Blood Claim Read online

  Lathe lived in one of the old houses on the outskirts of town. It had been an old farm house, before the town's identical houses on similarly named streets reached out to it. He shouldn't have gone; to say that Lathe stared at him hungrily was not even half of it.

  Lathe had found him outside of the seven or eight stores that were a mall in name only. He found out later that his social worker had sold him out, giving up his name as someone who wouldn't be missed and was disposable. He couldn't really blame her, though; he didn't think for a second that she gave up the information willingly. Lathe had that ability to pull anything from anyone.

  And Cory knew he hadn't made Lathe work very hard. The lights of the vortex, which was what Lathe had called it, dug through the cloth he'd thrown over the memories in his brain. He didn't want to think about them. He hadn't thought about it, not since the burn on his hand had driven the thoughts away. He'd purged it from his head when he'd pressed the iron into his flesh. He dug his nails into the scar, wanting the sweet pain to fill him and take away all the dirty-bad-wrong, but the light tossed his feeble attempts to keep himself from remembering. It wanted to know. Cory felt its curiosity.

  "Please,” he told it. “I don't want to remember."

  The light tickled him, lightly. It wasn't trying to hurt him, and even as Cory tried to crawl away from the pain, the light wicked it away. He could watch the memories the vortex pulled from him without feeling the shame of what he'd done. He stopped fighting.

  The old house had a door that squeaked. Cory had raced to the broken screen door half a dozen times, mostly during Halloween pranks when he was too old to trick-or-treat but too young to stay inside. When he was older, and his aunt couldn't control him anymore (not that she controlled him any less), he'd gone with Lathe because ... because...

  Because he'd always thought he was meant for more. And Lathe promised him something older, something more than just another small-town rat. Just another brat that had his eighteenth birthday marked on the local RCMP detachment's wall. It wasn't important that he really hadn't done most of the things they thought or caught him doing. It wasn't important that the first time he'd just been on his bike at the wrong time and in the wrong neighborhood. He knew Luke thought that he'd learned how to con with his father and that he'd embraced it as a lifestyle, but he hadn't. Even as a kid he saw past the smiles of his father's marks to their realization of how much they'd been taken.

  But when another of the town's pack of young men, Jack of the grin and the soft blond hair, had asked Cory to keep watch, Cory couldn't say no. He couldn't say anything much at all, actually. With the knot in his throat he could only go along with whatever Jack asked. He'd been weak, as weak as a mark, and he'd gone in willingly. When Jack got caught, Cory took the blame, and after his first weekend stay at juvie, Jack had skipped town. By then, of course, Cory's name was muddied, and in small towns, sometimes that's all it takes.

  So he accepted it. And when Lathe started hunting him, he let himself be snatched up. It was stupid. If he could have taken it back, he would have, but that was where he was. Lathe had kissed him, drinking from him, and it was better than every single shy fumble in the locker room.

  And then, of course, because every mark realizes they've been taken, sooner or later, Cory had woken up, sticky in the pants and locked in an upstairs closet. And he wasn't alone.

  The thing in the closet wasn't anything like the vortex. It was weaker, less focused, and it definitely didn't ... feel, if that was the right word for it. He felt the it touching him again, soothing him, removing all the sting of his stupidity.

  The presence in the closet had been angrier. It wanted inside of Cory, and whatever Lathe had done to him made it impossible for him not to let it. He'd fallen back, and found the iron with its frayed cord at knee level. There was an old socket—it hadn't always been a closet. Someone had died in the back room, and they hadn't been entirely thrilled over it. Cory felt the rage, felt how whoever it was—it had been a woman—had clawed at the door with her nails until they were bloody. And she was furious. They were furious. They would—

  Cory got the electrical plug into the wall socket. It was old and took a long time to heat up. The woman in his head didn't speak to him in words, but in images. She'd been a maid in the farm house, and she'd fallen in love with the husband. He hadn't reciprocated; she was convinced he had. The wife locked her up after she'd tried to kill them.

  And she'd died.

