I?m a shouldn?t be.

Shouldn?t be here.

Can feel the ?you don?t belong? burning along my skin.

This isn?t my world. I don?t belong here.

None of them See.

They turn their heads to look, but I?m not really here.

I?m an overlap. A nightmare slipping through the cracks.

The best part is the banality.

A room full of the faithful, but not a single believer in sight.

They bow their heads for prayer.

Their hands clasp together in servile reverence.

They thank their maker for the wealth and plenty that surrounds them.

Greed. Piled high. Mountains of fine china and ?the good silverware.?

Enough food to share with guests, but only the people they like.

It?s a dinner party.

They don?t see me standing at the window looking in.

The dog next door sees me; it won?t stop barking.

They disregard it, of course.

?That stupid dog again,? someone grumbles.

If only people understood the language of dogs.

?Get out,? it?s saying. ?Get away. Danger! Danger!?

I touch my hand to the glass.

Do you feel safe, preacher man?

Are you secure in your faith?

I pull my hand away when someone looks.

The imprint fades like an apparition.

She blinks and shakes her head, thinking she only imagined something.

Someone makes a joke and she laughs.

I?ve already been forgotten.

Hours pass, and I watch them.

Two by two they filter out into the night, drive off in their Chryslers and their Buicks.

The missus goes upstairs to remove her face.

He locks up the house and turns off the lights.

For a while I listen to them fucking.

She screams things her bake sale friends would consider improper.

The quiet of the night starts to settle in.

Even the dog has stopped barking.

On the other side of the fence I can hear it panting and wheezing and whimpering.

The animal has made itself hoarse, exhausted.

?I?ve done all I can,? its labored breathing says. ?Why won?t they listen??

The guilty never do.

Hush now, little dog.

I?m an echo.

The sins of the past slowly catching up to him.

A spectre slipping through the walls.

They?ll never know I was here.

Saturday 28, 2015 at 2:00 am
Casa del Brujo


?Quaint,? he decided after circling the little beach house.

Various wards and protective enchantments kept the high warlock from getting too close to the Cajun?s home, but that didn?t stop him from testing the boundaries at every angle. With each rebuffed spell, the warlock?s smile grew bigger and bigger. But eventually boredom took the place of curiosity. He?d nearly given up on waiting for Canaan when the man came strolling up the deserted stretch of road that wound along the top of the cliffs.

Nash?s body seemed to melt into the ground, dropping from view into a pool of dense, black fog.

When Canaan stepped through what was left of the inky cloud a minute later, nothing but sand and gravel crunched beneath his boots. A quiet, airy sort of song trickled out of his mouth, the words in French. Despite the almost melancholic tune, he wore a faint smile on his face, which was tipped toward the sky.

Just before the Cajun crossed the invisible threshold of protection, Nash appeared behind him. But instead of rising from the earth, his body seemed to materialize from above. He splashed down out of a plume of darkness.

A slash of fire cut through the air, parting the dark cloud and narrowly missing the high warlock who dove to the side with a shout. Canaan gave a low growl, extending his arm toward the blur of movement. All around them, the snow began to melt.

Nash rolled to his feet quickly and threw a hand out to meet the Cajun?s advances with a strike of his own. A pulse of light flashed in his palm.

Concentration broken, he stumbled back a step. Canaan bared his teeth and pressed forward again, bringing both arms around in a wide motion. A ring of flames encircled the would-be attacker; but he didn?t stop there. Stalking forward, he rotated a wrist and the space inside the flames seemed to blur.

?Goddamnit, Canaan.? Nash put his hands up.

Firelight reflected off a pair of eyes in the shadows beyond Canaan?s left shoulder, and behind him a quiet voice said simply one, cool word.

?Guapo.?

Shock and recognition illuminated Canaan?s face as much as the firelight. The second voice tore his eyes away from the high warlock trapped by fire. Canaan craned his neck around to peer in the direction he?d heard Salvador?s voice. He clenched his teeth together and turned back around.

?Da **** is goin? on?? Cane straightened his aggressive posture and waved a hand at the circle of fire. As the flames were sucked into the ground, the enchantment fell away as well, freeing one warlock from the other?s entrapment.

The quenched fire stole the Spaniard?s eyes, and he shrank back into the dark on a single reverse step. His presence could still be felt, if not entirely seen. Cold, fae eyes were watching.

Nash adjusted his hat and swept forward as though nothing had happened. Salvador?s presence was entirely ignored. ?Defensive much? And why might that be??

Cane snorted. ?Yer da one sneakin? up behind me.? His gaze landed on the stetson and his eyes narrowed. ?Are ya spyin? on me now??

Ignoring the question, Nash offered one of his own. ?Have you lost your goddamn mind, boy??

Advancing a step, Canaan thrust a finger in the other warlock?s face. ?Ya don? get ta lecture me ?bout bein? wound up right now.?

?Oh, right now.? Nash nodded patronizingly and then gestured to all the space around them. ?You have all of this space. All of this freedom. I gave you a chance to start over, to live.? A terrible, furious scowl marred his face. ?I told you to stay away from the preacher!? By the time he?d reached the end of the sentence, Nash was yelling into the Cajun?s face.

Confusion splashed across Canaan?s face. ?Da hell is you talkin? ?bout, Nash??

Angered by what he assumed was an attempt to play dumb, he reached out to catch the Cajun?s jacket with both fists. Drawing the man close, so they were nose to nose, he said, ?Waters is dead.?

Cane looked like he was about to be sick. With a flurry of movement, he shoved Nash away and ran a hand through his hair. ?I didn?...you t?ink I did it??

?Stop playing dumb, Canaan.?

?I ain? playin? at anyt?in!? He countered, still reeling from the news. The Spaniard peeled out of the shadows along Canaan?s side, right hand lifting to touch fingertips to the warlock?s left elbow. He said nothing, but watched Nash impassively.

The high warlock?s eyes shifted from Canaan?s bewildered expression to study the Spaniard?s face. Curiosity lurked beneath the anger, but his attention was only spared for a moment before he focused on the Cajun who seemed more grounded with the added presence of Salvador.

?Tell me you didn?t do it.? The warlock?s gaze shifted, looking past Canaan into the ocean. ?Tell me you didn?t know anything about it.?

He answered immediately. ?I didn? kill ?im, Nash. I?ve been here. Got proof I can show ya if ya wan??

Nash?s blue eyes snapped back to the Cajun?s face, staring at him intently. ?Did you know?? He gave a flicker of a glance to the man standing to his left. Their eyes met, the Spaniard?s narrowing shrewdly, but otherwise he remained inscrutable.

?No,? Cane replied resolutely.

?I?ve never doubted you, Canaan, because you?ve never lied to me.? Licking his lips, Nash shook his head. Rather at a loss, he tossed up his hands. ?But what am I supposed to think when I get word that an upstanding community leader decided to get drunk and park his truck on train tracks?? The Cajun blanched, but Nash pressed on. ?Does that sound familiar??

