by Harper, Lou
Bran pulled his coat tightly around himself and shoved his hands into its pockets. "We should go."
Chapter Three
In the cab rushing them back home, Denton was still processing the events. "Did you expect her to do that?" He kept his voice low, although the cabbie paid no attention to them.
"No, of course not. I don't know what made her flip."
Denton sniffed, had a flashback of the time he and Bran ran into each other in front of their building, then sniffed again. "What was the last time you got your coat dry-cleaned?"
"What?"
"It reeks of burned sage. You're probably too used to it to notice, but the doorman at our building gets agitated when you get close. I bet it's the smell." He didn't say he meant the ghostly doorman, but he didn't have to.
"Oh. I didn't think of that." Bran leaned back and closed his eyes.
Denton took the opportunity to study him up close. Something more than just fatigue etched lines on Bran's face. Denton got the distinct impression he was seeing a man who kept his façade in place by force of will. Powers of observation weren't Denton's strength, so this slip of intuition came as a surprise. Driven by instinct, he reached for Bran's hand and gave it a squeeze. Bran rolled his head sideways, and a half smile softened his expression. He squeezed back.
Denton felt stickiness under his fingers. He looked closer. It was blood. "You're hurt! We should go to the emergency room."
Bran pulled his hand away, and his features hardened into the haughty mask he used to keep the world away. Denton gritted his teeth in frustration. He didn't say a word, but he thought of many. By the time the cab dropped them at the Balmoral, he'd worked himself into a seething ball of fury, ready to blow. If Bran thought Denton would simply stand by, batting his eyes like some damsel in a stupid romance novel, he had another fucking thing coming.
His opening came at their floor. Stepping out of the elevator, Bran reached into his pocket for his keys, and his coat fell open.
Denton noticed for the first time the large rip in Bran's jeans over his left thigh. "What's that?"
"Nothing." Bran bolted to his door, key in hand.
Denton wasn't about to let him go so easy. "Nothing, my ass. She cut you, didn't she?"
"It's just a scratch." Bran opened the door and stepped inside.
Denton slapped his hand on the door before Bran could shut him out, and pushed inside. "Bullshit!" He grabbed Bran by the elbow and pulled him into the living room, flipping every light switch on as they went. "Stay still. I'm going to look at this scratch, and if it's worse than you say, I'll drag you to the ER, even if I have to knock you unconscious first. I said stay still!" he snapped at Bran, who tried to pull away.
Denton dropped to his knees in front of Bran. The tattered gash in the fabric turned out to be bigger than he'd first thought. It hardly seemed possible that an ordinary girl like Jessica could do so much damage. It had to be the spirit inside her. The denim under Denton's fingers was damp with blood. The blackness of the jeans had disguised it. And, of course, Bran had done his best to hide it. Stupid idiot.
"Take your pants off," Denton commanded.
"What? No!"
Bran moved to step away, but Denton grabbed him behind both knees. He had no patience left for these games. He held on to Bran and turned his face up to give Bran the benefit of his pissed-off glare. He knew if it was physically possible, lightning would've shot from his eyes. He kept his voice even, but the words clipped together like links in a chain. "Take your fucking jeans off. I've already seen your package. No surprises there. I don't know what the hell your problem is, but get over it."
Bran stood statue-still. His eyes, wide and fixed on Denton's, were deeper and more unfathomable than night. His hands drifted to his belt, and seconds later, the jeans dropped around his ankles. Satisfied with his small victory, Denton turned his attention back to the injury, which left him dumbfounded. Amid half-dried blood, a jagged white scar stood out, but it couldn't possibly have been a fresh wound. It made no sense—there was no other cut, but the blood must've come from somewhere. He traced his fingers over the puckered skin running halfway around Bran's thigh.
As he shifted, something else caught his eye. "What the…" He moved more for a better view. And there it was: an appendage, which could only be described as a tail, because that was what it was—long and smooth, hairless except for fine fuzz. Strange as it was, it fit—the skin had the same olive tone as the rest of Bran's body, and the way the tail had grown, it seemed a natural continuation of his coccyx. Even hanging limp, the tail was sleek and elegant. It complemented the muscular globes of his buttocks.
