by Amy Lane
By the time she got to Sacramento, sick and sore, a few months in the brothel were all she had in her. It was enough to save money for two tickets. She sent Harry to buy them, because she hadn’t trusted Bertha, not even at death’s door. He’d come back, and she’d had him take his sisters, with tiny cloth bags filled with a change of clothes and letters to their grandmother.
He remembered, clear as day, Laura and Molly waving to him from a train window, looking hurt and vulnerable and young. Was the last time he’d seen them—and he couldn’t think of them now as dead, both of them, after a good long life surrounded by children.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” his mother rasped when he’d returned from the station. Her body shuddered, wracked with fever and dying. “You’re such a good protector, my brave boy. I can only hope God protects you here.”
He swallowed against the memory. “My mother got to Sacramento, made enough to send my sisters away, and then died in the brothel. Bertha said I could work off the rest of her debts.” He laughed humorlessly. “I wasn’t more than nine or ten. Took me a year or two to realize there were worse things than cleaning toilets.”
Suriel grunted. “That still makes you only twelve. Edward was fourteen when they started looking at him to work—so was Francis.”
Harry grinned, feral and vicious. “Well, I learned some tricks to keep Big Cass and the customers away from them, oh yes I did.” Oh, his accent. He shook his head. “I figured out,” he tried again, “that if I used my mouth on Big Cass—voluntarily—I could give Edward time to get away. Then….” Oh Lord. “One day he got Edward. I tried….” His voice broke. “I tried to stop him, but… I’m sure Edward told you about that.”
“Edward said you almost died.”
“He shouldn’t have even been there,” Harry said, body flushing with the injustice. “His mother didn’t even whore for Bertha. She was looking for an inn! And she had Edward with her, and she got sick—” Harry swore, the anger surprising him. “I always thought Bertha must have drugged her and overdid it. And Edward—he was young too. Younger than me, but… but he shouldn’t have been there. And I tried to protect him, but—”
“But you were a child, and you failed.” Suriel’s voice was a mercy.
“Yes.”
“Why the fear? This is your past, and—” Harry glanced at him, because it wasn’t like Suriel to let his voice break. “It’s hurting me in ways I didn’t know I could be hurt.” Suriel was staring out the front window, biting his lip. Harry reached out and clasped his hand briefly, wondering that he was so soft, so far gone in the matter of Suriel, that he would volunteer that much affection without being prompted. But Suriel brought Harry’s knuckles to his lips, much like Harry had done earlier that long night, and kissed them. “You were brave then—I knew it that night when I picked you up. Why so afraid of Big Cass? Help me understand. He could have been shattered out there in the desert, Harry. Gutted, destroyed—but your fear—I can feel it, pouring into the night. It will resurrect him and heal him, as sure as we’re both stuck here, when there are so many other things I would do with you during my time on earth.”
Harry’s chest hurt. “How much time do you have here?”
“We were talking about—”
“Please, Suriel. Please tell me how much time you have.” His mind was trapped in the past, and his body was trapped on this mission. How long did he have to free them both so he could look Suriel in the eye and tell him the things he’d been afraid to say for so very long?
“It depends on how much power I’m forced to use,” Suriel said softly. “I should get a sevenday from the time I became corporeal, and then I’ll have to choose.”
Harry tried to think. “So, late afternoon yesterday—we have six and a half days?”
“Unless I have to pull you back from death again,” Suriel said grimly.
“I’ll try not to let that happen.” Harry’s voice held all the sincerity in the world. Quiet again, Harry saw lights in his rearview, and he sighed, accelerating just a touch. They had a hundred miles to go—it wasn’t much. If they could just get to the vacant school in Visalia without incident, the boys could see the girls to safety, and Harry and Suriel… they could talk.
Harry could see what Suriel wanted from him, could learn all he could give to help Suriel go back to heaven without being punished, without suffering for the bindings of his heart to Harry, when his soul and service had been bound already.
But first….
“Please, my brave boy.” Suriel’s voice throbbed painfully at the endearment—and for the first time, Harry recognized how much being Suriel’s “brave boy” meant to him.
“Suriel—”
“Please, tell me why the fear. He was a bully and a rapist—and those are dreadful things. But you have overcome so much worse, and it has been so long. What is this terror that looms so greatly in your heart?”
“I wish I was anywhere but here,” Harry whispered wretchedly, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Alone?” The hurt was unmistakable.
“No. With you. You kissed me, Suriel—why did you do that?”
“I’ve longed to for over a century,” Suriel confessed. “You’re avoiding the—”
“No. No, I’m not.” Harry pulled his fingers through his hair. Over the years he’d tried a variety of styles, but unlike Edward who liked his cut short and conventional to the times, Harry always liked his a bit long. He thought back to that kiss, him and Suriel, and wondered what it would feel like to have Suriel’s fingers pulling through it until it was soft.
He took a deep breath and tried to put it into words.
“I was all alone there before Edward came,” he said at last. “My mother died, Edward’s hadn’t arrived yet—and I was alone. And I kept hearing my mother’s words, hoping God would protect me, and I was so dumb, you know? A kid. I tried to dodge Big Cass, and I made sure I was covered in shit whenever he was near. I was kind to all the girls—they protected me as much as they could. But when it finally happened, right up until the….”
