Black Angus – Chapter 8

This is a working draft and not a final product.

Content Warnings: Xenophobia, Mind Control, Fellatio, Anal Penetration [digital], Vomiting, The Usual Murder or Two

In which Angus steals from a god.

“Angus.”

Sunshine filtered through the blankets over the windows. Angus’s eyes fluttered open, grimacing as the lambent points of light teased his unwilling face. He drew a sharp breath from the sting. But blocking out some the brightness was the soothing shape Anatoliy, sitting upright in their bed, his untidy, loose hairs illuminated in a halo around his head.

“Where did you go last night? You came back so late, only to disappear again. Don’t you know, I waited for you downstairs for quite sometime before calling it a night.” He shifted over, planting his hand between Angus’s knees, hovering an arm’s length above. “And then you fooled me into thinking you had come back to find me in bed, dorogoy. You forced me to make a lover of my hand.”

Angus’s throat hitched. “I didn’t force you to do anything,” he replied haughtily. Despite himself, Angus could picture the moment luridly; Anatoliy’s uneven breathing, his rocking hand, his back arching.

“You are a tease,” Anatoliy snarled, bowing his head lower.

A soft, innocent smile crept across Angus’s face. He held Anatoliy’s eyes with his own. Their swampy green portals, framed with concentric bands of steel, burst into golden webs, marked with earth-colored flecks, growing darker as Anatoliy’s pupils widened in welcome to the dreadful influence that was commanded upon him. Angus could show him true force.

“That’s enough,” Angus whispered, “Back to how you were before you noticed me here.”

Anatoliy’s expression softened. He looked far away, like his sight passed right on through Angus to somewhere beyond. Shaking his neck loose, he sat straight and lifted himself out of bed. Pressed beneath his shorts, Angus could see the outline of Anatoliy’s lust fully raised, stiff and alert. The sight made Angus’s stomach flutter. Standing on his toes as he stretched his back, Anatoliy rolled his shoulders, oblivious to the delicacies he was presenting beneath his tanned skin. He splashed his face and pits with water, wiped himself dry, and pulled on a cream colored shirt after testing its smell, as well as a pair of leather riding leggings.

Angus watched what came next with intrigue. Anatoliy struck a match, lit the candle on the table, then took a fat pinch of herbs from a pouch and burnt them in the small, ceramic bowl with the flame from the candle. They blended a pleasant scent of sweet, spice, and a feint but pungent stink. Anatoliy drew a gold coin from his purse, placed it in the bowl next to the arrowhead, and sat at the table. He spoke faintly, facing the wall. Although Angus did not understand him, he could tell from the tone of Anatoliy’s voice that he was making a request.

When he finished speaking, Angus spoke up, “What’s that you’re doing?”

Anatoliy rolled his shoulders, adjusting his posture. Without looking back, he replied, “I’m making an offering to my god, Khors-Dazhbog. He is the giver of all things. It is disrespectful to make a wish or give thanks for what he has provided without making a gift first.”

Angus raised his eyebrow, “So you’re praying for wealth?”

Anatoliy cleared his throat. “He has already blessed me. But I . . . am unsure of what to do with his gift. I am asking him to show me the right path so that I may continue to honor him. If he accepts my offering by taking it, then I will have my answer.”

Angus implicitly understood asking any further would be too personal.

Anatoliy rose from his chair and turned to him. “Right now though, I believe the only thing the gods are telling me is that I have to piss. Go back to sleep, zolotse, we can talk more in this evening.” He ruffled Angus’s curls. Picking up honeycomb up from the nightstand to gnaw on, he then departed the room.

Angus craned his neck to spy the gold piece. He recalled that Anatoliy had tossed a lesser coin before, back at Blithe-Rock’s namesake; that must have been a similar gesture. An extra piece of gold could help Angus quite a bit in his current circumstances, and if he took it, he’d be helping Anatoliy out in his own superstitious ways too. If Angus grabbed it now, however, it’d be obvious that he stole it. But if he waited until he went to bed next dawn for Anatoliy to wake up to the next morning . . . that just might be convincing.

