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My Narcissist
Act V
Black Sync, London’s most reputable vampire club, was an unchanging and gothic kind of place. Sure it moved with the times, it was all digital music now, replacing the CDs, tapes and vinyl records of past days. The décor was largely the same, sharp and black, the long granite topped bar running down one side of the room and stopping before the dance floor. An area for sofas and easy chairs, the wooden decked dance floor where bodies twisted and writhed to the best in black, and little alcoves curtained off with heavy red velvet drapes. If the curtains were drawn on one of these booths, it was a well known warning. Do not enter. You look nervous, but I have been here many times before. I know many of the faces. Barren is the owner, the black haired chap behind the bar; the girl all in tight PVC whose figure turns all heads is Anis; that one, the burly man with a human servant bleeding on either side is Mais. There are new faces and old faces, some in the easy chairs in waistcoats and smoking jackets, not wanting to shift into modern times. Others, like Anis, all too ready to slip into modern gear and hold the attention of others. I guide you, a hand on your elbow, to an open booth where we can sit and watch the proceedings in relative privacy.
Seated at the bar next to each other Hermes and Ivan passed the roll up back and forth. Barren set shot glasses down in front of them. Blood, probably mixed with some alcohol, whiskey for Ivan, rum for Hermes. Hermes is drinking A-positive, Ivan prefers a rhesus. There is a bottle of Jack Daniels on the bar between them, they don’t seem to be bothering with glasses. Ivan doesn’t speak, just sits and twiddles his fingers, fixing another roll up. It is early in the evening but the two of them have been drinking since sundown. The two of them abandoned the house car on the edge of London, left the keys in it, and the door open, probably was nicked only seconds after they’d rounded the corner. It had been almost dawn by then and so the pair had found themselves and man hole cover and crawled down into the gloom. Of course it was pitch black down there, but there are some rules, like being able to sober up with a thought, that didn’t apply to their kind. Some light or no light, they could see fine the sludge there were walking through. Neither of them really wanted to look. When they’d come up in the basement of Black Sync, Barren had been waiting for them, hand s on hips but with a pair of towels and a key. Told them to leave their boots down there and go take a shower. The room was nice, twin beds and big bathroom and they had spent what was left of the day lazing, dozing and catching up on well earned sleep.
The cool sharp wind of winter in London swirled in through the open door, a dead leaf or two skittered around Ranyah’s feet. His dark eyes fell on the two oh so very familiar figures sitting at the bar and he smiled a brilliant smile. Hermes felt a presence on the edge of his mind and turned, but only to see and young human boy with wild red hair shutting the door. He was dressed very nicely in black and eyes glittered with the cold.
“Reid,” Barren nodded to the boy who gave him an enchanting smile, “What will you have?”
“Just the usual please.”
Hermes raised an eyebrow. Unless times had changed greatly since he’d been here last, which he doubted, it took a great deal of visits to the club to have Barren remember a usual drink for you. Especially if you were a human, no matter who your host was. Barren poured the boy out an interesting glass of whiskey, fizzy orange and lime cordial. Not all things he usually kept. And then the boy turned that lovely smile on Hermes and Ivan and the both of them were at a loss for words. He had a face like Hazan’s, and despite their radically different colouring the two of them could have been brothers. It was the same shaped face, the pointed chin, the high cheekbones, the bright wide eyes that made them both appear boyish and young. Hermes felt himself go suddenly warm and Ivan’s heart flipped over in his chest.
“Hi.”
The boy was definitely human, and untainted by the bite of any vampire. Hermes shuffled nervously on his stool. Their voices were different, the lack of fangs in the smile obvious, but it was very easy to mould Hazan’s looks onto that face. Hermes knew he shouldn’t be looking for a replacement for the boy he’d loved so many years, but the anger had burnt through into desire and Hermes was suddenly at war with himself. Ivan on the other hand, wasn’t at war with anyone. He wasn’t beholden to anyone and the human was far too tempting a treat to pass up.
“Hey there sweet thing,” Ivan gave the boy one of his most dashing southern smiles, “What’s a lovely thing like you doing in a place like this?”
“I think you mean ‘who’,” said a voice behind the pair and Hermes looked up to see the hazel haired figure of Ranyah strolling towards them in leather and black. He wound his arms around the human and nuzzled his hair, “Well done my darling.”
Ivan blinked.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry boys,” Ranyah smiled and sat down on a bar stool, pulling Reid firmly into his lap, “I just had to watch the two of you squirm. Hermes, you’d better not let Hazan know what you were thinking about my boyfriend. He’ll kill you.”
Hermes flashed Ranyah a look and mental jolt and painful understanding spread across the younger vampires face.
