A Shadow of Wings (20 page)

Around nine, he opened his eyes again and stretched. Dylan would have gone to work at the vet’s, of course, which left Cam the day to… Well, technically he was supposed to wait for a calling to seize him and drag him into the world, then report back to Tash, but he felt so utterly relaxed and at peace, he couldn’t imagine such a thing. In fact, his body seemed weighted with contentment. His morning wood lay hard against his belly, but it was more of a cheerful declaration of
what a great day, aren’t we glad to be alive?
than the usual monument to despair that came with being horny and having no one to love. 

For now he had Dylan. With a smile, he snuggled beneath the comforter and recalled the night’s events. He didn’t seem to be too sore, though he remembered how Dylan had stretched him. How Dylan’s cock had burned its way into him until he thought he couldn’t take it, but he’d borne it for his lover. And then…a revelation. Bliss. Dylan everywhere, inside him, outside him, kissing and whispering, and, and…oh God. Better than he’d even imagined. 

Cockatrices didn’t pray, being eternity’s castoffs, but he sent a small prayer of thanks to the Creator anyhow. Then shifted to his belly with a sigh. How much longer did he have with Dylan? Mere days? 

After which the brothers would take this guise from him. Though wearing the collar again would bring it back, to be separated from this human flesh for even a short while would be torture. His feet would turn into gnarled, scaly claws, his hair to dusky feathers, his nose and mouth to a lethal, curving beak. His spine would elongate to a serpent’s tail tipped with a poison dart. And his eyes… No living creature could gaze upon him them. To do so would be certain death. 

He’d be a true monster then. He didn’t understand Tash, who preferred his cockatrice body. Of course, only in that form could he mate in a group of other trices, who bred the way snakes did, writhing in damp, dark soil underground, blind and grasping, phalluses seeking openings, driven to procreate. If all went well, at least one of them would shortly thereafter lay an egg, for all trices in their natural forms were hermaphroditic. Why God had chosen to give them male human guises was never fully explained, but the last trice, who had been tamed by the holy knight Alistair, had emerged from the cave a man, and so it had been ever since.

The brothers never spoke of it, but Cam suspected Alistair and his trice, whose name was lost to history, had been lovers. What else could have healed the immortal rift between man and monster but love? While reading through ancient texts in the basilica library, Cam had discovered poetry that hinted Alistair hadn’t found fear in the trice’s eyes, but desire. Had the knight saved the trice from extinction, or had the trice condemned the man to eternal damnation? 

Whatever had happened in the legendary cave, the trice had become gravid. The knight had spared both the beast and the egg, and from that egg had come all existing trices, all of whom were collared young by acolytes of the order Alistair founded, and then made to shift between man and monster until they died or were killed in the service of the church. 

Cam touched the golden chain that circled his throat, the precious metal warmed by his skin. The texts said an angel of God had forged the first chain worn by a cockatrice, and every collar made since contained a tiny part of it. Only the brothers knew the special charm to remove it. Cam would gladly wear it forever if it meant staying with Dylan. 

The church would never release him from service, though. Never.

But even that thought couldn’t completely dim his good mood. He got up, rubbed his face, and had an incredible idea. He’d clean Dylan’s apartment, top to bottom, to thank him. Cam hadn’t the good grace to thank him last night. Oh no, he’d told that dreadful story, then flopped over and fallen asleep. Well, maybe he could make up for that today. Give the place a good scrubbing, and maybe even…maybe even buy some furniture. A real bed, for instance. He paused, a hand on his chin. That might be overstepping. But at least he could wash the comforter, dust, mop… Surely Dylan had cleaning materials somewhere. He whistled tunelessly as he set about picking up the dishes from dinner and the clothes he’d strewn on the floor. This was the least he could do for Dylan, truly, after the joy he’d given him. And maybe later, he’d even cook dinner for them.

After a few hours of intensive cleaning and then a hot shower, he decided to head out to buy proper sheets for the air mattress—surely that wasn’t going overboard—and opened the apartment door.

And stopped before he stepped on the candles and cakes laid out there.

“Quetzlcoatl,” a soft voice said from his left. It was the old woman, Manuela, in her faded flowered housecoat, peeking at him from her partly opened door. Jose was nowhere to be seen. 