A warm spot remained on the bed, closer to the wall where Anatoliy had laid until a moment ago. Angus reached out to touch it with his hand before rolling over completely, soaking in as much of Anatoliy’s leftover body heat as he could. His pillow still held his scent too; his sweat and the sedating floral oils from his hair. It stirred a mighty longing in him. Angus dug his fingers into his abdomen, resisting the impulse to claw into his skin. He’d drank so much the night before. How was he this hungry? All Angus had been able to think about when Anatoliy had loomed above him was how much he wanted to bury his face into the man’s neck. There was a line of blue that had trailed down his skin like a river on a map, and he could make it flow like the real thing. And sure, Angus had broken his promise to Anatoliy already and abused his influence on him, but it had been for—

—For your own good.

Friedolf’s script, elegantly writ onto expensive parchment, projected his words vividly in Angus’s memory. He slammed his fist into Anatoliy’s pillow over and over.

“No. No. No. No. No. —No,” Angus choked, despairing himself.

He could never do that again. He could not be like him. He would not manipulate Anatoliy the way Friedolf had done to himself. Angus trembled, grasping the sheets and pillow, pressing them into his face. Dandelion, lavender, sage, rosemary, cedar. He inhaled Anatoliy’s scent, soothing himself in the human musk until the black of sleep stole him back again into vast nothingness.

“That’s a good girl.”

Anatoliy brushed Zorya’s hair on her flank. He’d just fed her, and before that, he’d taken her on a walk while he’d done his errands for the day. For his final task he had picked up food for himself, Zorya, and Angus. Because he hadn’t been able to complete all he had meant to that day, Anatoliy had splurged his would-be funds on extra provisions. They could eat dinner together to-night, and talk some more, so that Anatoliy could earn his reticent companion’s trust. What would come after, Anatoliy was not so sure about. His head, gut, and spirit were pulling him in all different directions. When Angus appeared at the doors of the stables, he felt as if none of that even mattered.

“Angus. You’re awake. —Were you looking for me?”

“I was,” Angus lied, giving an airy smile. He had hoped he could sneak a drink from the stables before Anatoliy discovered he’d risen. Small hope for that now.

The black horse from the night before spotted him, and started to bray and stamp its hooves. The white crescents of the animal’s bulging eyes revealed themselves. Angus’s enchantment had worn off.

“Someone does not like you, lapochka,” Anatoliy chuckled, picking up his canvas bag, “I was just saying goodnight to Zorya. She is cross with me because she wants to eat sweets instead of grain, so she can become fat while my purse becomes light. —We can let these animals have their privacy.” He gestured his chin toward the door.

Angus cleared his throat, “Have a nice day?”

The sweet scent of grass replaced the stench of manure as he followed Anatoliy to the tables behind the inn near the wooded area, leaving his intended dinner behind for another time. It’d still be there later, at least.

“Eh, somewhat. I got my sword sharpened. I can do it on my own, but it’s good to have a professional touch-up once in a while. I tried to have my boots resoled, but the local cobbler did not want to do business with a foreigner —so that job will wait.” He sat at one of the two benched tables, removing his belt with his sword and folding it next to him on the bench. Angus stayed standing.

“I’m sorry, what? That’s terrible.”

“It doesn’t matter —a small price to pay to live free from strife,” Anatoliy responded with a wave of his bandaged hand.

Angus leaned across the table to argue. “There shouldn’t be a price at all. —Isn’t a life spent struggling enough?”

Anatoliy took Angus’s chin in hand. “That is what I like about you,” he said warmly. He then patted the spot beside him. “Sit down with me. I have something for us.”

