The first day of October dawned crisp and brilliant in Auburn, as though the rain the night before had washed the landscape clean. Many of the townspeople had been woken by the storm, but most had simply turned over on their pillows and returned to sleep, soothed by the patter of raindrops on their roofs and windows. Although the temperature would climb by noon, early risers saw their breath as they retrieved newspapers from front porches or locked their houses before making their way to their cars. The warm days and cold nights of September’s final week had set off a dazzling pyrotechnic display of vivid autumn colours in the leaves of the trees lining the streets, and the escarpment hills surrounding the town burned with cold fire in deep hues of yellow, orange, and red.
Mikey woke from his nightmares to bright sunlight stealing between the curtains of his room. His first thought was of the dead cat, and he felt his chest contract with grief and terrible guilt. He looked down at his bandaged hand. The bleeding must have stopped during the night because the bandage had dried to the colour of clay. He flexed his fingers gingerly but felt only mild discomfort. He unwound the bandage carefully. When he reached the final level of the binding, he tugged gently where the cotton was fused to the deep, ugly wound so as not to dislodge any scabbing. Feeling nothing, he tugged harder, then ripped the bandage off. He winced, anticipating a torrent of fresh, dark blood.
The bandage came away easily from the wound. The place where the knife had bitten into the soft flesh of his palm was smeared with dried blood, but instead of the ragged strip of severed flesh he’d seen the night before, there was a faded pink line of healing skin covered with a scab. He turned his hand over and looked at his fingers. The place where the cat had scratched him was unblemished and smooth in the morning light.
Feeling light-headed, Mikey slowly walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and stared at his pale, naked chest. During the night, blood had seeped from the scratches and smeared the skin in a crisscross pattern, but when he touched the place where the scratches would have been, the skin was unmarked, showing no trace of a wound. For several long minutes, Mikey stood in front of the mirror, staring stupidly at his own reflection, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. His thoughts were cloudy and torpid, as though he were still asleep. He turned away from the mirror, reached over and turned on the shower. Testing the water temperature with his hand, he pulled off his boxer shorts and stepped under the spray, letting the water run off the back of his cut hand, protecting the palm. He flexed the fingers again, feeling only the vaguest ache near the wound. He reached over and turned the hot water off. The stream of water ran cold. He forced himself to stand under the icy blast until his skin turned bluish and he began to shiver. Then Mikey turned the water off and stepped out onto the bath mat. He dried himself briskly with a towel until he felt warm again.
Mikey taped a large Band-Aid over the cut on his palm, which now seemed even less raw than it had been before the shower. His rational mind told him that the speed of this healing was impossible, but the practical convenience of having one less thing to explain to his parents overrode any disturbing questions that his mind whispered to him.
He looked down into the wastepaper basket in his bedroom, where a yard-long blood-soaked cotton bandage lay like a dead snake amid the paper and debris. Carefully he retrieved the bloody wrapping from the wastepaper basket and stuffed it into an empty manila envelope lying on his desk. He stapled the envelope shut as a final security measure, then shoved it to the bottom of the basket, covering it with paper. In the unlikely event that his mother came to empty the trash when she and his father returned from Windsor, she wouldn’t take note of it.
He dressed quickly and went into the kitchen. The answering machine light was blinking. He pressed the button and waited. There was one message: his mother telling him that she and his father would be home late tonight, and not to wait up. Mikey, who had never felt less like seeing his parents, or anyone else, sighed with relief.
He had left half a pot of cold coffee in the coffee machine on Sunday morning. Mikey poured himself half a cup and gulped it down, nearly gagging at the bitter taste. But it served its purpose. As he gathered up his books and stepped outside into the cool October morning, his head was clear and he was fully awake.
The walk to school was blissfully uneventful. The residential section of Auburn was usually full of teenagers on their way to school at that hour, but Mikey encountered no one as he hurried down Webster Avenue toward the interlocking streets that led to Auburn High School. The books in his knapsack felt sharp and heavy against his back as he hurried along with his head down.
Wroxy was waiting for him just off the school property, nervously puffing on a cigarette. When she saw him, she dropped it to the pavement and ground it out.
“Mikey, where have you been?” Wroxy’s voice was urgent. “What’s wrong with you? I’ve been calling you for days. I’ve been worried sick.”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I guess I just haven’t felt like talking to anyone. I’ve been dealing with some shit, and I didn’t want to get you involved. It’s okay now, though.”
“Involved?”she nearly shouted. “I’m your best friend! I’m already involved, wouldn’t you say? You disappear for a week, you don’t even call to tell me if you’re alive or dead, and when I go over to your house, your fucking mother tells me that you’re too sick to come to the door. And you and I both know she doesn’t like me, so don’t tell me that isn’t part of why she didn’t let me in to see for myself. What the hell is going down here?”
“Look, Wroxy, I’m really sorry about this. I really was sick, and I just didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even to you,” Mikey added, remembering the negative thoughts he’d had about her during the past week. The concern and pain in her face struck him like a blow.
“What about these rumours I’ve been hearing?” she asked.
“Rumours?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Childress. I’ve been hearing rumours that you got the shit beaten out of you a few days ago, but everyone is being very cagey about it, and no one will mention any names. Did something happen? Is that why you were ducking school? Did somebody hurt you? You fucking tell me, and right now.”
Before Mikey could answer, the nine o’clock bell rang. Scattered groups of straggling students hurried past them through the main doors. Mikey stared mutely into Wroxy’s face and was moved by what he saw there. She was paler than usual and looked as though she hadn’t slept well. There were bluish-purple smudges beneath her eyes that even thick makeup couldn’t cover. He wondered once again, as he had on so many previous occasions, whether he and Wroxy had some sort of psychic bond that would have allowed her to share some of his own pain without even knowing it.
The sheer awfulness of the night before rose up in him. In the face of Wroxy’s concern and obvious love, it threatened to drown him. His eyes blurred, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip so as not to cry.
Wroxy saw this and winced. She reached out her hand as if to touch his shoulder. Mikey flinched. “Look,” he said tentatively. “Let’s talk about this at lunch, okay? I don’t want to get into it now. It’s too complicated. All right?”
“All right.” Wroxy sighed. “I can’t make you talk to me. All I can do is ask you to remember how long we’ve been friends. You owe me that at least.”
“Yeah. I owe you that at least.”
“You know what?” Wroxy said. She looked miserable. “I’m going to bail on morning classes. If any of the teachers ask you, tell them I had a dentist appointment or something.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Around. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Mikey shook his head.
“I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate very well. You think about what I said, and we’ll talk at lunch. I’ll meet you right here.”
As Mikey entered the school, Wroxy hurried across the parking lot toward the street. She couldn’t remember a moment when she felt further from him.
Mikey was lost in guilty thoughts about Wroxy when the new boy walked through the door of his homeroom class. His first impression was that the boy—if one could even call him that, since nothing about him remotely suggested callow vulnerability, or the tentativeness of a teenage male scenting unfamiliar territory—must be an adult, perhaps a young substitute teacher.
But no, there was Mrs. Wood, his homeroom teacher, sitting at her desk leafing quizzically through a folder full of papers that had arrived from the principal’s office.
Unable not to stare, Mikey took in the square jaw, the thick, close-cropped white-blond hair. He guessed the boy’s height to be six feet, maybe taller. He wore a black leather biker jacket over a plain red t-shirt. The wallet in the back pocket of his faded Levis was attached to a length of chain clipped to a black leather belt that enclosed his narrow waist. Lowering his eyes, Mikey saw that the boy wore heavy black boots, the cracked leather polished to a high shine.
When he looked up again, the boy was walking directly toward him. Mikey’s eyes widened. In that instant, the boy met his gaze directly and smiled down at him.
“Hey,” the boy said, extending his hand. His voice was a man’s voice, not a boy’s, deep and mellifluous, with no scratchy adolescent breakage. “I’m Adrian. And you are . . . ?”
There were several heavy silver bracelets encircling his wrist. Mikey gaped at the proffered hand as though he had never been asked to shake one in his life. He looked up at Adrian’s face to see if there was any mockery there, if he had mistaken Mikey for someone else, and if there was a punchline forthcoming. Adrian met Mikey’s quizzical stare with a gaze that was full and blue and warm. Mikey saw that his eyelashes were thick and dark, darker than he would have imagined against such white-blond colouring. Adrian looked German or Swedish. Or, at least, the way Mikey imagined Germans and Swedes looked based on movies he had seen.
Adrian half-smiled, then reached down to where Mikey’s hand sat limply on his desk and grasped it gently, raising it to the shaking position. He squeezed it once, firmly. Mikey sensed enormous strength in Adrian’s grip, but strength held under control for his benefit. In that second, all thoughts of witches, black magic, dead cats, bullies, or loneliness were driven from his mind.
“I’m Mikey. My name is Mikey Childress.”
Mikey was suddenly aware that the entire classroom had gone silent. Across the aisle from where he sat, Tina Mitterhaus and Gwen Horlick were whispering to each other as they stared at him and Adrian. But instead of the derisive smirks that usually accompanied their whispers, they appeared unable to look away from Adrian. Mikey saw Gwen lick her lips.
Farther down the row Shawn Curtis seemed to be taking Adrian’s measure as well.
At first Mikey thought it might be fear he saw in Curtis’s eyes, but then he realized it was the sizing up of a potential adversary, the way boxers did in the ring before a match. In any case, whatever he saw there clearly gave him pause.
“Anybody sitting here?” Adrian said. He indicated the seat next to Mikey with a sideways glance. The seat was occupied by a thickset hockey player named Chad Smith, whom Mikey barely knew, a buddy of Dewey and Jim’s, though not one of his regular tormentors. Adrian didn’t look at Chad when he asked the question.
“Yeah, asshole,” Chad said. “I’m sitting here. Are you blind? This is my seat.”
“Not anymore it isn’t,” Adrian said softly. He turned away from Mikey and gave Chad his full attention. “Find another seat.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Adrian said, and this time there was an edge to his voice that thrilled Mikey. “I told you to move.” He leaned down and moved his face inches from Chad’s face, placing both of his forearms on the hockey player’s desk. “Was there some part of that you didn’t understand?” For an impossibly long and challenging second, the two young men stared into each other’s eyes.
Chad dropped his gaze first. He muttered something under his breath and gathered up his books, then stood up and walked to the back of the classroom where there was an empty desk next to Dewey Verbinski. Mikey dared to turn his head to follow Chad’s progress to the back of the class. He saw that both Dewey and Jim were staring in disbelief as Chad made his way between the two rows of desks. He sat down heavily next to Dewey, refusing to look left or right.
Adrian slid gracefully into the empty seat next to Mikey and winked at him. He leaned back in the chair and put both hands behind his head. When he said, “You and I are going to be great friends, I can tell,” Mikey’s world seemed to tilt and go white at the edges.
“People, I’d like to introduce Adrian Johnson,” Mrs. Wood said, looking up from the folder in front of her. “Adrian has transferred to our school from—” She paused and looked down again. “Connecticut.” She smiled brightly. “Adrian, what brings you all the way to Auburn, Ontario for your senior year?”