  Cory fought to stay awake. It would be so easy to close his eyes, let her take over, and if Lathe was coming to kill him to free the power she'd consumed, well, that was all right, too.

  The smell of electrical burning was heavy in the air. He picked up the iron, casually, like he would a book or a can of Coke, and pressed it against the palm of his hand. The woman, Beth was her name, screamed with his voice and fled his body like it was a burning building.

  She'd withdrawn to the rafters and wasn't coming out. Lathe wasn't awake; it was midday, and without the being in the closet with him, there was just a lock keeping him in. He kicked at it, suddenly afraid that the noise would wake Lathe, but the house was silent.

  He kicked it again, but nothing happened. He blacked out, twice, when the pain was too much, but the closet door was old, and he'd burst through it. Then it was down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and into brilliant sunlight. Every step closer to the door, he expected the sensation of Lathe's hand coming down on him, his teeth and nails sharp and cutting, to match the agony in his hand.

  His aunt had been convinced that the damage to Cory's hand was some sort of gang initiation. She took him to the hospital, for the first time gentle and caring, but when he hadn't named names, that hadn't lasted. Cory had felt raw inside, said some things he shouldn't have, snatched the bus ticket from her hand, and slammed doors behind him in his wake. When he woke up on the bus, just outside of Kamloops, for the first few seconds he tried to figure out how it had all been a bad dream. But it hadn't. And he knew deep down inside that Lathe would come looking for him. He was going to be ready.

  Lathe had found him once, when Brutus had him pinned down. The headlights of an oncoming semi had sent him to smoke. The plan was simple. He'd find another like Lathe and level the playing field. And Luke had seemed the perfect candidate. He didn't carry a torch for his old master; he'd set fields ablaze and held the fire to his chest willingly. There'd seemed like no chance he'd actually grow attached, and for the first few months, Cory had been absolutely right. He kept himself at his prickly best, and Luke would look at him and not entirely see him.

  But it hadn't lasted, either. Luke started to see him. He stopped pushing away.

  Then he felt Lathe, and Brutus remembered him. He had to leave. So he did, and he didn't want Luke to follow. It had been a bitter, snarling breakup, but Luke had believed it. He was so tired. The mention of Luke interested the thing inside Cory. It dug deeper into those thoughts. “No,” he told it. “Please. I don't want to remember."

  Another touch, still as calming as before. It could take away the agony of his hand, but couldn't touch the anguish of what he'd said, what he'd done. “It's not fair."

  The memories shifted in his head, away from how bad it now was, to how good it had been. They'd hunted together, and oh, how'd they fucked. He'd never imagined it could be that equal, no take, no give, just willing mouths and fingers and cocks...

  These memories he could live with. He touched his lips with his bad hand and remembered how it felt to kiss Luke. And then in that second Luke was there. Not really—he was still in an empty room, and Cory knew he was flat on his back on the cold, wooden floor—but he felt Luke with him. Cory parted his lips, letting Luke inside. He tasted of blood and of wine, and despite the chill in the air, the memory was vivid of the long August nights when it had been so hot that even in the basement it was enough just to feel Luke spoon up behind him, put his hands on Cory's hip, and slide inside him with such slow, painstaking gentleness it reduce
d Cory's entire world to fucking in general and just being fucked in specific.

  And Luke spoke to him, always. Telling him when he would kiss him, and where. Whether it would be a light touch of the lips, barely grazing Cory's skin, or if there would be teeth involved. And then if there was, and there almost always was, Luke let him guess whether or not it was going to be hard enough to draw Cory's blood or a bare scrape of human teeth against his artery.

  "I'm going to come,” became, “Please, Luke, let me come,” and Luke, smiling though there was no way Cory could see it, would kiss the back of his neck or run his tongue on the soft spot behind Cory's ear.

  You can hold out a bit longer he would say, and did say, in Cory's head. And Cory would insist that he couldn't, but oh, fuck, he could, and the stings and promises would continue until Cory couldn't even think straight and his entire body would feel the orgasm slide out of him, lasting forever and all but lifting him off the bed or couch or floor he was on.