Angus sheepishly took a seat, his indigence cooled down to embers from a mere touch. The temperature said touch had felt normal, Angus noted. He watched Anatoliy draw a bottle of melomel from his bag, along with meat pies, nuts, pears, a wedge of cheese, butter rolls, and a small bottle of olive oil; trying to mask his discomfort all the while. Theoretically, it all looked very delicious —and expensive too, but Angus had use for none of it.

“I don’t deserve this,” Angus protested in vain.

He realized he couldn’t refuse Anatoliy in any true capacity without being blatantly rude, so Angus silently decided he would stomach as little as he could get away with in order to make the man happy. The alcohol would be fine, although less nectar would have been easier on his gut —so he’d focus on that. There was probably no getting away without eating at least one of the pies, and he could pocket a pear to apologize to the black horse with. Would that be enough?

Anatoliy gave a nonchalant shrug, glancing briefly at Angus while he poured them each a vermilion glass of mead. “Make it up to me later then,” he responded coolly.

Locking eyes on him, Angus picked up his glass. In his suggestion there was the other complication that to-night presented: Anatoliy wanted a physical angle to their relationship, and he probably wouldn’t let Angus skulk away to feed so easily this time. And Angus didn’t know Anatoliy too well. The sword didn’t seem like that sort of person, but if he tried force, Angus would have to deliver a quick end to him.

Bracing himself for the inevitable sickness to come, Angus took a bite of meat pie. It didn’t taste good enough to make a habit of, as Angus knew a minority of vampires to do, but as human food came, it was pretty nice.

“I wasn’t sure what you enjoy eating. I like . . . ,” Anatoliy said, flourishing his hands, “pies, of course, pickled vegetables, herring, tender lamb skewers, thin pancakes, hot tea . . . —What about you?”

“Lamb is grand,” Angus agreed, “Venison too. I guess I don’t think about food that much.” He drank some of the mead. The taste of fruit covered the booze, luscious and tart, but unideal for his stomach.

Anatoliy pinched Angus’s forearm, “It shows. Perhaps if you ate more, you’d sleep less.” As a demonstration, he ate half of a pear in one bite. Clear dribble ran down his chin.

“I stay hungry no matter what I do, so I guess I don’t see the point of having more if it makes no difference. I imagine it’s very different for you though,” Angus paused to drink more, “coming to live in a town after spending half the year making camp.”

Anatoliy nodded, wiping the trail of pear juice with his sleeve, “Anytime we pass through a settlement, even a small one, it is very exciting. It can consume one’s mind, counting the days and making plans for the meals to come. I always very much look forward to my holiday here.”

“Do you come to Blithe-Rock every peacetime?” Angus asked.

“This is my third year returning. It’s easy to find farmers offering work. And the scenery is nice.”

He was right. Dusk had not yet surrendered to night, casting an indigo tint over the clearing from what remaining light was available to them. Strokes of yellow spilled over from the illuminated windows of the inn where feeble white moths hovered over the glass hoping to get closer to its seductive light. On the opposite side of them, in the darkness of the woods, vines from wild gourds crept across the ground, raising their wide leaves, their yellow fruit already devoured prematurely by the wildlife. High in the trees, insects trilled sharp notes which would periodically synchronize then unravel back into disorder.

“Then you can answer my other question,” Angus continued with a tilt of his glass, “I heard wolves last night in the trees. Have they always lived so close?”

Anatoliy shrugged. “This area is too small and too full of people for wolves. It was probably just dogs.”

Angus took a long drink as he thought. There’d be a lot to answer for if he told Anatoliy he had actually seen a pack of wolves, and that’s if he even believed Angus. He wondered what had brought them here if the behavior was as strange as Anatoliy claimed. There had been lots of wolves around his home when he was a young, human man. They’d never seemed too shy of people, but they hadn’t been ordinary wolves. They had been the familiars of Friedolf.

“You said the job you had coming should be short, isn’t that right? Were you planning to come back here after?” Angus asked.

Anatoliy drew a knife from his belt on the table and cracked two of the nuts between its blade and the tabletop, chewing slowly as he swallowed the last of the pear. His eyes stayed focused on his hands as he crushed them. “Mm, I am not sure,” he answered.

