Dreams of a Hero

By Charlie Cochrane

Mild-mannered and unassuming, Miles is on a journey he never expected. After a visit to Greece with his partner, Roger, he begins to experience vivid dreams in which he travels back in history and takes on the role of avenging hero.

Roger notices Miles's newfound bravery during his waking hours and is concerned that his lover is changing into someone he doesn't recognize.

When they discover a gay-friendly café is being plagued by violent thugs, Miles is uncharacteristically determined to take action, no matter the cost. Roger argues it would be both dangerous and pointless to intervene, but Miles insists he's been called to fight an army, and now he's found one.

17,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781426893186

Charlie Cochrane

Charlie Cochrane writes gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but with an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves — highly respectable ones.Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby, and a church service in the evening, with her husband and daughters tagging along, naturally. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport.Charlie was named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name.

Book preview

Chapter One

Greece, Dream and Awakening

It’s beautiful. Roger Searle peered into the display case, his long, expressive fingers dancing on the glass, obviously itching to break through the protective barrier and touch the golden mask. This would be the high spot of their visit so far. Three hours on a plane, airport transfers, a coach trip and a lot of Shank’s pony had brought them from a cold and wet English spring to within inches of one of the greatest icons of the classical age.

It’s beautiful, but is it Agamemnon’s? Miles Storrie admired the stunning face, trying to penetrate the metal and the years, to work out whether this really was an image of the great king. Mycenae had kept her secrets to herself for a long time.

I don’t know. Roger peered closer. I’ve read too many arguments on either side to be convinced one way or the other. I thought if I stood before it I’d be able to tell.

And can you?

Not a cat in hell’s chance. Not even sure that I care anymore. Roger stood upright again, nursing a back which had started to twinge on the plane. Does it matter whether this particular mask has adorned that particular face? It’s magnificent. The historical significance has transcended its particular provenance.

That sounds far too clever for me. Miles fanned himself with his elegant straw hat. It might only be early May, but Greece was a damn sight warmer than Surrey, and a holiday which had started at Gatwick in sweaters and raincoats had ended in shorts and shirts, hastily put on at the hotel within minutes of arrival. Still, it was more pleasant here than it had been in the city, so the exhibit they sought being on temporary loan had worked to their advantage. Staying too long in Athens might just have been a trial too far.

Heat getting to you?

As always. It’s all right for some. Miles considered his partner—official civil partner as pronounced by the registrar—in admiration of how cool he appeared even when the sun blazed down. Roger had slightly olive-toned skin, as if some Mediterranean blood had somehow inveigled itself among the strictly Norman Searle family stock, a line which alleged it had come over with the Conqueror.

I think it’s quite a pleasant change from the Arctic conditions of Epsom Downs. Roger grinned, dark eyes alive with delight. Can yae Gallic blood nae stand it, hen? Roger may have been some throwback to an Adriatic ancestor, but when Miles looked in the mirror he thought himself all Celtic edges.

It’s never this warm in Edinburgh. Except for the week before.

Sorry?

When I used to go and visit my granny, it always rained, and she’d say I should have been there the week before because it had been lovely. Miles gave up fanning himself and tapped his partner’s arm. So why this outbreak of apathy towards the mask’s provenance?

Not apathy, imagination. I don’t care if it really was Agamemnon himself bearing this burial mask, or one of his generals. To me it’s more than that—I feel I’m within a few feet of the Trojan War. Roger’s fingers inched towards the glass again. Degrees of separation. This is as close as I’ll ever get.

Miles smiled, always delighted at his partner’s ability to make connections and gain enjoyment from them. There’d been one notable occasion when Roger had almost clambered over the side of a Dart River pleasure cruiser to get eight inches closer to Agatha Christie’s old house up on the hillside. Their journey through Greece had been littered with him getting excited at how he was treading the same paths trodden in the great age. His battered copy of Mary Renault’s Fire from Heaven had been dragged out time and again, along with joyous cries and fingers jabbed at the text.

This is where this scene happened, Miles. Look. And Miles had smiled indulgently. Greece had been an unknown quantity, one he’d anticipated being full of tourists, poor-quality souvenirs and pickpockets. So far they’d avoided all of those and he’d even drummed up a bit of enthusiasm for the sights. And the sites. He’d ended up delighted by the resonances of the past, not just at his partner’s happiness.

Pleased we came to Tolon? Roger looked up, as if reading Miles’s mind. Better than expected?

If I had to write an internet review, I’d say it’s a pleasant town with a decent enough hotel and an even better creperie. I can’t say anything about the beach as you’ve not yet let me laze about on it.

You’ll get your recompense. Roger smiled and went back to studying the golden face. Mycenae was the latest heroic age site they’d eschewed sunbathing in favour of, but Miles would get his reward later in the year. Greece was pleasant in May, much more so than Cape Cod would have been, so their maiden trip over the Atlantic had been scheduled for July, when the Med would be heaving with heat, swarming with tourists and totally unsuitable for visiting by anyone with a touch of class.