"I stand corrected—this is a surprise," Denton murmured.
He had to touch it. He put his fingers on the thick base and slid them down the evenly thinning length of twelve or so inches, to the blunt tip. It felt warm and firm. Only then did he notice the tremors racing through Bran's body. He snatched his hand away. "Sorry, does it hurt? I didn't think…"
Bran shook his head but said nothing. He'd firmly shut his eyes in the manner of a man who was too afraid to look. He appeared outright frightened, and it confused Denton. Then a lightbulb in his head turned on at last. Having an extra body part would inhibit most men, but for someone as introverted as Bran, it had to be a curse.
Denton stood up and moved around to be face-to-face with Bran. He stepped in till they were chest-to-chest and put his arms around Bran's waist. At the moment of contact, Bran sunk into Denton's embrace, burying his face in Denton's shoulder. Denton rubbed his hand over Bran's back with a shushing motion. Bran hung on to him tightly.
"Hey." Denton patted him. "It's okay. So you have a tail. No biggie."
"No?" Bran's asked hoarsely.
"Nah. It's rather sexy, if you ask me."
A choked laugh shook Bran. He leaned back and finally met Denton's eyes. "There's something I have to tell you."
Denton pursed his lips. "You got the order of things all mixed up. We're past that part."
"Let me finish."
"Fine. Go on."
Bran took a deep breath. "I'm half demon."
Denton half disbelieved him. "Like Hell Boy?"
Bran sighed with exasperation, but it showed him starting to unwind. "Hell Boy is full demon, and a comic book character. I'm serious. My father is an honest-to-goodness demon."
Denton thought about it for a moment and came to the conclusion he wasn't bothered. "Okay."
Obviously, it wasn't the answer Bran had expected. "Okay? Is that it?"
"You're talking to a man who sees dead people. So you're the son of a demon. Poor excuse for being such a secretive, unsociable jerk, in my opinion." Okay, Denton still harbored a trace of irritation.
Bran cleared his throat. "Umm. I take full credit for being a jerk."
"I'm sure the tail didn't help. C'mon, let's get you in the shower. You're a bloody mess, and I'm not just saying it to sound British." Denton wanted to slide his hands to Bran's buttocks and give them a hearty squeeze, but he figured it might come across as insensitive under the circumstances.
***
Having pushed Bran under the spray of water, Denton stripped his own clothing and stepped in after him. Bran neither objected nor commented. His demeanor was subdued, and it worried Denton, but his instincts told him to simply be there. For the first time being together fully naked, the shower was a chaste affair. Seeing Bran in the nude got Denton excited, but then he felt like a heel for thinking about sex when Bran had his mind on other things. The guilt took over and thumped his lust.
Once they were clean and dry, towels wrapped around their waists, they tottered off to the bedroom. Bran slipped under the blanket, and Denton got ready to tuck him in as a dutiful caretaker. Bran must have had other ideas, because he grabbed Denton's wrist and pulled him into the cocoon of the blanket. Denton had no desire to resist.
Bran radiated heat like a furnace under the blanket. Denton pressed his hand on Bran's naked skin. "
You have a fever."
Bran joggled his head sideways. "My normal body temperature is two degrees higher than anybody else's."
"Well, I thought you were hot before but didn't realize you were literally," Denton joked. They hadn't had much physical closeness aside from quick sex, and on those occasions, he'd been too distracted. Heat of passion and stuff.
He wouldn't be rushed this time. Bran didn't seem to be in a hurry either, for a change. He mapped Denton's lean body with his hands. He showed distinct interest in Denton's piercings. He kept touching and tweaking the silver ring decorating Denton's left nipple, observing the corresponding shudders running through Denton with curious wonder.
"You like this?" Bran asked.
"Can't you tell?"
"Doesn't it hurt?"