“What about in a year from now, after next season? Will you come here for work again?” Angus added casually, containing his rising panic. It was possible the wolves belonged to Friedolf, and it was possible Anatoliy wouldn’t return to Blithe-Rock. He didn’t like the thought of either being true.

Anatoliy simply shrugged, taking a drink of his mead and still not looking him in the face, “I don’t know yet.”

“What if I wanted to see you again? We only have a few days together, and I wanted to get to know you more.”

This drew a light laugh from Anatoliy, though it was tinged with bitterness. He smiled weakly at Angus and answered, “There isn’t much to know. In the past years, I have been going through the motions. I ride; I train; I raid; I gamble; I drink; I make love with other people who do the same. I am not a young man anymore. The things that used to give me pleasure are no longer enough. I am empty. I am tired. I wish to have more purpose in my life than being a pawn for greedy men. —And yet, I have no true ambition.”

Angus put his hand on Anatoliy’s dense shoulder. “With the money you’re about to make though, you could take a break, figure things out.” He ate more of the pie. If Anatoliy didn’t have to work for a while, he could spend more time with Angus. Then after a few weeks, Angus could turn him, and then Anatoliy wouldn’t have to work at all. They could do whatever they wanted.

Anatoliy let out a long, exhausted sigh, “I am not sure if money is the answer for me.” He rested his chin on his bent wrist as he pensively surveyed Angus, his gaze drifting over and beyond him, as if Angus were a painting of an idyllic landscape he wished to visit, but could not traverse the barrier from reality to canvas.

“What about yourself? What kind of life does a charming creature with his whole life ahead of him aspire to?” Anatoliy asked earnestly.

Blinking first, Angus answered, “Right now all I wish for is to have my own home. I catch myself thinking I’m supposed to want a ridiculous, grand house, but I’m not sure if that’s how I really feel, or if I’m following an archetype because I don’t know myself as well as I ought. Following that, I’d like to have people around me whom I could think of as my family. I lost my parents before their due time, and my childhood home, um, no longer exists.” He did not expect the answer to come so easily, or for it to sound so barren when he said it.

Anatoliy appeared disarmed. Sipping from his drink, he probed, “This is the reason you were living before with that man who you hurt? You had nowhere to go?”

Angus nodded. “Starting fresh!” he announced, beaming with fake optimism as he spread his palms out into a half shrug; a lame attempt at saving the mood. The man smiled back at him pitifully.

“The world is not too kind to folks like you who have a strong sense of justice and humble ambitions to live an ordinary life,” Anatoliy said, “I am sorry for your losses, still I appreciate that they have not darkened your heart. Living always brings hardship, but there is always much beauty to be found for those who dare to look for it.”

Taking another bite, then waving the pie in the air, Angus carried on, “I have a more philosophical question for you next.”

Anatoliy perked up, eagerly propping his chin on his fist to lean forward. “I love philosophical questions,” he replied, grinning devilishly.

Angus tilted his glass coquettishly before his mouth, and asked, “Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to live forever?”

Taking a long draft, Anatoliy scanned the sky above him to think. “Honestly, half of every year of my life I am happy if I survive just to see the next day. I think my mind is too much in the present to care about the future.” Anatoliy then closed his eyes, smirking he continued, “Of course though, every man who carries a sword secretly hopes he’ll fight well enough for the poets to remember.”

He paused and looked down at Angus, contemplating the his face. Taking his thumb to brush the crumbs from the corner of Angus’s mouth, he added, “You are a messy eater.” He did not move his hand.

“I’m usually worse than this,” Angus confessed with a goofy smile.

“Tell me not to kiss you right now.”

Angus’s expression sobered. There was something about the man’s own expression which appeared to be just as uncertain as how Angus was feeling in that moment, which gave him assurance. His jaw quivered in Anatoliy’s hand as he slid his glass onto the table, shut his eyes, and waited.

