Epiphany

Epiphany Ensorcelled, Book 1

Augusta Li

Published by Silver Publishing Publisher of Erotic Romance

About The e-Book You Have Purchased: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the South African Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer. WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated and is punishable by imprisonment and a fine." Cover Artist: Reese Dante Editor: Devin Govaere Epiphany © 2011 Augusta Li ISBN # 9781920484941 Attention Readers: This book uses US English. All rights reserved. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model.

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Note from the Publisher Dear Reader, Thank you for your purchase of this title. The authors and staff of Silver Publishing hope you enjoy this read and that we will have a long and happy association together. Please remember that the only money authors make from writing comes from the sales of their books. If you like their work, spread the word and tell others about the books, but please refrain from sharing this book in any form. Authors depend on sales and sales only to support their families. If you see "free shares" offered or cut-rate sales on pirate sites of this title, you can report the offending entry to [email protected] Thank you for not pirating our titles. Lodewyk Deysel Publisher Silver Publishing http://www.spsilverpublishing.com

Dedication For Aurora, with gratitude for all the invaluable information on 1970s music, particularly Beatles songs. And for Thistle, who made me love the Mojave.

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Jameson Irish Whiskey: Irish Distillers Limited Ford Bronco: Ford Motor Company Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition: Time, Inc., a Time Warner Company Woodlawn Cemetery: City of Las Vegas, Nevada Coke: The Coca-Cola Company Marlboro: Philip Morris USA, Inc. MGM Grand Las Vegas: MGM Resorts International Stardust Resort & Casino: Boyd Gaming Corporation Desert Inn: Valvino Lamore, LLC National Geographic: National Geographic Society Caesar's Palace: Caesar' World, Inc. 4-H: National 4-H Council Corporation

Epiphany

Augusta Li

Chapter One Epiphany, Nevada 1974 Sheriff Sam Woodward poured a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk in front of a pile of reports he'd been putting off. He could just as easily have gone home with them, but he liked the little station house. With its simple square layout and three barred cells along the back wall just ten feet from his desk, it reminded Sam of a set from an old cowboy movie. In fact, it had been built during the turbulent times of one of the west's many gold rushes, and the hardwood floor under Sam's boots was the original. The sheriff doubted that many like her still stood in the American West. Sitting here, inhaling the musty scent and watching the cobwebs in the corners of the windows, he felt like an heir to a heroic legacy, as if a fierce old gunslinger with pistols dangling from his hips had pinned the gold badge on Sam's shirt himself, silently entrusting him with the task of carving order out of chaos. Of course, it hadn't happened that way; he'd filled out some papers and taken a civil service test. Sam slid his bottom desk drawer open, dusted a bottle on the cuff of his 1

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flannel shirt, and seasoned his coffee with an inch of Jameson's. He propped his heels up on the desk and leaned back. The concoction in his mug warmed him from his tongue to his toes. Almost instantly, the tension dropped from the muscles of his shoulders and neck. Sam didn't usually imbibe, but today had been hectic, at least by Epiphany standards. Epiphany, Nevada, sheltered just under three hundred souls in her little corner of America between Idaho and Utah. She had one small schoolhouse, one general store, one bar, and one jail. Aside from the electric streetlights lining Main Street and the big gas station at the end of it, the tiny town looked just as it had when it had been founded by missionaries one hundred and sixty-five years before. It was twelve blocks long and five blocks wide. Probably half of the Victorian homes had been built by the descendants of those first missionaries and their families. Sam knew most of the current citizens quite well. They were kind, undemanding, and predictable people, content to enjoy life's simplest pleasures. If Epiphany offered them truckloads of morality and security but little excitement, then they found it more than a fair bargain. Little of the turmoil of the last decade had spilled into the out-of-the-way settlement, and its residents still feared God, believed in the sanctity of marriage, and trusted their 2

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government. Since assuming his post five years before, Sam could count out the minor disturbances he'd dealt with on his fingers: a couple of pickups in a fender-bender, farmers who'd had a little too much to drink, neighbors quarrelling over the placement of a fence, or some high school boys fighting over a girl. In Epiphany, that was the worst it got. In truth, the town and the farms and ranches surrounding it didn't need a sheriff at all, but if the county was willing to pay for one, then Sam was happy to cash his modest check every two weeks. He and the four deputies who shared the station with him spent more time over pie and coffee than Sam would want the taxpayers to know. The odd thing about today, though, was that the trouble had been stirred up by an outsider. Epiphany didn't see many visitors since it wasn't along a major highway and really not on the way to anywhere. To be frank, it didn't have much anybody would seek either, unless, like Sam, they sought peace. Every now and again, though, somebody got lost and ended up in Epiphany, which was what had happened earlier. Sam had been alone at his desk, filling out some tedious forms to try to get a state grant for new traffic lights when he got the call. "Got a problem down here at the diner, Sam." 3

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Prudence Tupper, the diner's owner, like everyone else, called him by his first name. "What's up, Prudence?" he asked. "Got a drifter who won't leave. I told him we're fixing to close up, but he won't take the hint. Better come on down." "Be right over," Sam said, dropping the black plastic receiver into its cradle. Normally he left his.45 locked in the top drawer of his desk, since he hadn't needed it to catch a loose cow or push a tractor out of a ditch since he'd come to Epiphany. Tonight, something told him to strap on his shoulder holster. The feeling of the leather tight against his body made him feel both secure and nostalgically nauseous, the way the smell of certain foods can trigger queasiness when they've made one sick in the past. About thirty-five people had gathered out in front of Pru's Diner by the time Sam arrived five minutes later. This was a big deal in Epiphany: something to gossip about in the post office for weeks to come. Everyone wanted to be able to say he was there when it happened. Sam parked his orange Bronco and walked across Main toward Pru's. The sun hovered just above the horizon behind the single-story plank building. The golden light made the farmers and housewives look almost angelic. The dirt kicked up by their 4

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shoes as they waited for something to happen transformed into sparkling fairy dust. It puffed up and swirled around them like a collective halo. Pru Tupper stood at the outside of the cluster, shielding her eyes with her fleshy forearm. She met Sam in the middle of the street. She smelled, as always, of sweat, grease, and a pickley mixture of vinegar and dill. "I don't like the look of 'im, Sam," she said, brandishing a dirty serving spoon like a weapon. "I think he's an Injun. Looks doped up, too. Probably one of those damn dirty hippies out hitch-hiking." Sam followed her to the center of the crescent of on-lookers. The thin young man standing there didn't seem like a Native American to Sam; Sam would have guessed him to be half Asian if it weren't for his blue-gray eyes. His face was flat, the nose and chin round, and his complexion was the clear gold of clover honey. Road-dirt clung to his loose jeans, T-shirt, black hooded sweatshirt, and canvas backpack, turning them all a uniform dull tan. He had long black hair tied back in a ponytail, a sure sign of a ruffian to those in Epiphany. Even so, he carried himself with a formal elegance Sam rarely associated with flower children and drug users. Sam had to agree that there was something wrong about him; those eyes looked as out of place as wings or a tail would have. The fine hair on the back of 5

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Sam's neck stood up as he approached the drifter. Sam straightened his spine. His instincts had saved his life more than once in Vegas. "What seems to be the problem here, son?" Sam asked. "You tell me, sheriff," the too-pretty young man said. He had a soft, crisp way of speaking and an accent that sounded decidedly different from the local cadence. "I just wanted a sandwich and a cup of coffee, but apparently a man with long hair isn't permitted to patronize this establishment." "I told ya we was closing!" Pru yelled from behind Sam. "I could really use something to eat," the drifter said, shifting his weight stiffly, as if the movement hurt him. Sam could see that that was true. The young man looked starved and exhausted. Dark circles underlined his peculiar eyes. Sam's responsibility was to the people of Epiphany though. If they wanted the drifter gone, Sam's job was to enforce their wishes. Deep down, he had to admit he'd be glad to see the kid on his way. "Well," Sam said, "she's closing up for the night. Sorry about that. We don't want any trouble. Better be moving along." 6

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The young man chuckled softly, holding his ribs. "Trouble? No, I'm sure you don't want that. You just want to go about your dull little lives and pretend there's no world outside the boundaries of this pathetic little town. How long do you think you can hide here?" His eyes met Sam's as he spoke that last sentence, and Sam looked away. Something about the drifter's steady, piercing gaze made him feel dwarfed and ineffective. "I'm telling you to be on your way, son," Sam repeated. "Fine, I'll go." The drifter winced as he shouldered his pack. "Just know that all of you are due for a wake-up call. Watch out, it may come sooner than you think." He gave them a sardonic smile and turned away. The sun had set, spraying streaks of neon pink and orange like pinwheel blades across the violet sky. Sam and the people assembled in front of the diner watched the drifter limp down the single-lane road into the desert. Heat lines rising from the asphalt distorted his black silhouette as he grew smaller and smaller. Finally, he disappeared into the darkening wasteland. "Cup of coffee, Sam?" Prudence asked. "Thought you were closing up, Pru," he answered. In response, she rolled her eyes and shouted for her son, Elijah, to put on a fresh pot. Several people followed her into the diner. Through the large windows, Sam 7

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watched them taking seats on stools at the counter or at the tables around it. Most of them were plump and well-fed and moved slowly and cheerily in the fluorescent light. A knot formed in Sam's gut. He squinted down the road, but saw nothing but the first few stars glimmering over the flat, dry land. In less than an hour, it would be very cold. Hours had passed, and he hadn't stopped thinking about that young man. Looking back, it seemed a smallminded, shitty thing to refuse the drifter a sandwich if he had good money to buy one. The whole incident had been bizarre, but, Sam thought, it was nothing compared to what he'd dealt with working as a vice detective in Las Vegas. It was past, at any rate. Sam drained the rest of his Irish coffee and sighed. He dropped his head on to the high back of his chair and closed his eyes. When the phone rang again, Sam was so stunned that he stared at the black plastic rotary dial for a full minute before answering. "Sheriff's Office." "Sam?" "Guilty. Who'm I speaking to?" "It's Sally down here at the Wander Inn. Holy shit, Sam. You'd better get down here right quick." "What's going on, Sally?" "I ain't sure, but there's some god-awful screams coming from the Probst place next door. I heard 'em over 8

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the jukebox. Sounds like somebody's killing Esther." "Shit," was all Sam could say. "Be right there." He grabbed his gun and headed for the Bronco at a jog. The Probst place was a fine old Victorian farmhouse with a wrap-around porch, Wedgwood blue siding and mauve, gingerbread detail. When Sam arrived, he hurried up the three stone steps and pounded on the oak door with the side of his fist. The sound of breaking glass came from inside, followed by the thud of something like a body hitting the floor. High-pitched, rhythmic wailing followed. Nervous now, Sam called Esther's name. When he got no response, he butted the door with his shoulder until it sprung open. The little grapevine wreath fell on the threshold. Sam drew his weapon and held it in front of him at arm's length. The house had fallen momentarily silent, and the foyer with the steps leading upstairs was dark. To his left, in the kitchen, a basket of apples sat beside a stack of math worksheets Esther had been correcting with a red marker. The marker's lid lay beside it. One of the apples was missing several bites. Esther had obviously been caught off guard. Sam knew no one in Epiphany would break into her home with the intention of harming her. That left only the question of who would. Then, from upstairs, Sam heard another crash. "Ah! 9

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Oh, God!" yelled a female voice. Without hesitation, Sam ran up the carpeted stairs two at a time. He kicked open the bedroom door and stood with his feet wide apart and his gun aimed at the bed. Nothing, not even his ten years working vice in Vegas, prepared him for the sight inside. Esther Probst, first-grade teacher and five-time Apple Festival Pie Bake-Off winner, crouched on her knees and elbows at the foot of the bed. Her powder-pink blanket laid on the well-polished pine floor, along with a broken lamp, a tangle of clothing, and at least three used condoms. Behind Esther stood the school principal. Mark Eichensherr was a tiny man who compensated for his stature by ruling the elementary and middle school with an iron fist. His face was flushed and sweaty. Even when the bedroom door hit the wall with enough force to lodge the doorknob into the plaster, Mark didn't stop pumping Esther from behind. Scratches covered Mark's back and Esther's antique cherry headboard. Several red handprints marred Esther's round, pale ass. Her brown hair was matted and mussed. What shocked him most was the way Esther and Mark noticed him over their shoulders and just kept screwing like mad. "God, Mark," Esther cried out. "Bite my shoulder." "Now hold on just a minute here, folks," Sam said. 10

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"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I received a complaint about the noise." Mark withdrew his organ from Esther with a little squishing sound. He turned to face Sam covering his red, rubbed-raw erection with a round pillow. Esther sat at the foot of the bed and draped a flowered sheet over herself like a poncho. Bruises covered her neck. She stared down at her knees, blushing. Then Sam saw Jerry. The sixth-grade science teacher stood in the corner, nude and partially concealed by a long lace curtain. "What the hell is going on here?" Sam asked, more to himself than the people in the room. "I don't know what came over me," Esther mumbled, her voice trembling with shame. "You all been drinking tonight?" Sam asked. "No, Sam," Mark said. "We met to plan the Harvest Parade, and, I don't know—" "One thing just led to another," Esther said. Sam looked at the science teacher, whose thin, flabby body reminded him of an over-cooked noodle, and said "Jesus, Jerry, you're a married man." Jerry paled and looked like he might be sick. He ran his hand over the top of his shiny head, over the shrinking patch of brown hair at the base, and down the back of his 11

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overlong neck. "I know," he said in the same explanatory tone he used when discussing the water cycle with his class. "And I swear on the Bible, Sam, I just watched and jerked off. Please don't tell Ann." "It was like we couldn't stop ourselves—" Mark said. Sam covered his eyes with his palm and rubbed his temples, sure that when he looked again he'd find himself home in bed, just waking from a sick and twisted dream. Unfortunately, the three naked educators just blinked back at him. Esther really is a handsome woman, Sam caught himself thinking. He shook the unbidden thought from his head. "Y'all aren't breaking any laws, I guess," he told them, holstering his gun. "I will have to ask you to keep it down, though. You gave Sally next door quite a fright. She thought somebody was being murdered." "Everyone will know!" Esther sobbed, burying her face in her hands and collapsing against Mark. Eager to end the awkward moment, Sam wished the threesome a good evening and excused himself. He stopped at the foot of the steps, listening. Against his will, a vision of the people up the steps, and what they would be doing now that he'd left them, formed in his mind. He imagined what he might do if he found himself in Mark or Jerry's 12

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place. "What's wrong with me?" Sam said out loud. He looked with disgust at the bulge in his jeans and hurried out to clear his head in the brisk night air. Sally met him at the Probst mailbox. She wore a stained white apron over a button-down shirt and short denim skirt. Her red curls looked as unruly as ever. "Everybody okay in there, Sam?" she asked. "Fine, Sally," he answered. Sally is fine, he thought, even though she was fifteen years his senior and a grandmother. Her bare calves were smooth and shapely. The tops of her ample, freckled breasts seemed to struggle against the buttons that held them in. She stood with her hand on her hip, her small waist arching seductively. The booze and sweat odor that came from her smelled sweeter to Sam than any perfume. She came closer. Some of her red lipstick had stained her front teeth. Her tongue flicked across them, wiping it away. "Well, what happened?" she asked. Sam could hardly form a coherent thought. He cleared his throat and said, "Oh, Esther fell down the steps. Twisted an ankle." "Isn't that too bad?" she crooned, taking another step forward. Less than an inch of cold air separated her from Sam's chest. When she inhaled deeply, her left breast 13

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grazed the star-shaped badge he wore pinned to his shirt. "Sheriff, have I ever told you what a damn sexy man you are?" "Come on now, Sally," he said half-heartedly. As he stood watching the bartender, who glowed softly and looked half her age beneath the street light, he realized he'd actually begun to consider asking her back to his place. He envisioned touching her, reaping the benefits of her many years of experience. Sam's skin started to heat beneath his clothing, and a thin layer of sweat formed above his upper lip. He became acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd enjoyed any companionship, and his neglected needs rose up in his chest like a boiling, steaming geyser. He didn't know if he could stand against them any more than he could halt any other force of nature. Finally, fists clenched at his sides, Sam wished Sally a good evening and spun on his heel. He walked vigorously up the sidewalk, abandoning his vehicle. Even unlocked, the Bronco would be safe in Epiphany, and Sam desperately needed to clear his head. Light poured from the tall, arched window of the whitewashed church house on the corner of Main and Elm, projecting little squares and triangles of color on the sidewalk and street. Sam wondered why anyone would be in the chapel; it had to be nearing midnight by now. As he 14

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stood watching from across the street, a thin silhouette appeared in front of the window. Another dark shape joined the first, this one obviously a short, rotund woman. The shapes converged, forming an odd-shaped mass as the tall thin one bent toward the mouth of the little round one. It didn't take his best detection skills for Sam to figure out what was going on. The dark shape undulated and writhed, not a sliver of light visible between the two bodies. When the couple began peeling clothing off one another, Sam shook his head and continued walking. Before long, two sharp squeals caught the sheriff's attention. When he turned toward them, what he saw in the back yards of the homes across the street almost made him fall flat on his ass. Two naked women ran hand-in-hand through the damp grass, followed by a man in white briefs. They disappeared behind the house, but Sam didn't need to see anymore. He shook his head and furrowed his brows. What the hell is going on? A block away stood Pru's Diner. The incident that had happened in front of the greasy spoon earlier felt years in the past. Sam was surprised to see Pru's son, Elijah, come out of the door and start walking up the road toward him. Where could he be going at this hour? Other than a house or two and a few farms, there was nothing but the cold of the barren land in the direction he headed. Sam 15

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stopped again, watching Elijah and thinking. How such a good-looking boy had come from a large, oily woman like Pru Tupper was a mystery to Sam. Damn, if Elijah wasn't a handsome kid though. Sam watched him push his shaggy layers of golden hair out of his eyes. Hair of the same color probably trailed in a soft line down from his belly button. His lean hips swayed under the thin covering of his worn jeans, and his faded T-shirt clung to his torso, revealing a lean, muscular stomach. Above it, his chest was chiseled but still boyish. The way he walked made Sam bite his bottom lip as he stared; it was almost a saunter. Sam's balls filled again. He imagined himself walking up to Elijah, questioning him about what he was up to at this time of night. The timid young man would probably stammer and try to lie. He imagined kissing him, scratching the young man's soft face with his stubble. Elijah's hair probably still smelled of coffee and hamburger grease from the diner. He'd slide his hands up Elijah's shirt, over his prominent ribcage, over his pebble-hard nipples, and then down the back of his jeans. His ass would be so firm and silky-soft, covered in downy blond hair. Then Sam would rip his pants down, spin him around and bend him over that stupid mailbox that looked like a Scottie dog. He'd spread his cheeks and position his cock, which was already rock-hard and dripping, just outside Elijah's 16

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puckered opening. The young man's muscles would relax to let him inside. He would be so tight! Elijah's eyes would widen as he watched Sam over his shoulder. He'd chew his lower lip. What kinds of noises would he make as Sam thrust into him, slowly at first, then faster? Would he whimper or moan? Would he cry out loud? Sam hoped Elijah might call him Sheriff, or sir. He thought about the pair of handcuffs back in the glove box of his truck. Sam's balls felt like they'd explode, and his erection pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans. He couldn't remember why he'd been walking down the street or where he was going. Nothing existed but the irrational lust and the throb in his crotch, begging to be relieved. He came to his senses enough to duck around the side of a house and crouch behind a holly bush. Elijah was only half a block away, and if Sam had to look into the young man's big blue eyes, he knew he'd lose control. Before Sam could do anything else, he had to deal with the urge that was stealing his lucidity. The juices flooding his balls, making his cock swell to the point of pain, were like demons that had to be exorcised. Sam propped his back against the cedar siding of the house, braced his elbows against the insides of his knees, and unzipped. When his cock sprung out, red, quivering, and looking bigger than normal, he wrapped his palm around 17

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the head and squeezed with all his might. He closed his eyes and went to work, thrusting against his hand until his shoulder ached. The calluses scraped the sensitive skin, but he kept up a furious pace until his semen erupted all over the dark, shiny leaves and red berries of the bush. Sam caught his breath and looked down at his cock. It had hardly diminished and felt ready for another round. He tucked it away, though, and dropped his ass to the brittle grass beneath him. What had come over him? Had he really just jerked off outside someone's house? He'd never been attracted to Sally. Never, in his almost forty years on earth, had he considered being with a man, especially one like Elijah, who was barely twenty years old. He thought about Esther, Mark, and Jerry. In Vegas, he'd seen plenty of people overcome by their baser desires, but few of those were as reckless as the teachers or the people he'd seen in the church window. Those people back in Vegas had been accustomed to lives of vice. Most times alcohol or drugs played a part. Hands shaking, Sam recalled his fantasies about the young cook. They disgusted him now, made him feel like he'd be sick in the street. No gorgeous showgirl had ever reduced Sam to such a wanton wreck. Sam began to realize that something was very wrong in the tiny town of Epiphany, Nevada. The citizens, including him, seemed 18

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under the influence of some powerful drug. There'd be fucking in the street and orgies at Sunday mass if he didn't find out what the hell was going on and put a stop to it. The whole mood of the town had changed. Music drifted from open windows, and a strange electricity crackled through the air. Everyone should have been in bed at this hour, but nobody was. Anticipation similar to what might infect the town before the spring carnival was an almost palpable force. Even the stately old homes seemed somehow restless. Though he hardly trusted his own restraint, Sam stood up to walk back to the station house. Thinking about Esther, Sally, and, though he could hardly face it, Elijah, had already replenished the store of fluid in his balls. He prayed to God he wouldn't meet anyone else along the way. Hell, he knew the world was changing out there. He knew all about free love and women burning their bras. He'd busted up drug-fueled orgies and heard their participants call them enlightenment, but Epiphany resisted this so-called progress. Her residents might eventually feel the encroaching change, but it wouldn't happen literally overnight. Sam decided to find out what force was at work in his town. **** 19

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Elijah pulled his corduroy jacket higher around his neck and turned to look back at Epiphany, half a mile behind him now. The tiny white lights huddled together against the bitter desert cold. The stars glimmered above him like ice crystals. For a moment, he felt scared; he'd left home with nothing but a few ham sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, and a blanket in his old gym bag. He had ninety-six dollars, his tips from the past two weeks, balled in his pants pocket. He said his name was Dust, Elijah thought, smiling. Elijah had said "Hi, who are you?" as he poured coffee into a bone-white mug for the drifter. The drifter replied with a soft, low chuckle. "I'm just Dust." Maybe it had been a joke, and his name wasn't really Dust at all. Elijah had never seen anyone like him. His dirty clothing was unremarkable, but he was so, well, so beautiful. Standing in front of him gave Elijah a shivery feeling that was a mix of admiration and eeriness like he might get while watching the sunset paint the old stones in the churchyard. When Elijah sat the carafe down on the counter, Dust rested his hand over Elijah's, and said "Thank you." Scratches covered the drifter's knuckles, and not razor-thin ones like Elijah got from all his mother's damned cats. Dust's wounds were wide and deep, surrounded by 20

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halos of red. Elijah wondered what had made the cuts. He wondered where the drifter had come from, where he was going, and why. One thing he knew for sure was that Dust had been doing something far more significant than scraping up grease at a diner in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't say how, but Elijah knew Dust was in the middle of something important, maybe cosmic. The young cook felt jealous and impressed. He could think of nothing to say to the drifter but "Get you something to eat?" "Yes, thank you. Whatever's ready. Anything's fine." Then, as Elijah prepared to spoon some pork barbeque on to a roll, Dust did something Elijah had never seen another person accomplish: he frightened Elijah's mother. Elijah's mother stood by the pie case, big splotches of sweat staining her shirt at the armpits and beneath the breasts. Her glare had burned into her son as Elijah smiled at the drifter's touch on his hand. He didn't want her to whack him with the wooden spoon, not in front of Dust. Instead, she crossed her log-like arms and yelled "'Lijah, we ain't servin' no more food today. We're closing up." Then she came over and stood behind the counter in front of Dust. Her hand made a sweep to clear away his mug, but Dust snatched it with the speed of a diamondback rattler. 21

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"I haven't quite finished with that," he said softly. "Maybe you didn't hear me say we're closing. Or maybe you're too doped up to remember back that far," she said. Dust turned his neck stiffly and fixed his stormcolored eyes on Elijah's mother. He lifted the mug to his shapely lips, inhaled the steam, and took a sip. She stumbled three steps back, away from the unblinking stare of those pale eyes that clashed so startlingly with the black hair. Elijah had never seen his mother look so terrified, but then the emotions he had seen her display ranged only from slightly annoyed to violently pissed off. "You finish it and get the hell out of here," Elijah's mother said in a trembling voice. "We don't serve longhaired drug addicts. Your kind ain't welcome here." By then Elijah had wrapped the hot sandwich in waxed paper and scooped a double serving of fries and onion rings into a Styrofoam box. He set them, along with a handful of ketchup packets, in front of Dust. "You can just take 'em to go." He hoped his mother might not hear, but of course, being only a few feet away, she heard only too well. She did hit him then: three rapid blows to the back of his head with the spoon. Elijah gripped the edge of the chipped counter and waited for the fireworks to fade from the edges of his vision. 22

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"He ain't taking nothing nowhere," she said. She hurled the food into the garbage can. Dust had looked at Elijah, his eyes conveying pity, sympathy, disappointment and betrayal so strongly that Elijah felt tears welling and had to turn away. He hated himself for not standing up to his mother or to Sheriff Woodward or any of the others. Anyone could see that Dust wasn't on drugs; he was just hurt and hungry. They all knew it, but nobody said a word as the sheriff sent him out into the desert. To make things right, Elijah had left Epiphany. He'd always planned to go someday, anyway, always known he wanted to do more than flip burgers in his mother's diner. Until he saw Dust, he just hadn't known what he wanted. He knew now. He couldn't wait to see the drifter's face again. Since he was alone, he allowed himself a few minutes to imagine things: hands touching, shoulders resting against each other, lips brushing together. Denying his feelings for the past ten years hadn't made them go away, anyhow. Neither had reading the Bible; it just put him to sleep. He would find Dust and help him do whatever he was doing. Even if he walked all night, he'd find him. As he looked out over the flat, colorless terrain, a shooting star arced toward a spot about five miles up the road. To 23

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Elijah's surprise, another larger meteorite followed the course of the first. Its tail contained a swirling blend of silvers, blues, purples and limes, like the inside of an oyster shell one of his old school friends had brought back from the beach. Elijah had never forgotten its shiny interior, and he hoped to go to the ocean someday and find one of his own. Maybe the meteors pointed the way; at least they led him out of Epiphany. He'd always seen things in unusual ways, and he trusted this sign from the heavens. Elijah laughed out loud and walked faster toward the spot where the stars pointed him, toward Dust.

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Chapter Two Elijah Tupper had been walking for hours. The tip of his nose was numb with cold, and his corduroy jacket pockets did little to warm his hands. He wondered if his mother had discovered him gone yet, or if she'd fallen asleep in her recliner again while watching her stories. A few hundred yards to the left, off the road, a fire burned. Elijah knew it had been built by the drifter called Dust. He smiled and hurried over the rocky ground toward the inviting glow. About halfway, he stopped. The whole frigid, lonely time he'd spent walking from Epiphany, Elijah had imagined various scenarios. He'd pictured Dust hugging him with gratitude and inviting him to be his companion. He'd anticipated being greeted with happiness and surprise by the other man. Until now, it hadn't crossed Elijah's mind that Dust might not want to see him. After all, Elijah hadn't defended Dust when the townspeople drove him away hungry. Elijah had been too scared of his mother and the sheriff to speak up. What if Dust thought he was a coward? Elijah felt queasy. He was sure, now, that he'd misinterpreted the look Dust had given him and the way he'd stroked Elijah's hand. Nobody like Dust would be interested in somebody like him: an 25

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insignificant person from an insignificant place. Elijah had been fooling himself. As much as he wanted to turn back and save himself the hurt and humiliation, Elijah kept walking. The least he could do would be to leave the coffee and sandwiches. Dust would certainly appreciate the blanket. Elijah would set them down, apologize for what had happened at the diner, and start the long trek back home. Hopefully, he'd be able to sneak in the back door and through the mud room without his mother catching him, grilling him, and eventually pummeling him with whatever was closest to her hand. Whatever unpleasant thing befell him, he would accept as penance for not speaking up against what had been done to Dust. The drifter sat in front of his tiny fire, hugging his knees. His dark hood covered everything but his nose, lips and chin. His frozen breath hovered in the stillness like a ghostly companion. Elijah took a deep breath and said, "Hello." Dust turned his head quickly toward Elijah, the fire reflected in his eyes making them look like glowing embers against his shadowed face. His hand shot out in Elijah's direction as if he held a weapon, but his palm was empty. It groped the cold air, the way a person felt around for a pair of lost spectacles. He slid the hood back and squinted into 26

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the darkness. Seeing Elijah, he dropped his hand and relaxed. "You're the cook from the diner," Dust said. Elijah nodded. "I brought you some sandwiches and coffee." Dust rose stiffly and walked over to where Elijah stood just at the edge of the ring of fire light. He looked amazed. "You mean you walked all the way out here to bring me sandwiches?" "Yeah, it's no big deal," Elijah said. "Thank you," Dust said. Elijah slid the bag from his shoulder and held it out to Dust. "There's a blanket in there too. I thought you might be able to use one." Dust seemed too stunned to even reach for the offered provisions, so Elijah set the bag down by the drifter's feet. "All right then," Elijah said, "guess that's it. I'm sorry about the way everybody treated you. It wasn't right, and I do apologize. Take care." He thrust his shivering hands back into his pockets and turned. "Wait," Dust said, and Elijah faced him. "You need anything else?" "No," Dust said. "Why did you do this?" "Well, you were hungry," Elijah said. "And it's cold out here." 27

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"You mean that's it?" "What else would there be?" Elijah asked. "Come sit down," Dust said. "At least warm up before you walk all the way back to your town." "Okay," Elijah said, and he followed Dust to the fire. They sat cross-legged on the hard-packed earth, looking at each other over flames. Dust unzipped the gym bag and stripped the foil from the sandwiches. He smiled at them as if they were priceless jewels before starting to eat. Then he silently tore pieces of bread and meat into chunks and shoved several of them into his mouth at a time, looking over his shoulder now and then as if Elijah's mother might appear from behind a cactus and snatch the food away again. Elijah had never seen a human being eat like that. He was reminded of the stray dogs they sometimes had to drive away from the dumpster behind the restaurant. Dust's rapid swallowing, an occasional grunt of pleasure, and the soft crackle of the fire were the only sounds. In less than ten minutes he'd finished three sandwiches. Elijah poured some coffee into the thermos lid and handed it to the drifter. "Hope you like lots of sugar," Elijah said. Dust took a long gulp. "You have some too," he said to Elijah. "To warm up." He held the little metal cup to Elijah's lips and tipped it forward. As Elijah drank from the 28

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cup in his hand, Dust slid closer until their shoulders touched. The sudden warm solidity against his arm shocked Elijah. When he realized that Dust had touched him, he almost choked. Dust lowered the cup but didn't pull away. Elijah wiped the coffee from his chin with his sleeve. "You don't have a cigarette, do you?" "No, sorry," Elijah said. Questions raced and collided in his mind like bumper cars. He wanted to ask Dust where he was going, where he'd come from, and why. He wanted to know how the drifter had been injured, how long it had been since he'd eaten. The biggest question also remained: Would Dust let Elijah go with him? "You said there's a blanket in here?" Dust asked as he rummaged through the pack. He found the corner of the blue quilt that had been on Elijah's bed and unfolded it. He threw it over his shoulders like a cape and said "Well, get under." Elijah hesitated and pulled away. He hadn't been expecting this level of familiarity so soon. It confused him and scared him a little bit. He had almost no experience with such situations, but Dust smiled sincerely, and Elijah took a deep breath, forcing himself to say, "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." "Come on," the drifter urged, holding the corner of the blanket out from his shoulder. "We'll both be more 29

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comfortable if we share." Elijah spread the blanket across his back and tucked the satiny edge under his chin the way he did when he went to sleep at home. Dust's warmth beside him after his long walk acted almost as a sedative. He realized, to his surprise, that he felt completely safe and comfortable around this stranger. He poured another cup of coffee and laid his cheek lightly against Dust's shoulder. "Dust," Elijah said, barely above a whisper. The drifter's blue-gray eyes stayed fixed on the fire. "Dust?" he said again, a little louder. The black-haired young man turned. He looked so beautiful and mysterious in the amber glow that Elijah inhaled sharply. "Dust, can I ask you something?" "Dust?" "You said, at the diner, that you were Dust," Elijah said, blushing and feeling stupid. "What should I call you?" Dust placed a soft kiss on Elijah's forehead that made him tremble from his ears to his freezing toes. "Call me whatever you want. Call me Dust if you want to, and ask me whatever you want." Elijah swallowed hard. "I want to help you. Whatever you're trying to do, I want to help." "Why?" "I—" 30

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"It's okay," Dust said. He put his arm around Elijah and pulled him closer. "I'd like it if you came with me. It's pretty rough, though, as you can see." He pointed at his camp: a backpack for a pillow and a pile of burning twigs and brush. "I don't know what I'll be able to do," Elijah said. "I don't really have any talents, except cooking." Dust nestled his face into Elijah's thick hair and spoke softly into his ear. "That's not true. You have a pure, innocent soul. Real goodness is rare, rarer than riches, or power, or anything. It's a treasure. Besides—" Dust gripped Elijah's chin between his thumb and finger and inclined his head so their eyes met. "—you're really cute." Still holding Elijah's face and shoulder, Dust lay back slowly. Elijah's head stayed against his chest. They pulled the blanket tight around themselves and twisted to face each other. Dust stretched the blanket up over their heads and wriggled closer to Elijah. His breath warmed Elijah's nose and lips. Their foreheads pressed together, and Dust's arm encircled Elijah's waist. His warm hand slipped under Elijah's jacket and T-shirt to caress the muscles of his back. Everything

Elijah

had

ever

heard

about

relationships or dating conflicted with what was happening under the quilt. He'd understood that touching like this 31

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should be kept until both partners had known each other for weeks or months, preferably until after marriage. He didn't even want to think about what he'd been taught to believe about men touching each other in this way. He'd spent only a quarter of an hour in Dust's company; he didn't know his real name or anything about him. He'd dreamt of this moment, wanted it, feared it might never happen, but now he wondered if it should happen so fast. It felt right though, better than right: perfect. In the darkness, Elijah's fingers found Dust's round cheeks and slender neck. He reached around his head and removed the band that held his ponytail, so that his silky hair fell loose. Elijah wound a strand around his finger and brought it to his nose. It smelled of the campfire. Elijah let the end of the strand tickle his eyelids. Dust chuckled softly and pulled Elijah closer. Their chests met, banishing any remaining chill. The kisses that followed could have come straight out of Elijah's fantasies. Dust's lips brushed against Elijah's, and then his tongue slid gently into Elijah's mouth. It twisted against Elijah's awkward, inexperienced tongue and glided over his teeth. The drifter rolled on top of Elijah and thrust his tongue deeper into his throat. Elijah relaxed his jaw and let his mouth fall open for Dust to explore. Elijah stole erratic, gulping breaths. He felt like he was drowning, but in a 32

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pleasant, exciting way. He also heard Dust breathing harder and deeper. The air inside the blanket shelter grew hot and moist, like summer air after a storm, or the air inside a greenhouse. Dust wriggled his hand between their bodies. His fingers traced the crease between Elijah's stomach muscles and circled his nipples before moving back down his body. When Dust slipped his hand between Elijah's flesh and the waistband of his jeans, Elijah went rigid and held his breath. "Do you… want me… to stop?" Dust panted. Stopping was the last thing Elijah wanted, but he was nervous. How clumsy he must seem to his more experienced companion. Dust would likely be disappointed. Though he'd always craved the touch of another man, the act itself frightened him: the pain and finality of that last surrender. "I'm a little scared, I guess," he admitted. "I've never done, well, anything." Dust propped himself up on his elbow and smoothed the hair out of Elijah's face. Though he couldn't see him, Elijah knew Dust was smiling. He felt the smile. Warm lips smashed against Elijah's temple. Dust stopped his hand's descent when Elijah tensed, and now it rested against his lower belly, his fingertips just brushing the top 33