“Oh, Hermes I’m sorry. Aska always was a bastard.”
The four of them got more drinks and went to go and sit in one of the alcoves. Reid left the three friends a short while later, giving Ranyah a kiss before he left to go and dance, weaving amongst the other dancers as though the music was being played upon his bones. Watching, Ivan turned to Ranyah, who he knew, but not well enough to have a mind link with and appraised the boy in a glance.
“You lucky bastard,” he said evenly, “What did you do to deserve a creature like him?”
“Pretty isn’t he?” Ranyah rested his chin on his arms, apparently content to watch his lover dance for the rest of the night.
“He’s more than that and you know it.” Ivan smiled and ruffled the perfect fall of Ranyah’s hair. The goth turned back to the conversation at hand.
“So what happened?” he asked. And between them, Hermes and Ivan told him mostly everything, how life had been in the last few years at the house, Aska’s return from Rome, his disappointment in Hazan and his disapproval of Hermes. Then it was Ranyah’s turn to speak, and as Reid was returning from the dance floor, shirtless and sweaty and drawing all sorts of attention, Ranyah told the pair of their meeting, just a few days ago, with the winged demon who claimed to be, and almost certainly was, the third son of Lucifer.
“What do you think he wanted?” Ivan frowned and took another swing from his bottle.
“Have you heard the whispers.” There were nods all round, then Reid spoke up.
“You don’t think they were about him?”
“No,” Ranyah shook his head, “They were about something else. I think he’s come to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
Ranyah raised a single perfect eyebrow at Hermes.
“Kill it.”
Thomas and Sera passed most of this information on to Luka while they were on the train, and so it was a surprise when they were buzzed in to be greeted by a man who absolutely could not have been more than twenty one. Kieran took one glance at the look on the boy’s face and smiled.
“I’ve been killing people since before I could legally drive. I’m Kieran, pleased to meet you.”
“L-Luka.” The boy stood there in something like amazement until Sera pushed him.
“Come on kiddo, quite dallying in the doorway. Some of us are getting rained on out here!”
After much shaking of coats and wiping of boots, hugs and introductions and hair ruffling they got the door closed, got comfy and were lead into the lounge where they were served proper English tea in heavy china mugs. Kieran drank his pale with too much sugar. Luka sipped at his and wrapped his pale fingers around the blue mug. Being in London in general gave him a slight headache, but as soon as he’d stepped into the house that had gone, replaced by an odd sort of calm and feeling that Kieran was not all he seemed. He couldn’t hear the man’s thoughts as he stood there, leaning against the fire place, drinking tea, so he reached out, just a little bit, to find out what he was thinking.
He was thrown back with force, feeling his body push deeper into the sofa. Kieran had plenty of mental walls around his head, and it seemed, a fair few defences as well. Luka wondered where he’d learnt to do that. Slightly scared now, Luka was too nervous to notice a shape come around the edge of the sofa to his left and growl in his ear. Sera almost jumped and Luka froze.
“That’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen,” Sera stood up and went over the huge beast, holding out his hand in the way you should act with all unfamiliar animals, especially ones that stood three feet tall, “Where on earth did you get him?”
Kieran clicked his tongue and the animal went trotting over to him. He stroked its head and the beast nuzzled at his hand.
“Arda is not a dog, he’s a wolf. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you.” Kieran crouched down and made a soft purring noise in the back of his throat, exactly like a cat. Luka didn’t think humans could make noises like that. And since the man’s mind was a closed book to Luka he focused instead on his appearance. Kieran was built like Sera, strong, lithe, whip thin and tall. He had pale skin and long jet black hair that fell sharply to his waist, shining blue in the light. He moved like a predator, Luka could see it even in the small movements. The way he stood, half tense, knowing that while this was his territory there was always the threat of danger. He handled objects like they were weapons, careful, firm, almost reverent sometimes. He was ease with the wolf, who padded around the room like he was a king and leapt up on the sofa between Luka and Thomas and began to use the latter as a pillow.
“So what brings you to London?” Kieran turned to Sera, “Thomas said you’d had another of your dreams.”
“Yeah. Kieran there is something bad, and it’s going to happen here and it’s going to happen soon.”
“Human or other?” Kieran’s tone was calm, as though he often spoke of things that were not widely accepted by anybody.
“Other. I’m fairly certain,” Sera seemed slightly nervous, but better than he had been that morning, “Look Kier, have you heard the whispers? I know you only just got back and-”
Kieran held up a hand to stop the flood of explanation.
“Sera, I heard the whispers when I was in Las Vegas last year. Other people I know have hard them all over, most of the way around the planet. Why would it happen here?”
