know what? I 106

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think that the most logical thing for you to do is to go to sleep." "To sleep?" "Yes, to sleep, so that maybe you will see him again, and you might be able to find a clue. Or maybe he can give you a better one. Maybe there is some detail about where he is that he is overlooking. But yes, sleep." "I'll do that, then." "And set your alarm again. When it goes off, call me, and tell me what happened. Promise?" "Promise," Jakob solemnly agreed. "I'll set it for an hour again, then I'll call you. Thank you, Abram." "Don't thank me yet," the other man warned as he hung up. Falling asleep on command isn't as easy as it sounds. Despite his desire to do so, sleep would not come. Jakob tried counting everything that he could think of, from stile-leaping ovines to naked blonds that looked like Damien. Nothing worked. He was still awake when Albert returned to his room. His cousin knocked discreetly at the connecting door between their rooms. "Jakob, are you feeling any better? Is there something I can get for you?" Jakob shook his head, tried not to show surprise at his cousin's concern. "No, thank you. I think I just need to get some sleep." Albert nodded. "I'll keep this door unlocked. If you need anything, just knock. I'll see you in the morning." Jakob stared at the closed door, once Albert had gone. It felt so weird to have him asking as to his comfort. Nice, but 107

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weird. He returned to his prior occupation, determined to fall asleep, and find Damien. He kept having to reset his alarm, though, as he continued to find himself awake. Thoughts of Damien ran through his mind, images of the blond, like watching a reel from an old home movie. No matter how he tried, he could not get his mind to turn off enough to allow him to sleep. Suddenly Jakob found himself in utter blackness. He sat up carefully, alert and listening, his eyes attempting to adjust, to find the least bit of light to allow him to see by. Feeling disoriented, he stretched his hands out, feeling about him for something with which to orient himself. He was not in his bed. The surface that he sat on was hard and unyielding. It gave no clue to where he might possibly be. "Damien? Damien?" No reply. Jakob rolled to his hands and knees. Cautiously he began to crawl, using one hand as a feeler to prevent himself from running into a wall, or coming to a sudden drop off and tumbling into an abyss. Or something worse. The velvety blackness he moved through was a palpable energy. It clung to him, enveloping his senses in an almost sensual way. Like a lover's kiss, it caressed his body and held him tight. He felt a searing warmth in his loins, which spread upward, through his limbs. He knew he had to release himself from its grip and find his way out of this darkness to somewhere. Anywhere. He continued to crawl, calling out Damien's name at intervals. His voice died away into the blackness. There was no return cry. 108

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It felt like he had been crawling forever, but he refused to give up. He was convinced that Damien was here somewhere, and he was determined to find him. Wait. Did the blackness seem less dense ahead? Was there a little light, or was it wishful thinking on his part? He crawled with a little more purpose toward the lessening of the blackness. Small but distinct now. Hope at last. By the time that Jakob reached it, he saw what appeared to be a shaft of light coming through a small circle. It was just a little bit over his head. Cautiously he stood, putting his eye against the circle. From this new vantage point, he could look inside. What he saw was amazing. It was like watching an old-fashioned vintage film, except for the fact that it was in color—vivid, heart-wrenching color. And the most colorful, most beautiful object in the room was none other than Damien. His Damien. Jakob's heart pounded at the sight. Damien stood in the middle of what resembled a bacchanal. Something about the pose he had assumed seemed familiar, but Jakob couldn't quite place it. He stood serenely at ease, bare among a group of likewise nude men who were seated at tables surrounding him. Younger naked men in the guise of waiters appeared to be offering food and drink, as well as sexual services. Of course. The Dreammongers. This was undoubtedly them. What he was seeing so vividly was the very night which Damien had described to him. Damien's last night in this world. He focused his attention on Damien. So beautiful he 109