“My father is from here,” Adrian said with another dazzling smile at Mrs. Wood, who blushed under his direct gaze. “He sent me on ahead. He’ll be moving back here at the end of the month. Until then, I’m on my own.”
“Well, we’re very glad to have you. Auburn is a lovely town. You’ll be making friends in no time.”
“Oh, I’m already making friends, ma’am,” Adrian said with another sideways grin in Mikey’s direction.
What happened in the cafeteria at lunch was something that Mikey—even in his wildest romantic daydreams or revenge fantasies—would never have dared to conjure.
One minute Dewey Verbinski was standing in front of him and Adrian in the lunch line making a comment about ass bandits and boyfriends; in the next, Dewey had been pitched halfway across the lunchroom. He lay sprawled on the floor with his hands pressed to his face. Blood gushed through the protective interlock of his fingers, and the gurgling whine that issued from behind his hands sounded like he might be drowning in his own blood. Someone had shouted Whoa! as Dewey crashed into a grouping of empty chairs, sending nearby trays and plates smashing against the concrete floor. The sound of Adrian’s fist connecting with Dewey’s face had been sharp and clear.
Mikey gaped. Adrian didn’t even look back.
“Where do you want to sit, Mikey Childress?” Adrian’s strong voice carried through the now-silent cafeteria. He placed his hand in the middle of Mikey’s back and propelled him gently forward. “Do you have a favourite seat?”
“I usually eat outside,” Mikey said. His throat felt dry. “I don’t usually like it in here.”
“Well, we can go outside if you like. Whatever you want. I don’t think your buddy back there is going to bother you for a while, so if you want to sit in here, that would be cool, too. I think I broke his nose.” Adrian’s laugh was genial. “What an asshole. Is he usually like that?”
“No,” Mikey said darkly. “He’s usually much worse.”
Adrian looked nonplussed. “So, inside or outside?”
“Let’s go outside,” Mikey breathed.
In the noon sunlight, Adrian and Mikey sat beneath a maple tree that was already losing its leaves. A gust of wind sent a handful scattering into the air, cascading down over them as they sat on the grass.
“Can I ask you a question?” Mikey said.
“Sure.” Adrian bit into an apple. He’d taken off his leather jacket and laid it on the ground beside him. Mikey caught a whiff of the leather as the sun baked into it. Adrian’s pale arms were corded with sinew, and Mikey watched rapt as they flexed easily, even in the simple gesture of raising an apple to his lips.
“Why did you do all this for me today? I mean, you didn’t have to, you know. No one has ever hit Dewey Verbinski before, and no one has ever stuck up for me.” Mikey suddenly thought of Wroxy and felt another spasm of guilt, which vanished as he stared into Adrian’s blue yes. “You could be friends with anyone here. Why are you having lunch with me, of all people?”
Adrian shrugged. “I think you’re cool. I like you. I hate it when these people pick on you.”
“You hate it?” Mikey was puzzled. “You’ve never seen it before. This is your first day at school.”
“It makes me angry to see bullies beat up on people who can’t defend themselves. I’m a bit of a defender. “ Adrian smiled. “I’m a bit of an avenging angel, to be honest. Always have been.”
Mikey persisted. “But why me?”
“You and I are a lot alike,” Adrian said. His fingers grazed Mikey’s hand lightly. “I like you a lot. And if anyone wants to start shit with you anymore, they can take it up with me first. I’ll protect you,” he added playfully. “Don’t worry.”
“Hey,” Wroxy said. She had come up behind them but Mikey hadn’t heard her approach. He turned around. She stood with her weight shifted to one side. Idly, she tapped her foot on the ground. “What happened to you? I waited by the front door for half an hour.” She looked down at his tray and her eyes widened. “You went into the cafeteria? We were supposed to meet and talk!”
“Oh, hey, Wroxy!” Mikey said excitedly. “This is Adrian Johnson. He’s new. Adrian, this is my best friend Wroxy.”
“Hello, Wroxy, “Adrian said easily. “Any friend of Mikey’s is a friend of mine.”
“Yeah, whatever, dude. I don’t even know you. We’re not friends yet, and if you just met Mikey, you’re not his friend yet, either.”
“Wroxy, what the fuck?” Mikey was shocked. “That’s so rude. I can’t believe you said that. I’m so sorry, Adrian, she didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t apologize for me, Mikey,” she said coolly. “Okay? You and I were supposed to meet for lunch and talk about what’s been going on with you lately, and instead I find you here on the grass with a perfect stranger. No offence—what did you say your name was? Adam? It’s just that Mikey and I have a long history here, and we have some business.”
“No offence taken, Wroxy. And it’s Adrian, not Adam.” He stood up and brushed off his jacket before casually slipping it on. “Look,” he said to Mikey, “if you two have things to talk about, I’ll catch up with you later. I’m going to go have a smoke behind the maintenance shed. Take care, Mikey,” he said with a private smile. “I’ll look for you in a bit. If anyone gives you any trouble over what happened in the cafeteria, let me know, okay?”
Wroxy watched Adrian lope across the football field behind the school toward the outbuildings on the edge of the property. “You want to tell me what that was about?” In spite of herself, her eyes were drawn to Adrian’s strong, thick legs in the blue denim, the way the sunlight gleamed off his leather jacket, and the breadth of the shoulders it encased like black armour. Wroxy felt a warmth and dampness building inside her. She turned away from Mikey so he couldn’t read the unfamiliar desire in her face.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Mikey sighed. His eyes, too, were riveted on Adrian’s retreating figure. “He’s exactly my type. Did you see his body? Big, but not too big. And that leather jacket, oh my God. He told me he’s nineteen. He’s from the States—Connecticut, I think, or Colorado. One of those places that starts with a C. Can you believe it? He moved from the States to come here! What are the odds? American guys are so hot. He just moved here last week. His dad’s away on business, but I guess he’s from here and they’re moving back or something.” Mikey’s eyes shone. “He just punched Dewey Verbinski in the nose,” he added gleefully. “I think he broke it!”
“He did what?”
“Dewey came up to us and called us faggots, basically,” Mikey said. “Me and Adrian. So Adrian punched him in the face. He stuck up for me!”
Wroxy was silent for a moment, then she said, “Mikey, he probably just didn’t like Dewey calling him a faggot. It probably had nothing to do with you. Don’t go blowing this up into something it isn’t.”
Even as she said it, Wroxy felt vile. She wanted to be happy for Mikey, who seemed transported by bliss, but she realized that she was also tasting jealousy in her own right. On one hand, she had always prized her primacy in Mikey’s life, had based a substantial amount of her own identity on that sense of importance, and was sensitive about protecting it. On the other hand, the news that a tall, handsome blond knight in shining black leather had strode onto the battlefield of Auburn High School and redeemed Mikey’s honour with one knockout punch was an uncomfortable reminder than no boy—or indeed, anyone else—had ever done that for her.
“Do you think he looks Goth?” Mikey said tentatively, attempting to reestablish their connection. He’d never seen Wroxy act this way and he was vaguely hurt and baffled by her unwillingness to allow him this moment of joy. “I mean, with the leather jacket and all? Is that the way those guys look in the clubs on Queen Street?”
“Yeah, Mayberry Goth,” Wroxy sneered. “Your buddy looks a little too wholesome to be full-on Goth.” She couldn’t bring herself to add how much Adrian’s clean blondness—the opposite of the darkness she herself cultivated—combined with the sheer, sure masculinity, excited her. Adrian was clearly not a jock in the Shawn Curtis and Jim Fields mould. Everything about him—from the serene blue gaze, to the leather jacket and the chains on his wrist—exuded autonomy and fierce independence from convention. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a team player. And in spite of what she had said to Mikey, she was stunned that this nineteen-year old boy, who could not only move, but triumph, in any milieu he chose, had defended Mikey physically, and in public.
Jesus, am I jealous of Mikey? Impossible! The essential Wroxy was appalled at this absurd notion. But the seditious, jilted-girl part of her, the one she hadn’t realized she had, was far from sure. During the tenure of their friendship, neither of them had been courted by others. The notion of one of them falling in love, let alone the notion of anyone falling in love with them, wouldn’t have occurred to either Wroxy or Mikey.
“Okay, so how about that talk?” Wroxy said. “How about you tell me what’s been going on with you lately? We still have time before the bell rings. How about it?”
Mikey eyed her strangely. “You know what, Wrox? I think I’d like to be alone for a bit now. I don’t feel like talking about bad stuff, or thinking about it. I’m going to try to focus on the future and think about positive things. I don’t want to dwell on the past. It’s been too ugly.”
“Are you saying our friendship is in the past?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just that all you seem to want to do is talk to me like I’m ‘poor Mikey’ who can’t seem to get his shit together, who cries all the time. You act like I’m pathetic.”
“That’s not fair and you know it,” she said fiercely. “I’ve always been there for you.”
“I know you have, and I’ve always been there for you, too. But look what happens when a guy comes along who puts some muscle between me and that asshole Dewey Verbinski. You act like there’s something wrong with me for being happy about it. You act like the guy doesn’t think I might be worth liking on my own or sticking up for. I would have thought you’d be happy for me that I have—”
“Have what?” Wroxy shocked herself as well as Mikey with the shrillness she heard in her own voice. “Are you about to say ‘a boyfriend’? Because,” she said, sounding shrewish, even to herself, “you don’t. Look, I’m glad he stuck up for you this once, but don’t count on it happening all the time. Look at how much trouble your stupid crushes have already gotten you into.”
“A new friend,” Mikey said quietly. “I was about to say I would have thought you’d be happy for me that I have a new friend, that’s all.”
He gathered up his books and walked in the direction of the maintenance shed, leaving his lunchroom tray behind, as Adrian had done. He didn’t look back to where Wroxy was standing open-mouthed, wondering what had just happened between them.
Adrian was waiting for him after school. He was leaning up against the wall next to the front entrance, smoking a cigarette in plain sight. The fact that this was against the rules, and that Adrian didn’t seem to care about rules, excited Mikey.
“Hey,” Adrian drawled. “I thought I should maybe walk you home. Especially with what happened at lunchtime with Verbinski. Do you mind?”
Do I mind? Not in this lifetime. Aloud, Mikey said, “No, I don’t mind. That’d be great. Thanks.” He thrilled to the sound of Adrian’s voice and was immediately suffused with warmth as he stepped into his protective shadow. Mikey felt very small and vulnerable, and for the first time didn’t feel those things to be liabilities. He glanced down at Adrian’s large, capable hands. They were neither bruised nor scratched in spite of that collision with Dewey Verbinski’s face hours earlier. “It’s funny to hear you call him that, ‘Verbinski.’ Just his last name, like he was a nobody.”
“Why?” Adrian flicked the cigarette butt onto the ground. “He is a nobody.”
“People either call him ‘Dewey’ or ‘Dewey Verbinski.’ It’s almost as though he’s their god or something, not someone you’d ever call by his last name. Like, it would be disrespectful.”