“This is where everyone’s at,” Sera finished his tea and set it down, “Sure the Citadel is in Rome and New Orleans has tonnes of vamps, but this is where the people are and you know it. That’s why you live here.”
“I did know you were so observant Sera. How many people do you know?”
Sera sighed heavily and frowned.
“You and Luka and maybe two others. There’s a guy I meet in clubs sometimes whose part snake and there’s a dude round the corner whose a vamp. That’s it. Small fry compared to you.”
Luka was getting a bit lost in the conversation by now and so he tapped into Sera’s head and had a glance at what was going on in there, and was surprised and worried to find that Sera was scared, for himself, for Thomas, for Luka and for Kieran. Luka didn’t know what Sera had seen in his dream, and he suddenly didn’t want to know.
Sera and Thomas stayed until dinner and then decided to depart for home. They were both exhausted, especially Sera and while Kieran’s offer of a bed was welcome and quite tempting, they both felt it better to be in familiar surroundings. Thomas kissed Luka goodnight on the doorstep.
“Be good OK?”
Luka gave him a lopsided grin.
“I’m not a little kid anymore Thomas. I can take care of myself.”
“I know. Call if you need anything alright,” and when Luka raised an eyebrow Thomas persisted, “Promise.”
“I promise.” And Luka closed the door in his two friends praying that everything would be fine and he would see tem tomorrow none the worse for wear. Kieran, with Arda at his heels showed him around the house. Most of the rooms had labels on the doors.
“Bathroom, kitchen, my room, lounge. Only go into rooms with label on them,” He turned harsh eyes on Luka and looked down on him, standing two stairs above, “I catch you in any of the unmarked rooms and there will be hell to pay. It’s for your own safety.” Luka wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he heard Kieran think or sanity over the end of that last sentence, “There are plenty of guest rooms, this is yours. You want anything from the fridge, help yourself. Except the venison, that’s for Arda. Any questions?”
What’s in the unmarked rooms? Luka didn’t phrase the question, although curiosity was begging him to.
“Thanks for letting me stay here.”
Kieran shrugged, as if it meant nothing.
“Friends of Tom and Sera, could hardly refuse. Anyway, I find you interesting. You are The Boy Luka after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard?” Kieran raised a surprised eyebrow, “You’re quite famous in certain circles.” Ignoring Luka’s puzzled expression Kieran continued, “Now I must go, I have a guest who-” He was cut short by a yell from downstairs.
“Fish?”
“Coming!” Kieran turned to Luka.
“Fish?” He asked, eyebrows raised.
“You’re cute when you pout. Yeah, trade name, Strange Fish. I am a hit man after all.” With that he turned and began to descend the stairs.
“Who are you talking to Fish?”
“No one babe, come on.”
“Where’ve you been, I was asleep for ages…”
Luka stood in the doorway of his room and tried not to strain to hear the sounds of what was going on below.
The squat was empty when Hazan arrived, dark and dank and scented with dry rot and mould. The scent was strong enough to drown out his higher senses and it wasn’t until he tripped over a figure in a sleeping bag that he realised his mistake. There were groans and muffled curses as various figures pulled themselves awake at the commotion Hazan had made, trying to pick himself up while pots and pans and things clattered around him.
“Who are you?” the guy in the sleeping bag he had fallen over was sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
“Name’s Autumn,” Hazan tried to smile apologetically, “These guys I’m with said to drive them here, they were on their way to meet some people.”
“What guys?” asked a girl with spiky pink hair.
“Tom, Will, Nick and Shy, they’re all asleep in the van outside.”
“They’re here!” A nice looking guy who was standing up cocooned in a bright yellow sleeping bag wore the world’s biggest grin on his face, “It’s about damn time. You must have driven most of the night to get here this early.”
It was only then that Hazan realised the time, how early in was, how light the sky was getting and how badly he was going to be a crisp if he didn’t get out of the light soon.
“I was wondering if I could stay here today?”
The dude with the yellow sleeping bad stepped out of it to reveal crumpled jeans and ragged t-shirt. He came across to shake Hazan’s hand.
“You got nowhere else to go?”
Hazan shook his head.
“Sure thing, the floor’s yours. Bunch of the windows have broken glass and let in the wind, the ones at the back are all boarded up so it’s warmer back there mostly.”
“Thanks.” Hazan gave him a genuine dashing smile and went to curl up in a corner while the other residents set about waking up the occupants of the van and getting them and their stuff indoors.