Anatoliy lifted Angus’s chin to his face for a chaste peck, which he followed with another, and another. Angus’s breath caught; he had not expected him to go so gently. Using the tip of his tongue, Anatoliy split Angus’s lips to dot their ends together. He waited until Angus was quivering from his waist up to press the rest of his tongue in. Cradling Angus’s neck, Anatoliy toyed with his hair in one hand and massaging the small of Angus’s back in the other. As if he had no control over it, Angus’s hips jutted forward unexpectedly. The movement made Anatoliy smile against him, the top row of his teeth catching Angus’s lower lip and drawing a gasp from the small creature’s throat.

Anatoliy moved his tongue to Angus’s ear, licking the shell and sucking his lobe. “Do you want more?” he breathed against Angus’s cheek.

Angus nodded rapidly, restraining a needy whine. Pulling Angus’s shirt up to stroke his belly, Anatoliy coaxed the captive sounds free, then reached lower to massage Angus’s hardened member above his trousers. Angus leaned into his hand.

“I want you to kiss my neck,” Anatoliy requested, placing soft kisses along his jaw.

Angus shook his head. “No,” he answered, sloppily pressing their tongues back together, hoping it’d be compromise enough, before adding, “Ask again, and I’ll make you stop.”

“Bratty krasavchik,” Anatoliy growled into him, not sounding entirely displeased at the resistance. He unlaced Angus’s trousers in retaliation, freeing Angus’s member and stroking him. “What do you want me to do about this, hm? Kiss it, and make you feel better? —Like you did to my wrist?”

Angus sobbed out in approval. Kissing him one more time on the cheek, Anatoliy got on his knees to take Angus in his mouth. His head bobbed, the warmth of him making Angus forget himself. He sighed Anatoliy’s name, making the man hum back in approval. Anatoliy pulled Angus’s trousers a bit lower, wetting his fingers from the drip of spittle that trailed across Angus’s cock. He pressed one finger, then another past Angus’s ring and gestured ‘come hither’ inside him. Angus grasped Anatoliy’s hair at the scalp as he began to spasm, incoherent curses escaping his lips. Panting heavily, he slumped against the table with the man’s head cradled in his lap, feeling dazed and uncannily alive. No hunger or fear, only oblivion.

Anatoliy pulled Angus’s trousers up, retied his laces, and tucked his softening member back in its place. “Well done, lapochka,” he murmured dreamily as he observed Angus steady the pattern of his breathing.

Angus lulled his head up. “Do you need me to . . . ?”

Massaging the small of Angus’s back with each of his hands, and his cheek rested on Angus’s thigh, Anatoliy answered, “I took care of myself. You need not worry.”

Angus leaned forward and saw the evidence spattered in the grass near his feet. He felt selfish for not noticing sooner. Anatoliy didn’t seem to mind though. He continued rubbing slow circles into Angus’s back, sneaking in periodic squeezes of his behind and drowsily watching Angus’s face from his lap. Miles in the distance, from the direction of the wooded area, forlorn howls rose through the air and began to harmonize.

“By Rod. Wolves,” Anatoliy said, rising to his feet. He threw his belt over his shoulder and started packing the food back into his bag. Turning his head up to face Angus, he asked, “Will you come upstairs with me? We don’t have to do anything else. I just want to stay close to you, if you don’t mind.”

Angus stood on his toes and wrapped his arms around Anatoliy’s neck to nip at his lips in response. He corked the mead closed and tucked the bottle under his arm. Shyly, they took each other’s hands, casting giddy smiles to the ground as they snaked their way through the back door of the inn and up the stairs to their dark room.

Anatoliy propped the canvas bag with the food against the foot of the bed and draped the belt carrying his sword over the end of the frame. Next, he dragged his thumb over the hair of his jaw, wiping the dribble of Angus’s seed into his mouth, then turned to drop a long trail of spit into the ceramic bowl. Angus’s eyes went wide. A clever smile cut across Anatoliy’s face as he glanced at Angus from over his shoulder.

