"Up, Pet, and inside with you. Ice and the first aid kit." The colt's voice had changed even, low and sure and something in it to set the world to rights. Made it easier to bite back the words that moving summoned. Motherfuck but that hurt. Straightening his left hind enough to find out if it would take his weight wasn't even an option. He staggered and, before he could lurch into the wall once more, that solid body was pressed up alongside him again. Matthias' arm went around his waist.
"Inside." At least the colt's expression as he twisted back, catching sight of the injured leg, hadn't changed that much. The resolve looked better on him without the need to hide it. The arm on his back pressed him forward. They took a handful of slow, painful steps and paused to find their places. A few more, and the cooler shade of the warehouse enveloped them.
Painkillers and cold water and someone else setting everything to rights. That sounded really fucking good.
*** Waking up like that was -- disconcerting. He didn't miss the throbbing hangover any, but the moment he tried to move the rest of his body more than made up for any pain his head was missing out on. Rolling up onto his chest involved flexing his hock and Holy Fucking Hell that hurt.
Hurt in a way that set dark fireworks off behind his eyelids and made him wish loudly and fervently for death or drugs. Hurt so much that he didn't register the still figure calmly watching him with one warm hand hovering just above his flank until after he stopped cussing.
Watching from a suspiciously settled, reclining, I've-been-here-all-night sort of a way. A yesterday-wasn't-adream sort of way.
Fuck.
Pet closed his eyes.
"Stay put a minute."
Oh shit. Not a dream at all then. That same sure tone that had led him through last night. Led him though having careful hands on his skin without going screaming-ninja crazy. That same tone of voice that had scared him half to death when he thought about how easy it felt not to fight the contact while Matthias smoothed salve over bruises and bitter purple disinfectant over cuts, fed him pills and water and combed oil patiently through his tail and touched him everywhere.
Pet started a little, his eyes wide, throwing himself into another aborted attempt to at least find his knees. The steady pressure on his near flank and the pain was irresistible though, and he flopped back, panting and ungainly, feeling the beginnings of vicious silver panic threading through him again.
"Pet." Matthias' voice was low and sure. "Pet -- stay put. You're going to hurt yourself."
He managed to force himself still and to suck down heavy gasps of air instead. His eyes were tight shut again, listening.
"That's good, Pet. Stay there a spell." Matthias' hand left his with a final stroke and the muffled scrape of hooves indicated the colt finding his own feet. Pet watched the wall and didn't turn his head. Scratched up metal wall plates and a thin seam of grime where the padded mats met them. He concentrated on getting through the moments without actually cursing out loud. Jim Bean, coffee and a cigarette became a temporary mantra. Coffee, whisky, smokes and a whole lot of drugs. Soon. Please.
He knew he wasn't tracking time so well when the hand on his haunch made him startle, stirring up a whole new world of pain.
"Hey." Matthias' voice behind him was low but not apologetic. Calming.
Pet closed his eyes again, swallowing back the flare of fear and trying not to notice the lack of anger.
"How are you with needles when you're conscious?"
Pet snorted gently. "Not sure you could make it hurt any worse."
If he concentrated he ought to be able to make the small sounds make sense. Wrappers tearing, that sort of thing.
"Where did you get them?"
"Vet's"
Matthias made that sound almost normal. He wanted to argue -- that no one in the area would write scrips for a 'taur, and that the bills would have to be more than his hide was worth.
In the end all he did was bite his upper lip until it bled again and allow Matthias to run gentle possessive hands over his skin until thick artificial sleep washed him away again.
Malcolm Hall and the Selkie of Mirror Lake
By J. R. Earlbecke The water was slate-gray where it met the stormy sky, stretching out of sight several miles west where it terminated on the opposite shore. Despite the rarity of occasion when such a picturesque location matched the quaint fabrication erected by the title it had been given to distinguish itself from one hundred other, similar settings, Mirror Lake was a place uncommon, and the quality of the water within did not belie the designation and all that it implied. The shimmering surface of the water showed all the lake's surroundings in perfect detail, the mountains ranging round it and the sky, the lines of pine and aspen closely mimicking the rippled rim. It was for the beauty of the water, for its unusual depth and clarity, that Aleister Hall had purchased the property when he was young; it was for the solitude of the quiet mountain cabin that his son Malcolm moved there and stayed.
