Vision Quest (5 page)

Decay did not advance so quickly. Blood did not spread so insistently. Skin did not tear so completely, nor did beasts undergoing such a transformation laugh so maniacally. Arik clutched at air to find impossible holds, and would have fallen ass-heavy on to the ground had Blaze not clutched at his shirt to keep him upright.

"What the fuck?" Arik shouted, both hands finding and gripping Blaze's wrists hard enough to hurt his own fingertips. He noted the swivel of half a dozen adult heads towards his outburst and he didn't care in the least. He knew there was panic on his face, he could feel the tentacles of it everywhere—clenching his balls, squeezing his chest, digging through his brain and bowels. He sought out Blaze's eyes, questioning, confirming, begging in silence ... and didn't see the confusion or the horror that he was expecting.

Arik's hands dropped down to his sides. He shot a cautious glance at the image of the goat. Nothing but wheat-chewing, grin-spewing, y'all-have-a-good-day cheer shone back at him.

"Well now," Blaze said slowly. "That was interesting."

"Oh, we're going to need another round," Blaze said to the blonde girl buzzing by their table to check on her only customers.

"Coming right up!" The girl beamed at Blaze, cast a slightly worried glance at Arik, who was still seasick pale, and then she skipped away.

"Thanks," Arik said, sipping his beer and moving his fries around in their basket as though he wanted to build a fort out of them, not eat them.

After "the incident," as Arik was calling it, at Mini Golf Insanity Land, Blaze had driven them to the closest place that sold alcohol, which turned out to be a sports bar that had tiny TVs at every table and waitresses in green-checkered plaid shirts and solid black mini shorts. The hardest thing they served was a malt beer, and Blaze had ordered two of them and a couple baskets of fried foods to fend off Arik's shakes. Whenever Blaze had an "incident" that powerful, he usually got a drop in blood sugar that could leave him flattened on the ground. And Blaze was absolutely sure that Arik had experienced an "incident" the likes of which were very familiar to Blaze. The kiss had been fraught with sizzle and spark, and Blaze had been halfway to the moon, high on the rare and cherished connection sensation, when Arik had staggered away, yelled loudly enough to make the wee humans cry, and stared at Blaze in a weird mixture of accusation and fast-dying hope. It'd been like he had expected Blaze to have seen whatever it was Arik had seen or understand whatever it was Arik now knew, or, at the very least, had a glimmer of insight leading toward the knowing.

 Unfortunately, the only thing Blaze had experienced was an interlacing of metaphysics that had gotten him hard so fast he had thought the kiss alone might have gotten him off right there on the goat's grinning face. And even more unfortunate than the sudden change of game plan that went from hot to horrible in less than point-oh-oh-six seconds, was that Blaze was having little to no luck getting Arik to talk about what had happened.

"I'm sorry," Arik said again.

"That's eight," Blaze said.

"Eight, what?"

"Times." Blaze sighed. "That you've apologized. Arik, you don't need to say you're sorry."

"Feels like I do," Arik muttered.

Blaze reached across the table and carefully touched Arik's rolled shirtsleeve. "I understand what happened."

"You do?"

The unbridled desperation almost made Blaze hesitate, but he carried on: "Sure. You're used to being on the other side of an ass beating."

Blaze got a weak chuckle for his efforts. "You were doing pretty well."

"Pretty well?"

"Winning. You were winning." Arik drank deeply of his beer, nodded to the girl when she set down another one, and Blaze ignored the girl's judging gaze about men who drank before noon on Thursdays.

"Yeah, until you got a good look at the goat, it was all going my way."

Arik blanched, drank again, and Blaze locked on target. "Did it remind you of something?"

"The goat?" Arik scoffed. "No."

The derision was real enough. Blaze changed tactics. "Did you see something?"

Arik's eyes ticked to Blaze's. "What?"

"See something," Blaze repeated. "Or smell, maybe, or—"

"It's a migraine," Arik said, nostrils flaring and fist forming on the table. "Like I said. I get them, you know? And they're sudden, and—"

"And cured by beer and fried foods?"

"I just said I thought we should leave," Arik said, bordering on angry, now. "You were the one who suggested the food."

"And you didn't argue with me, tell me your treatment plan, or ask to go to the hotel to sleep in the darkness with a cold cloth, medication, and silence."

Arik's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and he frowned. "No, I ... No, I didn't."

