The dog ran at him, tongue hanging stupidly out as he lapped it over Marc’s cheeks over and over, like it was trying to wake him up. Its wet, sandpapery texture tickled. On any other night, he could have laughed.
“Hey, cut it out,” he whispered, taking the dog in his arms.
Instantly, it fell deathly still. He stared into its now glassy eyes, like he could somehow catch the last strains of life before they drained out. It didn’t seem real. He wasn’t feeling anything. No sadness, just fascination. This wasn’t his dog. He’d never owned a dog. That much he knew for sure.
The thing couldn’t have just up and died, even if it had gone stiff as concrete in his arms. Sure enough, its head slowly rose, lopsided on its lifeless body. Again, its snout parted into a canine grin as it looked up at him.
“All is well, little cocksucker. You don’t have to remember me.”
Marc cried out as the animal snapped at him, dropping it onto the ground as its frozen limbs cricked back to life. One paw, then another, each inch of movement seeming a little less difficult and more fluid than the last. The beast’s claws clicked along the concrete as it dragged itself forward, faster and faster, building momentum as it covered more ground.
“Marc!” Ash’s voice. “Get back here, bitch! We ain’t done!”
The dog shot off into the darkness.
Marc didn’t even think. He took off after it, desperate to keep up. It may not have been his, but it had talked. It had spoken to him, goddamn it. And if he’d imagined it all, if all this shit had been cooked up inside his head, he wanted to know why. Even if the mutt wasn’t his, something about it seemed familiar, like dozens of memories locked away just over his mind’s horizon. Mom’s face. Dad’s. The town he grew up in. He’d felt them all as he’d clung to the creature. Just out of reach.
“Marc!”
He ignored Ash’s rage, too focused on the dog to break his stride. It had squeezed through a hole in a rusty chain link gate. Marc eyed it, imagining the harsh, rusty wire scratching his skin. He was sure he could climb it, but it looked... Fuck it! He had bigger worries than goddamn tetanus.
The wire felt cold in the humid air as he climbed. One, two... over... ouch!
He dropped to the other side of the gate and steadied himself, staring at the blood seeping from the tear in his hand. He gently sucked on it.
Bark! Bark! Bark!
Marc started coughing. Great. Like the dog wasn’t getting enough of Ash’s attention. He ducked into a narrow street wedged behind the back of two rows of shotgun houses. A darkened warehouse loomed behind them. The rusty fence, the well-lit door with its bags of trash on either side of broken brick steps. The darkened door on the other side of the lane. He had no idea where the fuck he was. Through the cold sting of the rain, he could smell piss and blood. The scents of death.
The dog trotted off into the darkness until Marc could no longer distinguish between it and the building. He could only just make out a set of eyes, kind and dark, yet reddened by tears. As his vision adjusted, Marc began to make out the edges of a bum wrapped in soiled, dark clothing. Some part of him wished just a few of those tears were for him. He didn’t know why. Hell, others deserved them more. Like the Dutch guy.
“You remember now, little boy?” the voice rumbled in the dark. “Your blood. His blood. Your soul. His soul. Can you smell it? The stain of his sin.”
Marc froze as he heard the rattling of the gate, followed by the rubber thud of Ash’s boots hitting the pavement. Marc swallowed as he heard the flick of Ash’s knife. This was a place of death, all right. Maybe even his own.
Ash stared at him, eyes blazing. Still, past the anger and outrage, Marc saw something else in those eyes. Respect. Not the kind that was earned or deserved, but the kind spawned of raw shock. Ash had been running hard and his breath was heavy. The lights of the surrounding buildings shone behind his blond hair like a grotesque halo.
“What the hell is wrong with you, bitch?” Ash screamed. “What are you trying to do?”
Marc choked, staring down at the blade of Ash’s knife. “I...I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
“You accidentally bit my—”
“I freaked out, man. We just left that guy. He’s probably dead.”
“So?”
“So? I have a big fuckin’ problem with that. You kick a dude’s brains out then want me to suck your cock? What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Marc glanced back at the doorway, back at the vagrant. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but the darkness now seemed empty. No bum. No dog. No sound they might have made.
Ash pinched the bridge of his nose, still waving the knife in his other hand.