“Pain,” Suriel said gruffly.
“Yeah. Right up until that moment, I thought God would protect me. And then the pain hit, and there was this bright gold light behind my eyes, and I thought… thought he had.”
“Oh. Oh, Harry.”
Harry tried to keep his voice steady, and definitely tried to keep his eyes clear. “But then, then I realized what the light was, and that… that Big Cass had… and I know the difference now. I get it. I get that the hand of the divine can’t be everywhere. It’s got to be in the hearts of the protectors—that’s the only way good belays the executioner’s axe. But back then I was alone, and I was violated, and Big Cass was my god. And he was a god with a black heart, and the despair….”
“You aren’t alone anymore.”
Harry laughed. “Emma’s been saying that for nearly a century and a half, Suriel. And the only time I ever felt it—felt it in my furry bones—was when I was with you.”
Suriel’s hand on his knee was not a surprise. But the way it spread warmth through his body, to his groin, to his chest—that was new.
Harry, how long do we have? Edward’s voice intruded on the moment and the desire. He and Edward—meticulous about being brothers to each other. Brothers in their hearts.
Two hours. I think all the trouble has passed us by. How are they doing?
Francis stopped trying to talk to them, turned back into a cat, and is now sulking in a corner. A few of the braver ones are gathered around him and trying to soothe his feelings.
Harry’s chuckle echoed in the cab as well as in Edward’s head.
He really does land on his feet, you know.
Every time. It’s uncanny.
Harry started to pull away when Edward spoke again.
You… you feel sad. And fragile, my brother. Are you okay?
Suriel is asking me that same question. Why didn’t you tell me you’d gone to him for help?
Beca
use you were grieving without him. There was nothing any of us could do.
Next time, say something.
Why? So you could kill yourself proving you were fine? No, thank you. Unacceptable losses. Our family of eight—those losses are unacceptable. We decided that a long time ago, remember, brother?
Oh hells. Why does every conversation with you mean I have to bare my soul to someone else? he demanded uncharitably.
Edward’s almost evil chuckle did not reassure him.
Because you, me, and Francis are a disturbance of the natural order of things, Harry. Don’t ever doubt it. Oh, hey—one of them has him on his back and is petting his stomach. His head’s gone all slack and he’s drooling. Damn—where’s a camera phone when you need one?
Edward withdrew, but not before leaving Harry with a very undignified image of their little brother in a very undignified position. Harry touched on Francis’s thoughts for a moment and only caught a pleasant, drugged haze, and then he was all himself again on the cheap vinyl of the big-rig cab.
“There’s a bed in the back of this,” Suriel said. As Harry had been preoccupied, he’d scooted closer until their shoulders, hips, and thighs were touching.
Harry had to pull his thoughts from the pure physicality of having Suriel’s touch all to himself in private before he could address what Suriel was saying.
“Yeah—we’ve used the truck before, but we’ve never slept in it.”
Suriel leaned closer to him to get a look at the snug little cabin in back. A mattress, clean sheets, pillows, even some books and a light set into the cab of the truck near the head of the bed—all the trappings of home.
“That’s a shame,” he said softly. “It looks cozy.”
Harry shrugged—it had never impressed him. “Usually, if we have to stop and rest, one of us sleeps in back with the girls and the other two stay awake. We take turns. It doesn’t feel right, one of us sleeping up here and the others vigilant. It’s more right we’re all together.”
Suriel hummed—there was no other word for it.
“Thank you,” he said just as he ran fingertips along the tight ridge of Harry’s shoulder. Harry kept his eyes on the road, but his skin danced at the barest whisper of Suriel’s touch.
“For what?”
“Telling me why you were so afraid. Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”
Harry let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I told you that man killed God for me, Suriel—you’re an angel. How much do you think I wanted you to know?”
Suriel laid his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry spent a bare fraction of a breath turning his head and smelling the fire-gold fragrance of Suriel’s loose hair.
A yawn took over Suriel’s body, and Harry had to laugh. Apparently parts of being human took him by surprise.
“You want to use the bed, don’t you?” he asked kindly.
Suriel shook his head and settled down more comfortably. “This is fine,” he said through another yawn. “I just… I want you to know. I know you’re still afraid of Big Cass—of having no faith in the world again, of being all alone. But you rebuilt faith in your heart with the love of your brothers, your parents—on that alone. That took more courage than facing Big Cass ever could.”
Suriel yawned again, and then, like a child, fell asleep.
Harry was left with the roar of the diesel engine and the hum of the tires on the tattered pavement as they rumbled through the night.
MORNINGS IN Mendocino were frequently cold. It didn’t snow there often, but there was usually a sharp, wet wind blowing off the ocean, and the combination of cold and damp could chill a man to his vitals, make brittle his viscera and bones.
Within a week of moving to the tiny, drafty cabin that would become a mansion—and their home—Harry realized that Emma, who had power at her fingertips to command as an old and studied witch, woke up early every morning to start a fire in the Ben Franklin stove in the center of the room.