"Have you ever actually
had
a migraine?" Blaze asked.

"No, but I'm getting a real pain in my ass right about now." Arik's eyes flashed dangerously, but it was the beer bottle that got the dirty look, not Blaze. "This was a mistake," Arik said softly.

"Arik—"

"Please," Arik said in a perfectly awful placating, tired tone. He waved one hand, shaking off Blaze's touch. "I'll get the drinks, drive you back, and ... we'll just forget it ever—"

"My bunică was a vrăjitoare," Blaze interrupted.

The foreign tongue had its uses. Catching the attention of distraught, pretty men who were the current object of Blaze's Quests was one of them. "Your what was a what?" Arik asked.

"My granmamere, my granny, was a witch. Well, actually, I'm thinking of my great-great granny, but the other female descendants were witches, too."

"You're kidding?" Arik asked, but this time the derision was not only unreal, it was scarce on the ground.

"I am not." Blaze tipped his beer toward Arik, drank, and smacked his lips. It was terrible beer, but strong. "And all of them saw things."

"What kinds of things?"

"The future, the past, ghosts, demons, the devil within ..." Blaze shrugged. "All sorts of things. I grew up with a huge family, most of whom could dance in fire, charm snakes, and read cards, and if I could count the number of times I've seen one or more of them react to some horrible shit they could see but nobody else could, it'd be an even bigger figure than the number of times you apologize when it's not your fault. So
gadjo
..." Blaze nudged Arik's beer closer to its drinker. "What did
you
see?"

"I ..." Arik was white as a sheet, but leaning toward Blaze, not away, and when he bit his lip and started to draw into himself, Blaze made a soft, tender sound and covered Arik's hand with Blaze's own. The spark was instantly there, humming between them, and Arik gasped, arm going stiff.

"It's okay," Blaze murmured, petting Arik's thumb with his own.

"No, not so much. Last time, definitely not so."

"In my experience,
this
kind of charge has less to do with visions and more to do with one set of esoteric chemistry that really, really likes another set."

"Esoteric ..." Arik's frown became a concentration scowl. "You mean you ... do
you
see ...?"

"I did just tell you I was related to a bunch of crazy women, didn't I?" Blaze said dryly, which was both an answer and not an answer, but it worked for Blaze right now.

"I'm really not sure what happened," Arik said, steadier but still ashen and fixated on their joined hands. "I ... what the fuck?"

Oh God, not again,
Blaze thought, but Arik didn't scream or curse. He slapped the controls on the flat screen in their booth. They'd turned it off when they had sat down, and now Arik cranked the volume.

It was a news station, and a woman in a pencil skirt and dour expression stood next to a cold crime scene with tape marking where it had been originally set up near some train tracks, a train service station, and a whole lot of forest. The bold tag across the bottom of the screen said, BODY FOUND.

"... ongoing hunt for their son, Craig Hammersfeld, who was reported missing a month ago by his partner, Christopher Edwards. Elizabeth Sewell is standing on the site where police recovered a mutilated body last week. Elizabeth, has it been confirmed that the body was, in fact, Craig Hammersfeld?"

"Hi Jack, and yes, it has been confirmed with a positive ID just this morning. A mere five days ago, police found a blue, plastic barrel that had been stuffed with a contorted, crushed, and nearly liquidated human body. This monstrous crime horrified the surrounding community, causing a major outcry for a manhunt to find the perpetrators, and police have two suspects in custody who, it is said, have confessed to this atrocity as part of a dare fulfilled while under the influence of a variety of illegal substances. They admit to abducting Craig after he finished his shift at a local mini golf course. He was in his car and had dropped his keys on the gravel. He was forced away from the vehicle and into an unmarked van at gunpoint. Craig sustained many injuries and endured several hours of torture before being—"

Blaze shut off the television, unable to take any more, but before he could ask a question or speak a single word, Arik was out of the booth and running toward the men's room. Blaze ripped out his wallet, slammed a bill down between the unfinished beers, and grabbed his bag from under the table. He swung his entire life across his shoulders as he gave chase, worry and dread speeding his heart and his feet.

Arik shoved himself into the last stall of the restroom, the announcer's words still circling in his head, and slammed the door with more force than he'd intended. The cheap aluminum barked its disapproval and Arik turned to growl back at it. He lifted a fist, reconsidered, and lowered it back to his side, still clenched, still ready to go in case Arik changed his mind.