You and I walk around and observe the conversations that go on. Junky boy Nick, Tommy and Will and Native American Shy are all still exhausted. They don’t remember too much about the previous night, just picking up Autumn and all sleeping when it was someone else’s turn to drive. Shy doesn’t say anything but he remembers kissing the dark skinned boy they picked up. In the morning light everything seems different for them. For while you and I know the truth about Hazan, they don’t, and Shy skirts around the room for a long time before making for the gloomy corner where Hazan has hidden himself, deeply wrapped in a coat and wedged between an old tea chest and some metal parts that might have once been part of a lawnmower.
I feel sorry for the boy Shy, who by the looks of him has seen fair bit of life and might be older even than me. He tries to be open, friendly, kind. And Hazan just ignores him, snappish and uptight, his collar drawn up over his head, his hair hiding his face. Shy reaches out to brush away those lank locks and Hazan grabs his wrist with fingers like steel. Hurt looking, shy wanders back to the main group.
Some of them go out and come back years later with groceries and weed, roll up too many joints and pass them around in a never ending circle. The vampire does let himself be drawn into the warmth, the smoke and the friendly smiles. He lets himself be ignored, forgotten. Not everyone forgets him though, and from time to time as the day wears on people come over to him and offer a friendly ear or a roll up. Many find him asleep, un-wakeable and cold. They joke and that Will and Tommy have brought a corpse with them to live. We sit close to him, alone in a room full of happy faces and you fall asleep in my lap, exhausted by our hectic journey. It’s alright; I’ll stroke your hair and keep track of everything until you wake again.
He passed under the rail bridge and walked to the lock where he hopped up onto the wall and played with the idea of throwing himself off and going for a swim. He did this for a few minutes until he noticed the three punks who were sitting alongside him on the wall staring at him. There were two guys, one in plaid and one in leather and studs, both with radical spiky hair and a girl with a blue and pink under cut and a very short skirt with very big boots.
“Hey Mister,” asked the boy with leather and yellow hair, “Are you alright like?”
“Sure,” said Deorion, “He rubbed at the bandage at his throat and his fingers came away bloody, “Shit.”
“What happened?” asked the girl and handed him a roll up she was smoking. Deorion took a deep drag on it, letting unfamiliar and comforting smoke fill his lungs. He blew it out in a series of perfect smoke rings.
“I had a fight with my boyfriend.” There were raised eyebrows all round at that, but they weren’t too high. This was Camden and in general it was a revelation that no one really cared about.
“He hit you?”
“No, that was another guy. Friend of his.”
The boy sitting closest with the plaid all over look and green hair peered at the wound.
“Looks more like a dog bite.”
“Well he looks like a dog to me to so I guess I’m glad someone agrees with me.” Del Deorion was surprised to find that speaking a lot actually hurt his throat. He was more surprised to find tears rolling down his cheeks and ever further surprised when a plaid clad arm was lain across his shoulders with an offer of comfort unspoken. Deorion allowed himself to be comforted under the punk’s shoulder. He hated himself for crying, hated himself for being upset over Yosui and hated the fact that he’d made Yosui mad at him. He was surprised to admit to himself that he really was in love with the strange and beautiful Lord of The Dreaming.
The punks chatted amongst themselves for a while and then Deorion, still wiping away the last tears joined them in their conversation. They were friendly, frank and perfectly accepting of Deorion’s odd looks and strange appearance. The punk with the leather jacket draped said jacket over Deorion’s shoulders since he had long sleeves on underneath. The demon wasn’t exactly cold but unless he consumed himself in fire he wasn’t going to get any warmer. A grateful smile made the punk grin and there was a faint blush across his cheekbones. And it was only a while after, that Del Deorion realised that there was someone watching him. Lots of people stared, but this person was watching the true form of the demon, not the face paints version. The boy stood on the other side of the road, stock still while traffic and pedestrians wove around him. He was dressed in black jeans, boots and a black suit jacket with rolled up sleeves, a red t-shirt on underneath. Long black hair, no where as long as Del Deorion’s blew in the sharp edged wind. The mind-voice stung even from a distance, the message hurled over the heads of the crowd with force.
Shadow, I must speak with you.
Del Deorion frowned.
“You know that guy?”
“Yeah,” Deorion lied. He slipped down off the wall and handed the punk’s jacket back to him. He took it and held the warmth to his chest, “I should go meet him.”
“It’s was good to meet you.”
“You too.” Deorion smiled then stood up on his toes and wrapped strong arms around the punk. I will not forget your kindness young human. You will be rewarded in time. I promise. He walked across the road without looking and the punks watched him go, a sad light in one pair of brown eyes.
“Hello.”
My name is Draven, the two of them began to walk down the high street, past shops full of black clothes and dangerous looking shoes, The Angel sent me to find you.