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of Elijah's pubic hair. Elijah's cock stretched toward his hand as Dust's kisses caused it to swell. Even when the head poked between Dust's thumb and finger, the drifter didn't proceed. "We won't do anything that hurts," Dust whispered. "I won't take your cherry; I've got no right to do that. If you don't like anything I do, I'll stop, okay?" "Okay." "Relax, it'll be nice," Dust said. He rubbed Elijah's erection softly and kissed his neck. Elijah dropped his head back against the blanket and the ground beneath. He just laid still, his arms limp at his sides, for many minutes and relished Dust's touch. The drifter took extra care to be gentle and move slowly, giving Elijah plenty of opportunity to stop him. Soon Elijah felt completely at ease and let his own hands find Dust's smooth waist. A little further journeying led him over Dust's sharp hipbones to his muscular ass. Dust's hard shaft pressed insistently against Elijah's thigh. Elijah circled around to Dust's front and gripped his cock at the base. Dust lifted himself a few inches off Elijah so that Elijah's hand wasn't squashed between them. He ceased his reverent exploration of Elijah's body long enough to unbutton his jeans and slide them to his knees. Nothing but his impressive erection waited underneath. 34

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"Can-can I put you in my mouth?" Elijah asked. This was another act he'd dreamed about while walking across the desert. For years, he'd imagined sucking on another man and he wanted it more than he could express. He'd never been able to share his feelings, never met a man who might enjoy his attentions, until he met Dust. He wanted Dust's cock in his mouth more than he'd ever wanted anything. He just couldn't believe he'd actually mustered the nerve to request it. "You really want to?" "Yeah." "Okay. Come here." Dust rolled off Elijah and onto his back. The blanket fell open, exposing them to a stab of cold and light. Dust pulled the edges together and tucked them under his shoulder securely. He dug his fingers into Elijah's hair and guided his head downward. Elijah cupped Dust's balls and inhaled his scent. He couldn't believe he was touching Dust like this. Back at the diner, Dust had seemed too beautiful even to be real, as unattainable as someone in a movie, but now they were making love, and it was wonderful. It wasn't degrading or shameful like they'd told him in school and at church. Eager, desperate to please Dust, Elijah opened his mouth and plunged down on Dust's cock. Almost instantly, he gagged and choked, but he 35

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lifted his head and thrust it down again. Dust's cock hit the back of his throat, and he almost wretched. Then Dust took a handful of Elijah's hair and gently pulled him up and away. He moved Elijah's head until only the tip of his cock remained between his lips. "Just hold still," Dust said. "Stay right there." Elijah stretched his forearms out on either side of Dust's hips and steadied himself. Slowly, Dust began to move in tight circles, dragging the head of his cock back and forth over Elijah's tongue. He never went more than a few inches into Elijah's mouth. Elijah found this much more pleasant. In fact, Dust's cock was delicious: slippery, hot and quivering. Elijah's tongue explored its geography: the raised vein running along its length, the ridge where the head met the shaft, the tiny slit weeping a few drops of precome. Quickly catching on to what Dust taught him, Elijah soon took over, and Dust dropped his spine back to the ground. He continued the slow rhythm Dust had established until Dust's directing hand urged him to speed up. If he went too deep and choked himself, Dust tugged sharply at his hair. "Stop," Dust said after a few minutes. "Hey. Shit, I don't know your name." "It's Elijah." "Elijah," Dust grunted. 36

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Warm seed splattered across Elijah's chin, despite Dust's efforts to push him out of the way. Elijah scooped a little of it onto his finger and tentatively tasted it with the tip of his tongue. He wiped the rest on the back of his hand, and then on the blanket that fell cocoon-like around them. Afterwards, he sprawled beside Dust and nestled against his warmth. Dust rolled over, and Elijah held him around the ribs and burrowed his nose into the back of Dust's dark hair. Rough scabs, like strips of sandpaper an inch wide and several inches long, covered Dust's torso. Elijah ran his fingers gingerly over them. A row of three, the deepest of all, crossed over his heart. With a gasp, Elijah realized that nails on someone's hand may have made them. He didn't ask though. The injury had happened out there. Out there, it was cold and dangerous. Inside the blanket-world, though, it was safe and warm; they were together with no one to judge them. Elijah didn't want to bring the outside into their little world yet, not even in conversation. Instead, he lifted Dust's hair and kissed the back of his neck, his earlobes, and his back and shoulders, mottled with dark bruises that Elijah could just discern in the low light. The erection that had barely wilted returned full force, straining against Elijah's white briefs and jeans. He hoped maybe Dust would touch him with his hand again. To entice the other man, Elijah rubbed his cock lightly 37

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against Dust's bare tailbone. Dust sighed. "Go ahead. You can have me. Go ahead and do it." To Elijah, it sounded like Dust just wanted it over with quickly, like ripping a bandage off a wound. "I'm not trying to do anything," Elijah said. "Why not? You might as well, Elijah." "I don't want to." "Elijah, I can assure you that there's nothing you can do to this body that hasn't been done harder and nastier a hundred times." The drifter's voice had become bitter and jagged, all the reassuring sweetness evaporated. "You can't hurt me. I've had things done to me you can't even imagine. So do whatever you want." "I want to hold you," Elijah said. Dust's harsh words and unexpected tone had quashed Elijah's arousal. Sadness for his pain and anger at those who'd inflicted it replaced Elijah's lust. He was so confused; he'd wanted to touch another man so badly that he'd fallen into bed with the first willing person. Still, he already felt strongly about Dust. He held Dust as tight as he dared considering the man's injuries. He stroked his straight black hair and petted his back. Once Elijah had replaced and buttoned Dust's pants, Dust relaxed back against him, and his head fell into the crevice underneath Elijah's chin. The drifter fell asleep 38

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without another word, but Elijah lay with his eyes open, afraid he'd wake from rest and find he'd dreamt his night with Dust. Soon the sun glowed through the blanket enough that Elijah could watch his lover's face. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was where he belonged. Maybe he was fooling himself, but beneath his physical yearnings, he felt something more, though he couldn't give it a name yet. He sheltered Dust in his arms and kissed him when he whimpered or thrashed. He held the thin quilt over Dust's head against the frost and blaring light until he couldn't force his eyelids to stay open another second.

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Chapter Three Sheriff Sam Woodward lay dreaming about the Harvest Parade that took place in Epiphany each October. He'd apparently won some sort of an award and sat on a raised platform on the sidewalk outside the fire hall. He wore a gold plastic crown and held a gaudy scepter. Flatbed trucks loaded with pumpkins and hay wagons carrying costumed children passed in front of him. The local 4-H members led their ponies, one of which was decked out to look like a large bat, up Main Street. Sam looked to his left. Under the ancient elms, the citizens of Epiphany watched from lawn chairs. They stretched three blocks on either side of Sam's throne. Next came the high school mascot, a wolverine with matted fake fur and big plastic teeth, tossing candy from the plastic jack-o-lantern he held. The marching band followed. Sam didn't recognize the song they played: a lilting Middle Eastern melody over a sensual, heart-beat rhythm. It was the kind of music he felt in his gut, the percussion making his insides vibrate. It also surprised him to see them pounding doumbeks and tambourines with their bare hands. What the hell did Tawny Carlson have? A sitar? 40

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The people watching from the sidewalk ventured out into the street to dance with the band. They turned their hands and faces to the sun and undulated their hips. Women ground their asses against the groins of any men, or other women, nearby. Sally was the first to remove her shirt. The band continued on and soon disappeared, but the music remained. Everyone followed Sally's lead and stripped. They tossed their plaid work shirts, dirt-stained jeans, and modest, floral-print dresses on the sidewalk or into the trees, where they hung like toilet paper thrown by Halloween vandals. Soon the crowd went from dancing to embracing and fondling. Some of them were sandwiched together in groups of three or four, kneading breasts, kissing, and grinding cocks against any exposed flesh. They formed a kind of sweaty, nude conga line. A few abandoned their partners several times to try out others. Their mouths sought out lips and skin. Their hands groped for limbs to pull bodies toward them. Once the first couple fell over and started to fuck, a domino effect brought everyone else to the pavement. A mass of bodies writhed on top of discarded candy wrappers and leaflets. Some couples—and threesomes and foursomes—fucked on the backs of other couples. Sam left his platform to join in but found himself unable to choose which willing body he wanted. He chose 41

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to hold his cock in his hand and fall face-first into the throng,

certain

he'd

find

some

moist

orifice

to

accommodate him. Not surprisingly, Sam woke with a raging hard-on. The clock on his night table said quarter of six. He flopped to his stomach, covered his head with a pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. His cock poked painfully into the mattress, preventing him from resting. Despite having been drained the previous night, his balls ached. Phantom images from his bizarre dream returned to torment him. He never usually remembered his dreams, but he couldn't banish the dancing, naked bodies from his mind. He thought he smelled warm skin, melting miniature chocolate bars, and sweet maple leaves crushed under writhing flesh. After another ten minutes of tossing in his sweaty sheets, Sam gave up and rose from the bed. His mouth and throat were dry. His bare feet slapped against his pine floor as he made his way down the hall to the bathroom. The first thing he needed to do was take care of his problem. He flipped the light on, dropped his shorts and sat on the cold seat of the toilet. He took his cock in his hand and started to work even while he thumbed through the magazines in the rack beside him. Sam had never been much of a porn connoisseur, but he wished he had the Swimsuit Edition now. He wanted to make quick work of this, but his over42

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stimulated cock wasn't cooperating. It still hurt from the beating he'd given it a few hours ago behind the holly bush. Sam took the tube of hand cream from beside the sink and drizzled it over himself to soothe his skin. Then he settled on a department store catalog and flipped quickly to the lingerie section. Plain women, similar to those in Epiphany, stood smiling in white cotton bras and panties that reached their navels. Sam had a good imagination, though, and soon sprayed his seed over a glossy brunette in a peach, lace-trimmed nightie. He threw the catalog in the wastebasket and stood up. The man in the mirror over the sink looked like Sam Woodward, but it felt like someone else had taken over his mind. It scared him and pissed him off. One thing Sam hated was being at the mercy of something he couldn't control. He filled a paper cup with water and drank it in a single swallow, then filled it again. This time he stopped and looked into the little cup, and a thought occurred to him. Sam dropped the cup, spilling its contents over the linoleum floor and ran back to his room for his clothes. **** Elijah and Dust woke in mid-morning. The sun 43

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shone with a hard white light that made everything look sharp. It was a light from which imperfections couldn't hide, one that magnified minute flaws. Even small rocks cast long shadows across the rust-colored ground. They split up the three leftover ham sandwiches with the soggy bread and runny mayonnaise and the remaining coffee for breakfast, and then Dust put out the fire while Elijah packed their blanket. "What are we going to do?" Elijah finally asked. He'd been cautious around Dust all morning, after his stinging comments the previous night. Dust's mood had switched from sweet to bitter so quickly that Elijah feared making his demeanor shift again. "I'm looking for something," Dust said, smiling. His smooth face glowed, the crinkle of his eyelids sincere. He looked beautiful. The blemishes, Elijah knew, lay underneath, like a perfect gold pocket watch that couldn't keep the time because the gears were all out of order. "What?" "Something that belongs to somebody else. I lost it and need to return it to its owner," Dust said. "Is it valuable?" Elijah asked, daring to dig a little since Dust seemed in good spirits. "Infinitely." "Like jewelry?" 44

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"Not at all," Dust answered. "Is everything in order? Can we start out?" Elijah picked up his gym bag. Dust's backpack lay beside it, so he knelt and grabbed the strap. The pack was cumbersome as if it was full of cannonballs, and Elijah groaned when he shouldered it. Dust hurried over and snatched the pack away. "I'll take that." With a grimace, he put a strap over each shoulder. "It's really heavy. I could carry it for a while, since you're hurt," Elijah offered. "We can at least take turns." "No." "Which way are we headed?" Elijah asked, defeated. "Let's find out, shall we?" Dust crouched down and rested his left elbow on his knee. The wind whipped his ponytail out behind him like a banner. From his sweatshirt pocket, he took what looked like a bloody rag and said "Damn, it's all dried up." Elijah squatted beside him to better see what was going on. The ferrous odor from the rag made him gag a little, but curiosity won over disgust. "Do we have any water?" Dust asked. "Any more of that coffee?" "Nothing, sorry." 45

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"Okay." Dust held the rag close to his lips and let a thin string of saliva drop on to one of the maroon stains. It caught the light and looked like molten silver. With his thumb, he rubbed the liquid into the fabric. When it was damp enough, he twisted the cloth into a point, drew a smudged arrow on the side of a flat rock, and whispered "Which way?" To Elijah's amazement, the stone hurled itself at Dust's boot and knocked against his toe. Dust rolled his eyes. "Not me, you fool thing." The rock went still for a moment and then skipped over the packed desert ground as it might over calm water, back toward the road. It moved so quickly that Dust ran to keep up with it. Elijah stood stunned, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen, until Dust yelled for him to follow. Once it reached the pavement, the rock slowed down until it came to a stop a few hundred yards away. "Southwest, like I thought," Dust said after he caught his breath. He put the rock in his pocket and walked along the shoulder in the direction the arrow had pointed, with Elijah following a few feet back. They continued down the lonely road. Elijah imagined they looked small beneath the broad expanse of sky. **** 46

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The medical examiner had told Sam that it would take her a few hours to test the water he'd carried from Epiphany in a mason jar, so he'd gone to see the only other friend he had left in Las Vegas. The trees of the Woodlawn Cemetery on Las Vegas Boulevard shielded its peaceful grounds from the gaudy casinos and high-rise hotels that made the city famous. In front of Sam stood a small rounded stone that he'd always found woefully inadequate. He knelt down in grass too green for the desert and read the words he knew by heart. Carissa Maria Montoya 1938-1969 She Died a Hero "Hey, Cari," he said, her name catching in his throat on the way out. "Sorry it's been so long." He removed some dead roses from a blue plastic tube and replaced them with fresh pink stargazer lilies. Tears slid down his face and dripped from his chin. "I still miss you so much, sweetheart." He'd never had a chance to show or tell her how he felt. He'd loved her from the moment he saw her in his captain's office, but they were partners. His love only 47

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deepened over the three years they worked vice together, and he'd witnessed her bravery, her dedication, and her compassion. He'd never seen a cop with so much integrity or such an honest desire to help people. No matter how many drug-addicted whores they hauled in or kiddy-porn rings they broke up, Cari didn't become jaded. She held on to her hope. Her hope became Sam's hope. Because of her, he found his belief that he could make a difference renewed. Not that the men on the force made it easy for her. For years, Cari weathered their sexist insults stoically, not giving them the satisfaction of a retort. She waited patiently as she was passed over time and time again for promotion. Of course, when the chance came for her to finally prove her worth, to show those pigs she was as good or better a detective than the lot of them all put together, she jumped on it. Patrick

McDermott

had

succeeded

in

the

impossible: he'd united the various criminal factions of the city under his banner. No other mob boss had managed such a feat since the 1940s. The Mexican, Chinese, Irish, Italian, Jewish and Black gangs had been dangerous separately, but organized, they became an unstoppable force. Most of the men on the force gave in to corruption rather than try to stand against such an army, headed by a 48

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man that even the most cold-blooded of killers feared. The Catholic-raised among them swore McDermott had made a deal with the Devil himself. How else could one explain so many found dead in locked rooms surrounded by armed guards? None could hide. The Hispanics said McDermott employed an army of spirits to spy for and report back to him. The Chinese called him wushen. To bring him down would not only make a vice detective's career, it would elevate him, or her, to legendary status. Cari worked tirelessly from the bottom of a Mexican gang that snuck guns, marijuana, and illegal immigrants across the border all the way to McDermott's inner circle. She told Sam, during one of their weekly meetings at a dive bar in Sparks, that she was getting scared, that maybe there was something behind the other gangs' superstitious fear of McDermott. She'd seen things she couldn't explain. Her cover was blown, she knew, though she'd been meticulous and more. They moved her to a different safe house every night and surrounded it by men hand-picked by Sam for their loyalty. In the end, though, Cari became another corpse behind a locked door, on the fourth floor of a building surrounded by the best the force had to offer. The coroner called it a heart attack. Sam shook his head. A heart attack, at twenty-nine, in a room with no windows— 49

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The night before she died, Cari kissed Sam and told him she'd wanted him for years. Maybe after this was all over… Sam sobbed now, holding onto the little stone for support. If he'd known how things would work out, he'd have slapped his gun and badge down on the captain's desk the first time he looked into Cari's warm brown eyes. He'd have proposed to her, bought her a little house, and given her the big family she always talked about wanting. Why had he hesitated, wasted those years? The answer, of course, had been professionalism and propriety. Partners didn't date. At least that was what Sam told himself at the time. In the years since, when he lay alone at night with nothing and no one to shield him from the truth, he gradually grew able to admit to himself that women like Cari intimidated him. She was the polar opposite of the women Sam grew up around. She was a modern woman who didn't need a man to open jars or bring home a paycheck. She didn't even need his strength or protection; Cari was a crack shot and trained in martial arts. He'd seen her drop a two-hundred pound perp like a bad habit. Not being needed unnerved Sam. Maybe he was just old-fashioned, maybe he was even a bit of a chauvinist, but he wanted a woman to depend on him. 50

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In one night, what might have been became what would never be. The assassin who stole Cari's life and future remained as elusive as he'd ever been. Rumors of black magic increased. Sam spent four months looking for him, trying to figure out how the hell he'd pulled it off, and then he'd resigned from the Las Vegas Police Department. Other detectives called him a quitter and coward behind his back for not avenging his partner. The sinking sun warmed Sam's back as he crouched in the cemetery for the next several hours. Eventually it withdrew its heat, forcing Sam to glance at his watch. It was seven o'clock, time to meet the medical examiner and hear the results of the water test. Then he could go back to Epiphany, where there were no drug dealers or prostitutes, and things like what happened to Cari could never touch him again. **** Jo, whose full name was Sojourner Truth Davis— her parents had been civil rights activists—had already ordered when Sam arrived at the off-strip hamburger place where they'd agreed to meet. She was too busy devouring her two bacon cheeseburgers and onion rings to greet the sheriff with more than a grunt. He sat across from her and 51

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said, "How do you keep your figure and eat like that?" She washed her food down with a sip of Coke. "I got two dead strippers, an OD'd showgirl, a stabbing, a gunshot, and an old Chinese man who died of a heart attack when he won at craps. Then you bring me your jug of water. I had to skip lunch." A bottle-blonde waitress sauntered up to the plastic table and asked for Sam's order. She'd probably been gorgeous twenty years ago. Her nose turned up too much from an obviously botched rhinoplasty, and she had a slight tick when she spoke. Cocaine, Sam thought. Its use was becoming more and more prevalent, the drug itself becoming more readily available. This waitress had probably been a dancer or at least waited tables in a place that paid more than this before she'd lost her looks. No, Sam didn't miss this town at all. "I'll have a chicken sandwich and a side salad," he said. "Just water to drink." While he waited for his food, Sam watched Jo eat. She'd been Cari's best friend, and the two women had stood shoulder to shoulder against a world determined to see them fail. Jo wore no make-up and didn't need any. Thick lashes framed her big black eyes, and her full lips had a natural black cherry sheen that was prettier than anything one could buy. Sam's gaze trailed down her long neck to a 52

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modest gold chain that sparkled against her espresso skin. Her full breasts rose and fell under her mustard-colored blouse as she swallowed. Sam caught himself wondering what kind of bra she wore. Probably something white and comfortable; she was a doctor after all. Even her dark curls were close-cropped for practicality. He sniffed. She smelled a little like formaldehyde, with something sexy and floral underneath. He contemplated what it would be like to take Jo back to Epiphany with him. No other blacks lived in the little town. While the people weren't overtly racist, Sam knew he'd be met with strong disapproval for dating her. Hell, he'd likely end up being run off about as quickly as that kid with the long hair. It might be worth it, though. Sam noticed a tingle spreading across his groin and his blood rushing south. "What were the results on that water?" he asked, as much to distract himself as to learn the answer. Jo shot him a look that said she was annoyed to be interrupted while eating and bent to withdraw a stack of papers from a briefcase beside her. She passed them to Sam. He looked at the sheets of scrawled elemental abbreviations, long words and percentages without comprehension. "There's not a damn thing wrong with that water," 53

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Jo said finally. "It's as pure as anything I've ever seen. You could bottle it and sell it, Sam." "Did you test for drugs?" "Of course I did. You asked me to three times when you dropped it off, remember?" "Sorry. Listen, Jo, is there anything that you know of that can make people act, um, erratic?" "There's lots of things. Drugs, like you said. Mental illness. Brain tumors. Sometimes environmental pollution. It's a long list. You gonna tell me what this is about, Sam?" "Aside from drugs or pollution," he said, "do you know of anything that could cause a whole town full of people to act erratically?" "Erratically how?" "Just, reckless," he said. Jo finished the last of her food and dabbed at her lips with a napkin just as the waitress set Sam's plate down. "You snuck into my morgue and scared the hell out of me," she said. "I haven't seen you in five years. Still, I did what you asked. I tested your water. I didn't tell anybody you were in town. I don't mind helping you out, Sam, but you've got to be honest with me. Hell, I didn't even know where you disappeared to after Cari—" "I had to get out," he said. "Away from here." "You could've called." 54

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"I'm sorry, Jo. I had to deal with it, with Cari, in my own way." He looked at his food, but had lost his appetite. "We should have kept looking," the coroner said, passion burning in her dark eyes. "We owed her that, at least." Getting annoyed, Sam said, "You saw the crime scene. We both did. Hundreds of times. No point of entry. No evidence. Not even a hair." "You gonna tell me you believe this sorcery bullshit?" "No, but—" "You can't hide from things like this, Sam." "I'm not hiding," he snapped. "A little defensive," she mumbled. Sam balled his fists under the table. What gave her the right to judge him? How could the water sample from Epiphany not be tainted? It was the only explanation. He'd wasted an eight hour drive to find out nothing, and he had an eight hour drive home. He cursed himself for ever coming back to this god-forsaken city. Even more, he dreaded what he'd find when he got back to Epiphany. He dreaded the things he wouldn't be able to stop himself from doing. "I'm sorry if I pissed you off," Jo said. "I guess I'm still a little bitter. I needed a friend after Cari died like she 55

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did. It would have been nice to have somebody to talk to. Somebody who really knew her. I don't feel like I can really let her rest until I know what happened to her. And nobody but you and me gives a shit." "I can't change the past, Jo. I wish I could, but I can't." "She loved you, Sam. She used to tell me about it. How she loved your smile—" "Stop it." Sam stood up, took his wallet from his pants, and slapped a five down on the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. "I can't do this. Thanks for your help, Jo. See ya around." In three long strides, he made it to the door. He flung it open and hurried out into the neon night, plunging his hands into his pants pockets as he stomped away from the restaurant. He knew Jo followed him out into the street, but Sam pushed his shoulders toward his ears and walked away. "You just gonna run away again?" she called after him. Sam didn't look back. He walked faster, trying to escape Jo's mumbled insults and criticisms. When he reached his Bronco three blocks away, he smacked the hood with his palm. "Fuck!" 56

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The outburst startled two whores leaning against a building across the street. Sam shook his head. Five years ago, this part of town hadn't been too bad. One streetwalker, a blonde, didn't look more than fifteen or sixteen. She teetered on the heels of her knee-high vinyl boots, clearly drunk, or worse. Even in the low, amber light, Sam could see her black eye. The boy beside her might have been legal, but barely. Sam watched him light a cigarette and pull the collar of his purple fur coat closer to his face. He was Asian, certainly undocumented. When he noticed Sam watching him, a smile spread across a face that belonged on a billboard. Sam's cock twitched and expanded a little. What had happened back in Epiphany swept over him again. He could already imagine following the whore into the alley and unzipping his jeans while the boy dropped to his knees. He took his keys from his pocket and hurried to the Bronco's driver's side door. The young man crossed the street. If the good-looking whore propositioned him, Sam didn't know if he'd be able to refuse. He got in the truck and locked it. The whore hung his head and returned to lean against the building. Sam watched the pair a few more minutes before driving off. There was something about the boy, something about his face. Then Sam knew, and he couldn't believe he 57

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hadn't thought of it before. It was that kid! he thought. The drifter. The drifter at the diner did something to the people of Epiphany. He'd threatened to "give them a wake-up call" or something like that, and he had. What had happened to Sam's town was the drifter's revenge. Jo would mock him, but he knew in his gut that he was right. Sam pressed the gas pedal and sped past the casinos on the strip toward the highway. He didn't know how that boy had influenced everyone in town, but he would find out. He'd find the drifter and make him undo whatever he'd done. Sam hated himself for wasting a whole day worrying about the water when he could've been searching for the young man. He hated himself for wasting his own money on nothing. Gas had skyrocketed to over fifty cents a gallon, making his trip not just a waste, but an expensive waste. Now he'd find that evil little bastard. There was only one road out of Epiphany, and it didn't intersect with another for many miles. The kid was on foot. Sam would likely find him walking and be able to pick him up. Before the night ended, everything would be back to normal.

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Chapter Four The heat receded as soon as the sun sank, and Dust felt the cold sweeping over the flat ground almost instantly. He thought about the title Elijah had given him. He'd been known by many names; some he liked and some he hated. He actually kind of liked Dust, and it seemed to make Elijah happy. It was as good a way as any to think of himself. To his left, Elijah untied his jacket from his waist, slipped it on, and continued to trudge along. Dust could tell the blond was tired, though. Elijah barely lifted his feet from the gravel as he walked. He hasn't complained once, Dust thought. No food, hardly any water, a ten-hour walk, and he hasn't said a word. Dust's feet, his calves, and the small of his back ached. Elijah, unused to such physical punishment, would be hurting worse. The apples of Elijah's cheeks and his nose had burned and peeled. His lids hung low over his big, ocean-blue eyes. I should have sent him home. He was miserable in that dump of a town, and his mother was a harpy, but this— It'll only get worse. Wait 'til I find what I'm looking for. And after that… 59

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Selfishness, Dust scolded himself. Worse yet, Elijah had spoken to him very little. He's afraid I'll snap and lose it again, like I did last night under the blanket. Dust had been exhausted, not that that excused his treatment of Elijah. His first experience. I wanted so much to make it beautiful, but I fucked up. Dust decided to make it up to Elijah the first chance he had. Dragging his feet along the desert ground, Dust tried to decipher what about Elijah made him care. He'd only known the young man a day, and yet he wanted to see him happy, see him safe. Amazingly, he found that he trusted Elijah. If life had taught Dust one lesson, it had been to trust no one, no matter how pretty the façade. He couldn't deny the connection he felt, though. His blond companion noticed Dust watching him and offered a tired but brave smile, almost breaking Dust's heart. "Are you doing okay?" Dust asked. "I'm awful hungry," Elijah admitted. "And thirsty." "Yeah. You never really get used to that part." "How long have you been doing this, Dust?" When Dust stopped walking and faced his friend, Elijah flinched. He quickly turned and held both of Elijah's hands in his. Elijah's fingers already shivered. "Elijah, please don't be afraid of me. I'm sorry about last night. I was so tired. I don't want you to worry that any little thing is going to make me lose my temper. I can't deny that I've 60

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got scars, but I'm so glad to have you with me. I'll try harder, I promise." Elijah pulled one hand free from Dust's grasp and stroked his cheek. "What happened to you?" he asked Dust. Dust closed his eyes. The magnitude of his past weighed on him. He was too worn out to even order and comprehend those long ago events himself. There was no way he could relay them to Elijah. He yearned for the escape that unconsciousness would provide, and for the comfort of Elijah's body. "I'm just tired," he said. "Do you want to sleep now?" "Let's keep going," Elijah said. "Maybe we'll get to a restaurant, or a little store. Something will happen; we just have to have faith." Faith had left Dust long ago. His universe was a broken machine, a rusted shell that occasionally hummed and ticked with the semblance of functionality, but was essentially worthless, cracked, leaking, and pitiful to look at. It was something that should be scrapped and started fresh. Therefore, he attributed it to coincidence when a tractor trailer, the first vehicle they'd seen in hours, stopped a few hundred yards in front of them. Rows of red lights lined the rectangular bed and lit the dew-damp pavement. Exhaust drifted in a cloud toward the first stars. "Look at that, a ride!" Elijah smiled, squeezed 61

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Dust's elbow, and skipped toward the truck. He looked like a kid just let out of school on the first day of summer. "Thank you!" he called when the door opened. Dust looked up. The driver was a woman, and he didn't care for the way she ogled them. He also sensed the twelve-gauge shotgun behind her seat and a revolver in the glove compartment. He crossed his arms, knowing he could intimidate most people despite his small stature. It had certainly worked on Elijah's mother and that hillbilly sheriff. "Evenin', boys," she said. She was stocky and rather dirty, but not bad looking. A bun of curly brown hair stuck out from the back of her baseball cap. Her tanned face was square and plain, but not ugly. "Which way you headed?" "Straight down this road," Elijah answered. "Thanks so much for stopping; we're done in." He started to climb up into the truck. "Hold on a second," the trucker said. "I'll make you boys a deal. There's a stop a couple hours from here with a diner and a motel. I'll give you a lift, and we'll get a room at the motel. How's that sound?" "Sounds great," Elijah answered, ecstatic. "Real beds, and showers!" Bless him, he doesn't even understand what she's asking, Dust thought. He pushed past Elijah so he could 62

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take the center seat, beside the woman. Elijah's innocence had already been partially chipped away, but Dust would be damned if he'd let his lover get this much of an education. Growing up in that town, with everyone turning their heads while his mother abused and humiliated him, could easily have turned Elijah cynical. The knowledge that he'd never be accepted, that his desires must go unfulfilled, would have jaded almost anyone. Somehow Elijah maintained his optimism and that selfless good that amazed Dust. He couldn't remember ever meeting a person who'd been kind to him without expecting something in return. When the time came, Dust would take care of the trucker. He'd done it before, and worse. She wasn't laying a finger on Elijah, no matter what. Elijah's first time will be with me. It's going to be beautiful. It had been a long time since he'd had anything beautiful. If letting this woman use his body was the going rate, he'd pay it. He dropped his weighty pack on the floor by Elijah's feet. It landed with a metallic thud, making the woman eye it suspiciously. Elijah dropped his light bag on top and buckled his safety belt. In the dim, greenish light, the trucker stared at them as if they were a fine meal. Dust couldn't tell if she had a preference between them. The truck's interior smelled of 63

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old leather, must, and a vanilla air freshener that needed replacing. The driver, judging by her scent, had been on the road for a long time. "Name's Denise," she said. "Dust," he answered with the name Elijah had chosen for him, drawing out the "s", tasting the sound. He was getting used to the name, growing fonder of it, and thinking of himself as belonging to it. "What the hell kind of a name is that? One of those damned hippie names like Starchild or Rainbow?" she asked. "What about you, blondie?" "Elijah." She shifted the truck into gear. "Had a dog named Elijah. I think the stupid son of a bitch ate rat poison, though." Dust looked into his lover's eyes and whispered, "Sleep," too quick and softly for the woman to notice. A second later, his golden head collapsed against Dust's shoulder. **** Dust nudged Elijah awake when they reached the truck stop. Elijah didn't remember falling asleep, but it had been a deep, peaceful rest, and he felt completely restored. 64

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His companion didn't seem to have faired as well. Dust's gray eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and he looked at Elijah with an odd expression. He's worried about me, Elijah realized. The woman driver wasn't in her seat. Dust leaned in and cradled Elijah's head so the back of it rested against the inside of his elbow. "Hey, guess what," he said sweetly."There's a restaurant here and a little store." "Cool, I'm starving. Let's go inside." Elijah reached for the door handle, but Dust grabbed his wrist. He held it so tightly his thumbnail almost broke the skin. He stared unblinkingly into Elijah's eyes, and then he kissed him hard, jamming his tongue into Elijah's mouth and sucking his bottom lip until it hurt. "Elijah—" he breathed. "What? What do you want to say?" "Nothing," Dust answered, pushing a long strand of stray hair out of his eye and trapping it behind his small, round ear. "Let's go get some food." They hopped to the pavement and went into the diner. Elijah was surprised how much it resembled his mom's place. Like Pru's, this nameless establishment was rectangular, with a set of booths and windows along one long side and a bar with the kitchen behind it on the other. It smelled the same, like cooking oil and old coffee. It even 65

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had the same aluminum tables and chairs, with the same sparkly gold veins stretching across the white Formica tabletops. It wasn't as clean, and it was full of pipe and cigarette smoke, something Elijah's mother would never have allowed. Instead of his neighbors, mostly truckers patronized the diner. Elijah could tell because none of them sat together and they were all men. He didn't see their female benefactor anywhere. Dust sat at a booth by the window, and Elijah took the seat beside, rather than across, from him. Dust squeezed his knee under the table. "Did it rain while I slept?" Elijah asked. "The parking lot looks all shiny." "It sprinkled for a while," Dust said. "Where's Denise?" Dust didn't answer. Past the bar, an arched doorway led to a small market

that

sold

candy,

drinks,

and

medicine.