In response, Denton bent his head over Bran's chest and scraped his teeth over a nipple. He followed it up with gentler caresses with his tongue and lips. Bran gasped, and his body grew taut. His chest rose and fell in a slow and heavy pace.
Denton peppered kisses across Bran's chest and down his sternum, then his abdomen next, sliding deeper under the blanket as he went. Bran had a dark pelt of hair over his pecs in the shape of a bird with outstretched wings. His stomach, on the other hand, stretched as a hair-free expanse, broken only by the narrow strip of the treasure trail, which Denton followed all the way to the hem of the towel.
He didn't untuck it right away but instead rubbed his face on the bulge of Bran's cock through the fabric. He tugged the towel loose little by little. When Bran's shaft emerged, Denton licked the shiny head. As he turned his attention to Bran's sac, he noticed the tail tucked under Bran's thigh. He coaxed it out and put a kiss on the end, then pressed and glided his tongue along the appendage as far as he could. The muffled moan coming from the direction of the head of the bed told him he was on the right track. He settled between Bran's spread legs and proceeded to give the best blowjob of his life.
Denton felt the tail under him—he was careful not to crush it—twitching in response to what he was doing. Then it curled up, slipped along Denton's chest, and the tip prodded his left nipple, the one with the ring. The touch was surprisingly deft, almost the same as a finger. When Bran climaxed, the tail tensed and relaxed as the rest of him did.
After catching his breath, Bran reversed their positions. He made an effort to draw out the experience, but Denton was too keyed up to last.
They lay in languid silence for a good while. With his head on Bran's chest, listening to the unhurried thump-thump of Bran's heart, Denton dozed off. Bran's shuffling around woke him.
"Mmm… What's it?" he asked sleepily.
"Shh, nothing. I'm just trying to get rid of the towel. Lift your hip a bit."
Denton did, and the terrycloth slipped from under him. They rearranged themselves, Bran on his back, Denton tucked in the crook of his arm.
"Go back to sleep," Bran said, but it was too late. Denton was wide awake.
Stray thoughts kept running around his head, keeping the sandman away. "What does your father look like?" he asked.
Bran took his time to answer. Sharing intimate details of his life had to be a new experience, needing consideration. "Not pretty. Grotesque by human standards. Horns, tail, scales, fur."
"How did your mom… I mean…"
"End up having sex with him?"
"Well, yeah." Denton felt himself flush. Talking about mothers and sex in the same breath felt wrong.
"Demons are tricksters and shape changers. They can appear in human form. Although there's always something to give them away. For my dad, it's the feet."
"What do you mean?"
"Cloven as a goat's."
Denton had no intent to speak ill of Denton's mother. "I guess under the right circumstances, unusual feet can go unnoticed."
He'd meant to sound conciliatory, but Bran snorted. "Between the two of us, I'm convinced my father was the one tricked. You don't know my mother. She gives a new meaning to the word devious, and my dad's not the worldliest demon in the pack. He's more of a scholar."
Denton took a good minute to wrap his head around this information, especially the scholar-demon part, but something else piqued his curiosity more.
"No offense, but why would your mom want to seduce a demon?"
Bran heaved a sigh. "Because mothers want the best for their offspring. Mine's simply crazier than most. She speculated that combining her witch genes with a demon's would produce an exceptionally talented child. Instead, all I inherited from him was a tail and quick healing. At least the latter is useful."
"She sounds…interesting." More like nutty, Denton thought, but he didn't want to judge.
"Despite her strange ways, she's been a typical mother. Protective, meddling, and loving. She homeschooled me till I was twelve. By then I knew how to hide my tail from everyone."
"So, basically you've been hiding your tail from everyone all this time? Didn't you ever have the urge to share it with someone you were close to?"
Bran's face drained of expression. "I did once, when I was young, but it didn't turn out well at all. I haven't let myself get close enough to anyone to want to since."
"And now?"
Bran took in a shuddering breath and turned to his side, winding his limbs around Denton. "Tell me it's not a mistake," he whispered into Denton's skin.