Adrian laughed shortly. “He’s a weenie.” He took Mikey’s books from his arms and leaned them against his own hip, carrying them as they walked. “I think the world would be better off without him and people like him, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” Mikey said fervently. “I wish he were dead, or gone. He’s a terrible person.”
“Who’s that friend of his? The other one, with the black hair? After they sent Verbinski to the nurse’s office, he and some other guys were looking at me and whispering.” Adrian smiled. “I don’t think they liked the fact that I hit their . . . what did you call him? Their ‘god’? I think they’re going to try to mess with me. Likely more than one on one, too.”
“Oh God.” Mikey gasped. “I didn’t even think of that. I hope I don’t get you into trouble.”
“I can handle myself.” Adrian shrugged. “Don’t worry. Hey, speaking of getting into trouble, what’s the deal with that girl, Wroxy? Your friend? Hope I didn’t cause a problem there. I didn’t mean to.”
“She’ll get over it. She’s been a bit weird lately.” Mikey felt like a traitor saying the words. “We’ve been best friends forever. Some stuff happened to me last month with those guys. They hurt me a little, and she’s been worried. She’s way overprotective.”
“Those guys? The same ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do they hate you so much?” Adrian looked straight ahead. The sun was beginning to yield to shadows, and his blond-stubbled profile was outlined in late-afternoon light. His jaw was clenched, giving him an impassive look, like the photographs Mikey had seen of the marble sarcophagi of fallen paladins in the cathedrals of Europe. Mikey yearned to press closer to Adrian, to feel the stiff leather jacket through his own nylon windbreaker.
“They call me things, you know? I dunno.” Mikey felt suddenly ashamed of the words he would have to use. He couldn’t bear to say them. “They say I’m . . . well, you know. Not like a normal guy. More like a girl, you know?”
Adrian reached over and put his arm around Mikey’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Mikey felt a stirring below the waist as the beginning of a painful erection strained against the front of his jeans.
“That’s not such a bad thing, Mikey,” Adrian said. “Sometimes it’s kind of nice to be with a different kind of guy. Girls aren’t everything, trust me. Do you know what I mean?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Mikey asked. His voice cracked. “I mean, here or back in Connecticut?”
“No,” Adrian said. “Not right now. Let’s not talk about that, okay?” He reached up and caressed the outside of Mikey’s neck. The touch of Adrian’s fingers against the sensitive skin of Mikey’s throat was like an electric current of nearly unbearable pleasure. He closed his eyes, only dimly aware that they were still walking and Adrian was guiding him. He had no doubt that Adrian wouldn’t let him fall. He was also aware that he was being touched in public by another boy, in plain sight of anyone who happened to be looking out their front picture windows. For once, he didn’t care. His entire world was reduced to those fingers on his neck and the throbbing heat that flowed upwards from his groin.
Adrian leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Are your parents home? Can we go up to your room?”
Mikey shook his head in answer to the first question, then nodded in answer to the second, completely incapable of verbalizing.
Adrian seemed to understand. He moved his hand down Mikey’s back, resting just above his ass. He propelled him gently forward.
They turned onto Webster Avenue and walked halfway down the street to Mikey’s house.
“This is where I live,” Mikey said. The windows were dark. His parents weren’t home from Windsor yet. Then Mikey remembered the telephone message from his mother telling him that they weren’t due home till later tonight.
The hallway was very dark.
Adrian put his arms around Mikey’s waist and pulled him in close. He turned his head to the side and gently lowered his lips to Mikey’s, kissing him hard. Mikey felt the pressure of Adrian’s teeth beneath his chapped lips, the unfamiliar scrape of Adrian’s stubble against his soft cheek and the insistent pressure of Adrian’s mouth on his. Mikey tasted cigarette smoke and spearmint. Adrian slid his hand down the back of Mikey’s jeans. His index finger teased the uppermost part of the cleft of Mikey’s ass, then his whole hand slipped in, cupping the cheek possessively.
“My room is upstairs,” Mikey breathed. “Come up. It’s this way.”
“Leave the lights off,” Mikey whispered. “Please?”
“No,” Adrian said, switching on the bedside lamp. “I want you to see me. I want your eyes on my body.” He shrugged off the leather jacket, letting it drop to the floor. Slowly, Adrian pulled the red t-shirt over his head, exposing the flat stomach and broad, compact chest. Tufts of gold hair nestled beneath Adrian’s muscle-corded arms. A mat of the same dense, dark-blond hair bisected his pectoral muscles, trailing down in a column that vanished beneath the waistband of his jeans. The outline of Adrian’s thick, trapped penis, slanting upward, was clearly visible against the faded denim. Adrian locked eyes with Mikey. Never breaking contact, he unhooked his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down across his narrow hips. He kicked them off and stood there, unsmiling, naked and silent.
Mikey reverenced what he saw before him. Adrian’s erection, free of the confines of his jeans speared away from his body. To Mikey it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In the soft, warm light of the lamp, Adrian’s skin glowed like phosphorus.
Mikey blushed at the perfection. He looked up into Adrian’s face, searching for reassurance. Adrian’s smile was tender as he opened his arms. Mikey noticed the tattoo just above the left triceps, but in the shadows of the bedroom he couldn’t make it out.
“Take your clothes off and come here,” Adrian said. “Come to me.”
Mikey hesitated only a moment, then began to undress. When Mikey was naked, Adrian stepped forward and took him into his arms. Adrian lowered him gently onto the bed, spreading Mikey’s legs with his own knees. Adrian balanced his weight on his knees, lowering his pelvis so that his erection brushed against Mikey’s. Supine beneath Adrian’s body, he gasped at the erotic shock of the contact. His arms extended and striated, palms flat on the bed. Adrian began to kiss Mikey’s face and body. He traced his tongue down Mikey’s chest, pausing to flick his nipples with the tip of it.
Mikey’s body was alive with sensations he had never dreamed of, with pleasure both unimaginable and, he felt, nearly beyond endurance. Tentatively at first, and then with more boldness, his hands explored Adrian’s broad, scalloped back. His fingers traced the outline of Adrian’s ass, feeling the hard indentations of muscle beneath skin that was surprisingly soft. He probed farther with his fingers, exploring the thicker, longer hair lining the cleft between the cheeks of his ass. Mikey swam in abasing, submissive lust. He longed to show Adrian that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him. He guided Adrian’s hips upward, toward his head. Then he took Adrian in his mouth, wondering at the taste of heat and salty wetness. Adrian groaned in pleasure, a deep, guttural sound that came from low in his throat. As Mikey sucked, he thrilled at the power he felt. Adrian thrust his hips harder and Mikey gagged, then relaxed, the rhythm of his own ministrations matching that of Adrian’s thrusts.
Above him, Adrian gracefully rotated his body and lowered his own mouth to Mikey’s cock.
The sensation was immediate. Mikey arched his back as Adrian expertly teased along the shaft, tonguing the head. Mikey closed his eyes and felt a boiling tension that seemed to come out of nowhere and everywhere. He felt his groin clench, then suddenly, he erupted in a shattering climax. His body jerked as though he were being electrocuted, and spasm after spasm wracked his frame. Adrian’s mouth fastened on Mikey’s cock, refusing to release it. Mikey thrashed against the sheets, his fingernails raking Adrian’s back and ass as though Mikey were drowning and Adrian were the only one who could offer succor. Then slowly the thrashing subsided. Adrian released him, then rolled over on the bed, taking Mikey in his arms and holding him close to his chest as the spasms wracking his body dwindled, then ceased altogether. Adrian threw one leg possessively across both of Mikey’s.
Gently, Adrian asked, “How was that? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Mikey said. “I’m more than okay. I’m great. You?”
“I’m great, too,” Adrian whispered into Mikey’s ear. “Have you ever done that before? I mean, with a guy?”
“No, not with a guy. Not with anyone.”
“So I’m your first?” Mikey sensed rather than saw Adrian’s smile. “Cool.” He hugged Mikey tightly. “What an honour.”
“Hey,” Mikey said. “What’s that tattoo on your arm? I like it. It looks like a scarab or something, right? It’s sexy.”
Adrian propped himself up on one elbow and leaned into the aureole of the bedside lamp so Mikey could see his left triceps clearly.
“It tells a story, see?” Adrian said. “My story. It’s a broken heart with an eye at the centre, with a tear coming out of it. Above it, there’s an eternal flame.” Mikey stared at the tattoo in wonder. Adrian leaned his arm close to Mikey’s face so that Mikey could see it more clearly. “The sides of it have spikes, like legs. Five on each side, ten in total. It’s a bastardized version of the sacred heart from Catholic mythology. I based it on having my heart broken in love so many times and having cried so much. The eternal flame is for the fire that will never go out inside me, no matter how much pain the heart can take. The spiky legs,” he said, pointing, “are to keep others away from the vulnerable heart. Plus,” he added, flexing his biceps, “it makes me look mean and tough.”
“Wow. That’s incredible. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.”
“I thought you might be able to relate,” Adrian said. He caressed Mikey’s hair. “I knew you’d understand. Let’s just keep it a secret, though. Okay? I mean, all of this. Let’s just have it be you and me. That way we can do this whenever we want to. I have other stuff to show you.”
“Yes.” His joy was all-encompassing. “We should keep it between us. We won’t tell anyone,” he said, thinking of Wroxy. “It’ll be our secret.”
“I love you, Mikey.” Adrian kissed Mikey’s chest and ran his tongue along Mikey’s nipples. “I want you to love me, too. I want to be your boyfriend. You know you want one, and I want to be him.”
Mikey, too transported with joy and unprecedented completion to even think beyond the immediacy of Adrian’s words, merely sighed and nodded. Then Adrian’s ascendant mouth was on his, and he felt himself stirring to life beneath the driving weight of Adrian’s body.
Jim Fields heard the stones against his windowpane but, still half asleep, didn’t identify the sound right away. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The scattershot of pebbles came again, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, padded naked to the window and looked outside.
In the yard, standing in a circle of light from the back porch, was his best friend, Dewey Verbinski. He mimed opening a window, gesturing to Jim that he should open his own.
As always Jim obeyed, nearly by instinct.
“Hey,” Dewey called out from the front yard. He sounded distraught. “Come on down. I want to talk to you.”
Jim looked at the clock on his dresser. It was three a.m. He looked out the window. Dewey waved again. “Come on, Fields. Come down here. We have to talk.”
“Shhhhh!” Jim whispered loudly. “You’re gonna wake my fucking parents! It’s three in the morning. Are you high? What’s wrong with you?
“Jim, please.” Dewey’s voice was pleading. “It’s an emergency. I’ve done something terrible, man. I’m really freaked out and I have to talk to you. Come on, man. Be a friend. Please? Come down. I’m begging you. I need your help.”
“All right, hold on. But keep quiet. If my parents know you’re out there, I’m going to be up shit creek. Just stay there, okay? Don’t come near the house.”