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was, standing there, holding on to his black pearl. So heartbreakingly beautiful. He had the most beautiful smile. Even from here, it made Jakob dizzy with desire. As he watched, Damien spoke to an older man, whom Jakob surmised was the artist Toulouse Lautrec. He watched the two men converse, in fascination. Until one of the young waiters brought the bottle of absinthe to Damien and poured him a glass. "No, no, Damien!" Jakob cried. Poison, don't drink the poison! But no matter how loud he screamed, he couldn't make himself be heard. The actors in the tableau on the other side were oblivious to his presence. And no matter how he struck it with his fist, this wall that was between him and them would not budge. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as Damien was poisoned, witness the chaos that ensued with his grief-stricken fathers and their panic at their son's fate. The arrival of the Green Fairy seemed surreal, relatively speaking. She enveloped the room in a chartreuse glow. And then Damien was simply gone. Jakob sat back on his haunches, willing himself to breathe, forcing himself to stay calm. What he had just witnessed were events from the past. They were immutable. There was nothing he could do about what had taken place so many years ago. What he needed to focus on was the here and now. The Damien of today. To find and rescue him was his urgent imperative. Nothing else mattered. The darkness he sat in was rent by a shaft of light, like a spotlight, which was centered upon Jakob. 110

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And suddenly he was there. Damien. His Damien. Where he'd come from, Jakob didn't know, but he didn't care. The important thing was that he was there. Damien's arms enveloped Jakob in an urgent embrace. Their lips sought one another of mutual accord. And nothing needed to be said. The kiss said it all. When they came up for air, they clung together. "I missed you so much," Jakob breathed into Damien's neck, his fingers tangling in those platinum locks. "I've been trying to find your body, so that I can bring you home, to me. I'm still looking. I haven't given up. I love you, Damien. I want to be with you." The words had been given without hesitation, heartfelt words which asked for nothing in return. He knew he loved Damien because of the way his heart leapt whenever he saw him, the way he longed for him when he wasn't there, the hole in his life which Damien's absence caused. He knew he loved Damien and always would, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life getting to know him, being with him, and loving him. He had to believe that Fate had brought them together, despite the fact that they were born into different eras, different times. Fate was when two people were in the right place at the right time, when something was meant to be. His being with Damien went beyond chance or luck or a simple toss of the dice. The odds against their ever meeting must be astronomical. And yet here they were. Together. It had to be Fate. 111

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"I love you, too, Jakob. I want to be with you." Damien's lips caressed Jakob's forehead. "Have you heard the laughter anymore?" "Yes, it's been haunting me, until just a short while ago. Jakob." He tilted the brunet's head back, looking into his eyes. He wasn't smiling. "Jakob, if something should happen, please don't forget me. And please know that you are the only one I have ever loved. The only one." "Sssh, don't talk like that." Jakob stilled the blond's words with a kiss. "I'll find a way for us to be together. Please, don't worry." "I used to be afraid," Damien said, hesitantly. "For a long time. I was afraid that I would never see my fathers again, never find my way home, never leave this place. I know now that I will not see them again. But I have found my way to you. Your heart is my home now. And I know that I shall always live inside of you." A wrenching pain pierced Jakob's heart. Why did he sound so final, as if this was the end? It couldn't be. He refused to allow it to be. No matter what he had to do, he'd do it. He'd sell his very soul just to have Damien with him, safe and happy. No matter what it took. "This isn't over," Jakob protested, wrapping his arms about him more securely. "Not over. I won't lose you. I won't. I need you, need you too much to let you go." "I'm afraid we don't have a choice," Damien whispered. "Something or someone is working against us." Their lips met in protest of what was happening. Jakob tightened his fingers in Damien's hair. He refused to accept 112

