Promises

Darwin‟s Theory Book 3

Adrienne Wilder

Published 2011

ISBN 978-1-59578-819-1

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509

Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2011, Adrienne Wilder. All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books

http://lsbooks.com

Email:

[e-mail]

Editor

Victoria Miller

Cover Artist

Adrienne Wilder

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the

author‟s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or
persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Blurb

I have come to terms with the idea of Peter becoming Lesser-Bred. See, sometimes I can

look at the glass of milk as being half-full instead of close to empty.

Besides, it‟s not all that hard. Look at the benefits. More time alone with him, my greedy

bastard self, and the bed. Granted, it‟s time we could be spending in the Gray Zone. I did
promise to take Peter there to find a Lesser-Bred to meet his needs.

But since Peter hasn‟t mentioned going, I haven‟t bothered to remind him. What can I

say, the idea of another man satisfying Pete in a way I can‟t doesn‟t exactly put me in my
happy place.

Maybe, with any luck, Pete won‟t kill me.
Kill me and eat me.

Dedication

To my friends and family: You know who you are.
To Taige Crenshaw: Thank you for all your encouragement.

Chapter One

I hate cooking. I hate having to measure things out, having to follow directions, having

to time everything to perfection. And when you cook, it has to be that way. Otherwise, what
you wind up with is a batch of over-salted, under-spiced, usually blackened pile of rock-hard
mystery meat which isn‟t fit to feed to starving stray dogs.

Peter, however, loves to cook. And he not only enjoys the fine art of culinary design,

he‟s really good at it. Not quite as talented as he is with metaphysical science, mind you. But
it doesn‟t stop him from being able to bake a batch of brownies that can make you cream
your shorts.

And trust me, Peter‟s brownies will make you cream your shorts.
But we weren‟t cooking little chocolate goodies tonight. No, those kinds of things had

been removed from the cupboard. Not because either of us was on a diet. Well, okay, I wasn‟t
on a diet. Peter was sort of on one, but not the Jenny Craig-get-slim-quick kind of food plan.
Every inch of him was already perfect. His hair, his hips, his ass, his dick...

Nope, nothing wrong with Peter.
The reason for the change in the menu was because, just five days ago, Peter revealed to

me a secret I‟m sure he‟d hoped he‟d never have to tell. One I‟m sure he‟d equally wanted to
never face. One I know for a fact he wished had been a mistake. See, he wasn‟t going to be
Human anymore. Somewhere in his background, Kin genes had gotten mixed up with the
family‟s Human ones, and now his body was preparing to go through a series of metaphysical
transformations.

The Shift.
It was a bit of news sprung on him about a month ago by our old biochemistry teacher,

Professor “I Used to Have Clown Hair” Whitcomb. Who surprisingly, isn‟t Human either.

Then, of course, the cherry on top of that disaster-covered sundae was that Clown Hair

decided Peter would be better off--or in his words “safer”--being tucked away and hidden
until he was done losing all his Humanness.

Yeah. Right. Fuck. That.
Like I didn‟t know what Clown Hair really wanted. And trust me, it has nothing to do

with Pete‟s mind or his inhumanness and everything to do with his perfect hair, his hips, his
ass, and of course, his perfect dick.

Too-bad-so-sad for Clown Hair, „cause Peter is mine. And he was mine long before he

gave me his virginity three weeks ago.

Sweet Peter, my soul mate, Peter. The guy who could melt my heart with a single look,

Peter. The guy who‟d been permanently etched into my very core since the first time I laid
eyes on him over eight years ago. I‟d been what? Twelve?

So he was going to be Lesser-Bred. No. Big. Deal. What the fuck did Clown Hair know

anyhow?

And who gives a shit if I was only Human... I couldn‟t feed him... He could kill me.
Kill me and eat me.
Just the thought gave me wood.
It didn‟t give Pete wood though. It scared him. Which is why I‟d offered to take him into

the Gray Zone so we could find someone to use when it was time for his Humanness to take a
hiatus. Someone who could feed him because I couldn‟t. I have to admit, it wasn‟t an event I
was looking forward to. Only because I didn‟t want to share him. I didn‟t like the idea of
another man being able to satisfy him in a way I couldn‟t.

Yeah, now that ... that did not give me wood.
It did, however, make me feel like setting something on fire.
But the steady diet of red meat and rich cream Peter had been eating seemed to be

keeping his symptoms at bay. I guess because his Kin side hadn‟t reared its ugly head for a

while, he‟d conveniently forgotten my promise to find him a Lesser-Bred whore who‟d be
more than willing to meet his needs. And me, being the greedy, selfish bastard I naturally am,
was more than happy to conveniently forget about my oath so I could keep him to myself.

Peter tossed me a smoldering look as he popped a chunk of bovine flesh into his mouth.

“Are you going to finish cutting up the carrots?”

Have I mentioned how much I love it when he talks with his mouth full?
“Maybe.”
“Well, if you don‟t hurry up, it‟ll be midnight before this is done cooking. It‟s already

five, and it‟ll have to stew for at least three hours or the meat will be tough.”

Like I really cared. Besides, there were much more yummy things I would rather eat. My

little fantasy must have shown on my face because Peter laughed.

“Is sex all you ever think about?”
“Actually, yes.” I stuck a baby carrot stick between my lips and used it as a visual

reminder of my tongue‟s amazing acrobatic skills before sucking it in and chewing it up. I
have to say, the pink in Pete‟s cheeks went really well with the freckles. I resumed cutting but
kept my eyes on Peter‟s ass while he went about his chefly duties.

Peter followed dumping the potatoes he‟d just diced into the simmering pot with a bowl

of stew meat. Well, most of it, at least. He snagged the few pieces left in the bottom and
popped them in his mouth, chewed. I watched his throat work as he swallowed.

God, I so wanted to be a piece of beef stew at the moment, ground between his teeth,

smoothed over his tongue, sliding down his throat. A moan slipped out of my throat.

Pete gave me bedroom eyes, but they didn‟t last long because those baby browns just

about popped clean out of his head. “Jesus, D, you‟re bleeding...”

I was? I looked down to see the carrots and cutting board smeared in crimson. Holy shit,

I was bleeding.

I held up my thumb which was sporting a nasty cut and gushing an impressive stream of

blood. I swung my hand over the sink sprinkling little dots of red all over the cream-colored
tile, the light blue counter, and the white porcelain sink.

Damn, it was going to look like an ax murder took place in here.
I turned on the water.
Pete stepped up beside me. “What happened?”
“I guess I was watching you eat instead of what I was doing.”
He laughed, and so did I. I stuck my thumb under the faucet and a stream of crimson

joined the H-two-O as it circled the drain.

I grinned. “Don‟t worry, this will make it better.”
“I think water only works for burns, D.”
Oh. Yeah. Maybe it did.
“You put pressure on a cut, cold on a burn. I‟ll get a towel.” Pete opened one of the

drawers and pulled out a small terry cloth square, sporting cute little pictures of mushrooms
with smiling faces. I didn‟t buy those, by the way. And neither did Pete. The apartment
belongs to my parents. Decorated by my mother. Except for the big screen TV and the leather
sofa. Those were so paternally parental my dad might as well have carved his name on the
things.

Peter fished my hand out from under the running water, turned it off, and pressed the

towel down around my hand. “Does it hurt?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”
After a minute or so of squeezing Peter opened the towel for a quick peek. Damn, the

inside looked like a Rorschach test card. It might have been just me, but there sure seemed to
be a lot of blood. Could you bleed to death from a cut on your thumb?

I stared. Pete stared.

“Peter?”
“Huh?”
“Maybe you should, you know, apply more pressure.”
“Yeah...” But he didn‟t. Pete just stood there.
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Fine ... I‟m fine.”
I looked at him because he didn‟t sound fine. In fact, he sounded kind of weird.
“Yeah, I ... I think ... I think maybe you need stitches...” Pete‟s words drifted off and his

eyes went dark. And by that I don‟t mean the normal kind of dark which conveys mood. I
mean an inhuman dark. The kind of blackness churned up by metaphysics.

Pete dropped the towel and the blood cut a path down my wrist.
“Pete...”
If Peter heard me, he didn‟t show it. I watched his tongue flick out over his lips leaving a

shiny wet trail. At the same time his nostrils flared and his eyelids fluttered. Then he towed
my hand in the direction of his mouth. I don‟t even think he thought about what he was about
to do. Of course, neither did I.

My thumb slipped between Peter‟s perfect lips and a warm thick suction followed.
“Fuck ... Pete...”
My common sense warned me letting him do this was probably a really bad idea. Thing

is, me and common sense, we haven‟t had a stellar relationship over the years. I mean, I
didn‟t listen to it when it warned me about setting off the pipe bomb in our dorm room--
which got me banned from living on campus--when it warned me about setting fire to
Tolbert‟s car--which put a two-minute video of Pete giving head in the private porn
collections of just about everyone who went to Tech. Or visited Facebook. Or YouTube. Hell,
for all I knew, there might have even been a MySpace page done up in his honor. It wasn‟t
really Pete by the way. Just a look-alike.

So it was no surprise I didn‟t so much as flinch when the little voice in the back of my

head went into a full-blown epileptic fit as Pete continued to deep throat my thumb. The
swallowing sensation and the suction were hard enough to make the once numb cut ache. Of
course, something else was aching now, too.

I abandoned the knife, the cutting board, and the carrots to wrap my free arm around

Pete‟s waist, to pull him close. My mouth went right for his throat, licking, nipping, biting.

He moaned, and it vibrated up my fingertips, my arm, right into my chest, then straight

down between my legs. My cock punched a pup tent in the front of my sweats as Peter‟s
hands slid around my back, then under the hem to squeeze my ass. Normally, I wore skaters
with lots of chains, pockets, and varying amounts of metal. But ever since Pete lost his
scholarship, and we quit going to class, getting dressed in the morning just seemed overrated.
I only wore the sweats in case I had to answer the door. It was more than what Pete was
sporting. As of late, the only thing he seemed to be able to stand touching his body were
argyle socks, boxers, and me.

Of course, I wasn‟t going to complain. Nope. As far as I was concerned, the lack of

outerwear made it much easier for me to strip him down and get him naked.

No doubt about it, while having Peter in my arms was great, having a naked Peter in my

arms was even better.

His mouth came off my thumb with an audible pop and his tongue flicked out, sliding

across his lips, collecting the blood.