Canaan twisted to grab hold of the Spaniard?s arm. Nash watched his face carefully. The action did not appear to be made in alarm, but out of a sudden need to steady himself. Salvador drifted more than stepped a little more into the other warlock?s personal space, left hand lifting to touch the fingers gripping his opposite arm.

?I don? know what else I can say. ?Cept fer maybe dat I wish I could tell ya I?d killed ?im. But I was here. On a ****in? talk show pretendin? like I got my **** t?get?er.? At this point the Spaniard closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Cane?s temple. ?I didn? send anybody an? I didn? know a damn t?ing until ya told me.?

Nash?s eyes tick-tocked between the two men, lips pursed, expressionless. He listened to what the Cajun said and what he didn?t say. He studied the man from which Cane seemed to draw strength; the Spaniard was passively protective of his lover?s palpable vulnerability.

Lowering his eyes, the high warlock drew in a breath and took a step back. ?I believe you.? He reached up, tugging the brim of his hat a little lower on his forehead. ?The others are suspicious, but I?ll talk to Pearl. She nearly came after you herself.?

Nash looked up, hoping the Cajun had concealed the intensity of his emotions. All he found was poorly contained grief. He shifted his eyes to fix Salvador with an imploring expression. Take care of him.

The Spaniard answered him just as silently with a slow and measured blink that said, I will.

He took another step back and turned to show both men his profile.

?You?ll be fine, Cane. I?m sorry it came out like it did, but it was better I came than someone else. They wouldn?t have asked questions.? Though he spoke to the Cajun, the explanation was meant for the man?s lover. On that note, the high warlock turned away completely. ?I?ll clean this up.?

?Wait--?

But Carson Nash vanished before Cane had a chance to finish.

Friday the 27th, 5:00 am
Bay St. Louis, MS


He stirs.

Taking him from his house was easy.

The security control panel told me the history of the alarm code with merely a touch.

I can pass Between, even here. There will be no trace of me having gone in.

We only had to input the numbers once to indicate we were going out.

We took his keys and his clothes, his car and his booze, and he slept while I drove him here to this place. He slept because I made sure he would. His wife slept through him leaving, too.

The drugs will leave her system by morning and she?ll never even know. I waited until they were sleeping before I slipped into their room and stuck the needles in their veins. She might feel an itch, but she?ll disregard it in her panic as she searches for a man who?s no longer there. A man who will no longer be there ever again.

How does it feel?

I followed the road of memories I remember seeing through my lover?s eyes. This is the lay of the land. I know it now as if I had been here before. As if I lived here. As if I?ve driven this road a hundred times, the way he did when he lived here.

I am his anger. His hate and his rage. I brought it with me. I let it boil in my blood and guide me to the place where premeditated horror made him completely undone.

Now I will recreate his nightmares and give them away.

This is Karma. Part of what I am. Part of a Name I never gave him, because he didn?t want to know. But if he knew? Oh. If he knew.

?Where--? The first word out of the preacher?s mouth is an incomplete question. He?s groggy and disoriented. Then he says, ?Phyllis?? He realizes she?s not beside him. He?s starting to acknowledge that the cold asphalt he?s laying on is not his soft, warm bed.

?She?s not here,? I tell him as I prop the drunk drifter in the driver?s seat. He was easy to find. Men like him are always easy to find, if you know where to look.

My voice startles the preacher, and he realizes he?s bound. He wriggles like the worm he is. Or is he a fish the way he flops about testing his bonds? I made good use of the tow rope he kept in the truck bed. He won?t be breaking out of those knots any time soon.

?Where is she?? he demands.

They always make demands, these people. Think they?re in control when they?re not. He?ll start shouting when the realization sinks in that he isn?t. We have time yet for that, though.

?We left her nice and snug in her bed,? I tell him. My voice is calm. I am calm. I am a calculating menace with a voice made to soothe. ?She?s safe,? I assure him. ?Alive.? These words are necessary before he can begin to protest and ask what I?ve done with her. Best I tell him now and save myself the trouble of his exhausting questions. I?m expecting the next one, though.

?Who are you??

I smile, and I can see that it unnerves him.

?I?m nobody,? I tell him. ?I?m nothing. I don?t even exist.? And all of that is true, here, in this world.

They?ll never know I was here.

?What?re you doing?? He sees me loading the cab of his truck up with bottles, pouring some out onto the floor. The fire that will be needs fuel to burn to make this body difficult to identify. I put him in the preacher?s clothes and switched their wedding rings, but I know a thing or two about DNA and dental records.

I?m taking every step necessary to make them think this other nobody is the somebody squirming on the shoulder of the road behind me. They need to think it?s him. More importantly, they need to believe that it is. Belief defines reality.

The train and the fire will take care of most of the distinguishing features. I?ll have to smash his teeth in myself. Good thing he?s too drunk and unconscious to feel anything just now. I made sure of that too.

?What?re you doing to that man?? Hysteria is starting to set in as he watches me work. Deep inside he wants to believe himself a good man, because his Jesus loves him so. But I know better, and so does he.

?This man?? I turn with a smile that makes the preacher flinch. ?This man, Jon? Why. This man is you.?

Terror lights his eyes. I know him. I said his name. He can?t at all place me, though. Of course he can?t. We?ve never met. Not until today. I can see him desperately searching his memory trying to place me, trying to think of anyone who might want to do him harm.

The other trouble, apart from not actually having ever seen me before, is that he can think of far too many people who might like to do him harm. Nobody has ever acted on it, though. They?ve all been too afraid. Of the law. Of God. He made sure to help put those fears in their hearts so he could get away with all his sins.

?Does this seem familiar to you?? I ask him. I keep my tone friendly, conversational. We?re discussing the scores of the latest big game. We?re talking about the youth programs available at his church. We?re two men sharing a beer and a story.

His heart is hammering in his chest; I can hear it. Still, he plays along hoping he can prolong the inevitable and plan his escape. He rocks and shuffles on his side until he?s angled in just such a way that he can see the tracks and the crossing. I see this one specific sin of his past light up his frightened eyes. He remembers. But he lies.

?No.? The slight quaver in his voice betrays him. He swallows over the thick, lumpy guilt collecting in his throat. The reflection of what he?s done plays out in his eyes. I can see it. He?s no longer seeing me, nor the now. He?s seeing a night much like this one two years gone.

Good. That?s good. This is what I want him to be seeing.

I can hear the train now. It?s close. Timing is everything.

I turn the key in the ignition. I rev the engine by pressing my hand on the gas pedal. A little creative engineering locks the drifter?s foot in place to weigh it down for me. I reach across the nearly dead man?s body to shift the truck out of park and into drive. The door?s closing on me as momentum takes control, but I give it an extra push to shut as I duck out of the cab.

