Page 79 of The Cartographer

I take stock of them, deciding which one to go after first. The bigger one. Maybe if I take him down, the other one will fuck off. Instead of crouching into a fighting stance under the fuzzy halo of the closest streetlamp, I stand up straight, lift my chin, and hold out a hand, crooking two fingers.

“Bring it on, motherfuckers.”

I’m not exactly surprised when he charges me. He puts his close-cropped head down and drives a meaty shoulder into my chest, propelling me back against the brick wall of a building. There’s the familiar impact of my shoulder blades and the back of my skull hitting a hard surface, the breath forced out of my lungs. Before he can pull away from me, I grab his earlobe and wrench it hard. He squeals like the pig he is, and it awakens something inside of me, something I like to keep buried down deep.

Rage. It crashes into me like desperate claws raking a door, begging to be let out. Just this once.

It’s tempting. Oh, so tempting.

No. He may be a savage, but I’m not. I’ll be better than him. Better than them all. So I harness the beast, bend it to my will.

Hurt him, make him suffer. Avenge all the people he’s abused because there’s no way I’m the first one. I’m just the first one who can fight back properly because I am a god among men.

I use the grip I have to wrench him to his knees. I know a thousand ways to get a man on his knees and force is my least favorite, but for this, it’ll do. Next I grab the back of his neck with my other hand, yanking his face down quick and hard onto my knee. There’s the very specific sound and feel of bone giving way, and the beast inside me roars. It wants more, always more. Rage twined with jealousy, the fury sounding in my ears, a symphony of pain.

The man is on the ground, fairly writhing with it, and I want to give him more, let the beast out to play with this worthless piece of meat. What a fucking sorry excuse for a human being.

I can’t let the beast win. If I let it win, then I’m no better than him. So I resist the urge to kick him in the side where his kidney is resting so close to the surface. To drop to my knees and pound my fists into his flesh until blood covers us both. I don’t drag him over to the curb, stomp my heel on his skull until his face is a pulpy mess and his teeth litter the pavement or he swallows them. Although I’d like to. God, I’d fucking love to. If I let myself start, I’ll never stop. Instead I look up at his friend, who’s staring dumbfounded at me, switchblade dangling from his hand.

That’s right, you ratshit-for-brains sniveling sons of bitches. You thought we were fair game? Think again. This is my fucking city.But what comes out of my mouth is as smooth as the eyebrow I arch. “Next?”

Thing is, if I apply logic here, I know he could take me. He’s got a knife for fuck’s sake. Maybe, though, he can tell logic and civility are widely spaced bars barely keeping the monster inside me from being set free. He’s none too eager to get close to the cage, and I don’t blame him. It’s scary as fuck.

That’s when I catch the flashing of red and blue lights out of the corner of my eye, a squad car rapidly approaching. God love the police and Allie for calling them.

The black-and-white pulls up alongside the curb, and the officers get out while my erstwhile attacker helps his friend to his feet. Blood drips from mugger number one’s disfigured face, and I imagine with some satisfaction exactly how bruised and swollen he’ll be soon.

A trim Asian woman who happens to look damn fine in her uniform approaches. Her partner—a big white guy with the slight paunch of a man who’s attempting to fight upper middle age off and losing the battle—follows behind.

“Something the matter here, guys?” The officers look between us, and though a man with a bloodied face would clearly say otherwise, they seem entirely willing to believe that, yes, in fact, everything is ship-shape.

My sparring partner and his friend fumble for words, but I don’t want to give them the chance to say something idiotic and get us all hauled in. I’d be out in minutes, but I’d rather go home and get to bed than take a tour of the city in a squad car.

“Only a slight misunderstanding, officers. I think we’ve cleared things up.”

If you use the right tone of voice and signal with every molecule of your body you’re confident and correct, you’d be surprised what you can get away with in this life. I’m not anymore, actually, but I used to be.

The officers are looking us all up and down, trying to decide on a course of action. Please let them have something better to do than make a federal case of a schoolyard fistfight. I’m saved from having to dredge up more rational, placating statements with the squawk of the radio. If I’m not mistaken, the dispatcher’s said something about a 419. If that’s true—and judging by the expressions on the officers’ faces, I’m guessing it is—a dead body is far more exciting than some men involved in minor fisticuffs. They exchange glances, and then the older one speaks.

“Looks like the problem’s been solved. Why don’t we all move along then?”

“Thank you, officers. I’ll be on my way.”

I pick up my suitcoat from the ground and shake it out, inspecting it for stains, but aside from some crumbs of loose sidewalk concrete easily brushed off, it looks none the worse for wear. The asshat posse is already headed in the opposite direction, and I allow myself a sigh of relief as they turn the corner and the police officers step back inside their cruiser.

There’s some guilt these guys will likely pick on someone else, someone who isn’t prepared to put an end to their nefarious plans, but I have to smother the urge to save everyone from everything. As I’ve told Hart, as much as I’d like to be, I’m not omniscient, nor can I be omnipresent, and therefore I have to let some things go.

I head off in the direction Allie ran, not expecting to find him. Actually, I’d best not find him. The departing whine of sirens tells me I was at least close on the code. The beast inside is still pacing inside its cage, wanting satisfaction, wanting blood. I’m in the mood to throw it a bone.

My footfalls barely sound on the pavement as I slip my cell from my pocket and click on a contact. It barely rings before he picks up, voice tight with frustration and anxiety. “Rey. Are you all right?”

“Perfectly well, Hart. Meet me at the corner of Fell and Franklin in ten minutes.”

*

Allie is hardalready when he takes his pants off. I could see the rigid line of his cock straining at the zipper before, but now his erection is free. He’s so beautiful. And mine to do with as I please. That’s what makes my cock start to fill. That and the idea of hurting him.

The real question as I pace around him, standing at attention in the middle of my bedroom, is how. There are a million ways to hurt someone, and I have most of them at my disposal. To mark or not to mark? Do I want blood or will welts and bruises satisfy? To restrain him or not?

---