“Something tells me Khors-Dazhbog will accept this one, come morning.”

A bodily offering. Maybe Anatoliy does know something about ritual, Angus thought.

Removing his weathered boots and tossing them to the wall, Anatoliy grabbed Angus by his hips and back-walked him to the mattress, kissing Angus deeply on the mouth. Pings of anxiety ran through Angus’s head as the man pinned him down and sucked on his neck. His hunger for Anatoliy seemed to always be at its worst when they were in this bed, like the line between feeding and sex could bleed into one solitary thing, just as their bodies tried to be in that moment. But Anatoliy broke away with a final bite on the ball of Angus’s throat before the mania became too much to endure. Flipping himself to the left side of the bed, he drew Angus into his arms, tucking Angus’s dark curls under his prickly chin. He sighed and pecked the top of Angus’s head.

“Now, tell me why you refused to kiss my neck when I asked. What is it? Am I too hairy? Do I smell?”

Angus giggled. “No it’s nothing like that. I like it when my men are, um.” He paused and searched for a word, “—manly,” he finished awkwardly.

“By the gods, you are bad at flirting,” Anatoliy grimaced comically.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Angus continued, “I’ve . . . known some pretty cruel men in my time. I don’t do so well with being told what to do these days.”

Anatoliy nodded sternly and stroked his hair. “I understand. You don’t have to say anything more, unless it brings you comfort to do so.”

Angus looked up at him, his eyes glossy and round. “I swear I’ll tell you everything soon,” he stammered, “I just—.” He nestled his face into Anatoliy’s shirt. The thrum of the man’s heart drove him just a little bit mad, but for the time, the good feelings outnumbered the bad. And Angus hoped that if ever again he found himself the way he had been days before -sitting in dirt on the floor of Midgate Prision, sifting through unkind memories in need of a moment of comfort- that he would remember how the two of them were just then; foggy and tangled in each other’s arms.

“You are so beautiful, lapochka,” Anatoliy whispered into his scalp, “I should lock you away so that no one else can look at you.”

Angus considered joking back about how if he did, Anatoliy wouldn’t be the first to do so, but something in his gut knew the fellow wouldn’t find the idea so funny.

“What is that you keep calling me?” he asked instead.

Anatoliy spread his palm out in front of his face. “Give me your hand,” he requested. Angus mirrored his hand with Anatoliy’s. His skin was rougher than Angus’s and he out-spanned him by at least an inch.

“Lapochka is like darling, or sweetheart; it means ‘little paw’, like a puppy dog,” Anatoliy teased. He wrapped his fingers around Angus’s and kissed his knuckles.

Angus turned his head, pressing his ear to Anatoliy’s chest. Sometimes his own heart would develop a little bit of a pulse if he’d fed enough and he was scared, excited, or aroused. But after Angus turned Anatoliy into a vampire, his heart would never beat like this again. He was going to miss this —and the heat from Anatoliy’s body.

“It feels really nice to be able to trust someone,” Angus breathed into Anatoliy’s damp chest. Only humans smell this way. He would miss the smell too.

“Of course,” Anatoliy answered plainly. It seemed to Angus that his voice cracked, but he was not sure. Anatoliy continued petting Angus’s curls, and soon he fell asleep.

Angus lost track of time feeling the rise and fall of his handsome, new lover’s chest as the man slept. To his surprise, his taboo cravings kept their meddlesome voices to themselves, mostly. Of course, there were some murmurs -as expected- especially when he had delayed dinner so late, but they kept low, drowned out by the trance that Anatoliy’s bodily rhythms carried Angus into.