We watch together, the preacher and I, as truck and train move on an intercept course for the same X-marks-the-spot on the grid.

?It has to be like this,? I tell him. ?They have to believe.?

The other man whimpers. I turn my head to smile down at him.

?Of course, you understand.?

March 3, 2015 at 9:30 pm
Red Dragon Inn

A plume of inky smoke descended from above over a stool at the Red Dragon Inn?s bar. As the darkness dispersed, a man dressed in a neat, white polo, dark blue jeans, and cowboy boots was in plain view. He reached up to remove the stetson from his head and set it gingerly beside him on the bartop.

Nash took a moment to investigate his surroundings. The stool creaked as he turned to peer about the room in silent observation. Some kind of altercation was in the process, but he gave it little regard. He shifted to face the bar again and settled his gaze on the blond woman rooting around the ice box. "Is it self serve?" He'd seen her vault the bar and made an educated guess that she did not work there.

"Most nights it is yeah. Just remember to settle up your tab at the end of the night with the till." Thorn nodded toward the register that may or may not be rattling and hissing due to the commotion.

Entirely unconcerned with the goings on, though, perhaps he might have given a slightly exasperated sigh in light of the fireball that was conjured by a rabble rouser behind him, Nash slipped off his stool and through the break to retrieve a drink. He took his time perusing the bottles, pulling them one by one from the ice box, until he'd made a decision. As for payment, a coin was flipped in the direction of the till. It disappeared inside without needing to be opened. No surprise snakes for him.

"Hey sugar, mind getting me one?"

Nash looked up to the woman addressing him; she was leaning over the counter and wore a dashing smile. "Of course, darlin'," he replied smoothly. Backtracking a few feet, he turned a quarter of a step to the right and reached into the icebox to extract another Badsider for the woman. He even paid for it in exactly the same fashion he'd paid for his own. The warlock moved fluidly back to his seat and deposited the woman?s beer beside her on the way to his own stool.

Dressed in loose fit jeans, black boots with the laces removed, a plain white tee with a few splotches of blood (just ignore that), and a leather coat with a cotton hood not drawn up -- one Salvador Delahada entered the establishment through the back alley door. After entering, he stepped immediately to the side to let the door shut, and paused to assess the general atmosphere of the room. He looked about to see who was where and when. First familiar face he spotted was Thorn's, across the way, and she got a twitch of a quarter second smile with a hello nod. And then there, moving out from behind the bar. Something about his smile turned wicked.

"Are we making friends?" Salvador asked sweetly, viciously, of the rabble rouser, as he moved away from the wall. Then he used a stool for a ladder, leaned over the bar, and swiped the Cuervo Gold off the shelf before anybody else could get to it. He pushed back, turned about, and dropped his butt down on that stool he'd used as a step.

A voice he'd heard say but one word and yet, recognition registered immediately. Nash didn't even need to turn around. The warlock sipped his beer and after smacking his lips together, set it down with a smile. "Fancy meeting you here." He'd yet to look aside.

Salvador sat with his spine angled to the edge of the bar, elbows on the counter while he twisted the cap off the tequila bottle, facing outward. He tipped his head toward the shoulder nearest Nash and cut him a grin that was completely Cheshire. He looked whereas the other man didn't. What to say, what to say.

"I'd half a mind to track you down, but here you are. Now he can't throw a fit saying I sought you out after implicitly telling me not to do such a thing." Nash spun his beer bottle in little quarter turns on the bartop.

Salvador expressed a short, chuff of a laugh that was in part a scoff as he lifted his head back up and looked away. "Did he? Hm." He lifted the tequila bottle to take a swig straight from it. No glass, thank you. While looking out into the common room, he spoke aside to the man with the hat. "Only half a mind?" Let's go back to that.

"Only half," repeated the warlock, nodding once for emphasis. Now it was Nash's turn to look up, smirking at Salvador's profile. "I don't care to rile him up any further. I do care about him, you know. What's that verse? 'Fathers, do not exasperate your children'? Something." He took another drink.

His attention tipped back over to Nash when he spoke again. Sal looked the man over thoughtfully before saying, "I wouldn't know." After a beat, he thought to elaborate. "About the verse." That is to say that yes he does know the man cares.

Carson snapped his fingers, lips parting. "'Provoke not your children to wrath.' That's it." When you're old, the mind latches on to things that rarely leave you alone until addressed properly. Nash paused, tapping a fingernail on the bartop. Inhaling, the warlock looked away and swiped the beer up for another sip. "I rarely leave New Orleans. Could probably count on one hand how often I've done so in the past five years. Until recently, that is. Three times now I've left my city." Sip. "For you." The collective you.

Sal took another drink of tequila straight from the bottle while watching the common area. Then his attention diverted back to Nash. He watched him for several seconds, long enough to catch the undercurrent of his meaning and not need to ask what was weighing on his mind. Instead, he said, "Three." Repeating. Seeking elaboration. He could only think of two.

"Was Paris for me as well?" That's news to him, if so, because he hadn't gone.

"He wanted me to meet you." But Nash shrugged, seemingly uncaring that the meeting had fallen through. But Paris...he didn't want to talk about Paris. The more important journeys were the two most recent. "The second time I was not aware of your involvement. But this time," he said, turning to look at Salvador once more. "This time is just for you." The warlock had an attractive mouth and the smile he wore was certainly charming.

Salvador?s eyes cut sharply back to Nash once more. A bit of light hit his irises and reflected off of them oddly, like a passing shimmer that was not quite natural. For three whole seconds, his stare was nearly murderous, and then he too turned up a smile that was just as much charming as it was lethal. "And now we've met. Won't he be pleased." Of course, he was being belligerently sarcastic. Salvador paused for a swig of tequila. Then he slid forward, off his stool, and got to his feet. With a tip of his head as the only invitation, he moved in the direction indicated and walked through the room to the front door. This conversation needed to continue elsewhere. They could try the porch first, because that's where he's headed. Out.

Carson was in no rush to move. As Salvador slipped away, the warlock directed his smile to the beer bottle as it was lifted for yet another pull. Without breaking the seal of lips, he drank until the ale was gone and as he stepped down off his stool, sent the empty bottle in the direction of the bin with a wave of the hand. It clinked against the other bottles gently just as he pulled open the front door. Partway through doing so, the warlock realized he'd forgotten his hat. This place was cold and a man needed something to cover his head. One moment the stetson was on the bar and in the next he was stepping out into the cool night air while placing the worn, comfortable hat on the crown of his head. As the din of the crowd was shut away, Carson bellied up to the railing facing the street. He was close enough to hold a private conversation while maintaining enough distance that the Spaniard would not worry about being touched.

By the time Carson got to the door, Salvador had taken up a perch on the scrap of rail on far end furthest from the swing, just outside the reach of the spill of light that poured through the windows.