“D...” The one letter rolled out of his chest in the form of a growl. I‟d only heard him

make that sound once before--roughly five days ago when he‟d experienced a metaphysical

flare. And just like then, my body responded, I went from hard and aching to hard and
excruciating.

“I need.”
I kissed Peter‟s chin his cheek. “What do you need?”
He shook his head, then his face bunched up. “I need, D... I neeeed--”
Pete pawed at my hips, my ribs. His head lolled to the side. His mouth came open, and

his breath hitched. Heat, a wonderful spiderweb sensation, burst out of him, rolled over me.

“God, Pete, just tell me. Whatever it is, I‟ll give it to you!” „Cause I‟d do anything for

him. Even if it hurt. Even if it meant cutting off little pieces of myself and letting him eat it
like he‟d done with the stew meat. “Talk to me, Peter...”

His hands smoothed across my hairless chest, and he shoved me back. To keep from

falling I had to step quick and throw my hand against the sink. My finger had almost stopped
bleeding, but scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the counter made it angry, and a new
stream of blood cascaded down my wrist.

Peter‟s nose flared, his lips rolled up--his teeth were still Human--thank fuck. I held up

my thumb, and he opened his mouth. I slid it back in. At the same moment my digit slipped
across his velvet tongue his hips rolled forward, and the head of his cock escaped the slit in
his boxers and pushed against my groin. I used my free hand to give him some friction, and
suddenly he was pumping his dick into my fist and trying to suck my thumb down his throat.

“Oh, sweet Jesus... Pete... Pete...” I tried to get the front of my sweats down so I could

grip both of us, but my brain couldn‟t get with the program. Nope, that piece of shit was
about five seconds from shorting out over the deluge of pornographic eye candy Peter was
shoving into my frontal lobe.

I considered dropping to my knees and using my mouth, then I could free up my hand for

myself. But I couldn‟t look away from the beauty of how Peter undulated against me, the
expression of ecstasy on his face, his eyes--God, his eyes and how they saw me as if I was the
most delicious thing he‟d ever put in his mouth.

Maybe I was.
It wasn‟t like sex between us wasn‟t good. Hell, it was better than good. Better than

anything I‟d ever had in my life. But I couldn‟t deny that last week when Peter did this--this
being losing his humanness--I‟d experienced something I didn‟t know existed. And it wasn‟t
like I hadn‟t had enough Lesser-Bred tail to last a lifetime, because I had. Whatever it was
Peter did to me in these moments of metaphysical power surges wasn‟t because his Kin self
was peeking through, it was because it was him.

And fucking-A, I liked it.
The suction on my thumb went painful, making me hiss, and Peter‟s thrust went jerky.

His hands tightened on my hips, he arched, and a moan rolled out of his throat. Cum coated
my hand, the pant leg of my sweats.

Just watching him was almost enough to make me lose it.
As soon as I could get a hand free...
“Not yet...” I‟m pretty sure Pete meant me. Yeah, definitely me.
Ever since his nose started working at an inhuman level he sometimes knew what I was

thinking even before I did.

Peter spun me around, and I had a sudden flashback of a dark cramped janitor‟s closet,

clogged up with metal shelves and cleaners. At least in the kitchen there wasn‟t anything to
fall and whack me in the head.

Pete yanked at my sweats. I didn‟t have time to loosen the drawstring, and the seams let

loose with an offensive rip.

Then I made the mistake of trying to look over my shoulder. Holy shit, the look on his

face! Animalistic, raw, and oh-so-fucking hot. It took everything for me not to grab myself,
split my cheeks, and beg him to fuck me.

With one hard shove Pete shoved forced me over the counter, forced me to look away.

His hand against my back was like iron--hot, sexy iron.

“Do it... God, Pete ... please.” He stroked the head of his cock across my ass crack,

drawing a pitiful whine out of my throat. “Slick...” We needed something slick. Country
Crock came to mind, but it was in the fridge and there was nothing else on the counter, except
the carrots and the cutting board, neither of which were going to be of any use. Although with
the way he was leaking, we probably wouldn‟t need anything at all.

Wet warmth hit my back, slid down my spine. When Peter‟s tongue hit my ass crack, I

barked. Then, of course, I begged. Pitiful noises. Submissive sounds. Usually I topped.
Except when Peter was like this. Like this, yeah, yeah, I wanted him to be in control.

His flicked his tongue across my opening, over and over again, leaving hot wet spit

behind. Inside, outside. I don‟t know how long he worked me. I tried a couple of times to
reach my cock, but he kept me shoved forward and way up on the balls of my toes. I don‟t
know what was more of a turn-on, the inhuman strength I could feel as he braced me against
the sink or desperation to get myself off. By the time he had me soaked to his satisfaction, my
arms trembled along with my legs. And I was begging him to hurry, begging him to fuck me.

Blistering heat radiated from Peter‟s body as he moved back up. His breath hit the back

of my neck and I felt the crown of his cock push against my hole. Spit and pre-cum slicked, it
was barely going to be enough. And yet I wanted it. Wanted him.

“Darwin...”
Peter rarely uses my whole name, unless things are serious or he‟s seriously pissed.

Considering how hard he was, I‟m pretty sure anger wasn‟t his problem.

I opened my mouth to ask him “what?” but he wrapped a hand around my cock, which

made it impossible to string two intelligible words together.

Speech--it‟s overrated anyhow.
He stroked me, once, twice... “I neeeed--you.”
And Peter said “need” in the way Lesser-Breds said it. In a way that had everything to do

with sating hunger and very little to do with getting off.

“Unnnggg...” That was me and my attempt to tell him A-okay.
Heat, thick, corporal and feeling like ethereal lava engulfed me. A high-pitched keen

rolled out of my chest. I might have even been scared if my brain had been working right. But
it was hard to think like this, hard to be aware of anything. God, he had to be close. I felt like
I was already on the edge of coming, and he wasn‟t even in me or jacking me off.

Tears, hot and wet like the jiz he‟d soaked my hand with, cut paths down my cheeks. Not

from pain. Oh, no, it didn‟t hurt. It just felt like my nuts were about to go nuclear.

Peter‟s other hand moved up around my throat, and he yanked me back until my spine

cracked. At the same moment, the head of his cock breached my hole. It ached, it burned, but
the uncomfortable sensation didn‟t last very long. The metaphysics took care of that,
vibrating every cell in my body, sending every molecule into orbit. Thick heat sank into my
skin, my muscle, my bones. I knew Peter was feeding from me. It‟s was what made Lesser-
Breds want to be with Humans. Kin could only feed this way from other Kin or Lesser-Breds.
But Lesser-Breds, thanks to their mixed heritage, were both physical and metaphysical, and
they could draw what they needed from the Human body. Some religious groups claimed
they were actually feeding on the soul when they did this. Fuck me if I knew whether or not it
was true. I just know it felt good. And having Peter do it? Yeah, it felt more than just good.

More pushing, more grunting, then Peter‟s nuts rested against my ass, and his breath

exhaled against my shoulder. I could feel him inside me, how he filled me up, the push and

pull as he thrust, the throb of pleasure as he stroked my sweet spot, his hand on my dick
pumping for all it was worth. Yeah, I could feel that, too.

The orgasm lit up from somewhere around the soles of my feet and shot up my legs to

launch me into orbit. At my back Peter growled as he pounded into me. Was this it? When I
came, would he kill me? Rip out my throat, eat parts of my insides. According to Whitcomb,
that‟s exactly what he did to his wife.

I reminded myself this was Peter. My Peter. Good, gentle, sweet Peter. Can‟t hurt a fly,

Peter.

Yeah, Clown Hair didn‟t know what the fuck he was talking about.
And then Peter bit me.

Chapter Two

The first thought that popped into my head when I opened my eyes was “Wow, hell

looks just like Atlanta.”

Then I blinked and realized the view I was staring at was exactly like the one Pete and I

could see at night when we gazed in post-coital bliss out the floor-to-ceiling window by my
bed.

And this was definitely some serious post-coital bliss. I felt like someone had stolen

every bone in my body and replaced them with rubberbands. My stomach ached, my back
ached, my ass ached. But in a feel-good way which told me I was going to sit crooked for a
couple of days until I recovered. Yeah, it was all there, all familiar, but there was one
important piece of the picture missing.

Pete.
I sat up, my heart in my throat and ice running down my spine. I threw my legs over the

side of the bed and stood up...

Oh, no, seriously bad idea.
While my brain and my limbs got reacquainted, I gave the hardwood some lip service.
It took a while, but eventually I was able to peel my face off the floor.
“Pete?” I don‟t know why I called for him. I knew he wasn‟t there. The apartment had an

empty, hollow feel to it. One that screamed lonely and not just quiet. Come to think of it, my
chest kind of felt the same way. “Peter!” My arms moved and I got myself to my knees. Then
my feet. The closet door was open, and most of its insides were puked all over the floor, my
shoes, my clothes, my comic books. A few of Pete‟s clothes were mixed in, but most of his
things were gone.

So was his suitcase.
One foot in front of the other, I stumbled into the kitchen. Along the way I realized I‟d

been dressed, plaid pajama bottoms and argyle socks. Pete‟s clothes, not mine. The T-shirt
was mine--black, plain, with a hole in the side where I‟d caught it on something during one of
my drunken stupors in the Pit.

I not only was dressed but clean.
I stopped by the stove and looked at my hands, my arms. Then I looked at the floor, the

sink, the counter. Talk about clean. Even the carrots and the cutting board were gone. The
dishes washed. The tile scrubbed. No pot on the stove. Everything in the kitchen was spic and
span. As in hospital sterile. As in erased.

I inhaled and smelled bleach. Not so much it would burn my nose but enough to tell me

someone had worked hard to make all evidence of the bleeding, the fucking and the biting...

Biting!
I dug at the collar of the T-shirt ripping it in my attempts to get a good look at my

shoulder. Pete bit me. Not just bit me, but bit the hell out of me. I remembered because I
came when he did it and begged him to keep doing it. And it didn‟t hurt. Not then, not now.

And while everything else in the apartment could be washed away, cleaned, made like

none of it ever happened, no one could erase the mark he‟d left on my body.

My heart skipped when I saw the dark lines of scar tissue in the shape of Pete‟s mouth. It

was healed, but that really didn‟t surprise me. Lesser-Bred saliva metaphysically cauterized
wounds, closing them off, a lot like their purebred cousins. And Peter had been flaring hot
enough to qualify as Lesser-Bred when he took a chunk out of me.