Now why would he do that?
He wishes to speak to your Lord. The boy called Draven spoke expressively with his mind, a hard feat to be accomplished without natural talent. It’s alright Shadow, I know what you are, I see you, not the mask. Let me lay your doubts to rest. I am more scared of you than I can say though I have met people I know to be very dangerous. Perhaps it is your eyes or the fact that you are bleeding from a werewolf wound and don’t seem to notice the pain. Strange things are going on in this city and the people, all those unaware humans like those punks you were with are sitting up and taking notice. The Angel is worried.
Why come to me?
You are the lover of The Lord.
Deorion growled low in his throat, he turned on the boy, who stood his ground with very little shaking.
Do not speak of what you cannot understand. I have been visited by a Hell demon. Let me tell you, His Son is in London. If The Angel wants to speak to Yosui, he won’t do it through me.
You know the whispers?
Yes, for a long time now.
We have him in our keeping.
Truly?
Yes.
Deorion looked at the boy with an appraising eye.
And is your Master strong enough to ward off those who have come to kill him?
The grass underfoot is white, and snow lies heavy on the rocks, the mountains and the branches of the trees whose bark shimmers like crystal. Not too far away is a lake, huge lumps of ice floating in its cold waters. The glacier up the mountain shows through blue underneath where some of the ice has slipped away. That indigo scar is the only colour in sight. With his long black robes spread about him, Shamani Zirishiri sits on a rock at the edge of the forest, the silver leaves of the trees chiming in the gentle breeze. His hair is plaited, coiled about him like a snake. Glorious black feathered wings are relaxed as he sits in the frozen landscape, waiting for his visitor to arrive.
This a world drawn straight from his own imagination, made for this very purpose, to awe and impress and to create a safe place where he might meet his enemy. The body Shamani is inhabiting is, through his own choice, not his real body, just an image of his form. As always the glowing star of the crystal Zirishiri hangs at the base of his throat, burning softly into his skin. This world and everything in it are displays of his power. And he has much in reserve. This will prove more effective than a battle where thought-magic and fists blur and no one is truly sure who has the upper hand until the end. In a mind battle you can never be quite sure how much your enemy is keeping in reserve. Shamani knows himself to be stronger than his single enemy. But that one has allies far beyond what Shamani can muster, loyal people, and a father with the power to destroy the world. It would not do to kill him.
His guest arrives with a thunderclap and a flurry of bewitched black snowflakes as sharp as diamonds. Showing off is for the young and though the boy who stands at the edge of the ice lake looks to be but seventeen Shamani knows that he is much older than that. In human years Nassau has been alive over half a millennia. Shamani’s years should be counted in aeons. The third son of Lucifer has dressed well for the occasion, formal royal robes of black slashed with deep red silk and silver brocade. It fits him well, his stature and bearing perfect as his hair tangles gracefully in the wind. His wings, gold, red and bronze, curl tight to his back. Booted feet crunch in the snow and the long white grass comes up to his knees. On his rock, Shamani is seated higher than the boy. It is not a symbolic gesture, such things do not mean much in a world where looks can indeed kill, and knives can be thrown without moving a muscle. Nassau’s stormy eyes flash in the white light that fills the place, and he takes his eyes off his host to stare up at the grey sky.
Shamani reaches forward with his mind, feeling out Nassau’s mind, mapping out his shape, his strong points, his weaknesses. His mental barrier is not as well built as it should be. There are rents in the façade, tears and gaps holes, as if something is eating the boy up from within. When Nassau looked back he felt the mental probe and a heady mix of anger and fear leapt back up the connection before it snapped. Composed, Shamani stays upon his rock, waiting for the boy to send his own questing bullet. He feels it coming, and snags it from the air. Not letting the boy sense anything other than what Shamani wants him to sense. He sees the walls, formidable things built up over too many years, he sees the power, the latent destructive force held within the fragile body and he knows the meaning of the landscape he stands in. This is the power of the White Storm. The White haired man snaps the connection ,brittle as frozen glass, and the power of the action makes Nassau stagger a little.
The Hell demon stands in the long grass and meets for the first time the eyes of the angel who is seated upon the rock. So different these two and so similar. Both beautiful, both older than they appear and both with particular bad memories carving out their hearts. For while Nassau’s mental defences are being broken down by the raw and painful memories of his dead lover as fast as he can build them, Shamani is keeping an older hurt locked within his chest. Unrequited love, realized and known too late to make a difference to the fate of a boy who grew up too fast. A lover who never was such a thing haunts his dreams.