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what the other was saying. He would fight for Damien with all of his life; as long as he lived and breathed, he would fight for him. "Jakob, it's happening again," Damien murmured against his mouth. "I can feel it. Do you hear? Can you hear the laughter? I'm afr—" "NOOOOOO!" Jakob instinctively clung to Damien, as if by sheer dint of will alone he could hold him there. He could feel him, so solid beneath his embrace, so warm, so wonderful. And then he was gone, and Jakob was left with his arms dangling in empty air. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 15 Jakob opened his eyes at the sound of his alarm to find himself in his bed at the hotel once more. The blankets and sheets lay in a tangled snarl at his feet. And he was quite alone. His heart beat wildly. His time with Damien had been so short. That couldn't be good. He had to act, and he had to act now. He grabbed for the Nokia, flipped it open and pressed 1 for Abram. His friend answered quickly. "Jakob, what is wrong? What has happened?" "Abram, it's getting worse. I have to find him now, or I'm afraid I'm going to lose him forever." "Alright, let's not panic." Abram's voice was the calm in the midst of Jakob's storm, soothing and serene. "Hold on a moment. Let me get my notes." There was an interval of silence, before Abram returned. "Sorry, I had to turn on my lamp so I could see." "That's okay. What notes do you mean?" "Notes from my talk with my rabbi. He says what we need do to is to perform a hatavat halom." "A what?" "A hatavat halom. It's a Jewish ritual. It means making the dream better." "How do we do that?" Jakob asked. "Normally you would need a rabbi, but in this case I think we must improvise, in the interests of time." "Improvise how? I don't understand?" 114

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"Well, a traditional hatavat halom would involve the rabbi changing the interpretation of the dream, to give it a good meaning. But in your case, we need something a little more physical. Have you ever seen a movie called Nightmare on Elm Street?" That was one question Jakob hadn't expected. "With Freddie Krueger and his finger knives? Sure, who hasn't? What of it?" "Do you remember how the girl brought Freddie back into her world from his dream world?" Damn. He hadn't seen that film in a very long time. Jakob racked his brain, trying to remember. It didn't help. "No, I don't remember." "She grabbed hold of him, and she held on to him, and she had her friend wake her up while she was still holding him, and he came back to her world with her." "Sounds fascinating, Abram, but this isn't a movie. What am I supposed to do, look for some finger knives?" "No, Jakob, use some of your famous common sense," Abram admonished him gently. "You're letting your emotions take over. Something, I might add, I've not seen before with you. Think. She brought him back to her world from his by holding on to him...." "And having someone wake her. I get it," Jakob finished, catching on at last. "There's only one problem with that, Abram. I'm the only one here. I don't have a friend close enough to help, since you're in Karlsruhe. Not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump, you know?" 115

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"Not a friend, no," Abram agreed, "but a cousin in the next room." He let the inference work its way into Jakob's brain. "Albert?" "You got another I don't know about?" "No, I mean, I know you mean Albert. I just mean, Albert? Seriously?" "Seriously, my friend, do you see an alternative? You don't have time for me to get there, which I would if I thought it would help; I'd leave right this minute. But I'm afraid I would be too late." Jakob couldn't help but see the wisdom in Abram's words. "Ask Albert. Didn't you say he was decent last night? Maybe he's softening in his old age. What's the worst he can do, throw you out of his hotel room?" Jakob reluctantly agreed. "He did leave the door unlocked, 'in case I needed him', he said." "There you go! Go, ask him. See what he says. You don't have a lot of choice." "You're right. I don't," Jakob sighed, shifting the phone to his other hand, as he sat up in bed. "So, assuming he agrees to do this, and that's a big if: I go to sleep, find Damien, and give Albert some sort of sign to wake me up, never letting go of Damien so he has to come with me?" "That sums it up rather well, I think." "How can I be sure of going to sleep, and then finding Damien? It took me forever to fall asleep this time, and I had trouble finding him as it was." Jakob's doubts were making themselves manifest in his protestations. He wanted to believe, but he also wished to be realistic. And logic was 116