The breath I‟d been holding leaked out as I fingered the grooves and bumps left on my

shoulder. Peter. God, Peter. He‟d cleaned the kitchen, the floor, dressed me. Then he‟d run.

Yeah, that line of thinking lasted all of five fucking seconds. This was Peter Forbes after

all, my best friend, my soul mate. He wouldn‟t leave me if the apartment was on fire and it

was a matter of dying or saving himself. I knew because that‟s exactly how I felt about him.
No, Pete hadn‟t left. Someone had taken him. And it didn‟t take a genius like Pete to figure
out who that someone was.

I rounded up my phone and called Peter‟s number, only to hear it ring in the back. A

quick search revealed his cell sitting on the bathroom counter. I doubted he left it there by
accident. More than likely, Whitcomb made him leave it behind. After all, it was kind of hard
to make someone disappear if he could reach out and touch the people who were looking for
him.

I flipped open Pete‟s phone and checked the numbers he‟d called. Whitcomb‟s was right

under the missed call from me.

I hit send. It rang.
“Hello?”
Not Peter, but Clown Hair. “Where is he?”
“Safe. He‟s safe.”
“Yeah, that‟s not what I asked. Where the fuck is he?”
“I can‟t tell you.”
“The hell you can‟t. Where is he, Clown Hair? Where‟s Pete?”
There was some rustling over the line, then Whitcomb‟s voice dropped to a whisper. “He

could have killed you tonight.”

“And he didn‟t.”
“He‟s upset.”
“Put him on the phone so I can tell him I‟m all right.”
Silence. Then a long-suffering sigh. It was nothing like the kind of sigh Peter could

make. His sound effects gave me wood. Whitcomb just made me want to fucking explode.
“Darwin ... this is for the best... I know you don‟t understand right now...”

“So help me God, I will hunt you down and I will hurt you if you don‟t bring him back,

right now!” My hand closed so tightly around the cell phone the plastic creaked in protest.

“I can‟t.”
“You will do it.”
“I won‟t.”
“I‟ll find you.”
He laughed a little, which of course made me want to kill him all the more. “No, you

won‟t. Peter is safe. That‟s all you need to know. I‟ll call you in a few days to let you know
how he‟s doing...”

“Don‟t you dare hang up...” Before I could even finish my threat, Whitcomb was gone.
Think. I had to think. I don‟t know how long I stared at Peter‟s phone, but it was way too

long.

Whitcomb had to have somewhere permanent to take Peter. An apartment. A house. If he

took Pete inside the Zone, locating him would be impossible. But since Clown Hair tried so
hard to play Human, my money was on something more local. That and he worked for Tech,
which meant he had to have an address, one which would be listed in the faculty database.

I walked over to Pete‟s laptop and fired it up. It made some tones then the screen came

up. The picture on his desktop was of me and him wearing parkas and grinning like idiots in a
snowy landscape. God, he looked so young. I looked young. „Cause we were young. The
picture was old enough that I hadn‟t dyed my platinum hair yet or pierced my face. And Peter
was pale enough from the lack of summer sun his freckles stood out.

A pain hit me right in the middle of my sternum, and I nearly gouged out my eyes

slapping away the sting of tears.

Fucking son-of-a-bitch. Take Peter. I‟ll show him. Track down his ass, show up on his

doorstep. But I needed his address. Which should have been an easy score right? All I had to
do was hack into Tech‟s private records, look up Whitcomb, and make a surprise visit.

Too bad I didn‟t know the first thing about doing shit like that. Couldn‟t be all that hard.

Could it?

I sat down, opened the browser, typed in the college‟s URL. Hit the faculty section and

got slapped between the eyes with a password prompt. Stared at it.

For, like, five minutes.
Yeah, I was so not cut out for this shit.
What was worse, I didn‟t have any friends I could call on either. No, my eat-shit-and-die

attitude hadn‟t exactly made me the most likable person in life. The only person I could call
my friend was frozen in a moment of innocence at the age of sixteen on the computer‟s
desktop.

And the real life one was gone.
But Peter has friends. And just like him, some of his friends are smart, really smart.
Like Danny Bowman, straight-A student, math wiz ... computer programmer.
I snatched Pete‟s cell off of the desk and scrolled the list of phone numbers in his

directory. Danny used to hit Pete up once a week for help in his metaphysics class, and Pete
would always ask Danny‟s advice about what computer applications to use or avoid.

Better than his ability to tinker, fix and program, Danny was attending Tech on a

computer science scholarship. Not as impressive as the one they gave for metaphysics, but it
did do one thing. It gave him access to the school‟s website, students and faculty. „Cause part
of the requirement for receiving the scholarship was maintaining Tech‟s database.

And he couldn‟t maintain anything unless he had access to current data.
I found Danny‟s number and hit send. While it rang, I did my best to not rip out of my

skin. Just when I was so sure that was a battle I was so gonna lose, Danny picked up.

“This better be good...” Danny sounded like he‟d been asleep. I glanced at the clock

display on the laptop. It read twelve-o-three. As in a.m. Yeah, seeing this was the middle of
the week and he had class tomorrow... Damn, as if the guy didn‟t already hate me enough.

“It‟s me ... Darwin.”
“I‟m not bailing you out of jail. Goodbye...”
Panic shot my words out of my throat. “Don‟t hang up ... Danny. Don‟t...” It tried to

think of something else to say, something to make him listen. But apparently my tone was
enough.

“D? Fuck. What the hell...”
“Pete‟s in trouble.”
Silence. For a terrifying second I thought he‟d changed his mind and ended the call.

Then I heard him move.

“What do you mean trouble?”
And he said trouble like it was a stand in for so many bad things I‟d done. Blowing

things up. Catching things on fire. Getting into fights. Going to jail.

Only, this thing with Pete, it made all the other bad shit pale.
God, and I couldn‟t tell Danny what was really going on. It‟d taken him a week to get

over the shock of the video. I think he was in the same boat with most of the other students at
Tech.

The one sailing up Disbelief Creek without a paddle.
If I told him Peter‟s secret about becoming Lesser-Bred, Danny would never speak to

him again. Worse, he‟d probably blab about it. And Pete could face a whole lot worse than
the metaphysical scholarship review board.

I sighed. “I don‟t have time to explain.”

“Well, you better make time. You‟re the one calling me. Waking me up.”
I swallowed down the fuck-you and ran a hand through my hair. Then I pulled it. It hurt,

and I felt better.

“Danny ... Peter...” My voice cracked and breath shuddered over my lips. I did my best

to talk around the lump in my throat.

And failed.
More silence. I checked the phone again and put it back to my ear just in time to hear

Danny say, “Christ on a Cross, are you crying?”

Was I? I put a hand to my cheek. My fingers came away wet.
More movement from the other side of the phone. “Darwin, where‟s Peter?”
“I don‟t know.” The fact I told him the truth kind of surprised me. Usually, when I spoke

to anyone but Pete, lying was automatic for me.

“What do you mean, you don‟t know?”
I shrugged and remembered he couldn‟t see it. “I don‟t know, Danny. He‟s gone. I

think... I think someone took him. No, I know someone did.” About six feet tall with a brush
cut because he couldn‟t tame the tumbleweed springing out of his scalp.

“Did you call the cops?”
“They can‟t help.”
“What do you mean they can‟t help?”
I closed my eyes and tried to think of what Peter would say, how Peter would handle

this. „Cause if it was up to me, the kicking and the screaming would start. Then the cussing
would follow, and I‟d probably throw things. Like that was going to help. Fuck, at this point I
don‟t even think it would make me feel better.

“Darwin, if Peter is in trouble, you need to call the cops.”
“And I‟m telling you, they can‟t help him!” By some small miracle, I managed not to

scream.

“So, you‟re calling me?”
I nodded. Then I remembered he couldn‟t see that either. “Yeah, yeah...”
“Why?”
“Because you can help him.”
Silence. Then, “Okay, fine. How can I help?”
“I need you to access Tech‟s faculty records. I need a current address for Professor

Whitcomb. He taught biochemistry last semester.”

“Yeah, I remember him. He had some serious hair issues.”
I felt myself grin in spite of everything. Then I repeated Pete‟s words to Danny. “Yeah,

he wears it shorter now.”

“And this is gonna help Peter?” The doubt was clear in his voice.
“Yeah, it will. It will help me help him.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Hang on a sec.” A familiar digital tone dinged in the background,

then some keys clicked off. “Are you sure you can‟t tell me what this is all about?”

“No. When I find Pete, he can. If he wants to. But it wouldn‟t be right if it came from

me. Just help me help him, Danny. Please.”

“Holy shit ... that did not just come out of your mouth.”
I tried to figure out what he was talking about. “What?”
“„Please.‟ You just said, „Please.‟”
Yeah, I guess I did. And Danny wasn‟t even fucking me, which meant I wasn‟t begging

for more. Which meant it was sincere. Like I said, I‟d do anything for Pete. Even ask Danny
please.

More clicking and Danny mumbled something to himself. He fired off an “ah-hah.” “Got

it.”

I scrambled for some paper and a pen, „cause with my half-fried brain memorizing it was

so not gonna happen. I found a receipt from a fast food restaurant on my side of the room and
a pen on Peter‟s end table.

“Okay, let me have it.” He read it off, and I scribbled it down. “Thanks, Danny.”
“You‟re welcome. And whatever it is... Good luck.”
I started to hang up when Danny said, “Oh, one more thing.”
“What?”
“Swear to me this is not going to come back to bite me in the ass. I‟m not going to regret

giving this information to you. I‟m not going to see this guy‟s smoldering corpse or burning
apartment on the five o‟clock news.”

Thank God, I had no problem spitting out a lie to ease Danny‟s virgin conscience.

Chapter Three

According to the address Danny had given me, Whitcomb‟s apartment was located in a

quiet area of town about fifteen minutes from campus and less than a mile outside the Zone.

The apartments looked new, and with the retaining wall running behind the thick crop of

cultivated shrubbery behind the brick building, the residents probably couldn‟t see the Wall
around the Dens even if they lived on the third floor.

Its proximity to the Gray Zone was probably the only reason Whitcomb could afford a

place like this. I doubted he had tenure with Tech, which meant his pay sucked some serious
ass. But places like this were all over the Fringe. Nice neighborhoods done cheap.

Personally, I don‟t see why anyone would want to pay for in-city living with all the

crime and the over-priced rent. I guess when it came down to it, not being able to leave doors
unlocked or having to have dragons as neighbors, the choice of yuppies was clear.