Jim dressed quickly from the jumble of clothes on the floor at the foot of his bed, a sweater and a pair of nylon track pants. He hurried down the stairs in to the kitchen. He unlocked the kitchen door and stepped out into the backyard. The cold was biting. Jim wished he’d grabbed a jacket.
“What is it, Dewey?” Jim whispered. “I’m serious. Are you on drugs? You’re going to get me grounded again.”
“Oh, man, I’ve really done it this time. I think I’ve killed an actual person.”
Jim peered into Dewey’s face. Tears glinted at the corners of Dewey’s eyes, a surreal enough image to Jim, who had never seen Dewey shed a tear under any circumstances.
“Who?” Jim asked dumbly. “Who did you kill?”
“Oh, man.” Dewey was moaning now. “The Childress faggot. I couldn’t help myself. He came on to me. Can you believe it? After everything we did? I hit him so hard. I think he’s dead. He’s not moving.”
“What the fuck?” Jim was now fully awake and dreadfully aware that this was no joke. Whatever had upset Dewey was real. For the first time he entertained the possibility that Dewey had actually snapped and gone over the edge. This was nothing like their baiting of the Childress faggot, and what Jim thought of as mere teasing. “What are you telling me, Dewey? Are you fucking serious?”
“You have to come. Please, Jimbo. You need to help me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Where did you leave him? You know, the body?”
“The field,” Dewey said. He gestured toward the dark sprawl of mutilated farmland on the other side of the street upon which Jim’s subdivision had been built. “Over there—see?”
Jim peered into the night. “I don’t see anything.”
“Come on, it’s over there.”
“You killed him next to my house? Are you nuts?”
“Come on!” Dewey dashed ahead into the darkness. “We need to hurry!”
Jim scrambled after him, trying to keep up. His feet, naked inside the boots he’d shoved on, chafed against the stiff leather. Dewey was moving with an agility that Jim had never seen, nimbly skipping across the frozen earth in a way that seemed incongruous given his bulk.
This better be serious, Jim thought irritably as he tried to follow Dewey’s sprinting shape. This had better not be some kind of pathetic practical joke.
“Over here,” Dewey called out. He’d stopped running and was standing twenty-five yards in front of Jim. The night was very black, and Jim could barely make out Dewey’s shape. He turned to look at the subdivision behind him, which now seemed very far away. Then he jogged over to where Dewey was standing motionless.
“All right, where’s Childress?” Jim demanded. He looked down at the ground but saw nothing,
Dewey covered his mouth with his right hand. He giggled. “He must have left,” Dewey said. “I could have sworn he was right here.”
“Fuck, Dewey, this is bullshit! You dragged me all the way out here at three in the morning for some stupid joke? I was sleeping, man!” Jim turned his back on Dewey and began to walk back toward his house.
“Jim?” Dewey called. “Jim, turn around. There’s something I want to show you. Come here.”
Jim turned around. “What?”
Dewey cocked an index finger, beckoning him over. “Just come here, Jim. Please? It’ll only take a second. I’m sorry, dude. I need to explain why I brought you out here.”
“I think that punch you took to the nose this afternoon rattled your brains,” Jim grumbled.
Then he stopped, confused. Jim peered more closely at Dewey’s face. Something was wrong. He shook his head, trying to rid it of the last vestiges of sleep. When he’d left Dewey after school, his nose had been swollen to the size of a tennis ball, and both of his eyes had been scored with black bruises from the new kid’s punch.
But now Dewey’s face was unblemished. His nose was unbroken, and there were no bruises beneath the glittering eyes. Jim took a few stumbling steps backward and whispered, “You’re not Dewey.”
Dewey took two steps toward Jim and placed both of his hands on Jim’s shoulders. Jim felt impossibly strong fingers dig into the soft flesh of his upper arms. They pulled Jim close.
“No. I’m not,” Dewey said in a cold, dry voice that sounded nothing like Dewey’s.
Jim gasped as the thing in Dewey’s shape lowered its mouth down on his and kissed him full and hard. Jim felt it sucking at his tongue, probing. He struggled against its viselike grip, but he was implacably held. He felt a blinding sheet of pain and an explosion of hot blood flooding his mouth. He choked as a torrent of hot, salty copper ran down his throat. Jim gagged and stumbled backward.
The thing in Dewey’s shape spit Jim’s severed tongue onto the dark earth. The lower half of its face was bathed in Jim’s blood. It licked its gleaming red teeth and Jim realized it was smiling. Jim tried to scream, but nothing would come from his throat except an agonized, frog-like croak. He fell and hit his head against what felt to him like a sharp rock on the ground. Through eyes crazed with pain, Jim tried to focus as Dewey’s body shimmered and rippled, running like wax, forming and reforming into shapes that were alternately human and bestial. For a moment Jim was staring at Mikey Childress. Then he had a vivid, oddly familiar impression of blond hair and blue eyes, and the flash of something dark and oily, like a leather jacket.
And suddenly it was Dewey again. Or rather, Dewey with skin gone leathery and dark, with fur-covered hands that had become claws ending in long yellow nails.
Then Dewey was gone altogether and nothing remained but a monster from beyond Jim’s worst nightmares, a creature with shining red eyes and a maw full of meat-ripping teeth from which issued breath that was foul beyond measure. Jim tried to turn his face away from the stench, but the creature tangled its fingers in Jim’s hair, brutally forcing his head in place, forcing him to see, to hear, to smell.
“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” the creature said. It licked its lips in a horrible parody of lust. “Did you know I have a photo of you with your shirt off tacked up on the wall over my desk at home? I jack off to it all the time. Do you jack off thinking of me, too?”
Jim shook his head wildly from side to side and tried to scream again, nearly passing out from the agony that came knocking. He heard a sound like massive sails flapping in the wind as two enormous black wings unfurled, almost languorously, from the creature’s back. Jim guessed that each membrane spanned twelve feet from shoulder to tip.
It reached down, almost lovingly, and picked Jim up in its arms, cradling him like a paramour. “I’m going to fuck you to death,” it said. The creature slipped a long talon down the back of Jim’s track pants, cutting a bloody strip along his tailbone. Jim made a mewling sound and whipped his head back and forth, once again close to blacking out from the pain. Its fingernail rent the nylon fabric of Jim’s track pants as though it were made of wet tissue. It probed Jim’s anus with the razor-sharp tip, finding purchase, teasing the outer ring of his sphincter. When it impaled him, penetrating the tender skin of the rectum, pushing in deeper, shredding the flesh to tatters with two quick sawing motions, Jim finally found the voice to shriek. “And then, I’m going to eat you alive. Or maybe I’ll eat you alive first, then fuck you. We have all night to get to know each other, and we’ve waited a long, long time.”
Suddenly Jim was airborne. The sound of flapping wings was like a thunderclap in his ears. Looking down, he saw the ground fall away. He caught a glimpse of his dwindling house far below. His last conscious thought before he passed out from pain and loss of blood was that his parents would never know what had happened to him.
Dimly he wished that he’d been a better son.
Then Jim yielded to blackness as the blanket of cold stars against the night sky was momentarily shadowed by enormous wings that flapped toward the escarpment.
In the field, night scavengers had already scented Jim’s freshly spilled blood. By dawn they had eaten his tongue, leaving no trace of him for anyone to find.
Just before dawn, three disparate dreamers tossed fitfully in their sleep, each trapped by nightmares unique to them, or so they would have naturally assumed.
Dewey Verbinski, breathing with difficulty through his bandages, dreamed he was being pursued by a large bird. He heard wings flapping, but when he looked up, there was nothing hunting him. Still, he ran through an alien landscape. With the sludgy counter-logic of dreams, the harder he ran, the slower he moved. As the gigantic shadow fell across his path, he tried to look up but found himself unable to. He woke up gasping for air, looking wildly around his dark room, listening for the sound of wings.
Wroxy Miller dreamed that she and Mikey were fighting. The reason for their anger wasn’t clear, but it seemed to be about—who? A boy? Adrian? Yes, there he was, with his arm around Mikey who looked at her with scalding pity. “Things are going to be different, Wroxy,” he said sadly. “They couldn’t have stayed this way. I don’t need you. I have Adrian now. Friendships weren’t made to last. Ours sure wasn’t.”
Wroxy woke to a damp pillow. Her eyes were sore, her hair sealed to her wet face. Because she was a pragmatist at heart, she consigned the dream to her subconscious, making a mental note to address this situation with Mikey tomorrow. Wroxy believed that dreams were omens and signs, and this one was a sign that trouble was coming.
For his part, Mikey had fallen asleep without showering after Adrian had left. He’d run his fingers along his awakened body and had traced the letter A across his sticky-dried belly.
His dreams were inchoate, but sweet enough to keep him asleep until well after sunrise.
Mikey and Wroxy tried to make reparations to the fissure in their friendship the next morning, but both were withdrawn and vaguely resentful. They walked in silence, each hoping the other would see his or her presence as enough of a gesture. At any other time Mikey would have called her the night before to tell her that he and Adrian had made love, but now he intended to wait until a moment opportune enough to guarantee a warm reception from her.
The first thing they noticed as they walked to school together the next morning was the two police cars parked outside the main doors of the high school.
“This is weird,” Wroxy said. “I wonder what’s going on?”
“Two police cars, not just one. Drugs, maybe?”
“In this school?” Wroxy sounded doubtful. “Maybe steroids for those meatheads on the hockey team, but they probably get them from their coach. Come on, let’s go inside. Maybe someone in there knows.”
“I hope Adrian’s all right. I hope Dewey didn’t pull anything with him later, after Adrian beat him up.”
“Adrian didn’t ‘beat him up,’ Mikey. Adrian broke his nose. You got beaten up. Dewey got punched. And I’m sure your precious Adrian can take care of himself.”
“Are you saying that because you feel sorry for me or because you don’t like Adrian? Fact is, no one has ever punched anyone in the face for messing with me before, so if I want to call it ‘beating up,’ that should be okay with you. Right?”
“Whatever, Mikey,” Wroxy said. “He’s not the only one who has ever stuck up for you. Just remember that.”
“You sound jealous, Wrox. What’s the matter? I have a guy who likes me, and you don’t? That’s a problem for you, huh?”
Wroxy, who would rather have died than let on how badly Mikey’s words had hurt her, gave a short, curt laugh. “Oh, he ‘likes’you?” she jeered. “Mikey, get a grip. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not even gay. You’re the gay one here, no one else. As soon as Adrian gets settled into this school, he’ll be sniffing after Gwen Horlick like a dog in heat, just like every other guy here. You watch.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he will,” Mikey said viciously. “Gwen’s pretty, and she’s not fat. She wears colours other than black, and her makeup doesn’t make her look like a slut. Guys like that in a girl, you know. Or maybe you don’t know, since you don’t have a boyfriend.”
His words brought a sting of tears to her eyes. “Well, at least I’m a real girl,” she said, hating the words and hating the way she sounded as she said them. “I will have a boyfriend someday because I’m normal. I’m not going to always be some wimpy closet-case fag who cries all the time.”