Shamani’s second bolt slips through the tears in Nassau’s mental wall like a fish in a river. A softly glinting thing, he is fast and through in finding what he wants. He sums up the core of the boy’s power in seconds and knows that he can beat Nassau. He also knows that while Nassau is on earth, he has cut his ties to his father, his brother and the world below the ground. There is something else, more information, easy to reach now he’s here. He hesitates, touches the stuff gently, a swirl of colour and pain, and slips out of the boy’s mind again. Nassau is standing stock still on the shore. He knows that the angel was in his head, he knows what he saw, and in some small way he is thankful. That wave of gratitude reaches Shamani on his rock. Gratitude that he stopped, that he did not dive into those memories, that power. Nassau knows what that is like, there are more bad memories behind his eyes than there should be. Things that happened to him while he was indeed young. The pain of a mind being forced open, something like rape in the way a stronger person can come in and take anything they want. Nassau’s thanks shimmer in the air, his feathers glittering.
Nassau’s bolt slithers up to the angel like a snake. The serpent raises its jewel shaped head and curls around the angel’s mind, knowing the shape of it, flicking it’s subtle tongue to find the cracks. Nassau is sent reeling back in surprise at what he finds. A gate, open and waiting on its hinges for him. the serpent becomes the man and he walks through the door and into the garden of Shamani’s mind. It is like space in here, the image-memories of The Way burning bright and potent. Nebulae and multi coloured dust clouds, shadowy figures walking the starry paths that Nassau has only ever heard of before. Shape-memories of people are all around him. Some he recognise, his own people, the demon Jeroh missing his mate, the shape of his father, and surprising him, the seated figure of his brother Ade, looking too much like an angel in this particular brand of company.
What will put your mind at rest Lord Nassau Del Rae?
Nothing other than what I have come to do.
That is sad.
And the angel called up for the demon the image of a boy asleep. So small amidst the mental presences around him, soft and beautiful in the sheets, his black hair spread over the pillow, his eyes moving softly behind their lids as he dreams. Nassau reached out and touched that cheek like a ghost, noticing the rise and fall of the boy’s chest, the length of his eyelashes against his cheek.
Thank you, Lord Zirishiri.
Nassau turned and walked back out of the door of Shamani’s mind, and little known to both of them, the shape-memory of Toulouse Dorian Heron watched him go.
On the shore, Nassau bowed to the figure on the rock, closing his eyes as he did so, an ancient symbol of trust. Shamani returned the gesture with a slight inclination of his head. At his throat Zirishiri glowed bright enough to hurt the eyes and the star burnt its shape into Nassau’s retinas. The young Lord turned, and in that single movement his vanished from that plane, leaving nothing behind but his footprints and one long gold-red feather.
Kotac’s mind was off elsewhere. He had left the house shortly after Del Deorion had vanished, gone the other way, knowing that the demon would go for crowds and light and loud music. Kotac liked the cool evening, the relative quite of the park, and for now, being as far away from Yosui as possible without leaving the city. Kotac was well aware that the situation was mostly his fault, but it had been a shock to come back after so many years and find the rumours to be true. To find that the Lord of The Dreaming had indeed taken a permanent mate. It was just so unfair. When Kotac had wanted him he was brushed off with a kiss and a promise that Yosui did not take boyfriends, it was too dangerous and too confusing in his work. Kotac had taken it as truth, and now he found that he had been betrayed. The lust was gone but the friendship had remained and Kotac trusted Deorion about as far as a regular human could throw him.
His nose caught the scent of authority, two policemen up ahead, on their evening walk through the park, on duty and on the lookout for something to liven up a boring day. Kotac slinked out of sight, looking out for someone who looked likely. Plenty of people walked past, Kotac didn’t fancy his chances with any of them. Ah, there… a boy sitting on a park bench, big brown feathered wings spread out to one side of him. Kotac picked up a stick and trotted over to him. the boy looked down, their eyes met and the Winged One followed the line of the werewolf’s pointed ears to the approaching police. Gingerly he took the stick from Kotac’s jaw. Kotac didn’t get the whole conversation, human speech needed intense concentration. Instead he read the body language and the tone of voice and after a while the police moved off. He turned to go, but a soft hand on the back of his neck halted him. Kotac growled low in his throat.
“I know what you are,” the Winged One spoke clearly, looking Kotac in the eyes to make sure he understood, “This is no chance meeting. I wish to talk to you.” He patted the bench beside him and Kotac saw that a there was a neatly folded change of clothes. He picked up the jeans with his teeth and padded off to the nearest set of large trees. He figured being caught in the buff by the police would carry worse punishments than being off the lead.