  "I love you,” Cory would say, in that brief second, when everything in his entire world was right, including the words that escaped him, and Luke would kiss his shoulder and pretend he didn't hear.

  The smell of his semen filled the dusty, dry room. The vortex slid the rest of the way inside him, and if Lathe had any idea how much stronger this one was compared to the girl in the closet, he wouldn't have gotten involved.

  "But he's involved now,” Cory said to the empty room. He held out his hand, willing himself to do it. He had to remember how to move his muscle groups again, and then realized with a shock that it wasn't his command that had moved his arm. He looked up to the window, but the corona was gone; it was nightfall, or close enough to it that the world was coming back alive. He heard Brutus starting to pace, still mostly formless so that it was just the sound of smoke drifting across the wooden floors, but he heard it. He heard Lathe wake from his slumber, felt him stand over the corpse he'd fed on and then take the stairs two at a time.

  Cory pushed to his feet. Moving the bookcase took no more effort than drawing in a breath to speak, and even though the window had been painted shut for years, he had no problem pulling the window open, either.

  He was sitting on the ledge as Lathe appeared, the vicious knife in his hand sharp enough to shave with. In his other hand was a wooden stake, round and sharp. “You've come to kill me,” Cory said, voice only slightly mocking.

  Lathe nodded. “That is the plan."

  Cory stood up, feeling the rush of power in his body. He was still himself, barely, and soon he'd be swallowed up completely by the other, but for right now, he could enjoy this.

  "Do you really think I would let that happen?” he asked. He let a hint of the power that had collected here, where the two rivers joined over millennia, fill him, and Lathe stepped back. Cory smiled again. “You have freed me, and for that, I will not kill you tonight."

  "I have mastery over you!” Lathe snarled.

  Cory walked to Lathe. Lathe's hands were suddenly too heavy for him to be able to lift either weapon, and they both clattered to the floor. “But I will kill you,” Cory whispered and kissed Lathe on the cheek. “This body is magnificent,” he said, and that line was wholly the other. “I really must thank you."

  "Come back,” Lathe said, but oh so weakly. “Please."

  Cory felt himself change. Not to the raven—he couldn't, not nude as he was—but to a snowy owl, beautiful as he was deadly. He took to the sky, wings barely making it through the window, and he was off and up. Away.

  And no longer himself at all.

  * * * *

  Luke had just made the coffee when he heard something strike the window. It didn't have the weight of a bird breaking its neck, but he heard the nail-on-a-chalkboard sound of talons striking the glass. “Cory?” he called, going to the door, but flicked on the floodlights before opening it.

  It wasn't Cory. At least, it wasn't a raven. The snowy owl in the tree cocked its head to the side, its round yellow eyes frankly observing, and then it was Cory himself, naked, sprawled over the branch. He threw his leg over the branch and slid down. He landed lightly on the grass and padded toward Luke.

  "How did you—” Luke began. It was still cold out; the snap had lengthened into a spell. But even though Cory looked paler than usual from lack of blood, he seemed unaffected by it. “Cory, you must be freezing."

  "Fuck me,” Cory said.

  "We're back to this?” Luke asked and rubbed his face. Just when he thought he'd broken through with Cory, it was like he was always trying to push. “Look, I'm thrilled you're back, but I don't—"

  Cory kissed him, taking Luke's head in his hands. “Fuck me, Luke. Please. Here on the grass if you want. Would you prefer me on my knees?"

  Luke wished he could say no. He took Cory by the shoulder and pulled him inside. “You said you loved me,” Luke said. “That you were mine."

  "I did,” Cory said, voice joyous. “Do you want to fuck on the couch or go downstairs?"

  "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

  "Later. I need you. Now, please."

  There was something wrong, and Luke knew it, but he wasn't a saint, either. He took Cory to the couch. It was obvious that Cory couldn't wait. Already naked and hard, he squirmed away when Luke tried to kiss him. “Suck my cock,” he said, trying to push Luke's head down. “Go on. Suck it. I want to feel your lips on my skin."