How to approach this topic of conversation? A stretch of silence settled between them while Salvador weighed his words. Obviously, the high warlock knew. The fae in him was adept at hearing the words that weren't said as much as those that were. The first time he hadn't been aware of his involvement. Obviously now he was. "I'm not careless," he said. "I don't usually leave messes." Bodies. "This time I needed to, though. There'd be more questions and more suspicions if I hadn't, you understand." He tipped his head and looked aside at Nash carefully.

The warlock gripped the railing, leaning his weight into it while overlooking the street. Nash watched an SUV pull out and drive away, passing a horse drawn carriage coming from the opposite direction. This place was strange. "We have rules. An accord. And I can't keep protecting him." Turning to meet his gaze, Nash studied the Spaniard's face curiously. "I don't understand. Why it was even necessary...retribution will not change the past."

"No, but it will give him peace." With a pause, Sal gave the tequila bottle a turn to make the liquor inside swirl before he lifted it. "Or so I hope." Then he took a drink, after which he had more to say. "He didn't know. He didn't do it. If they come to you with more questions, point them in the right direction if you must. Let them come. Your rules and accords mean nothing here." And he wasn't afraid.

Nash's eyes narrowed speculatively. He let one hand fall away from the railing so he could turn to face Salvador, chin lifting. "No," the warlock agreed. "The rules do not apply here. I don't think you need to wonder if anyone should come. My word was able to quell Pearl's outrage and lucky for you, no one else died. I told her it was finished and there would be no more unwanted guests in her domain." Laced within the explanation was the silent request to please stay out of the South. "I sent him here for the lack of rules, the ambiguity. So he could be himself." Carson frowned and looked away.

Salvador tipped his head and studied the high warlock's frowning profile with quiet curiosity. He was an interesting creature, wearing his emotions on the outside, plain to see. They were contrasts. A silence stretched between them while the Spaniard considered the other man's words, and then he said, "He thinks he was sent here as a punishment." This was something he felt the other man needed to know. He looked down, secreting a quiet smile. "He's magnificent when he's himself, but I think in part he's terrified of that too."

The warlock's lips pressed into a thin line. "A part of him will always hate me for it. I don't mind bearing that cross." A crooked, wry smile bloomed in place of the dour expression. He turned back to catch the Spaniard's eye. "Maybe someday he'll thank me. I think he'll find himself here, more than he could have discovered within the confines of the Accord. I don't doubt he'll have encouragement in that regard."

He looked up in time to meet the other man's eye. At first his answer came silently on a lethargic, cat like blink much like he had expressed over the Cajun's shoulder not too many nights before. There, in the shadow of the porch overhang, he smiled. Of course he'll have encouragement, said that smile. Nash had earned himself some respect with his words, and in the turn of only a few short phrases any hostility the Spaniard might have expressed to him was gone. He shifted out of his lean to stand more upright. "The mess was mine, and I thank you for cleaning up after me. In this I owe you a boon. Tell me what I might do for you and it will be done. You need not tell me now." Think on it, went unsaid in the pause. One must be careful how they word their wishes with the fae, after all. "You know how to find me." There his smile twisted into a smirk.

A low, smokey, and so very amused chuckle ripped through the otherwise quiet setting. The warlock drew himself up, sensing the conversation coming to a close. "You don't owe me anything, boy. I didn't do it for you. Petra's been a peach. Cane's been a little ****. I've loved them for a long time. And they're not the only ones who miss their brother." For a split second it looked as if Nash was going to offer his hand, but thought better of it. Instead he offered the Spaniard a smile in which he attempted to relay his appreciation for the other man's actions. Carson was a man of the law, bound in ways Salvador was not. The smile was thanks for the comeuppance.

A sway of step to the side, and then Salvador paused to look at the warlock with a shrewd narrowing of rusty eyes that glinted in the dark. What had been a smirk twitched into the shadow of a frown. He drummed his nails once, twice along the neck of the tequila bottle he still held in his hand. His attention caught on the twitch of the hand that might have been offered to shake, but clearly decided against. Then he looked back up, caught the smile, and forced on one of his own that was not quite as gracious as the one Carson Nash displayed. "All the same, I am in your debt." And the fae in him would not allow it to remain unbalanced. Some day, he meant to repay it, one way or another. This next part was obvious a struggle, because it went against his nature to say it. "Nnn. Have a good evening, Mr. Nash." Farewell. As it were. The taste of manners squeezing between his teeth was vile, and he might have sneered the words, but he said them all the same before turning aside and resuming course to walk away.

Sidestepping the Spaniard, Carson watched his back while mouthing the words 'Mister Nash' and shaking his head. "Night." Then after several moments of consternation, during which he lamented being owed anything by a fae, half notwithstanding, the warlock stepped forward into a pool of liquid smoke and appeared to drop out of sight. Gone from view. Gone from the realm altogether.

June 19, 2015 at 4:30 am
Matadero Dungeon


?What are you going to do to me??

Cane grit his teeth and rolled his eyes. ?I?m gonna let ?im rip yer tongue out if ya don? shut yer goddamn mouth, dat?s what.?

The girl cut a panicked look aside to the rust-eyed man in their company and promptly shut up. He?d found her working a corner in the West End. She had the right height and shape of Waters? wife, which meant less work in the glamour department.

?Don?t move,? Cane told her gruffly. She shut her eyes and held as still as her frazzled nerves would allow. The Cajun resumed applying the necessary changes to the girl?s facial features so that he could use her as yet another tool to frighten the man being kept in a cell just down the corridor. He had only his memory to go on, so when he was finished, Canaan stepped back to survey his work.

?Look like her? You?ve seen ?er more recently den me.? Head tipped to one side, the Cajun glanced over to Salvador for confirmation.

The Spaniard stepped around and leaned in close, squinting while he turned his head to look the woman over thoroughly. After several seconds of examination, he stepped back and turned to open a nearby cabinet drawer. From the drawer he took a simple hand mirror. He pricked a finger on one of the many various sharp tools near at hand and smeared a circle of blood along the outer edges of the glass. A dim glow hit his eyes as he pressed his thumb to the base of the reflective surface.

Instead of an image of any object or being in the room, a woman?s face appeared in the mirror. A little more wrinkled, perhaps, than the Cajun might remember her. Minor differences that two years time could make on a person, but vital for the sake of authenticity. He turned the mirror so Cane could see. Keeping his thumb pressed to the glass maintained the image for as long as necessary. Salvador?s irises remained alight as well.

It only took Canaan another few minutes to get everything perfect. Exact eye color, every line and wrinkle, even the dimple in her left cheek. Thanks to Salvador?s help, there was no doubt in his mind that Waters would swallow the lie whole.

Salvador broke the spell by lifting his thumb off the reflective glass. A slow blink snuffed the light in his eyes, and he turned to wipe the mirror clean with a rag before putting it away.