Remembering something from the previous night, Elijah excused himself and went to the counter. When he returned, he handed a pack of Marlboro Reds to Dust. Dust stared at the little cardboard box in his hand as if he couldn't believe it existed. He shook his head, looking like he might cry. Elijah wondered if he'd done something wrong. "I didn't know what kind," he mumbled. Dust 66

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smiled at him with his eyes glossy from tears and tore the cellophane wrapper away. "You amaze me, Elijah," he said. Elijah felt sad that such a little thing would have such a profound effect on Dust. Obviously, Dust wasn't used to anyone caring about him. Hopefully, he'd grow accustomed to being treated with love, and the demons of his past would fade away. Though they'd only known one another a day, Elijah found himself keenly aware of Dust's mood, able to sense tiny tremors of anxiety underneath the reserved surface. Evidently something was bothering Dust. Elijah could almost hear the broken gears grinding, trying to move in unison but unable to find a rhythm. "I forgot to ask for matches," Elijah said. "I'll go back for them." "Don't need 'em," Dust said, the cigarette's filter pressed between his lips. As Elijah watched, the end sprang alight just as if it had been touched by flame. Dust sank against the booth's padded vinyl back, and said, "Ah, I needed that." Pungent smoke curlicued around his head, drifting up to join the dense cloud that hung over the other booths and tables. Elijah slid the filthy ashtray in front of him. "How did you do that?" he asked Dust. Before Dust could answer, Denise joined them at 67

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the table. She dropped a key ring in front of Elijah. "Lucky number seven, baby," she said with a wink. A waitress named Candy, according to the plastic pin on her red tank top, took their order and returned with cheeseburgers for them all. The food was good and plentiful, the burgers double normal size and the fries freshcut. None of them spoke until every last crumb and drop of ketchup had been consumed. "How about some dessert?" Dust said. "They have coconut pie, or—" "We'll have some dessert, all right," Denise said. "Back in the room. Let's go now; we had a deal." She stood and crossed her arms. "Fine, let's do it," Dust said. "Elijah, wait here for me. Get yourself some pie and coffee and read the paper. I'll only be an hour or two." "Wait here? Why?" Dust turned to him and grasped both of Elijah's shoulders. He looked frantic. "Elijah, please. Please." "I don't think so," Denise said. "That ain't what we agreed. Blondie comes too." "No," Dust said. "Under no circumstances." "Don't fuck with me, boy," she said through a clenched jaw. "There's a dozen or more rigs out in that parking lot full of friends of mine. You can either keep 68

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your bargain with me, or I'm sure they'd be happy to entertain you. Pay your bill and meet me in room seven." She slammed the diner door on her way out, ringing the cowbell tied to its handle. "Dust, what's going on? Why's she so angry?" "Let me go first, Elijah. After that, I'll make her sleep. Please don't think less of me for this. It's the easiest way. I don't think I have the strength to fight a dozen men, and you could get hurt. Most of those guys probably have guns, too." Aware, finally, of what Denise wanted, Elijah whispered, "No, you can't." "It's only my body, not my heart. Besides, I'm used to it. I can't stand the idea of anything happening to you though. I can take it if you're okay." "Dust—" "Come on, Elijah. She's waiting." "Can't we just, I don't know, run away?" "We wouldn't get very far, Elijah. Especially if they came looking for us. Besides, there's nowhere to go. Sleeping out in the desert is one thing, but it's a dangerous prospect along a highway. If somebody found us, we might get robbed, or beaten up, or—" "Well, make her sleep now!" Dust sighed. "I'll try. I'm hurt, and I haven't had 69

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much to eat lately. I'm not at the top of my game. After she gets what she wants, she'll be susceptible, and it will be easy. But before that—I'll try." Holding hands, they crossed the parking lot. The amber lights at the tops of tall metal poles made the pavement glisten and the puddles look like melted copper. Exhaust and tire-rubber scented the air, choking out the greasy smell of the diner behind them. Faint music, a popular John Denver ballad, could be heard above the faraway swish of traffic on the road and the occasional high whine of air brakes. Outside of the flimsy aluminum door to Room Seven, Dust dropped Elijah's fingers, leaving his hand feeling cold and incomplete. Slowly, he turned the chipped brass doorknob, looking like an execution waited for him inside. They found her naked, drinking a beer on the narrow bed. She was big-boned, with shoulders broader than either Elijah or Dust, but fit and smooth-skinned. Everything about her looked square: her ribcage, her hips, her hands and her wide feet. She'd let her hair down, and the curls fell over her muscular chest and pale nipples. "Get your clothes off, boys." She finished her drink and crushed the can in her fist. "I'm heading back out in two hours. Gotta make El Paso by the end of the week." Elijah let his jacket fall and peeled off his T-shirt. 70

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His shoes, socks, pants and shorts followed. It felt so clinical and detached to strip like that, without love or desire. Denise nodded approvingly at his body saying, "Not bad." Elijah watched her eyes travel down and settle on his package, and she nodded again, apparently satisfied with it. Because of his wounds, Dust removed his clothing slowly and carefully. For the first time, Elijah saw his nude form. It had been dark the last time they'd been together. The memory of the curves and protrusions of Dust's body, the seams where each part joined every other, still lived in Elijah's fingers. Now he reconciled them with what he saw. Along with his well-proportioned lean muscles, Elijah also took in the horrible extent of his injuries. Scabs crosshatched most of his back and upper arms, and the deep cuts over his heart looked swollen. On his left side, a bruise extended from his underarm to his hip. The ghastly sight wasn't lost on Denise, either. "What in god's name happened to you?" she asked with a shudder in her voice. "I'm fine," Dust said, approaching the bed and the woman. He bent at the waist and reached for her, but she recoiled. "I want blondie first," she said. "C'mere." Elijah hesitated, and he looked over his shoulder at the door. Then he looked to Dust for guidance, but Dust 71

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stood with his fists balled at his sides and his eyes on the dirty carpet. His chest rose and fell in a fast, erratic way, worrying Elijah. Tentatively Elijah took Dust's place, and Dust sat on the other bed. His condition, for whatever reason, had deteriorated fast. Palms clamped over his ears and eyes screwed tightly shut, Dust shook his head and mumbled to himself. Once, Elijah had watched a traveling minister under a tent try to drive demons from a man with similar symptoms. His mother had forced him to attend, and Elijah remembered sweating on a bench, thinking the whole spectacle rehearsed and ridiculous. He hadn't believed at the time, but seeing Dust so tormented, he had to wonder. Elijah took a step toward him, hoping he could ease whatever pain Dust felt. Before he could reach the other man, Denise caught his wrist and spun him to face her. He had no idea what to do with the woman's bulging chest or what was hidden under the nest of brown curls between her legs. The thought of kissing her as he had Dust made him feel dizzy and nauseous. He looked over his shoulder at Dust, hoping for some help, but he rocked back and forth, gone into a sort of trance now. Elijah trembled all over, which seemed to arouse Denise. She seized him and easily pulled his light body to the bed. Then she flipped him onto his back. 72

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"Dust?" Elijah called. Dust didn't hear him. Whatever terrible events played before Dust's eyes, they didn't take place in the shabby room. When Denise straddled him, Elijah caught sight of the red folds under her hair. He was probably expected to do something, but didn't know how she'd like to be touched there. The most he could manage was a caress of her knee. "Just lay back, boy," she said. "I'll do the rest." She gripped his flaccid cock and tried in vain to shovel it into herself. Then she ground her flesh against him, but his body didn't respond. Finally, she closed her fist over the head and jerked it with short, quick strokes. Her rough palm hurt, and Elijah couldn't get hard no matter how he tried. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snarled. "I—I'm sorry," Elijah muttered, not looking at her, feeling trapped beneath her weight. Panic threatened to overtake him. He needed to get away from her and help Dust. Without thinking, he pushed against her shoulder and tried to wriggle free. She backhanded him in the mouth, bringing tears. With a sadistic chuckle, she squeezed his shaft so hard it hurt and rubbed his head against her flesh. "Please stop," Elijah said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I can't." "Why not? What are you, a queer? Well, I don't 73

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care. I gave you a ride, and now you're going to get me off as payment. If you can't use your cock, you're gonna have to use your tongue." Dust stood up, finally breaking out of his fugue. Violence and purpose crackled along his hair and skin like static electricity. "You say you'd like to get off?" "Yeah," she answered. "Actually I would. But by the looks of you, the effort just might kill you, boy." Without another word, Dust grabbed her and flung her to the other bed as easily as he might toss away a tissue, though she probably outweighed him by fifty pounds. She landed on her belly. He pulled her to the foot of the bed by the ankles and hoisted her hips up level with his pelvis. "I bet you'd love it if I fucked you," he said, soft and deadly. When she didn't respond, he continued. "You'd love it. You have no idea what I could do to you, the way I could make you feel. I'm not going to though. I'm not going to touch you. Still, a deal is a deal." "What do you—" "Come now," he said softly. She responded with a series of rhythmic wails. Her palm slapped the mattress. Her body shook, and she beat her forehead into the comforter, but Dust just crossed his arms and looked bored. It took many minutes before she stopped squirming around and could catch her breath. As 74

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soon as she did, Dust whispered, "Again," and the performance started over from the beginning. Elijah covered his face as her smell grew stronger and stronger. "That's… enough," she panted after recovering from the second orgasm. "I don't think so," Dust said, making her clutch her quivering stomach. The person in the room next door knocked and swore. Dust's eyebrows pointed in toward his nose, and he had a malicious grin on his face. He grabbed Denise by an ankle and easily flipped her onto her back. "Come," he said. "Noooo," she moaned. She looked like she was having a seizure. Her head thrashed from side to side so quickly she seemed in danger of hurting her neck. Her back lifted from the bed and crashed back down uncontrollably. The noises she made were almost indistinguishable from pain. Red spread from her sweaty cheeks all the way to her ears. "Again," Dust said savagely, this time before she'd even stopped reeling from the last orgasm. "No more, please," she keened. "I can't take it." "This is what you asked of me," Dust said through clenched teeth. "You didn't need my friend after all. You could have left him alone. You're all the same. Never enough. Always more pain to cause. Always spoiling 75

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everything good. Selfish, selfish, selfish! All of you! You're not in control now, though." Dust's anger made him even more savage. He stood over her and whispered, "What else can I do with that body?" He pointed at her belly and said "Burst the appendix?" Finger traveling slowly toward her chest, he said, "Heart attack?" Perspiration soaked the sheets and flew from her hair as she banged her head. Eventually she managed to get a hold of his throat. Elijah stood up. Dust was powerful, but Denise was large and strong. She threw Dust away from her. His already bruised body bounced off the bed frame and hit the floor. The trucker dressed very quickly, shot the young men a terrified glance, and ran out the door into the night. Elijah knelt beside Dust. He seemed unhurt, but tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. His arms encircled Elijah's neck, and Elijah lifted him and laid him on the sagging mattress. "How did I fuck up so bad?" he whimpered. "Elijah, I'm so sorry." Elijah found the Marlboros in Dust's pants pocket and put one between his lips. "Make it light," he asked. The end glowed orange, and the smoke stung Elijah's throat, but he inhaled a second time before holding it to Dust's mouth. That woman's stink clung to his body, and to Dust. He felt numb when he thought about her throwing him down and 76

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taking him like that. A few more puffs from the cigarette made him light-headed, but it covered her scent. He wanted that smell off him, wanted to soak in the tub for hours. He couldn't find the energy to go shower, so he lay beside Dust and smoked. They finished the cigarette and lit another. Dust had been so scary. Elijah wondered how he'd made that woman come just by telling her to, but he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. His head spun from the smoke. The memory of Dust with that woman made him reel with confusion. His penis hurt where she'd manhandled it, and his stomach cartwheeled. He was going to throw up. He stepped into his shorts and hurried for the door with his hand over his mouth. **** Around midnight, Sam decided to pull over at a truck stop halfway between Vegas and Epiphany. As much as he wanted to get back, he no longer trusted himself driving. He'd already nodded off three times. The third time he'd narrowly missed side-swiping the guardrail. Rolling the window down and blaring the radio had done no good. Dead, he'd never find the drifter and restore order to his town. First he tried a big cup of coffee, but it did no more 77

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to keep him alert than the radio. No wonder, he thought. He'd only grabbed about two hours of sleep the night before, and he'd had plenty of exercise. Add to that twelve hours on the road and he was surprised he could stand. He remembered back when he'd first made detective. Back then, he could stay awake on a stake-out for forty-eight hours or more. Now losing one night of sleep had kicked his ass. "Getting old," he mumbled as he steered the orange Bronco toward the blinking motel sign behind the diner. He'd just sleep two, three hours tops. He'd still be back in Epiphany by morning, back to looking for that shady kid. It was a rundown little single-story place. Sam's room, Number Eight, contained two narrow beds, each of which touched one of the walls. A thin strip of worn olive carpet ran between them. The bathroom was just as cramped, with scarcely a few inches between the toilet bowl and the shower stall. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Sam pulled the paisley spread from the closest bed, kicked his boots off, and collapsed. At least the sheets smelled freshly laundered. He set the alarm on the night table for three AM, put out the light, and passed out. An hour after falling asleep, a commotion in the room next door woke Sam. Police training made him bolt up; it sounded like an assault in progress. After listening for 78

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a few minutes, though, Sam discerned the real source of the noise: fucking. By the way the woman shrieked and the bed slammed against the wall, Sam thought somebody must be having the time of her life. He desperately needed sleep, though. "Hey, keep it down, will you?" He rapped against the plaster, but it did no good. "Knock it off, you rude bastards!" The commotion only increased. A soft male voice said something, and the woman screamed something back. The bed pounded against the wall even louder and faster. It amazed Sam it didn't collapse. "Knock it the hell off," he said again. To be truthful, though, the fuck-racket turned him on. He listened a few minutes more, his mind conjuring images to accompany the obscene soundtrack. He threw the covers off and rose to his knees. "No more," the woman next door pleaded. Sam closed his eyes and gripped his cock. As he listened to the wailing and thumping, it surprised Sam that the face he saw most often was Jo's. He swirled his thumb around his head, over the slit to spread the fluids as he envisioned graphic scenarios involving her. Soon his imagination crowded out reality, and he barely noticed the people in the other room as he jerked himself with short, quick strokes. 79

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In mere moments, he'd shot his seed all over the pillow; he'd have to switch beds. A crash came from next door, and then the door opened and slammed shut. Finally, it went silent. Sam would be able to go back to sleep. He'd worked up quite a sweat, but didn't feel like washing. Instead, he put his jeans on and stepped outside to cool down. He was still thinking about Jo as he ventured out into the mist and soft rain, about how nice it would be to have her curled up in the bed when he went back inside. It had been too long since Sam had a woman to hold while he slept. He wanted to see Jo's warm eyes close peacefully and open in the morning light. He took a deep breath. Did he really want Jo, or was it just the influence of Epiphany making him think of her that way? He'd always admired her intellect, talent and strength, but he'd thought of her as a friend to drink some beers or shoot a game of pool with, one of the guys really. It wouldn't be fair to her to pursue the relationship until he knew for sure. The door of Room Seven opened, and Sam almost shit his pants when he saw who came out. "Elijah Tupper!" he called. Elijah, in nothing but his shorts, looked like he might run. He swooned, then doubled over and puked. A minute later someone in the room called out to ask if he 80

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was okay. Sam recognized the soft, crisp voice. "What are you doing all the way out here?" he asked Elijah. "Your mother'll be having kittens." Elijah just stared at him, swaying slightly. If Sam hadn't known better, he'd have said the kid was in shock. He walked closer, to catch him if he fainted. He draped Elijah's arm over his shoulder and helped him back into Room Seven. The black-haired drifter covered himself with the sheet when he saw Sam. "What are you doing here?" he asked. Sam took in the situation: the naked drifter, Elijah in his shorts, their clothes strewn over the floor. He'd sworn he heard a woman, but he'd been half asleep and probably imagined it. What had happened in this room was clear. One of these boys had cried out and hit the wall. It hardly seemed right to him, but Elijah was twenty years old and wasn't breaking the law. Whatever the drifter had done to the people in Epiphany, Sam couldn't charge the stranger with a crime. He'd have to play his hand very carefully. Elijah sat down beside the other young man, and Sam took the bed opposite them. He forced himself to make eye contact with the drifter, even though something about the kid really creeped him out. "I want you to make it stop," Sam said calmly. 81

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"Why should I?" "What we did in Epiphany was wrong," Sam said. "I was wrong. But please, son, undo whatever you did to my town." "I don't feel like it. Go away and leave us alone." "What will it take for me to get you to stop it?" Sam asked, carefully controlling his rising frustration. The kid held all the cards. "What do you want?" "Maybe there is something you can do," the drifter said. "Elijah and I will need a ride." "Where to?" "I don't know yet. We'll also need to transport something up north at a later time. We may need some other help, as well." "We're not talking about drugs here, right?" Sam asked. Not that it mattered. "No," the drifter said. "If I help you, you'll put Epiphany right?" The black-haired man laughed and took a drag from his cigarette. "Well, I'll put it back to the way it was." "Fine," Sam said. "I'm going back to my room to get some sleep. I can trust you boys not to run off on me in the night, right? Elijah?" Elijah rocked on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. 82

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"Leave him alone," the drifter snapped. "We're hardly going anywhere if you're our ride, are we?" Seeing the logic in this statement, and being dogtired, Sam returned to his room and turned down the unused bed. He stripped and pulled the sheets over his body. For a few minutes, he listened for any sounds to permeate the flimsy hotel wall, though he told himself he hoped he wouldn't. The boys next door were silent, probably asleep, so the sheriff surrendered to the rest he'd been craving.

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Chapter Five Elijah tried to retreat under the thin, scratchy hotel blanket, but someone outside kept knocking until he went groggily to the door. "Yeah?" he muttered, rubbing his eye. Sheriff Woodward stood outside in the bright early light, dressed, shaved, and looking impatient. He smelled of cheap shampoo. "You boys ready?" he asked. "Well, no. I just woke up, and Dust is still sleeping." Behind him, a long strand of black hair peaked out from under the faded comforter and dangled halfway to the floor. Dust had slept fitfully; he'd woken Elijah at least four times talking in his dreams. He only seemed at peace when Elijah held his curled body and caressed his arm. Elijah didn't want to disturb him until he had to. "Well, wake him up and let's get going," the sheriff said. Two days ago, Elijah had been afraid of Sheriff Woodward. Watching him now, with his arms crossed and his worn boots tapping the ground, Elijah felt only annoyance. The older man was so pathetic, trying to pretend he was still in charge, when it was clear he had no control of the situation. He reminded Elijah of a neutered dog that tried to hump your leg even though he was missing 84

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half of his equipment. "Look," he told the sheriff, "we'll leave when we're ready. Dust and I need to wash up, so come back in an hour. Why don't you go get us some donuts? Isn't that what cops do?" The sheriff stared dumbfounded for a moment before walking away in the direction of the diner. Elijah closed the door. He couldn't believe what he'd said. He'd never talked that way to anyone his senior. His heart raced. The sheriff deserved the smack. He'd mistreated Dust in Epiphany, and now he thought he could order them around. Elijah was tired of orders, and tired of being treated like a child. "Dust," he said softly, rubbing his lover's bare shoulder. Dust's thick black lashes fluttered, and his lids pulled back to reveal his magnificent gray eyes. "Do you want to get up?" "Yeah." Sitting up and stretching obviously hurt him, and he winced and groaned softly. Elijah turned on the shower. Steam poured out of the small bathroom and fogged the window beside the bed. Elijah shed his shorts on the cold linoleum floor. They were so filthy and sweaty after the previous day's walk he decided just to leave them behind. He pulled back the plastic curtain and stepped into the tiny square stall. Hot water pelted the top of his head and his back, soothing his 85

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aching shoulders. He couldn't remember ever feeling so dirty, or the last time a hot shower had felt so good. Being without things made one appreciate them, he supposed. He had so much he wanted to wash away. The curtain rustled, and Dust joined him. His eyes looked heavy, not fully alert, but he smiled. Elijah stepped out of the water stream so Dust could rinse himself. Their bodies touched since there was barely enough room in the stall for two people. Dust sighed and tipped his head back, letting the water rain over his face. Elijah smoothed his wet hair away, letting his hand linger on Dust's face, then trail down to his chest. The wounds over his heart made Elijah feel queasy; he had to look away. "Dust, there's something I'd like to do, if you don't mind," he said. "What?" "Can I wash your hair?" Dust laughed softly, handed Elijah the shot-glasssized shampoo bottle, and turned around. His head inclined toward Elijah. Wet, his hair fell almost to his waist. The ends brushed Elijah's cock and tickled his belly. He opened the bottle and worked the lather into Dust's scalp with his fingertips, letting the soapy locks slip over his hands. He kneaded the back of Dust's neck, and Dust pushed back against him, moaning with pleasure. The massage 86

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continued over Dust's shoulders and down the long muscles surrounding his spine. The suds let Elijah's hands glide smoothly over Dust's skin. The more Elijah touched Dust, the more his cock swelled. Soap bubbles filled Elijah's mouth when it closed over Dust's earlobe. He pulled Dust back against him and kissed his neck and shoulders. When he reached around him, Elijah found Dust rock hard. His own cock pressed against Dust's thighs and then, lubricated by the soap, slid between them. Elijah's cockhead met Dust's balls when it poked out between Dust's legs. His right wrist rubbed against his own sensitive tip as Elijah stroked Dust. With his left hand, he scraped the remaining shampoo from the long, black hair. Elijah rested his chin beside Dust's neck and said, "I thought about you. I tried to think about what we did in the desert while that woman—" Dust turned around and covered Elijah's mouth with his own, swallowing the impending words. He held Elijah's face in his palms and kissed him until Elijah forgot what he wanted to say, forgot everything but the surreal beauty in the shower with him. He wanted to take Dust in his mouth again, so Elijah wriggled free of his lover's grasp and dropped to his knees. Water cascaded down Dust's slight torso and over Elijah's face. The medicinal shampoo had 87

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replaced any scent that had clung to Dust's body. Underneath it, Elijah detected the faint fragrance of his moist flesh. He burrowed into Dust's sparse pubic hair, rubbing his cheek against his cock. The tip had leaked, leaving a slipperiness distinct from the soap on Elijah's jawbone. Nor could the detergent completely override the flavor of Dust's excitement when Elijah took him into his mouth. Dust let Elijah suck on him for a few minutes before pulling out of his mouth with a soft pop. He dropped to his knees and kissed Elijah. "You taste like soap," he said. "Lie back now, Elijah." For Elijah to lie down, he had to let his upper body stretch out of the shower and into the bathroom. The hot water sprinkling his groin and legs contrasted harshly with the cold floor beneath his back. Dust straddled his face but held his cock just high enough that Elijah's lips couldn't reach it. He stretched out across Elijah's chest and cupped Elijah's balls. Dust's tongue circled Elijah's head, making his cock jump with excitement. Then his lips slid down the shaft until Elijah felt Dust's chin against his navel. Elijah had gagged when even an inch of Dust's cock penetrated his throat, but Dust effortlessly swallowed Elijah's entire length. Elijah wondered briefly how much practice one needed to gain a skill like that. Since the 88

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question led to more unpleasant subjects, though, he banished it from his mind, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the seemingly infinite ways Dust knew to pleasure him. Dust plunged down on Elijah, gulping deep, but at a teasing, slow pace. Then he drew his mouth to the tip of Elijah's cock and sucked hard on the head. His expert tongue stimulated the ridge around Elijah's glans and the tiny slit across its top. As soon as Dust dropped his hips, Elijah seized his shaft and guided Dust's cock down into his mouth. He found the act even harder from this angle. Dust's cock felt like it was jabbing against the backside of Elijah's Adam's apple. Dust's strokes stayed subtle, almost non-existent, and Elijah struggled not to distract him by choking. Elijah was about to come. His balls felt ready to release a quart of semen, and he tried to alert Dust with a tap on the shoulder. Dust either didn't understand or ignored him. Knowing he couldn't hold it much longer, Elijah tried to wiggle out from underneath Dust. Dust's strong hands wrapped around Elijah's knees and pinned him. Even when Elijah came, Dust didn't stop sucking. Elijah's over-stimulated cock tingled and throbbed. He had an idea how Denise had felt and grunted a muffled protest. Dust only chuckled. A twitch of Dust's cock told Elijah his partner 89

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would come soon. He tried to repay the compliment Dust had shown him, but Dust pulled away, rose to his hands and knees and stroked himself twice. The shower quickly washed away the semen that splattered over Elijah's thigh. For the next several minutes, Elijah lay on the floor. He'd never had such an experience. He'd masturbated, but rarely, when his mother did the shopping. It hadn't been like this. To be so crazed with arousal—love?—, then to have it returned was nothing like nervously jerking off in the basement. He felt content to the core of his being. He might have been happy to lie on his back all day, but Dust told him to hurry and wash up. The dark young man scrubbed Elijah's back and rubbed him with the scratchy hotel towel to dry him off. Then they dressed and waited for Sheriff Woodward. **** Riding in the sheriff's tidy Bronco, munching snacks, and sipping coffee, was much more pleasant to Dust than the journey in Denise's truck. The radio played The Eagles, Johnny Cash and Creedence Clearwater Revival. The sheriff also had a pretty decent collection of eight-track tapes, including, to Dust's surprise and Elijah's delight, David Bowie and the Rolling Stones. Outside, crisp 90

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ochre vegetation rolled by. Dust sat with Elijah in the back seat and let himself enjoy the sun cascading through the window and the light warmth of his lover's leg resting against his. There was nothing to worry about, at least for now. Dust sensed that Sheriff Woodward had thought about Elijah—his Elijah—that way, but the brief fantasy had shocked and disgusted the older man, and was unlikely to recur. Silly, homophobic hick, Dust thought with a roll of his eyes. On his knee, the rock inscribed with the rusty arrow buzzed slightly, always pointing south. Though he tried to hope against it, it became undeniable where the charm was directing them. When the sheriff asked which way, Dust told him to keep going. "I hoped I'd never have to set foot in Las Vegas again," he admitted. Elijah touched his elbow. "You and me both, son," said Sheriff Woodward. They reached the city three hours later. Elijah knitted his fingers into Dust's and gaped open-mouthed at the afternoon sun reflecting off the towers of glass. He seemed more in awe of the skyscrapers and huge pools than he had of the little magics Dust had performed. As they passed the Stardust, the sky room of the Desert Inn, and the sprawling new MGM Grand, Elijah leaned across Dust's lap to get a better view of the marvels. His eyes darted back 91

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and forth, trying to read every huge billboard. Dust balanced his stone compass on his outstretched palm, and whispered "Where now?" It jerked indecisively, then turned. "Left, right now!" Dust instructed his driver. The sheriff turned hard, the tires squealing. They wove through more streets behind the mighty row of casinos until the rock leapt from Dust's hand and flung itself against the window with so much force Dust was surprised it didn't shatter. "Stop here," he said, and the Bronco pulled over. As soon as the door opened, the rock escaped and hovered a few inches from the ground. It shot into the door of a condo across the street and kept hurling itself against the wood until Dust said, "I'm finished with you. You may depart." He kicked it under one of the cypresses beside the dwelling's big, bay window. "The thing you want's in here?" Elijah asked. "This is private property, son," the sheriff said. "You can't just break in—" "Just shut up," Dust snapped. "I'm not your fucking son." He trailed his fingers over the doorjamb. Something was wrong. His stomach clenched, and his hair stood on end. Then he found it. Carved into the right corner of the frame was a magical seal for protection, designed to prevent people—or things—from entering. It was weak and amateurish, and he ran his palm over the round shape. It 92

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glowed red for a second, then fizzled and disappeared, leaving only a wisp of smoke. "This is a magician's house," he said to Elijah, who stood staring at the spot where the carving had been. "Stay close to me." He tapped the lock twice with his middle finger and heard the mechanism click. The door swung open with a soft creak. Cautiously, with his right hand held out in front of him and his left arm shielding Elijah's chest, he stepped into the dim living room. Everything was brand-new and state-of-the-art. Black leather sofas and a glass coffee table surrounded a big marble fireplace. A wet bar stood at the other end of the room.

Vaguely

erotic

nude

paintings

with

dark

backgrounds hung against the dark wood paneling the walls. Lush shag carpet covered the floors. Dust's boots made no sound as he crossed to the door leading toward the kitchen. The décor was sparse and masculine, allowing no place to hide anything as big as what he wanted. He turned to the sheriff. "Keep watch by the front door. I'm going to have a look around. Elijah—" "Don't worry," Elijah said. "I'll stick with you. This place gives me the creeps." So he can feel it, Dust thought. Interesting… They did a quick sweep of the kitchen, Elijah opening all of the cupboard doors while Dust ran his hands 93

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along the walls to check for hidden panels. Finding nothing but expensive wine and neatly stacked dishes, the pair continued to the bathroom, but not before Dust stashed a few choice vintages in his backpack. They discovered nothing behind the glass shower doors or in the linen closet, so they made their way to the only other room in the house: the bedroom. A king-sized bed draped in black satin sat on a round, leopard-print rug. Matching curtains hung over the tall windows. Not much else filled the cavernous space but a leather armchair, an antique dresser, and a small round table. On top, some New Age books, paperbacks on witchcraft and numerology, sat beside a vase of roses. Dust understood that, ever since the children of the 1960s abandoned everything their parents had held sacred, including religion, alternatives such as these had found their way into the popular culture. No real knowledge waited between their covers. Dust and Elijah rifled through the custom-made suits in the walk-in closet, pushing the hangers aside to look for secret doors. Nothing but freshly-painted drywall revealed itself, and Dust swore in frustration. "It's close; I can feel it," he said. Everything told him the thing he sought should be right in front of him; he sensed the hum of its energy and picked up its scent. "Where are you?" He punched the back of the closet wall, 94

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which was a mistake, because it made the cuts on his hand break open and bleed, but it also caused a thin filament of light, as delicate as spider silk, to appear. He traced along the rectangular line of radiance, concentrating. It was an illusion, as poorly executed as the sealing charm. A casual swish of his hand brushed it away, making the wall disappear, and they stood facing an ordinary wooden door. He turned the handle, and it opened, not even being locked. The door led to a cinderblock room no larger than the closet. A light bulb with a chain hung from the low ceiling. Chained in the room was a creature that resembled a man, except that its unruly hair was too red, the color of blood with bright orange and gold highlights. It crouched on its knees, its arms stretched out behind it by the heavy iron shackles on its wrists. Its head and shoulders hung forward, almost touching its thighs. It was naked. A silk blindfold covered the creature's eyes and forehead. The three-inch, obsidian claws on its fingertips triggered agonizing memories in Dust, and he touched his chest gingerly. The hawk-like wings, probably twelve feet from tip to tip when outstretched, were cramped in the small room. Tan feathers with black stripes littered the floor. The long flight feathers edging the wings had been bent back, some broken, by the confinement. The red fur had been rubbed away from its shins by the stone floor. 95

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Elijah's fingers dug into Dust's shoulders so hard it hurt, and he whispered, "What is that?" The creature lifted its head and sniffed the air. A black tongue shot from between its red lips, tasting the way a snake would. Its muscular arms strained, rattling the chains. Black hoofs scraped the wall they were pinned against. Dust could see where the wrists had been cut by the fetters. When its head pointed toward him, he took a step back in spite of himself. "Giovanni," it said hoarsely. It sounded to Dust like hope filled the creature's voice. Conflict tore at him. He was angry; nothing deserved this sort of treatment. He'd have liked to give the creature's captor a taste of his own medicine. He also wanted to kneel down in front of it, stroke its riot of flame-colored hair and comfort it. Most of all, the creature terrified him. He struggled to squelch any outward appearance of fear. Elijah had already gone silent and white. If he saw Dust afraid, Elijah might lose it. Dust trembled all over and felt like he would be sick. This thing had really hurt him the last time it escaped. He would have to get close enough to put his own chains, from his backpack, on the creature and release it from those that held it now. His feet seemed unwilling to step toward it though. "That's a costume, right?" Elijah asked. "Dust?" He 96

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sounded almost frantic, and no wonder. People went completely insane from seeing things like this. "Go sit down on the bed," Dust said gently but insistently. "It's all right, Elijah, trust me." Elijah stood swaying, and Dust had to take his hand and lead him away from the creature and to the bed. "Stay here," he said, looking into Elijah's eyes. He took a deep breath and returned to the back of the closet. I have to do this, he told himself. His backpack fell from his slender shoulders with a clatter, and he crouched to unzip it. Just then the sheriff ran into the room. "Boys," he panted, "we've got to go. A car just pulled up across the street with about half a dozen people." He looked from Dust to what the closet held, screamed, and pulled his gun. He aimed and would have emptied the clip if Dust hadn't grabbed his wrist and pointed his hand above his head. The bang deafened them in the small room, and the bullet lodged in the closet ceiling. "Pull yourself together," Dust said over the ring in his ears. "Get Elijah out of here. I can handle those men." "Dust, no!" Elijah shouted, jumping up. He shook Dust's shoulders until his teeth rattled. "You're going to get killed! I'm not leaving you here!" The sheriff shook his head at the creature, as if by denying it enough it would blip out of existence. His hand 97

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on the gun shook at his side. They're both falling apart, Dust thought. "Just go," he pleaded with Elijah. "I'll be okay—" "No!" "Listen to me," the sheriff said in a monotone, false calm. "I've done police work for almost fifteen years. This isn't how you operate, s—, Dust. We get out of here and come back and stake the place out. When we're sure nobody's home, and we're prepared, we come in and—" He looked back at the creature and started shaking his head again, unable to find the words. Dust had no doubt that he could take care of the man who owned this house. His magic was weak and sloppy. Now, after ample food and rest, his companions wouldn't present a challenge either. With Elijah breaking down and the sheriff shooting at random, the situation couldn't end well. Elijah could get hurt. Dust didn't want the complication of the authorities, either. He took a final look into the hidden room. "Giovanni…" the creature pleaded. Dust sealed over the bullet hole in the ceiling, shut the door, and replaced the illusion. The owner didn't have the skill to detect the energy trails the trio had left in his home, so Dust didn't waste his effort masking them. "Out the window," he said. Once Elijah and the sheriff were 98

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outside, he shut the screen and glass. His pupils contracted in the sun after the dark of the closet. He crept along the side of the house and peered around the corner to get a view of the people entering through the front door. A man in a top hat and tails with a waxed mustache led the party. Two women in red rhinestone leotards and two men in unassuming dark suits followed. They stopped in front of the door, laughing. Dust's fist clenched. He hadn't replaced the sealing charm. The man in the top hat would know someone had been in his house. Luckily, he seemed more interested in the busty blonde beside him and never even glanced at the door frame. A few minutes after the group entered the house, Dust, Elijah and the sheriff crossed the street to the Bronco. Dust hated leaving. He wanted desperately to give the foppish magician a good thrashing. Beside him, Elijah stared out the window, still shivering despite the warmth of the afternoon. His whole world has been turned upside down, Dust thought. He probably feels like he's landed on another planet. He squeezed Elijah's knee, but Elijah didn't notice or didn't acknowledge him. "We'll need a place to stay," Dust said. "We could sleep in the car for now, but once I have it, I'll need to keep 99

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it out of sight, obviously." "Why do you call him it?" Elijah asked without looking away from the window. "How much money do we have?" Dust asked. Before, he would have amassed all he needed through trickery. If it failed, a young man with Dust's looks and skills could do quite well in a city like Las Vegas. Now he could no longer consider those options. He wasn't on his own. "We have a little less than forty dollars," Elijah said. "Damn. That's not going to cut it. We need a place where we won't attract attention. There are some places here in town, places where people mind their own business." "I know the kinds of places you mean. They're full of thugs, junkies, and whores," the sheriff said. "You can get herpes just by sleeping in the beds. I have a friend here. Maybe we can stay with her." Two blocks up, the sheriff parked beside a phone booth, fished in his pocket for some change, and pressed the little silver buttons. Through the open window, Dust heard Sam talking. He closed his eyes and let his senses reach out a little, so he could listen to the other end of the conversation. "Jo," the sheriff said, "listen, I know it was a little 100

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awkward when we met up." "A little awkward?" the female voice snapped. "I'm calling to apologize, Jo. For everything." "That's all?" "That's not all," the sheriff admitted. "I have another favor to ask you. It's a big one." "I'm getting a little bit tired of you only calling me when you want something, Sam." "There's nobody else I can ask. I'm going to be in town for a while, and I need a place to stay. I won't be any trouble." She snorted. "Against my better judgment, I'll let you have the couch. I'm off work in half an hour. Meet me at my place." "There's something else," the sheriff muttered. "I'm not alone." This ought to be good, Dust thought. "What! Who's with you? A woman?" "No, nothing like that, Jo. Just two friends." Liar. "My place isn't a free rent flophouse, Sam." "I'm desperate," he said. "I got myself into a bad situation." "You can stay under one condition," the woman named Jo said. "You tell me what the hell is going on, and 101

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you tell me the truth and the whole truth. Do we have a deal?" "I'll do my best," the sheriff said. "And, Jo, thanks." Dust sadistically anticipated watching the sheriff trying to explain what had happened to this old friend of his. He owed Elijah some explanations, too, though. His lover's head rested against the window, his body angled as far from Dust as possible. The light made his golden hair glow almost like an aura. What would happen when Elijah knew the truth? Would he take his forty dollars and hop on a bus for home? Dust wouldn't blame him if he did. He'd really hoped to avoid telling Elijah about his past, hoped that the present would be enough. Things never worked out that way though. **** Jo lived in a light green ranch house in a nice suburb. The home had a stone path leading from the street to the porch and white faux storm shutters. The pink hedge roses were in full bloom and the lawn neatly mowed. Sam knew the place well; he'd visited often in the past, with Cari. The three of them had taken turns cooking dinner every Friday, before Cari went undercover. He'd felt like such a modern man back then, preparing and serving dinner 102

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to two ladies. Never before had he dreaded ringing the bell by the white door, and he hesitated. Elijah and Dust stood ten feet behind him, waiting. He lifted a shaking finger to the buzzer. Jo answered the door in an emerald camisole and tight, bell-bottom jeans. She looked so gorgeous that Sam couldn't locate a word of greeting. His fantasy about her in the cheap motel returned, and he worried he might sprout wood right there. She didn't say anything either, only stood aside to let him in. The place looked just as he remembered it: comfortable beige furniture, too many books lining every wall, African tribal masks from her time in the Peace Corps. Healthy houseplants sat in the windowsills and hung from the ceiling, making the combination living and dining room feel almost tropical. It smelled of citrus potpourri. Five years ago, he would have made himself at home, maybe taken a beer from the fridge in the small kitchen and turned on the TV. Now he just faltered, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He doubted he'd ever be welcome in her home the way he had once been. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends, Sam?" "Oh, sorry." He motioned the young men forward. "This is Elijah Tupper. I'm a friend of his family. Elijah, Jo." 103

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"Ma'am," Elijah said weakly. "This one," he began, but stopped. What should he tell her about Dust? Even the drifter's bizarre name embarrassed him. "I'm called Dust," he said, and offered his hand. Jo didn't take it. For a few more minutes they stood regarding each other, Sam with a humiliated flush on his cheeks, Dust smirking, Elijah looking like he'd fall over, and Jo tapping her bare toes in irritation. Sam noticed the burgundy polish, almost as dark as the skin of her foot. Finally she broke the silence. "You all look like you could use some dinner," she said. "But first I need to know what the hell is going on." Sam exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "You got anything to drink, Jo?" "Are these kids even old enough?" "Yeah," he said. "They're all right." She took a six-pack in a cardboard carrier from the fridge, and they followed her to the sofa. Jo's instinctive hospitality made her pass a drink to each of the men before settling in her chair and raising her eyebrows in anticipation. It reminded Sam of an interrogation, the way she sat in her recliner eying them suspiciously. He downed half of his beer and muffled a belch. "Where do I even start?" he said, as much to himself as to her. 104