I found a parking spot and pulled in. In front of the building the dark was divided by

large circles of light, courtesy of fifties-style streetlamps running parallel to the sidewalk. I
guess they were going for the all-over Norman Rockwell look. Too bad it came out more like
a Home Depot special.

Whitcomb‟s place was on the bottom floor in the back. At least according to the letters

and numerical system on the front of the building.

I popped the door on the shitty Neon and got out. The place looked pretty deserted as I

headed up the sidewalk, but then, it was close to one a.m. Normal people were usually in bed
by now.

I took the narrow hall parting the two sections of the building. Back here the doors faced

the retaining wall and the small strip of green space. Halfway down, I found the address. The
window beside the unit was dark, which meant Clown Hair was probably asleep. If nothing
else, waking him up might give me the element of surprise. I didn‟t have a clue what I was
going to do afterwards.

Kick Whitcomb in the knees, grab Peter, and make a run for it seemed like my only

option.

I raised a hand fully intent on beating the hell out of the door until Whitcomb pulled his

sorry ass out of bed, but at the last second I stopped. For whatever reason, my eyes went to
the unit four doors down and on the corner. I checked the address on the crumpled sheet of
paper in my palm. It was hard to read since the lighting back here was shittier than in the
front. But according to it, I had the right place.

Again I went to knock.
And stopped.
A pain fired up in my chest. Deep. Like a toothache. I rubbed my sternum, and my head

turned of its own accord. Again my eyes locked on the other door.

Something wasn‟t right.
I don‟t know how to describe it. What I felt, I mean, not the door. It was wood, painted

green, and had gold numbers on the front just like the one in front of me.

The feeling, however, wasn‟t painted or labeled, it was just weird. Like there was a

thread running through me attached to...

Attached to whatever was on the other side of the door on the corner. Not only that, I

could feel it tighten, slacken, pulling at me like a towline.

I walked, and the closer I got to the other apartment, the stronger the feeling got. Then

the big bang of weird happened.

Right then and there, I knew Peter was in there. And not from the kind of knowing you

get from your eyes and your ears, but the kind of knowing that wakes you up in the middle of
the night in a cold sweat telling you something bad has just happened.

The whole sweating thing? Yeah, I was sweating and shivering, as if I‟d come down with

a bad case of the flu in the past three minutes.

There was a window near the door just like the other units I‟d tiptoed past. Only this one

was lit. I hadn‟t noticed the light until I was this close because the curtains were thick. They
reminded me of the ones in cheap hotels. The rubber-backed kind made to keep the sunlight
out or, in this case, lamplight in.

Kin and Lesser-Breds didn‟t need sleep like Humans. Two, three hours a night was

usually enough. Their day was either starting at one a.m. or just getting ready to end.

I stopped by the window and tried to peek through the gaps in the curtain. I caught a

glimpse of movement across the room near what I think was the entrance into the kitchen. I
craned my neck as if it might bend my line of sight.

Which, of course, it didn‟t. Except for the crick in my shoulder, I got nothing out of it.
The feeling in my chest flared to the point of bursting, and fuck me sideways, Peter

walked across the room.

I couldn‟t see all of him, just his arm, his shoulder, an ear, part of his face. Then the edge

of the curtain swallowed him up. But from what I could see, he looked scared.

It took everything for me not to attack the window, put my fist through it, kick, scream.
That was definitely on the list of “worst decisions” I could make.
Because if I did, Whitcomb would call the cops and they‟d take one look at me, my

record, and hall my pasty ass to the city drunk tank. By the time I got out, Peter would be
gone again.

But I had to get in there. More than that--I had to get Pete out.
Think. Fucking think.
My brain, it doesn‟t work very well. Mostly because of my lack of upkeep. And the fact I

abuse it. Somehow it didn‟t surprise me that when I needed it most, it pretty much up and
quit. All I could think about was Peter. My Peter--in there--with Whitcomb--the son of a
bitch who had taken him away. Hauled him off while I was out cold and cleaned up the
apartment like he could erase my soul mate from my life.

Anger like I‟d never known filled me, curled my hands into fists, made my skin shrink,

made my insides burn...

No ... that was the hem of my duster and in about three seconds it was going to include

the cuff of my skaters. Holy shit! I was on fire!

Literally.
I did a quick beatdown on the flames. Slapping them into submission with my hands and

then stomping them out with my foot. All the flapping and flailing was as loud as a flock of
birds. I could even hear it over the thunder of my pulse in my ears. At least it didn‟t take a lot
to put the flames out. It was like once it lost the element of surprise, it was quick to give up.

Great, now I smelled like burnt cotton and rubber from where the sole of my Demonias

had melted a little.

What the fuck was that about?
Maybe I‟d gotten something on my clothes, brushed up against a lit cigarette on the

ground and caught a spark. The fact that the sidewalk was spotless and I hadn‟t handled
anything flammable in weeks was beside the point.

But people just didn‟t burst into flames.
Okay, now what the hell did I do? Not only did I have to worry about Peter; apparently, I

was now spontaneously combustible--and fresh out of asbestos underwear.

Shit.
I had to admit, the whole Mind Freak was interesting and everything, but I had a more

pertinent problem.

Like getting caught.

I didn‟t even hear the door open. But in my defense, my heart was pulling a serious

marathon in my chest. A hand closed around the nape of my neck, yanked me off my feet,
and for the second time today, I kissed the floor.

This time it was Berber carpet instead of hardwood.
I had enough time to get to my knees before I was snatched off my feet again and shoved

into the nearest wall. My head put a dent in the sheetrock, and my arm took out some ugly ass
lamp near the sofa. My attempt at a graceful landing spun me off to the side, and I crumpled
in a heap by the coffee table.

A hand wrapped up in my red and black hair and yanked my head up. I grabbed a wrist,

and threw out a mule kick, which hit nothing.

Peter yelled for whoever it was to quit manhandling me. I probably would have yelled,

but my brain was still spinning as I tried to deal with the overload. I‟d found Peter, needed a
plan, caught on fire, and was now I sitting smack dab in the lion‟s den.

Or in this case, dragon. Or part dragon.
Whatever.
“How the fuck did you find this place?”
I looked at the man talking to me. The same man who‟d tossed me around like a bag of

potatoes. He wasn‟t wearing a shirt, and there was a thumb-sized streak of red on his left pec.
So, he wasn‟t Human. And he also wasn‟t Clown Hair.

But it didn‟t take long for him to show up.
Whitcomb appeared from the back hallway with a towel around his shoulders, wearing

flannel PJs.

“I heard a noise, what‟s...” He froze, and his eyes went big. Yeah, apparently he was

surprised to see me, too.

“How the hell did he find us, David?” That from No-Name-Asshole.
I think hearing Whitcomb called by his first name sort of threw me off. Or maybe it was

the fact he didn‟t look like a David to me. More like Dead Man or Dog Meat. Definitely Dog
Meat.

“I don‟t know. Jesus, I don‟t even list our real address with Tech. There‟s no way he

could have...”

The new guy gave me a shove and sent me rolling. At least, he let me go.
While Whitcomb and Nameless Asshole stared each other down, I made a move to get to

Pete. He stood beside a dinky kitchen table, his beautiful face a pale round circle over the
edge of a black turtleneck.

It was my second mistake of the night. Or maybe my third?
A hand caught me in the chest, moving faster than I could see, and knocked me one more

time into the wall near the sofa.

“Don‟t hurt him!” Pete moved in my direction, and Nameless Asshole shot him a look.

Their gazes clashed across the distance of the room. I‟d seen that flavor of aggression in the
Zone a hundred times over. Hell, I‟d done my best to flash the same kind of look at
Whitcomb when he walked in on me banging Peter.

See, dragons have only one language they respect, it‟s called dominance. Like a pack of

wolves anytime they get together, there‟s only one who will be on top. The whole my-dick-
is-bigger-than-yours usually isn‟t a big deal with Lesser-Breds. But it was still a language
they occasionally spoke.

Peter wound up sitting back down in the chair next to the table when his knees buckled,

then his eyes dropped to the floor. It was as clear as day, submission to the other man‟s
presence.

The ultimate respect for authority.

Too bad for Nameless Asshole, respect wasn‟t even a blip on the radar for me. I got up

again.

“Robert, let him go.” That from Whitcomb. I guess he didn‟t see me as much of a threat.

Nameless Asshole, aka Robert, backed off, and I all but ran over to where Peter was sitting.

“Are you okay?”
His dark brown eyes flicked over to the two Lesser-Breds. They had their heads together

and were doing some serious whispering. Maybe they were discussing where they planned on
dumping my body. It would have probably been a good idea to try and listen, but I had
Peter‟s hands in mine, his body next to me. I embraced him and buried my face in his neck.
Breathed in his scent.

At first he was stiff under my arms, then his body melted against me, and his nose

pressed against my ear. His sigh made every fear, every ounce of anger, every crumb of
worry dissipate.

“I didn‟t want to leave you.” Peter‟s arms tightened and so did mine.
He didn‟t have to tell me what I already knew. “It‟s okay.”
“You shouldn‟t have come, D.”
Yeah, well, I do a lot of things I shouldn‟t do. “What choice did I have? You were gone.”
Peter‟s whisper was warm against my ear. “Robert isn‟t going to let me go.”
My eyelids popped open, and I glared at Robert over Peter‟s shoulder. He was still

talking to Clown Hair.

Both Lesser-Breds turned. I didn‟t even try and cap the growl rising in my throat.
“D...” Peter‟s hand petted the back of my neck. But not even that was going to tame my

anger right now.

As bad as it hurt, I forced myself to let him go and step back. “I‟m taking Peter home

with me.”

Whitcomb didn‟t answer, but Robert did. “No you‟re not. And you can cut the pseudo

bullshit. Just because you hang out in the Zone doesn‟t mean you‟re Lesser-Bred. Now get
out.”

“Fuck you. You‟re not going to get rid of me. Not now. Not later. Unless, of course, you

plan on killing me and eating the evidence.”

Both men turned a nice shade of pea-soup green.
“We aren‟t barbarians.”
I glared at Robert. “Yeah, right. Normal folks break into other people‟s apartments,

kidnap them, then hold them against their will.”

“Peter is the one who called David. You were hurt and unresponsive. You‟d lost a lot of

blood. Peter thought he‟d killed you. You were lucky, Darwin. If he‟d had any sharps, he
would have torn out your throat. As it was, he barely missed a vein. The only reason you
didn‟t wake up in the emergency room is because he happened to be flaring hot enough to
cauterize the wound.”