When the Cajun stepped back this time, it was to give the glamoured girl an appraising shake of the head. ?Not agin? gracefully, are ya, Phyllis??

The frightened woman?s eyelids flew open. Wringing her hands together, she proceeded to slide forward to the edge of the chair on which she was seated. ?My name?s not Phyllis!? Tears gathered in her eyes, gaze tick-tocking imploringly between the two men before her.

The Cajun?s hand darted to grab a hank of her ratty hair and lifted her up to her feet. She cried out, but he only sneered in her face. ?I?m pretty ****in? sure I told?ja ta keep yer mouth closed.? He turned her around to face Salvador, who by this point had turned back around himself. Cane held the girl with one hand in her hair and the other grasping her jaw. She was shorter than him, and he had to lean down quite a ways to get his mouth right up against her ear. ?Trust me, ya don? want him ta play wit?cha, darlin?. We kept de last girl down here fer almost four months. Long enough fer her nails ta grow back...so he could pull ?em all out again.?

The way the Spaniard smiled at her was enough to make the girl shudder. She whimpered, but said nothing further.

?You do what I say,? Cane went on, lifting his head to smirk at Sal. ?An? I won?t kill ya. I?ll let?cha go. Ya jes? gotta do one t?ing fer me, cher.? He could see from the corner of his eyes that she was looking at him, now, instead of Salvador. The Cajun took several seconds longer to tear his eyes away from the man to peer down at the terrified girl trembling at his side.

?Dere is a man who is about to die, you see. An? he needs to confess his sins. All I need from you, darlin?, is a small bit ?a actin?. Ya won? have no lines, ?cause we both know what happens if ya talk, but dat man? he needs ta believe yer his wife. Dat?cher scared out?cher mind. I guess dat one won? be too hard for ya. But what I really need from ya is fer you to be appalled when he admits to killing de people I love. See, I ain? got no issue wit?chou. None at all. You do what I need, an? yer free ta go. I won? stop ya. But if ya **** dis up fer me, I can guaran-damn-tee you?ll be down here longer?n de last girl. Got it??

Not-Phyllis whimpered again and shut her eyes tightly. Instead of nodding her understanding, a puddle of warm liquid gathered around her shoes.

Canaan curled a lip and let go of her chin, sliding his nearest boot away from the urine. ?A fer effort. It?s a nice touch, don?chou t?ink?? The Cajun swung his gaze back over to Salvador. ?Looks scared ta me.?

?Mm.? That passed as an affirmative, but was also an indication of further consideration while Salvador looked the girl over. ?She needs to change her clothes anyway,? he suggested. Likely torn fishnets and a skimpy faux leather skirt weren?t proper attire for a preacher?s wife. Fortunately for the girl, the Spaniard just so happened to have something more decent available in another cabinet a few paces down. He went to go fetch those.

?Oh stop,? Canaan sighed as Not-Phyllis started to cry outright. ?Ya ain? barely got anythin? on as it is, what he has?ll fit over what?cher already wearin?. Jesus.?

?She should take off the fishnets, though,? Salvador added when he returned. A snap of material unfurled the modest button-up dress he just so happened to have in his collection. She didn?t want to know where he?d got it from, but it was clean!

Calloused fingers released their hold on the girl?s hair so she could do as Salvador suggested. The added light shove he gave was her hint that it hadn?t been a suggestion at all, but rather a command. Not-Phyllis was pretty skilled at whipping her pantyhose off and she got dressed quickly. Canaan stopped her before she stepped back into the mile-high heels she?d been wearing earlier.

?You can go barefoot,? Cane told her. Though his opinion wasn?t asked for, Salvador nodded firmly his agreement; he would have said the same thing.

Now that she was ready, the Cajun glanced toward the door and fidgeted uncomfortably. Salvador had brought Waters here in late February. The man had been living in the dungeon for months without any knowledge that Canaan was actually alive. Not once in all that time had the Cajun ever done more than stand at the door of the preacher?s cell. A large part of him was afraid to finally be in possession of the last puzzle piece, that having it would do nothing to mend the gaping hole left behind in Jeremy?s and Israel?s absences.

How he?d felt waking up this morning was not something Cane wished to ever feel again. Tired of the aching void he experienced on a daily basis, he hoped this would give him a sense of finality.

?It is the destiny of stars to collapse.?
? Neil deGrasse Tyson, Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey

June 19, 2015 at 5:00 am
Matadero Dungeon


Fire consumes everything.

It is one of nature?s most destructive forces.

Every fire has a formula. They start when a combustible material is exposed to a source of heat and is able to sustain a rate of rapid oxidation. This produces a chain reaction. Fire cannot exist without all of these elements in place in the right proportions. Some fires require a catalyst, a substance that is not consumed when added but which enables the reactants to combust more readily.

I am a catalyst.

Once ignited, everything must align correctly for the chain reaction to take place. Provided there is a continuous supply of an oxidizer and fuel, a fire can sustain its own heat by the further release of heat energy in the process of combustion.

Rage sustains me.

Everything in my way will be devoured.

I ruin everything I touch. ?You?re a ruiner.? I?ve heard it more than once. It makes sense. Fire destroys all and I am fire. I am everything my Father made me. Disobedience. Brutality. Violence. Drunkenness. Ill-fated, malignant, false.

Even now, after being handed a second chance and a new start? I?m a ruiner. Everything is turning to ash. I?m certain he must be, too. Bones crumble, the body beneath me disappears.

?Cane, stop.?

It echoes all around me. So does the sound of his head hitting stone. I lost his body in the flames and now he, too, is ash. Like the body that is no longer beneath me. Like me. I can feel myself crumbling, too.

Pieces of myself flake away, drift to the glowing red stones below. So this is what it?s like to burn.

The lives I?ve marred throughout the years are innumerable. Pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, greed, and sloth. If I am not one, I am the others. Break free, just to fall into another. To some I bind myself willingly. In each I have ruined someone around me.

My temper killed my brother. My selfishness killed Jeremy. My vengeance killed my Salvation.

I?m a ruiner.

?Cane, stop.? I try to block the noise from reaching my ears by covering them with my hands and feel my skin disintegrate. It falls around me like his plea.

No longer can I distinguish between myself and the fire.

I have given myself over to the flame. I am consumed.

My body is razed.

Fire can be extinguished by removing any one of the elements of its formula. Removing the fuel source, removing heat faster than the fire can produce it, or by removing the available oxidizer.

In the end I have no one left to hate but myself. And when I am gone, so is fire.

?Cane, stop.? I do. There is nothing left of my body to burn. The flames die without fuel. I die.

False.

As the ash settles and the smoke dissipates, I realize I am still kneeling on the floor. The eerie silence after the roar of the fire is punctuated by the occasional snap and hiss of the cooling stone beneath me.