The boys had gotten used to sleeping as cats very quickly; they preferred it. Cats woke up fully, in an instant—nobody surprised a cat in the way Big Cass had been known to surprise the boys. And they were furry and, if they slept in a huddle, warm.
Always warm.
But Emma would get up early anyway, stoke the fire, and put on hot water for tea or coffee.
After a week, Harry was curious enough to turn human to ask her what she was doing.
First she greeted him with a warm sweater and thick socks to pull on, as well as a stocking cap and a blanket over his shoulders—the cold was stunning.
Then she poured him a hot cup of coffee, wrapped the tin cup in a towel, and pressed his fingers to the warm sides.
“Now what did you want to ask me, Harry?”
Harry stared at her and tried to keep his face composed. “Nothing,” he rasped. “Just… trying to figure out what we did to deserve all this.”
Emma’s smile illuminated stars and warmed planets—Harry was sure of it. “You boys just… just agreed, Harry. Jumped into my carpet bag as cats and came to start a new life. I just don’t want to make you sorry you took a chance on me, you understand?”
Harry nodded and sipped his coffee.
And realized that love came in the strangest of gestures, the most infinitesimal of signs.
THEY REACHED Visalia about an hour before dawn, and Harry urged Suriel to stretch out in the back quarter of the truck.
“Come sleep with me.” Suriel yawned. “I’ll set wards, Harry—they’ll wake you soon enough.”
Harry checked in with Edward, who had been dozing for the last hundred miles anyway and was apparently tucked into one of the bedrolls they’d brought. He told Harry he was setting his own wards and then fell back asleep, as a man or a cat, Harry couldn’t tell.
“Okay.” Harry yawned, trusting. Suriel turned on his side, and Harry went furry and glided up against his chest.
Suriel’s hands, stroking his ears back, smoothing his whiskers flat, reassured him on a primal level.
“When we’re less tired, I would love to do this with you as a man,” Suriel whispered.
Harry lapped delicately at his forearm. Well, yes. But not now. Harry was feeling too raw, too wounded now. He would just appreciate that arm holding him strongly, reminding him that he didn’t have to be alone.
Not tonight.
He woke up semipanicked, Suriel’s spot next to him cool in the morning chill. Someone was opening the door to the cab, and Harry hissed, skittering back, heart pounding, every alarm in his head going off, when Suriel’s voice greeted him.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I went to get you and the boys some chocolate. I hope that’s okay.”
Harry turned abruptly human, perched on his knees on the uncertain ground of the mattress.
“That’s….” Suriel handed him the paper cup, and he took it automatically, smiling shyly into Suriel’s eyes. Harry lost the reason he was frightened and upset and took the hot chocolate, dazed and stunned. Suriel’s eyes, that warm, rich chocolate brown, mesmerized him.
“That’s what?” Suriel asked, teasing.
“You’re here,” Harry said. “In the morning again. That’s wonderful.”
Suriel’s smile spread, went blinding, and Harry felt as though he’d said something brilliant instead of something obvious.
“I’ll go see how the girls are doing.” Suriel placed a pastry bag in his hand.
Then Suriel disappeared, closing the door behind him, and Harry was left in the rapidly heating central valley, drinking hot chocolate and remembering the feeling of his fingers wrapped around a towel-insulated tin cup in a drafty cabin next to the ocean.
Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew what it was that bound the two memories together.
They twined around his heart as he closed his eyes and sipped his chocolate.
And Harry was no stranger to that taste. He just needed to know how to do for the people who gave him such an elixir to drink.
He was still pondering the q
uestion when he slipped out of the truck and went around to find Suriel waiting for him at the back. Harry looked around first, but there’d been no cars in front or behind as he’d pulled off the freeway the night before, and he saw nothing in the school parking lot to make him think any of that had changed.
It was time for the young women he’d been hauling around like so much cargo to see sunlight and remember the joys of being human again.
Harry loved this part.
He unlocked the back and rolled it up, smelling cautiously. They usually brought two or three chemical toilets when they employed the semi, and once one of those things had burst. Sure, Edward and Francis would have warned him—noisily—and insisted they stop and change, as they had before, but Harry had never recovered from unlocking the seal to the stench of hell.
He didn’t wake any of the sleepers on the mats in the back of the truck, just let in fresh air and the light of the rising sun.
The first girl to get up—oh, heavens, she looked barely eleven—clung to Francis even as Harry and Suriel lifted their hands to help her hop down. She had dusky skin, a round chin, and dark brown eyes as round as quarters. Someone had braided her long, straight, coarse black hair and trimmed the end with a bedraggled yellow ribbon, and the look she shot Harry from under long bangs was half-afraid, half-delighted.
Harry bent at the knees and winked at her. “You can put the cat down. You know that, right?” he said in Spanish.
She replied in English. “If I do that, the scary boy with the too-white skin will take his place.”
Harry held back a chuckle. “Fair enough. Stay right there.” He used two hands to vault himself into the truck and started pulling out the camp chairs they stashed in a big box near the door. “Here, Suriel—set these up for them, okay?”