Calling the Hall estate a "cabin" was simply distinguishing it from their flat in the city and their other summer-home on the sun-ripened beaches of California. It had been a fantastic building in Malcolm's youth, a curious, Victorian manor hiding deep within the cover of the trees, well-kept and strong enough to withstand the test of time and forces of nature. Now, the wood was fading and the paint was peeling back, all the windows wrapped in cobwebs and every surface covered with a fluffy layer of dust that, if disturbed, rose in gentle puffs, making patterns in the watery light of the sun as it came down through the glass.
Malcolm himself was a curious kind of half-hermit, lurking in the monstrously empty house all alone, driving into town in a clunky old pickup truck doomed to fall to pieces Any Day Now, to shop for the necessities and to teach English at the only school in the district, in classes of students from grades four all the way to ten. He would then retire to his lakefront abode, furiously grading papers late into the night, with nothing else to do in his periods of insatiable insomnia, and finally collapsing at his desk with his head in his arms, until the sun rose and he woke again.
He was a pleasant enough fellow, all agreed, but very strange and distant when spoken to. It was difficult for him to become close to anyone, or they to him; what had begun as a defense against the outside world when he was young had become a way of life, although, by anyone's estimate, he was a likeable man. Malcolm was handsome and refined, distinguished and aging gracefully, with a clean profile and a strong jaw, his ashen hair in meticulous arrangement. He was extremely popular with the teenage girls in his classes and his calm, polite demeanor was just as pleasing to their mothers. There was no shortage of rumors in the town and on the lakeside detailing why he had no wife, or any apparent family in attendance at all, but few who heard these musings really cared, whatever the real reason.
He wore a spectacular ring on his right hand, clearly an expensive wedding band; those who did not know him well surmised that his cool distance must be simply his reaction to the death of a spouse, and that he was a widower. Others who had been friends with him when he was young knew this to be false, and speculated on the cause and nature of Malcolm and Virginia's separation. When asked, he would simply say, absently, "We just didn't get along." None were more puzzled than those who understood the truth of the situation, to whom he could only justify the continued display of his failed marriage as an excuse to avoid any sort of unwanted relationship at present.
"I'm not interested in dating," he would say. "I just don't want anything to do with romance anymore. I've never been good at it."
And that was that. On summer evenings, most every day, there were fairly unremarkable storms, consistent in regularity and interval, starting after sunset and then drifting away to reveal the moon and the sodden smell of earth, the reflection of the stars forming a captured puddle of heaven on the lake. The showers manifested during brief periods of fuzzy cloudiness and vague, grumbling thunder, and after there came a time of sudden stillness, the sky brightening a shade, whe
n all the life upon the lake and in the forest fell into a subdued silence, hushed, as if in anticipation of a renewal of the rain.
Late on a quiet Saturday in June, after school had let out for the summer and Malcolm intended to spent all of his newly-freed time on writing, he sat, contemplative, on the rickety porch of his house, gazing off into the waters of the lake, as if the gloomy storm clouds brooding there held the key to his uninspired imagination. Around him, the smell of darkness and the sounds of the night began to rise in cacophonous symphony, the crickets and the owls waking, the wolves and the moon in the sky in comfortable communion. He let fall the butt end of his cigarette, the fire flaring for a moment in the dead brush on the hard-packed dirt before the house and he stamped it out. The windows in the other houses along the lake, few and far between, had long ago come to life, though his own were dark and silent, standing in stoic defiance of the terrors of the night. Malcolm feared little that was substantial, least of all the dark, so he preferred candles in his home to electric lighting.