"It's not." Denton burrowed himself into Bran's embrace and fell asleep.
Chapter Four
Denton woke tangled up in sheets and lying across the bed all by himself. Well, not entirely. Murry sat next to him, Day-Glo eyes fixed on his face.
"Morning, kitty," Denton said and stretched his hand toward the cat.
With a hiss, Murry evaded him and hopped to the floor.
"He doesn't like being called cute names." Bran stood in the door, wearing his cranberry-red bathrobe. In his hand, he held a large cup. Bittersweet scent teased Denton's nostrils.
"Is that coffee? More importantly, is it for me?"
"Yes and yes." Bran walked up and handed over the cup. "It's the way you like it: sickly sweet."
"You're a sexy man." Denton took a grateful swallow of his coffee. It was just sweet enough.
Bran turned, but Denton grabbed the edge of the bathrobe with his free hand and pulled Bran back. "How're you feeling?"
Looking down, Bran tilted his head and smiled—a real, visible, recognizable-by-anyone smile. "Good. You?"
"More than. Come back to bed." Denton blindly reached back toward the night table till he heard the cup safely clop down onto it. Then he used both hands to haul Bran closer. Bran gave in and dropped onto the edge of the bed. He pulled Denton in for a kiss. He tasted like toothpaste—sexy, minty toothpaste. Denton tugged at the rope holding the robe closed.
"You're worse than an incubus," Bran said, but he pushed Denton back on the bed and slipped his hand under the covers.
Loud buzzing from the direction of the left pocket of Bran's robe interrupted them. Bran pulled the phone out and squinted at the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this. It's David from the Historical Society." He sat up straight. "David? … You did? That was fast. … It is?" With visible excitement, but not the sexual kind, he stood and dashed out of the room.
Denton knew when he was beat. He rolled off the bed and, taking his coffee with him, headed off in the direction of the bathroom. When he returned twenty minutes or so later, clean and caffeinated, he found the bedroom empty. The cranberry-red bathrobe lay across the bed. Denton didn't want to put on his dirty clothes from the day before, so he took the robe. It smelled of Bran. He found the man in question in his study—a repurposed second bedroom.
He'd only had glimpses of this inner sanctum of Bran's, so he took in the view from the doorway. Overflowing bookshelves took up one corner, a desk with computer, scanner, and printer another. Two big cork boards covered the available wall space. They were covered in several layers of paper—pictures of plants, photocopies of printed articles, handwritten notes, a
calendar, and more. And of course, potted plants crowded the windowsills.
Bran sat in the middle of it, tapping away at the keyboard. He seemed at home in the middle of this creative chaos. He heard Denton stepping in, and he turned around.
"You found out something, I can tell. Out with it," Denton said.
Bran made an unsuccessful effort to hide his self-satisfaction. "Okay. Here it is: there's no tilde on Ouija boards."
"Who's Tilde?"
"Not who. What. The accent over the letter 'n' in some Spanish words."
"O-kay. I believe you. So?"
"There's no Nina. The spirit spelled niña—child in Spanish."
Denton liked Bran this way—enthusiastic and relaxed. "Have I told you how handsome you are when you're smug?"
"Be serious."
"I am. Okay, go on. Prove to me why the board spelled niña. I know you want to."
"Right. I asked David to see if the Historical Society had anything on any of the previous occupants of the apartment. It turns out I could've Googled it." Bran triumphantly pulled a sheet of paper out of the printer and handed it to Denton.
It was a newspaper article from three years earlier. Denton quickly scanned it. The mummified body of a newborn had been found in an old trunk in the basement of the apartment building. The building manager, cleaning out a long-unused storage space, came upon the trunk and pried it open. He found old magazines, photographs, and letters addressed to one Esther Bernal. He also came across a green bowl and the skeletal remains of a newborn wrapped in a scarf and newspaper dated 1942. The manager immediately notified the police, who took the body and some of the documents but left the bowl.
