A Shadow of Wings (25 page)

Fifteen minutes in, he started to work up a satisfying sweat that cleared his head. With the river to the right of him, he kept up a steady pace that carried him toward the bridge. Out here, reality laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The flash of traffic lights, the hum of trucks and cars rumbling over the bridge, the gurgle of the water. The sun crept up, lending a pale glow to everything around him. 

He took a deep inhale of the brisk air. A little more awake now, he pondered what to do. It didn’t seem fair the first guy, the only guy, he really felt something for was some sort of…whatever. And that he was taking off. A flash of resentment toward those brothers, whoever they were, burned through him. Cam didn’t belong to them. He wasn’t a piece of meat to be bought, or a slave to be held. Cam’s unsubtle warning about removing the collar kept Dylan from cutting through the gold chain, but in his heart, he really thought that was the key to everything. If he could free Cam of that collar, maybe Cam could stay with him.

He hissed in a breath at a sharp bite of pain. He’d tightened his fists so much in frustration, his nails bit into his palms. Forcing them open, he shook out his hands. Then glanced around and saw a shadow whisper across the trail ahead of him. Instantly, his skin pebbled in goose bumps. 

There it was again. That sense of being watched. He was approaching a pedestrian bridge that arched over the trail. Deep shadows untouched by the rising sun lingered beneath. His heart beating harder, Dylan jogged on. Fuck if he’d show whatever it was that he was afraid. Cam had said they rarely attacked humans, after all. And he wanted to know what it was. 

The prickling sensation intensified as he approached. About two yards from the bridge, he smelled something…odd. Like when he’d found an old dead bird in his grandpa’s barn. Nothing but feathers and bone and the old, gray scent of decay. He barely had time to acknowledge that when the shadows coalesced and swooped toward him.

Cam jolted awake. He burned, he burned—his skin was on fire. He knotted his fingers in his hair and looked for Dylan, but he was alone. Fuck! The calling sliced like knife blades beneath his skin, driving him to his feet. As soon as he stood, his belly cramped, and he bent double, groaning. Disoriented by pain, he struggled into his clothes, his shoes, dragged his jacket on even as he staggered out the door. 

Of all mornings, Manuela chose this one to be up early. Though she couldn’t see him, she must have heard him wheezing because she grabbed his arm and set down the broom with which she’d been sweeping the hallway. “Cam?” she asked, alarmed. “You are not well?”

“It’s nothing.” It didn’t sound like nothing. He realized he sounded like he was dying. More evenly, he said, “Manuela, please, if Dylan comes home, tell him I’ve gone out looking for him. He has my cell phone number. Please have him call me. Immediately.”

She nodded, her wrinkled face wreathed with concern. “The gods watch over you, young man.”

And did they like what they saw? Cam wondered caustically. With a muttered thanks, he moved forward and out the door. The burning was so overwhelming, at first he didn’t know which way to turn. This was the worst one yet, worse even than the calling that had assaulted him the day he’d bought the sheets. Had that truly only been a few days back?

He stumbled left, then right, then felt that right was the correct direction and started running. With every step, his insides roiled. What the hell was the matter with him? He hadn’t felt well since…since their first night together. A sense of despair bogged him down. 

He hadn’t wanted to think about it, but maybe there was a possibility that Dylan’s human ejaculate was somehow…toxic to him. Making him ill. He moaned, this time with frustration. Didn’t it figure he’d fuck this up too? No part of his little rebellion was going as planned. People hated him, or worshipped him, neither of which he wanted. And his own wonderful lover might be killing him. Fuck.

One hand on his belly, the other on the cold bricks of the building on the corner, he stopped to get his bearings. He prayed the calling didn’t involve Dylan, but deep in his soul, he had a terrible feeling. Like claws hooked behind his eyeballs, the calling pulled at him again, and he followed, picking up his pace despite the sharp pains racking him. Thank God not many people were about, or they’d probably call the cops on him, a shaggy, unkempt man half stumbling, half running down the sidewalk, gulping in air.

After a mile, his ears began to ring. He’d made it to the linear trail, which he knew was one of Dylan’s favorite places to jog, but there was no sign of Dylan. What there was, however, was a swirling soup of darkness under a low walking bridge. When he reached it, he stopped in the ice-cold shade and smelled them. Weasels. There was no disguising that rotting mushroom scent. And there—a large drain cover, moved off to one side. Leaving a hole big enough for a man to go down. Or to be dragged into. 

