Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (14 page)

pillowed on them both. All

are dark haired and even-

but-dead portions of the city. The sounds of

featured. Two wear white

revelry were muffled, the lights barely

briefs, one wears black.

noticeable now, and hopefully everyone was so

Hands negligently drape

busy having fun they would not notice until too

over shoulders and thighs as

they dream together.]

late that he was gone.

Sincerely,

Noise in an alleyway made him jump,

Tam

increase his step, his breath puffs of steam as he

hurried along in the growing dark.

How he would love to be gone forever, just

somewhere … somewhere else, anywhere else,

where he wasn’t touched and harassed and left

feeling used even as they praised him for being

such an inspiration. Beau shook his head, trying

to dispel the sour thoughts.

There was debris everywhere, dirty puddles

from the recent storm. The fresh scent of rain

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 78

clashed with the smells of trash and neglect, and the whole area had a

feel of creeping gloom as the sun slowly set. He shoved his hands into

his pockets and kicked at an empty soda can, then kept walking. It

was eerie how deserted the entire place was—not even a single car

parked along the street. Most of the buildings were boarded up, and if

any of the others were open, they were closed for the day.

No, that wasn’t entirely true, he saw. Bright, yellow-orange light

spilled from one, all the way at the end of the block. He walked

toward it, curious as to who would bother to be open at seven o’clock

in such a dead area.

As he got closer, he realized the building was run down, but still

had a bit of class. A massive picture window revealed a simple,

elegant waiting room. He saw a desk, but there was no one at it, only a

mug of coffee or tea or something.

Stepping back, he tilted his head up to peer at the sign over the

door:
The Gallery

Curious, he pushed the door open and slipped inside. The room

smelled like a good cup of chai, and the warmth that rolled over him

drove back the mid-fall chill outside. He looked around for a brochure

or something to explain what kind of gallery it was, but there was

nothing at all.

Movement caught his eye, and he stared at the man who had

appeared soundlessly from the door at the far end of the room. The

man smiled and said, “Good afternoon. It’s not often a muse simply

wanders into my humble Gallery.”

Beau made a face. Everyone called him that—muse, inspiration—

and he hated it. He was tired of being a muse; no one ever saw him as

anything else. All damned day, he had listened to people spout off the

ideas he had given them, the music he’d inspired, until he was sick of

fucking hearing about it. He wanted someone to see past the weird

ability he had to inspire poetry and song and whatever the hell else

people credited to him. “I was bored,” he said. “What kind of gallery

is this?”

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 79

The man smiled in a way that made Beau shiver in a haunted

house kind of way. He pushed nervously at his glasses, before

remembering he’d switched to contacts, and shoved his hands back

into the pockets of his jeans. “A special gallery,” the man murmured.

“Would you like to see? I think you’d rather like it.”

“Uh—okay,” Beau said, and walked toward him. He was pretty

certain he shouldn’t, and absolutely certain he didn’t care. The man

was ridiculously posh-looking, in a suit that Beau suspected cost more

than his monthly rent. He had long dark brown hair pulled back and

tied with a ribbon, of all things. His eyes were the most brilliant green

Beau had ever seen. “My name is Beau,” he said, and extended a

hand.

Smiling warmly, the man shook it. “My name is Silenus.

Everyone calls me Sil.”

Beau looked at him in surprise. “As in the king of the satyr?”

“That’s right,” Sil, looking pleased. “But I suppose a muse would

know the name.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Technically, I

suppose you must be half-muse.”

“I’m just Beau, though I get called ‘muse’ a lot,” Beau admitted,

disconcerted by the man’s gaze, the way he seemed to completely

understand what Beau was saying. “How did you know?”

Sil smiled, and of all things, reached out to ruffle Beau’s dark hair.

“Muses energize the rooms they’re in, those who fill that room. That

aside, your scent gives you away. Your mother was a muse, I would

wager, of an amorous sort.”

“She was definitely not the settling down type, if that’s what you

mean,” Beau said, frowning, automatically defensive. No one insulted

his mother. He started to draw back, but Sil only smiled warmly and

beckoned him close.

“I meant no insult, quite the contrary. Come along, I think you

should see my special collection.”

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 80

Beau meant to refuse, meant to leave, but instead his feet only

followed Sil from the front room and down a long hallway. They

stopped in front of a set of double doors, and Sil withdrew a ring of

keys. The sign on the door said
Permanent Collection.
“This way; I

think you’ll like what you see.”

What he saw made Beau’s mouth drop open. Painting after

painting of men and woman in poses that were anything but innocent.

A cluster of naked people tangled together on the bank of a river, the

way they touched one another making it clear why they had fallen

asleep. A man will brilliant red hair lying on his stomach on a bed of

black silk, his skin tanned gold, his eyes smoldering. Two men with

middle-eastern coloring, exact duplicates of one another, laying

together on a bed, fisting their hard cocks, clearly waiting for a third

to join them.