I look at my hands to find that they are not my hands. Their skin is smooth where mine were rough from decades of use. I turn them over; my arms are bare. The ink that stained my skin is gone and in its place is virgin flesh. I am without blemish. Without looking I can tell that every imperfection, every flaw, every scar that littered my body is gone. Reaching around with fingers that are not my own, I seek the name my lover carved into my back and find only smooth, unmarked skin. It is with some surprise that I discover the carapace hoop still intact; it is blackened, but still adorns my body. The rest of my ornaments are gone. Melted by the heat.

I am not myself. I died.

Truth.

Fire is more than destruction. Sometimes fire is required for rebirth. Renewal. Like the Phoenix. Or a forest. Fire is the mechanism by which the forest is continually regenerated. Fires consume dead, decaying vegetation along the forest floor, thereby clearing the way for new growth. This results in an abrupt release of elements, which in the absence of fire, would only have become gradually available through slow decay. Fire increases the amount of nutrients available, and as a result nutrient cycling is increased. Some plants even rely on fire to reproduce; fire suppression can be damaging. Without the flame, there could be no new life.

For too long I have stifled the fire and hindered my growth. Too afraid to let go. It is only after I gave myself over to its devastating power that I could be remade.

Creation through fire. The finest steel has to go through the hottest fire.* I am a weapon forged in fire with pain as my striker. I have been swaged, upset, punched, and drawn by its hammer. Now I am finished. Filed of my sharp edges, my surface smoothed and polished.

Finally, I lift my eyes away from my new self to turn my gaze about the room. Having seen the blackened carapace still pierced through my flesh gives me hope that I haven?t incinerated the man I love. The sound of his skull cracking against the dungeon cell?s stone wall reverberates in my mind, warring with the fresh hope that he has somehow survived.

There, on the floor directly below the place where he?d been blown back against the wall, is a three dimensional silhouette that looks disturbingly familiar. His are curves and contours I know intimately. The first feeling that washes over me is joyous relief that I haven?t reduced him to ash. Somehow he survived! But as I look closer, my heart drops like a stone into the pit of my stomach and replaces my elation with guilt and fear. This face down heap of limbs is a position I?ve seen him in before.

He landed with his arms curved up around his head. They might have protected his face, but I can see his hair is singed. A slick, red substance with the thick and sticky consistency of cobwebs yet the look of crystallized moisture on a window encases a large majority of his body. Cold as ice, the blood frost sticks him to the floor and the wall. I can feel the chill radiating from him several feet away.

The only surety I have that he?s still living is the way the frost pulses and spreads in time to his labored breathing, perhaps a reflection of his slowed heartbeat.

The last time I found my lover this way was because of that piece of **** demon. But this time, it is me who has sent him into a panic, causing him to shut down and conjure up his last line of defense; the blood frost.

I told him I was afraid this would happen. I told him I would hurt him.

I?m a ruiner.

When I move to his side it?s as though I?ve stepped through a curtain of ice. Where my hands and knees make contact with the floor beside him, steam hisses and billows up around me.

?Salvador,? I whisper while leaning in to press my lips close to his ear.

The spreading veins of crimson ice are so cold they feel like razors against my palms, but I touch his arms anyway. I look him over now that I am so near. Everything happened so fast; neither the blood frost nor his carapace armor had time to fully envelop his body. Where he is unprotected, his skin bears the mark of having weathered my inferno and as I shift my hands to cradle his head, my fingers slide through as much blood as hair.

I am supposed to be his shield. ?gida. Instead I?ve done the one thing I never wanted to do: frighten and harm the most important person in my life, a man I all but worship.

?Sal, please.? I press a kiss into his singed hair. ?Estoy aqu?. Est?s salvo.? I echo the words he told me only a few short hours ago, but they taste like a lie coming from my mouth.

Salvador doesn?t move. There is no indication he hears me; I?m not even sure he?s conscious. The blood frost continues to pulse, its vein-like tendrils creep along his body and the floor. I feel the stinging bite of it as it spreads from his skin to mine.

It occurs to me, as I listen to the way his blood drip, drip, drips through my fingers, that there is quite a lot of the stuff coating my hands. I lift one away to study the dark substance and without thinking, wipe it clean by dragging my palm across my thigh. Halfway through the motion I remember that Salvador?s blood is like acid. Half a second later I realize that nothing is happening. It is all over my hands and now a thigh, but I remain unscathed.

I go back to applying pressure to the wound. ?Sal. Ya gotta wake up.? I am not whispering anymore. More than a little afraid I have done irreparable damage, I am intent on making him hear me. The blood frost continues to gain ground...and my skin.

?Escucha! Salvador, open your eyes.? I shut my my own eyes and press my forehead to his.

And then I do whisper, trying to contain my own rising distress.

?Please.?

___________
Thank you Wikipedia and NASA for helping me with Science! *Also, Nixon for the quote.

June 21, 2015 - 12:30 am
Casa del Brujo


The walk from the Arena to the house on the cliff was a long one, and a thunderstorm had assaulted them the entire way. Rain was a cleansing element. Once upon a time, the Spaniard would have complained about it, but his opinion on water in general had much changed over the course of the past year or so. Getting drenched to the bone had actually been soothing, for him. The excuse to strip out of their clothes and flop on the bed naked was welcome too. Like they ever needed an excuse?

Once home, Cane had actively avoided looking in the dresser mirror. He?d hesitated in getting undressed, and after finally doing so, had burrowed beneath the sheets immediately. Aoife?s abrupt departure after having been told that tonight was not a good night for a music lesson hadn?t exactly helped his current mood. Maybe he couldn?t blame her for not knowing what was going on, but it was just one more thing he was going to need to fix when all is said and done.

Salvador stood at the side of the bed for several minutes longer, looking at the mound of blankets that contained a Cajun. He was an observant son of a bitch. Canaan?s silence was a blaring siren that indicated his mood. The long sleeves. Avoiding mirrors. Refusing to look at himself. Sal had half a mind to yank the covers off of him, stand him up and force him to look. Tough love. Instead, he opted for a gentler approach.

The Spaniard lifted the sheets from the side and ducked down to slither up under them, slowly worming his way in to infiltrate Cane?s personal space. He crept and crawled along until he felt skin, and slid in even closer. Once his lips found skin, he applied a series of feathery kisses here and there. Wherever. Everywhere. There was very little sexual intent behind the gesture. He only hoped to convey ?hey, I still love you,? and possibly open Cane up to the possibility of?

?Talk to me, guapo.?

Don?t think he didn?t know he was being a moody son of a bitch, but Cane?s ability to pull himself up out of the funk began and ended with his intense disappointment in himself. At first he was unresponsive to the kisses, even going so far as to force himself to hold still. But no one could resist Salvador, least of all Canaan. He?d melted comfortably against the Spaniard by the time the man spoke.

?About what?? Yeah, it was going to be like that.