The sunset at the other end of the lake was dim on the horizon, glowing red as a human heart and just as fragile beneath the oppressive cover of the clouds. A wind rippled the water in waves like a land-locked sea, the hairs rising in bumpy patterns along the skin of Malcolm's arms. As he watched the water, a dark shape took form along the rocky edge of the lake, ten yards distant, directly down the bare strip of dirt leading through the trees and to the bumpy road. Lit in pink and red against the dying light, hardly visible but for a lumpy silhouette against the sky, it moved among the stones and dirt and wild grass, slipping out of sight.
Malcolm followed it, creeping closer, stepping lightly through the brush to keep from making any sound at all that might frighten the figure off. The settling dusk and the rumbling thunder reminded him of the stories told by those who had grown up with him along the lake, in the summers, the silly tales that they as boys would frighten each other with, of something dark and mysterious that lurked within the water. In their designated moments, at certain times of the year, these monstrous things arose from the depths to commit nefarious deeds and generally terrorize the local populace, the quality and property of their powers in contradiction dependent on the teller of the story; their purpose was, respectively, as boogeymen to frighten disobedient children, as punishers of adulterous spouses, seducers of the innocent, and many more disquieting, fantastic notions.
When Malcolm reached the rocks, however, he found nothing there: no devastating creature of dark and enigmatic powers, no murderer lurking among the reeds. There lay only what appeared to be a large, discarded, oily rag, which Malcolm reached to touch before recoiling in sudden revulsion. It was some unfortunate animal's hide, unmistakably organic, covered in damp fur on one side and leathery flesh on the other. Chiding himself for the unwarranted reaction to the unexpected sensation in his hand, he reached again and picked it up, not knowing why. He looked around to see if there was anyone nearby to whom it might belong, but Malcolm Hall remained alone in the chill stillness of the night before the storm.
He intended to examine his curious discovery again that night, in proper light, but discovered upon entering his home that he was far too tired, and so he discarded it on the coffee table on the way to his dusty room, shaking his boots to the floor and falling into bed. He slept as well as he ever did, which was to say, not particularly, yet he rose early in the morning, energetic and invigorated as he had not been in a very long time. Walking to the kitchen, padding by in his stocking feet, he noticed the crumpled pelt upon the table.
Taking it up, he scrutinized it properly, as puzzled as ever. It was indeed the skin of some animal, sleek and covered in little hairs that were yielding one way and became prickly when pressed against the grain. Whatever its creature of origin, it was nothing familiar to him and nothing, certainly, that lived within the lake. Though the body was misshapen, empty of anything to hold its form, the contour of the eyeless face, the sleek flippers, the lumpy body tapering into a fishy tail, seemed characteristic of something aquatic, a sea lion or seal.
Malcolm did not know the difference between the two, what distinguished one from the other, having only seen either of them one time in his life, on a trip to the zoo with his family when he was very young. The place was too far from home to visit often and he was so terrified by the swaggering, squawking peacocks which roamed freely within the grounds that he had never desired to return when he was younger and was unable when he was older and without the necessary time or energy. Even with children of his own he'd never gone; that was Virginia's domain, the sacred prerogative of motherhood that he was unable to touch, the ability of a woman at a glance to whisk the children away under the pretense of leaving daddy alone, too busy to be bothered.
What the pelt of an ocean animal was doing on his humble piece of lakefront property was beyond Malcolm. It was unusual enough to capture his full attention for the better part of an hour, enraptured, entranced, turning it over in his hands and feeling it as if to take it all in. At length, it seemed perhaps it was better left a mystery for the moment and so he carefully folded the skin, the hollow holes for eyes staring out at him from atop the heap. A mystery, something to tell the grandchildren about, assuming he ever had any, and that he was ever invited or allowed to see them.
He put some coffee on to brew in his ancient French press pot, realizing too late that he'd doled an excessive portion for himself alone; when distracted, out of habit, Malcolm often found himself preparing meals and beverages for a family or a couple. He left it there, pulling on his shoes and walking onto the creaking porch, where the wood was beginning to rot through, to breathe the Sunday morning air and to watch the sun peek from behind the peaks. As he glanced around the familiar, tired patch of dirt, wildflowers and weeds comprising his front lawn, he spied a white blur at the water's edge. It was a person.