Kotac’s bare chested form drew looks all round and a couple of low whistles as he went to go and sit beside the boy on the bench, mindful of the big wings. He shrugged into the jacket and zipped it up to hide his apparent nudity.
“Good fit, how’d you know?” Kotac smiled at the boy, who know that he came to look properly at him, may have been about twenty.
“The Angel sent me, he knows everything.”
Kotac frowned deeply.
“Indeed. Thank you for saving my ass earlier. What did the police want?”
The Winged One shrugged and feathers rustled.
“Oh, the usual. ‘Is this your dog sir?’ ‘Why isn’t he on his lead sir?’ that sort of thing. No big,” He held out his hand, “I’m Hawk, pleased to meet you.”
“Kotac. But I guess you already knew that?”
“No, The Angel isn’t big on giving us names, just places.”
“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”
They sat side by side for a while, watching the world go by. They didn’t draw too much attention. Kotac got some looks, mostly from people who’d been around when he wasn’t wearing all that much. Plus there was the added fact that he wasn’t wearing any shoes, which always made people curious. A tourist, young black guy and his girl friend came up and asked them for directions to Westminster. Hawk began speaking French at them and they shrugged and walked off to bother someone else.
“Handy trick, remind me to learn a foreign language.”
Hawk grinned, slightly proud of himself.
“Comes in handy from time to time. Unfortunately sometimes they speak French too and then you have to actually tell them what they want to know.”
“You are quite the bastard aren’t you Hawk? Remind me to never ask you for directions. What are you doing in London?”
“You think I just fell out of the sky?” Hawk raised an eyebrow at the werewolf, “I live here man.”
“So why does The angel want me to talk to you?”
“He seeks audience with The Lord.”
“Well that’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear again. Were you alive the last time they actually spoke to each other?” Kotac knew he was being cruel, but he couldn’t help it, “They live in the same goddamned city and they haven’t spoken in the last twenty years, give or take a decade. What’s so important now?”
Hawk sighed deeply.
“You’ve heard the rumours?”
“Uh-oh…”
“Yes? What do you want?”
Jeroh walked over to the boy and touched his shoulder, Angel span round, hand raised to strike. When he saw the expression on Jeroh’s face, understanding so deep it was as though his mind was being read, his shoulders slumped, tension gave way to pitiful exhaustion and Angel collapsed in his arms. No words were needed and Jeroh smooth the long fine hair under his fingertips and felt the shape of the boy who he held in his arms. Jeroh saw the world through his hands, his fur, his skin, and nothing was lost on him. He felt the hard muscle and bone in the boys back, the toughness of his skin around the wing joints. Under his hands each feather was a jewel, the bone structure fine and clean under his fingers, he could feel the blood pulsing through veins close to the surface of the membrane. By the time he had finished, Angel was shaking through more than exhaustion. The chinchilla furred demon knew that any creatures wings were sensitive and his caresses had taken Angel’s mind away from his worries a little.
“What is Shamani keeping from us?”
Jeroh drew his eyebrows together.
“Shamani keeps many things from any people. Even I do not know anything about him, despite how long I have known him. Only one person really knows Shamani and that is Shamani himself.”
“No,” Angel laid his head against Jeroh’s collarbone, leaning into him in the aftermath of his grief, “There is something in this house, I can feel it.”
“Of course you can, you’re an Empath.”
“How did you know?”
“So surprised Angel?” Jeroh chuckled softly, “You think you can allow me to touch you like that and keep such things hidden?”
“You are very insightful.”
“Yes, that is why Draven has agreed to share his room with Hawk. I do not expect you to share a bed with a man who was once your lover and who betrayed you.”
“That was years ago.”
“And the wounds are still raw.”
Angel bowed his head, closing his eyes against the bitter memories.
“Would you like to see him?”
Somehow knowing exactly what Jeroh meant, the Winged One nodded. The demon led him out of the room and to a grey door he has not noticed before.
“You must be very quiet; he is sleeping and must not be disturbed.”
“What is his name?”
“Toulouse.”
The inside of the room was plain, grey and held nothing but a chair bearing folded clothes, a barred window and a bed hung with white gauze drapes. On that bed, the sheets twisted around him as though he had moved a lot in his dreams, lay a boy more beautiful than anyone Angel had ever seen. Shamani had a striking beauty, ethereal, classical. This boy was just gorgeous. He had the same attraction to Angel that flowers do to the sun. Irresistible. Angel didn’t even try.