“You cunt,” Mikey said helplessly. “Fuck you, Wroxy. Have a nice life.”
Mikey turned his back on Wroxy and sat down. He was trembling with hurt and rage. Glancing back, he saw Wroxy walk to the back of the homeroom class with her head down. She looked like she might be crying, but he didn’t care. He spotted Adrian waiting for him next to his seat. Adrian brightened visibly when he saw Mikey and waved him over, smiling.
“Hey, I missed you this morning,” Adrian said as Mikey sat down. “Where were you? I was hoping we could walk to school together.”
“Sorry, I had to talk to Wroxy. Probably the last time, too.”
“What happened? Nothing serious, I hope?”
Mikey shrugged. “Who needs a best friend?” he said bitterly. “Not me, that’s for sure.”
Adrian reached his hand underneath Mikey’s desk and squeezed his thigh. “You have one. You have me, remember?”
“Yeah, well . . . that’s different. You’re like . . . well, you said you love me. I love you, too,” Mikey said, feeling light-headed to be saying the words aloud. “She’s—she was—different. More like a sister.”
“You don’t need a sister.” He squeezed Mikey’s thigh harder. “Or a best friend. I want to be everything to you.”
“You already are,” Mikey murmured, meaning it.
By lunchtime the news of Jim Fields’ disappearance had traversed the school. Most noted that if it had been Dewey, there might be less cause for alarm, but Jim was, for the most part, a straight arrow. His parents were frantic. Over the course of the morning the police had called several of Jim’s friends to the office and asked them questions. No one knew anything. Yes, Jim seemed happy. No, he had never talked about running away. Yes, it did seem weird. No, he didn’t have a girlfriend that anyone knew of, though he hadn’t been short on offers or interest.
Wroxy found Mikey and Adrian sprawled on the lawn at the edge of the school property eating lunch. From a distance, Wroxy had to admit that she barely recognized him. Worse, that he looked good. In Adrian’s company, the furtive, frightened sissy was transformed into someone she hardly knew. All of which made this overture even more bitter than she could have imagined.
“Hey,” Wroxy said levelly. “I want to talk to you.”
They stopped laughing. Adrian silently examined the tie of his boot. Mikey looked at Wroxy, noting that she looked like shit. That didn’t please Mikey as much as he thought it might have, but he still stared at her coldly.
“What do you want? This had better be an apology.”
“You’re in no position to demand apologies, Mikey. Besides, if it was an apology, I’d make it in private. This isn’t private.”
“Whatever you want to say in front of me, you can say in front of Adrian.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, dude. As I said, this isn’t an apology. In the meantime, have you heard about Jim?”
“Jim?” His tone was mocking. “Jim who?”
“Jim Fields. Remember? The previous love of your life?”
“What about him?” Mikey fanned his fingers and examined his nails, an affectation he’d stolen from Gwen Horlick because he thought it looked cool when she did it, though he would have died rather than admit its provenance.
“He disappeared,” Wroxy said flatly. “He’s gone.”
Mikey shrugged. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Roxanne,” Mikey said, deliberately using the name she hated. “The guy made my life a living hell. I don’t care where he’s gone. I just hope he stays there. Better still, I hope he comes back and takes Dewey Verbinski with him.”
Adrian laughed softly at Mikey’s words.
“Something funny, Adrian?” Wroxy’s voice was cold. “Not that this has anything to do with you.”
“Actually, Wroxy, it does. Everything and everyone,” Adrian said, lingering over the word, “who bothers Mikey is my business now.”
“Oh yeah? Who died and made you his protector? You just arrived here and suddenly you’re Mikey’s white knight?”
“Well, someone had to be,” Adrian said mildly. “You weren’t doing a very good job.”
Wroxy stared at Adrian, then looked to Mikey. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that? Is that okay with you?”
“What did you call me?” Mikey drawled. “I think your exact words were ‘a wimpy closet-case fag who cries all the time.’”
Adrian scowled. “She called you that?”
“You called me a cunt,” Wroxy shot back. “We’re even.”
“You are a cunt,” Mikey said dismissively. “And I’m not crying anymore. So we’re not even. Now, get lost, cunt.” He made a shooing gesture with his hands.
“I wouldn’t stay if you paid me, faggot,” Wroxy said. “You know what? They were all right about you here. This town has your number, big time.”
“Had,” he corrected her. “Not has. I’m not the same anymore.”
“No, you’re worse.” Wroxy pulled her sunglasses out of her knapsack and put them on before she walked away. She didn’t look back this time.
“Good riddance,” Mikey said tightly. He forced the tears back before they came.
“Shall we kill her?” Adrian’s blue eyes were guileless.
Taken aback, Mikey said, “No, of course not. Wait, you’re kidding, right?” He laughed uncertainly. “Of course you’re kidding. Stupid me. Just ignore me.”
“I could never ignore you.” Adrian leaned over and kissed Mikey on the mouth before Mikey could ask him if he was crazy to kiss him in public.
As October burned in the trees, and the sky that framed Auburn hung like a stained-glass window of red, yellow, and blue, Adrian and Mikey grew inseparable.
In the mornings, Adrian would wait for Mikey at the end of Webster Avenue and walk him to school. In Adrian’s company, Mikey felt completely safe, and he began to change. He stood taller and straighter. He became more concerned with his clothes and personal grooming, not wanting to be anything but his best for Adrian. He wished he was beautiful, or handsome, but he satisfied himself that even if he wasn’t, Adrian still wanted him.
His mother was the first to notice the subtle transformation and was puzzled by it.
“You look nice today, honey,” she said at breakfast. She’d looked up, confused, as though something was out of place in her well-ordered kitchen. “You look different.”
It wasn’t until Mikey left the house that Donna realized that her son had looked her directly in the eyes, and the miasma of fear and furtiveness that always trailed after Mikey like a cape was nowhere to be seen.
After school, during the two-and-a-half-hour safety zone between the end of classes and his parents’ return from work, Mikey and Adrian made love on his narrow bed.
Adrian seemed to genuinely glory in all of Mikey’s oppositeness from him. Adrian bent his superb body to Mikey’s pleasure, kissing and touching him in places he had never dreamed of being kissed or touched. He cradled Mikey’s smaller, frailer body against his powerful one but also used him with an authority that left Mikey faint with lust, feeling not only physically desired but devoured.
He loved to watch Adrian’s nude body as he walked around Mikey’s bedroom—the way the narrow waist tapered; the muscular legs, the broad back and shoulders, the cabled arms, the tattoo, as though nakedness was his natural state and clothes merely an afterthought.
The first time Adrian fucked him, slick with spit and hand lotion, he held Mikey close during the initial pain, then for a long while afterward. The idea of feeling so physically complete, so right, had never even occurred to Mikey except in his fantasies during what felt like the endless, spiralling eons before Adrian’s arrival. A small stream of Mikey’s tears—for once, tears of joy and surrender—pooled in the hollow of Adrian’s shoulder as Mikey lay against him, caressing the find blond hair of Adrian’s dense forearms.
“My mom wants to meet you,” Mikey said one evening in the second week of October. They were sitting on a bench in Rotary Park watching the autumn leaves in descent. “I’ve mentioned you a couple of times. She’s curious about you.”
Adrian said, “I don’t really ‘do’ parents,” he said. “Parents creep me out. I can barely deal with my own father, you know what I mean?” He took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke in the air, something Mikey thought made him look tough and incredibly sexy.
“You look like James Dean when you do that,” Mikey told him.
Another time, Mikey asked him where he lived and why they never went to Adrian’s house to make love after school. “We could stay longer, you know? Since your dad isn’t there, we’d have the whole house to ourselves. I could tell my mother than I’m over at your house, studying.”
“The house isn’t finished yet, and it’s really dirty,” Adrian said. “I hate being there. I like your room. I like being around your stuff. You know what I mean?”
Mikey swooned, so deeply in love that he accepted Adrian’s explanation with no other thought than that it might be nice to buy some vanilla-scented candles at the drugstore to make his room smell even more inviting to Adrian. In the school library he’d read in Glamour magazine that men loved the scent of vanilla. Mikey had tucked away this information and more, in case it might be something he could bring to Adrian in tribute to their love.
If he was sure of anything, it was this: he had found true love. This, he realized, must be what being normal felt like.
For her part, Wroxy watched Mikey and Adrian with a mixture of envy and growing mistrust. Mikey hadn’t spoken to her since their fight. Since Adrian was always with him, getting him alone seemed impossible.
Because she missed him terribly, Wroxy had read her Tarot cards over the situation, asking the cards to tell her if she and Mikey would resolve their dispute. She was comforted by the answer: yes, they would resolve it. On the other hand, when she read her cards over Adrian, the results were puzzling.
She stared at the beautifully wrought, gilt-edged Death card in her hand, the image of a black-robed child standing in a field under a rising sun, holding a white rose in its hand. The Death card signified transition, passage, and transformation.
Wroxy reasoned that she was being shown Adrian’s effect on Mikey, and his life. To be sure, something about Adrian seemed to intimidate all the people who had previously hunted Mikey like small game. The boys left him alone. And to Wroxy’s disgust and contempt, a few of the girls, notably Gwen Horlick, had begun speaking of Mikey as though his femininity was something “fabulous” and “wild,” as though he were something from a television show instead of the same faggoty kid they’d all tormented for nearly a decade.
Wroxy had no doubt in her mind that Horlick’s ultimate aim was Adrian’s seduction—something Wroxy would have welcomed like a lottery win if she’d thought it would bring Mikey back to her.
Of the hardcore Mikey-haters, Dewey Verbinski seemed most committed to giving Mikey a wide berth. In the weeks since Jim’s disappearance—which, after a flurry of interest from the police, was almost universally being spoken of as “a runaway situation,” since there was no sign of any home invasion or forcible removal of Jim from his parents’ house—Dewey had grown furtive and skittish without Jim by his side. He’d tried to tell the police about the dreams he’d had on the night Jim had vanished, dreams he’d been having nightly since then, but they only looked at him strangely and said they weren’t investigating dreams. The police had heard rumours that the Verbinski boy was a bully, so his broken nose barely registered with them.
Stash and Yalda told Dewey that they felt sad about Jim being gone—his poor parents!—but that if he knew something about it that he wasn’t telling, that was very bad.
The swelling around Dewey’s broken nose had gone down, though the bruising remained. He assiduously avoided Adrian and Mikey. His new furtiveness was becoming conspicuous enough to elicit whispers of bewilderment from the other boys, bewilderment that soon blossomed into contempt. While this was a new and shameful state for Dewey, he bore it silently, with downcast eyes.
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Mikey said to Adrian as they watched Dewey hurry out of the locker room after gym class. Adrian, as it turned out, could play basketball better than anyone else, including Shawn Curtis. “He seems lost without Jim.”
“Remember what he did to you,” Adrian replied. “He doesn’t deserve your pity. Neither does Jim Fields.”
“Still, it’s sad to see.”
Adrian shrugged. “Embrace hate.”
Mikey stood stock-still. “What did you say?”
“What did I say? What do you think I said?”