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"Where did you go after Cari died?" "Up north, near the Idaho border. I took a job as a sheriff in a little town called Epiphany." "Sounds exciting," she said sarcastically. "That's the point. It's quiet. No drug dealers, no whores, no shootings. Nice, respectable people. Well, they were." He looked at Dust and wanted to smack the selfsatisfied smile off the kid's face. "Remember when I asked you to test that water? It was because everybody in Epiphany started acting, eh, different. Like they had no self-control. They just did whatever, whenever, with whoever. Like they were drunk, but worse." "Are we talking about sex here, Sam? Have you ever stopped to think that people's attitudes are changing? Maybe those people are just going with the flow." "He made them do it," he said, pointing at Dust, suddenly irate. "He won't take it away unless I help him." "He did what? Made people horny? How?" "Ask him," Sam spat. "I never made anyone do anything they didn't want to do," Dust said. "I only lifted their inhibitions, their guilt. If you ask me, I did them a favor." "You little bastard," Sam growled, his voice rising. "What gives you the right to fuck with people's heads like 105

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that? Did you do the same thing to Elijah?" "He didn't do anything to me," Elijah said, speaking a full sentence for the first time in an hour. "Why doesn't anybody think I can make my own decisions? I'm not a child." "Wait," Jo said. "What exactly happened in Epiphany?" "It's just a little magic," Dust said. "It doesn't take much to make people do things they want to do anyway." "Magic?" she said. "Bullshit." He shrugged, obviously not caring if she believed him or not. "He said he'd only make it stop if I helped him get something and transport it. I thought drugs, maybe guns. Then I saw that thing. What is that thing, and what do you want with it?" "None of your business," Dust said. "I said I'd help you, but I won't blunder around in the dark. Epiphany or not, you put the cards on the table or you find your own ride. You'll be lucky if I don't arrest you for breaking and entering." "Go ahead and try it." "If you want my help, I have a right to know," Sam said. "Fine," Dust said, finishing his beer and setting the bottle on top of a medical book on the stand beside him. 106

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"It's a demon. It belongs to a sorceress up north. I was staying with her, and I accidentally let it go. As you can see, I tried to avoid it getting away." He lifted up his shirt, making them all flinch at the gruesome wounds, and grinned maliciously at their discomfort. "Anyway, she was not happy with me. She's not somebody you want to piss off. Evidently, it got captured by some two-bit stage magician. I need to get it and take it back to her." "Demon," Jo said. "What the hell?" "It's true," Sam said. Just thinking about the thing in that house made him feel like he was going to puke. His hold on his bowels felt tenuous. He wished he'd killed it when he had the chance. It was wrong, shouldn't exist. "I saw it. It was—" Horrible? Terrifying? Maddening? "Beautiful," Elijah said softly. Dust looked at him with approval. "So you're trying to tell me you need to capture a devil and take it to a witch?" Jo said incredulously. "What kind of fool do you think I am?" "This isn't a Sunday school, lady," Dust said. "It's not a devil. It's not a little red man with a pitchfork who flutters around, landing on people's shoulders and trying to make them think impure thoughts. Things like that are figments of your imagination. Things like that are people's excuses for their own desires, something to blame. It's not 107

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even evil." "What is it then?" Sam asked. "A being of fire and air. They inhabit other planes of existence, and their magic is very powerful. They're hard to summon, and harder to hold. They're very valuable slaves to anyone who can get a grasp on one, which is why the sorceress wants it back." "You're taking him to be a slave?" Elijah asked. "She didn't treat him quite as badly as what you saw back there," Dust answered. "Can't we just let him go?" Elijah asked. "It's not that simple," Dust said. "I need something from the sorceress, a favor. It's more important than you could even imagine." "Why?" Sam asked. "I'm not discussing it with you. I told you before it's none of your business. All I need you to do is drive the car. Can you handle that?" "Fuck you," Sam said. "I've had about enough—" "Stop it," Jo said. "I think you're fucking crazy. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I don't buy a word of this crap. You can stay here for one week, but there will be no illegal activity conducted out of this house. I find out anything shady's going on, and your asses are mine." They all stared; even Dust seemed cowed. She stood up and 108

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slammed back what was left of her beer. "Sam, can I please speak to you in private?" He followed her through the sliding door and into her small back yard. The failing sunlight made her look even more beautiful. Her tight curls seemed gilded, and her skin shined with the mauves and violets of the sunset. The embroidered decoration on her shirt practically sparkled. Sam stood very close to her. "What the fuck?" she said. "Jo, I know it's hard to believe—" "Try impossible." "—but it's true. The people in Epiphany just started going at it like dogs in heat. Ministers and school teachers, Jo. Even me, and you know I'm not promiscuous. He did it. I've seen him do other things, too. I saw the demon. It was chained up in the closet of a condo. I almost pissed myself." "Assuming any of this is true," she said, "what would motivate him to mess up your town like that?" Sam was ashamed to tell Jo that Dust had cast the spell in revenge. They'd driven him out of Epiphany because he had long hair, because he wasn't completely Caucasian. The same thing could happen to Jo if she visited the little desert town. Sam couldn't bear for her to know that he'd stood by and watched, so he said, "I don't know." 109

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"Shit," she said. "There is something about that kid… makes your guts go watery." They both turned around and watched the boys through glass. Dust rested his head on Elijah's shoulder. Elijah wrapped his arms around Dust's small body protectively. Neither spoke. "The blond one seems okay," Jo continued. "Are they, you know, together?" "Yeah." Sam still wasn't convinced Elijah wasn't being held in some sort of thrall. He'd been a good kid back in Epiphany, a hard worker, decent. "Well, that's good," she said. "I've only got one bed in the spare room." She slid the door open and went back inside. Sam's eyes lingered on her round ass. He caught a glimpse of the purple string of her panties cutting the flesh above her hipbone, and he hoped hysterically that he wouldn't end up on the couch.

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Chapter Six The four of them—Dust, Elijah, the stunning black woman called Jo, and the sheriff from Epiphany—ate in complete quiet. She'd thrown together a meal of cold meat, brown bread, potato chips and beer. They piled the simple but welcome fare on paper plates and took their places around her round wooden table. Dust was accustomed to being stared at and shunned like an amputee, a two-headed snake, or Siamese twins. Even the densest people usually sensed something that nature hadn't planned for. He caught Jo watching him, and then looking away when he made eye contact with her. Sheriff Sam hated him, flat out. The violence radiated from the older man like heat off pavement, not that Dust gave a damn. He was used to it. Only Elijah's reaction bothered him. The young man had initially surprised him with his acceptance, but now he wouldn't look at Dust. Nor could Dust detect the source of his sudden aloofness. The sight of the demon had shocked him, but he'd taken it in stride. Elijah seemed to have walled his thoughts and mood off from Dust. The only emotion Dust perceived was betrayal, but he didn't know what it stemmed from. Not knowing when food would be available again, 111

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Dust ate three sandwiches and a full plate of barbeque chips. Gorging himself like a stray when he had the opportunity had become a deep-seated habit over the years. Elijah just picked at his turkey sandwich, not even finishing half of it. "You should eat," Dust urged. "I feel sick," Elijah said to the group. "I'd like to go to bed, if that's okay." He stood and pushed in his chair. "Sure, honey," Jo said. "Spare room's at the end of the hall. It's got its own bathroom, if you'd like to wash up. There's a TV in there too." "Thank you," Elijah said. "Wait," Dust said, standing and grasping the wooden back of his chair until his knuckles whitened. "Elijah, do you want me with you or not?" The question would have been foolish twenty-four hours ago, but now he couldn't be sure. The few second wait until Elijah responded felt like an eternity. Finally, Elijah nodded, and then turned and shuffled along the hallway to the room. They went inside. It felt good to be alone with Elijah again, to be with someone who didn't feel uneasy around him. Dust turned on the bedside lamp and shut the door gently, so that it made hardly a sound. It was a small room, used to being empty. A bed with a white iron headboard and a seafoam down blanket sat against the wall, under a reproduction of Monet's Water Lilies. The walls were pale 112

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pink and soothing, and the thick carpet matched. The TV and its stand stood opposite and could be watched from the bed. Nothing else was in the room besides the nightstand, the lamp, and the rose-colored blinds and lacey curtains over the window. It felt like a hotel; there were no books or personal objects like those that filled the other rooms. Jo kept it clean and free of dust, though, and it smelled fresh and pleasant. "This is a nice place," Elijah said. "I like it here." "Homesick?" Dust asked. Elijah flopped on the bed, folding his arms under his head. "Hell, no," he said. "My mother beat me just for looking at her. She hated me." "I'm sure she didn't," Dust said. "She did, Dust. I look like my father, and he got her pregnant and left her. Nobody ever let her forget that she was an unwed mother, a slut. She couldn't take it out on him, so she used me." "Sorry." He stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Elijah. Again, he'd been selfish. He'd never even considered that Elijah might have scars that ran as deep as his own. He never asked Elijah if he wanted to talk. He'd been too wrapped up in his own drama. No wonder Elijah was pulling away from him. "You can lay down with me," Elijah offered, and 113

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Dust accepted. "It seemed like you were upset with me," Dust said. Elijah inclined his head so it rested against Dust's temple. "Not with you. I'm just confused. That thing today… I felt sorry for him. I can't believe he was real. Who's Giovanni?" "I am." "Why didn't you tell me your real name, Dust?" "Because it stopped mattering a long time ago. I like Dust. There's power in naming. Names are the first gift we're given by our parents. Dust is a gift from you. I'm going to keep it as long as we're together." "How long will that be?" Elijah asked. "Depends. Forever, if it were up to me. Nothing is up to me, though, Elijah." "Why not?" Dust knew the time to tell Elijah the whole story had come. He pulled Elijah onto his chest and crossed his arms over Elijah's neck and back, as if to prevent someone from stealing him away. He inhaled and held his breath. He wanted to store Elijah's scent in his nose and throat forever. This was what he would want, if he was allowed to choose the path of his life. He'd want someone to love him like this, gently and passionately at once. He thought of the sacrifices Elijah had made and whispered, "Thank you." 114

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"What for?" "These few days," Dust said. "I want to tell you everything. After you know, I won't hold it against you if you leave me. I should tell you first that I'm Italian." "You don't look it," Elijah said. "And you don't have any accent." "Well, I haven't been there in quite a while." "How long?" "This is going to sound like bullshit, Elijah. It's going to sound ridiculous, but please just bear with me. My name is… it was Giovanni Amadeo D'Este. I was born…" He sighed and seemed to brace himself. "I was born in Venice, in 1724, to a very wealthy family. It was a family with secrets, though. My father, or rather my mother's husband, along with twelve of the richest and most powerful men in the city, used to gather in the catacombs under our ancient villa and perform secret ceremonies." "They worshipped the devil?" Elijah asked. "They might have. I don't really know; I was only a child. I used to sneak out of bed, though, to watch them descending the stairs in their dark robes and papier-mache raven masks. It terrified and fascinated me. I wanted to know what they did down below in those cavernous rooms. I explored them during the day, but never found anything but ash and burned-out candles. Sometimes bones or 115

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feathers. I could feel the leftover energy, like a hum coming from the walls and the floor. I didn't know yet that I was feeling fragments of their magic. However they practiced, they managed to get a hold of some very real power. The families of the men involved grew more and more prosperous, at least according to my father." "Did you know who they were?" Elijah asked. "No. The only thing I knew about them was that they all wore a carnelian ring on their left hand. I noticed that when I spied on them." "What happened? I'm not asking too many questions, am I?" "No, don't worry about it." He let himself laugh. "I love your cute little accent. So anyway, wealth and power bred jealousy and suspicion, especially in those days. Ours was the first house visited. Some of the old Venetian families got a group of clergymen, government officials, and important nobility together to investigate the group's phenomenal success. This was a big deal. Venice was one of the few places back then that the church left alone. We didn't live under their fist the way other people did. But enough people were jealous and greedy, and I'm sure favors were called in, threats made, and money spent. They came in the dead of night and dragged my father out of bed. It was cold; I remember seeing my breath. My mother cried 116

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and begged, but they ignored her and took him away. We didn't see him for three days. When he did come back, burns covered his body and both of his legs had been broken." "They tortured him?" "That's what they did back then, Elijah. They wanted the names of the other members of his group." "Did he tell them?" "I don't know if he did, but they thought he'd given them up. They came the first night he was back. I watched them from my bedroom window, crossing the courtyard in their masks. It was misty. The fog covered their feet. Maybe they summoned it on purpose. I don't know, but it scared the hell out of me. After the clergy and officials found out about the group, I didn't think they'd be able to come back to our house, especially in their regalia. I guess they blended in, though, because Carnivale was in full swing. Carnivale in Venice, in those days, was months of everyone going around masked and just doing what they wanted. People learned to look the other way. I knew those men, though. And I loved my father. I hurried out of bed and ran through the house as fast as I could. This was a big house, Elijah. A villa, with dozens of rooms, each the size of this whole place. The marble was cold on my feet. By the time I reached his study, hoping to warn him, they were 117

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already inside the house. They cut off his left hand and took it with them. He would have bled to death if he hadn't plunged the stump into the fire to cauterize the wound." "Why would they do that?" "They thought he betrayed them," Dust said. "They took away his ring. That's not the worst thing they did, though." "What?" Elijah gasped. "The republic and the church worked together, and eventually found out the names of the group members. It wasn't hard; they only needed to look to the wealthiest families. They seized their property and gathered the thirteen men to be hanged before a huge gathering of people." "Thirteen? But your father helped them!" "They didn't have plea bargains in those days, Elijah. The church could do whatever it liked, and nobody dared to say a word. They threatened to involve Rome, and the government officials added some treason charge. I didn't really understand most of it at the time. I can tell you this though: Venice was a city of vice to compare with Las Vegas. Every person had a dirty secret. Nobody wanted Rome stepping in, watching their every move. They were willing to let my father and the others die if they had to. I think most of the Venetians actually enjoyed it. It's human 118

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nature to want to see the mighty fall. My mother and I were there at the gallows. They'd taken our home and forced us to seek sanctuary at a convent." "How old were you when this happened, Dust?" "Ten." "Oh, god." "Anyway, just before they were hanged, they were asked if they had any last words. One of them, a fat darkhaired man with a big, round nose, stepped forward. He was a magician, and he easily freed his hands from the ropes that held them. He addressed my father, not the crowd, or god." "What did he say?" "'You'll die here today, but your only son will suffer pain and humiliation for an eternity because of your treachery. Any who possess the ring that rode your traitorous finger will possess both his beautiful body and the awesome power he holds inside. He will pass from master to master, stripped of his free will and dignity.' I remember it like it happened yesterday. I'll never forget those words." "My father's last words were 'You're all fools. That thing is not my son.'" "What does that mean?" Dust shook his head. "I'm not sure. I always meant 119

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to ask my mother if she knew anything, but the timing never felt right. How do you ask your mother if she cheated on your father, or if you're really her son? Maybe my father did something. I don't know. You'll have already guessed that I don't look much like either of my parents. I'm afraid the truth died with my father." "Oh, how horrible," Elijah whimpered, burrowing his face into Dust's collarbone. "Yeah. For the next seven years, my mother told me not to worry, that the fat man was crazy and my father had lost his mind from the torture. We went to live with her cousins on a vineyard, and I liked it there. Everything smelled like wine, and the people were nice and cheerful, not as uptight as the aristocrats I was used to. Nobody there had anything to hide. I loved to walk in the woods, loved the mountains, and the big, old trees. I started testing my magic in those forests, experimenting to see what I could do. I learned a lot during those years. I didn't mind not being rich at all. I really thought everything would be fine, until a clergyman from Rome showed up, wearing my father's ring." "He took me with him, back to the Vatican. He'd read reports of the incident in Venice and had searched for the ring. He was my master. I had to help him backstab his way up the chain of command within the church. I had to 120

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use my magic to help him get rich. He seemed to know more about my power and its source than I did, and I had to use it in any way he wanted. I had to—" He stopped, flinching as the horrible memories of the nights in the priest's chambers bombarded him. Elijah held him until the tremor passed, and then said, "Did you ever try to disobey him?" "Of course. I tried to run away the first night." "And?" "Pain. Like being struck by lightning. Like every one of my cells was on fire. I didn't even make it out the door before I keeled over. I puked and crapped blood for a week. Same thing if I don't follow one of their orders. I don't think it can kill me, but it can incapacitate me completely. You have no idea how much it hurts." "Oh, Dust. I guess you've seen a lot, though. Living so long." "I'd trade it all for one free lifetime. Sixty or seventy years of choosing what I want to do, who I want to be with. But I can't. I'll just keep passing from master to master. That's why I need the demon, Elijah. The sorceress who owns it said she could break my curse. I could be free, and we could be together." "How come you don't have a master now?" Elijah asked. 121

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"He died. He bought me from a bunch of clueless Satanists fifty-five years ago. They didn't know what they had. I guess nobody's got a hold of the ring yet. So you see I don't have much time. Once it's found, or traded or sold, I won't be able to try to break the curse until the next owner dies." "Could you destroy the ring?" "Tried. I can't even touch it." "Would you die without it? Get old like an ordinary person?" Dust considered. "I'm not certain, but I don't think the ring has anything to do with me not aging. I think that's because of something else." "Tell me about your master who died," Elijah asked. "Was he good to you?" "Not

even

slightly."

Even

that

was

an

understatement. "Was he powerful?" "Yes, in his way. He wasn't a magician. He was a crime lord. He had his hands in every coffer in Las Vegas. Anybody who ran drugs or prostitutes paid him a percentage. Through blackmail or threats, or through me, he skimmed off most of the casinos as well. He was quite clever in his way. He knew just how to use my magic to scare people. 122

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"His name was Patrick McDermott. If you lived in Vegas, you'd know of him. He was just a small-time thug, an assassin, until he acquired my services. He wasn't a magician, like I said, but he knew all about the occult. I've been mentioned in various arcane manuscripts since the cursing. When he found that coven with the ring, he bought it for ten thousand dollars. Can you imagine? I was glad to get away from them at first. They liked to hurt me. But he was worse." "How?" "I don't want to talk about it, Elijah." "Okay. You said he lived here, in Las Vegas?" Elijah asked, clearly trying to switch to an innocuous subject as fast as possible. "Outside, actually. He was a big show-off, money, but no taste. He thought wealthy people dipped everything in gold. He built a replica of an Irish castle and filled it full of the tackiest, most expensive junk he could get his hands on. It even has a moat. The whole place looks ridiculous sitting in the middle of the Mojave. I don't really want to talk about this, either. I will, if you want. I'll answer all of your questions. No more secrets between us." "There's just one thing I want to ask," Elijah said softly. "Ask," Dust encouraged. 123

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"How's it done? The things you can do, how do you do them?" Dust stayed silent for many minutes, petting the back of Elijah's head. Finally he said, "It's tough to explain, but I'll do my best. Everything around us is made up of energy and matter, right? There are bonds holding the matter together to form a certain shape. To a magician, these bonds, the shapes things take, are more like suggestions. All we have to do is loosen the bonds and rearrange the matter a little. "Look at that plant." He pointed to an aloe vera growing in some white gravel on the windowsill. "It wants to use its matter and energy to take a certain form. I can—" He concentrated and reached his arm out a little farther. "— convince it that it's supposed to be a rose." Elijah gasped as the thick spines transformed into shiny, dark leaves. Miniature pink blossoms, only the size of dimes, unfurled at the tips of the branches. "You could try it sometime," Dust suggested. "Me?" Elijah said, stunned. "That's ridiculous!" "Is it? Everything is just another raw material," Dust said. "Does it scare you? Elijah, are you going to go?" Elijah rolled off Dust, sat up and stretched. He'd taken the peculiar story surprisingly well. A fire burned behind his blue eyes, like heat lightning behind a cloud. 124

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"I'm not leaving you," he said. "I'm not going to let you suffer any more. I'm not a magician, and I'm not strong or clever, but I'm going to protect you." "You're stronger than you know," Dust said. "Do you like wine?" "I've never tried it." "Do you want to try it now? I took some from that condo, really good stuff, from France and Italy." "I want to try everything with you, Dust." **** After the boys retired to the spare room, Sam helped Jo clean up from dinner. "Do you think we should let them sleep together like that?" he asked as he sealed the bags of cold cuts. "Why not? They're not my children. Honestly, Sam, it's the least of my worries. Why do you care?" "I know Elijah's mother," Sam said. "She would never approve. What if Elijah's being coerced?" "It didn't seem like that to me," she said, dropping the potato chip bag into a drawer. "The black-haired one asked him if he wanted him to come, and Elijah said yes." "That doesn't mean anything," Sam said. "You've seen what he can do!" 125

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"Actually I haven't." The drawer slammed shut. Jo still didn't believe him. Sam was too tired to argue with her now. He'd prefer her affection to her wrath, so he changed the subject. "What do you want to do now?" he asked. A long, explicit list of the answers he hoped she might give came to his mind. Instead of any of his fantasies, she said, "I usually watch the evening news and have pretzels in ice cream." "Pretzels and ice cream?" It sounded disgusting. "No, Sam. Pretzels in the ice cream. I like the combination of sweet and salty. First, I'm going to go change." She walked down the hall and into the room just before the one the boys occupied. During the five minutes she was gone, Sam imagined what she might be wearing when she returned: a short, pink satin nightie, a black lace bustier with garters and thigh-highs, a pair of red panties and matching stiletto heels, nothing at all… He trapped his erection beneath the waistband of his jeans and untucked his shirt to hide it. It did not wilt when Jo appeared in a bulky blue terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers. She managed to make it sexy, to make him want to kneel down and untie the cord with his teeth. He bet there wasn't a stitch underneath it, either. No! he told himself. Get a grip. Not here. Not her. Later, when this nightmare is over. He took a deep breath 126

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and sat on the couch, pulling one of the throw pillows into his lap. She served the ice cream: plain for Sam, pretzels for herself. The news anchor talked about the upcoming local elections, and Jo seemed enthralled. A foot of empty space separated her from Sam, and he wondered how to get close to her without being obvious. It was worse than being a teenager. He even considered yawning and letting his arm drape over her shoulder. Come to mention it, he was exhausted. An authentic yawn escaped his lips, though his arms stayed put. The spoon felt heavier and heavier as he lifted it from his bowl. When was the last time he'd had a real night of sleep? All he wanted was a kiss on the cheek, and then he'd go to bed happy. Hell, he'd settle for a platonic hug. His chin hit his chest and then jerked back up. Jo looked tired, too. Her soft brown eyes stared unfocused at the TV, and her ice cream bowl dangled from her hand, ready to spill. He'd just close his eyes for a second… **** "This is really delicious," Elijah said of his fifth glass of wine. They'd polished off a bottle of Barolo, a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino, and put a serious dent in the 127

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Cabernet from Bordeaux. "Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy." "You sound kinda drunk," Dust said with a giggle. "So do you," he said to Dust, laughing. They were lying on their sides, their heads against their palms, facing each other. Elijah had never seen his lover look more beautiful. A flush spread over his high cheekbones, his lips were stained burgundy, and his silver eyes sparkled like polished spoons. Elijah leaned in to kiss Dust but lost his balance and collided against his mouth. His teeth crashed against Dust's bottom lip, breaking it open. Dust's hand shot up to catch it, but too slowly. Blood spilled onto the mintcolored pillowcase and splattered the sheet. The stain looked like a poppy that had lost some of its petals. "I'm so sorry!" Elijah cried. Dust took the empty glass from Elijah's hand and sat it beside the lamp. He leaned over Elijah, supporting himself on his elbows. "Clean me off," he said, lowering his face. Elijah stuck out his tongue and caught a drop of blood as he might catch a snowflake. Then he licked Dust's lip from corner to corner until he couldn't taste a hint of the ferrous liquid that was sweet and salty. Before he even realized what he was doing, he'd pulled Dust's lip into his mouth. Dust dropped his chest on top of Elijah's and 128

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pressed his tongue between Elijah's teeth. Elijah nipped it gently, holding it captive in his mouth. When he freed it, Dust's tongue wandered over Elijah's teeth and palette and dipped into his throat. He untied his black hair, and it fell on either side of Elijah's face. Then Dust sat up, straddled Elijah, and pulled his shirt over his head. "Now you," he told Elijah, and Elijah stripped to the waist. Dust bent and circled Elijah's nipples with his tongue. His cock pressed against the seam of his jeans and into the bottom of Elijah's balls. Clumsily, Elijah tugged at the row of buttons. They gave way, and Dust's cock sprang out. Dust rubbed it against Elijah's smooth, muscular stomach, using the pre-come as lube, while he kissed Elijah's neck and ears. The hardness jabbing against his belly felt good, but Elijah wanted so much more. Suddenly Dust stopped and stood up, letting his pants fall to his ankles and off. On his hands and knees, he crawled back on the bed and unfastened Elijah's jeans. He backed up, stood again, and yanked them off by the hems in one smooth motion. Elijah's cock pointed straight at the headboard, leaking a few pearly droplets. Dust smiled down at it and then met Elijah's eyes. "Want my mouth?" Dust asked. "Uh, okay," Elijah answered, a little shocked by the blatant proposal. 129

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Dust crawled back to him slowly and positioned his hands beside Elijah's hips. He tipped his head to the side and let his hair blanket Elijah's cock. It trailed over Elijah, light and silky, as Dust slowly moved his neck. "You don't sound sure, Elijah. Do you want to be in my mouth?" "Yes!" Hot lips closed over Elijah's head. An expert tongue flickered against the sensitive groove on its underside. Elijah wrapped a strand of black hair around his hand while Dust sucked him like a lollipop. Elijah was only an inch or two into Dust's mouth, but it was so warm, the suction so hard, the texture of Dust's tongue so exquisite that it was all he needed. His pelvic muscles started to contract. He was just so aroused. He couldn't hold it back. "Let go of it," Dust said, pumping Elijah's shaft slowly. "You'll just last longer next time. I want to take my time with you tonight." "Okay," Elijah said. He reached behind his head to ball up the pillow and gain a better view of Dust at work. He felt Dust's presence in his mind and knew his lover could make him come, make him do anything. He also knew Dust wouldn't press that advantage. The oldfashioned method worked just fine, anyhow. Full, wineflushed lips glided from the base of Elijah's cock to the head, where they stopped to suck the trembling tip. Dust 130

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met Elijah's eyes as he lapped at the underside with quick flicks of his tongue. "I want to taste you," Dust said, his warm breath spilling over Elijah's damp, glistening skin. Elijah nodded, and Dust's head plunged back down, swallowing Elijah deeply. As soon as Elijah relaxed and burrowed his fingers into Dust's glossy mane, it happened. Come shot down Dust's throat. His lips tightened around Elijah's shaft to prevent any escaping. Dust purred with satisfaction like an alley cat in front of a bowl of milk. He continued to suck greedily until he'd drained every drop. Then he cleaned Elijah with slow, gentle licks before resting the side of his head against Elijah's lower stomach and encircling his hips with his arms. More than anything, Elijah wanted to tell Dust how dear he'd become to him. He feared it might be too soon for such a declaration, though, having no experience in these matters. Dust's eyelashes fluttered against his belly button. His body over Elijah's felt as warm and light as a satin sheet. He was so perfect, just the most beautiful thing. Finally, overcome with wine and afterglow, he muttered, "I love you, Dust." Dust bolted straight up and grabbed Elijah's face in his right hand. He leaned down. The tips of their noses touched, and Dust's pale eyes burned into Elijah's. Elijah 131

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smelled the mixture of his fluids and the rich wine on Dust's breath. "Do you mean it?" Dust whispered wildly. "What do you think?" Elijah said. "From the first time I saw you. I'm sure you can tell, right?" Dust pressed his forehead against Elijah's and took his cheeks in both hands. "Elijah, come si, bella. Ti voglio bene." They started kissing again, kissing so hard that Elijah's tongue soon felt sprained from wrestling with Dust's. His lips swelled and then split open, but they didn't stop. The wound Elijah had made earlier on Dust's mouth leaked anew. Teeth knocked together and ground against each other. Dust's tongue plunged into Elijah's throat, but he didn't gag. When Dust exhaled, Elijah inhaled, making himself dizzy in a few breaths. Stars danced at the corners of his vision, and he sunk his nails into the back of Dust's neck to ground himself. Dust hooked his hand under Elijah's knee and pushed it up and to the side, level with the bottom of Elijah's rib. His erect cock nudged between Elijah's balls and inner thigh, gliding easily over the sweaty crevice. He humped the moist spot for a few minutes while they kissed. With a sideways thrust of his hips, Elijah positioned himself so Dust's cock was parallel with his own. Both of them had leaked again, and their cocks slipped against each 132

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other, sparring playfully, poking and pressing. Then Elijah lifted his other knee to his waist and curved his pelvis up. Dust's erection slipped between his ass cheeks. The tip jabbed him in the tailbone. The suction between their mouths broke when Dust lifted his head and asked, "Do you want this?" In response, Elijah scooted an inch toward the headboard so Dust's cock grazed his wrinkled opening. He pushed against Dust, wantonly, but hesitantly. Then a terrible thought occurred to him. "I might… make a lot of noise," Elijah panted. "Yeah, you will," Dust said with a mischievous grin and a gentle press against Elijah's hole. "What about Jo and Sheriff Woodward? They'll be able to hear everything." "They're sleeping," Dust said. "How do you know?" "Because I put them to sleep. I didn't want them to hear us talking. It's not their business. Believe me, they're out at least until morning," Dust said. "I'm just going to go check," Elijah said. He urged Dust gently off his chest, rose from the bed and retrieved his jeans from the floor. "Be right back." "Go if it makes you feel better," Dust said. "When you come back, I don't want you thinking about anything 133

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but me." Elijah smiled at him and turned the doorknob very slowly, so the click of the latch would be barely audible. He crept as silently as a shadow up the hallway, a skill he'd gained from living with his mother. If he woke her on his way for a glass of water or to the bathroom, he could expect the wooden spoon, or the broom, if it was closer. The TV was on, but the volume was turned way down. A news program bathed Sheriff Woodward and Jo's slumped bodies in flickering blue light. She lay curled neatly on her side on the left end of the couch, her hands folded under her face and her knees tucked up against her chest. The sheriff's head had collapsed against the back of the sofa, his nose pointed straight up. Soft snores emanated from his open mouth. His legs hung open, and he'd shoved his right hand partway down his pants. Two bowls of melted ice cream sat on the floor; Jo's beside the coffee table leg and the sheriff's facedown next to his boot. Elijah cleared his throat, and neither of the two sleepers flinched. "Sheriff Woodward?" he said softly. "Jo?" Then, just to be sure, he shook the sheriff's shoulder lightly. The older man snorted, but didn't open his eyes, so Elijah returned to the spare room. He found Dust in the bathroom, rummaging through the mirrored medicine cabinet over the pink ceramic sink 134

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that matched the tub and toilet. "What are you looking for?" Elijah asked, leaning against the doorframe. Dust turned and walked over to Elijah, a tube of cucumber-melon body lotion in his hand. He brushed the hair out of Elijah's eyes, kissed him on the chin, and said, "I don't want to hurt you." The magnitude of what he was about to do struck Elijah then, and he trembled. He couldn't look at Dust's half-erect cock or the lotion. He stared down at the shiny mauve tiles and thought about what Dust was going to do and what it would be like. His foot and toes were golden, marred only by a tiny cut near his ankle. He was afraid, but he craved Dust's body inside him, hungered for that connection with him. "It's okay if you've changed your mind," Dust said. "There are still plenty of things we can do." "No," Elijah said decisively. "I want to. I want you." "Okay." Dust took his hand and led him back to the bed. He unfastened Elijah's jeans and let them fall. "Just lay back," Dust urged, and Elijah sunk into the pillows. "I'll go slow, and you can stop me anytime." He squirted some of the fragrant lotion onto his palm and knelt between Elijah's knees. Slippery fingers slithered over Elijah's cock, stroking it to arousal. Then Dust eased Elijah's legs apart and coaxed his heels toward 135

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his hips. A single slick finger slid between his ass cheeks, lingering just for a second on his puckered mound. The finger went back and forth from the base of his balls to the bottom of his spine. Finally, it stopped over his opening and exerted a gentle pressure. "Relax," Dust whispered. Elijah unclenched the muscles he hadn't even realized he'd tensed up, and Dust's fingertip wriggled inside him. It was a tight fit, but it didn't hurt. The second finger stretched him tauter, stinging a little until he got used to it. Dust's fingers probed deeper, arching up toward Elijah's belly button until they hit the spot inside that made his cock jump and dribble. He'd wanted to let Dust in his body for the intimacy of the experience; he'd had no idea it would be so pleasurable. If Dust kept up what he was doing, Elijah thought he might come a second time. Dust's fingers practically forced it out of him from within. "Like that, huh?" Dust asked, dipping his head down to lick the pre-come from Elijah's little slit. A strand of liquid stretched from Elijah's tip to the tip of Dust's tongue until he closed his mouth and broke the connection. "Are you ready for me, or do you want to stop here?" "I'm ready," Elijah said. He thought he was until Dust spread his cheeks and pushed just the head of his cock slowly into Elijah. It hurt. It was so much wider than Dust's 136

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fingers that Elijah felt like he was being torn in half. He arched his back, clenched his fists, and moaned. Dust pressed a little farther in, but held still, not actually fucking Elijah. In tiny increments, he gradually penetrated Elijah fully. He gave Elijah a few minutes to ease into the new sensation and adjust to the stretched, full feeling. The discomfort ebbed, and Elijah pulled his knees to his shoulders, encouraging Dust to thrust into him. Dust proceeded leisurely, adjusting the angle of his body until he hit Elijah's sweet spot again. Elijah shoved his hips toward Dust. He wanted Dust to stop babying him, to really fuck him and satisfy himself. The thought no sooner formed than Dust looked down at Elijah with a surprised and delighted smile. "You want—" Dust breathed. "You want me to—" "I want you," Elijah confirmed, pushing his flesh flush with Dust's pelvis and squeezing his dick with his inner muscles. Dust's eyes never left Elijah's as he grabbed Elijah's ankles and propped them on his shoulders. Then he seized Elijah's hipbones and pulled Elijah hard against him. Elijah gasped, and Dust hesitated. "Do it," Elijah urged. "Don't stop." "If you want it, I'll give it to you," Dust said with a wicked smile and threatening arch to his eyebrows. "Give it to me, Dust!" 137

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Elijah's ass throbbed from the thumping Dust gave it, but he loved it. He never wanted it to end. His nails bit Dust's knees and forearms, leaving little pink crescents on his gold skin. He urged Dust on by crossing his feet behind Dust's neck and pulling him forward. Finally, Dust, his cheeks blooming pink and glistening with sweat, threw his head back and yelled Elijah's name. Come exploded into his ass and leaked out between his cheeks when Dust withdrew from his body. "That was… great," Elijah panted. "You were great. I didn't know it would feel so good." Dust blushed and smiled. "Do you want to do me?" "Do you want me to?" "Yeah," Dust said. "I've wanted you to since that first night we were together. I just didn't articulate it very well, I guess." "How do you want to do it?" Elijah asked, but Dust had already straddled him and held himself just above the tip of Elijah's erect cock. The lotion used earlier made it easy for Elijah to penetrate Dust as Dust lowered himself down. The tightness and sweltering heat of Dust's ass amazed Elijah; he worried he'd blow his load before Dust even started moving. He concentrated hard on holding it back. Dust had really known what to do when he'd sucked Elijah off before. Without that previous orgasm, Elijah 138

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would've come before he was even fully inside Dust. "God!" he grunted, his hands grasping Dust's waist, trying to prevent him from moving and stimulating Elijah further. Dust wove his fingers into Elijah's and guided Elijah's hands away from his body until Elijah's knuckles rested beside his blond head. Dust situated himself, trying different slants until he found the best. Then he rocked back and forth on Elijah's cock, drawing it slowly in and out of himself. This time Elijah didn't want him to speed up. The awareness of being in Dust, the echoes of his pulse and the feeling of the walls of his asshole clenching and unclenching would have been more than enough to get Elijah off. The teasing undulation of hips, the way he bit the tip of his tongue as he looked down at Elijah, and his rough, sporadic kisses made it impossible for Elijah to hold back. He'd never had an orgasm like it. He yanked down on Dust's hips, wanting to be as deep within him as he could, wanting their bodies to occupy as much of the same space as physically possible. His seed shot out with the force of a bullet from a gun. Gallons seemed to spurt out, coming and coming until he felt completely drained. A lifetime of build-up felt like it flooded out into his lover, his love. His erection didn't wilt, either, and Dust continued to grind against him slowly, wringing a few more drops of 139

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semen from his balls. Finally, Dust collapsed against him, exhausted and sticky with perspiration, lotion, and their fluids. He lifted himself just enough for Elijah to slip out of his body. Elijah held Dust in silence. His resolve to protect his

lover

steeled,

matched

by

a

sudden

fierce

possessiveness. He didn't want to control or own Dust, but he didn't want to share him, especially if Dust didn't want to be shared. Unbidden, a picture of the demon, helpless and in agony, flashed in his mind. Dust stirred from his torpor, possibly sensing Elijah's distress. "I wish there was another way," Elijah said, twirling a lock of Dust's hair around his finger. "It seems wrong." "Can we forget about it for tonight?" Dust requested. "Everything's so perfect right now, and I don't want to think about the future or the past." He had a point. "Jo bawled me out for lighting a cigarette in the living room this afternoon," Elijah said. "I thought she'd cut my nuts off. I could sure use one now, though. You're positive they won't wake up?" "When are you going to learn to trust me?" Dust asked, rising from Elijah's chest with a smile to retrieve his sweatshirt from the floor. He took the Marlboros from his pocket, lit two, and handed one to Elijah. Then he went back into the washroom and wet a rag so they could clean 140

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themselves. Before he lay back down, he opened the window, filling the room with cool night air and the scent of roses.