Eventually, Angus’s senses let him know that he could delay no longer, refusing to let his mind settle into cozy distractions. He slipped out of the bed and retrieved the gambeson, reflecting on how he had planned to repair it soon, but it was just how he needed it for to-night in its roughened state. Angus slipped the article on and secured it with his belt. One of the pears went into his pocket, and he tucked Anatoliy’s boots under his arm. He left the room, went down the stairs, out Green Side’s back door, and trailed the dark outer perimeter of Blithe-Rock’s small town square until he neared the artisan district.

Angus walked the packed dirt path, past the various storefronts, as naturally as any other pedestrian making their way home. Every few minutes he’d see a human walk by, looking tired and ready to end their day, but the streets were otherwise clear. None of the buildings seemed even close to what Angus was searching for. He wandered to an area of town where he saw food stalls packed up for the night, a café, a general goods, all signs that he was deviating further off target, but it seemed the best choice was to pass on through until the scenery changed once more.

A smaller path leading back towards the edge of town branched off in a new direction, the smell of slaughtered animals drifting towards Angus as he walked by. Though it showed little promise, the smell intrigued him, so he turned onto the small road just to see what was there. As he predicted, a butcher shop was around the corner. Not too further was an abattoir, which smelled even more intense, even to the point of Angus feeling somewhat delirious. After that was a tannery —a sensible enough sequence. And then, to Angus’s surprise, shoes. It was not what he’d expected, but the placement made sense in its own peculiar way. As he had hoped, there was a lit apartment on the upper floor.

Angus approached the storefront. His stomach ached in a way far fussier than hunger. He’d held its contents in for longer than he had planned, but now the stage was set. Setting Anatoliy’s boots on the ground, he grabbed a fistful of dirt and mud and rubbed it all over his face and the gambeson. Then, he leaned over and began to violently retch across the entryway. Soggy pie crust and pebbles of ground meat splattered into mud and stone, forming a fermented, plum-colored roux. Angus spat, heaving labored breaths where he crouched, hugging his abdomen. A second wave of mead and meat pie spilled forward, and Angus couldn’t have timed it more perfectly when the door swung open before him, jingling a mounted bell as vomit spattered onto the steps before his dismayed witness.

Before the cobbler, in his stunned state, could say anything, Angus reached out his palm, cradling his stomach. “I- I am so sorry. I’ll clean it all up I swear. —I think I was poisoned. I only just came to. The last thing I remember, I was at Green Side sharing drinks with some Rodinian foreigner. When I woke I was covered in filth, and my purse was empty.”

A variety of emotions passed over the stranger’s face as he heard Angus speak, but finally, he settled on concern. Holding open the door, he waved Angus in, “My poor boy, come inside. We’ll get you cleaned up.” Angus picked up the boots and hobbled inside.

The man shut the door behind them. Confused, he asked, “Why do you have those—?” Angus grabbed the collar of the man’s night clothes and pinned him against the door. He stared deep into the cobbler’s face, so he could not look away, holding his terrified gaze.

“Fix them. Make them like new,” Angus commanded, holding the boots and shoving them into the cobbler’s hands.

The man’s face lost all emotion. He took the boots, placed them on his bench, and drew his spectacles from a slim pouch resting on his work area. Taking a seat on his stool, he used a pair of pliers to peel back the worn down layers of leather from the soles of each boot. Scattered across the work space were tins of lanolin. Angus pocketed one. A woman, also in her night clothes, descended the stairs to the workshop.

“Dear, what are you doing working so late at night?” she asked.

Before she could reach the final step, Angus had paced across the shop to the foot of the stairs, cornering her.

“Who—?” she started, but Angus cut her off.

Pulling in so close they could have touched lips, Angus held her eyes in his own next. “Everything is grand,” he said, faking a lame half-smile, “Do you have any books? Show me.”

The woman led him up the stairs like she was sleepwalking. In the kitchen was a wall shelf that housed eight books, each of unrelated subject matter. The only vaguely interesting one was a collection of ghost stories. Angus grabbed it.

He stared into her eyes again and instructed, “Back downstairs. Wait for us to finish.”