“Ash?” Marc’s voice was more timid than he would have liked. “Are you... Shit. Shit, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re fucked up. You are fucked up!” It would have explained a lot. Ash didn’t answer. He sniffed and opened his eyes, looking like he was trying to focus. “Ash?”
“Yeah!” he snarled. “Maybe, a bit. I needed something. I’m in fucking pain here, bitch.”
Great. That was all he needed. Ash junked out of his mind with a bleeding cock, on the run from a man they’d murdered. Fucking great.
“I’m sorry,” Marc said quietly.
Ash’s stare was blank. “You’re right,” he said, finally snapping closed the knife and putting it back in his pocket. “You’re right now, and you were right back there. That Dutch dude? That was not worthy. Shouldn’t have done that. Not worthy at all. But you’re worthy, aren’t you, Marky? Most worthy guy I know. That’s why I need you. Why I listen to you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? And since when have you ever listened to me?” Marc looked around once more at the grimy walls and the pothole off to his right. At the darkened, empty doorway. Where had the old guy gone?
“Did you have to bite my fucking dick?” Ash snarled.
“Did you have to make me suck you off? Right there? After you, what? Kicked a guy to death?”
Marc jumped, certain he was about to cop another fist in his face as Ash rounded on him. Instead, Ash gave him a nasty laugh, tightened by whatever junk had him soaring. Maybe he’d been high all night. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Maybe that’s what had made him so crazy, so stupid and horny.
“You want to kiss it better?” Ash taunted, thrusting out his crotch in a graceless movement.
“Fuck, no!”
Ash staggered toward him, thumbs hooked into the lip of his jeans. “Come on, Marky. I said I was sorry.”
“No, actually you didn’t.”
Ash frowned at him for a moment. “You’re right. Right again, Marky. Good for you.”
Marc wanted to turn and run as Ash launched at him like a corpse walking. But his limbs refused to move. He chanced another look back at the doorway. The next thing he felt was Ash’s hands around his shoulders, the guy’s weight almost knocking him over.
Marc closed his eyes. Even now, having Ash’s hands on him set his pulse racing. He hated it, just as he hated the strong, beautiful veins that raised a road map of well-worked muscle on Ash’s arms. He hated knowing that under that flimsy, white tank was a body that set his cock twitching every time it drew near. And more than anything, he hated how sexy and goddamned sincere Ash’s smile seemed in shadows that obscured any drugged-out imperfections from view. He quivered in Ash’s grip, his stomach stirring. He hated the feeling of his dick twitching inside his jock. He only wished he could transfer that hate to Ash, whose lips now brushed his with easy tenderness. Whose eyes seemed so set on breaking his resolve, and whose forehead now rested gently against his own. Whose hands had slipped into the back side of his jeans.
Marc couldn’t stand any more. He sighed as Ash took his hands out just long enough to pull the tank top up over his head and hold Marc tight against his shirtless body.
This time, Marc’s gasp was so loud, he thought he’d cry out. If Ash was still in pain, he didn’t show it, particularly not as he
lifted Marc’s shirt, hooked his fingers into Marc’s jeans again and brushed a finger over Marc’s cock.
“This is what you want from me, isn’t it Marky? This is why you stay.”
There was no love in Ash’s smile, but it didn’t matter. There was desire. Maybe not for Marc. More likely, it was for the power Ash held over him, but Marc didn’t care. He didn’t care about who Ash was or what they’d done together. All that had scared him had given way to how Ash looked, smelt, and felt against his skin. It felt surreal, like Ash could genuinely be his. His own beautiful monster and murderer.
“No,” Marc murmured.
“Shhhh...” Ash hushed against his lips. “I’m sorry, Marc. For real, I am.”
Marc swallowed, unable to ignore how good those hands felt, stroking his nipples, tracing their line up to his underarms, over his collarbone and up the side of his neck, wrapping around it.
“Ash...? Ash!”
“Don’t pretend like I’m not fond of you, Marky,” Ash hissed as his grip tightened around Marc’s throat. “I’m gonna make this a lot quicker than the last faggot I wasted. Close your eyes again and you’ll barely feel it. Or scream, if you’re that kind of pussy. Cool thing about this neighborhood, Marc? You can scream all you want. Nobody’s coming.”