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Chapter Seven For three days, Dust, Elijah, and Sheriff Woodward sat kitty-corner from the magician's condo. Each afternoon around one, the man left in his stage clothes and didn't return until after ten in the evening. The fourth day they followed him to the Stardust Hotel, where he performed at three o'clock and again at six and eight. Tickets were sold out weeks in advance, so they weren't able to take in the show. Afterwards, he took advantage of the free drinks and the company of easily-impressed waitresses in the casino. The man, who used the modest stage-name of "The Phenomenal Philip" escorted a different woman back to his condo every night. Dust grew impatient by the end of the week. His first concern was for himself. Each day that passed brought the possibility that someone would find the carnelian ring that had belonged to the gangster Patrick McDermott and use it to enslave him. He would be permanently separated from Elijah, and his freedom would be lost. Another possibility was that the sorceress, Scarlet, would become so annoyed with his failure to recover her property that she'd rescind her offer of lifting his curse. She could do even more damage if she got angry enough. The idea of the 142

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demon languishing in the closet of someone so unworthy of possessing it made Dust's blood boil. Its plea for rescue when it recognized Dust's scent had touched his heart in spite of himself. Here they were again, day five. The day was glaringly bright and too hot for early October. The sheriff from Epiphany sat stoically behind the wheel of his Bronco, wearing a pair of the aviator sunglasses that cops always seemed to favor. Elijah leafed through a National Geographic that he'd taken from Jo's coffee table. "Here comes Fabulous Philip," he said, without looking up. The door to the condo hadn't opened yet. He senses him, Dust thought, looking at his partner with astonishment and respect. There was more beneath Elijah's surface than Elijah probably realized himself. Not for the first time, Elijah had known something he had no real way of knowing. Dust wondered about Elijah's lineage as he watched the condo. Sure enough, five minutes later, the magician appeared in his tight gray leggings, brocade vest, red cravat and matching top hat. Dust rolled his eyes in disgust as Philip got into his black van and drove off. Any magic-user worth his salt would be able to feel me a mile off, he thought. Hell, you'd think he'd wonder why this bright orange truck has been parked outside of his house for a week. Dust reached the conclusion that Philip was just 143

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too self-absorbed and arrogant to notice. "He's gone; let's go," Dust said, reaching for the door handle. "Hold up," said the sheriff. "No. It's been a week. We know he won't be back until late tonight; he never is. I'm tired of waiting, and I'm tired of listening to you." "So am I," Elijah agreed. "You might be a sheriff, but Dust knows more about this stuff than you ever will. Besides, he's suffering in there." He looked toward the condo, his blue eyes full of empathy. "You're just going to parade that thing down the street in broad daylight," the sheriff said, turning to face them. Dust looked at his reflection in the sheriff's mirrored glasses. He hated to admit that what the older man said had merit. Through the window, he saw a young woman in fuchsia hot pants pushing twin babies down the sidewalk in a double stroller. "Let's not make this any harder than it has to be," the sheriff said. Dust threw up his hands. "Fine," he conceded. "I'll wait until it gets dark, but not a second longer, no matter what you say." So they waited in the roasting truck for six more 144

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hours until the sun set and the porch lights began to blink on one by one. The glow from the casinos across town looked like a neon bubble rising from the desert floor, rivaling the harvest moon peeking over the horizon. Dust stepped out of the Bronco and stretched his stiff limbs. Then he lifted his heavy pack from the floor and shouldered it. A quick glance to the left and right told him nobody on the street would notice their entry. "Elijah, I'd like you to go with me," he said. "Yeah, of course." "You," he said to the sheriff. "Give us ten minutes, and then pull the truck up in front of the house. Pop the back hatch and leave the engine running." The sheriff nodded once. The man was terrified, but he hid it well. "If it gets away from me," Dust said, mostly to Elijah, "get down and hide under something fast. Don't try to catch it. Promise me you won't." "But if he gets away, then you—" "Elijah, promise me you won't!" "I promise." "Good. Let's go." Dust's heart raced as he approached the magician's condo. His palms felt clammy, and his stomach threatened to expel the pepperoni pizza they'd shared for lunch. If Elijah hadn't been by his side, he 145

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might have lost his nerve. Elijah's bravery as he advanced on the house, without any magic or even a gun, gave Dust the strength to move forward. Elijah would feel Dust's dread; their connection had become as omnipresent and complex as the relationship between water, wind, and light forming weather in the atmosphere. No risk was too great for Dust to take to hold on to Elijah. He lifted his hands and stretched them out parallel to the door. The magician hadn't even replaced the sealing charm. Only a cheap lock protected the treasure within the condo. Maybe he should change his name to Foolish Philip, or Philip the Fuck-Up, Dust thought, feeling a little more confident. He only regretted that he wouldn't be around to see the look on the magician's face when he opened his closet door and found he'd lost the most precious thing he'd ever possessed. Would he even have the wisdom to recognize what he'd squandered? Probably not. He tapped the lock with his middle finger, and the mechanism clicked softly. The door swung open, and Elijah followed him inside. Moonlight and memory allowed Dust to navigate his way around the furniture and back to the bedroom. Once there, he fumbled for the lamp on the night table and pulled the chain. A pool of soft gold fell around him and Elijah. "Good evening, boys," said The Phenomenal Philip. 146

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"Nice of you to drop by for a visit." The magician laid on his huge bed in silk pajama pants and, of all things, a smoking jacket. "We saw you leave," Elijah sputtered. "I came back. When I saw that somebody had removed the protection rune from my door, I knew they'd come back to call again. Is there something I can do for you?" Dust cursed himself for underestimating the magician. At the same time, he was delighted to have the opportunity to confront him. "As a matter of fact," Dust said, "you have something I want." "Is that so?" The Phenomenal Philip raised himself up on his elbow. "Give me the demon. It doesn't belong to you," Dust said, crossing his arms. Secretly he hoped the magician would try to put up a fight. He wasn't disappointed. "What if I don't?" "Then I'm taking it," Dust said. "I just thought I'd give you the chance to save yourself from a sound assbeating. But please, feel free to give me a reason." Philip stood up and stretched leisurely, feigning boredom. The magician's anxiety radiated from his skin like an odor, much to Dust's satisfaction. His gaze darted from the closet door, to Elijah, and back to Dust, and he 147

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said, "You don't look like much," though he'd obviously begun to sense that the opposite was true. "Sit down," Dust commanded. He raised his right arm and flicked his fingers as if he was annoyed by a fly. Philip skidded backward a foot and landed back on the bed. "Just stay put," Dust warned him. "I know you, don't I?" Philip said with a cruel smile. "I've seen you before. You were McDermott's little bitchboy. And a magic user, too? I always thought the old man just kept you around for eye-candy, and to bugger." "Shut up!" Elijah yelled. Dust just rolled his eyes. He'd been called worse. "So McDermott's people want my demon," Philip continued. "He always was rather the collector of mystical trinkets. Now that he's dead, his lackeys will continue to build the collection? Well, you can go back to your boss, whoever he is now, and tell him that I'm not willing to part with it. It came to me. Fell right out of the sky. Somebody did quite a number on it, too. It was so injured that I was able to subdue it without any trouble." "That was me," Dust said. "So imagine what I can do to you." "And you suppose I'm helpless?" Quicker than Dust would have thought possible, Philip reached toward him and closed his fist around the 148

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empty air. Dust felt the growing pressure on his throat, crushing his windpipe and making it difficult to breathe. He gulped down tiny bubbles of air and instinctively tried to pry the unseen hand from his neck. Dust's hand met only his own skin. Gray fuzz leaked in from the sides of his vision. His knees buckled, and his legs felt like jelly. He needed to gather his wits. Breaking the hold of the spell would be easy if he focused. Already the magical bonds had weakened and pulled apart like fibers in wet paper. A few more seconds and he would be free. He concentrated his energy on dispersing Philip's force. Before he managed to break away, Elijah lifted the vase of flowers from the round table and swung at Philip's head. Once again, the magician moved fast and ducked out of the way. The vase shattered against the wall, spraying chunks of blue glass and beads of water over the thick satin pillows. Philip's attention left Dust in an instant, and Dust staggered back a few steps and gasped for air. He leaned forward and grasped his knees until the dizziness passed. Philip's interest turned to Elijah. He darted on his hands and knees to the side of the bed farthest from Dust and thrust the heel of his hand toward him. The force hit Elijah square in the chest and knocked him backward against the wall. Elijah was winded, and he hugged his ribs, but he stayed on his feet. 149

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Philip's next blow met the left side of Elijah's head. A trickle of blood dripped from Elijah's nose. Elijah's chin flew up and back, and his head slammed against the wall as Philip hit him again. Elijah groaned, swayed for a moment, and dropped to his knees, clutching his jaw. Abandoning the magic that had left him sweaty and panting, Philip leapt from the bed to Elijah's huddled form. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, you little faggot," the magician snarled. The heel of his bare foot met Elijah's ribs, and Elijah choked on a wet cough. Philip kicked him twice more. White-hot anger filled Dust. Violence bubbled up inside him and poured from his being. He tried to breathe, tried to keep some control over himself and his power. The more brutality he'd committed and been subjected to over the years, the less restraint he kept over his aggressive tendencies. Seeing this second-rate magician dare to put his hands on Elijah pushed Dust over the edge. "How dare you touch Elijah?" he growled. Without even trying, he gathered the charged magical particles in the air to him like iron filings to a powerful magnet. Energy swirled around him. His hair crackled with electricity, and his fingertips glowed. He surrendered conscious thought and let his body become a conduit for the magic. It coursed through his veins and 150

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made his cells tingle. Then he was no longer aware of his bones and muscles, or the walls surrounding him, or his mission to reclaim the demon. Past and future burned in the flame of his power, fueled by his anger. A single thought replayed in his head like a mantra, the last vestige of logical thought: Nobody is taking Elijah from me. Elijah is mine. Nobody will touch Elijah. These words faded too, and he immersed himself in the power. There were hands on his shoulders, shaking hands that gripped gently but with fear. From far away, a voice called to him. It was muffled and faint, but familiar. What was it saying? It was pleading with him, calling him a strange name: Dust. It penetrated the tornado of energy flowing around him. He could see blue eyes through the white light. Elijah. Dust loosed his hold on the magical particles he'd summoned to himself, and they began to drift away in swirling clouds. His body missed them like it would a lover's caress, and he became cognizant of the solidity of the floor beneath his feet. Elijah's nails bit into his shoulder. He looked terrified. Dust inhaled and held the air. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. Get a hold of yourself before you hurt him… "Are you back, Dust?" he asked in a quaking 151

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whisper. What had happened? He'd been angry about something. Pissed. As he'd done a few frightening times before, he'd lost himself to his rage and blacked out, unleashing destruction on everything around him. The prone body of The Phenomenal Philip recalled the evening's events to his scorched mind. The magician lay on his side near the bedroom door. Blood pooled around his head, and his right arm jutted out behind him, clearly broken. A trail of crimson spread from the wall beside the bed to just above where Philip lay. He was badly hurt and would probably spend several days unconscious and several more in pain, but he'd live, thanks only to Elijah's intervention. Hazily, Dust remembered the back of the magician's head dragging along the wall as his body dangled limply beneath. "I thought you were going to kill him," Elijah said. His grip on Dust's shoulders eased, and he relaxed forward, giving his weight to Dust's chest. Dust felt Elijah's heart racing against his sternum, and he reached toward his lover's face to comfort him. Elijah's head collapsed against Dust's palm. "Say something, Dust," he urged. "So I know you're back. Say something." "It's okay," Dust said. "Sorry I upset you." He drew Elijah close and hugged him, holding him until Elijah's 152

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pulse slowed and his ragged breathing steadied. "Let's get this over with," Elijah finally said. "Yeah." Dust opened the closet door and turned on the light. Enough power lingered around him that he didn't even need to lift his hand to dispel the illusory wall. He simply wished it gone, and it blinked away. Philip had put a heavy padlock and chain on the entrance to the demon's cell since their last visit. Dust waved his fingers at it, and the lock sprung open, some of the chain links breaking apart and landing in a pile on the floor. The door swung open, framing the demon in a rectangle of light. "You came back," it croaked hoarsely, without lifting its head. "Giovanni." "You aren't going to give me any trouble," Dust crooned, the way a cowboy soothed a skittish horse. "Not like last time, okay?" "Let me go," it pleaded. "Elijah, go to the other side of the bed and get me my backpack." Once he had the bag in his hands, Dust unzipped it and carefully unrolled the heavy, rose-gold chains. He arranged them on the floor and checked to make sure all of the pieces were ready: a heavy collar, shackles for the ankles and wrists, each welded with a sturdy ring, and chains to connect every piece to every other. He would 153

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have to loose the iron restraints Philip had placed on the demon's limbs and replace them with his own in a split second. He decided to start at the bottom. He knelt and tapped the manacle around the demon's left leg, just above the dew claw. It broke in half, and he clicked the gold circle where it had been. "I remember the feeling of her chains on me," the demon lamented. "I doubt I'll ever be free of them again. Their enchantment is too strong for me to break out." "Sorry," Dust said as he repeated the severing and replacing process above the demon's right hoof. Then he connected the gilded shackles with a foot-long chain. His hands shook as he reached for the creature's wrist. It flexed its hand, drawing attention to the long black claws crowning its fingers. Dust stood up. In order to reach where he needed to, he had to squeeze in between the demon and the closet wall. The demon's nose grazed his navel when he leaned forward to release the iron restraint. It inhaled deeply of his scent, and then pressed against him, rubbing its cheek against his belly button. Behind him, Elijah stood silent. "Stop it," Dust whispered harshly, clicking both of the cuffs on the demon's wrists in only half a minute. The chains were designed to be worn with the prisoner's arms in front, where they could intersect with the hobbles and 154

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collar. Dust didn't dare the few seconds it would take to pull the demon's arms around, though, so he latched its wrists together and strung another length of chain between the piece connecting its hands and the one joining its ankles. Now only Philip's ill-fitting collar kept it secure to the wall. Once he dissolved that, the demon would be unfastened. Dust knelt down, face-to-face with the demon. Its black tongue darted out. Dust held his left hand near the iron collar. The gold collar, with its chain leash, was ready in his right, only a few inches from the demon's neck. Sweat ran down Dust's spine and between his ass cheeks. He took a deep breath. There was so much more at stake here than the excruciating physical pain the demon would inflict on his person if it got free. He wrapped the chain lead three times around his knuckles and tapped the iron collar. Moving as fast as he could, he pressed the gold collar to the demon's neck and clicked the two half-circles together to make one seamless piece. Then he tugged on the lead, and said, "Let's go." "Take off my blindfold, Giovanni," the demon said. "At least let me see your face." "I'll get it, Dust," Elijah offered. He reached into the little room and slid the loop of cloth over the demon's head, astounding Dust once again with his courage. The demon 155

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blinked its opalescent red-orange-gold eyes, and when they'd adjusted to the light, focused them on Dust. Dust looked away. Trying to follow Dust was difficult for the creature after its long incarceration. Nor could it use its arms for balance. It lurched awkwardly from the small cell into the magician's bedroom and then straightened its back. At its full height, it towered at least a foot over Dust's head and its shoulders were twice as broad. Its wings, missing feathers in several large patches, hung behind it and dragged on the floor as it walked. As soon as it got outside into the cool night air, it spread them to their full span of over twelve feet and flapped them three times, lifting its hooves a foot off the sidewalk. Dust jerked down on the leash and asked Elijah to open the hatch on the Bronco. The demon barely fit in the small compartment behind the backseat. Even folded, the edges of its wings scraped the ceiling. Dust urged it forward without letting go of the chain, and then crawled around it and swung his leg over the seat, so as not to give it even a second's separation from his hand. The creature sat on its heels, gazing longingly at the sky as they drove off. ****

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Sam would have given his right arm for Jo to be away from home when he arrived with Elijah, Dust, and that thing. Instead he was greeted by his hostess in a black A-line skirt and burgundy peasant blouse. She'd come out to the porch to meet them. He prepared himself for her to scream and keep screaming when she saw it and got ready to clap his hand over her mouth and drag her into the house before the neighbors took notice. Jo's reaction when Dust dragged his captive through her door, its wings scraping the frame and leaving hawk-like feathers on the threshold, was even worse than he'd anticipated. At first he thought she was having an asthma attack. She inhaled in short, jerky gulps through an open mouth. The air obviously didn't reach her lungs, and she stumbled backward. Her body shook hard, like she'd just emerged from a frozen lake. When Sam reached out to hold her, calm her down, she struck him in the face. Then, from the lack of oxygen, she collapsed on the terra cotta tiles of the kitchen floor. Her wide eyes still stared at the unbelievable sight in her hallway. "For Christ's sake, get it out of here," Sam yelled at Dust. The little bastard actually smiled, twirling the length of chain nonchalantly. He's enjoying himself, Sam realized with revulsion. "Go," he repeated. "What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?" 157

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"We'll put it in the basement," Dust said to Elijah. He led the creature toward the door at the front of the hallway. Once they were out of sight, Sam knelt down beside Jo. He smoothed her sweaty forehead. "You gotta breathe, Jo. C'mon, now. Deep breath in. And out. Good." Her head flailed from side to side, and Sam lifted her body onto his knees, holding her face against his chest to keep her from hurting herself. He didn't know what to say to settle her. Of the many things he had experience dealing with, this wasn't one. "It'll be okay," was the best he came up with. "What… is it?" she panted. "I can't say." "I want that thing and those boys out of my house. I want it out of here. Oh, God." She muffled a sob with the back of her hand. Sam couldn't help noticing she hadn't ordered him away, nor did she try to break out of his embrace. "First thing tomorrow," he said. "I'll take 'em and go." "Why do you have to go?" she said frantically. Sam sighed. "Because if I don't, that little shit will never undo what he did to Epiphany. I have to see this through. There are good people depending on me." He 158

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shuddered to think of what was happening back in Epiphany at that moment. He'd never been angrier at Dust, at anybody, than he was just then. Dust had backed him into a corner. Because of Dust, he'd have to leave Jo just as their friendship—and maybe more—was being rekindled. "I could come back when it's over," he dared. "If you want." Jo didn't seem to hear him. "It just can't be," she said, clutching a handful of Sam's shirt. "It can't exist. Can't." "It does, no matter how many times you say it can't." "How?" she said. "I've been to South America, India and Africa. I've seen some shit. But that— It just— Can't—" "Shh. It'll be over soon." He leaned forward and kissed her hairline. "How 'bout that nightly ice cream? You go turn the TV on, and I'll fix it." She smiled. "I do, you know," she said. "What?" "I want you to come back, Sam. When it's over." **** "Do you think we should bring him something to 159

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eat, maybe some water?" "No, Elijah. He doesn't need it." Dust had magically heated a patch of the cinderblock wall of Jo's basement until the concrete melted around the last loop of the chain lead and the demon was secured to the block. Now it crouched on the dirty floor between a washing machine and an old lawnmower, its hands tied behind it and its eyes boring into him. Beside him, Elijah brushed some dried blood from under his nose. "I think I'm going to go upstairs and take a shower." "Okay," Dust said. "I'm just going to make sure everything's fastened up here, and I'll join you." He leaned over to kiss Elijah, but Elijah didn't turn his head to meet Dust's mouth. Elijah only stared at the chained demon, wringing his hands, so Dust let his lips brush Elijah's jaw, trying to act like he hadn't meant to do anything more. "I'll be right there," he repeated, and Elijah hurried up the wooden steps. "You love him," the demon stated. "He's lucky." It strained to close the foot of distance between itself and Dust. Though he could have avoided the contact simply by stepping back, Dust let the demon press its cheek against his upper thigh. The demon panted a word of thanks. Furnace-hot breath permeated the fabric of Dust's worn 160

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jeans at the crotch. Blood inundated his cock, and he wove his fingers into the demon's metallic locks. He seized a handful of hair and jerked the demon's head back so it faced him. Otherworldly light danced in its eyes. Dust ground his teeth together and clenched his fists, trying to bury lust so strong it was almost murderous. It had all started as empathy. They were two chained beings, both suffering, and with so much in common despite a universe of difference. Dust found himself going into the room where Scarlet kept the demon and speaking with it, with him. After all, he understood Dust's peculiar plight like no one else on earth would be capable of understanding. Scarlet kept the demon as a slave, but on chains long enough that he could walk and in a room where he could stretch his wings. Her primary caging came from the circle of herbs, powders, and ground gemstones that surrounded the demon. He couldn't cross the enchanted boundary. She refreshed the circle every day, placing the pungent barrier only a few inches out of her prisoner's reach. Only when she used him for her pleasure did she restrain him completely: tying his wrists, ankles and neck to the floor and spreading his arms and legs. On a few occasions, Scarlet made Dust watch her ride the bound creature. She cut his chest with her red nails and burned him with enchanted flames that sprung from her fingers, 161

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just as she did to Dust when she was so inclined. The demon's wounds healed in minutes; Dust's did not. One night as Dust sat with the demon, he noticed a cut crossing Dust's collarbone and crushed his red lips against the scabs. His restorative energy eased Dust's discomfort, and Dust enjoyed the touch of his mouth. Things deteriorated into a divine madness after that. Dust still couldn't recall the order of the events. He only remembered his hands moving fast and chaotically over burning skin, trying to touch everywhere at once. He flailed as irrationally as a drowning person, palms rushing from the beautiful being's neck and chest to his muscular stomach and lightly furred legs. Clawed hands tore away his shirt. A black tongue teased his pink nipples. Intoxication stole his reason, reducing his movements to desperate jerks and grabs. He couldn't even keep his balance, and collapsed forward on to the demon's chest, sending them both sprawling. They writhed on the floor, winding the gold chains around and around them until they were wrapped tightly together. Dust remembered well the contrast between the cool marble under his back and the burning skin against his chest. Wings folded over him, blocking the mundane world. Dust was so overcome that he bit and scratched the demon's flesh and feathers. His blood darkened Dust's nails 162

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and fingers, his mouth, cheeks and chin. He ground his throbbing erection against the demon's own until the skin rubbed raw. Vaguely, he recalled begging for an end to the torment. He'd calmed down only long enough to uncoil the chains. The demon sat up and folded his legs beneath him. Dust tore his pants off and hurled himself into his lap. His knees jabbed under the demon's arms, and he wrapped his calves around the demon's back. Feathers brushed his shins. He tried to position himself so he could drop down onto the demon's cock, but the demon deftly moved out of the way each time to avoid penetrating Dust. Dust attempted to grasp the demon's hips and hold him still, but he couldn't compete with the demon's physical strength. Sweat poured from his slender body, and his mouth bled from erratic, violent kissing. Finally, he squirmed forward enough that the demon's erection slid between his cheeks. Dust rocked back and forth, the demon's leakage letting his cock slip easily over Dust's crack. Dust's own cock, throbbing like it would burst, thrust against the demon's belly. He ignored the roughness of the coarse trail of hair on his delicate head and humped the sweaty skin furiously. Again, Dust had tried to sit down on his supernatural lover's cock, and again the demon avoided it with a jerk of his pelvis. Dust couldn't take it anymore. He 163

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yelled and beat his fists against the demon's shoulders. The demon chuckled softly and cupped Dust's ass, lifting him as easily as a feather and pulling him down hard. Without any kind of lubrication, the demon's cock tore at Dust's sensitive flesh. Tears stung his eyes, and he cried out, but still he propelled his body toward the other. Once the demon was inside him, Dust lost sense of anything but his own pleasure. A whirlwind of sensation moved around and through him: the bite of the demon's nails on his cheeks, the faint gunpowder scent of him, his hard, hot shaft driving up into Dust. Dust let himself be yanked up and down, fighting the urge to ride the demon. He could do nothing but cling to the demon's neck. He thought he'd break apart from the pleasure, that it would damage his mind to the point of no return. None of his many lovers had ever made him feel anything like this. He was sure it was beyond the ability of a mortal. Vestiges of the demon's realm, warm updrafts and currents of flame, swirled around them as they'd fucked viciously. Tongues of fire licked Dust's quivering body, burning, hurting, but doing no real damage. Dust didn't know or care how much of it was physical and how much was a psychic manipulation. His orgasm built like lava in a volcano, and he tried to hold it off, to savor the exquisite experience a few seconds longer. He also sensed his partner 164

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on the verge of coming, and craved the splash of the boiling seed against the walls of his ass. His demon lover pressed his open palm over Dust's cock, sandwiching Dust's erection between the demon's hand and stomach. Dust thrust into the cleft and arched backward so the demon's cock hit the right spot inside him. He used his own magic to assure that they came at the same second. "Your body is calling out for my touch, Giovanni," the demon said, jolting Dust back into the present. Sure enough, a raging erection pressed against Dust's zipper. "Let me out of these chains so I can give you pleasure." Dust pulled away. "You need a new line," he said bitterly. "Do you think I don't remember what happened the last time I was stupid enough to unbind you?" Dust still had the deep cuts and bruises to bear witness. "Your toe severed the witch's circle when you came to me," the demon said. "Did you do it on purpose?" "Of course I didn't," Dust said, his sexual frustration putting him in a cross mood. "I need Scarlet to break the curse on me. That's why I had to let her use me all that time, to humor her. I was as much a slave as you." "Let me go," the demon asked again. "You hurt me," Dust reminded him. He'd gone to the demon a second time, aching for its touch, and the demon took the opportunity to escape at the cost of horrible 165

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injury to Dust. Dust didn't really feel betrayed; the demon wasn't human and didn't possess human emotions or morals.

Its

thought

processes

were

beyond

his

comprehension. Dust only felt angry at himself for falling into the trap, self-imposing another form of servitude on top of those others had placed on him. "Sorry, friend, but it's you or me." "I wish it could be otherwise," the demon said. "I want to be with you, inside you, again." The longing in his eyes was almost a physical force pulling Dust toward him. Dust started to kneel down, to reach out his hands. The look on the demon's face had never been there for Scarlet. When the sorceress straddled him, the demon's features went blank. He took her every blow, bite and cut with the silent stoicism of a martyr. He tolerated her, because she was his mistress, but he wanted Dust. Dust didn't know if creatures such as him experienced love the way humans did, but the demon's hunger after the physical contact was plain to see. "There's no other way," Dust said. The regret he heard in his own voice shocked him. "I'm sorry. I'm going now, and I'll be back in the morning." Dust started up the steps. At the top, he met Elijah, freshly showered and carrying two turkey sandwiches and a big pitcher of iced tea. Guilt, as strong as if he'd done 166

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something with the demon and not just remembered it, assailed Dust, and he couldn't meet Elijah's eyes. He quashed the memory before Elijah could detect the flux in his mood. "I didn't think it would hurt to bring him something," Elijah said. "No, it won't hurt," Dust agreed. Unless the demon decides to tell Elijah about the two of us. I promised him I wouldn't keep any more secrets. Dust was ashamed of the encounter, because he'd used the demon's body just the way all of his masters had used him, and he wanted to hide it from his lover. "I'll just take it down to him." Elijah smiled at the "him," and Dust skipped back down the steps. He set the plate on the ground and said the words that opened the manacle on the demon's left wrist. The chain still dangled from his right hand, but he'd be able to eat and drink if he wanted. The heavy collar would prevent his escape for a few minutes. "Thank you, Giovanni," the demon whispered. He looked at Elijah's silhouette at the top of the steps, and said, "He's very lucky. You're lucky too."

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Chapter Eight Dust paced back and forth across the bedroom he shared with Elijah. Elijah had been lying on the bed, talking for almost half an hour straight. "How can we?" Elijah said. "Dust, we can't. We can't take him back to her just to be chained up again. It's not right." "No, it isn't," Dust said for what felt like the hundredth time. "I'm not enjoying this either, Elijah, but like I said, there's no other way." "There must be," Elijah pleaded. Dust picked up the miniature rose he'd conjured and hurled it across the room toward the door. The pot shattered and dirt and gravel flew. "There's not!" he yelled. They didn't know, none of them, not Elijah or the sheriff or even the demon. Not one of them had any idea how it felt to be passed around like property, never knowing whose hands you'd fall into next, never allowed to choose anything. Dust hadn't even dared to hope for an end to it. Then that pig McDermott had died, and Scarlet told him she could break the curse. Like a prisoner who'd seen the sun for the first time, he couldn't go back into the darkness. If Elijah loved him, why wouldn't he try to understand? 168

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"All I'm saying," Elijah continued, more cautious in tone after Dust's outburst, "is maybe we can—" "We can't!" Dust yelled. He rushed forward, dove on the bed, and grabbed his lover's shoulders, shaking them hard. "We can't! Why won't you listen to me? Do you want me to have to go back to the way things were? Why won't you trade him for me, Elijah?" Elijah's blue eyes widened, and tears spilled over his cheeks. His hand trembled as he reached for Dust's face. "Please don't think of it like that. It just hurts me, his pain. I just want to find another way." "There is no other way!" Dust yelled, dodging Elijah's hand. "What about my pain? Do you even care about that?" "Dust—" "No! You don't know anything about how the world works! Nobody will look out for you if you don't look out for yourself. You don't know anything! You need to grow the fuck up and stop being a child!" Normally, he might have felt guilty for upsetting Elijah, for his harsh accusations. His emotions were being pulled in every direction by his fear, his yearning for freedom, his lust after the demon, its pleas to him, and Elijah's insistence on freeing it. He wanted to please Elijah, he wanted to help the demon, and he also wanted to break his curse and hopefully 169

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avoid another lifetime of rape and torture. The hinges and bolts that held him together, kept him himself through everything he endured, shuddered and cracked, threatening to crumble. Centuries of anger and pain poured out of the pinholes where the rust had eaten through and the muchpatched casing couldn't hold. The violence came close to the surface. The destruction waited to be set loose, like a fighting dog on a chain. Dust kept a tenuous but tight hold. While angry, he wouldn't let himself hurt Elijah. "You don't know what it's like," he continued yelling at Elijah. "You can't even begin to imagine. I'm not going back to it. If you can't stomach what has to be done, then you can just leave!" Dust expected Elijah to do one of two things: either he'd get pissed off, maybe punch Dust in the mouth, or he'd cry some more. If he hit him, Dust knew he deserved it. He almost wanted Elijah to strike him, bloody his mouth. Cruelty and aggression he was experienced with and understood. Love was more confusing, and hurt more in its way. Elijah did neither. He reached out for Dust with both arms, trying to embrace him. When Dust swatted his hands away, Elijah grabbed his wrists and held his arms still. Dust struggled for a few seconds, and then his shoulders and spine curled in and his muscles relaxed. Elijah pulled Dust forward, against his chest, and held him very tightly. Dust 170

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crossed his arms in front of his own heart, as if protecting it, and whispered, "I'm sorry." Elijah's round chin rested on top of Dust's head. Dust felt his tears splashing against his scalp where his hair parted. "Elijah, I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean it. If you really did leave me, I couldn't take it. You just don't know how it feels to be tied down like that." "You could show me," Elijah said quietly. Dust broke out of Elijah's grip and took his face in both hands. "What do you mean?" Dust asked. A strange light danced behind Elijah's eyes, but other than its mischievous desire, his face was unreadable to Dust. His breath washed over Dust's lips. "Show me, Dust," he whispered. "Show me how it feels to be tied and told what to do." All Dust could do was stare at the aroused blush spreading over Elijah's cheeks and wonder what had led to this development. Two minutes ago, they'd been arguing. A little over a week ago, Elijah had been a clumsy virgin receiving his first kiss. Now he was asking Dust to tie him up. How on earth had he even come up with the idea? "You really want this?" Dust asked. "Why?" Elijah pressed his lips to Dust's. He guided Dust's hand to Elijah's erect cock. When he spoke, Dust inhaled his air. "Dust, please—" 171

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Arousal and infatuation drove the questions from Dust's mind. He grabbed a handful of Elijah's golden hair and yanked his head back. His tongue slid up Elijah's neck, over his Adam's apple, and across his jawbone until it reached his ear. Then, breathing like he'd just run a marathon, Dust said, "So… you want me to tie you up and fuck you." Elijah tried to nod, but Dust jerked his head back an inch more and held it still. The trace of fear he saw in Elijah's eyes made him hold off, though. He still doesn't completely trust me, Dust realized with a pang of sadness. "Elijah, maybe we shouldn't. Let's forget about the tying and just have some fun." "No," Elijah panted. "It's okay. I want to." "Get your clothes off, then," Dust said, shedding his T-shirt and jeans in mere seconds. Not long after, Elijah was naked as well. Elijah still looked a little timid as he waited with his legs crossed, but his cock showed that he really did like the idea of bondage. Dust had no intention of playing out a full-blown master-slave scene with Elijah. He could never hit or hurt him. They'd just experiment with a little bit of sensual restraint until Elijah satisfied his curiosity. As he searched the room for something to bind Elijah with, Dust started to like the plan too. He imagined Elijah's muscles popping as 172

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he strained against his ties, sweat glazing his fair skin. He pictured him squirming, begging to be touched. He anticipated teasing the ticklish places on Elijah's sides with the ends of his black hair, while Elijah thrashed, powerless to make him stop. By the time he found the strips of lacelined fabric that held the curtains open, Dust's cock was rock hard. "On your stomach," Dust commanded, lightly and with humor. "Grab the bars on the headboard." Elijah complied, and Dust straddled the small of his back, leaning forward to secure first his right and then his left hand. Elijah tested the ropes to see how much range he had, making the lean muscles of his back ripple. Dust ran a nail down Elijah's spine to his ass crack. "You're mine now," he whispered savagely. "I've always been yours," Elijah moaned, too excited to even breathe steadily. "Always will be." Pushing himself up to his hands and knees, Dust let his hair fall on either side of Elijah's ribs. The other man drew a shuddering breath at its light touch on his skin. Next Dust let his lips graze Elijah's back. Barely touching, raising gooseflesh, they brushed from Elijah's smooth ass cheeks and up his sensitive waist to his shoulders. When Elijah tried to push his body toward Dust's mouth, to get more pressure against his flesh, Dust deftly lifted his mouth 173

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away. Up and down Elijah's body he traveled, until he finally plowed Elijah's golden locks upward and nipped his neck at the hairline. Elijah moaned and trembled beneath him, his every nerve and muscle begging for more contact. Dust pulled away and touched the pink ellipse his teeth imprinted on the other man. Attention to detail, Dust thought. Just like with spells. The right thing in the right amount, at just the right moment, and bang, magic. He'd never been with someone he wanted to please, someone whose pleasure thrilled him to watch as much as his own pleasure. A few of his masters had been kind, but he hadn't loved any of them. Love was probably the only thing he hadn't experienced in his long existence, until now. He basked in it as he leaned back down, kissing the sides of Elijah's neck voraciously. His lips enfolded the lean muscle connecting Elijah's neck and shoulder, and his tongue darted out, tasting the yearning and arousal that spilled from Elijah's pores. Elijah turned his head to the side, lips quivering, trying desperately to reach Dust's mouth. Just as a tease, Dust gave him a quick peck before pulling away. "Up on your knees now," he said, sliding off Elijah's back to kneel beside him. Torso and back muscles flexed as Elijah hurried to obey. Dust pressed his knuckles against Elijah's inner 174