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telling him that there were some rather open-ended variables here. "Believe," Jakob told him. "Have some faith. In him and in you. And in the powers that brought you together. I believe you will find the way. Call me when you come back, and let me know how you are. Both of you." "I will, Abram. And thank you. You're the best friend a guy could have." He felt tears stab at his eyes, as he closed his phone. He rubbed at his eyes. No time for this now. He had things to do. Pulling on a pair of trousers over his boxers, as he had no wish to offend his cousin through inappropriate dress, he took a deep breath, his focus being completely on Damien, and knocked on the door that connected the two rooms. Without waiting for an answer—and in his defense, he normally would have been more patient, but the urgency of his mission was driving him to be a bit more forceful than usual—he plunged into Albert's room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He looked toward the bed, seeking Albert. What he found were two lumps where he'd expected to find one. On reflection, he really wasn't surprised. Albert and Philippe. Oops. No time for social niceties now, though, this was a matter of life and death. "Jakob?" Albert sat up in his bed, pulling the sheets around him, and over his companion. "Is something wrong? Are you worse?" "Albert, I need you to do something for me. I'm sorry to wake you, but I have a situation that I cannot handle alone. Please, please, please, do this for me. I'm begging you. I've 117

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never asked you for anything, ever. I'll never ask again. But this one time, I need you. Please." Jakob had approached the bed as he spoke, on Albert's side. He fell to his knees, his hands clasped in supplication, as he implored his cousin's assistance. He half-expected Albert to tell him to get the hell out; he was talking crazy. Or maybe just laugh at him, ridicule him. But he did neither. Philippe was awake now, too, and he offered Jakob a reassuring smile, as he snuggled against Albert, not discomfited in the slightest by his appearance in their room, nor at being discovered in Albert's bed. Jakob saw him whisper something into Albert's ear, but it was too lowpitched for him to hear. "What do you want us to do?" Albert asked. Jakob said a silent prayer of thanks, and then he gave a brief recital of the events leading up to this moment, the CliffsNotes of sorts, for his cousin's benefit. Albert listened silently, without comment, until the end. "Jakob, if it were anyone else, I'd say they were crazy. But you? No. I believe you. We'll help, and hope that it works, for both your sakes." Jakob returned to his room, and they followed him, after throwing on their own trousers. Jakob lay on the bed, waiting. "Here's what we need to do. I have to go to sleep first," he said, "then I need to find Damien. When I do, I'll hold on to him and signal to you to wake me, then I'll bring him back with me." "Signal? What kind of signal?" Albert asked. He and Philippe pulled two chairs together. They seated themselves, 118

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waiting for Jakob. "Something that I can't confuse with twitching in your sleep, hopefully?" "Good point. Maybe I could start singing or something? That's something I don't do in my sleep, as far as I know. Or maybe just set the timer for ten minute intervals or something?" "But if you do that, how will I know if you're ready?" Albert pointed out. "True too," Jakob moaned. "Let's try the song first, then." "What song?" "I dunno. Any song. It doesn't matter. If you hear me singing, wake me up. Okay?" "Okay," Albert agreed. "I got you covered, Jakob. Go to sleep now, and go get your man." He slid a protective arm about Philippe, who nestled against him contentedly. Wow, what a difference a few days could make. He settled himself in the bed. It felt funny, having two other people there in the room. He forced himself to focus, telling himself it was no different than being at camp, and sleeping in a room with other boys. Same principle. And quite doable. He lay on top of the blankets, still dressed, pulling the sheet up for a little warmth. Closed his eyes. Damien's image appeared in his inner eye. Jakob sighed lightly. He imagined the two of them together, of how it could be if Damien came back with him. They stood on the dance floor of the Moulin Rouge, arms about one another, dancing to the sweetest of love songs. A disco ball glittered above them, while in the background Zidler exhorted his girls to can can can, because 119