He saw signs of a scuffle in the leaves and loose dirt around the hole, and his heart plummeted. “Dylan!” he shouted. No answer. He dropped to his knees, hard, ignoring the bite of hard, cold earth, and yelled his lover’s name down the black, black hole. A distant chittering echoed back at him.

Cam jerked upright and dragged his hand down his face. They taunted him. They
dared
taunt him. Fury boiled through him. Did they not know who he was? His cockatrice form surged and tore beneath his skin, only a shadow itself, but he felt it like a potent drug driving him to rage. He’d kill them. He’d kill them all, rip them, shred them. A glance around again informed him of their numbers. At least seven. And Dylan had fought. Decaying leaves lay churned, and a freshly broken branch gave evidence. Of course he had. He must be terrified…

Biting his lip, Cam fought down his savage nature and forced his rational mind to think. Truly, he needed Tash. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. But that would mean revealing Dylan. Admitting to Cam’s extreme lack of judgment in taking a human lover. He’d be chained in a dungeon, never allowed the human guise again. And what they might do to Dylan was anyone’s guess. Cam’s great sin was unprecedented. A shudder left him frozen, and he closed his eyes against the pain that seized his muscles and his heart. He had to decide fast. 

He dropped his phone back into his pocket, then levered his legs over the lip of the hole and dropped in.

Dylan had given up on fighting the many sharp claws that pulled on him. Like cactus thorns, the claws pierced his clothing and pricked and scraped his skin. He could feel blood, smell it, though he didn’t think he’d lost too much. Still, it hurt like all fuck, and he couldn’t see where the weasels were taking him.

Over his pounding heart and panic, he tried to think calmly. Yeah, right, like he had any reason to be calm. He didn’t know where he was; he didn’t know what these things were capable of. His sneakers scuffled over layers of debris and God knew what else. The bright-eyed shadows had yanked him down the drain, into the sewer. Even in the dark, he caught a gleam of an eye here, heard a squeak and grunt there. If the hair on his body stood any more on end, it would spring right off. And that smell—not just like any grave, but a forgotten grave, the way he’d be forgotten and dead down here under the city.

He whacked his head hard. “Fuck!” His forehead throbbed where he’d hit it on a cement overhang. He pressed his hand over it, a hand that came away wet with blood. Around him, the weasels chittered, and one ran up his shoulder, weirdly heavy. He yelped and shoved it off. It thudded somewhere to his left.

Reaching out, he felt where the sewer joined another section, this one lower, hence the goose egg on his forehead. Low enough he’d have to bend over. “I ain’t going through there,” he informed the rodents.

The chittering grew louder. Menacing. He felt the press of their bodies around him and thought he’d have a heart attack right then and there. What a blessing that’d be. But when he didn’t fall down dead, he had to move or get bit. “All right, all right,” he muttered. Well, they hadn’t killed him yet. Maybe that was a good sign.

As he groped his way into the pitch-black tunnel, he admitted there were no good signs in this scenario. Wherever they were taking him was somewhere worse. All of a sudden, his cohort stopped. Their claws hooked in his pants legs, pulling him to a halt. And he heard his name being called. From far away, maybe five minutes back. Hope leapt in his chest.
Cam.
The weasels whistled and clicked, clearly answering Cam’s call. He wanted to shout back, but figured they’d be on him, and settled for muttering, “Oh, you guys are so fucked now.” 

Maybe they agreed, because they started goading him forward again, urgently. Feeling bold, he kicked out blindly at them and nailed a couple. He’d counted at least six of the things, each about as tall as a beagle, with thin, long bodies and unnervingly intelligent faces.

They hissed and scrabbled back to him. Sharp teeth sank into his calf, and he barked out in pain. Bent over as he was, he couldn’t do more than try to stomp them as they drove him forward to his doom. 

Suddenly, he saw light. The literal light at the end of the tunnel. The weasels leapt ahead of him, apparently trusting he’d follow. Slowly, one hand still on the rough ceiling, Dylan moved into the glow that illuminated a large room where four sewers emptied at compass points until he exited and could straighten. 