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thighs to spread his legs. His balls huddled to his body, covered with downy golden hair. They felt like a peach against Dust's palm. His cock lay flush against his stomach. Below him, it had left a moist trail on the sheets. Dust reached around and stroked it twice, milking more liquid from its dripping slit, moistening his hand. The slick finger slid back and forth over Elijah's tiny opening. Elijah stretched his spine, pushing backward to try to engulf Dust's finger. With a chuckle, Dust pulled away. He wrapped his hands around Elijah's cheeks and stretched them open. His tongue lapped at Elijah's balls and slipped up over his crack. The tip breached his tight hole, making Elijah moan. A finger, then two, took its place, drilling down toward Elijah's belly button. "I want you," Elijah said. "Dust, I can't take it anymore." "Too bad," Dust chuckled. "What you want doesn't matter." "Please—" Dust remembered, in a vivid flash, begging McDermott, usually to stop hurting him, and the aging gangster laughing, encouraged by the show of submission. Sometimes McDermott made Dust thank him for torturing or brutalizing him. The detailed vision disturbed him; he wondered what had summoned it. To try to drive it away, 175

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he looked down at Elijah, whose red hole swallowed up Dust's honey-colored fingers. Elijah didn't know what it really meant to be under someone's control. This was only a game to him. "Dust, if you don't fuck me, I'm going to lose my mind," Elijah whimpered. "Tough," Dust said, withdrawing his fingers to grab a handful of Elijah's hair. He pulled his head backward and whispered into his ear. Hostility flared behind his eyes, burning painful images into his brain. "You don't get to ask for favors. You do what I want, for my pleasure. That's your purpose, you—" He recalled some of the names McDermott had called him: fuck-toy, whore, and little bitch. "I don't like this game anymore," Elijah said. "Let me go." "If only it were so easy," Dust said. "Just ask and go free. No. You wanted to know how it feels, and now you know. You're at my mercy. I can do whatever I want, and you have no hope of escape. How does it feel? Would you trade anything to be rid of it?" "Dust—" Elijah trembled all over. "Please don't hurt me." Dust looked down at his hands, golden against Elijah's fair, rose-tinged hips. What was he doing? Elijah 176

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was terrified. All the trust he'd tried to build had just been wiped away. He hadn't been himself. The pain and anger of the past had possessed him again, turned him cruel. The idea that he could have harmed Elijah made him feel sick. He waved his hand at the ties holding his lover's wrists, and they blew apart, shooting scraps of fabric like confetti two feet into the air. "Elijah," Dust said in a voice soft with shame. "I don't know what came over me. I would never hurt you. I love you." Elijah rolled over and sat up to face Dust. "You were thinking about them, weren't you? Your masters. What they did to you." "It's no excuse," Dust said. "I want so much for you to feel comfortable around me. To trust me." "I trust you," Elijah said. To prove it, he resumed his position on his elbows and knees, gripping the iron bars of the headboard. His ass rose in front of Dust, spread open in invitation. "You shouldn't. I don't trust myself." "But I do." This time Dust was gentle. He kissed Elijah's cheeks softly, caressing the sides of his legs. He lubed up Elijah's tiny orifice with his tongue and opened it with his fingers to minimize his lover's discomfort. When the 177

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muscles relaxed and Elijah's erection returned, Dust carefully eased his cock inside him. He thrust in, seeking the spot that would make Elijah crazy. A shudder and groan from his lover told him that he'd found it, and he made sure his cock hit it again and again. He suppressed his own orgasm. Giving pleasure to Elijah mattered more than his own pleasure. "God, I love you," he grunted, not even realizing he'd said it out loud. "Dust, harder," Elijah asked, arching his back and pressing his ass toward Dust's groin. Dust held Elijah's waist and yanked him backward. "Yeah," he panted. "Anything. You want. Anything for you." "Fuck me!" He drove into him until his belly muscles and thighs ached. Though he could hardly catch his breath, he kept going. Sweat dripped from his forehead and splashed on Elijah's splayed ass. It flew from his hair as his head jerked back and forth. Just when he thought he'd collapse from the exertion, he saw Elijah's torso quake and knew his lover was coming. Dust reached around him and formed a tunnel with his hand. The force of his thrusts drove Elijah's cock between his fingers. Semen splattered his palm, but he kept going, both with his hand and his cock. In a few minutes, 178

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Elijah shot another load of come into Dust's hand. Dust kept squeezing, working the head with short, quick jerks until he'd harvested every drop of Elijah's seed. Then his own cock spilled its come, filling Elijah's ass. "Elijah! I love you so much!" Dust pulled out. Elijah's hole dripped and gaped open. Dust leaned in and scooped up a few drops of his seed and Elijah's sweat with his tongue. He closed his eyes as he savored the taste of their joining. More white liquid pooled on the sheets beneath them. Dust had never fucked like that before. Normally he was the one receiving, and even when one of his masters did ask for his cock, it felt like work. This was love. He'd given as much of his soul to Elijah as he had of his physical energy. His whole body felt drained. The muscles twitched from the exertion, but his mind soared. "Good?" Elijah asked, turning to face him. Dust couldn't even find the words, not in any of the dozen languages he knew. He just sunk down into his pillow and let the stuffing form around his head. Elijah nestled into the crevice between his chest and shoulder. It was like the light of heaven shined down on him. As he closed his eyes, he knew that, for the first time since he'd been a child, he would sleep untroubled through the night.

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**** Elijah felt good as he slid onto the cold vinyl seats of Sam's Bronco and put the key he'd stolen in the ignition. It was early morning, still dark. He had faith, not in his mother's vengeful god, but in the universe. The universe had brought Dust to him in Epiphany and led him to Dust in the desert. It had brought Sheriff Sam to them when they needed a ride. Elijah felt sure he was following a path that was laid out for him, even if he couldn't see the trail. Instinct directed his footsteps. The less he worried about what to do, the stronger the pull of the cosmos directing him where to go. His faith in himself had also multiplied. He was no longer the meek boy who worked in the diner; he was an important person, a person with a destiny. Things that had terrified him, like his mother, the thought of being alone, the uncertainty of the future, and the idea of the world seeing his true nature seemed like trifles. He trusted himself to know what to do when situations arose. He was also learning quickly just the right way to smile, tilt his torso, and brush his thick hair out of his eyes to make people want to help him. He'd never thought of himself as beautiful, not until Dust admired him. Seeing himself through Dust's eyes, though, he noticed the grace 180

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that had always been there, hidden only by insecurity. He'd use the pining of others to his ends. Good looks, cunning, and charm had been the gifts fate had seen fit to bestow upon him, rather than riches or strength. In order to help Dust and make his way through the world, he'd need to learn to take advantage of the tools at his disposal. When he stopped at a convenient store to pick up a pack of smokes and ask about McDermott's castle, he propped his elbows on the counter and bent at the waist. The handsome Middle-Eastern man abandoned the coffee he'd been attending. Elijah recognized the look in his eyes; it was the look the woman truck driver had given him, though he hadn't been aware of it at the time. It was the look Dust gave him: hunger. "Can I help you?" the man asked, smoothing his apron. He wasn't much older than Elijah. His ringlet curls were pulled back in a ponytail, and he had big, dark eyes, full lips, and skin the color of toffee. "Maybe," Elijah said, grinning. He asked for the cigarettes and brushed the clerk's knuckles when he took them from his hand. Since Dust wasn't with him, he took a red plastic lighter from a rack and set it on top of the pack. "I'm from out of town, and I heard there was a castle around here somewhere. Do you know anything about it?" "Sure," the clerk answered. "The new Caesar's 181

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Palace. Not a castle in the traditional sense, but I hear it's quite impressive." "This is a different castle. Outside the city. Maybe it's somebody's home?" The man nodded, moving closer to Elijah. "Yes," he said, "I believe I know the one you mean. It's out in the desert. I don't think you can go inside." "I just want to drive by, have a look at it. Maybe take a picture." The clerk unfolded a tourist pamphlet and showed Elijah a map. He traced along the lines with his finger, showing Elijah which roads to take to reach McDermott's manor. Then he laid his hand over Elijah's and said, "If you're from out of town, I could show you around. I work the night shift and will be off as soon as my brother gets here." "That's

nice

of

you,"

Elijah

said,

gently

withdrawing his hand. "Maybe I'll stop in on my way back from looking at the castle." "I hope you will," the clerk said as Elijah exited the store. He hadn't taken any money from Elijah. If it hadn't been for Dust, he would have gladly met up with the nice-looking man. An hour later, just as day broke, showering citrus and rose over the desert, Elijah arrived at McDermott's 182

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castle. A twenty-foot limestone wall shielded most of the structure, but a high, square tower ascended from the center. An Irish flag fluttered from the spire's shingled roof. Just as Dust said, the mossy gray structure looked bizarre against the red-gold sand and azure sky of the desert. Elijah parked and walked to the front gate: an arch protected by iron bars and flanked with armored bronze angels twice Elijah's size. Tugging on the gate told him not only that it was locked, but that it was so heavy he couldn't even make it rattle. The bars were set too close for him to squeeze between them. Elijah walked the perimeter of the wall, looking for another way in. The grounds were the size of an entire city block, and it took him a quarter of an hour to return to the gate. He'd found no means of entry. Not a single door or window broke the barrier of stone. He considered climbing it, but the smooth-cut blocks offered no footholds. Even if he scaled the wall, he'd have a twenty-foot drop on the other side. Maybe even into the moat Dust had mentioned. Undaunted, he went back to the Bronco, hoisted himself up on the hood, and lit a cigarette. Something would happen. A way inside the castle would appear if he was patient. The universe would send him something. The something came an hour and a half later in the form of a woman in a silver convertible. She skidded to a 183

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stop beside Sam's car and got out. She was full-figured, not overweight but as curvaceous as an exaggerated, cartoon version of an attractive woman. Coffee-colored curls, streaked with artificial red and blonde, bounced around her too-round breasts. Her clothing was short and tight but not cheap-looking, a turquoise silk tank dress covered by a metallic gold leather jacket cropped mid-rib. Her open-toed stilettos matched the coat, and her crystal-encrusted sunglass frames were the same color as her dress. Elijah knew that this was the kind of woman who owned a different pair of shoes and set of accessories for every one of her many outfits. He'd never met such a person, but was intimidated only for the blink of an eye. She watched him. Elijah rested his palms on the hood behind him and stretched his neck. The sun gilded his hair and lit the planes of his face. The look of hunger crept across the full lips of the tan-skinned woman as she competed with his display, thrusting her right, then her left hip forward as she approached. Her left hand rested on her waist, accentuating its movement. A rusty, foot-long key on a chain dangled from her right fist. "Who the hell are you?" she asked Elijah with a vague Latino accent. "Is this Patrick McDermott's house?" Elijah asked. "Yeah," the woman answered, resting her elbow on 184

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the Bronco only an inch from Elijah's thigh. "Who are you? What's your name?" "What's yours?" "Martina," she said. "McDermott was my old man. I'm here to get my inheritance, before all the filthy criminals my father knew clean the place out. What's your story, hon?" At that point, Elijah knew it didn't matter much what he told her. She wanted to believe him. She just wanted him, and he'd use her lust to get inside the castle. "It's kind of a long story," he said, sliding off the hood to stand beside Martina. She smelled good: expensive. "My grandfather and McDermott were in business together back in Boston. Not sure what they did, exactly, but somehow my grandfather saved your father's life. Your father promised my grandfather something for it. Well, gramps is in a home back east, dying from lung cancer. All he wants before he checks out is the thing McDermott owes him." "What is it, money?" she asked suspiciously. "Nope. A ring. I guess it's not worth much; gramps wants it for sentimental reasons. Seems he and your father were close." She snorted. "My father was close with everybody, if you know what I mean. I've got a dozen brothers and sisters that I know about and probably twice as many that I 185

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don't. Yeah, the old man was friendly, with the ladies and the guys. At least until the last few years." "What do you mean?" Elijah asked, helping her open the heavy gate after she'd unlocked it. "He got paranoid." They walked up the flagstone driveway toward the castle. Artificial irrigation that shot up periodically in misty arcs kept the grounds looking as close to Ireland as was possible in Nevada. Celtic crosses and stone circles made to look prehistoric added to the effect. Indeed, a strip of greenish silver water, dotted with lilies, followed the curve of the outer wall. Still, McDermott hadn't been able to bend the too-blue sky to his designs. The sun beat down, heating their shoulders and reddening Elijah's cheeks. Martina, heels clicking on the path, continued. "He was a criminal, you know. A real son of a bitch. Toward the end, for the last five years or more, he thought the people he fucked over might come back for revenge. He withdrew more and more. After a while the only person he would let around him was this weird kid." "Kid?" "Not a kid, a younger guy," she said. "Really pretty, but he gave me the creeps. Old man must've paid him damn well, 'cause I never saw anybody put up with as much abuse as that poor bastard. Hell, sometimes I actually pitied him." 186

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Elijah balled his fists, but maintained a vapid grin. They'd reached the huge, arched doorway of the castle. Martina opened it with the same key. The vaulted foyer opened to a great hall, three stories high and with balconies looking down. Spiral iron staircases led up. Four doors like the one they'd entered led to other wings. The entire structure was shaped like a cross. Elijah's heart sank as he looked around. The cavernous space had been stacked to the brim with all manner of things: expensive paintings and priceless medieval tapestries, leather-bound books, antique furniture, statues from Classical to Post-Modern, Asian vases, Samurai and European armor, religious icons, mounted, stuffed boar and deer heads, gold candelabrum, lacquer chests, jeweled boxes, and more knick-knacks than his mind could process. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the rafters high above. It would take weeks, maybe months, to sort through everything for something as small as a carnelian ring. Beside him, Martina's eyes moved over Elijah's body. She took a step to the side so their shoulders touched. "Take whatever you want," she said. "If you don't, it's just going to get looted by a bunch of two-bit hoods. The really good stuff is upstairs." She moved in front of him, and her breasts grazed his chest. "In the bedroom." "Is that where he kept his jewelry?" Elijah asked, 187

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leaning forward, smashing their bodies together. "How about we go check it out?" Martina said, licking her upper lip. The gangster's quarters occupied the entire first tier of the castle. From the railing, looking down, Elijah saw that another cross was formed by mosaic tiles on the floor of the round hall. The bedroom itself was a massive rectangle stretching out to the west. Three arched, stained glass windows lined the longer walls. At the end was a huge, four-poster bed draped in green velvet. Elijah swooned and had to lean against the wall. The psychic residue of Dust's suffering in this place weighed on his organs and made breathing difficult. Snippets of what had happened here, like single frames from a film, flashed in his mind, obscuring the actual surroundings for a second. He saw Dust cowering on the floor, shielding his head with his arms, while the old man beat him with a thick wooden pole. He saw Dust blindfolded, tied to the bed, while half a dozen men stood waiting. He saw McDermott's small, stained teeth chewing the end of a cigar before pressing the glowing coals to Dust's smooth chest. He heard the echoes of sadistic laughter and threats, sobbing, choking, begging. Elijah shook his head to clear away the visions. He'd always been able see a bit beyond the surface of things, but he'd never been assailed by anything so strong or detailed. 188

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You're lucky you're dead, old man, he thought. What I wouldn't give for an hour alone with you… Martina sat at the foot of the bed and opened her knees, giving Elijah a clear view of her black lace underwear. "Come over here," she said softly. "I have to find that ring," Elijah snapped. Martina flinched, and he took a deep breath. Time was of the essence. Elijah had left Dust a quick note, asking him to wait, not to do anything, to trust him. In his desperation Dust might leave with the demon before Elijah returned. He had to be nice to McDermott's daughter. She could help him find it. As she'd requested, he walked to the edge of the bed. Martina lifted his T-shirt and kissed his toned stomach, rubbing his crotch with her other hand. "Do you want to mess around?" she asked. He bent down and kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth even though it felt strange and wrong. After a minute, he broke away and said "As much as I'd love to, I don't think we should do it here. We'd better get what we need and get out, before anybody else decides to show up. Your father's friends might not thank us for beating them to his stash." "You're right," she said. "Let's load up. We can go to a hotel later." "That sounds perfect," Elijah said, stroking her hair. 189

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"Where's the jewelry?" "Through here." She stood and went back to the balcony overlooking the hall and through the next door into a gentleman's study with a fireplace and leather furniture. More books and paintings lined the wood-paneled walls. The largest was a portrait of McDermott himself. Elijah stared up at it while Martina unlocked a safe built into another wall. "All sevens," she snickered bitterly. "Superstitious old prick." The McDermott in the painting could have been any man in his seventies with thin white hair ringing his head and drooping jowls. The washed-out green eyes, even painted, looked cruel and calculating. He wore a dark suit and held a walking stick in his right hand. On his finger rode a ring with a large, oval red stone. "This is it," Elijah whispered to himself. "The carnelian ring." "That's the ring you want?" Martina asked, coming over to stand by Elijah. Dozens of gold necklaces dangled from her fist. "Honey, you're out of luck. It's not in the safe. That ring was probably the only thing my father loved. He once shot a man in the face just for touching it." "So where is it?" Elijah asked. "Well, he was buried with it." Fuck! "Where?" 190

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"Why?" she asked. "What are you going to do?" Elijah thought fast. "What can I do?" he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I guess I'll buy some flowers, leave 'em at your old man's grave in my grandpa's name, and tell him I did what I could." She laid a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. Your grandpa will understand. Just go to the Woodlawn Cemetery downtown. You can't miss the grave. It's a marble mausoleum with a weeping angel in front of it. Says his name in big letters." "Thank you," Elijah said, kissing her cheek. He turned and started toward the stairs leading down. "Wait," Martina called after him. "Where do you want to meet up later?" "On the Strip," he yelled over his shoulder. "What's your name?" she shouted, leaning over the railing. "Sam," he yelled as he crossed the round hall toward the front door. **** As soon as it was dark enough that he wouldn't be seen, Elijah severed the chain on the mausoleum door with the bolt cutters he'd purchased at a hardware store. He also 191

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had a hacksaw and a drill, just in case. The gold-plated doors swung open easily, and Elijah stepped slowly into the murky tomb. An eerie electric candle, designed to burn continuously, bathed the stone dais and the casket on top in red light. In his arrogance, McDermott had chosen a glasstopped sarcophagus. The corpse inside resembled the man in the painting, but paler and with sunken cheeks and wrinkled skin. Elijah's anger rose in his throat at the sight of him. Though he didn't believe it anymore, he hoped for a second that there was a hell, and some divine entity would exact the revenge on McDermott that Elijah had been robbed of. Then he went back to the door and scanned the darkened grounds of the cemetery. When he was satisfied that no one was about, he went back to the casket and broke the glass with the bolt cutters. Rather than try to dislodge the ring from McDermott's bloated finger, Elijah simply snipped it off. It broke as easily as a rotted twig, and the ring fell from the cut knuckle into Elijah's palm. As important as it was, the ring didn't look elaborate: just a gold band with a red stone in an unremarkable setting. It was his now, though. Dust was his. No, Dust is free. He belongs to himself, finally. The whole thing felt like a dream. Elijah kept 192

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squeezing the ring, reassuring himself that he actually held it. Everything was okay. Dust would never suffer again. The demon could be let go. Happily ever after. Just like a fairy tale. "I won, you son of a bitch," Elijah said to McDermott's cadaver. "Nobody will ever hurt him again." In the crimson light, the gangster seemed to be smiling an arrogant, pitiless smile. Elijah slapped him. His lips, sewn shut, didn't change, so Elijah hit him again and again, first with his palm and then with his fist. "Why did you have to do it?" he said through clenched teeth. Enraged tears flowed down his face. "You fucker! You didn't have to hurt him. You didn't have to fuck up his mind like you did. He's so damaged. My poor Dust." He swore until anger stole his ability to form words, and he cursed McDermott with irrational grunts. He drove his knuckles down again and again. The thin bones snapped, and the face flattened, having no fluids left to hold the shape. Teeth scattered, and dried skin tore. Elijah kept hitting, smashing McDermott's head into a thin sheet of desiccated flesh and powdered bone. He didn't care about injuring his hand and might have continued for hours if he hadn't heard voices outside. Elijah crouched down behind the casket, clutching the ring. The ring is the important thing, he thought, his 193

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heart racing. My life is worth nothing if I lose this ring. A beam of light swept across the front of the mausoleum and through the filigree windows, casting floral shadows on the marble floor. It disappeared for a few seconds, and then made another sweep. Elijah held his breath. "You see anybody, Bob?" said a voice outside. "Nah," came the answer. "There's no cars parked anywhere," said the first voice. "Probably just kids," Bob said. The light penetrated the mausoleum doors a third time, and Bob said, "Look, it's the McDermott grave." Sweat poured down Elijah's face and back. His hands on the ring went clammy. Inevitably the two men, cops or security guards, would notice the broken chain. The man who was not Bob said, "It was a good day for the world when that motherfucker keeled over. I've seen a lot of criminals, but never one that just loved to cause pain like he did. He was an evil bastard." The man spat on the ground. "Let's get the hell out of here," Bob said. After the light and voices faded, Elijah waited ten minutes before slipping the ring on his finger, just where a wedding ring would sit. It fit like it was made for him. He snuck out of the sepulcher and through the cemetery, 194

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keeping to the shadows. Then he ran the three blocks to where he'd parked the Bronco. As he sat behind the wheel panting, he felt happier than he ever had. The moon looked clear and beautiful. A shooting star soared across the neonpainted Vegas sky, like the universe congratulating him. He'd actually done it. Elijah, once so afraid of being on his own, had completed this monumental task all by himself. He couldn't wait to get back to Dust, to start their life together.

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Chapter Nine Night air fluttered Elijah's hair as he drove down the strip. On both sides of the street, the huge casinos glowed in every imaginable color. They sprawled and stretched, each taller, brighter, and more elaborate than the one before, as if they competed for the attention of someone in the sky. People, from men in colored polyester suits to glittering women whose dresses cost more than the limos they darted into as if the air was poisonous, clogged the sidewalks. It was the dinner hour, and groups of tourists and locals moved toward the various expensive restaurants, French, Japanese and every other imaginable variation, or toward the endless buffets. The scent of food lingered around the street. Elijah detected garlic, onions, and the charcoaled aroma of grilled steak. His stomach growled. In his quest for the carnelian ring, he hadn't eaten all day. Jo had probably ordered out for pizza. She didn't like to prepare food the way Elijah did. Tonight he'd eat whatever she provided, but tomorrow he planned to take all of the money he had left and go to the market. He wanted to cook a real, homemade dinner for Dust. How many years had passed since Dust sat down to a wholesome, lovingly prepared meal? 196

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As the truck paused at a red light, Elijah wondered what to make. Something comforting and simple, perhaps, like a good cut of beef roasted all day, mashed potatoes and candied carrots. Maybe even a German chocolate cake, if he had enough money for the ingredients. Or maybe something so common would be too bland for Dust's tastes. Being Italian, maybe Dust would crave lasagna or manicotti. Maybe Dust liked spicy food. Maybe he liked junk: potato chips and cheese dip and miniature candy bars. Elijah realized he had no idea about Dust's gastronomic preferences; so far they'd eaten to survive. He had time to find out, an endless parade of years to discover everything Dust enjoyed, how to please and love him. The anticipation of every unfolding detail, no matter how miniscule, of the miracle that was his Dust, made his heart race and his fingers clutch the worn rubber of the steering wheel. They could have a picnic. Elijah made a mean macaroni salad. He'd pack it, and some meatloaf sandwiches, and a watermelon, and some of that good French wine into a basket and they'd hike up into the hills overlooking the desert. Then he'd spread his old quilt, the same one that had shielded Dust and him from the chill the first night they'd met, on the ground. He and Dust would eat slowly, and watch the sunset wound in each other's arms. They'd make love as the moon crested the horizon. 197

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Maybe they'd even sleep out, if it wasn't too cold. The traffic light changed from red to green just as a Cat Stevens song Elijah had always liked began playing on the radio. Pressing the gas pedal lightly, Elijah turned up the volume. He recognized the tune and the lyrics, something about the harshness of the world and the difficulty of getting by just with a smile. The singer was wrong, though. A smile could go a long, long, way. Elijah sang the words he knew and hummed the ones he didn't. He sang so loudly that the people he passed paused on the sidewalk to regard him oddly. He didn't care, though. He felt so insanely happy he couldn't hold it in, so he let his joy spill out in an off-tune, mumbled melody from his lips. Watching the pedestrians, even the ones that swore or laughed at him, Elijah hoped they'd each have one moment in their lives when they felt as perfectly, beautifully joyful as felt just now. The rest of the trip from the center of Las Vegas to Jo's suburban home took only about ten minutes, but it felt like more. Elijah couldn't wait to see Dust, to hold him and tell him everything would be all right. He couldn't wait to tell Dust he'd fixed everything. It wasn't gratitude that Elijah wanted to see in his lover's face, it was the relief of knowing he'd never be subjected to the cruel whim of another master. Eventually Elijah would die and the 198

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problem of the ring would resurface, but they'd have so many years to worry about a solution to that far-away dilemma. Dust would have so many years to finally spend as he chose. As soon as the Bronco stopped in front of the house, Elijah knew something was wrong. Rather than glowing welcomingly from the light above the kitchen table, the dark windows reflected the illumination from nearby homes. No pale blue, oscillating light came from the television in the living room. The door hung halfway open, and a piece of the trim around the frame had been torn off and lay on the concrete stoop. Worse yet, Dust was gone. Elijah knew even before he flung open the truck door that his lover had left. In some way that he didn't understand, Elijah had become connected to Dust so profoundly that he easily sensed his absence, like a cold, hollow place in his belly. Why had Dust gone? Why hadn't he trusted Elijah for just a short time, as Elijah had requested in his note? For the first time since they'd shared their perfect kiss under the desert stars, Elijah wondered if Dust's affections had been feigned. He'd seemed so genuine, but then Elijah knew that he was naïve. Had he been so desperate, so starved for love that he'd seen something that wasn't there? The terrible feelings of insignificance resurfaced, making Elijah think, again, that a 199

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person like Dust couldn't possibly love someone like him. Tears crept from the corners of Elijah's eyes as he stood in the quiet driveway, and he looked at the ring that rode his finger. He could make Dust come back to him, love him, couldn't he? He was Dust's master. "No," he said, suppressing the idea, disgusted that he'd even considered it for a second. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his pants, banishing the ring from his sight, and said "No. Not that way. Never, never, never." Everything he'd been through had been to assure that no one would ever use Dust in that way again. What would he do? He could never go home, back to Epiphany and his mother's abuse. He pushed the questions of money, food and shelter to the back of his mind. He'd worry about them later, if Dust didn't come back. If Dust didn't come back, he wasn't sure he'd ever want to eat again. Where were Jo and the sheriff? They wouldn't have accompanied Dust. A shiver ran up Elijah's spine. What if they'd tried to stop him? Would Dust have hurt them the way he had hurt the stage magician? Would he have killed them? Elijah knew that, at the core, Dust was good. Dust's mind had also been damaged and warped by centuries of brutality and mistreatment. Elijah had witnessed the dark tarnish rise to the surface on a few occasions, marring the 200

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sheen of coolness and restraint Dust usually wore. If Jo and the Sheriff had stood in the way of his freedom, Dust may have seen no other choice. Elijah ran for the door. Inside, he tripped over a pile of rubble on the threshold and went down on his hands and knees. Broken glass and splintered wood bit into his palms. In the dim light that came from the porch next door, Elijah saw that broken plates and glasses covered the kitchen floor. Silverware glinted among the debris. Dry rice, noodles, cereal flakes, and pretzels lay over top of the mess. All of the cupboard doors stood open, revealing the empty shelves. The contents of some had hit the opposite wall. Mind reeling, Elijah grasped the edge of the table with bloodied hands and pulled himself to his feet. The bulbs of the kitchen light had broken and didn't ignite when Elijah tugged the little chain. The lamp beside the couch, though, was remarkably undamaged, and its yellowish glow gave Elijah an even clearer picture of the destruction. Jo's many books, pages severed from their spines, covered the floor and the overturned sofa. Soil from her plants, as well as ceramic shards from their pots, spread over the room. Everything that had been on the walls or the shelves now lay wrecked. The art she'd collected was in ruins. Most shocking of all, blood spattered the wall in a feather-shaped arc, as large as a demon's wing. More blood 201

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soiled the glass doors that led to the back yard, some running in crimson rivulets to the floor, some smeared in gory circles. Elijah could see where injured fingers had pressed against the door and slid down, leaving a row of four drying smudges. Nearby, a quartet of familiar, deep scratches had torn into the plaster of the wall. Clumps of stuffing spilled out of the back of a chair where the same nails had sliced to the springs. If there had been anything in Elijah's stomach, it would have come up. He hugged his ribs, choked and heaved dryly. More tears rushed in a torrent down his cheeks, and his nose ran. "Dust—" He gagged, swallowing bile. "—how could you?" From the hallway that led back to what had been their room, Elijah heard a pained, masculine groan. He hurried toward the sound, stepping carefully over the remains of the paintings that had hung on the wall. Sprawled on his stomach, partially covered by shredded magazine pages and more glass lay the sheriff. Elijah crouched down and gingerly touched his shoulder. "Sheriff Woodward?" he whispered. "Don't try to move. I'll call an ambulance." What on earth would he tell the authorities when they arrived? It didn't matter. These people needed help. The sheriff was badly injured. Jo was probably hurt too, maybe even— 202

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How could you do this? Elijah cursed Dust again. Jo was so kind. If you'd just waited for me, believed in me… Scanning the mess for the phone, Elijah noticed some tawny, black-striped feathers, and his stomach lurched again. Dust had probably already returned the demon to slavery. "Jo—" the sheriff muttered, trying to push himself up on his hands. Elijah grasped the other man gently under his arms and helped the sheriff to lean his back against the wall. Even in the dim light, with hard shadows on his face, Elijah saw that Sam's left eye was bruised and swollen, and his lower lip split down the center. "Where is she?" Elijah asked. "Gone." "No! What happened?" Elijah asked, though he already knew and wasn't sure he could stand hearing it said. "He—" Elijah leaned in closer to the sheriff's wounded mouth. "What did he do?" Their eyes met, Sam's left one nothing but a sliver of brown in the center of an ugly circle of puffy indigo and rust. "We need to call the police, Elijah," he said, forcing calm. "Help me find the phone." "Please tell me what happened here, Sam. I need to know. What did Dust do?" 203

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Sam choked back a sob and pressed his much-cut and bruised fist to his lips. It scared Elijah, seeing the stoic officer weep like that. Something horrendous must've occurred to provoke his tears. "I've never seen anyone be so bloodthirsty," he said. "So ruthless. Why Jo?" "Dust?" Elijah asked again. "He tried, Elijah. Fought like hell. So did I. But she took them. And that thing." Confused now, nauseous with guilt for believing his Dust could hurt Jo, Elijah rubbed his temples. "Somebody took Dust? Jo? Who?" "A woman. Tall. Five eight or five nine. Maybe more. Slender. Tight, red sweater. Black leather pants. Red boots. We have to tell the police." Sam tried to stand, but winced and let his back slide down the wall again. "Red hair," he continued, recalling every detail as he'd obviously been trained to do. "Bright red, like ketchup." Elijah was glad Sam hadn't said blood. "How old?" Elijah urged. "Thirty or forty? It's hard to say. Her skin was so white and smooth, like a China doll." "What did she do?" "It happened so fast," the sheriff said. "I was watching TV with Jo; he, Dust, was back in the bedroom. Hadn't been out since breakfast. All of the sudden the front 204

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door flew open. Then the door that goes to the basement. I heard chains rattling, and that thing your friend stole from that condo floated up the steps, right into her hand. She said she'd missed it. Her voice was so cold. Froze my blood. "Before Jo or I could react, Dust was there. I don't know how he got there so fast, but he tried to stop her from coming in the house. Told her to take it and leave. She said she'd been watching him, knew what he was planning. She said he'd have to pay for it." "Oh, Dust," Elijah whispered. "This is my fault. She knew I didn't want to give the demon back." "Then they fought, Dust and that woman. They used magic, or something. I never saw them physically touch, but I saw where the blows landed. They moved so quickly I could hardly follow it. Sparks shooting out, flames. Everything in the house started to go haywire. Dishes flying around, lights blinking." "Sam, is Dust hurt?" The older man sighed. "He was way outmatched, Elijah. When she finally carried him off, he was unconscious. I tried to help him, but when I pulled my gun, it just dissolved into a puff of smoke. I tried to grab her, but I didn't stand a chance. We need to find Jo. Call the police, Elijah." "You can't be serious," Elijah said, still amazed at 205

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how Sam could deny the existence of what he'd seen with his own eyes. "That woman must've been Scarlet. Dust told me she's really powerful. A powerful sorceress. I think Dust was even afraid of her. The police won't be able to help us. We'll have to get them back by ourselves." This time Sam did succeed in standing. He walked into the living room, and Elijah followed. Sam stood with his arms crossed and his back to Elijah. "I don't know where they went," he said, accentuating each word like he was trying to explain something difficult to a stubborn child. "She had your boy's hair and the demon's chain in one hand, and her other arm around Jo's waist. Then poof. Gone." Elijah could picture Dust's pale face dangling limply as the witch grasped his scalp, his body slack beneath her grip, trailing toward the floor like a silk scarf. Trembling all over, he cursed himself for a fool, a stupid small-town boy who believed everything would have a happy ending, an overconfident idiot messing in things way beyond his abilities or intellect. It was over. He'd failed Dust. The time he'd wasted arguing with his lover over the demon's fate had cost dearly. He never should have taken the sandwiches into the desert that night. Dust would have been better off if he'd never seen Elijah's face. No! I can't fall apart now. He's out there, and he 206

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needs me. I'll save him, or die trying. Elijah took a deep breath and surveyed the ruins of Jo's home again. "I'll find him," he said, more to himself than to Sam. "How? What about Jo? Your boy brought this on himself. What he was doing was sick! Jo didn't do a damn thing." "Dust didn't deserve this! You don't know anything about him!" "You have to understand," Sam said. "Ever since I came back here, I've had feelings for Jo. We were just friends before, but I think that's changing. I'm not just playing around. I think I'm falling in love with her, that I might want to build a life with her. Someday you'll meet a girl and then you'll know—" Crack! Before he even knew he'd done it, Elijah's fist struck Sam's right cheekbone. Until he'd left Epiphany, Elijah had never hit another human being. He'd been too timid. The sheriff's head flew back; he teetered for a moment and then landed on his ass. Pot pieces crunched beneath him, and he looked up in absolute astonishment. He rubbed his face, and his lips moved, but shock stole the words before he could utter them. Knuckles hurting, but propelled by rage, Elijah screamed, "No, I won't! I love Dust! Playing around? Fuck 207

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you! Fuck you, Sam! You don't know shit about anything! Why is it so hard to believe we love each other? Because we're young? Because we're both men? I don't give a damn what you think any more. I respected you once. I was even scared of you. Not now, you pathetic, clueless fuck. You don't know anything about love if you can't recognize it when you see it. I'll find Dust. You can go to hell." "Elijah, I'm sorry. You're right. I had my head up my ass. I've got no right to judge you." Now it was Elijah's turn to be stunned. Breathless from his tirade, he reached out to help Sam up. The sheriff's grip around his hand hurt, and he realized just how hard he'd hit the older man. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I probably deserved it," Sam said. "This time. Don't let it happen again, though." A strange alteration came over the sheriff's face as he looked at Elijah. He winced, but a smile crept across his swollen, distorted features, a proud smile. It seemed to Elijah that Sam's entire estimate of him had changed. The sheriff no longer looked at him like a confused, unruly child. He looked at Elijah like a man, someone who would have his back if he needed him. "If you ever take my truck again, I'll kick your ass, understood?" The sheriff looked Elijah up and down, probably wondering where he'd been and what he'd been 208