“You said ‘embrace hate.’ I heard you. Why did you say that?”
“I didn’t,” Adrian said. “I said ‘that’s the way it goes.’”
“You did? Are you sure? That’s not what I heard.”
“Well, that’s what I said. Why? What does ‘embrace hate’ mean?”
“Just something I saw on a website once.” Mikey’s throat felt very dry. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t. I’ll meet you out by the back of the maintenance shed after school, okay? Then we’ll go back to your place and hang out. I’m feeling really good today.”
“All right,” Mikey said faintly. He suddenly felt a terrible need to speak to Wroxy. “Wait, no, Adrian. I’m sorry. I can’t this afternoon. I have to go to a doctor’s appointment after school. My mom set it up a month ago.”
“I’ll walk you there,” Adrian said. “Then home later.”
“No,” Mikey insisted. “It would look weird. I’d better go alone. I’m sorry Adrian. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You don’t want to see me today? Are you serious?”
“I can’t. I said I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“You’re lying. You’re going to see someone else.”
“I’m not lying. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You’re lying,” Adrian said again. “It’s because of what I said about Dewey Verbinski, isn’t it?” Mikey heard thwarted fury beneath Adrian’s words. “You said you hated him, remember? Why are you feeling sorry for him? Were you lying to me then, too?”
“I do hate him,” Mikey said. “I’ve never lied to you, I promise. I have to go now, okay? Please, Adrian. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”
“Do you love him like you loved Jim Fields?”
“What? I never told you I loved Jim Fields. I don’t love Jim Fields. I love you.”
“You did love him. I could tell by how you talked about him, even with what he did to you. Aren’t I enough for you?”
“I hate them both! I always have! You’re more than enough for me.”
“Remember that, then,” Adrian said. “Never forget that.”
Mikey gathered his things and hurried outside, leaving Adrian in the locker room. For his part, Mikey was more than confused. He had felt a glimmer of genuine fear for the first time in Adrian’s presence.
Did he really say what I think he said? Mikey felt the blood thundering in his temples. Could I have misheard him?
Of course not. The second voice was more rational. You heard him say the same words you found on that website. The ones you used for that spell. The one you never told anyone about, not even Wroxy. And he sounded . . . sly when he said it.
“No he didn’t,” Mikey said aloud, defiantly. “He didn’t say ‘embrace hate.’ He said ‘that’s the way it goes.’ And that is the way it goes. He would never hurt me. He would never hurt anyone.” Mikey regretted his lie about the doctor’s appointment. Adrian deserved better.
You think those words sound alike? You think you could mistake them?
“Shut up,” Mikey whispered. “Just shut up.”
He hurried back into the school. When he reached the locker room, he looked around expectantly. “Adrian! Where are you? I forgot, the appointment isn’t until next week!”
His voice echoed against the damp tiles, through the faint drifts of residual steam from the showers, but there was no answer in the empty room.
“You made your bed, Mikey, you lie in it,” Wroxy said. “You’ve got some nerve coming to me at this point. I don’t know if we’re even still friends.” She sat in a stiff-backed chair in front of her desk in the basement bedroom. Mikey had rarely seen her without makeup, and he was struck by how young she looked. “This guy comes out of nowhere and you dump me for him. You . . . change. That’s the best way I can describe it. Now you want to tell me—just now, mind you—that you think there’s something weird about the fact that he wants to be with you all the time?”
“I didn’t say it was weird. It’s not weird, it’s nice—sort of. But he said something today that kind of freaked me out.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t make any sense.” Mikey knew he was dissembling but he was still not prepared to tell Wroxy about killing the cat. And he couldn’t tell her about the website or the spell without giving her all the details. “Couldn’t you trust me, just this once?”
“I did trust you. That’s the problem. We’ve been best friends for three years. I never once betrayed you. I kept all of your secrets. You turned on me and called me a cunt, remember?”
“I’m sorry.” He was pleading. “Really, please forgive me.”
“Have you had sex with this guy?” Mikey hesitated, then nodded. Wroxy’s eyes widened. “Really? You’ve had, like, actual sex with him? He’s gay?”
“I don’t know if he’s gay. He doesn’t say he’s gay. He just says he loves me.”
“You don’t know much, do you?” Wroxy was softening, her maternal instincts taking over in place of her anger. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”
“Could you read your cards? I need to know some things. I promise things will be different. I want our friendship back, for sure. And I want this thing to work out with Adrian as well. I love him. And I love you. Differently, of course, but the same. Well,” he added, “you more.”
“I did a reading on him once,” Wroxy said, ignoring Mikey’s words about their friendship with difficulty. “It all looked okay. It looked like you and I were going to be friends again, and it looked like he was helping you change—which you have.”
“Please, read them again,” he urged her, thinking of the undertone he’d heard in Adrian’s voice in the locker room. “For me? Please?”
“All right. I’ll get the cards.” She lit some votive candles and spread her deck out on the floor in front of them. “We’ll do a drawing of three. Pick three cards.”
Mikey drew the first and held it up to Wroxy.
“The Queen of Swords? How weird.”
“What does the Queen of Swords mean?” He looked at the card, which showed a dark-haired woman weeping.
“Well, it would appear to be you,” Wroxy said. She sounded confused. “She often represents being blessed, or cursed, with insight or perception. This could refer to your coming out, or maybe to some new information you’ve received recently. Ring any bells?”
Mikey shook his head and said nothing. “It can also mean a person—usually a woman, mind you—but in your case the cards could be saying something about you being gay—in a phase of life where she temporarily becomes a sword. Sometimes it’s a death card, but not usually. Are you okay?” Mikey nodded, still not speaking. Wroxy hesitated, then gestured toward the deck. “All right, pick the next card. This will be the one that shows the major influence on your life right now.”
Mikey took a deep breath and drew the second card. He handed it to Wroxy without looking at it.
“Mikey, this can’t be right.” Wroxy went pale. “You drew the Devil.” She pointed to the engraving of a goat-headed Satan, its right hand extended, fingers uplifted. “This card signifies great malice. It doesn’t necessarily mean the literal Devil, but it’s a seriously nasty card. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Are you sure you want to draw the third card? That’ll be the one that reveals the outcome of whatever it is you’re going through. Maybe we should talk about what’s happening with you before we go this route.”
“No,” he said fretfully. “I want to know.” Mikey reached down and drew the third card. This time he turned it over and looked at it himself. The engraving was of a full red moon hanging suspended over a range of dark purple mountain peaks. He showed it to Wroxy. “What does this mean?”
“The moon card represents a yearning for fulfillment or enlightenment. It’s been said to represent working through ‘the dark night of the soul’ as a way of reaching something better in the morning. It’s not a bad card to draw, all told. Also, interesting since there’s a lunar eclipse two nights from now, on Halloween. Remember? You and I were planning to get out and watch it.”
“Does it mean anything else?”
It wasn’t lost on Wroxy that Mikey had ignored the fact that she’d just reminded him that they’d planned to watch the Halloween lunar eclipse together.
“Well, Mikey, it also means false friends, betrayal and deception.” She looked at him accusingly. “Were you asking any questions about you and me when you pulled that card? Were you thinking of us and our fight?”
“No,” he said, thinking of Adrian. “I wasn’t. My mind was clear, just like you taught me to keep it when we read. What do you think it all means?”
“I think it means you’ve got to watch yourself, I think it means, in a nutshell, that you’ve come by some information that you aren’t sharing with me, and that there’s something nasty at work in your life that you’ve let guide you. And I think it means that you’re going to get your answers very soon, whether you want them or not.”
“Am I going to be all right?”
“I hope so, dude.” Wroxy took his hand in hers. “And I don’t want to put down your precious Adrian, but as far as I can tell, he’s the only new thing in your life, so just watch yourself. Okay?” She reached out and brushed a shock of hair off his forehead, something she’d done a hundred times before. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t,” he said, thinking of the way the rain had sluiced through the dead cat’s dashed brains in the light of the sputtering fire that night in the forest. “Not now. Soon, I promise. Just not yet.”
“Mikey, I have to ask.” Wroxy faltered, then spoke again. “Did you do something to Jim?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did Adrian?
He opened his mouth to speak, then pressed his lips together. Then he said, “No, he didn’t. Adrian would never hurt anyone.”
The two officers believed they were responding to a routine domestic disturbance report on Dagenais Street when they pulled the squad car into the driveway of the prim split-level. The younger of the two, Jimmy Moretti, was the detachment rookie. He hated the idea of violence against women and the thought of locking up a wife beater got his testosterone flowing. His partner, Aaron Prothro, was the more seasoned of the two, and therefore less likely to bust in like a pent-up superhero.
Inside, the two cops couldn’t make any sense of what the terrified, hysterical woman—who was neither bruised nor cut, ruling her out as the victim, much to Moretti’s mixed relief and disappointment—was trying to tell them. The more they urged her to calm herself, the more hysterical she became, crossing herself repeatedly. The torrent of mingled English and Polish alternated with more of the screams that had alerted the neighbours in the first place.
From what they had been able to gather, the lady, Mrs. Verbinski, had been watching television in the living room. She’d heard a terrible crash, and then she’d heard her son begin to scream. She’d run upstairs as fast as she could. The room had been dark, she’d said, except for the lamp that had been knocked to the floor. By its light, she’d seen something—apparently her son, Karol, struggling with someone. Her exact meaning had been unclear, but in the middle of the keening and weeping they’d caught the word “wings,” though it had come out as “vinks.”
Eventually the two officers had to call for an EMS detachment. A sedated Mrs. Verbinski was taken to Milton District Hospital for observation. They hadn’t yet been able to contact her husband, Stanislaus, who was making an out-of-town pickup for his manager at the warehouse where he worked.
As they waited for backup, the two officers stood in what they gathered was the boy’s bedroom surrounded by broken glass, and twisted metal that looked as though it had once been a window frame. The power had gone out and the only light in the room came from their flashlights and the moonlight through the window.
Moretti said, “Before she went out, she said she didn’t see who he was fighting with.”
“You speak Polish?” Prothro snorted. “Who knew you’d actually serve some purpose?”
“She said that part in English. But yeah, I speak some Polish. My mother’s family is Polish.”
“Did she say anything you could understand?”
“Sounded to me like she was calling out to her kid, or calling to someone to bring him back to her. I heard Karolka—Karol, the kid’s real name, and blagam, which I think means ‘please.’ Jezusa means ‘Jesus,’ obviously.”
“She thought that Jesus took her kid?”
“No. She was calling out in Jesus’ name.”
“I remember this kid from the Fields investigation,” Prothro said. “He’s a big kid, tough. Rumoured to be a nasty piece of work. I don’t see him losing a fight to anyone.”
“What about all this glass? Maybe he jumped out the window to get away?” He looked out the window and frowned. He’d break a leg. It’s too high up.”
“Not only that. Look at where the glass is.”
Moretti looked down at his feet. “All over the floor. So?”
“Exactly. On the floor. So whoever broke the glass came through the window, not out of it.”