Marc’s brain was too starved of oxygen to be sure. He batted clumsily at Ash’s body as Ash squeezed his windpipe, but it was too late. He hadn’t even noticed Ash choke the strength from him. He’d been too focused on Ash’s eyes, his lying smile, his hard body. All the tricks the bastard used on the johns, and Marc had fallen hard for them. He hated the erection that was too stupid and reflexive to realize the guy who’d given it life was killing him. He hated how his lust had blinded him. He hated that he was a fag.
Bark! Bark! Bark!
They’d been so close at first. Hell, they’d even turned a few tricks together. Put on a few two-man shows for the pervs who liked to watch. Ash had known these encounters had turned Marc on for real. Had it repulsed him all along? Had he been waiting for this moment? Had the thought entered his diseased brain that first time he’d pushed Marc away from the blowjob that had aroused him moments before? Had Marc just chosen to ignore that warning? And every warning since?
“I’m sorry, Marky.” Nastiness filled Ash’s every word. “Sorry I trusted you. Sorry I liked you. You’ve got nothing to offer me, faggot. Me or anyone else.”
As the strength left his arms, Marc realized Ash hadn’t heard the dog’s barking. He hadn’t reacted to it at all.
“Please Ash?” Marc choked. “Don’t—”
“You’re turning a pretty color there, Marky.”
The stain of his sin. You remember?
What sin? What sin? What—
Ash released Marc with a start as a loud cry erupted from the darkness, followed by the crash and tinkling of a broken bottle.
“Oh lord!” wailed the drunk bum, staggering out into the light, waving the broken bottle neck in his stubby brown fist. “Let him be restored anewwww.”
Marc clutched his bruised neck as his breath returned, the burning in his throat dulling to a faint ache. He lifted his head as he heard Ash cry out with a start.
“Hey watch it, nigger!” Ash barked, ducking the clumsy swoop of the man’s bottle.
“Restored anewwww,” the bum wailed again, lurching toward Ash before backing away with a broad smile, which seemed far too full of healthy teeth for Marc’s liking. “Beg pardon, boys. Help an old man ou—”
Ash cut the bum’s words short, shoving him hard in Marc’s direction with a snarl.
Marc staggered, pulling himself narrowly out of the broken bottle’s path. The bum rounded on them again, brandishing the bottle. He couldn’t deal with this. Ash, he could handle. But this old guy getting up in their faces?
“Hey, last warning,” said Ash, now standing at Marc’s side. “Fuck off, man.”
“You heard him,” Marc agreed. He meant it, for the old guy’s sake as much as his own.
“Awww. Hell, boys! Just a couple-a doll—”
“He said fuck off!” Marc shot his hand out, landing hard against the bum’s grime-crusted jacket and sending him staggering back into the darkness. The man half spun on his heel and fell on his face with a sickening crunch. Marc couldn’t see the bottle neck anywhere.
The two of them watched, mesmerized as thin trails of black smoke spread from beneath the man’s body, covering the ground. It spread into a thick blanket, covering their ankles with a cold chill. Not just the damp cold of fog, but a bitter, biting cold. It hooked into Marc’s skin like frozen fingers and wouldn’t yield. The smoke spread into every dark nook and doorway.
“What’d you do?” Ash muttered. “What did you do, freak?”
“Nothing!”
It was a lie. He’d killed a man in anger, fueled by his own rage. This time, he couldn’t hide behind Ash’s killing blow. Maybe he was a freak. Maybe Ash had a right to fear him. Maybe the two of them belonged together. Fucked up. Dangerous. Dead men walking.
No! An accident. The guy had been drunk. A horrible accident. That was all. Who the fuck was going to miss some bum anyway?
Smoke billowed from the doorway in which he’d first seen the man, breaking over their legs like shallow waves. A shape rose from it, sending wafts of smoke from the doorway as it rolled into its lumpen form, a crumpled, fetal shape with its arms curled up over its head. It trembled as Marc stepped closer, the icy smoke parting for him as it broke over his feet. Something about the size and trembling form of the shape seemed all too familiar. It was crying. The broken, twisted thing was whimpering. A man was inside that smoke.