“Manuela.” Cam replied quietly in Spanish, “I’m not Quetzlcoatl.”

“
Si
.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the offerings. “For you. You bring us good luck and protection.”

It was a statement, not a question. Cam sighed. How could he break the abuela’s heart? Every so often, when they traveled through remote areas still steeped in the ancient ways, he and Tash would run into this. 

There was nothing to be done for it but to go along. Graciously, he nodded and bent to pick up the offerings. He left them inside the door of Dylan’s place. He supposed he and Dylan could eat the cake later and hoped Dylan wouldn’t be angry. 

“You’re very kind,” he said to Manuela, who smiled, though he doubted she could see much. Her eyes were as white with cataracts as a brother’s, though with age, not with deliberate exposure to make them that way. 

She inched into the hallway and took his hands in her tissue-soft, wrinkled ones. “You bring blessings on us.”

“I’ll do my best.” That seemed to satisfy her, as she smiled and nodded, then shuffled back to her apartment and closed the door behind her. When he turned, he nearly ran into a scowling Jose.

But even he had an offering in his weathered hands. A box of brown eggs. “From my nephew,” he said, eyes carefully averted. “He keeps some hens in his yard.”

With a nod, Cam took the eggs and thanked him. Jose started to go, but then turned back, gesturing shortly toward Dylan’s door. “He is no good for you. Not worthy. Nothing but trouble.”

Cam straightened. “Would you question my judgment?”

Jose’s expression turned thunderous, but then shook his head and retreated into his apartment, the slamming door the last word on that argument. Cam rolled his eyes. At least it wasn’t likely he’d be giving Dylan grief anymore. After sticking the eggs in with the cake and candles, Cam headed out. Hopefully, having accepted the offerings, that would be the last he’d hear about Quetzlcoatl. 

It was logical he’d be confused with the ancient Mexican god, the mystical feathered serpent, since there was a physical resemblance to a cockatrice, but unfortunately, he was no god, and how anyone even sensed his physical likeness was an ongoing mystery. Tash had explained they gave off a certain energy that some people who held true to the old ways could sense. He had to accept that, since there was no other explanation, nothing obvious. Dylan was the only human who had ever actually seen his wings, and even then it had only been their shadow.

As he walked into the late morning light, he contemplated that. Why could Dylan see them? What did it mean? Why wasn’t he afraid when he looked into Cam’s eyes? If anything, he seemed to enjoy it, and once Dylan stopped fearing it, Cam liked it too. To be able to share himself with another being… It was intoxicating. No brother and no text or scroll, nor anything Tash had said had ever led him to believe that was possible. Except for the ancient stories of the last trice and Alistair, who’d…done
something
in that cave that resulted in the trice gaining a human form and being able to walk among men.

Deep in thought, he wrestled with how he could phrase a question to Tash that might provide an answer without tipping him off about Dylan. While he wandered, he found a department store with a passable bedding section, and it wasn’t until he stood at the register, still thinking while he purchased some nice blue Egyptian cotton sheets, that he realized his scalp was starting to burn.

Fuck
… A calling. Not now. He nearly groaned. But even as the girl at the register counted back his change, the sensation grew, buzzing down his spine, making his palms and the soles of his feet itch. This was a bad one, as bad as when he’d… As the night he’d found Dylan. Shit, it couldn’t be Dylan again, could it?

Schooling the worry from his face, he asked the girl if he could leave the bag behind the counter and come get it later. Fortunately, she said that wouldn’t be an issue, which left him free to walk quickly out onto the sidewalk to get his bearings. 

The calling hit him so hard he gasped. Every hair on his body stood on end. He ducked back into the space between buildings and looked around. It didn’t seem to be coming from any one direction, but from…everywhere. At once. His skin crawled with it, and he dug his fingers into his hair to ease the bristling of his scalp.

Should he call Tash? There was no way to reach Dylan, unless Cam phoned the vet’s, though he didn’t have the number. Easier to walk there. He wasn’t too far from it. Instinct guided his feet in that direction. If he knew Dylan was safe, at least he could deal with the rest of this aggravation. 