Back in the workshop, the cobbler was cutting layers for the new sole from sheets of vegetable-tanned leather and dropping them into a water dish to soak. Angus propped himself against a wall to read, placing himself midway between the woman, who stood at the end of the stairs, and the cobbler at his bench. One at a time, the cobbler withdrew the cuts of leather, hammered them against his anvil, and pasted them to the bottom of the boots. After he had glued all the layers on, he used a mallet to drive pegs through holes he’d formed with an awl. Then he started on the final touches, beveling the leather into a more uniform shape, sealing it with a block of wax, and burnishing the new soles until they were durable and smooth. As the cobbler worked these final steps, Angus instructed his wife to show him where they kept their money and other valuables, which he collected into a small, wooden crate. When the boots were done, he placed them into the crate as well.

Angus cautiously checked the window to see if the road outside was clear. Climbing the stool for height, he detached the welcome bell from the door and pocketed it. The couple cluelessly wandered around the first floor as if they were lost and weren’t quite sure who they were. Angus wrangled them back together.

“Follow me. Try not to make much noise.” He waved his hand, guiding them out the front door, leading them with the crate in his arms.

Angus guided them to the farthest edge of Blithe-Rock, the dark of the night becoming more oppressive the further the three traveled. He kept them on the edge of civilization until he was back at the tiny grove behind Green Side Inn, where Angus led them down the desire path.

There, amongst the trees, Angus effortlessly drained both of them. Hardly a thought at all passed through his mind as he gnawed on their sinewy throats, as autogenic as any other feeding beast. It was the best meal he’d had since the guards at Midgate.

Feeling a bit ridiculous as he did so, Angus made his best attempt at mimicking the wolf call that he’d heard earlier that night. He soon caught their scent on the light, autumn breeze. Being fully alert and exceptionally well-fed, he easily detected the wolves from about 300 yards away. Angus held his arm out in their direction and rang the bell he’d retrieved from the cobbler’s door. Before they could approach any closer, he picked up the crate and confidently walked back down the path towards the inn.

The black horse reacted the same as before when Angus reentered the stables. It did not seem to care much about the pear when Angus presented it, but it was enough to quiet the animal back down when he left it on the ground, near its cubicle. Angus found Zorya next. Removing the book and Anatoliy’s boots, he stashed the crate in a corner near her and concealed the box with hay. He stroked her mane before heading back inside. The night had been a very long one. Dawn would arrive soon.

Anatoliy was just as Angus had left him: lovely, placid, tangled in sheets. Angus placed Anatoliy’s fresh boots where they’d been before and tucked the book of ghost stories into his backpack. Taking a seat at the small corner table, he spent a few minutes writing to Edwina.

The light of the candle continued to flicker with heat after he had scribed his final words. Angus withdrew the mostly used tin of lanolin from his pocket and gathered the mostly dried flowers he’d found in the woods the night before. He crumpled them up above the empty ceramic bowl he’d used previously to clean Anatoliy’s wound, picking apart the more stubborn sections of the flowers by hand and cutting up the densest parts with his knife. Angus divided some beeswax he’d saved from the devoured honeycomb into smaller chunks with the knife, smeared the small traces of lanolin along the edges of the bowl, and then, finally, Angus borrowed the bottle of olive oil from Anatoliy’s food sack, adding only a few drops. He held the bowl over the candle flame, tilting it this way and that until the fatty ingredients appeared to have melted evenly into a clear liquid, changing color from rich gold to a sickly green tint as the mixture seeped in the medicine from the crushed flowers. At the change of color, Angus carefully poured the contents of the bowl into the empty lanolin tin, sealing it to let the salve set.

When he was done, Angus stole the gold coin from the offering bowl and placed it in the aumônière on his belt with the rest of his money. He stripped down naked and wiped himself clean with a wet cloth, then slipped into bed, nestling his lissome body against Anatoliy’s chest. He curled into a tight, cozy ball, falling asleep in Anatoliy’s delicious warmth.