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you can can can. The music from the movie became confused with the music from the actual nightclub; it began to play itself in his head as he and Damien revolved together... "Jakob, wake up." That was Damien's voice, breathless. He sounded almost frightened. Why? Jakob opened his eyes to his lover's beautiful visage. He frowned at what he saw. "What is wrong, Damien?" he asked sleepily. "He is coming for me now. I had to find you, to tell you good-bye, to tell you I love you." The words flowed from Damien's beautiful lips, despite Jakob's best efforts to stem them. "Sssh, sssh, no, no, Damien, no, not good-bye, never good-bye." "I love you, Jakob Kohl. Please know that." Tears were streaming down those pale cheeks; the blond was openly sobbing now. Jakob's mind was fuzzy. He couldn't seem to wake up clearly enough to think. What was Damien talking about? But more importantly, what was he supposed to be doing? The answer wasn't coming to him, like trying to think through treacle. Damien's lips found Jakob's, and he kissed him, softly at first, then with a growing passion. A kiss that would be sure to be remembered. Like a last kiss. Wait. No, Jakob's brain protested. Wake up. Do something. He pushed Damien back far enough to take a breath. Singing, something about singing. What song? Did it matter? His thoughts were frantic. He tasted Damien's salty tears. He 120

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began to cry himself. He couldn't lose Damien. He just couldn't. Stay with me. Be with me. Sing, damn you, sing, his brain urged him. Before it's too late. Every song he ever knew disappeared from his memory. Was that Fate too? Or simple blind panic? Think, think, think, think... He opened his mouth, and words began to pour forth. In a passable singing voice. "Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive..." For some reason this was the song which sprang to his lips. The Marseillaise. Damien gave Jakob a confused smile. "Singing, ma petite? Now?" Even so, he joined him in the song. "Contre nous de la tyrannie." He interrupted the singing with a kiss. Jakob was forced to push him back once more, but with difficulty. He wound his arms around Damien as he did so, holding on to him for dear life, with every last bit of strength he possessed. By the time that they reached the chorus, they were both sobbing, so it was difficult to understand just what was being said. "Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons..." Panic began to set in, as Jakob felt the weight of Damien lessening in his arms. He tightened his grasp, singing louder and louder, desperately. He couldn't lose him. He just couldn't. But something was fighting against him. Something strong. Something powerful. It tried to rip Damien from his very arms. He clung all the tighter. He could hear them now, the bells of freedom, of liberty, the bells of the French Revolution. Louder and louder they tolled. Tolled for freedom. 121

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Tolled for love. Heated tears scalded his cheeks. He was losing. He was going to lose him. He was... The tolling bells became an irritating beeping which resolved itself into the sound of his phone alarm. He became aware of his cousin. Albert stood over him, shaking him, waking him. Jakob came fully awake as it hit him. This was it. Albert had done as he'd asked, and wakened him from the other world. But the question was, had it worked? Jakob's eyes were still wet, his cheeks still stained by the tears he'd shed. Had he come so close only to lose him at the last? Maybe they could try again? They had to try again. He had to reach him. He had to. Then he felt the warm living bundle of flesh in his arms, and he realized that he was holding Damien. Really holding him. There, in the bed in the hotel room. He was really there. "Albert, do you see him?" he asked, half-afraid to hear the answer. "If by 'him' you mean a very good-looking naked blond, then no. I don't see a thing," Albert teased. "Then how do you...?" Jakob began before realizing he was being twitted. It was Damien indeed. The blond raised his head, glanced around him at this modern hotel room, so different from anything in his experience, so wondrous to his amazed eyes. "I am here," he whispered, "here, with you. You've saved me, Jakob. You are wonderful, my love, the most wonderful man in the world."