?You know about what.? Don?t play dumb, Cajun! Salvador?s tone was gently chiding. He combed his fingers through Cane?s hair. The other man might not want to look at himself, but the Spaniard?s eyes were intently studying whatever flesh he could currently see. His fingers were exploring, too.

Cane was watching Salvador?s face. It was impossible to furrow his brow when Sal was playing with his hair like that, but all the idle touching was something caught between relief and making his skin crawl. He shifted more onto his side and wrapped an ankle around Sal?s. His fingers were a little more slow to seek his lover?s chest.

?Ya mean how I nearly killed ya? That? I? I don? even know what ta say, amant.? The Cajun?s mouth reopened, but whatever he was going to say never made it past his lips. He?s fairly certain what happened fell under the rule of not apologizing for who you are.

The words don?t be stupid were right on the tip of Sal?s tongue, which he literally bit down on to stop them from being said. He pulled his hand away from Cane?s hair and touched his fingers to the other man?s wrist. He tucked them under to feel the Cajun?s pulse, and then hooked his hand up from chest to mouth so he could press a kiss to the heel of his lover?s palm.

?You didn?t.? As gentle a reassurance as Salvador could muster. And yes, that most assuredly fell under the category of don?t apologize for who you are.

?But I hurt?cha,? Cane insisted.

?I like pain.?

?Dis ain? us ****in? around. Dis was me--?

?You being magn?fico,? Salvador counter-insisted. ?And me being too slow to get the **** out of the way.?

A mirthless chuckle filled the blanket nest--they hadn?t needed to build one of those in quite a while now. Cane shook his head while touching the very tips of his fingers along Salvador?s cheek. ?I don? like not bein? able to control myself. I put de people I love in danger.?

?I know how you feel.? Salvador?s words were a sigh. He let both his and Cane?s hands fall back onto his chest and shut his eyes. ?What can I say to make you stop beating yourself up over this, amante? I am here. I?m alive. I?m whole. It could be much worse, but I?m not weak. Even when I?m slow I?m hard to kill.?

?I know you ain? weak.? Cane whispered the words, pulling his hand across the Spaniard?s scarred chest. ?I turned everyt?in? in dere ta ash ?cept you. Actually, I t?ink you?s de only one in dat cell who didn? die.? His eyes lowered from Sal?s face to the hand he had on the other man?s chest.

Salvador had made certain that Cane?s palm was resting right over his heart, a silent ploy of further reassurance; feel the beat in his chest. He?s not a ghost. He?s real. He?s solid and whole, like he said. Were he any other man, he might have scoffed at the notion of being the only person who hadn?t died in that cell, but the Spaniard had had his fair share of similar experiences. Silence followed, in which Sal thought on the interesting correlation of experiences they shared.

?Unmade. Remade. Born again as something new.? Yes, Sal knew what that was like. ?Tell me about it.? He wanted to hear Cane?s thoughts on what had happened to him.

?Ain? sure what I can say.? It was mostly the truth. Cane spent all the time following the events in the dungeon actively avoiding thinking about it and now here was Salvador asking him to explain it in detail. ?It was?? He drew in a deep breath through his nose and held it for several seconds. ?It was de moment I lost ?im all over again. It was seein? his body. It was de firs? time I poured two cups ?a coffee wit?out thinkin?. It was when I realized dat no amount ?a vengeance was ever gonna fix de part ?a me dat feels empty, dat it?s jes? always gonna be dat way. I couldn? hold it in anymore.?

Cane?s hand on Salvador?s chest slowly curled into a loose fist, and the Spaniard?s hand settled over it gently. ?When all I could hear was you askin? me ta stop. God, I hated myself so much. De fire--I quit tryin? ta fight it. It broke me down, I watched myself fall apart. An? yet? I?m still here. Some?n dat looks like me, anyway. I don? know what I am.?

Salvador opened his eyes and lifted his hand away from Cane?s to touch the other man?s jaw instead. He looked him right in the eyes when saying, ?I know what you are.? Shifting onto his side, he turned more toward the Cajun and leaned into his space to press a kiss to his brow, his cheek, and then his mouth. All very chaste and full of only soothing intent.

?T? eres mi amante. Mi amor. Mi vida. Mi lugar seguro. Mi ?gida de fuego.? Words he?d written before, Salvador recited now.

Touched though he was, Canaan started shaking his head when Salvador called him his safe place. ?Shields is supposed ta protect, not--?

The Spaniard lifted his hand to touch his fingers over Cane?s mouth and nodded to counter-protest the negative head shaking. ?And you do protect me. You keep me safe.?

?You still trust me??

?With my life.? Not even a fraction of a second to indicate any doubt whatsoever.

Trust. The most important thing to Cane, the crux of the matter. He didn?t say anything right away, not until the wave of intense relief had washed him over completely. Though doing a fantastic job of keeping the emotion off his face, Canaan couldn?t quell the effect it had on him as a whole. He shivered, not in any connection to the temperature, and nodded at Salvador several times.

Fingers uncurled, lifting to slide up and around the back of the Spaniard?s neck. Cane pulled him close, so they could lie with their foreheads touching.

?Okay, good.? A brusque reply, as if that would make up for the lengthy silence during which he?d floundered like a fish out of water.

Salvador shut his eyes with a smile and tucked his arms around the Cajun wherever and however he could. Even if he had to shove one under the other man. ?Te amo.? A quiet reminder. And it occurred to him, perhaps, that three other words might make Cane feel a little better. ?I forgive you.?

?Te amo,? Cane replied once Salvador had gotten himself situated. He didn?t much care for this new skin; it might?ve just all been in his head, but everything felt different. Cane was going to spend the next several weeks re-memorizing the man wrapped in his arms. ?An? dat?s good, too? ?cause I apologized a million times while you was unconscious.? The Cajun?s lips quivered in an attempt to keep from smirking.

A chuckle escaped the Spaniard without any struggle to keep it in at all. He tipped his head so he could kiss the other man a little more properly. Cane might not much like the new skin, but Sal?s fingers couldn?t get enough of touching it, and the scales. The tracing wasn?t particularly idle, actually. He was following his own memories and redrawing what was with his fingertips. Wonder how long it would take Cane to notice.

Cane?s not too quick on the uptake, he just thought Salvador was marveling at the feel of the soft, smooth skin. ?Am I as different ta you as I feel ta myself? It?s like I?m usin? hands dat ain? mine.? He demonstrated by sliding his hand down Salvador?s side.

?Different,? Sal agreed, ?but not bad.? He turned his face away from Cane?s so he could watch his own fingers trace imaginary arms along the Cajun?s arm. ?A little strange. I remember every line and scar and can still feel them even though they?re not really there anymore.?

The Cajun?s new fingers were probably sensitive enough to pick up on the bizarre network of ridges marking old scars and new flesh on Salvador?s body. Fresh skin had grown over the burns he?d suffered. If he?d had his back turned to Cane that morning, he likely would?ve lost most of his back studs, but those had survived thanks to the reflexive blast of blood frost that had formed to protect him from the extreme heat. His earring had unfortunately been obliterated.