The glow didn’t come from the sun but from an emergency lantern set off to one side. And next to it stood a man. Dylan peered, silently sizing him up. Appeared to be just a regular gay, tall and thin, wearing jeans and a gray shirt. By his side stood a big German shepherd with a guide-dog harness. A whisper of sound whipped Dylan’s head to the left. Another man, younger than the first, dressed the same but without the dog, stepped forward. He nodded at Dylan. “We’re glad you’ve arrived. I’m Liam. And this”—he lifted his hand toward guide-dog man—“is Brother Arum. I serve him.”

As if that explained everything. 

Brother Arum, holding the handle of the dog’s harness in his left hand, came a little closer. “We never imagined he would choose you, Dylan.”

“How d’you know my name?”

“We’ve been watching.” He paused. “We’ve been watching Cameron for years, waiting for this moment.”

Dylan flexed his fists. “What moment? What are you talking about? Who are you people?” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute, you’re the brothers he talked about.”

“He told you about us?” This seemed like a surprise to Brother Arum. Liam said nothing, having turned his back on them for a moment, but Dylan noticed the weasels had gathered behind him like an obedient rat army.

Better not say too much. “Just a little.”

“What else has he said? Has he told you what he is?”

Dylan shook his head, then realized that of course Brother Arum couldn’t see him. His eyes were milky white. Guy had to be blind as a bat. “No,” he said, and left it at that.

“Interesting.” Dismissing Dylan, he turned to Liam. “It won’t take him long to track us. Are you prepared?”

Now that he’d turned around, Liam clearly held a black rifle. “I am.” He glanced over his shoulder, and the weasels chirped and growled. “They are as well.”

“Good. Tag him as soon as he enters the chamber. The weasels will distract him until the tranquilizer takes effect.”

Dylan surged forward. The German shepherd bared its teeth. Brother Arum stiffened and said something foreign to the dog, bringing it to heel. Dylan wished he had Gertie with him now. The pit would tear that mutt to shreds.

“What the hell is going on?” he snapped.

“The less you know, the better,” Arum replied, then, with a slight inclination of his head, “We thank you for your service.”

“Service?” But he didn’t get to say anything else, because just then Cam burst into the room, and all hell broke loose.

Chapter Seventeen

The shock of seeing Brother Arum standing across the chamber from him was enough to freeze Cam in his tracks. He also saw Dylan, his face bloody, and that propelled Cam forward again, just as a sharp twinge registered in his hip. He glanced down at a feathered dart stuck in him. Glanced up at a wave of weasels rushing him. Knew he was fucked.

He’d go down fighting. 

Knocking the dart from his flesh, he spun in a circle, took out a weasel with a vicious kick, grabbed another leaping at him midair, threw it against the wall. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of motion—Dylan, hurtling toward Brother Arum’s servant. Though Cam’s cockatrice nature—savage, cold—ruled him now, his near-human heart beat heavily with fear for his lover. He’d never wanted Dylan mixed up in this. It was Cam’s fault that Dylan might die.

Searing rage tore a shout from him as he blasted his way through the remaining weasels, ripping them in half with his bare hands. His fists full of fur and guts, he staggered, wheezing. His vision hazed and his legs wouldn’t work. The dart…

“Dylan!” he cried.

“I’m here, Cam. This fucking asshole…” He bucked uselessly against the servant, who held him down. It hadn’t taken more than a second for Arum’s man to pin Dylan facedown on the ground. The brothers trained in the same martial arts as the ‘trices. But Dylan still fought, thrashing, conscious. His eyes, bright blue in his bloody face, were wide and furious. Cam held that gaze, though he crumpled to his knees. 

He turned his heavy head toward Arum, desperate. “Don’t hurt him. He knows nothing.”

“He knows
something
, Cameron.” The monk glided toward him. “He recognized us.”

“Brother Arum,” the servant said quietly. “Dylan held the beast’s gaze.”

Arum’s sharp gasp echoed in the chamber.

Cam cringed, despair a dead thing in his chest. His terrible errors would kill them both. “No…” Somehow he’d ended up lying on his side, his eyelids weighted with lead. He’d wanted so much for his last vision to be of Dylan’s face. But only darkness rushed in to fill his sight.

Watching Cam slip into unconsciousness, Dylan lay still and silent under the crushing weight of the man driving his knee into his spine. He wished he’d paid better attention during Cam’s self-defense lessons. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been thrown and immobilized like some damned rodeo calf in two seconds flat.