On and on the paintings went, each more stunning—shocking—

than that last. “What the hell kind of gallery is this?” Beau asked,

curious and more than a little turned on. How could anyone not be?

He paused as he saw a painting of a young man sitting in a window

seat, sunshine bathing his naked body, head tilted as if to invite

someone to kiss his throat, slide a hand along all that sun-warmed

skin.

“My personal favorite,” Sil murmured, “but I think your favorite is

a bit further on.” He lightly touched Beau’s back, and too bemused to

protest, Beau allowed Sil to lead him deeper into the gallery. They

walked through several more rooms, the contents of which made Beau

hot and flushed and wish he could open his jeans. “You must make a

mint on these paintings,” he said.

Sil laughed. “Money is not the point, though it’s true I’ve had

impressive offers from time to time. Here we go.” He led Beau

through a doorway surmounted by a gold sign that read
The Armory
.

Inside the room there was, of course, more paintings—a fierce

looking man in nothing but a kilt, his eyes daring someone to step up

with a challenge. Another image of four knights in gleaming armor.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 81

Yet another of a man in Chinese-looking robes, standing by a temple,

staring off into the distance. Beau glanced around at what must be a

dozen or so paintings—then froze.

He moved closer to the painting that had caught his eyes, not at all

certain what about it captured him. It was a simple enough painting, of

two men sprawled on a fancy-type white sofa, pushed up against a

wall. They wore white briefs, and absolutely nothing else, and it was

the finest expanse of flesh Beau had seen yet in the entire collection of

paintings.

The two men were dozing, the very image of indolence, but as

Beau stepped closer their eyes suddenly popped open. He drew a

sharp breath, startled by the gleaming silver of their eyes, like

starlight.
A pretty new muse; you are in the wrong hall, child of

inspiration.

Beau jumped as he heard the words, eyes widening as the men

smirked—

And suddenly he was standing on a gleaming hardwood floor, just

steps from the sprawled men. The room smelled like fresh cut roses

and red wine, warm skin and a hint of sex. “Perhaps the little museling

is not lost after all,” said the man on the right, one arm draped lazily

over his head, shifting to stretch his legs out in front of him, toes not

quite brushing against Beau’s pants. “What bring you here, to Sil’s

collection of warriors?”

“Warriors?” Beau echoed, voice full of doubt. The knights, the

man in the kilt—but these two? They looked like their only battles

took place at photo shoots.

The two men laughed. “We need no sword or shield to do our

work; we are warriors of and for souls. We protect Silenus and his

family on the ethereal plane. Once of heaven, then of hell, and now

only of the in-between crafted by the Silenus.”

Beau noted the way they said ‘the Silenus’, which seemed to

indicate a title; but that was hardly surprising, since Silenus in

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 82

mythology was the king of the satyr. “What’s going on here?” he

asked, because if he thought too hard about it all, he’d probably start

to freak out and he didn’t want to do that.

“Silenus brought you into the permanent collections, which means

you are meant to stay forever, if you so desire,” the man on the left

said. “Muses are a rare find. They offer great power, and require great

protection.” He smirked, “Do you want us to protect you, museling? Is

that why you stepped into our painting?”

Beau just shook his head. “I have no idea what’s going on, or why

I’m here. I still don’t get why everyone calls me a muse, like that’s a

real thing.”

The two men laughed. “How like Silenus, to explain nothing. He

does like to play.” They smirked, and the one on the right continued

speaking. “A muse is ‘a thing’ and you are a muse. Merely touching

you creates a verse, a kiss a song, and I bet those who fuck you are

talented and inspired and wealthy because of it.”

“Yes,” Beau whispered, startled to hear his most secret thoughts

so plainly spoken, like they were actually true. But he’d noticed that—

people called him their muse, their inspiration, said he drove them to

create. He had noticed it seemed to be true, but thought he must be

crazy. One man could not literally be a muse.

“Lonely, to be a muse,” the man on the left said, voice thoughtful,

somber. “People touch and take and use, but never hold close and

cherish.”

Again, their words echoed thoughts he dared share with no one.

“How do you know all this? I-I thought I was crazy.”

They laughed again, the sound gentle and warm, and slowly

unfolded themselves from the sofa. “Not crazy, and the eyes of an

angel see many things—especially those things missed by all others.

We are, or were, guardian angels. The remnants of our divine power,

we gave to Silenus, to protect him and all the others from those places

and beings otherwise too strong to be defeated.” Their eyes

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shimmered, sharp, bright silver. “I am Camael,” said the man on the

left. “He is Tamael. We keep back our lofty brothers from above and

below, and otherwise spend our days doing all that we were once told

we should not do.”

Beau licked his lips, nervous and excited all at once as they

crowded into his personal space. “You don’t look in need of

inspiration.”

Fingers combed through his hair, then teased along the back of his

neck. “Angels are not beings meant to create,” Tamael whispered in

his ear, lips warm as they just barely grazed it. “We feel no burning