Malcolm drew nearer. From among the stones, one white arm extended, and another, lithe and long, flesh so pale as to nearly be transparent in the hazy sunlight, thin blue veins snaking beneath the skin in twists and whorls. The hand waved, its owner, a devilishly attractive teenager with black eyes and hair, exclaiming, "Top o' the morning!"
Malcolm waved in return, hesitating as the young man stood, unabashed and completely naked, to come closer. At Malcolm's dazed expression and yearning stare, he looked down at himself, as though noticing his state of undress for the first time, and he laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry about this! I was, um, skinny-dipping in the lake and my clothes kind of went...missing. You wouldn't happen to know who took them?" He regarded Malcolm with what appeared to be friendly but even-handed suspicion.
Blinking at last, shaking his addled head, Malcolm responded, "No. No, there are plenty of kids around here now that it's summer, families come up here... They like to pull pranks like that. Whatever you're missing is probably long gone, off in the woods somewhere." He gestured, aimlessly, unable to pull his eyes away from the alluring stranger.
The boy made no effort to cover himself up, seeming to relish the attention or, at least, derive amusement from it; instead, he reached up to run a nervous hand through his curly hair. "Really? Damn," he let out with a hurt laugh. "Had my wallet and everything. My only set of clothes."
Malcolm sighed, preemptively preparing himself to regret what his secretly personable nature compelled him to do. "If you need help, kid, just ask for it. Come in, I'll find you something to wear. Have some coffee, if you drink it. Whatever. Come on." He waved the boy over, looking him over again.
He reminded Malcolm of himself in his youth, or of the way he'd desired to be. Malcolm remembered having just such mishaps, sneaking into his bedroom cold and naked in the middle of the night after a romp in the woods. He and his friends, when they were young, spent summers here as teens, running stark naked through the forest playing games on clear, warm nights beneath the eye of the moon. There had not been anything like it for Malcolm then, the thrill of wind on his bare flesh in the crisp darkness, noth
ing to set him apart from his bare element, nothing to stand between him and the very touch of God. That was only Malcolm as he was at night, however, unashamed of everything and able to give into the exhilarating ecstasy he denied himself in everyday life, all his life, afraid of the punishment his sins would incur in the hereafter, or worse, in the here and now. The God of the night seemed gentler to him then, and he was not beholden to the same dreadful standards that the Jehovah of the day commanded. He had been himself on those summer nights and at no other time.
He extended his hand to the strange boy. "I'm Malcolm Hall."
The boy smiled, beautifully. "I'm Dublin Delaney." Dublin seemed to contain the intense curiosity and enthusiasm of a child. He sat at the table with Malcolm, clad in a ratty t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans that had not fit Malcolm since high school, but which he'd kept for sentimental reasons; his first and only boyfriend had liked the way they looked on him. The teenager seemed sexier and more seductive fully clothed, though Malcolm had already seen all that there was to see of him just moments prior.
"So, Dublin," Malcolm began only to be interrupted. "Are you going to ask about my name?" Dublin asked, grinning, sipping at his coffee, white with cream, leaving a little brown mustache above his lip before he licked it off. "Yeah, I'm named after the city. My grandfather came from there. He and my granny moved over here during the potato famine and got a farm in Kansas. Boring place, Kansas. Flat." He took another drink.
"I'm sorry, I'll bet you get asked that all the time," Malcolm apologized, humiliated at being so predictable. "How old are you?" "Eighteen. You know, not quite jailbait." Dublin shrugged, one fluid motion that jarred Malcolm somehow, in its quality of movement. Many things about the boy seemed slightly unnatural, from the piercing depth of his large eyes, his delicate features and lilting voice, to his smooth and pale skin and the way he walked and moved. He almost didn't look human, to Malcolm, an angel or demon who had somehow made its uncanny way into his kitchen. "It doesn't bug me when people ask about my name. It's pretty cool being named after the capital city of somewhere. My mom wanted to show pride in our heritage or something, I guess."
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