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Jakob blushed, not uncomfortably. "I had help," he said softly, indicating Albert and Philippe. "Allow me to introduce you." "I'm Jakob's cousin, Albert," Albert interjected. "Welcome to your new life." A new life. How wonderful that sounded. And how very true. Jakob held Damien close to him, pulling the sheet over him, for modesty's sake, and kissed him once again. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Epilogue A year had now passed. A year of complete and utter bliss. Of change and restructuring and reordering of the lives of several people. Jakob and Damien had had a long discussion about what they wanted to do, and where they wanted to live. Jakob offered to move to Paris, for his lover's sake, but Damien turned his offer down. He said that no one he knew was alive any more. The memories of his fathers and their love for him would always burn within him, and they could always visit whenever they wished. So it was decided that they would return to Karlsruhe and begin their lives together there. Surprisingly, Albert decided to stay in Paris. He ended his sham marriage to Ida, providing for her well, and set himself up in business in Paris. With Philippe, of course. The two of them were married six months later, once his divorce came through. He left the Karlsruhe end of the business in Jakob's capable hands. Or rather Damien's, as the blond turned out to have quite the head for business. This left Jakob free to return to school and care for his mother, who finished her convalescence with glowing reports, and came to live with Jakob and Damien, whom she adored from the start. But not for long, for young couples need their space, and she moved to her own flat to give them that. What a difference a year made. Jakob and Damien were more in love than ever, cohabiting and loving and learning new things about one another all the time. Damien pursued 124

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his art, while Jakob played his beloved piano. Painting would never be more than a hobby for the artists' boy, but that was fine with him. On their one year anniversary they took a trip together, Paris their goal. Not for the first time, of course. They had been back a few times, visiting with Grand-mere and with Lisette, and with M. Henri at the Moulin Rouge, and of course with Albert and Philippe. Jakob actually got to see the show, although he did have his eyes on Damien more often than not. But they were happy, very happy together. They had splurged on their anniversary, and gotten a suite at an expensive hotel. They were going to the Moulin Rouge that very night, for dinner and a cruise. Jakob stood beside their bed, gazing into his reflection in the large mirror on the wall. The once uptight young man was garbed in a rather poetic-looking white blouse, with full sleeves and ruffles that traversed the collar and down the front. He wore it rakishly open, revealing the tan skin beneath. He spent more time out of doors now, and he wore a healthy new glow. He had grown his hair out a bit; it hung in a tail at the nape of his neck. He was content with his new look. Damien lay upon the bed, stretched out in all his naked splendor. Languid and content, for they had recently made love, and he had not moved since then. He was quite the sight to behold, a painter's delight: his long lean form, with the beautiful taut buttocks, arms embracing his pillow in complete contentment, platinum tresses streaming down his back. A sight fit for a portrait. But it was for Jakob's eyes alone. 125

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Jakob thought he could stare at Damien forever. And he would. But not right now. They had places to be, things to do. Still, he lingered there, gazing at his beautiful lover, thinking how very lucky he was. He also realized that Damien wasn't truly asleep, simply being lazy. But as he was learning, that wasn't always a bad thing. He leaned over Damien's beautiful body, reached down, and kissed him gently. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, our life awaits." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Julie Lynn Hayes was reading at the age of two and writing by the age of nine and always wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Two marriages, five children, and more than forty years later, that is still her dream. She blames her younger daughters for introducing her to yaoi and the world of M/M love, a world which has captured her imagination and her heart and fueled her writing in ways she'd never dreamed of before. She especially loves stories of two men finding true love and happiness in one another's arms and is a great believer in the happily ever after. She lives in St. Louis with two of her children and two cats, loves books and movies and role playing on the Internet, and hopes to be a world traveler some day. By day she does payroll and accounting, by night she writes and is also a copy editor and reviewer for animeradius.com. Her family thinks she is a bit off, but she doesn't mind. Marching to the beat of one's own drummer is a good thing, after all. You can contact Julie at [email protected]. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Sweet Dreams, My Love (C)Copyright Julie Lynn Hayes, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Dan Skinner/Cerberus Inc. [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen 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 and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 128

Sweet Dreams My Love by Julie Lynn Hayes

244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America February 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-809-9

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