Instead, he forced himself to breathe; to lift his left hand, and press his palm over his eye and fingers over his forehead in a soothe so very contrary to its balled-up, furious brother. "Coincidence," Arik murmured. "Heat. I should have been drinking water. Should have eaten breakfast."

The scent of cheap pine cleaner masked, but did not hide, the underlying presence of stale urine. Something ill-fated had started to rot in either corner or behind plaster. The flooring was slick with someone's half-hearted attempt at cleaning; the bleach they'd use somehow magnifying the odour of the mildewing cotton mop instead of making anything fresher. Odd, considering the rest of the sports bar had seemed somewhat clean. But then, really, wasn't that the way these things went—the requisite neon and electronics made everything seem that much brighter and more sparkly? It wasn't until one went digging that one found the filth.

The door to the restroom opened and Arik flinched. He pulled back against the wall and swallowed a whine, even as criticism rose inside his chest to hiss at his reaction.

Recollection mocked him. Memory tried to step in and set up camp. It was as if cigarette-smoking, cold-eyed generals began peeking from around corners, leering. "All right, boys," imagination offered. "Maybe we can finally get this show on the road again. Gentlemen, arm yourselves."

"Arik?" Blaze's voice was low and warm, and cut through the veil of Arik's thoughts like they were no heavier than gauze. He didn't reply, though, and his clenched fist tightened that much further on itself.

Blaze's footsteps were light and slow but he seemed to know exactly where to stop and turn. Dark, oh-so-very-comfy-looking running shoes—long but narrow, aged, but not worn—peeked at Arik from under the divider. "Are you all right? Are you ill?"

Ill ... damn straight he was ill ... he was dying ... he was ... angry. Angry. Yes, he was fucking angry. Furious, actually. Righteously, violently, overwhelmingly rabid. He reached for the door, snapped the lock with a vicious click and pulled it open. The echo of metal slapping metal resounded over surfaces, and Arik stepped forward, one hand already pointing. "That had nothing to do with anything. That was nothing."

An emotion danced through Blaze's eyes, but whether it was confusion, annoyance, or concern, Arik couldn't say. It was checked quickly and easily, and for some reason, that just fuelled Arik's rage more.

"You did this," Arik narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. "You and your damn witch blood did something."

It was an unreasonable argument; Arik knew it was. Blaze had been nowhere near him when the nudges had started. That thought didn't help shut down his mouth in the least.

"Or was it some fucking crap that you spit in my mouth when we kissed? Dropped in my coffee, maybe? What's your game, Blaze? What the fuck are you doing?"

Blaze's jaw tightened. He nodded, though it appeared more to himself than anything else. "Look, Arik, I hear what you're saying. I see what you're feeling. And I know and understand where you are. But let's try and take it easy on the bashing—"

"Fuck you." The words popped out of Arik's mouth before he could stop them.

"Fuck ..." Blaze tilted his head. "Me? I doubt that will resolve anything."

Reason snapped in Arik's head. He lunged. "Do you think this is a game—"

Even as his father's words shot off Arik's tongue, even as his clawed fingers sought out the much smaller man in front of him, the horizon shifted, body movement followed a gentle, yet insistent shove, and Arik found himself finishing the sentence to the soap-slicked, water-spattered laminate of the countertop. His cheekbone took the brunt of the fall, his teeth clacked together with a snap that made him grateful his tongue hadn't wandered between them, but it was more surprise than pain that brought the, "Ow."

Feisty for a little guy—Blaze had caught Arik completely unprepared. So much for those tae kwon do lessons.

Arik flexed against the hold Blaze had on his arm; the arm twisted just so across Arik's back. If he stayed still, Arik was fine. If he tried to move either self or limb, that was a totally different story, however.

"Two things," Blaze said. "I will reiterate again that I understand. I feel for you, Arik, I really do. But you will not ..." A small tug sent warning streaks of pain up Arik's arm and into his shoulders. "You will
not
attack me. You want to pick me up and throw me on a bed, I am cool with that. Hell, ninety-eight times out of a hundred I'll like it. You want to hold my hands over my head while we're having sex, and play the part of Mister Tough Guy, that's awesome. I like a little rough play as much as the next guy. But the moment you come after me with actual intent, the way you did just now, I will break you. I don't care what the fuck your reasoning is behind it."