I looked at Pete, and he stared at his hands in his lap. His thick, dark lashes, fluttered

against his cheeks. “He‟s right, D. I could have killed you.” By the tone of his voice, you
would have thought he did.

“Like I give a shit.” I wanted to take it back as soon as I said it because Pete‟s face

crumpled and his hands balled up.

“I think you should leave.” Whitcomb took a step in Peter‟s direction, and I got in the

way. Did I really think I had a chance? He was inhuman. Along with speed he had strength.
So what if he wasn‟t very Kin. Didn‟t make much a difference if he was three men strong or
five, he could still kick my ass without trying.

And yet, I wasn‟t afraid of him. In fact, I was kind of looking forward to a fight. I

chalked it up to all the pot I‟ve smoked, the paint I‟ve huffed, and just about any other illegal
recreational drug that snuffs out common sense.

It didn‟t help I hadn‟t been born with much to begin with.
To Peter I asked, “Do you want to stay?”
Silence.
Now I wished I‟d just stayed quiet. The question was out, and now he‟d have to answer

me. What the hell was I going to do if he said yes?

“Peter‟s dangerous...” Whitcomb ... again. Fuck, I wished he‟d shut the hell up. I ignored

him and kept my eyes on Peter. Finally, he looked at me. Dark eyes, beautiful lips.

“Pete?”
He blinked. Then the barest shake of his head. The “No” he added was hardly audible.
I looked at the two men--not men--Lesser-Breds. “You heard him.”
“And you act like he has a choice.” Robert stared me down. I stared back. And unlike

Peter, I did not sit, back up, or look away. I think Robert was just about to walk over and
teach me another lesson or two when a knock sounded at the door.

Whitcomb looked at Robert. Robert was still looking at me. A nice flush was in his

cheeks now, and I was pretty sure I could see the white points of sharp teeth pressing against
his bottom lip.

Clown Hair asked, “Robert?”
“Not now, David.”
“You called them, didn‟t you?”
“I told you, not now!”
It might have been my imagination, but Clown Hair didn‟t sound very happy. “I thought

we agreed, I thought...”

“Shut up, David.” Robert jerked his head in the direction of the back room. “Get them

out of the way. I don‟t want them out here while we discuss business.”

I‟d like to say, when Whitcomb grabbed me by the arm, I did some fancy karate moves,

flipped him over my shoulder, and pinned him to the floor. But of course I didn‟t. At least I
didn‟t scream like a pussy when he twisted my arm so far back between my shoulders I was
sure it was never going to function again. And I needed my right hand, damn it. It was my
favorite.

I did do some spitting, kicking, and struggling, but it was useless. I wound up shoved

into a bedroom. At least this time I bounced off the mattress instead of the floor.

I didn‟t stay down long. I got to my feet then to the door just in time to have it slam shut

in my face. “Fucking asshole!” I grabbed the knob, and when it didn‟t budge, I kicked the
door then punched it. Which was about as effective as everything else I‟d done. Then, of
course, I kicked the door again. I wish I could say why.

“D...”
I looked at Peter. His head was down and his arms wrapped around his stomach. “Hey...”

I walked over and put a hand on his jaw, and tears spilled over his cheeks. I hugged him,
completely swallowed him up, and this time Peter hugged me back twice as hard.

“I‟m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I hurt you.”
“No, you didn‟t.” Peter snorted in my ear. It sounded so ordinary, so Peter. I wasn‟t at all

surprised when I laughed.

“It‟s not funny.”
“I know...” And yet it was impossible not to sing on the inside with him in my arms.
“God, D. The blood. I thought ... I woke up, and I thought you were dead.”

“But I wasn‟t.”
“No, David ... I mean Whitcomb said it was because I‟d fed from you. Too much, and

since I didn‟t finish the roll, I‟d left your EMF field drained.”

“EMF?”
“You‟re electromagnetic field. All living things have them, but with the Kin and Human

genetics the natural energy exchange is modified.” While Peter went into a long detailed
explanation about S-factors, ether energy, and its effects on the human electromagnetic field,
I backed up so I could scan the room.

I checked the window and saw bars through the glass. I opened it and gave them an

experimental tug. Of course, they didn‟t give. There was a bathroom off to the side, and I
checked there, too. Unfortunately, the only other window was nothing more than a slit
running along the edge of the ceiling above the tub. And unless I suddenly developed the
ability to squeeze into a nine-inch space, there was no getting out there.

Thinking about that made me think about how my duster had caught fire for no apparent

reason. For a split second I wondered if I should mention it to Peter but decided he had
enough on his plate. And unless I suddenly pulled a Human Torch, it really wasn‟t very
important considering our situation.

I went back into the bedroom. It was pretty bare, except for a large shelf full of

paperback books, a TV, a laptop, and, of course, the bed. Which I‟d already gotten
acquainted with.

I walked over to the closet and looked inside. While I was eyeing the top shelf, looking

for ... hell, I don‟t know what I expected to find, Pete asked, “D, how did you find me?”

There were some shoeboxes up there and a basket full of receipts, but nothing useful.
“D?”
“Huh?”
“How did you find where Whitcomb took me?” I found a baseball bat in the back behind

a couple of ugly blazers. Now that might come in handy. Behind me Pete made a sound. “Oh,
uh, I had Danny look up his address on the faculty database.” I weighed the baseball bat and
gave it an experimental swing.

“But his address at Tech is wrong.”
“That‟s why I came here.”
“But how did you know to come here?”
I glanced at Peter. He was staring at the bat in my hand and chewing his bottom lip.
“Uh, I just kinda figured it out.”
“How?”
Good question. Too bad I didn‟t even have a half-assed answer. I stepped up to Peter and

kissed him. Just a quick, light peck, but I left my forehead against his so nothing but his dark
brown eyes filled my gaze. “This is gonna sound weird.”

“Tell me.”
“I felt you.”
His eyebrows bunched up. “You felt me?”
“Yeah. I was about to knock on the other door, and I ... stopped.”
“Why?”
“I don‟t know. I just knew you weren‟t in there. And I knew you were in here.”
While he thought about that, angry voices rose up from the other side of the bedroom

door. It sounded like Whitcomb and David might be having a full-blown lover‟s quarrel. How
precious! And me without a video camera. Hell, I couldn‟t even see it so I could point and
laugh.

Pete‟s head whipped around. His nose twitched, and his head cocked.
“What is it?”

“I think...” He shook his head. “That can‟t be right.” More yelling came from the living

room.

“What?”
“They have the TV on; it makes it hard to hear...”
Hear? I couldn‟t hear anything but muffled angry words which might have been

Whitcomb and David. Or, for all I knew, Clinton and Lewinsky. Peter walked over to the
door. I thought at first he was going to put his ear to it, but instead he sniffed the crack. His
mouth opened, his throat worked...

Fuck, he looked gorgeous. Then he looked at me, and his mouth quirked.
“I can smell you, too, you know.”
For a split second I wondered how bad he‟d resist in helping me shove the bookcase in

front of the door so I could have time to get him naked.

“D...”
“Okay, okay, sorry, but when you do that...” I flapped a hand at my throat. “It‟s just ...

hell...”

His nose twitched again. “I recognize the scent...”
Scent? I thought we were talking about why it was an inappropriate time to take our

clothes off.

Peter made a face. Then he backed up from the door. “D...”
“Yeah?”
“It‟s Serge.”
“Who?”
“Serge, Rebecca Serge.”
Images of dancing purple dinosaurs popped into my head. That‟s how she‟d been dressed

the last time I saw her. Not in a costume, but a purple pantsuit. All square and proper while
she beheaded Peter‟s scholarship funding. He‟d told me then losing his scholarship had
nothing to do with the video, and everything with some secret project the Metaphysical
Science Department had cooked up. Or maybe Serge had cooked up.

Peter went to the shelf and said, “Help me push this in front of the door.”
Holy shit, we were gonna get naked. I‟ve always said if you‟re gonna go out, go out in...
“And not for that.”
“Oh...” Of course not.
Together we shoved the shelf across the room and tipped it back until it was braced

against the door. I doubted it would do much. We stared at the bookshelf while the arguing
got louder.

“What the hell is she doing here, Pete?”
“David obviously called her.”
Obvious to whom? Him? Yeah. „Cause it sure as shit wasn‟t obvious to me. “Yeah,

about him. Who the fuck is that asshole anyhow?”

“Her husband.”
The fact I didn‟t swallow my tongue surprised me. “Run that by me again, because I

think you just said...”

“Her husband.”
Holy, shit. He was like, what, a fourth her age? Thank God, Peter knew exactly what I

was thinking.

“D, they met when she was young. Before he Shifted.”
“Yeah, he didn‟t strike me as the old lady type.”
“D...”
“Seriously, I mean I know she‟s weird, and smells funny, but...”
“D!”

I held up my hands. “Okay. Fine. So why is she here?”
Peter made a face, then looked away. “I don‟t know, but whatever it is, it can‟t be good.”
Now why didn‟t I believe him? I put a hand on Pete‟s shoulder and turned him around.
“No more secrets, Peter.”
His big brown eyes came up and he blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why would Serge be rubbing shoulders with wyrm fodder?”
“Don‟t call Lesser-Breds that.”
“What? Wyrm fodder?”
“Yeah, it‟s rude. And ugly.”
And it was the truth. But I held back. Pete didn‟t need more shit right now. “Fine, but I

want you to quit hiding things from me. I don‟t care how bad they are or how serious or
how...” I threw my hand up in the general direction of the closed door. “Fucking crazy,
messed up it all is. Tell me, Peter!”

He took a breath, one big enough to lift his shoulder and make his chest swell. “I can‟t...”
“Goddamn it, Peter...”
“No, I mean I can‟t. Not now. We need to get out of here. Then I can tell you. When we

have time, when...”

A knock sounded off at the door. “Peter?” It was Robert.
“What?”
“You‟re needed out here in the living room.”
Before Peter could reply, the doorknob jiggled. Robert tried to shove the door open. The

bookshelf lifted about an inch before smacking back against the door.

“What the hell...” He did some more shoving, and the shelf rattled. “Really now. Do you

think the bookshelf is gonna keep me out?”

No. I didn‟t. I handed Peter the bat. “You still remember how to hit a homer right?”
He smiled a little, but it was sad. I didn‟t want to leave him, but we needed something to

fight with, or use to get out, or maybe just to cause a certain Lesser-Bred extreme pain and
agony. I headed back into the bathroom and began a mad search. For something, anything.
There had to be some weapon in here I could use. I yanked open the medicine cabinet and did
a quick eyeball inventory.