  Something was definitely wrong. He took hold of Cory's wrists and was actually quite shocked at how easily Cory broke his hold. “What—” Luke began, but Cory wouldn't let him speak. They kissed again, more for Cory to shut him up than out of affection or love, and Luke broke away. “What are you?"

  "What do you mean, what am I? I'm your Cory. You need to fuck me."

  "You're not my Cory,” Luke said, as sure of that as he was about his distrust of sunlight. “I don't know what you are, but you are not my Cory."

  Cory's face changed, instantly. Gone were the smiles, and he was as still as though he'd been suddenly chiseled out of stone. “He is in here."

  "Unless he's in the driver's seat, we're not taking the car out of the driveway,” Luke said. He broke free, having to get away because his body truly wasn't minding the lack of Cory inside Cory's body. “What are you?"

  Cory—or Cory's body, at least—leaned back, sprawling the exact way Cory had a thousand times before. “These must be principles,” he said. “I cannot say that I like them at all. You liked it when Cory begged for you. Would that change anything?” He ran his hand down his belly and touched his erection. “I could beg on my knees, if you think it will help."

  "Let me speak with Cory,” Luke said.

  "I told you. He's in here. He's just a little busy.” Cory stood up, going to Luke, but Luke held him away at arm's length, and Cory, for once, respected that. “I could just take you."

  Luke held out his hands. “That is not going to happen,” he said. “I believe you don't mean Cory any harm. Just let me speak with him."

  Cory stood up, practically stalking Luke across the living room. “What I want, I take. Isn't that how you humans are? Do you think you can stop me?"

  Luke closed his eyes. Cory was so close and smelled so familiar, Luke could barely push him away, but push him away he did. He opened his mouth, but couldn't form the words the first time.

  "What did you say?” Cory demanded.

  "I said, I revoke my invitation.” Luke formed each word carefully. Cory screeched in pain, Luke bolted for the door and swung it open, and Cory turned back into the bird. Wings beat against Luke's face, talons dug into his cheek, and then the white owl was away. He watched as Cory flew up into the night, but he didn't call him back. He couldn't; it would have invited whatever that thing was back into his house again, and the thought of being alone with it, when he was completely defenseless, was more frightening than it should have been.

  "I'm sorry,” he told the night sky, when the bird was completely out of sight. It was Brutus who answered, miles away
but crystal clear on the cold, chilly wind.

  * * * *

  Lathe let Brutus out at true dark. The wolf bolted past him, into the garden and behind the house, where the forested edge of the river met the parking lot. Lathe let him run and opened himself up to Brutus's feeling of freedom. He felt caged in, himself; the vortex was gone, the restaurant was empty but for the ghosts, and he needed time to think about how he was going to trap it again.

  The world was too bright for him to concentrate, so he went back down to the basement. The corpse was dried out, but he kicked it nonetheless before settling down into his nest. He could still feel Brutus running through the trees, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and that, at least, was calming. Soon he would find something to kill, and they would both feed for the night.

  He'd created Brutus out of ice and need and hunger and just a little bit of himself. They were linked. He opened himself a little more, letting him be the wolf and enjoy the hunt. He'd found something, something wholly alive and full of blood. He bounded further down the trail, silent as death, and his body responded to its panicked biorhythms with absolute hunger.

  When death came, though, it didn't come from teeth and claws, but talons and beak. The owl descended silently from the sky, digging its claws into the back of Brutus's neck. Its beak came down, and Lathe felt the sharp pain as though it were happening to the back of his own neck as the owl severed Brutus's spinal column. It wasn't a line of nerves, but the core of what tied Brutus together. When it was severed, Brutus collapsed.

  Lathe sat up, completely alone in the basement. Alone for just a second, of course, as the flurry of wings stirred the air around him. The owl struck his face, the power of its wings beyond what any owl should have had. And then it was just Cory, naked and sitting cross-legged at the end of his nest. “You didn't have to kill it,” Lathe said.