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doing. His eyes lighted on the red stone on Elijah's knuckle. He likely wanted to question him, but both knew they had no time. Breaking free from Sam's grasp, Elijah went to the blood-spray on the wall. "Whose blood is this?" he asked. "Its blood," Sam answered. "It got away from her for a second, and she cut its chest open. From all the way over there." Sam pointed toward the front door. "And here?" Elijah indicated the glass door. "Jo's," Sam said, his voice wavering. "I told her to get out, go for help. Scarlet hit Dust, sent him flying backward. The back of his head smashed into Jo's mouth and bloodied it." "Did Dust bleed at all?" Looking around at all the destruction, Sam said, "Come to think of it, I don't know if he did. He grabbed his belly when Scarlet attacked, like she was doing something to his insides. He screamed and twisted, and I knew he was in pain, but I didn't see any blood. After he smacked his head on Jo, she lifted him into the air and knocked his head against the doorframe until he was out. That's what happened to the trim." A blaze ignited inside Elijah. Unlike when he'd destroyed McDermott's corpse, it was a controlled fire. He went to the piece of broken wood and inspected it. No 209

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blood. He swore under his breath. Even if all three of them were together, he didn't think he could use Jo's blood, or the demon's. His bond to Dust was strong enough that he'd find him, even if he'd never cast a magical spell before. Dust had told him to try. Dust believed in him, and he needed to believe too. He did believe it, had to believe it. Without even a drop of his lover's blood, he had no chance. Why had the universe, which had helped him so devotedly, abandoned him now? His faith almost depleted, Elijah dropped to his knees on the cold concrete of the porch and let the despairing tears fall on the shard of bloodless wood. Above him, the sky looked impossibly vast. His beloved Dust could be anywhere under its indigo expanse: Paraguay, Iceland, Lichtenstein or South Africa. Maybe they should call the police. Maybe the police could find some miniscule piece of evidence that would show where Scarlet had been. Even as he contemplated the possibility, Elijah knew he was kidding himself. Both he and Sam would be locked in a mental institution if they tried to relay their story to the authorities. For long minutes, Elijah sat despondent, hopelessly gazing at the stars. Memories flooded his mind, and the tears followed. He remembered the first time Dust had touched his hand in the diner, the first time their lips had brushed together. He recalled the satin smoothness of a 210

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strand of Dust's hair slipping between his fingers. That these things had been forever stolen was more than he could bear. The first night they'd made love, flushed with wine and infatuation, returned in crystal clarity. Chuckling under his sobs, Elijah remembered how he'd drunkenly tried to kiss Dust, crashed into him, and cut his lips. Leaping to his feet, Elijah ran back inside and down the hallway, hurdling debris and wiping his eyes as he went. He flipped the light switch in Jo's spare room. In a few minutes, a bewildered Sam joined him. The bed had been stripped of its sheets; the striped mattress exposed. Elijah's already-bruised fist hit the wall, denting it. "Fuck! What happened to the bed sheets?" "Dust took them down to be washed. Why?" "I need them," Elijah spat, pushing past Sam. Broken glass and terra cotta crunched under his feet as he sprinted over top of them toward the basement door. Despair loomed again, threatening to overwhelm him and steal his senses. Why was everything going so wrong? A hole remained in the cinderblock wall of the cellar where the demon's chain had been ripped out. Furrows, where it had apparently tried to hold on with its claws, cut the stone and the concrete floor. Elijah hurried past them, toward the washing machine, and flung open the lid. Piled inside, but still dry, unwashed, were the sheets 211

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that had covered the bed he'd shared with Dust, the sheets upon which they'd held each other, kissed, cried, and made love. Bled. Pressing a handful of fabric to his nose, Elijah closed his eyes and inhaled the lingering scents of perspiration and sex. The distinct musk of Dust's body and traces of the cucumber-melon lotion wrapped around his face and shoulders like an embrace. Then he carefully searched until he found the flower-shaped stain left by Dust's injured mouth. With Sam following in a confused stumble, he ascended the steps and rushed out into the cool autumn night. "What in the hell are you doing?" Sam said when he'd joined Elijah on the dew-damp lawn. Elijah, on his hands and knees near the rose bushes, shushed the other man. He felt around beneath the plants until his fingers grazed the edge of a flat stone. Digging with his nails, he succeeded in freeing it from the soil. He brushed it off and wiped it clean with bottom of his shirt. Then, sitting back so his bottom rested on his heels, he held the little stone to his heart and implored anyone or anything that might be listening to help him, to let his plan work. After moistening the dried blood petals with his saliva, Elijah drew an arrow on the surface of the stone as Dust had done. It rested lightly on his palm, still slightly 212

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warm from the sun its earthen bed had absorbed during the day. "Find him," he whispered, pleading. "Show me the way to him. Please. Please." A few respectful feet away, Sam waited with his arms crossed. The rock remained as still and silent as any like it. Elijah closed his eyes, concentrated, and repeated his entreaties, but with the same result. He shook his head. Of course he hadn't been able to do it. Dust was a centuriesold sorcerer, and he, Elijah, nothing but a short-order cook. Dust had probably been born with some of his powers. Elijah had been born only ordinary. It has to work. It's the only way. If I can't do this, I'll never see him again. Breathing deeply, Elijah gathered all of the emotions that the night had inspired— panic, shame, guilt, fear, loss, longing, and love—and focused them into his hands. He pictured Dust as he'd been the first day they'd spent walking, looking over his shoulder and smiling back at Elijah, the desert sun making his eyes sparkle like newlyminted coins, his ponytail flapping in the wind. He thought about energy and matter. Then, he willed the stone to show him the way to his lover. Confident now, with power singing in his veins, he commanded it to serve him. He'd accept no other outcome. The rock bounced once. "Show me," Elijah said, pouring more of his intent 213

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into the now lightly humming object in his hand. "Take me to my Dust." This time the rock flew from his palm and skidded along the sidewalk and into the street. Elated, amazed with himself, Elijah ran to follow it and scooped it up half a block away. From his left fist, the blood-stained sheet flapped behind him like the tail of a kite. "Come on!" he yelled back at Sam. "Get the truck!" Elijah kept running in the direction the stone pointed him until the Sheriff pulled up alongside him in the Bronco. Then he hopped onto the seat and balanced his compass on his knee, directing Sam if the rusty arrow moved or shifted. "How are you doing that?" Sam asked, glancing at the little stone with curiosity and a bit of revulsion. "I have no idea," Elijah said. "Turn right here." "Where are we headed?" "It looks like we need to go back into the city," Elijah said. "Toward the Strip. From there, I don't know. We just keep going where it tells us." Then, changing the subject, he asked, "You have a gun, right?" "No, I told you it disappeared. Dissolved or something. Why?" "We might need weapons. We might have to fight. Turn here." 214

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"If we find where she's keeping them, we'll call the police." "Sam, you know that won't work. It's up to us." "You weren't there, Elijah. You didn't see what she can do. Not even Dust stood a chance against her. How are we, unarmed like you said, supposed to go up against a person like that?" Elijah rubbed the corner of the sheet, which now rested in a ball between his legs, against his cheek. It was all he had of Dust, but he'd get the rest back, no matter what it took. "I don't know," he said in response to Sam's question. "And I don't care. I'll do what I have to do to get Dust back. If you have feelings for Jo, you'll do the same." They looked at each other then, and Sam set his jaw and nodded once. The pact was made. Elijah returned the nod, and they spent the rest of the ride to the center of the glowing city in stoic silence.

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Chapter Ten Clutching his ribs, Dust dared a deep breath. Pain stabbed his diaphragm, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. Turning his head, eyes screwed shut tight, he spat onto the smooth, cold surface he lay on. Somewhere close by, he heard the rustle of feathers and shallow, erratic breathing. Then the slow click of heeled boots drowned both noises out. "Why pretend to sleep, Giovanni?" said a female voice oozing with false concern. Hair stood up on the back of Dust's neck as the footsteps drew nearer. They stopped, and he felt a cold hand brush a sweaty lock from his forehead. He flinched and didn't open his eyes. "I know you too well," she continued. "You can never fool me, Giovanni." "Don't call me that," he said through his teeth. She laughed, and the sound cut through him like a white-hot flame through thin metal. "What would you prefer? Shall I call you Dust, then? Honestly, how ridiculous." Angry and insulted, Dust pushed his injured body to a seated position, his palms behind his hips to steady himself. He opened his eyes and slowly his surroundings 216

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came into focus. He found himself in a room he recognized well, the ballroom from his childhood home in Venice. It was round and massive, the ceiling a vaulted dome twenty or more feet above his head. A crystal chandelier hung from the center, sparkling in the low light. Corinthian columns, gold leaf peeling from their sculpted leaves, ringed the perimeter. Between them hung portraits and mirrors surrounded by ornate gilt frames. A harpsichord sat a dozen feet off. A tear slid from Dust's eye as he looked from the upholstered chairs to the heavy velvet curtains. It had been so, so long. Yet, the room looked nothing like his boyhood home. Instead of soft cream, the marble floor was the color of an old scab, striated with veins of black. The soft fresco depicting an idyllic countryside, which had always amazed Dust with its realism, had been replaced with scenes of ivory-skinned people tormented by demons. Against a red sky, ghastly creatures flayed the skin from their flesh or pierced their bodies with pikes. Fields of the crucified and impaled stood in the background. Instead of ancestors and religious figures, the paintings showed fanged and tentacled monstrosities. Worst of all, beyond the arched windows where Dust had stood to look out over the lemon trees, rose bushes, fountains, shrubberies and tiled walkways, an alien 217

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landscape waited. They seemed to be floating in mid-air, among stars that shone a jaundiced orange. Clouds of noxious-looking vapors floated past, and beyond them, Dust saw tiny islands, inverted triangles spinning in the ether like tops. Some were empty, others contained ruined bits of what might have been Classical temples, and others housed bizarre, twisted statues of beings Dust had never imagined in his worst nightmares. Scarlet, crouched beside him with her wrist resting on her knee, regarded Dust coolly. A few feet to the left, Jo sat with her hands in her lap. Dust could see where the ropes that bound her had cut her skin and bruised her arms. She held her head high though, her mouth set in a defiant line. Past her, near the fireplace that hissed and sizzled with unearthly fire, the demon waited in his gold chains. When Dust looked in his direction, he lifted his face and met Dust's eyes, his gaze conveying loyalty and maybe a hint of conspiracy, though Dust couldn't read any further into it. He turned to his captor. "Just what are you up to?" he asked, sneering. "What is this place?" "Do you like it?" she asked. "I thought you might. No place like home, is there, Giovanni?" "What do you want with us? Why her?" He indicated Jo with a jut of his chin. She chuckled again, and Dust balled his fists with rage. "Answer me," he demanded. 218

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Lightning quick, she grabbed his chin and twisted his head around to face her. "No, you'll answer me, Giovanni. I gave you a simple task. I have been good to you, tried to help you. Yet you would betray me. Why? For what? To please a common, ordinary boy? A diner cook? What could you have been thinking?" Fear replaced Dust's ire then: fear for Elijah. He couldn't tell the witch how he'd never cared for anyone before, how he'd have risked everything to make Elijah happy. She would construe such a statement as weakness, and he feared to even let the thought form in his mind. So he said, "No. No, Scarlet. I ran into some snags, but I was on my way back with him. I had him, and I was on my way back to you." She smiled slowly and raised her hand. She struck Dust in the mouth with her knuckles, splitting his lip and drawing blood. "Liar," she said softly. "No. Scarlet, no." She stood and turned her back to him. "You disgust me. I offered you so much. And you would throw it away for a greasy, little short-order cook." Dust inhaled to ground himself. He couldn't fall apart, couldn't let the loss of his true love overwhelm him now. Scarlet would sense it like a predatory animal smelled blood. Keeping his voice calm and steady, he said, "Okay. 219

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You have your demon back. You have me. Let the woman go. What could you possibly want with her?" Scarlet spun on the ball of her foot, and her finger trained on Dust's throat like a gun. "Fool," she spat. "Damn fool boy. What did you think you were going to do? When will you realize that they will never accept ones such as you and I? We cannot live among them. Yes, I have you, and I will keep you. But I must make sure you won't disobey me again, or become distracted by some worthless, human piece of ass. You know you need to be punished, Giovanni." At that he stood, arms held out to his sides, and laughed hysterically. As soon as he caught his breath, he yelled to her, "Do it then! Go on! What will it be? Whip me? Cut me? Burn my skin? Rape me 'til I can't stand up? What are you waiting for?" Closing the distance between them, she stroked his cheek and whispered, "No. No, I know you too well." Then she touched his face, right between his eyebrows. Dust felt himself snapped backward, as if someone had lassoed him around the waist. His consciousness catapulted through darkness, and when things took concrete form again, he found himself sitting in front of a mirror. Instead of his own reflection, he saw a young Hispanic woman moving across the surface. The crucifix she wore 220

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around her neck was clasped within her fists, and she paced, praying in Spanish. Dust understood most of her plea: that her mother needed her, that she was in love and wanted a family. He listened as she bargained, explaining how she's always tried to be good and gone to confession. Even so, Dust focused on the golden light spilling from the crown of her head. Concentrating hard, sweating, he spread the fingers of his left hand and drew that lifeenergy to himself. Like smoke from a stick of incense, it snaked and curlicued in five branches toward him, until it formed a glowing ball in his palm. Then he raised it to his lips and blew, scattering it. The woman reeled and fell to her knees, sobbing softly and praying more desperately. Dust's hands shook; this magic was difficult, especially from so great a distance. He gathered his strength and repeated the process. It broke his heart to watch her bargain with her God for a few more years. Like so many he'd been commanded to kill, she was an innocent. He'd met her a few times as she worked undercover to bring down Dust's master. She'd been kind to him and tried to comfort him as much as she could. She'd also seen his work before, the trail of bodies he'd left in locked rooms at McDermott's behest. Now she knew the same was happening to her. Surely she felt her life-force ebbing, and she had no way to defend against his magic. With tears sliding down his face, 221

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Dust completed the spell and watched the woman collapse on the floor of the small, sparse room where she thought she would be safe, never to rise again. Dust said a few words for her in Italian and went to tell his master the deed was done. The tugging sensation returned, and Dust found himself outside a small house in the slums of Rome. A peasant woman sat on a porch with a washbasin, a few toddlers playing in the dirt at her feet. An infant slumbered in a basket nearby. Dust clutched his chest as a hot ball rose from his stomach. He remembered this. It had been after this task that he'd discovered he couldn't kill himself. He couldn't see it again. He turned and ran down a narrow alley, only to reach the end and find himself facing the hovel again. "Scarlet!" he yelled frantically. No one noticed. A few moments later the peasant woman, who'd been unfortunate enough to draw the attention of a highranking clergyman and bear his son, draped her laundry over a crumbling wall and took her children inside for the noonday meal. Dust drew some complex patterns, experienced a disorienting sensation of watching himself do something even as he did it, and the little house sprung alight, burning impossibly fast. As the neighbors poured into the street, he turned and walked slowly away. 222

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One by one, each murder he'd been forced to commit replayed before Dust's eyes. He'd forgotten there had been so many. His mind had mercifully buried these horrors, allowed him to forget most of the details as the years wore on. By the time Scarlet released him, he found himself curled in a ball, hugging his knees, sobbing, trembling and mumbling apologies. "Honey?" he heard Jo say.

"Dust?

What's

happening?" "Go on," Scarlet said. "Tell her, Giovanni. Tell your Elijah what you are. See if they'll accept you then. They will expect you to be bound by their rules, and you cannot be so. If you try to live among them, you'll only cause them pain. Look at the pain you have caused. The death." "I'm sorry," he choked. "I—They made me. Please let Jo go. Scarlet!" "Giovanni," she said, "I didn't involve her in this. You did that. You did it by trying to deceive me. And now she'll suffer. Because of you. Like all of the others. And you'll watch and see what you have wrought." "Don't do this," Dust said, getting to his feet, feeling his own power course through his limbs. "Do what you must to me, but don't harm an innocent. Scarlet, please." "No one is innocent," said the sorceress. She snapped her fingers, and the demon came to her side, his 223

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chains rattling. "The woman," she told him, indicating Jo, "and give me a good show." Dust hurried to stand between the demon and Jo. "No," he said, gathering power. It was plentiful in this realm. "I won't allow it." Scarlet laughed again and swiped at the air. Dust slid across the polished floor until his back smacked the wall, knocking a mirror down and shattering it. He writhed, but couldn't free himself from the magical bonds. Scarlet stood in front of him and tore his shirt open. She stroked his chest and fondled his nipples. "Yes, you are strong, my darling. But I have walked this earth for longer than you can fathom. Now, watch what you have caused to be. It will excite us." "No," he whimpered. "No, please. Let it be me." "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you, little slut? But no. You I'll take for myself. If you please me, maybe I won't find your little blond boy toy and torture him for thirteen moons." Her red nails opened a quartet of fresh furrows down Dust's scarred chest as her demon slave lifted a struggling Jo by the waist. ****

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"Stop the truck!" Elijah shouted. Sam hit the brake, and the tires squealed. "There!" Elijah said, panting and pointing at the ivory columns of the new Caesar's Palace hotel and casino. Sam had heard of the place, but seeing it up close, he couldn't help marvel at the scale and intricacy. This wasn't the Old Vegas he'd known so well; this was something else entirely. Sam didn't have time to contemplate how the city was changing, because Elijah seized his elbow and demanded again that he pull over. "Come on, what are you doing? Let's go!" The truck had barely stopped before Elijah jumped out and ran to the driver's side. He flung the door open, grabbed Sam by the arm, and practically wrenched him into the parking lot. Sam followed as the boy sprinted past the elaborate pools flanked with classical statuary. Shimmering curtains of steam rose from the heated water, and patrons swam and took drinks from waitresses in tiny togas and gold sandals. Elijah didn't seem to notice as he hurried toward the casino with his rock balanced on his palm and the filthy sheet tucked under his arm like a football. As Sam had feared, two men in dark suits stopped them as soon as they burst through the door and into the lobby. One of them stopped Elijah with a hand on his chest, saying, "Can we help you gentlemen?" 225

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Sam realized how it looked: himself beat up and bloody, Elijah with that crazy look in his eyes and trailing a dirty bed sheet. From the way Elijah squared his shoulders, Sam could see the young man wasn't planning to leave quietly. "I'd just like to go through here," Elijah said. "I'm sorry, sir," said the other security guard, this one in amber glasses and with a thick black moustache. "This establishment is for paying customers only." "What makes you think we aren't?" "Look, kid," said the first guard, "we're asking you to leave. We can do this the easy way or the hard way." Sam knew, even if Elijah didn't, that these men would have no qualms about dragging them out into an alley and beating them to a pulp. He was just about to lead Elijah away when a female voice said his name. He turned to see a nice-looking Latino woman in a teal jumpsuit with a fancy collar standing beside the bar. The v-shaped neckline plunged very low, and her long hair had been styled to feather back at the sides. She smiled suggestively, not at Sam, but at Elijah. She sauntered over and touched Elijah's unkempt hair at the temple. "Hey, Sam," she said. "Nice to see you again. I was starting to think you were going to brush me off. I never got a chance to tell you where I'd be." 226

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"Why would I brush you off?" It amazed Sam how convincingly Elijah returned her lascivious gaze. "I've been looking all over for you." "Excuse me, Miss Rayez," said the guard with the moustache, "but do you know these men?" "Sam here is my guest," she said, and then leaning close to Elijah's ear, she continued, "though you didn't mention anything about bringing a friend." Elijah flushed ever so slightly, and the woman turned to Sam and looked him up and down. Then she said, "I guess that might be okay, though. What do you say we have a drink?" She turned and headed back toward the bar, and Elijah shot Sam a pleading look. Sam rolled his eyes. He had no idea what the kid was up to, but he wouldn't blow his cover. Hell, nothing could do the boy more good than some time with a lady. Understanding Sam's expression, Elijah nodded gratefully, and whispered, "I'll tell you later. They're here, though. We have to get to them." "But we're still unarmed and—" "Just follow my lead, Sam." Seeing no better alternative, Sam followed Elijah and the woman to a table, and the three of them sat down. "So, what are you guys drinking?" she asked, digging her wallet from her crocheted bag. 227

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"Nothing," Sam said quickly. "Thanks all the same though, miss." "Please," she said, batting her lashes. "Call me Martina. And it's 1974. What's wrong with a gal buying a drink for a friend? What'll it be?" Elijah's unblinking blue eyes pleaded with Sam to cooperate, so the sheriff said, "Just a Scotch on the rocks. I thank you." "Sam?" "Chianti," Elijah responded. Martina snickered awkwardly, and Sam felt just as shocked. Elijah had really changed. As soon as Martina turned toward the bar, though, the young man's suave exterior cracked and fell away. He drummed his fingertips on the table, stroked the bed sheet, and looked back and forth. "This is taking too long, Sam," he hissed. "Just what—" Sam began, but before he could question Elijah, Martina had returned. The sheriff lifted the glass she offered him and sipped. The burn of the whiskey and the following relaxation were welcome indeed. "You seem a little nervous," Martina said to Elijah, draping her hand over his forearm. He composed himself with remarkable speed, smiling easily and leaning toward her. "How could I not 228

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be?" he said, his voice all velvet and innuendo. "A beautiful, sophisticated woman like yourself…" He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles without breaking eye contact. Sam nearly choked. When Elijah dropped Martina's hand, his elbow jerked back and toppled the goblet of red wine. He flushed and averted his gaze, playing coy now. "Shit. I am so sorry, Martina. I guess I'm a little tenser than I thought." "Don't worry about it, babe," she said, her eyes tearing the clothes from his body. "I'll just get you another." She picked up her wallet and left them again. As soon as she'd gone, Elijah slid her purse across the table and rifled through it until he withdrew a large, antiquelooking key. He crammed it into his pants pocket and replaced his languid posture and sensual smile before Martina could even order. His performance was so convincing that the woman wasted no time. "I have rooms here," she said, her voice husky with need. "I'm a little old-fashioned," Elijah said, and this time Sam couldn't stifle a cough. "How would it be if you went up and slipped into something comfortable, and I'll finish my drink?" She considered, and then said, "All right. Don't keep me waiting. Room 317." Their lips pressed together, 229

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though Sam noticed Elijah didn't close his eyes. Looking over her shoulder at the two men, Martina headed for the elevator. As soon as she was gone, Elijah sprang to his feet, knocking his chair on its side. "Now," he told Sam, who had to hurry to keep up with him as he jogged for the exit. "What the hell was that, Elijah? You lied to that woman and stole from her handbag!" "It doesn't matter. Let's go!" "Times sure have changed," Sam lamented. "A lady like that, taking two strange men back to her room—" "Just come on, Sam! Get in the truck." Sam did as instructed. Once he'd turned the key, though, he looked at his younger companion. "Where the hell are we going now? I don't like being in the dark. What's the plan, Elijah?" "Please drive, Sam. Right turn here. I know where we can get some weapons. Anything we want. So let's get them, and then get back here and rescue Dust and Jo." He couldn't argue with that.

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Chapter Eleven Sam looked up at the sky, the stars washed pastel by the neon lights from the city. Against them, the spires of the castle stood black and foreboding. The angels flanking the gate looked ready to smite them at any moment. The whole place chilled his blood. "I know this place," he breathed, cold sweat breaking free from his pores. "This is McDermott's place. How do you know about this place?" "I can't explain everything right now," said Elijah as he strode toward the massive gate. "I will explain. I promise, Sam. Now we have to hurry." He slid the key into the keyhole, and it turned with a grind and a click. The gate creaked loudly as he pushed it open. "We can get what we need here. But we have to be careful. We may not be alone. Martina said some of McDermott's old associates might come here for loot." "How the hell would she know?" "She's his daughter, Sam." "Oh." Trying to ignore the many questions that nagged at his mind, Sam followed Elijah into the massive stone structure. Elijah seemed to know his way, which just made Sam even more curious. He pushed his questions aside as his eyes adjusted to the darkness within. He 231

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scanned the shadows for movement, his ears straining to detect any sound. "I think we're all right," he whispered. "Think again," snarled a gravely voice. Before Sam could turn toward it, a large hand closed around his neck and propelled his face and chest into the wall, winding him and bringing a fresh stream of blood from his nose. He heard a grunt and crash beside him as Elijah's smaller body smashed against the stone. "Talk." A blade bit the skin over Sam's windpipe. "Please, just let us—" Elijah began. A sickly thud silenced him, and he choked and gasped for air. Sam cursed himself for becoming so rusty, so soft. Elijah needed him. So did Jo. He tried desperately to concoct some sort of story, and coming up blank, he resorted to the truth. "My name is Sheriff Samuel Woodward." Laughter erupted around the room. Sam guessed it came from at least four men. "A cop?" someone said. "Are you trying to get us to kill you?" "I'm a retired vice cop," Sam said quickly. "My partner here and I have no business with you." "Then why are you here?" The knife pressed in, opening Sam's skin. Sam couldn't believe how easily the words came. "Years ago, I had a partner. A woman. I loved her; you 232

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can't imagine how much. I tried to protect her from McDermott. I hid her. Watched her night and day. I don't know how the old bastard did it, but he got to her. He— "He killed her. I don't know how. She died in a locked room surrounded by armed guards. I mean, I heard the rumors about black magic, but I never believed them. Not until then. McDermott had power. I don't know what kind. Something wrong. Something unnatural. Please. Take whatever you want. Burn this god-forsaken place to the ground for all I care. I just want to find out what happened to her. Put her to rest." "Dios te salve, María!" The knife clattered against the flagged stones. "He was the devil! We lost a lot of good men the same way." Someone else said, "Curse him. Let him burn in hell." "He commanded demons." "Please," Sam said, pressing his advantage. "I just want a good, Christian woman to be at peace. All I want is a few minutes to look around. Then we'll never trouble you again." The silence that ensued stretched into eternity. Elijah, despite his best efforts, breathed erratically. He was terrified. He'd become more worldly in the last few weeks, but he remained just a small-town boy. He was in over his 233

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head, and he'd run out of clever plans. If Sam's ploy failed, they were both screwed. "What if this is bullshit?" someone said from the shadows. "What if it isn't? The demons could still be here." "Shut up, you fool!" "Let's just get out of here. We've had wives, sisters killed the same way! We have plenty of money. Let's go." "We have no business with you," Sam repeated. "I just want to know what happened to my partner." Again he waited, barely daring to breathe. The men shuffled. They were nervous, spooked. Their greed might have compelled them here, but Sam's story seemed to recall the danger to their minds. "Please. Half an hour to look around." "We can understand your pain. But you know we cannot let you walk out of here." Sam didn't know what else to do. He heard the men readying their weapons. Elijah panted, shaking so hard Sam could feel it. "My god," the young man choked, "can't you feel it? Can't any of you feel the evil in this place?" He performed so convincingly that the sheriff shivered. The thugs shifted around, training their guns on the flickering shadows. Near Sam's hip, Elijah's fingers moved in a strange pattern. "It's 234

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here," he said again. "An evil presence. Demons maybe." A six-foot tall, gold-framed mirror slid from the wall and shattered on the stone, punctuating Elijah's words. All of the men spun toward the disturbance, and two of them fired. Sam thought he heard Elijah chuckle under his breath. His hand twitched again, and the metal helmet flew from a suit of armor on the second floor and bounced down the stairs with a series of echoing clangs. All but one of the men ran from the house. "All of us have to go," Elijah said ominously. "I need to find out about my partner," Sam said. He turned toward their captor, no longer afraid of their retaliation. Elijah's little show had left the remaining thug as harmless as a scared child. The man who'd held the knife drew a shuddering breath. "Si, yes. And then you leave this place, this city. If we see you again, you will die." "Thank you," Elijah said. "Lay your woman to rest." With that, he was gone as fast as his feet could carry him. Elijah felt around the wall for the light switch. When he found it, an archaic chandelier cast a golden light on the cluttered hall of Castle McDermott.

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**** Just as he had when he'd first beheld it, Elijah's fortitude wavered at the sheer magnitude of junk piled in the hall. He had no idea where to look first. They needed weapons, guns preferably. Surely McDermott had them, but where? He plowed shelf after shelf of old books to the side, hoping to find a hidden locker. No such cache revealed itself. He swore. Behind him, Sam flung open chest after chest, digging through the contents but finding nothing more lethal than Oriental silks. "We're wasting time!" Elijah yelled, kicking over a blue and white urn. "I'm going to look upstairs," Sam said. "Ten minutes. Then we go, with whatever we have. We'll have to make due." "Agreed," Elijah said. In front of him stood an exotic suit of armor; he thought it was Japanese. Though beautiful, he didn't think it could aid them much. The sword, though, was exquisite. Elijah wanted to hold the black hilt in his hand. He wondered if it would be disrespectful to just pick it up. Unsure, he lifted it from its wooden stand. Once his fingers wrapped around the ornately

woven

decoration,

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place itself, the old sword felt good. Elijah slipped the scabbard between his jeans and brown leather belt, and the guard between the blade and the hilt held it in place. Feeling a little better, he resumed his search for guns. After the allotted time had passed, Sam reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. He had a.45 shoved down the front of his pants and a sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. His shirt and pants pockets bulged with shells and ammunition. "What did you find?" he asked Elijah. "Not much." Sam's eyes lit upon the sword by Elijah's hip, and he rolled his eyes and sighed with exasperation. "Just what are you planning to do with that, son?" "I think it might be special," was all the explanation Elijah could offer. "I think you don't bring a knife to a gun fight," Sam said. He pressed a tiny pistol into Elijah's hand, saying, "It's a derringer. You know how to use it?" Elijah nodded. "Good," Sam said. "Put it where you'll be able to get to it quick." "Scarlet is a sorceress," Elijah said. "You had a gun the last time, and it didn't help." "You got a better idea?" Elijah scanned the seemingly infinite shelves and piles of objects. Some of them drew his attention more than 237

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others. They didn't hum or glow or sparkle; they were just different. "There's magic here. Maybe we can use it." He walked over a rusted spoon, its handle bent. It was dull, lusterless, but it felt exceptional in the way the sword did. Elijah held it in his palm for a moment before setting it back down. If he had the time to go through the rooms of the castle, lay his hands on the treasure collected within, he felt sure he could determine what held true worth. "No time, Elijah," Sam reminded him. "Right." Looking longingly at the artifacts, Elijah headed for the door. It was time to do this thing; they were as ready as they would ever be. "Let's just go!" "Sam," Elijah dared, his voice sounding quiet and cowed. "What you told those men. That was a good one. Quick thinking." He forced a chuckle. "Yeah," Sam said darkly. "Yeah, thanks." "Are you all right?" "I'll be fine. Let's just go," Sam answered. **** Dust sat naked by the window, watching the foreign stars and clouds swirl past him, trying not to think about where he might be held prisoner, or how the hell he'd get 238

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himself out of this one. Behind him, Jo sat hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Having been in her position more than once, Dust knew not to try to compel her to talk about what had happened. He knew she'd be in denial, trying to make herself believe it had happened to somebody else. He also knew she'd share when she was ready, and probably not with him. Still, he owed it to her to try to get her out of this place. Back in the real world, she could find help, could eventually find healing. The demon approached with a rattle of chains. He sat down beside Dust and stretched his glorious wings out behind him. Dust had seen him with Jo: he'd done as commanded by his mistress, but he hadn't been cruel. If anything, he'd tried to be gentle. Dust found the demon's hand resting on the cold floor and squeezed his knuckles. "Here we are again, Giovanni." "Yep." The demon sniffed the air, and something undetectable to Dust made him smile. "Perhaps you should open a tear in the veil." "What for?" Dust asked. "Do you want to stay here?" "Of course not," Dust said. "I don't even know where we are. If I open a door, who knows where we could end up? We could wind up someplace where we can't 239

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exist." "You must try to get back to the human realm. You and the woman. You will be able to survive here, but she won't last much longer." "Why?" "She doesn't belong. It is like trying to live at the bottom of the ocean. Her body will be destroyed. The energies here are foreign and toxic to her." "And it will be my fault. Again." "Unless you get her out." "How?" Dust said, frustrated and exhausted. "I'm so weak. Without some kind of anchor into that realm, I can't find my way. If I sunder the veil, I could end up anywhere." The demon sniffed the air again. "Trust me, Giovanni. I would not see you come to harm. Lift the veil." Dust stood and went to a full-length, blackened mirror framed with gold ivy and amethyst grapes. He held his breath, shielded his face with his arm, and sent his opposite elbow into the glass. When it shattered, a strong vortex sucked the shards into a darkened tunnel with a faint, neon blue glow far in the distance.