From the bedroom, Pete asked, “I thought I heard Serge.”
“You did.”
“Why?”
“That will be explained, Peter. Now move the bookcase.”
“No.”
When the medicine cabinet gave me nothing, I searched under the sink. There I found an

industrial-sized bottle of rubbing alcohol. I grabbed the roll of TP beside the toilet.

“Now Peter, we‟ve already been through this. You remember the last time you told me

no.”

My head snapped to the side then. A sound, ugly, brutal, and nasty rolled out of my

chest. I was growling. Again.

What the fuck? This was not the time to lose my cool or, in this case, my mind. It wasn‟t

like I have a lot of it left, and I needed every available gray cell in my skull if I was going to
come up with some way to get us out of here.

When I came back to the bedroom, Peter‟s eyes were huge and his breathing was going

in and out way too fast.

“Move the shelf, Peter. If you make me break this door coming in there, you‟ll wish you

hadn‟t.”

Pete had his eyes on the alcohol and TP. “What are you going to do?”

“What I do best.” I popped the cap and soaked the TP in the alcohol, then threw the rest

of the alcohol on the packed bookshelf. Robert had his arms stuffed through the widening
crack in the door which put it right in the line of fire. When I pulled out my lighter, he was
getting ready to give the door one big shove which would have crashed the bookcase to the
floor. His eyes went wide as I lit the roll of TP and tossed it at the shelf.

“Shit! D!” Peter scrambled back. I didn‟t. I stared at the flames as they shot up the sides

of the paperbacks, lit into the stacks of folders, and ate into the wood. Beautifully pure,
absolutely perfect. “D!”

I think it was hearing Peter cough that made me look at him. He had his back to the

window and one arm covering his mouth. Above my head the fire alarm screamed, almost
drowning out his voice.

“How are we supposed to get out?”
Good question.
Too bad I didn‟t have an answer for that one either.

Chapter Four

I think it was Forrest Gump who said, “Stupid is as stupid does.”
He must have been looking at my life when he came up with that.
“Now what?”
I looked at Peter because he was asking me. Me, the idiot who‟d just set fire to the only

way out of here. Sure, it kept Robert on the other side of the door, but now we were trapped
in the worst way.

It didn‟t seem like a shelf full of paperbacks should be able to go up so fast, but it did.

And those books not only burned fast, but hot. Peter leaned his head in the direction of the
window and gasped for air. In another minute we wouldn‟t have to worry about the flames;
we‟d be dead from the smoke. I took the baseball bat out of his hands, crammed it between
the burglar bars and the windowsill and tried to pry them loose. I might have actually
accomplished something if I wasn‟t at the wrong angle. The wrong fucking side.

Peter grabbed hold of the bars and shoved, they still didn‟t budge.
“I‟m sorry...” I regretted saying it even though I meant it. In so many ways.
I think Peter was about to tell me something, maybe shut up, go to hell, or call me a

fucking idiot--which I was--but he was cut short when a black stick of iron slid out from the
darkness and between the bars. It pressed against the windowsill and the metal ripped away
from the wall with a shotgun crack.

“C‟mon!” Whitcomb‟s face appeared in the pool of light. He grabbed Peter, pulled him

out, then me.

I didn‟t realize how toxic the air in the bedroom had become until I was heaped in the

grass doing my best to cough up a lung and my liver. Peter wheezed and coughed next to my
ear.

My hand touched his, and he nodded. “I‟m okay.”
“Get up!” Whitcomb yanked me by the arm and I helped Peter up. “You have to get him

out of here, Darwin.”

“You‟re letting us go? What happened to, „Peter is dangerous‟ and „You‟re not going

anywhere‟?”

Whitcomb coiled his lips at me and flashed fang. “Now is not the time to be a smartass.”
Clown Hair shoved something into my hands. Keys, but not my keys, and a small silver

pen.

“What...” My mouth fell open.
“It‟s the beige Toyota, down on the end. Pete knows which one. Take him into the Zone;

Robert won‟t follow him into there.”

“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“And this?” I held up the other thing.
“If Peter comes after you, use it. It will buy you some time.”
“Use it? How?”
“Like an epipen.” The “huh” must have shown on my face, „cause Clown Hair growled

and added. “You stab him with it. Have Peter explain it to you. Now go! You don‟t have a lot
of time.” From inside the room I heard the crash of something big and in flames hit the floor,
then Robert shouting.

Clown Hair looked at Peter and said, “Robert‟s on board with Serge.” I had no idea what

that meant, but apparently Peter did. His eyes widened then his mouth thinned out. He
grabbed my hand and pulled me with him into the darkness.

We ran. Beyond the reach of the cheap Home Depot lighting, this side of the apartment

was pitch black. It was the perfect place for something dangerous and hungry to hide.

I hoped Peter could see where we were going, „cause I sure as shit couldn‟t. The spongy

grass under my shitkickers turned to a concrete path. I tripped when my boot caught the edge,
but Peter kept me from falling. As we got to the corner of the building, another wail joined
the annoying screeching beep from the inside of the apartment. The fire trucks were coming.
If anything, it would give us enough of a diversion to get out. At least, that‟s what I hoped it
would do. There was always the chance we could wind up trapped.

When we reached the parking lot I could see again. The car was right where Whitcomb

promised it would be. I fumbled with the keychain looking for the keyless entry. I had to
shove the silver thingy in my pocket to keep from dropping it. I told myself not to forget to
ask Peter about it later.

It was pure luck I didn‟t hit the alarm button. The doors sounded off with a chuck-chuck,

and Pete and I got in.

Beside me, Peter snapped on his seatbelt. Old habits die hard I guess. I didn‟t worry

about mine because I was too busy trying to get the fucking key in the fucking ignition.
Damn thing wouldn‟t stand still. Bastard kept jumping all over the place.

Peter‟s hand wrapped around my wrist, and the steering column stopped moving. I stuck

the key in, cranked up the car and backed out. I had no idea where I was going, just following
the space left between the rows of parked cars, doing my best to avoid the fire trucks, the
ambulance, and the voyeurs spilling out into the street.

It wasn‟t until we were out on the main road I let myself relax. I must have checked the

rearview fifty times along the way. I was constantly amazed there weren‟t blue lights tailing
us. I guess it was the car: nice, neat, clean, with all the taillights working. I glanced at Pete.
He was curled by the window, his face turned into the darkness.

“Are you okay?” He hadn‟t seemed hurt. But then I‟d been too busy running and it was

really, really dark.

Pete moved. I think he nodded. But in the piss-poor dashboard light I couldn‟t be too

sure.

“I can‟t see in the dark. You're gonna have to actually talk to me.”
He sighed. And fuck me, it still went right to my dick. “Yeah, I‟m okay.”
I let his answer hang a second or two before hitting him up with the big question. “What

was that all about back there, Peter? And I mean Serge. Don‟t you dare leave anything out.
Nothing, do you hear me?”

Another sigh. If he kept doing that I was going to embarrass myself.
More silence, then, “Remember the scary project I told you about? The one Serge

wanted me on?”

Yeah, I did. And him turning her down had pissed her off enough she‟d rigged his lab

test. Between that and the video Tolbert had cooked up, she‟d had more than enough reason
to drop him from the metaphysical science program without raising suspicions.

I hadn‟t asked Peter to explain what the project had been about. He‟d told me he didn‟t

want to talk about it so I let it slide.

I nodded. I knew, unlike me, he could see without the light. Hell, he‟d maneuvered us

through the darkness and safely to the car.

From the darkness, Pete said, “It was for a pharmaceutical company called Dalmar. Their

front is specialization in burn and cancer treatment.”

“Their front?”
“Yeah. Their real goal is anti-aging, anti-hair loss, body sculpting, and plastic surgery

techniques.”

I laughed.
“What‟s so funny?”
“You‟re scared of a makeup company?”

“Darwin...”
Like I said. Peter only uses my real name when he‟s pissed or things are serious. Really

serious. And by the tone in his voice, it was dire.

“I‟m scared of a company because of the kind of money it has backing it. Kin carve

themselves...” As in, they were made, not born, created through metaphysics at the will of
their Queen. They didn‟t age. They didn‟t get sick. They could theoretically live forever.
Unless, of course, one of their own ate them. Or a cop shot them in the head. “Think about it,
D. Their perfection, it‟s just about every Human being‟s desire. People spend billions and
billions of dollars every year trying to stay young, keep their hair, lose five pounds. Could
you imagine the amount of money people would pay knowing they could walk into a place
and pick out the kind of body they wanted, hair color, eye shape, whatever, and get it? And
then keep it forever!”

I tried to imagine a price tag for that kind of inhuman perfection. Then I realized I lacked

the intelligence to actually count that high.

“So, living forever and being beautiful is scary?”
“No. I mean, yes and no. D, if they crack the code, then they can pick and choose the

traits they want. Instead of a supermodel body, what about someone who could heal their
body like Kin or have their strength, their speed? They‟d be willing to pay billions for that
kind of technology.”

“They?”
“The military.
“The military? Are you shitting me?”
“I wish I were. They‟ve been trying for decades to breed the perfect Lesser-Bred soldier.

And they‟ve failed.”

“Why?”
“Kin genetics are based on the metaphysical, so when they‟re mixed with Humans, they

aren‟t predictable or stable. For example, Robert‟s fast, but his nose doesn‟t work worth a
shit. And he doesn‟t need to feed, not as much as Whitcomb. Think about what it would be
like if the military could assign abilities to people.”

“You mean some type of super soldier.”
“Worse.” Worse? “Dalmar has a contract with some deep cover military group who

operate outside the regular channels. There‟s no one to regulate them, D. No one to keep
them from hurting people. Dalmar isn‟t on the up and up either. They experiment with all
kinds of things in both Alchemy and metaphysics.”

“Isn‟t that like mixing gasoline and Drano?” There was just enough light as we passed

under the halogen lights edging the freeway to let me see Peter‟s mixed expression.

“Huh?”
“Drano and gas. It‟s toxic.”
“Oh, I guess. I mean, I‟m sure they don‟t actually mix the two.” But he didn‟t sound too

sure. “Either way, their interest isn‟t in making people beautiful and giving them everlasting
life. It‟s about making them into weapons.”

