Page 8 of Corruption
Tenrael didn’t want vengeance. He felt toonewfor that. Too clean. “I won’t kill anyone.”
Charles nodded. He came closer, and Tenrael thought Charles might kiss him again. But Charles just reached to caress a wing. “Fly, Tenrael,” he said.
And without another word, he turned and left the trailer.
Chapter Four
Charles couldn’t see the ocean from his little front porch, but he could smell it; and with his shirtsleeves rolled up, he could almost feel the tingle of salt spray on his skin. The sun, as it dropped below the red tile roofs of the houses across the street, stained the late summer sky with delicate pinks and oranges. If he could drink booze, this was the sort of evening for sipping good whiskey and slowly emptying a pack of cigarettes. Instead, a glass of water sat on the little wooden table, with a book splayed open beside it.
A black sedan turned onto his short street, moving slowly until it rolled to a stop in front of his house. Charles wasn’t especially surprised when Sam Leonard got out. Sam wasn’t quite a friend, but he came closer to that than anyone else Charles knew. He’d worked for the Bureau almost as long as Charles, and he was... well, Charles didn’t know quitewhatSam was. Not human, entirely. He moved faster than any man Charles had met, and his round yellow eyes had vertical pupils, like a cat’s. He always smelled slightly musky, but not in an unpleasant way. He and Charles never discussed the things that set them apart from other people, but their differences helped them bond.
Sam wore gray trousers and white shirt. As always, he was hatless. He refused to wear the things; maybe they didn’t sit well on his thick blond hair. Light-footed, he ascended the front steps, crossed the porch, and sat in the vacant chair, just as if he’d been invited. He and Charles remained silent for several minutes, both staring at the sky above rooftops.
“Want something to drink?” Charles finally offered.
“Nah.” Sam had an odd voice, very deep and rumbly for his compact frame. He leaned back in his seat. After another minute or two, he turned his head. “You don’t look hurt.”
“I’m not.”
“Chief says you’re out on medical leave.”
Charles snorted softly. “I resigned.”
Sam nodded a few times as if he’d suspected that already. “What happened in Kansas?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard there was a demon and it got away.”
The guys in the Bureau were more gossipy than housewives. “Yeah,” Charles said. “That’s what happened.” He rubbed his fingers along the smooth wooden armrests.
“So... you failed and that made you quit?” Sam turned slightly to face him. He was smart—too smart for the Bureau, really—and nothing much slipped past him. Now his head was cocked slightly and his eyebrows were raised. “That’s not like you, Charlie.”
Nobody else called him that. Even his mother had always referred to him as Charles. The diminutive cracked his defenses a little bit.
“I’m tired,” Charles said. “I was with the Bureau almost fifteen years. I have so much blood on my hands.” He held them up as though the gore might be visible.
Sam’s answer was quiet, measured. “You’ve saved a lot of lives.”
“Maybe. Does it balance out? And in the end, does it matter?” His eyes prickled, and for a brief moment he hated Sam for bringing this out of him. He took a calming breath. “I’ve killed all these monsters just because they weren’t human, but I’m not sure they were all worse than the people I saved. Gods, Sam—the things men do!”
Sam nodded and patted Charles’ knee. Nothing sexual about it—Sam liked dames. Solely a bit of consolation. “I know. I’ve seen. But there are innocent humans too.”
“Maybe there are innocent monsters. Or... I don’t know.” He covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t drink booze, but maybe drugs would work. He’d never tried them. He knew places where he could buy opium or heroin. Even if the dope worked for him, he was aware the chemical peace would be brief. But it would be something.
He pulled his hands away and caught Sam’s gaze. “Why did you join the Bureau?”
Sam shrugged elegantly. “I wanted to be a hero.”
“Not me. They recruited me, you know? When I was still just a dumb kid thinking a college degree would get me somewhere. I admit it, I was flattered. And I thought the Bureau was somewhere I could finally belong. A place where it wouldn’t matter so much that I was.... But itdidmatter. It does. In the end, everyone.... The more people look at me, the more they realize I’m not one of them.”
Gravely, Sam stared. Charles knew what he saw: dyed hair showing white at the roots, unsettling green eyes, skin unnaturally pale for anyone, especially a man who lived in Southern California. And because Sam was smart, he might even have guessed at the things he couldn’t see. The long scars along Charles’ back. The deep yearning for other men.
Sam had family out in San Bernardino—a big clan of aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins, nephews and nieces. He had a steady girl whose blue eyes had vertical pupils like his. He had a home. But he understood Charles’ grief, and he patted his knee again. “You can’t just give up, Charlie. Every living being has a place where they belong.”
“I belong here,” Charles replied, waving his arms to indicate his house.
“Yeah, okay. But also, every living being has a someone.”
