Page 116 of Dead Vengeance

Liam

Archer’s so bloody hot, down on the floor, flapping his robe about the place dramatically. He’s tall, and that makes his thighs long, and I can barely stop staring at them, even if I’m supposed to be the one keeping this day on some sort of track.

And did I mention his feet? I’m not a feet man, or I didn’t think I was, but his are beautifully shaped. I can see myself clutching them with both hands, riding him backwards until he can’t take any more, when he pushes me onto all fours and finishes me and…

Fuck.

Okay, stop looking at Archer.

Okay, stop thinking about Archer.

Stop obsessing about magical sex where I can feel every single thing I do to him as if he’s doing it to me, and it’s like being double-fucked, and how did he do that?

I think I’m wrecked. Ruined for other men. Necromancer sex or nothing for me from now on.

“You’re staring.”

Archer’s words rip me from my filthy thoughts, embarrassing me at the same time. But why should I feel embarrassed? Five minutes ago I was clinging onto him, begging him to fuck me.

And when he does… Oh my god. How will he do it? Where will he do it? How incredible is that going to—

“Liam?”

“I’m not! I’m not staring!”

I’m totally staring, and his chuckle lets me know he knows how ridiculous I am. As if I need the reminder.

But does he really have to stretch out like that? All long legs and muscular arms and—

Fuck.

How am I supposed to work like this?

I stumble around his desk, trying to get my thoughts on literally anything else. Amongst the scattered papers, I spy a couple of Dead Vengeance pamphlets, which I snatch up just for something to keep me busy.

The way I found that name so scary only yesterday when in fact… it’s weirdly wholesome?

I don’t think it’s struck me until just now how sweet his whole business idea actually is. Archer has this amazing gift that he could monetise in so many exploitative ways, going after the grieving, the desperate, staging fake or semi-real séances. Yet here he is, alone in his house, designing these pamphlets, then rewriting the stories of the long dead. Giving them justice, even after so many people have forgotten them. It’s a very peaceful way of doing things. The sense I get of that caring and thoughtful personality makes me feel… safe. Oddly safe in such a strange and dangerous world.

I toss down the pamphlets, but one catches on the air. It’s not as though there’s any breeze in here, but it does a little swirl all the same, slips away, then comes to land on a newspaper. Which also strikes me as strange, but very homely at the same time, because who reads actual newspapers anymore?

I snatch the pamphlet back up, and as I do, the image beneath catches my eye. Black and white, dark, it displays a round object that… I’ve seen somewhere before…

I slip the paper from beneath some other bits and pieces to read the headline:

MANCHESTER EXHIBITION HIGHLIGHTS MISSING DEE ARTEFACT

“What’s this?” I ask aloud, half to myself, scanning the article.

“Research,” says Archer, suddenly standing across the desk from me, apparently only going to wear his robe with nothing underneath, and that’s hardly fair.

I fix him with my most serious face. “Can you get dressed, please?”

He grins. “Is it bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”