“You mean like the Six Million Dollar Man.”
Peter snorted. “D, I‟m serious.”
“So am I.”
The leather seat sighed as Pete moved against it. “Okay, yeah, sure. The Six Million

Dollar Man. Only this Six Million Dollar Man isn‟t a crime fighter, he‟s a killer. Moving
faster than anything Human, maybe even faster than Kin. Think more along the lines of The
Manchurian Candidate.”

“Christ... Can they do that? Seriously?”

“If they can isolate the transposons responsible for the cataclysmic reaction between

genes passed down in Human-Kin hybrids along with isolating the individual enzymes
involved and separate those genes without destroying the overall electromagnetic
metaphysical nexus. Sure, they can pick and enhance traits all they want.”

Okay, that hurt just trying to think about it. “Uh, Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“I need small words.”
“If they can find the genes and pull them apart, then they can stick them back together

again. Just like LEGOS.”

Now there was a word I understood. “But if they can‟t figure out how to do--whatever--

then none of their military wet dreams will come true, right?” See, sometimes I could be an
optimist. Glass half full and all that bullshit.

“Yeah...”
Except when Peter sounded like that. Like he was about to seriously shit on my ever-

loving optimist parade. As small as it was.

“Pete, they haven‟t found the genes right, they haven‟t found the transponders...”
“Transposons...”
“Ego magnetic...”
“Electromagnetic metaphysical nexus...”
“Yeah. They haven‟t, have they?”
“No...” Thank God... “But I have.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“You have no idea.”

Chapter Five

Outside the car the dark got thick and the stars got brighter. We were just inside the Zone

now. The dwindling streetlamps and increasing number of potholes were the only warning
signs we were heading into a part of town where people were eaten alive on a regular basis.
As I made a left at a nonworking red light, the surface street went from beat up to beat to hell.

Peter grunted as I failed to miss the crater-sized dip covering most of the right-hand lane.

At least there weren‟t many cars in the Zone, so I could swerve to the other side whenever I
needed to.

Apartments and storefronts crowded both sides of the street, crammed together in

organized chaos. As I crawled past an abandoned apartment complex, we were completely
swallowed in darkness. Save the high beams on the Toyota.

I took a right and headed deeper in, closer to the Wall. Here there were no signs of

Human nightlife. Just us, the little car, and the things in the dark. Not things, but dragons.
Ferals, out hunting. I couldn‟t see them. But I could feel them. They were watching.

Whitcomb had seemed pretty sure Robert wouldn‟t follow us in here. I guess I figured if

he was afraid of Kin, or of other Lesser-Breds, we‟d be better sunk up to our neck in them.
And I knew just the place. There was a strip of hotels about a mile outside the Wall favored
by Lesser-Breds and Kin.

Beside me, Peter said, “This is all my fault, you know.”
“Your fault?”
“Yeah...”
“Pete, how can you say that?” After all, I was the one who set Tolbert‟s car on fire,

cussed out Serge, defied Whitcomb, set his apartment on fire... And that was only in the past
three weeks. I wasn‟t even about to touch the list I‟d accumulated before my life took a turn
down the path of the straight and narrow. Okay, maybe no straight and narrow, but at least it
wasn‟t heading right for the bridge marked “out of service” anymore.

“Pete?”
“I just had to prove I could do it, D. I just had to show off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cure Becoming.”
“How can a cure for Becoming have anything to do with super soldiers and marketing

Pamela Anderson breasts in a bottle?”

Peter laughed. Hearing him made my chest swell. Okay, okay, yeah, that swelled a little,

too.

His laughter dissipated and everything was quiet again, just him, me, the night, and the

beat-up buildings draped in darkness.

“We were at the Dalmar research facility using their induction chamber to study the

effects of ether plasma on the biochemical reaction in mammalian cells.”

Man, I really should have paid more attention in class. Instead of admitting my stupidity

I just nodded.

“It‟s basically a study on how cells break down. Age.”
Like I said, he knows me all too well. “What happened?”
“They had this formula up on one of their crystal boards. They use them like windows to

section off the labs so everyone can see what everyone else is working on. Then if they have
something to offer, it‟s right there waiting for input.”

“And you gave your input.”
“Sorta.”
“Sorta?”

“I saw a mistake in one of the repeating resonance patterns and...” Pete took a breath.

“Let‟s just put it this way. The guy‟s math sucked, and I fixed it for him.”

Pete went quiet again as I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel and turned off the car.
After a long pause, I said, “And fixing his math gave them what they wanted.”
“No, not exactly. It told them I knew what I was doing. What made it so bad is I was too

up in my head and too proud to realize I was being used. Took me six months to figure it out,
too. I was an idiot...”

“You‟ve never been an idiot.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“No, Pete, you‟re not.” When he made a disbelieving sound, I added, “You‟ve never

huffed paint, blown up a car, or set a building on fire. You‟re not the idiot, I am.”

Pete‟s hand landed on mine. “You‟re not an idiot, D.” There were so many factual

statements I could have used to argue with, but instead I sighed. After all, who was I to dash
Peter‟s hopes about me?

I said, “So they have their formula, their metaphysical whatever, and now they can make

Lesser-Bred armies with perfect physics and ten-inch dicks?”

“No.”
I turned my head and wished the lighting was better. Peter was nothing more than a gray

shape and his eyes were dark holes highlighted by the clock radio. Then the light clicked off
because we‟d sat with the engine off too long. “No?”

“Whitcomb approached me one day, told me what kind of people Serge was mixed up

with. Told me about secret testing facilities. Places where they hold Lesser-Breds against
their will. I didn‟t want to believe him. Then he showed me a video made by some guys who
broke out of a place south of the airport. It was bad, D. Worse than bad. It was something you
read about in conspiracy newsletters or see in movies.”

“So you told her to fuck off.”
Peter was quiet for a very long time.
“Pete?”
“No. Not at first. Not until Whitcomb told me I was going to become the very thing the

science I was helping with was hurting.”

I didn‟t know what to say. I guess the idea of my Peter in the role of some species-hating

mad scientist wasn‟t even in the realm of possibility for me. Not to mention, he‟d snapped at
me for using the word wyrm fodder.

I pulled my hand out of his and got out of the car. “Wait here, I‟ll get us a key.”
I left him in the darkness while I hit the front office, which wasn‟t more than a glassed in

walk-in closet with a fairy behind the counter watching an old black-and-white TV. Then, if
that didn‟t beat all, he had it jerry-rigged to a Blue-Ray player.

For seventeen bucks a night we could rent a room at the no-name motel. No-name

because whatever it had once been called, written in gold ink on the key ring, had long ago
faded away. I paid for a week‟s worth, cash, and walked back to the car.

Pete was still there, of course, still in the dark. I could see his outline thanks to the light

leaking out of the motel office windows.

I opened his door.
“C‟mon, hot shower, coffeemaker, and complimentary honey buns. This place is

practically the Ritz.”

I was trying to be funny, but Peter didn‟t laugh.
The door to room twelve looked like it‟d seen better days. The paint was peeling and

there were big gouges in the wood. Someone had tried to smooth it over with putty. At least it
filled the holes so no one could see in. I opened the door and flicked on the light as I walked
in. Pete came in behind me and shut it. A second later I heard the lock slide home.

“We‟re safe here, Pete.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean, rule of the Zone. Closed doors mean territory claimed. Don‟t take what

isn‟t yours and all that.” I yawned and tossed the keys to the motel room and the car onto the
shitty table by the window.

“They still use keys here?”
“Yup, and payphones. There are benefits to being stuck in the sixties. It‟s only seventeen

bucks a night to stay.” Although the drawbacks were obvious, too. As in the furniture was
ugly enough to make your eyes bleed.

I looked at Peter. He was still standing by the door looking pale and scared. There was a

black smudge on his left cheek, and a hole in his turtleneck. Another inch to the left and I
could have seen his navel.

I took a step towards him, and his arms tightened around his middle.
“I thought you said you were okay?”
“I am, I just...”
Closer still and I slipped a hand to the back of head, through his curls, and pulled him

closer. His lips against mine made me forget how he was in some serious trouble. And I
meant trouble with a capital T. Trouble other than not being Human much longer.

Then I pulled away, and it all came back to me. How I‟d come close to losing him. How

Whitcomb had almost helped make him disappear.

Anger boiled under my skin. Peter‟s eyes widened.
“I‟m sorry...”
I blinked. “For what?”
“You‟re mad at me.”
What? “No. No. Never. I‟m not mad at you. I‟m pissed at Whitcomb.”
“It wasn‟t his fault. Robert is the one who made me go.”
Made him go. My forehead touched Peter‟s. “Were you really going to help Serge until

you found out you were going to be Lesser-Bred?”

Peter‟s eyes slid away. He stared at my shoulder, and then he lifted a hand to pick

something off the collar of my duster.

“I didn‟t do it because I hate them, if that‟s what you‟re trying to ask me.”
Yeah, I guess, in a way, that‟s exactly what I was asking. “Then why would you help

them?”

“I wanted to understand it all better, you know...”
“No.”
“I wanted to understand why metaphysics does what it does. Why people are attracted to

it. Why people crave it. Why people risk life and limb to be around the inhuman.”

And why did I have the weirdest feeling the word people was a stand in for me? “Are

you trying to tell me something, Peter?” He shut his eyes. I knew why, too. Because my
question hurt. “No more secrets, remember. No more not telling me about the going-ons in
your head.” I pushed him into the corner, giving him no place to go. Then I kissed him, hard,
brutal, nipping his lip, his jaw, making my way to his ear where I latched on and nursed his
earlobe.

“D...” He groaned then he pleaded.
“Tell me.”
“I thought maybe it was me. That...”
“That what?” I buried my face into his neck, sucked at his pulse. His skin smelled like

burnt plastic, sweat, and something dark and sweet. “Tell me, Peter...” My hands found his
groin. I stroked him through his khakis.

“...I wasn‟t good enough, or enough, or...” He moaned into my cheek, his lips searched

for my mouth. But I didn‟t give myself to him, not yet. If our lips got together the talking
would stop.

“Why would you think you weren‟t good enough?”
“Because you always wanted them...”
I growled against Pete‟s throat, and he whimpered. Not in a scared way but needful. I

don‟t think Peter could ever be scared of me. At least I hoped he couldn‟t. “I didn‟t want
them, Peter, I didn‟t want anyone but you.” I pulled back so I could look at him. So I could
drown in his dark gaze. “The only one I ever wanted was you. I used everyone else. I used
them because it was the only way I could deal with not having you.”