He forced himself into a jog, his heart pounding, until he spotted the brick building that housed the vet’s clinic. After he swung through the clinic’s glass door, he marched past the young receptionist, ignoring her protests, and searched the two exam rooms and finally the back. He found Dr. Martin flipping through a file cabinet in her office. The outraged receptionist ran up behind him.

“You can’t come back here,” she scolded.

Dr. Martin straightened and pursed her lips, then said, “It’s all right, Cassie. I know this one.”

With a huff, the girl left them alone.

Surely if something had happened to Dylan, Dr. Martin would be more upset. Not just angry and disgusted, which she seemed to be as soon as she set eyes on Cam. The calling thrummed through him like an electric current. He’d broken out in a sweat, and he knew his face must be ashen from the strain, but he pushed his dark glasses up his nose and asked, “Dr. Martin, is Dylan here?”

One corner of her lips pressed down disapprovingly. “He’s not here, kiddo. He came in late, looking like hell, and he knew what the consequences would be.”

“Consequences? What do you mean? Please, I have to find him.”

“What happened is up to him to tell you. But let me tell you something.” She walked toward him, large and intimidating despite her lime green doggy-decorated lab coat over a hot-pink blouse. “Dylan’s a good kid, and I don’t like to see him getting mixed up with the likes of you.”

“The likes of me?” Trying to follow her reasoning through the buzz of the calling was like trying to hear a pin drop in busy Manhattan traffic. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.” Unless she was thinking he was a horrific medieval monster taking advantage of a human’s kindness, of course. But the odds of that were slim. “Do you know where he went?”

“He left hours ago. Most likely he’ll show up home again. Maybe you should wait for him there, if you know where it is.”

“I do. But…it can’t wait. He might be in trouble.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Boy, you on something?”

Probably said that because Cam had thrust his fingers into his hair and was pulling on it and grinding his teeth and trembling. The dark glasses surely added to the picture, as if he was covering bloodshot eyes. No, nothing suspicious here… 

With a groan, he said, “Listen, nothing that’s happened is Dylan’s fault. He overslept this morning, that’s all. I have to find him. If you see him, please tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Hand on hip, she huffed. “I’ll tell him. But you got to straighten yourself out before you pull him down with you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course you’re right.” The last thing he needed was to argue with Dylan’s boss. Or ex-boss, it seemed. He spun and bolted for the door again. 

Had Dylan gotten fired because of him? With a sinking feeling, Cam realized he
had
hit the snooze button that morning. It had still been dark out, and lying curled up around Dylan had been so nice. 

He’d really fucked up. 

Guilt clawed at him, adding to his physical and mental discomfort as the calling continue to hammer at him. Goddammit, dealing with humans was complicated. He hated to admit it, but part of him wanted to retreat back to his safe little house with Tash and let his mentor take over again. But no. No. He could do this. He could figure this out and make things right.

First, he had to find the source of this wretched torment. He paused at the street corner, knowing he must look like a strung-out junkie with the jitters, and tried again to figure out which way to go. He closed his eyes and breathed. And opened them to see his worst nightmare staring back at him from the opposite corner.

A tall, pale, darkly dressed man with hair as black as Cam’s stared at him with huge blank eyes in his strangely unformed face. People passed around him, oblivious, but Cam could see the telltale whispering of oily shadows, like an unstable halo, surrounding him as the creature gathered its human guise to itself. A weasel. A demon that hunted cockatrices, the only creature that could withstand a trice’s lethal gaze.

Ice-cold dread spread through Cam’s limbs, quickly overwhelmed by ferocious instinctual hatred for the demon. 

Without thought, Cam launched himself across the street, got winged by a car, rolled off the hood, regained his footing and arrowed after the weasel, who had taken off as soon as Cam began to move. If there was one demon, there were likely more. They often traveled in groups, usually in threes or sevens, the sacred numbers. He hoped it was three. Three he could handle. Seven…he’d need Tash. 

But there was no time to pause and grab his cell phone as he charged down back alleys. He ran on gut feeling, following the pulse of the call. Stronger here, weaker there. Through shadows and flashes of sunlight, dodging pedestrians—turning to get back on the trail. It reached a fever pitch, pounding between his ears, when he burst out into a quiet street with the broad gray river in front of him.