Moretti laughed nervously. “So what are you saying? Something came flying through the window and carried the kid off? You mean, like a vampire or something? Two nights before Halloween? Weird fucking town.” He started to hum the Twilight Zone theme song but stopped when he saw the expression on his partner’s face. “Aaron?”
“Go look outside and see if there’s any glass on the ground outside.”
“Come on,” Moretti said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just go and look, rookie,” Prothro snapped. “Make yourself useful, and don’t touch anything.”
“Oh Christ,” Moretti said, bending down and picking something off the floor near the bed. “Hand me a tissue, would you? Oh fuck, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“What is it?” Prothro looked down at the floor, trying to see.
Mutely his partner held up two severed fingers, still attached to part of a hand joint. The blood was still wet. They didn’t look neatly severed or even torn. They looked as though an animal had bitten them off. Prothro shone his flashlight on the bloodstained carpet. The fibers gleamed wetly in his light.
“Why didn’t we notice this before?”
“Too dark in here,” Moretti said. “No light.”
With the flashlight, Prothro followed the trail of blood across the floor to the window, where it stopped. He walked over to the window and played the light across the empty yard, looking for glass but finding none. In the sky above, the moon was nearly full.
“Jesus,” Prothro said.
“What?”
“Get those fingers in the refrigerator!” Prothro barked. “If we find the kid, they can still attach them, but only if they’re put on ice right away! Where the fuck is the backup I called for?”
Moretti began taking the stairs by twos. He stopped, then turned back. “She said something else,” he said haltingly.
“What did she say?”
“She said Diabel zabrat moje dzisciatko.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Prothro barely glanced at his partner. This was going to be some shitstorm.
Moretti’s face was ashen in the reflected moonlight from the open window. “It means, ‘the Devil took my baby.’”
Mikey, wake up. Wake up. Mikeeeee.
He opened his eyes. The bedroom was dark, but he felt someone sitting astride him. The shape—clearly male—blocked the moonlight that came through the window. Mikey reached up and touched its arms. He smiled in the darkness, feeling warm, familiar flesh and sinew.
“Adrian,” he whispered. “Am I still dreaming?”
“No, Mikey, you’re awake. Can you feel my body?”
“Yes.” He sighed. “What are you doing here? How did you get into the house? My parents—”
“Shhhhh. Your parents don’t know I’m here. It doesn’t matter how I got here. I’m here for you now. Turn the light on. I want to show you something.”
Mikey reached over and switched on the light. The window was wide open. The curtains blew in the night breeze. The room was freezing.
Adrian was naked, covered with dirt and what Mikey first took to be dark smears of mud that crisscrossed his body like a child’s finger-paint. Streaks of the same mud daubed the lower half of his face. He sat upright and leaned back against the headboard. The streaks were red, not brown.
Mikey drew a sharp intake of breath. “Jesus Christ, Adrian! What happened to you? Were you in an accident?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. But I brought you a present. Here—close your eyes and open your hands.”
Mutely, Mikey obeyed. He felt something he didn’t recognize being placed in his palm, something cold and soft, like a smooth, cylindrical sponge or a sausage.
“Open your eyes,” Adrian said. Mikey heard suppressed mirth in his voice. He opened his eyes and looked into his palm. It was an uncircumcised penis, the puckered foreskin grey and bloodless. The penis was tattered at the root.
Mikey recognized it immediately. He’d seen it in the shower room enough times. And he’d never forgotten the humiliation the time its owner had waved it in his face and asked him if he wanted to suck it.
“Jesus Christ.” Mikey doubled over. A wave of hot vomit sprayed from his mouth, soaking the sheets and splattering Adrian’s naked hips. The stench of it hit him almost immediately, and he disgorged a second time. Adrian didn’t move.
“You said you hated him. So I hated him, too. Now he’s gone. He’ll never bother us again.”
“You killed him? Adrian, oh my God. You killed Dewey?”
“I love you.”
His eyes are red, Mikey thought dully. Not blue. Why did I think they were blue? How could I have missed something as basic as the colour of his eyes?
“I’ve always loved you, and I always will. I’ll always protect you. You wanted revenge, remember? You asked for a hammer. You received a hammer. We hated them, and now they’re gone.” Adrian’s visage began to blacken and decompose, the handsome features appearing to liquefy like wax.
This time when Mikey inhaled, the sound was like a whistling teakettle squeal of pure terror. “How do you know about that?”
The red eyes became incandescent. They blazed in the runny tallow that was now Adrian’s face. Mikey still saw love there: horrible, unending, unforgiving love.
“I know everything,” Adrian said.
At dawn on Halloween morning Mikey was waiting outside Wroxy’s house. He’d risked calling and waking her mother, but Wroxy had answered the phone herself.
In her basement later, Mikey told Wroxy everything.
This time the hysteria he felt served to focus his thoughts rather than scatter them. Wroxy sat open-mouthed as Mikey told her about the gay bashing in September, about finding the revenge spell on the computer, about the night in the forest when he sacrificed the cat, about Adrian’s appearance the next morning, and the aftermath.
As he spoke, Mikey’s eyes shone wide and dark in his face. Sweat matted the sides of his temples and Wroxy briefly considered that maybe he had taken something, a thought she discounted just as quickly.
“I’m telling you the truth, I swear. I promise. You probably don’t believe me, but I am.”
“I have something to tell you, too,” Wroxy said. “I went there, to that place on the escarpment. The place where you saw the witches and the sacrifice. Something happened to me there.”
“What?” Mikey’s voice was fearful. “What happened?”
“Magic,” she said. “Nothing like what happened to you, but I know you’re telling the truth.”
“What have I done? How is any of this possible?”
Wroxy sighed. “I don’t want to go all Van Helsing on you, but it looks like you raised a demon. You spilled blood. You asked for revenge. That’s the sort of magic we witches don’t do. It’s bad stuff—you’ve fucked with something very, very dark.”
“What am I going to do? Adrian—it—told me it was going to keep killing.”
Wroxy spoke slowly. “Who else did you ask for revenge against? A spell has to run its course. Adrian might have been created just to kill the people you asked for revenge against. Or, if you asked for something more general, he might be around for a long time.”
“I don’t remember,” Mikey said, beginning to weep. “I haven’t slept. I’m so tired. I’m so afraid.”
“Mikey, listen to me. You have to focus. Tonight is Halloween. The veil between the worlds is at its most permeable tonight. Those . . . demon worshippers or whatever they are will be celebrating a Sabbat tonight, if that’s even what they call the holy nights. We need to go to them. Plus, it’s the lunar eclipse. Tonight the earth and the moon will be perfectly aligned. The moon will pass nearly dead centre through the earth’s shadow. It’s a night of power. Maybe they can be reasoned with, and they’ll help us send this thing back.”
“And if not?”
“Then we’re on our own, Mikey.” Wroxy knelt down and gathered him in her arms. “We’ve always been on our own, haven’t we? Just you and me, babe.”
“He used to call me that,” Mikey said softly. “He used to call me ‘babe.’”
Wroxy was momentarily confused. “Who?”
“Adrian.”
Police cars had been parked outside Auburn High School all day. In anticipation of a full-scale panic, the police were doing their best to keep the news of Dewey Verbinski’s disappearance as low-key as possible until they had their bearings, but news like that was hard to keep quiet in a small town.
Mikey had sat in the principal’s office as the police grilled him about his friendship with Adrian Johnson.
Where had they met? At school.
How were they connected? They had become friends on Adrian’s first day of school.
Was there anything more? No.
Did Adrian ever hurt him? No, why would he?
He broke Dewey Verbinski’s nose. Was there bad blood? No, just two guys settling a score—Dewey called Adrian a faggot and Adrian punched him in the nose. Nothing more.
Was Adrian homosexual? No.
Was Mikey homosexual?
“I think I want my parents, or a lawyer,” Mikey said. “I don’t want to answer any more of these questions, please.”
“Mikey,” Constable Prothro said, leaning toward Mikey with what he hoped looked like paternal compassion. “Where does your friend Adrian live? You know, we checked the school records, and there’s no documentation about a transfer student named Adrian Johnson from Connecticut to Milton, Auburn, or Campbellville. Everyone says they saw it, but no one can find it now. Do you know anything about that?”
“He said his father was from here,” Mikey said. “He said his father was coming back and that they’d be together.”
“There’s no record of a father, either. Your buddy seems to be a blank slate, even though, as I said, everyone claims to have seen his paperwork. Again, any thoughts?”
“I want to see my parents or a lawyer. I don’t know anything about any of this.”
“Stick close to home for the next day or so, would you, Mikey? Let’s see what we can figure out about what’s going on here.”
Mikey had promised that he would.
In October, in Auburn, the Halloween streets are tinged with fire. From darkened porches jack-o-lanterns glare with slashed eyes lit by candles, and dead leaves blow through the deserted streets, tossed in the black night wind. The town is dappled in hues of orange and black. This year, the few children who were dared—or were allowed—to trick-or-treat were accompanied by parents who stayed close, wary that whatever force had come to spirit away the two young men should decide to come calling again.
In the night skies above Auburn, the full moon had turned the colour of blood.
The eclipse had begun at eight o’clock, and by nine-fifteen the moon began to cross from the penumbra, the lightest part of the planet’s shadow, into the darkest heart of its umbra. By ten-thirty, when Mikey pulled up to Wroxy’s house in his mother’s car, the sky was filled with copper light as the moon moved into the earth’s shade.
“Do you remember where we’re going?” Wroxy asked him, climbing into the passenger seat. “Can you find your way back there?”
“What do you think?” Mikey said coolly. “Of course I can find it. So could you.” To Wroxy something was different about him. Mikey looked older tonight. The shape of the man he would eventually become was pressing against the flesh and bone of the boy he still was. His eyes looked very black by the light of the dashboard. “Do you doubt it?” He looked up at the moon burning like a hulking live coal in the black sky. “Do you doubt it at all, especially tonight?”
“No.” Wroxy shivered at the sound of his voice. “Not tonight.”
Mikey turned the key in the ignition and backed the car onto Wroxy’s street. She stole a furtive glance at Mikey out of the corner of her eye as he drove. In the light of the dashboard his face seemed carved from shadow. She touched the front of her sweater where, beneath it, the silver pentacle lay against her breast.
Mikey stared straight ahead, saying nothing. He abruptly turned left off the main road. Wroxy peered out the window but saw nothing. After fifteen minutes of driving, she sensed the road widen and clear.
“Look there,” Mikey said, pointing. “The fire. You see it? We’re here.”
Wroxy looked to the left, then to the right. Fifty yards away, she saw the bonfire. Mikey steered the car toward the light, then put it into park. He turned off the ignition and opened the door.
“Come on,” he said. “We have to talk to these people. We need their help.”
“I’m afraid,” Wroxy said, pulling back. “This is a bad place.” She reached for Mikey’s arm, but he brushed it off.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with. If we’re going to send him back, we need their help. These are the only people who can help us.”