Gold tan skin looked as soft and smooth as silk, his hair was finer than a cobweb, black as pitch and wavy, spread across the pillow, his chest rose and fell with his breathing, such tempting velvet shadows cradled between rose flavoured lips. There were taught lines in his shoulders, tension that Angel longed suddenly to wipe away. He was perfection case in flesh. Angel had no idea how long he stood there, feeling that he could be perfectly happy just watching this boy sleep. He could spend the rest of his life just standing here. The knowledge almost brought him to his knees. He longed to see those eyes open, to see the colour that lay under the long dark eyelashes. The narrow waist, the long tapering fingers. Angel consumed it all with his eyes.
He stepped forwards, his bare feet not touching the ground and parted the drapes with a hand. He leant over the sleeping boy who turned toward him in his dream and let out a little moan. Angel knew he shouldn’t, but every fibre in his body cried out to him and so, ever so softly, he placed his lips onto those of the sleeping boy. Wildfire burnt through him, ravaging his sense of self, tearing him to pieces. He saw inside the boy’s dreams saw the horror that awaited him and he saw himself. A big house full of strange people and Toulouse on his knees, crying diamond tears. Angel had his arms around him, holding him tight, a voice he knew was Toulouse’s telling over and over again that he was sorry, even though neither of them knew why.
Angel was sitting on the other side of the room, pushed back there by the force of what he had seen. His lips tingled and the beautiful boy in the bed slept on unaware of what had happened. Just before angel left the room his thought he heard the faintest whisper in the boy’s voice.
“Angel…”
“Bring it on kitty, I can wait.”
“Fifteen for one, fifteen two and a pair is three. What you got?”
“Fifteen one, fifteen two, fifteen three, pair makes four.”
The crib board, counters and card went flying across the room. Kiorl fumed silently and Kiaza went to go and pick up the stuff.
“Temper, temper my lovely furred friend.”
Kiorl had always been a sore loser, so it was good for him that Nassau sucked at cards. Of course, Nassau always played for interesting stakes. Kiaza liked to play just for the sake of playing, but for Kiorl, if there was no chance of sex by the end of the game, there was no real point. Kiorl watched the snake shape shifter pick up the stuff and begin to pack everything away in the box. They had gone through about six games in as many minutes and Kiorl was bored. Nassau had gone out, taking therefore Kiorl’s main source of entertainment with him, and Kiorl had the shortest attention span in the known universe. Lying stretched out on his bed he contemplated Kiaza, whip thin and beautiful in a scaly way, and he bent down to retrieve the last few cards. Kiorl waved away the prospect, although there was the face that Kiaza could change to look however he wanted, fur, skin, wings, anything.
The motel room was too small. Kiorl, all of them in fact, were used to space, the rambling stretches of Nassau’s house, Lucifer’s palace and all the lands of Hell were theirs to roam. To be stuck in this little room, three beds, one bathroom and sod-all else was absolute torture for Kiorl. The cat was a curious hedonistic creature and there was nothing to do here. Nassau had told them to stay put and so they did, getting very bored into the bargain. They had been here three days or more, Kiorl had cat napped a fair bit since his meeting with Jeroh and now he was bored and anything but tired. Nassau was unapproachable these days, a stone wall around him since Mattias had died. It still upset Kiorl sometimes too, they had been quite close and he had liked the guy. But Nassau was a wreck much of the time and stony the rest. His easy smile had gone and Kiorl feared it might never return.
While he had been thinking his eyes had been following Kiaza around the room and now he was surprised to find the boy standing before him, matching his gaze.
“I’d ask what you want,” Kiaza flicked his eyes across Kiorl’s near naked body, “But that much at least is obvious.”
“Bastard.”
Kiaza sat down on the bed beside him and began to stroke the fur long his spine. Kiorl grumbled and then settled down to purring happily. What with Kiaza so near, his hand tickling the base of his spine just before his tail, Kiorl’s self control was fading fast.
“What do you reckon Nassau’s up to?”
“I…ah…no idea…” Kiorl was already having trouble forming words, let alone coherent sentences, “Dammit boy, you trying to make me rape you?”
“Maybe,” Kiaza smiled in an interesting way Kiorl hadn’t noticed before, “what do you think is so important about this boy?” Kiaza hand drifted lower, his fingers smooth on the velvet of Kiorl's fur.
“Word of anyone reaches Hell…must be…ohgod…something special…” Kiorl was panting, his breathing coming loud and heavy. Kiaza leant over him and breathed the words in his ear.
“You want me?”
“Ugh…yes.” Kiorl’s eyes were wide and deep and he turned to look at Kiaza, the snake boy beautiful and seductive above leant down, his lips mere millimetres away from Kiorl’s own.
“Guess you’ll just have to wait then.” His smile was devilish, and to Kiorl, downright cruel as he got up and moved away.
“Bastard!”