“What is it?” Ash asked, fear bleeding through his cold tone.
Marc swallowed as he reached a hand into the freezing black mist, connecting with something smooth and cool. Something alive. Through the smoke, he finally made out the man’s features. A young man, his nose long and dark. Below it, full, quivering lips. Sweat covered the rich, brown skin of the forehead, and the eyes were the color of thick, strong coffee. The image was as lovely a man as Marc had ever seen. And as it reached out, taking gentle hold of his fingers, he realized he’d seen it, many, many times before.
“Marc?” Ash called, all trace of a threat now gone as he barely whispered the name.
“Marc? Marc...” the image echoed.
Marc shuddered with a violence that scared him. He knew the strange man’s touch. The way he’d touched his hand that first time in the bar. The way the man had stroked the back of his neck, too nervous to kiss him goodnight outside his parents’ home. They’d more than made up for it on their next date, wrapping around each other and making out for hours at the Pub. He remembered the way the hand had held him so gently while they lazed under the brutal August sun in City Park, when they’d been too hot to move. That hand that had drunkenly groped his ass and teased his cock in the darkness, while a bunch of guys squinted to see the action. The last night he’d seen this stranger, whose body had been found four days later, crumpled, beaten and broken.
Shreveport.
“Marc? What is it? Shit, what’s...?” Ash’s words fell away as he saw the familiar face. And the strange apparition saw him, its face stretching and contorting as it pointed to Ash in a silent scream.
“No!” Marc howled as the thing’s dark jaw tore away, its face crumbling into nothing, its beautiful skin stretched and shriveled into black, crinkling ash. Marc turned away, only to see the grinning face of Ghede Nibo, the loa fairy. The psychopomp and keeper of the dead who had aided him, fueling his courage and anger.
Now, he remembered it all. Love for love. Blood for blood.
He ripped the knife from his pocket and in one swift movement, thrust it deep up into Ash’s gut. Again, and again he pushed it between Ash’s ribs, ignoring the terror that filled those blue eyes. The eyes of the monster who’d stolen Antoine from him. Who’d stalked and destroyed his lover like a predator, high on drugs and hatred. The one he’d fin
ally found but not recognized. The one whose trust he’d slowly earned.
His prey, whose blood now dripped from his knife and hand.
The loa had kept its word, protecting his memory and soul. Taken from him the man he was, just to be absolutely sure Ash wouldn’t see through his lie. And Ash hadn’t. Even when the spirit had denied him all memory of Antoine, all memory of Ash’s crime. The spirit had seen his plan through to the last exquisite detail.
Still soaked with Ash’s blood, he fell to his knees. Exhausted. Vindicated.
He watched Ash’s dark, crumpled form try to roll over, ignoring its faint groans and whimpers as a narrow river of blood seeped from the bastard’s body. It seemed like so little. How many times had he stabbed him? Five? Seven? The pallid color of a white forearm emerged from the darkness, slick with blood. With one loud groan, a pale face stained with tears, blood, and grime followed. He forced himself up onto his side, fixing his steely blue gaze on Marc and refusing to budge.
“M…Marc,” the man mewled, his voice almost silent, buried under the rain. “Marky?”
For a moment, they could only sit, staring at each other. He could feel the knife bouncing in his twitching fingers, warm with Ash’s blood.
“Marc?”
Marc bellowed as rage propelled him atop his prey again, straddling the bleeding, mutilated body, forcing it back down onto the ground as he brought the knife down over and over. Each thrust plunged deeper into the man’s neck. He cupped his hand over the bastard’s mouth to muffle his screams, which diminished until the monster could barely manage a gurgling whine. He grimaced as he severed an artery, sending a spray of blood across his own face. It didn’t matter. There would be no healing. No surprises. No redemption or second chances for the bastard murderer.
When he could no longer feel the man’s breath under his fingers, he ripped the blade across what remained of the throat for good measure. But the neck was now so ragged, his blade snagged on a bone that almost yanked it out of his hand. The bastard’s blue eyes stared up at him. Wide, open, imploring his mercy. He’d seen those beautiful eyes before. With every apology for every slight. The mask. The act. The eyes that had seduced him.
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