The twelve robed figures stood motionless and silent in a semicircle around the outer edge of the fire. Sparks sputtered up into the night and the air was full of the scent of woodsmoke. The tallest of them, the man in the crimson robe decorated with gold symbols, stepped forward, arms open in a gesture of benediction.
“Hello, Mikey Childress.” The man removed his half-hood. He looked vaguely familiar, though Mikey couldn’t immediately place his face. The man’s voice, however, was quite familiar. It was the goat-killing voice from his nightmares; the voice he’d imagined that night in August when he lay awake praying the phone wouldn’t ring. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“You know my name,” Mikey said stupidly. “How do you know my name?”
“Do you really need to ask? My name is Kelvin Cowell. I’m your mother’s pastor. But that isn’t the only place I know you from. You have seen us before, haven’t you? Only, the last time you visited us you didn’t stay to introduce yourself.”
“My mother . . .”
Cowell laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. “No, don’t worry. She isn’t one of these,” he said, gesturing behind him at the eleven robed figures. “She’s part of my other flock.” He winked. “My day job, as it were. Ministering to the sheep that worship the sheep god. What you see here is my real parish. This is the real church. Not those idiots to whom I minister the rest of the time. The irony is rather intoxicating, isn’t it? I preach to your mother about the dangers implicit in the sin of sodomy, and we pray to sweet Jesus that the demon of homosexuality leaves you, but all the while I’m keeping track of her faggot son. Her same faggot son who sneaks around on summer nights on his bicycle far from home.”
“I need your help,” Mikey blurted out. “I’ve done something bad.”
“What did you do, Mikey? What did you do that was ‘bad’?”
“I cast a spell,” he said, weeping. “All I wanted was for the guys who were beating me up to pay for what they did, and to stop. You guys know about this stuff. I’ve brought something to life and I need to send it back.”
“Send it back? Why would you want to send it back? And to where? If you gave it life, it exists. It’s here.”
“It keeps on hurting people. This thing. It’s all my fault. This isn’t what I wanted. I need to send it back.”
“Is that really the truth, though? You say you wanted them to pay. From what you say, it sounds like they’re paying.”
“What do you mean? I want it to stop!” Then the awareness came to him, coldly and inexorably.
All this time I thought I was alone. But I haven’t really been alone, have I? Not since that night. Maybe even before.
“No, you haven’t been alone.” Dimly, Mikey realized that Cowell had read his thoughts and answered him with words. “For that matter, you’re an intelligent boy. Haven’t you asked yourself how you knew where to find us? You’d never been here before that night, had you?”
“I need you to help me!” he screamed. “I need you to send this thing back!”
Cowell sighed. “Mikey, you still don’t understand, do you? We already did help you. You called out to us and we answered.”
“What?”
“You found our website, didn’t you? Or rather,” Cowell added with saturnine humour, “it found you. Auburn is special, Mikey. Haven’t you noticed? It has a very special history. I know you’ve heard the stories. I hadn’t, till I moved here to start my . . . other church. These hills have been home to people like us for over one hundred years. There is tremendous power here. I found the coven soon after I moved to this perfect little town, with its pretty houses and shady streets. It didn’t take me long to become the leader, either. I have . . . well . . . let’s just say, a certain past of my own that made me a more natural and appropriate leader than any they’d found before.”
“But why me? Why did you choose me?”
“You were drawn to us,” Cowell said. “You saw us. You discovered our secret. You know what we can do. So we struck a bargain with you, one you could have never dreamed you were entering into. Everything has led to this moment. Even your grandmother’s heart attack was a gift from us. If your parents had been home that night, you would never have had the courage to kill that poor cat, or cast that spell. So we sent them away. It’s all led to tonight. You do know what tonight is, don’t you, Mikey?”
“Halloween,” Mikey said dumbly. “It’s Halloween.”
“Halloween, Samhain, All Hallows Eve . . . it has so many names. But it’s a holy night. Especially tonight. Tonight the earth and the moon are perfectly aligned.” Cowell seemed to notice Wroxy for the first time. He turned and bowed to her in a courtly fashion, then nodded to two of the robed men behind her. They seized Wroxy’s arms and twisted them behind her back. “Isn’t that how you explained it, little witch, with your cards and your crystals? Well, little witch?” For a moment, Cowell’s eyes seemed to catch the sullen glare of the firelight, turning them red. “Shall I tell you what the lunar eclipse really means tonight, especially here in Auburn?”
Adrian stepped out of the fire, nude and unburnt. The skin of his glorious body shimmered in the reflected glow of the flames, golden and translucent. Mikey swam with familiar longing at the sight of him in spite of himself, in spite of everything.
Someone to love me, someone to hold me.
Mikey looked down. Adrian was floating. His feet hovered six inches above the ground.
Adrian’s voice was soft, familiar. The voice of a lover, the voice of those long, secret hours in his bedroom after school. The voice from his dreams before that. “Hello, Mikey.” He reached out to touch Mikey, who flinched and drew away. “I love you. Do you love me?”
Mikey shook his head wildly from side to side. “No! Go away! I don’t love you! I hate you!”
Adrian began to change again. This time, the wide chest sank, becoming frail and crepuscular. The strong legs buckled and collapsed, becoming thin and weak, undefined and spindly. The thick blond hair darkened to brown, becoming thin and lank. The broad planes of Adrian’s face narrowed, the skin becoming pale and dusted with acne above the cheekbones.
Mikey stared in horror. It was a face he knew well. His own.
“I love you.”The voice was mocking. A high, fluty voice that trembled, a voice often derided as effeminate. Mikey’s own voice. “Do you love me? Please love me! Please love me! Somebody love me!”
Mikey turned away, feeling the familiar shame and revulsion for himself that he’d been taught was the normal and correct response to who he was. To what he was. To what he would always be.
Cowell sounded almost regretful. “You didn’t understand the spell at all, did you? Didn’t you understand what you were asking for?” Gently, he pulled Mikey’s hands away from his face and looked into his eyes, like an earnest father who needed to impart wisdom to an errant son.
And suddenly Mikey did understand. His call had been answered after all. The demon he had summoned took its power from the realm of Mikey’s own hatred and terror. His own hatred and terror had left his body when he cast the spell. Adrian was the incarnation of his own desire for revenge. The form Adrian had taken to seduce Mikey was Mikey’s own idealized vision of beauty.
Adrian had watched Mikey’s classmates torment him, and Adrian hated them. Adrian had watched Mikey’s parents dismiss him and hold him in contempt, and Adrian hated them, too. Adrian lived inside him and always had. Adrian loved Mikey to death and would love him from world to world. Adrian had always been there, and always would be.
“You came here to stop him, didn’t you?” Cowell said. “You wanted to send him back. All right, we’ll help you. But we need something from you, too. Adrian told you, I believe, that his father was from here. Indeed he is. Auburn is his home, and always has been. Tonight is his homecoming. But Adrian’s father can’t just come through the doorway with only the blood of goats. Goats just whet his appetite.”
“Adrian’s father—”
“The true father of this world. He has so many names, and so many children. Adrian is only one of many.”
“Oh, God, Mikey, get away from these people!” Wroxy thrashed against the bodies that held her. “Get the fuck away from them! Don’t listen to them! Don’t help them!”
“Take this knife,” Cowell said. He offered Mikey the gleaming blade. Mikey shook his head. “You have a choice,” Cowell continued. “Spells have to run their course. They always do. But if you want to send him away, you can. Just kill yourself. Be tonight’s sacrifice. Bring Adrian’s father home. Your blood will make this ancient soil richer, and Adrian will die with you, and the spell will return to the earth.”
Cowell paused, idly testing the sharpness of the blade against his thumb. “Or else,” he mused, “let Adrian live. No one will ever love you as much as Adrian does. Let him grow stronger. Be fair, after all. He’ll kill and kill, and maybe you can learn to live with the guilt.” Cowell watched Mikey’s face, waiting for the words to sink in. “You already know real horror, Mikey. It isn’t killing or demons. The only real horror is being alone. Don’t you ever get tired of crying? One way or another, you can end it tonight.”
Mikey felt a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder behind him. A strong arm slipped around his waist. “I love you,” Adrian whispered into his ear. His white-blond hair shone in the firelight, and there was only tenderness in the bluest eyes Mikey had ever seen. Adrian was again the nineteen-year-old boy Mikey had first seen walk into his homeroom class and sit down next to him. “My love is eternal. I’ll always protect you. And you’ll never have to see my true shape again.”
“Or,” Cowell said, “there is a third choice. We need the sacrifice one way or another, and it had to come to this place of its own free will. One life or another, He doesn’t care who opens the doorway.” Without turning, he gestured behind him, toward Wroxy, with the knife. “We can make it so that no one ever finds out what happened to her, Mikey. You already know what we can do. You’ve seen how far our powers can reach, haven’t you? Besides, Adrian can take the guilt away. That’s a promise. And you and he will be together forever. No more guilt, no more pain. No more tears, ever. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? All you have to do is kill her.”
Wroxy’s mouth opened in a perfect oval of horror. “No, Mikey,” she whispered. “Oh, God, no. No, please don’t. For the love of God, Mikey, I’m your best friend. Don’t do it.”
It was me, Wroxy thought wildly. It was always me. The cards foretold this. I thought I was reading for Mikey, but they were about me. I am the Queen of Swords. I was the one being led by the malefic force, not Mikey. The moon is mine, not his. I am the betrayed friend. I am the sacrifice.
“Change your life, Mikey,” Adrian whispered. “Change theirs.”
Mikey felt general love wash over him for the first time, a terrible yearning love that overrode all his fear. Love for Wroxy, love for Adrian, love for the town of Auburn and all the people in it he yearned to forgive. And yes, he was very tired of crying.
Above the earth the low red moon slipped completely into the penumbra and entered full eclipse. Mikey’s eyes met Wroxy’s and she saw his mouth form the words: Forgive me.
Then he swung the knife in a wide arc and plunged it very, very hard into Wroxy’s chest.
Wroxy gasped in shock. There was no pain, merely enormous pressure at her sternum as the blood began to leak out around the seven-inch blade that protruded from her chest. She looked at Mikey through dying eyes, then her world went dark and her eyelids fluttered and closed.
Mikey caught her heavy body as it fell. He cradled her, rocking back and forth in his twisted, loving grief, weeping, knowing at the same time that this was the last time he would ever have to cry. Mikey held Wroxy close, not wanting to let go. He knew what was coming next.
In the air above them, a cloud bank began to form. Inside it, lightning flashed, and Mikey smelled the metallic tang of blood and sulfur.
Adrian ran his fingers through Mikey’s hair and gently drew him to his feet. He led Mikey away from Wroxy’s body, away from the circle of witches who had joined hands and begun to chant.
Passively Mikey allowed Adrian to guide him into the shadows outside the ring of firelight. Adrian turned Mikey around slowly and put his arms around Mikey’s waist, pulling him close. Then Adrian kissed him. Mikey surrendered to the insistent pressure of Adrian’s open mouth and felt himself drain away like water.
I would die for love. Yes, I would die for it.
I would kill for it.