“I know... I mean, I know that now. I just didn‟t then. I just didn‟t understand...”
And could I blame him? Really? After all the things I‟d done. All the stupid, stupid

things I‟d done?

No, of course not.
I sighed. “C‟mon, let‟s get a shower. We smell like ashtrays.” I tugged on Peter‟s hand

but he pulled away.

“I...”
“What?”
“I don‟t think taking our clothes off is a good idea...” He fumbled with the collar of his

turtleneck then tugged at the sleeves while his eyes tried to find something else to look at.
“...at least until morning. I really should eat something first anyhow. I can eat, and you can
shower. Maybe we could order Chinese.”

“No one delivers food around here.”
“Okay, maybe we could go to one of the convenience stores...” More tugging.
“Peter?” He flinched.
“Yeah.”
“What‟s wrong?”
He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and tried to walk past me. I caught his arm.

“Pete...”

Peter‟s hand went to his throat. “It‟s nothing.”
Yeah, well I wanted to be the judge of that, fuck you very much! “You sure don‟t act like

it‟s nothing.” His bottom lip disappeared under his teeth, and I said, “No more secrets,
remember? Nothing hidden. Nothing at all.”

“You‟re going to be pissed.”
“I‟m already pissed.”
“More pissed.”
Okay. Maybe I was. With the way he was acting? Definitely. “Well, beating around the

bush isn‟t exactly making me feel all rainbows and Keebler elves.”

In spite of everything, Pete‟s lips tugged up.
“Take off your shirt, Peter.” I don‟t know why I said it, but the look he gave told me I

was right on the mark.

“D...”
“Take off your shirt.”
I waited while Peter gave me one more long look. His hands crumpled up in the hem of

his turtleneck.

He paused. “You have to promise me.”
“Huh? Promise what?”
“You won‟t ... do something...”
Stupid. He didn‟t want me to do anything stupid. Jesus H. Christ, what the hell could be

left for me to do?

I ran through the list. It was longer than even I wanted to admit. “Okay, fine.”
In one smooth move, Pete slipped out of the turtleneck.
At first I thought the blotchy dark spots were some sort of mark, like a Stain trying to

rise. But then I saw the one shaped like a hand.

“What the fuck...” I yanked him flush against me, ran my hand along his neck, his

shoulder. My eyes followed the path of bruises painting his skin. It looked like someone had
tried to choke him to death. Then I remembered what he said.

Robert made him leave.
“I‟ll kill that motherfucker...”
“Nothing happened...”
“Like hell, he Rolled you, didn‟t he! That goddamned son of a bitch...”
Rolling. It‟s one of those Kin terms which can mean so many things. And in this case,

dominance. One Male defies another, and it comes down to whichever is strongest. Lesser-
Breds do the same thing, not as often, but I‟ve seen it happen.

In laymen‟s terms it‟s fucking without feeding. The insult of insults for them.
“It wasn‟t like that...”
“Like what?”
“Not like you think. Like your thinking...”
Maybe Peter really could read my mind. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Robert hates what he is. Trust me. He wouldn‟t Roll me if his life depended on

it.”

“Then why are you bruised?”
“I freaked, okay.”
“Freaked?”
“When I bit you. After I called Whitcomb. You were all covered in blood, and you

wouldn‟t wake up. I lost it, and Robert had to hold me down.”

“You said he made you leave.”
“He did. By twisting my arm behind my back, and yeah, pinning me to the ground, then

physically carrying me out. But he didn‟t do that. I tried to fight him D, but he was too
strong.” The shame in Peter‟s voice was palpable. He‟d fought someone he would have never
been able to win against.

For me.
I traced the streak of black and blue around his neck with my fingers, held in awe by the

violence written in his flesh. Violence he‟d initiated and endured for me. Violence I‟d never
imagined he was capable of.

Man, as wrong as it was, my dick was really impressed.
“Come take a shower with me.”
“Why?”
“I want to wash you.” I don‟t know why I said that either. But I suddenly needed him

wet, warm, slick, and my hands all over him. And not just because my dick was bored.

“Wash me?”
“Yeah, Lesser-Breds and Kin, they ... they wash the people they care for. It will make

you feel better. I can‟t feed you. I can‟t meet your needs. But I can wash you.” And suddenly
washing Peter was oh-so important to me.

Chapter Six

Peter followed me into the bathroom, and I sat down on the edge of the tub and turned on

the water. With the plug pushed down, it didn‟t take long for it to fill up. The tub wasn‟t very
big or very deep. Not like the one at our apartment.

It was awhile before I had the courage to turn back around. And when I did, my heart got

hung up somewhere around my throat.

In the piss-poor light of the half-dead fluorescents, the bruises on Peter‟s neck looked

like streaks of black ink. I couldn‟t help but feel responsible for those marks. I‟d failed Peter
even though he was too good of a person to let the blame fall where it was supposed to go. If
I‟d brought him here days ago, after the first time he flared, he would never have bitten me.
Or if he had, at least he wouldn‟t have panicked. And if he did panic he would have called
someone other than Whitcomb.

I‟d promised to find someone to feed him. To take care of him. To teach him what it

meant to be this inhuman thing he was going to become.

I never thought myself capable of breaking a promise to Peter before, and the realization

I had felt like a knife in my chest.

No, no ... a knife wouldn‟t have hurt half this bad.
My stupidity, my greed, it‟s cost me a lot of things over the years. And this time it almost

cost me the most important person in my life.

I tugged at the turtleneck still in his hands and let it fall to the floor at his feet. Then I got

down on my knees in front of him.

Staring up at Peter felt right. Maybe because it was a familiar position for me. Maybe

because it‟s where I really and truly belonged. And I don‟t mean that just because I liked to
suck him off. Which I do. It was the fact, like this, I felt like I was worshiping him. And he
deserved to be worshiped.

Was that what I was doing?
I dropped my eyes to his loafers. Yeah, yeah, worshipping him was exactly what I was

doing.

I wish I could say admitting it made me feel better. Instead it made me realize he

deserved so much more than I could ever give him. And that was before. Before Peter was
not going to be Human anymore. Now what little bit I had to offer seemed so insignificant.

“D...”
I shushed him. Nothing needed to be said right now. At least not with words. I slid a

hand down the leg of his pants to his right shoe and pulled it off, then I tugged at the sock
until his bare foot was in my hand. I stroked the sole and petted his toes, counting them. For
absolutely no reason. At least not a sane one. I brushed a thumb over the hairs on each one.
Fine and blond, they were nothing like the dark curls on top of his head. I traced a vein which
ran along the top, picked at a piece of lint stuck to a toenail.

Pete kicked off the left shoe when I put his right foot down. I stripped off his other sock

and gave his left foot the same kind of attention I‟d given its neighbor. Touched his ankle, ran
my hands up inside the leg of his chinos until my fingers stroked the back of his knees.

The smallest shiver ran down Pete‟s body, vibrating across my arms, making the sad

excuse for a heart in my chest skip a beat.

Closer, his toes brushed my knees. I put my hands on his belt. Some pulling, some

tugging, and it was sliding free. It hit the floor and the buckle made a harsh sound as it
cracked against the side of the toilet.

My hands shook as I undid the button of his pants and pulled down the zipper. His

chinos pooled around his feet. In on one smooth move, I hooked my thumbs under his boxers
and slid them to the floor. My hands traced his shins, knees, thighs, and continued upward to

his stomach. My fingertips followed the thin line of hair leading from the patch around his
cock to the space between his pecs. I thumbed his nipples and watched the gooseflesh prickle
around his navel.

I tongued his groin, biting a little, kissing more. Then I buried my face against his skin,

inhaling his scent. If only I could drown myself in it.

And to think I‟d almost lost this.
“D...” Peter‟s hands pushed their way into my hair, glided down the back of my neck and

kneaded my shoulders. I held him tighter, knowing damn well my fingers were going to leave
bruises on his ass cheeks. And while that bothered me, I couldn‟t get my hands and arms to
obey my brain and let go. In fact, they did the opposite, pulled him closer, held him tighter.
“Talk to me.”

I would. Only I didn‟t have any words that were worthy. Words to tell him how much I

loved him. How much he meant to me. How much life would mean nothing without him.
How not even dying was as terrifying as living in a world where he wasn‟t.

“Please, D, tell me what this is really about.”
“I‟m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not taking care of you.” Pete shook his head. It didn‟t surprise me when he didn‟t

understand.

Peter wasn‟t hard when I took him into my mouth, but it only took a couple of strokes

before I was choking on him. When he tried to pull me off, I shoved him deeper, sucked
harder, stroked faster. Forcing him to fuck my mouth with violence. I don‟t think he
understood why I wanted this. Needed it. Deserved it. But it wasn‟t long before his body gave
in, and his hips met the pull of my arms thrust after thrust.

Small sounds broke through his breathing. Desperate noises. Peter stared down at me, his

mouth open, his lips slick, his eyes so wide and trusting. Thank you, God, he didn‟t hold
back. And every response his body fed me was encouragement.

More than that, it told me how much he loved this.
Loved me.
If I could have, I would have done this forever. I think that‟s because when we were like

this nothing else mattered. My shortfalls, his perfection. No, feeling Peter inside me, me
inside him, our bodies touching, I could forget about all the bad things. Like this it was just
him and me, and I could make him happy. Keep him safe.

With a low moan, Peter arched in my arms, going up on his toes, his entire body

shuddering under my hands; the taste of him filled my mouth, coated my tongue. I savored
him, every drop. I lost nothing he gifted to me. Even though I didn‟t say it out loud, I
promised him from here on out I would be the man he needed me to be.

Even if he killed me for it.
Killed me and ate me.
To Be Continued:

The End

About the Author:

I was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia and I‟ve been writing and drawing since I

could hold a crayon. My first dragon crush was Pete‟s Dragon. I was three, and he was, well,
a cartoon. But I was hooked – a dragonholic. Then I moved on to bigger, badder, scarier
beasties.

Dahlonega, Georgia is my home and I‟m hard at work on new novels featuring the Kin,

the Lesser Breds, the Humans and the rest of the residents of Atlanta, Georgia. Enjoy your
time in the City of Dragons, and remember: don‟t wander into the Gray Zone after dark.

Meet Lsb Authors At The House Of

Sin Lsbooks.Net

We invite you to visit Liquid Silver Books

LSbooks.com

for other exciting erotic romances.

2007: Terran Realm

Urban fantasy world: TerranRealm.com

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