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Chapter Twelve It was an empty hotel room. Sam and Elijah searched from top to bottom, opening every dresser drawer and closet. They looked under the bed and behind the shower curtain, but the room contained nothing more than expensive toiletries and fine furnishings. "Damn it!" Elijah said, smacking his fists against the tan wall beside the bed. At his feet, the little stone knocked insistently, though there was nowhere else to go. "What now?" Sam asked, looking over his shoulder into the empty suite. They'd snuck in through a service entrance, and had so far been fortunate enough to encounter no one but a couple so drunk that walking had occupied all of their attention. Sam had picked the lock when Elijah's rock led them to the room. Luckily, it was the off-season in Vegas, and few guests stayed in this wing of the hotel. Elijah knew Sam worried about how they looked: himself with his sword and bed sheet and the sheriff covered in dried blood and carrying enough firepower to start a small war. None of this mattered to Elijah though. He could feel Dust. Dust was somewhere in this hotel; he knew it. Elijah had expected to find him in this room, maybe unconscious and 241

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tied up. Then he remembered how they'd found the demon in the magician's house—behind a false wall. Elijah turned to Sam. "Keep watch," he said. Then he lifted his arm and drove his elbow into the plaster. It hurt more than he'd expected, but he did it again and again. Slowly the wall began to crumble and fall away. As soon as he could, Elijah grabbed whole chunks of it and tore them free. He opened a hole almost large enough for him to walk through before he noticed that nothing waited beyond but wooden studs and electrical wiring. He stared at it, panting with exertion, blood seeping through his sleeve, and said only, "No." "What?" Sam asked. "I don't know. Something went wrong. They're not here." "What do we do now?" Elijah dropped to his knees, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know." Still the rock beat against the deadend wall, the stupid, useless thing. Had he actually thought it would guide his way? Irate, Elijah picked it up and hurled it at the shattered plaster as hard as he could. What happened next stopped his breath. Instead of hitting the wall and bouncing back, the rock hovered for a second before shooting through the wall with the speed of a meteor. In a split second, it moved 242

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beyond Elijah's vision. A gaping hole with a dark void beyond replaced the remains of the wiring and studs. Springing to his feet, laughing with exaltation, Elijah turned to Sam and said, "I'm going!" "What?" Sam yelled, grabbing Elijah around the waist just before he could step off the edge of the world and into the abyss. "You don't even know where that leads. Or what's in there." "Dust is in there!" "How the hell do you know that?" "I just know, Sam. I can feel it. After everything that's happened, can't you accept that there are just things you can't explain?" Elijah struggled, but the larger and stronger sheriff held him tight, his chest pressing against Elijah's back. "Let me go," he pleaded. Dropping his forehead against Elijah's hair, Sam said softly, "You're a brave man, Elijah. Braver than I am; I admit it. Just looking down that tunnel scares the shit out of me. All of this scares the shit out of me. If you aren't even a little bit scared, then it's because you're young and don't know any better. What if you get in there and can't find your way back out?" "There's no other choice," Elijah whimpered, twisting his torso in a half-hearted attempt to escape Sam's grasp. "I'll take the chance. I have to." 243

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"Let's at least find a rope or something. I'll hold onto it so you can find your way out." "Okay." Sam let him go then, and the two of them began to search the hotel room for a rope of some kind. After only five minutes, it became clear that they wouldn't find anything. "Fuck it. I'm going," Elijah said. "Give me that damn sheet," Sam said, holding out his hand. "No. I want it with me." Before Elijah could react, the sheriff wrenched the sheet out of his hand and tore it down the center. He repeated the process four more times, and when he'd finished he tied the strips together. "Hook this to your belt," he told Elijah. Elijah obeyed; he couldn't deny that this connection to the familiar world made him feel more secure. A swirling wind howled eerily down the tunnel, and it smelled funny: like the smoke left after fireworks. The closer he got, the more static electricity he felt crackle over his hair and clothing. He remembered Dust's fight with The Phenomenal Phillip and knew that magic, not electricity, produced the effervescence. He wouldn't admit it to Sam, but Elijah was scared. He'd never left the state of Nevada, and now he was about to leave the earth itself. Still, nothing 244

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scared him more than the thought of living out the rest of his life without Dust. How could he live with himself if he didn't even try? "I'm going," he said, more to convince himself than to inform the sheriff. Sam looked into Elijah's eyes with admiration and concern. He rubbed Elijah's shoulder, the way Elijah had always imagined a father might. "Be careful," he said. "If you get into trouble, you yell and I pull you out." "Thanks, Sam." "Good luck, son." Elijah took a final deep breath and stepped into the void. The first thing he noticed was the pressure on his body and the difficulty of drawing in air. It felt like trying to breathe through a thick blanket. He soon realized he hadn't entered a tunnel at all: space extended infinitely above and below him, out to every side. He stretched on his stomach, kicked his feet, and circled his arms to propel himself forward. Now and then, he saw what he could only describe as islands floating in the ether. Some were only the size of a stepping-stone while others were so vast his vision couldn't find their far shores. Beings existed here as well, formed from light of every color. They swam through the space, some almost as solid as Elijah himself and others barely detectable, almost completely transparent. Some 245

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took a human shape, others resembled prehistoric fish or winding centipedes, and many others held no form that Elijah could name. He could sense their intentions though. A few felt hostile, a few curious. Now and then one of them expressed something close to benevolence, but most felt indifferent. Through it all, he kept his concentration on the glimmer of blue light. It would be easy to become distracted by the wonders around him and lose sight of it, and he somehow knew that if that happened he could become lost in this place forever. He wasn't afraid, not anymore. He looked down at the carnelian ring on his finger. His hand seemed too solid, alien and out of place here. He'd almost reached his destination. Up ahead he saw an ornate doorway supported by fancy, carved columns. It sat on another of the strange land masses, with only thick rock behind it. The glow came from a crack in the black wood. Willing himself forward, Elijah slid toward it on his belly, like a child down a snowy hill. As soon as he could, he pulled himself up and stood on the stone lip. **** As soon as the mirror shattered, the world started to wobble as if the vaulted ceiling and painted walls had been 246

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constructed from gelatin. Dust took a step back. He could feel the objects around him becoming less substantial as the force that held them together weakened. In mere seconds, he could see through a stone urn if he squinted. The colors changed from the hellish palette of rust, blood and ebony to mundane creams and beiges. Now and then the usurping interior fought the natural world, and the colors darkened again in a flash. "What the hell?" Dust breathed. Beneath his bare feet, the marble floor roiled and undulated. Standing and spreading his wings, looking regal despite his chains, the demon said, "The energy that maintains this place is dissipating. This place is not real. It was constructed." "By Scarlet," Dust said. "I'd already figured that out. Why is it falling apart?" How much magic and concentration would it take to form an entire world? With all the power he'd ever had, Dust could never dream of making something like this. Where was she? How come she didn't know he'd punched a hole in her masterpiece? "Even she must have limits," he reasoned. "After all of this, she can't have much power left." Not that he wanted to test the theory. He turned to the demon. "What now? This place is being torn apart, and there's nowhere to go! Where will we be when this place stops existing? Damn it! This was a 247

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bad idea. I should have expected this. I just wanted to get Jo out of here, get us free—" Frantically, he looked around for something familiar as the ballroom fluctuated between red and white. Scarlet's world wasn't tearing itself apart or crumbling; it was just dissolving. Jo had curled herself in a ball beneath a long, low table. Would she just drop into nothingness when the floor beneath her dissipated? He looked into the broken mirror. The void looked back at him. Should he take Jo into it, take his chances? No, he decided. It was too vast. They had no chance at all of finding their way. It was dangerous enough for a magician to walk between the worlds. Even magicians who took precautions, marking their way back scrupulously, were lost as often as not. The only choice he had was to convince Scarlet to send them back. She wouldn't do it for free, and Dust had only one bargaining chip—himself. He hurried over and crouched beside Jo. She flinched when he touched her arm. Her eyes were wild with terror, but he needed her to understand him now. Grasping her chin, he made her meet his gaze. She flailed for a minute and then went still, her breathing rapid and irregular. "Jo, it's Dust. I know you're hurt and afraid, but I can get you out of here. I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell Elijah what happened to me. He can't 248

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think I abandoned him, and he can't be left to wonder. I need you to tell him that I'm okay—" His voice broke at the lie. "—and that I loved him, but it would never have worked. I was kidding myself," he said. "Scarlet was right. Tell him— Tell him to move on. Can you do that, Jo?" "Yeah," she croaked. "Okay." He forced a smile for her and got to his feet, yelling Scarlet's name. She appeared in a long, sheer toga with a gold cord around the waist. "Giovanni?" she said calmly. "I broke through your enchantment," he said, indicating the flickering ballroom with a wide sweep of his arm. "Bring us back to the material world." "Why?" "Bring us back, and I'll go with you. Be yours." As soon as he'd finished speaking, the room vibrated. Dust put his arms out to his sides for balance. A high-pitched hum came from the floor and walls, and Scarlet, alarmed, looked toward the rift Dust had created. Dust felt reality pouring in, as well as a strong and familiar presence behind him. It was the worst thing that could've happened. "Dust, no!" "No," Dust whispered, hanging his head, defeated. 249

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He turned to Elijah and yelled, "What have you done?" "But I—" Scarlet's giggle quickly turned into a mad, hysterical cackle. "You'll never get home," she howled, pointing at Elijah. Her fingers curled into a ball, and the crimson mockery of the ballroom healed itself. Almost. Behind Elijah, Dust could still see a cleft in the mirror. He also saw a white rope trailing from Elijah's waist. Elijah had anchored himself in the real world; he'd brought the real world in with him. Maybe they had a chance. If they could make Scarlet spread her magic too thin to maintain this place, maybe they could make it back. They had to make Scarlet use her magic. Scarlet's magic could kill. Could kill Elijah. Jo. Maybe even the demon. "Not me though," Dust realized. He braced himself for the inevitable pain and said, "Come on, you bitch!" He hurled bolts of magical energy at her as fast as he could, hoping to make her use her power to protect herself. It worked. The room grew fuzzy and gray, like a television picture obscured by static. Dust continued his assault, his magic depleting quickly. Beneath the fading reds and blacks, the solid, ivory columns and tan walls struggled to assert themselves. Scarlet countered. Dust felt his insides twisting up, 250

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burning. He fell to his knees. Blood seeped from his mouth and nose. He struggled back to his feet, clutching his side. He couldn't beat Scarlet, but he didn't have to. She couldn't concentrate on hurting him and maintaining the illusion at the same time. He'd just have to let her hurt him. He sent a ball of blue flame toward her face, but she swatted it away and rewarded him with a fresh round of torture. On the ground again, he could do nothing but grab her ankle and try to pull her off balance. "Dust!" Through the haze of agony, Dust saw Elijah advancing, a sword in his hand. With his last ounce of strength, he rolled to his back to try to warn Elijah. Nothing escaped his lips but a gurgle and more blood. He raised his head to try again, but he couldn't support it, and it smacked against the floor, sparkles blurring his vision. When it cleared, he saw his lover lifting the blade. "Demon, kill Elijah," Scarlet said, sounding as though the game had begun to bore her. As he must, the demon came forth to face the much smaller young man. Undaunted, Elijah widened his stance and blocked his chest with the katana. Dust knew, sword or no, Elijah stood no chance. He had to help him, or Elijah would be killed. With every shred of will he possessed, Dust pushed himself to a seated position. 251

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Scarlet grabbed the back of his hair and held him as easily as a child held a doll. "Enjoy the show," she said. "No!" Dust screamed, writhing and twisting his body, reaching behind himself to claw at the hand that held him. He was helpless; helpless to save the only person who'd ever cared about him, that he'd ever loved. He could do nothing but plead and wail. The demon lifted his massive, black-clawed hand and brought it down toward Elijah's chest. Miraculously, Elijah side-stepped and dodged the blow. He swung with his sword. Sobbing, Dust mustered the energy for a final struggle. He couldn't free himself, though. He watched Elijah's blade cut a silver arc toward the demon, knowing it would be the only blow his lover would land. It wouldn't be enough. The demon could survive any wound Elijah could inflict. The sword made contact, but not with flesh. In one swing, Elijah severed the chain that held the demon's wrists and connected with his collar. Then, lightning-fast, he raised the katana over his head and brought it down, shattering the restraints between the demon's ankles. Redgold links bounced from the floor and skidded across the marble. Standing with his hands still poised to strike, the demon regarded Elijah, who lowered his sword and held it 252

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at his side. Slowly, the demon dropped his arm. He looked at his wrists, turning them over and over to study the front and the back. His mouth fell open, and he exhaled loudly. "You have—" he began, but the sight of his unbound hands stole his words. "That's right," Elijah said. "You're free now." "Thank you, Elijah." "No," Scarlet howled. "This means nothing! You belong to me! Giovanni belongs to me!" Gritting his teeth, Dust said, "No." Vigor renewed by Elijah's show of courage and righteous justice, he twisted free from the witch's grasp. Getting to his feet, he gripped her face in his hand, squeezing the delicate cheekbones until he felt them crack. He focused all of his anger into his fingers, and into Scarlet's skull. Blood poured from her eyes and smoke rose from her hair. Porcelain skin blistered and blackened, filling the vast room with a sickening stench. With his other hand, he blasted her diaphragm, sending her flying into a vase of red roses, white lilies, ferns and baby's breath. In mere seconds, she began to heal, but he'd caught the scent of flowers. Real flowers. Dust's attack hadn't stopped Scarlet for long, though. She made it back to her feet, smiling madly. An arc of power crackled blue between her palms. Panting, Dust 253

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took a step back and steeled himself for another assault. His plan to force Scarlet to use her power was working, though she didn't seem to be weakening very quickly. These little offensive spells were like child's play to the powerful witch. Dust, on the other hand, still suffered from decades of abuse and malnutrition. His energy waned; it took everything he had to stay on his feet. Still, he had to keep it up; it was their only chance: his, Jo's, and the demon's. It was Elijah's only chance to get home safely. So Dust siphoned every particle of power from the alien realm that he could capture. It proved difficult, since Scarlet, its creator, drew most of the power to herself. Still, he managed to erect a shimmering shield around his body that deflected her next few attacks. After only a few minutes, though, he could no longer maintain it. A bolt of cold white lightning sent him sprawling on his back. His head hit the floor again, and his teeth knocked together painfully. In a dizzy blur, Dust saw a pair of hooves hurry past him. Red sparks flew where they struck the marble. Broken chains clinked behind. "Now you pay for keeping me a thousand years in bondage, witch!" the demon roared, his voice resounding like a forest fire. Dust forced himself to his elbows, his head 254

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throbbing, just in time to see the majestic creature take a swipe at Scarlet's waist. His claws connected, tearing both fabric and skin, and eliciting a howl of rage and pain from the sorceress. Scarlet pressed her hand to the wound, but couldn't stop the blackish blood from pouring between her fingers. She raised her other hand, and a three-inch silver dagger shot from each of her fingers. Two of them soared past the demon, striking the far wall behind him and lodging in the plaster. The third struck the thick muscle just above his collarbone, and the other two pierced his outstretched wing. Injured and bleeding but fueled by vengeance, the demon called upon his own magic, exhaling a tunnel of flame to engulf Scarlet. She screamed in agony. Dust heard the crackle of burning skin, smelled the too-familiar stench. Daring a glance over his shoulder, Dust saw Elijah standing with his body tensed, his sword in his hand, and a look of horror on his face. Quite astutely, Jo had used the distraction to make her way closer to the portal. That would make it easier for Dust to get them out once Scarlet was dead. Which couldn't be long, given the thrashing form within the curtain of black smoke, and the gurgling moans. Dust began to scuttle backwards, toward Elijah and the tunnel home. 255

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He'd made it about halfway when the fire and fumes dissipated as quickly as they'd been conjured. Not even a wisp of smoke remained in the room. Scarlet stood and stretched to shake off her film of blackened skin. Beneath it, her complexion looked as white and smooth as bridal silk. "No!" the demon shouted. "I'll kill you for what you've done!" He leaped into the air and used his fantastic wings to glide to her. His large hand closed around her throat, and he lifted her two feet off the floor. She looked small and pitiful, writhing helplessly in his grasp. The demon's opposite hand drove into her belly with the speed of a jackhammer. In seconds, her torso looked like shredded meat, blood and fluids spewing out. More blood sprayed out of her mouth. Scarlet, though she looked like she'd been torn in half, managed a weak chuckle. This stunned the demon just long enough for her to press a fingertip between his eyes. Some sort of psychic attack sent him flying backward. Scarlet landed on her feet, and lost no time in mounting her own offensive. Dozens of silver slivers shot from her hands, striking the demon just as he got back on his feet. They drove him backward and pinned him to the wall. He howled in pain. Dust, disgusted, had to admit how smart Scarlet had been in choosing her weapon: ice. As a being of 256

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fire, that element would damage the demon more than any other. He had to help. Scarlet recovered quickly and had already summoned enough power to almost completely restore her realm. Dust knew he had to keep her weak, but more than that, he couldn't let her destroy the demon. He didn't have time now to decide exactly what he felt for the demon, but Dust knew he couldn't let him die. He got to his feet and scanned around for any scrap of residual energy. He found nothing but a broken table leg laying a few feet from his foot. Picking it up, he lunged at the sorceress, but a severe vertigo knocked him back. He swooned and fought not to fall to his knees. The demon, though bound, wasn't helpless, and he sent a rain of fireballs on to Scarlet's head. She shielded herself with her arms, forming an enchanted umbrella that looked like black glass. It cost her. Her fabricated world faded almost to nothing. Dust saw his chance; he had to strike now while she was vulnerable. Holding the table leg like a baseball bat, he rushed forward. Elijah was quicker. He ran past Dust, brandishing his sword and bellowing with rage. Dropping into a crouch, he swiped at Scarlet's thigh, opening a gash and driving her sideways onto her hip. She sprawled on the floor. A few of 257

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the demon's burning projectiles sizzled against her skin before she could get her arms back up and replenish her shield. Elijah struck again, but this time, his blade bounced off. To further distract the witch and spread her energy thinner, Dust hurled the thick piece of wood at her face. She had to shift her magical wall to deflect it, and Elijah seized the opportunity. "Heartless bitch!" he yelled as he stabbed down into her ribs. His katana plunged deep into her body. Her attention shifted to him. "Now!" Dust yelled to the demon. Their strategy was working. As long as they kept their assault coming from more sides than Scarlet could defend, they just might defeat her. With a deafening cry, the demon tore himself free from the wall. Bits of his flesh and feathers remained stuck there. He dove toward Scarlet, his arms sheathed in fire to the elbows and fingers of flame shooting through the air from his hands. For his part, Dust managed to send a feeble spell of weakening at the witch. Neither of them made it in time. Ignoring her burning hair, Scarlet managed to stand. She faced Elijah, and he widened his stance and lifted his sword to meet her. The katana whirred through the air and stuck in the meat of 258

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her shoulder, next to her neck. With an effort, Elijah yanked it free and lifted it above his head to strike again. Before he could, Scarlet shot her hand toward him with impossible speed. She hit Elijah in the center of the ribs, and her fingers disappeared within him. When she withdrew them, she held Elijah's beating heart in her fist. In slow motion, Dust saw Scarlet drop Elijah's heart to the floor and quash it with her gold sandal. He heard his own voice yelling as if from a great distance and felt himself moving forward without conscious will. At the same time, he saw Elijah looking at the gaping hole in his chest with an almost innocent awe. His gaze met Dust's, and then he fell. Blood pooled around him. "Heartless?" she giggled. Screaming himself hoarse, senseless with pain and rage, Dust tackled Scarlet, abandoning magic and pummeling her with his fists. She easily shook him off, but he got up. He'd kill her if it was the last thing he did. He'd raze this place to the ground. He'd destroy everything; he'd make the world pay for taking Elijah from him, if he had to do it one person, one brick at a time. He'd let the violence that he'd struggled so long to hold in check flow out of him like justice, and it would not discriminate. Something was happening; several things were happening. Scarlet's world was being sucked toward the 259

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tear Dust had made. Also, the demon had knelt beside Elijah's corpse and cradled it in his arms. He pushed the sweaty, bloody hair away from the young man's paling face and kissed his forehead. Turning his face toward the sky, he let out a cry that was like a long, sorrowful note of music. Then, holding his hand in front of his own heart, he called forth a sphere of pure white fire. It flickered between his fingers, slowly solidifying into a shape vaguely resembling a human heart. After placing it into Elijah's chest cavity, he waved his palm over Elijah's chest to repair the bone and skin. Dust waited, afraid to hope but unable not to. Scarlet came up behind him, but he sensed her and swiped her away with a gesture. She flew across the room but landed on her feet, ready to defend herself. Dust ignored her as she ran toward him, arms raised. Elijah's face looked waxen and gray, his lips turning bruise-purple. The demon looked expectantly down at his face. So did Dust. Nothing happened. Jo cried softly somewhere behind him. "I'm sorry, Giovanni," the demon choked, petting Elijah's cold cheek. "No!" Dust yelled, hurrying to his lover's body and squeezing Elijah's stiffening hand. He tapped Elijah's cheek, and, getting no response, slapped it. "Please don't leave me!" 260

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The demon looked at him, and sadly shook his head. "No!" Scarlet had nearly reached them. She looked ready to kill anyone she could. Dust curled his body over Elijah's head. He could think of nothing else to do. He had no way to save himself or protect his friends. He'd given everything he had. He resigned himself to defeat and closed his eyes. Then Dust felt a sharp tug at his spine, just above his hipbones. Everything went dark. **** Sam heard a chorus of screams. He heard Elijah, then Dust. He heard stone crumbling and a low, eerie wail that made his bones feel like ice, and he heard Jo crying. He heaved on the bed sheet he held with all his might, though it felt like he was single-handedly trying to tow in an aircraft carrier. **** Two bodies fell in an unceremonious heap on top of Dust. He smelled clean linen and new paint. Feeling smothered, Dust pushed away the heavy weight above him. 261

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It flopped lifelessly to the floor, and in a flash, he remembered that Scarlet had killed Elijah, and he'd been powerless to save him. At least they'd returned to the real world, to a fancy new hotel room, it seemed. Looking around, Dust saw Jo huddled in the corner by the hot tub, Sam staring with confusion at the strip of white fabric in his hands, and the demon standing behind him with his wings dripping blood. Scarlet stood at the foot of the kingsized bed, her garments clotted with gore and a patch of her hair burned away, but otherwise unharmed. Filled with a violence unlike anything he'd ever known, Dust flung himself at her. She swatted him away, but he attacked again. Barely aware of his worsening injuries, Dust rushed at the witch again and again. After the fifth time, not even vengeance could haul his broken body off the floor. He turned to the demon and managed to mumble, "Please." He couldn't see the two of them fighting, couldn't tear his eyes away from Elijah's white face. He looked almost peaceful, with the hilt of the katana still clutched in his pallid fist. He was twenty years old. It couldn't end this way, just couldn't. Scarlet had been right; Dust had brought this on Elijah. The witch screamed, and the demon cried out in an alien tongue. The room went cold, and Dust turned toward 262

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the draft. Scarlet had ripped open a hole in reality, a passage to the fathomless abyss. The demon stood at the edge, his hooves tearing up the carpet as he was sucked back. Dust hurried to grasp his hand just as his wing was torn from his body. It spiraled into the nothingness, leaving only a knob of bone protruding from his back. Dust looked for anything to brace himself against, but the fancy sofa, dining table, and bar stood several feet from his grasp. The vacuum peeled skin and feathers from the demon. "Help me hold on to him!" Dust begged. The exertion of holding open the rift took its toll on Scarlet. She heaved and held her knees. Her youthful countenance degenerated into a wizened mask, the eyes and teeth prominent, covered by too little parched skin. In a strong voice, Jo yelled, "For God's sake, Sam! Shoot the fucking bitch already." The sheriff looked at Jo, then at Dust. At that moment, Dust lost his grip on the demon's hand. The demon's body was torn to pieces and sucked into black space. Dust tried to scream, but he had no voice left. He looked back at the sheriff, and Sam brought the shotgun to his shoulder. Scarlet's head disappeared in a red mist. Her body followed the demon's into oblivion, and then the rift knit itself shut, leaving Sam, Dust and Jo in an ordinary hotel suite. 263

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**** Sam looked at the destruction around him. Five minutes earlier, he'd been staring into a hole in the wall. When he'd pulled Elijah back, the ensuing battle had wrecked

this

hotel

suite.

The

classically inspired

furnishings and statuary lay in rubble. The curtains were on fire. Though he could hardly comprehend it, Elijah was gone. He lay among the debris, Dust's face buried in his bloody chest. Gingerly the sheriff touched the bare shoulder of the dark-haired young man, knowing the anguish Dust felt. Sam looked at the horrible cuts and burns that covered Dust's naked body. He tried to give him a sympathetic squeeze. Dust didn't lift his head, but kept sobbing against Elijah's body. "We should go," Sam said. "We don't want to have to explain this." "I'm not leaving him here!" "He's gone," Sam said in a shaky voice. Jo dropped down beside Dust and draped her arm over his back. Sam took off his shirt to cover her. "He wouldn't want you to get into trouble," she offered gently. Dust lifted Elijah's dead hand to show them the ring on his finger. "I was his," he wailed. "His! He did it. Somehow. I'm yours. Yours!" 264

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Though he didn't understand Dust's words, Sam knew he had to get them out of there before the commotion drew attention. He hated to leave Elijah, but there was nothing more they could do for the boy. His body would be found and taken to the morgue. His death would be investigated, and finally his remains would be released and he could be laid to rest. "I know it hurts, but he's gone," Sam said firmly. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, triggering the alarms and sprinklers in the room. Sam heard doors opening in the hall as guests peeked out to investigate the commotion. "We need to get out of here, before the local police try to take us in for questioning." "No!" "Yes. I'm sorry, Dust. He was a fine young man. I learned that too late." "Let them come!" Dust screamed. "I'll kill them. All of them! I'll burn this world to ash and—" "Dust," Jo said, "do you think that's what Elijah would have wanted?" His chest heaving, Dust looked into Elijah's lightless eyes. "I… don't know," he panted. "Yes you do. You know he would want you to be safe, to lead an honorable life. Do that for him, for his memory. Get out of here with us, and when we're safe, we 265

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can say our goodbyes." Still wracked with grief, Dust managed to stand. Jo took his hand and pulled him into a compassionate embrace. The three of them looked down at Elijah, and their tears flowed for him. Slowly, each of them drawing support from the others, they turned to go. As wrong as it felt to leave him behind, they were alive and he was gone. They couldn't save Elijah, but they could save themselves. Sam gave Dust a towel to cover himself, opened the door, and scanned the hall for trouble. A stairwell door stood open three rooms down. They'd attract less notice going that route than using the elevator. Sam pointed, nodded to his companions, and prepared to run for it. A barely perceptible groan made them turn around. Elijah's eyelids fluttered, and he clutched his chest. **** "Is that the last of her?" Elijah asked Dust as he drove away from the neon lake of the strip. "I can only hope, but she's old and strong. She might find some way back. Not that she'll ever break my curse now." "It doesn't matter," Elijah said, grinning until he felt his face would split. 266

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"I never thought… I never dared to hope… Elijah, is it real?" He looked up, his eyes shining. Elijah could only nod. "I'm yours then," Dust sobbed, squeezing Elijah's knee. "I'm yours. Yours." Touching the back of Dust's head, Elijah said, "You belong to yourself." He thought a moment, his eyes fixed on the road. "How am I alive?" he asked. "I remember—" All three of them started to talk at once, in the nervous, erratic way that said they just wanted to get it out. Elijah, feeling calm and in tune with the universe in a way he couldn't explain, listened and pieced the story together. "He's gone, then," he said, thinking of the beautiful being Dust had called a demon. "I wish we could have saved him." "He saw something worthy in you, son," Sam said. "And if you ask me, he was right." "Then it's over," Elijah said, barely trusting his own words. "At least for now." "Thank god," Jo replied. "One last thing," Sam said. "Dust, put Epiphany back in order." Dust drew breath and chuckled a little as he let it out. "That spell only lasts about forty-eight hours or so." Elijah tensed and waited for the sheriff's anger. He 267

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glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Sam looked a little annoyed, but mostly just relieved and exhausted. Though he opened his mouth, in the end he abandoned the effort and just shook his head. "It's over," Elijah said again, almost believing it this time. "Let's go home." **** The Bronco pulled up in front of Jo's house, and Elijah killed the engine. He'd insisted on driving so Sam could stay with Jo in the back. They hadn't believed it when he'd told them, but he'd never felt better. Jo and the sheriff went inside, and Elijah sat with Dust. A local radio station was playing a Beatles marathon, and holding hands, they listened to "Let It Be," "Blackbird," and "Imagine" without speaking. They digested the lyrics, and each of them knew the other felt that every word applied to them, like the universe had sent them a message by putting them alone in the vehicle at that instant. Elijah and Dust's thoughts and emotions converged in that moment as they contemplated the music. They became like a single heart and mind spread between two bodies. Both knew there could be no stronger magic. When the deejay's voice returned, Dust turned the knob, and they sat in silence for five minutes more. 268

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Finally, Elijah asked, "What now?" "Anything," Dust answered, his head resting against the seat, his eyelids drooping, his body covered in nothing by a pilfered hotel towel, and a serene smile on his face. "But what will we do? Where will we go? We don't have any money." "Where do you want to go?" Elijah considered. "I've always wanted to see the ocean." Dust laughed a drowsy, contented laugh and said, "Then that's what we'll do." "How?" Turning his head but not lifting it, he looked at Elijah with his gray eyes glowing. "I have faith," he said. They reached for one another, and their lips met. They kissed for a long time, and then they just held each other, neither of them wanting or needing anything more.

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Epilogue Sam looked into the plastic incubator at the ebonyskinned infant asleep on the baby-blue sheet. He had a shock of orange hair, orange eyelashes and irises the color of flame. A wheelchair stopped beside him. The birth had been hard on Jo, but she smiled and squeezed Sam's hand. "What is he, Sam?" she asked. "What will become of him?" "He's our son," Sam said decisively. "How his life began doesn't matter. What he makes of it will be up to him. All we can do is love him, guide him as best we can. It's all any parent can do." "He was a noble being," Jo said. "He was," Sam agreed. "It's not going to be easy," Jo said, and Sam knew she referred to both the nature of their child and to their interracial relationship. "We'll make due. Have you thought of a name for the boy?" "Yeah," she said, grinning. "Well?" "Abayomi," she said. "It means 'pleasant meeting' in Yoruba. I'll call him Abi. Abi Samuel." 270

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Sam squeezed Jo's shoulder, and she draped her hand over his knuckles and squeezed back, her grip firm and strong in spite of her ordeal. He reached into the incubator and tucked the soft blanket around his son's small shoulders, making a silent vow to protect him. He let his thumb graze the baby's soft, full cheek, and Abi opened his magnificent eyes. They were just the color of that ring he'd seen on Elijah, and they held an understanding far beyond a newborn. Raising him would be an adventure and a struggle. Sam wouldn't hide from it or run away. Not this time. "Oh, and, Sam," Jo said, "you should know that I'm planning to go back to work as soon as I'm recovered." "Wait a second—" "I won't. I've busted my ass to get where I am, and I won't give it up. Besides, I make three times as much as you. I'm going back to the morgue, and you're going to raise our son. Is that going to be a problem?" "No," Sam said. "This is what I want. This family. You. The hell with what anybody else thinks. Life is too damn short to try to please them all." "Amen, honey," Jo said. He bent down to kiss her, and his son's tiny hand closed around his thumb.

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**** The scent of the sea filled the modest room on the third floor of the inn overlooking the bay of San Sebastián. Beyond the iron railing draped with beach towels and wet clothing, the Spanish sun shone white-hot. Soft, blue-gray shadows darkened the inside of the room, and an oscillating fan cooled Elijah's slightly sunburned skin as he lay on the narrow bed. On the table beside him waited a basket of clementines and a half-eaten tray of tapas: cold prawns; tiny fried squid; manzanilla olives stuffed with garlic; red peppers, no bigger than cherries, pickled in brine; bread and two kinds of dipping oil; soft cheese flecked with herbs, and chorizo sausages on toothpicks. Elijah took a deep sip of Vinho Verde to wash the salt and heat from his palate. He'd propped his sword against the wall in the corner. He only ever let it leave his sight when he went for a swim or a walk on the shore. The bathroom door opened, and Dust emerged, nude and blotting his hair with a bright orange towel. Since they'd started traveling, it had grown even longer; grazing his hipbones when it was wet. Elijah's blond locks now reached past his collarbone in perpetually unruly waves caused by the ocean air. 272

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"What do you want to do tonight?" Dust asked, rifling through his old backpack for a pair of shorts and a clean shirt. "Why's it up to me?" Dust's lips curled into a mischievous smile that Elijah could feel at the root of his being. He replaced his clothes in the pack and came to stand beside the bed, his flat, muscular belly, perfectly sculpted hips, and gorgeous, swelling cock only half a foot from Elijah's face. His mouth gone dry, Elijah reached again for his wine. "Because," Dust said in answer to Elijah's question, "you're my master." The arousal that had been blooming in Elijah withered in an instant. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and took both of Dust's hands in his. He stroked Dust's slender fingers, silky-soft now that his wounds had healed. "I don't ever want you to feel that way." "I didn't mean to upset you," Dust said, folding his arms around Elijah's head and pressing Elijah's cheek to his chest. His heart beat slowly, and Elijah closed his eyes. "I know." "It's just that," Dust continued tentatively, "it could be fun, you know." He stepped back and looked down into Elijah's eyes. "You could be my master. Tell me how you 273

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want me." "Are you sure?" Never breaking eye contact, Dust mopped his upper lip with his tongue. "Yeah." "I'm not sure if I even know how," Elijah said, intimidated but aroused, touched by Dust's trust in him. "Just tell me what you want." "I never want you to cut your hair." "Agreed. What else? What now?" "I want you to lie down and let me suck on you," Elijah said, surprised by the resolve in his voice. "I love to have you in my mouth." Dust obeyed, spreading out on the crisp linen sheets and folding his arms beneath his head. Elijah kissed his forehead and said, "Stay just like that." His lips moved down Dust's face and neck, down his slender chest and over his belly button. Losing himself to excitement, he positioned himself over his lover's erection and ran his tongue all the way from the seam in Dust's sack to the head of his penis. He stopped at the tip and lapped at the slit, and then let his tongue circle the corona. For a minute, he worried that being in this vulnerable position might conjure unpleasant memories for Dust, but he looked up to see Dust's chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically, completely content. Then, untroubled by doubt, all 274

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distraction evaporated, Elijah parted his lips and let Dust slide into his mouth. Elijah bobbed his head slowly, savoring the taste of Dust's skin and the satisfying weight of his cock. He pushed forward, letting Dust breach his throat, stopping for just a moment until his gag reflect ebbed. When it did, he moved up and down, driving Dust deep into him. It was an intoxicating sensation, holding Dust so far in that his muscles squeezed Dust when he swallowed. His left hand found Dust's balls and kneaded them faster and faster to match the rhythm of his mouth. Above him, Dust fought to stay calm and quiet, though his fists clenched and unclenched on the sheets, and his thighs trembled. In no time, much sooner than Elijah would have liked, Dust tapped his shoulder and told him to stop. Elijah ignored him, sucking hard on the head of his cock and tugging at his sack. "Elijah, you've got to stop," Dust grunted, slapping the bed. "I can't hold it!" With a slurp and pop, Elijah lifted his face. He kept hold of Dust's nuts and gripped his shaft with his other hand. Smiling, he said, "Don't then. I don't want you to." "But—" "You told me to tell you what I wanted. I want you to come in my mouth, Dust. I want you to shoot it down my 275

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throat." "I don't know if you're very good at this." Releasing Dust's erection, letting it slap wetly against his stomach, Elijah pointed a finger at the other man's face. "You be quiet," he said with a grin. "Okay." Dust wound his fingers into Elijah's beachlightened hair and pulled Elijah's face back into his lap. Elijah's mouth opened eagerly to swallow Dust's cock, and Dust yanked him down, thrusting savagely into his throat, his hips lifting off the bed. Elijah's nails bit Dust's knee as he struggled to hold on. "I—Oh my god, Elijah. God, I love you. I love you! Bellissima! Mi Amour!" His seed careened over the roof of Elijah's mouth, and Elijah drank it down with a grateful moan. Dust's hips gave a few more erratic jerks, and he whimpered as Elijah continued to suck. Not until Dust had gone half-flaccid and every drop of his semen had been drained did Elijah grant him respite. By then Dust was a panting, sweating heap, his fists pressed into his eyes. "I might be able to get used to this," Elijah said as he collapsed beside Dust on the pillow. Dust laughed. "Yeah, me too." "I love you," Elijah said. "I can tell. I love you too. It's new to me. It's 276

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wonderful. I've never felt like this, you know? Like I have so much to look forward to." "How long do you think I have?" Elijah asked. The question had been eating at him, and now seemed as good a time as any to address it. Sighing, Dust admitted, "I don't know. Demons are hard to understand. I can't say why he did what he did, or even exactly what he did. I've never seen anything like that. I don't think he had the power to make you immortal, but he'll certainly have extended your life far past the normal human span. How far, I don't know, but you've probably got a few hundred years at least." "I'm worried about what will happen to you. After." Dust shushed him and curled up on his chest, stroking Elijah's side. "It's nothing we need to worry about for a long time. We have time enough for me to figure out how to keep you here, or how to follow you where you go. We can do it. Which reminds me. I'd like to start teaching you soon, if that's okay." "Magic?" "That's right," Dust said. "You have it inside you. I think you always did, but now you can draw on the demon's power as well. We can use it. There's work we can do. There's a need for people like us." Chuckling, Elijah asked, "Does that mean you'll 277

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stop stealing and enchanting people into giving you their money?" "It does. We can work for our money." "I like that idea," Elijah said. "But I have one condition." "Okay?" "We can't take just any work. I don't want to do anything if it's wrong." "That's really going to narrow it down," Dust said. "Maybe," Elijah mused. "My idea of right and wrong has become a lot more relaxed lately. I'm talking about not doing things that are really, really wrong." "Okay," Dust said. "Agreed. So, where to next? Another beach somewhere?" "Oh no," Elijah said. "You're staying right here." He pulled Dust's chest flush with his own, guided Dust's slender thighs apart, and sucked Dust's bottom lip into his mouth. Dust straddled him, grinding his hot cleft against Elijah's erection as they kissed. Then he knitted the fingers of both his hands into Elijah's and said, "Nobody could make me go anywhere else." The End

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About the Author Augusta Li has yet to realize her fondest dream of becoming a ninja. Her first love is writing yaoi, and she's contributed work to Yaoi Press's Hentai series in volumes three and four. Her current manga work is available at EverythingYaoi.com and Amazon. Together with her coconspirator, Eon de Beaumont, and alone, she has plenty more yaoi goodness in store for readers in the coming year. Eon and Gus are currently at work on more BL manga and prose yaoi stories. Augusta Li and writing partner, Eon de Beaumont, have been writing yaoi, gay romance, m/m erotica, manga, dark fantasy and horror for almost five years. They are also artists and aspiring manga-ka. They hope to continue this work and would love nothing more than to see the yaoi genre flourish in the western world, for the enjoyment of both male and female readers. In their spare time, Gus and Eon make dolls, puppets, fantasy and theatrical masks and costumes, paintings, drawings, or whatever they feel like trying at the time. Sometimes it turns out pretty cool. Website: http://www.yaoimagic.com/ Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Ninja.Gus Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/GusAndEon Blog: http://augusteli.blogspot.com/ Email: [email protected]

Also by Augusta Li: Available from Silver Publishing: Epiphany Available from All Romance eBooks: Neskaya Editor of Lemon Kisses Celeste Juicy, Melty, Fun to Share The Magicion: Coal to Diamonds To Light My Way: The Star Card Tree Fingers Twelfth Night "A Night in Midgar" in Nerdvana

with Eon de Beaumont Beholding the Moon Hyacinth's Light Lockdown Onikoroshi Say to Me Where the Flowers Are