?We?ll have ta make new ones,? Cane murmured quietly. His eyes, too, had drifted away from Salvador?s face to study the nearest patch of new skin stretched over a few of his lover?s ribs. He ran his fingers around the edge. Soon the skin there would not feel so foreign, but the Cajun could remember the way the wounds had looked while he sat cradling Sal?s head, which had also been a mess.

Remembering the Spaniard?s bloody head wound sparked a curiosity Cane had set aside while worrying the day before. There had been no time to spend wondering about it, but now? ?You bled all over me.? He lifted his hand and looked up into Sal?s face, gesturing vaguely toward the Spaniard?s head. ?From when ya hit?cher head on de wall.?

?Did I?? This was surprising news. The Cajun didn?t have a single blemish on his damn body anywhere! Sal tipped his head back so he could better see Cane?s face, and the lifted, vaguely gesturing hand. He lifted his own to catch the warlock by the wrist so he could hold his arm still for better examination. Stating the obvious, he said, ?You?re not damaged.? Rusty eyes turned about to search the rest of Cane?s body that he could see from this proximity, just to double check.

A low, husky chuckle rumbled in Cane?s chest. ?Depends on who ya ask. Dere?s lots ?a folk who?d say I?m plenty damaged.?

?You know what I mean.? Laughter bled into Salvador?s words.

Cane grinned. Twisting his hand around, he switched the positions of their hands so that he was holding Salvador by the wrist instead and pulled the man?s arm to place it around his body again. He wanted to feel his lover?s fingers on his scales again--probably the only part of this new body he actually enjoyed. They were not a sexual trigger for him like Sal?s spikes, but the sensation of having cool fingers pulled along the silky plates felt so damn nice, and the Spaniard obliged that silent request willingly.

?I didn? even think about it. I was holdin? yer head, got blood all over my hands an? wiped one of ?em off on my leg. Didn? do nothin?. Maybe...hm. Maybe I can?t get hurt. Some?n ta do wit? my new skin? ****, dat better not be it.? Cane?s face was the picture of dread. Though he?d just pulled Sal close a minute earlier, now he was pushing the other man away. ?Stab me or some?n. Make me bleed.?

That was demand that took a minute for Salvador to meet. He stared with a very mildly offended look at being pushed away after they?d just got all cozy! And then his brain rolled around a dozen calculations, such as the fact that they were both naked. Knives were out of reach, and he really didn?t want to get even partly out of the bed to dig one up out of his boot or from somewhere. It took the Spaniard three full seconds to calculate the easiest course of action to accomplish Cane?s desired goal.

Salvador wriggled a few inches further away from the Cajun so that he could roll over onto his stomach. He reached over to grab Cane?s hand and pulled it over to his back. The abomination knew just which muscles in his back to flex to make his own spikes stretch at their joints and stand erect along his spine. Reaching around his back with his other hand, he pulled Cane?s arm even further over them and then down to prick the skin on those sharp and pointy tips.

The second those spines pierced his flesh, Sal would be able to see the spark of pain and enjoyment in Cane?s eyes. It had hurt enough for him to flinch, for his breath to hitch, but he did not pull away. Frankly, the Cajun didn?t get to play with Salvador?s spikes all that often because of how damn sensitive they were. Right now he was busy eating up the sight of his blood dripping down the serrated undersides of the spikes that had cut into him.

?Well.? So much for that theory.

Little rivers of warm blood trickled into the cracks and made Salvador squirm pleasantly. He turned his face into the mattress to try to smother the quiet moan that wanted to escape. Too late to bury the smile, though. Seeing his lover?s expression and reaction had done him in. Letting go of Cane?s arm, he brought his own back around to fold it under his forehead with the other. A flex of the muscles in his back unlocked the spikes and had them folding back down flat along his spine.

?You still bleed,? Sal murmured into the bed, another statement of the obvious.

A quiet, devious chuckle was Cane?s response to that statement. Yes, yes he still bled. Instead of taking his arm back to clean it off, Cane lowered while inching closer to the Spaniard?s side. It was wrapped around him until the bleeding wounds were pressed against the mattress and he was mostly leaning over Sal?s back.

?I do. But dis leaves me wit? some questions.? He propped himself up on his elbow and hooked his fingers around the other man?s upper arm. Cane pressed a kiss onto Sal?s shoulder blade. ?How come yer blood ain? **** me up like it?s supposed to?? Another kiss, this one a little higher and closer to the neck.

Canaan shifted his whole body a little higher, the bloody arm lifted to put his fingers into Salvador?s hair. Just touching for now, likely building up the thrill. There?s no way Sal didn?t know what the crazy Cajun was about to try. The fingers of his left hand curled more tightly around the Spaniard?s arm, tugging it down from where it was tucked up under the man?s head so he could hold him down securely.

?I feel like dis is some?n we should explore.? He?s insane. Those Southern boys are crazy.

Yeah, but Sal liked that about the Cajun. His heart had already started hammering excitedly when Cane moved to lean over his back. The kisses and implications expressed in verbal wonder kicked things up a notch. Fingers in his hair and a firm grip on his arm escalated matters rather well, too. Of course he tested Cane?s control by trying to pull his arm away and writhed under him a bit. His breathing started getting a little uneven as anticipation and desire trickled in.

?You think so?? Salvador turned his head against his free arm and looked back at the looming madman hovering behind him. His smile had a dare written on it that he never completely uttered.

Part of it may have had to do with the fact that Cane just wanted to push past the awkward tension (that was almost entirely of his own design) to get to a place where he could feel like himself again. And there was nothing more him than to love Salvador Delahada.

The Cajun exhaled a warm sigh across the back of Sal?s neck, where he placed the next kiss. Sadly, there was no tongue piercing to enjoy when he dragged his tongue from there to just behind the man?s ear. Another kiss placed on the piercing-less lobe. Eventually Cane?s mouth found Salvador?s. That was when his fingers tightened in the man?s hair.

?I do,? he whispered after lifting his head. ?Now hold still.? That was a good way, he knew, to get Salvador to struggle. A wicked smile lit the Cajun?s face. Both grips tightened further still and he wasted no time in dipping his head back down to catch a mouthful of skin, right over the curve where shoulder and neck connected. He played for a bit, at first, chewing just to drive the Spaniard wild. Maybe, also, there might have been just a small fraction of himself that was worried this was going to backfire horribly.

Eventually, Cane bit down hard. Each of his teeth sank into Salvador?s skin and the half-fae?s destructive blood pooled in the Cajun?s mouth. Sal still tasted awful--at least that hadn?t changed. It didn?t last very long, though, because Cane's mouth went numb a few seconds later. But one thing was certain...the acid-like blood was not hurting him.