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The

landscape beneath me barely changed over the long hours flapping in the dead

air; I might've thought I was flying in circles if it hadn't been for the

growing stench. I didn't know what to call any of the foul, acidic smells that

came to clog the air around me, all I could determine was that there were more

of them the longer I followed what I hoped was the trail of something much

sweeter.

I saw

irregular shapes coming up on the horizon, and I flapped harder; any change to the

monotonous landscape was welcome and worth a closer look. In closing the

distance, I saw these were boxy shapes, bigger than the barn, arranged

seemingly at random and they stretched farther than the fields around the barn.

The cloud of burning scents, each of them so different but all horrible in the

same way, was so thick by the time I reached these boxes that my eyes stung. I

finally locked my sore wings and let myself coast down through the choking

atmosphere to land on top one huge box.

My

claws clicked and grinded on the surface, and I grunted in surprise when I

found I could not dig them in. Whatever these structures were made out of, they

were hard and gray as rock, but smelled much, much worse. I found myself

thinking concrete.

I was

remembering things again. It was similar to the reading: it was just a matter

of remembering the words. This was concrete; it made the roof of a building.

Many buildings next to each other, stretching to the horizon like the clouds

had come to earth, was a city. The terrible smell of this place probably came

from smoke, fumes, chemicals, whatever the people living here burned, used,

spilled, and inhaled every day. I tried to breathe through my mouth; the soft

inside of my nostrils felt like it was peeling. I immediately snapped my mouth

shut, tasting the greasy fumes of the place on my tongue. Whoever lived here

must have lost their sense of smell altogether out of necessity, just to

breathe.

"The

lid of the coffin rattled and pushed up ..."

Someone

had spoken. My body froze; I don't know why, but I didn't want him to hear me.

I held my ears up and made them as big as I could.

"The

coffin hadn't been designed to keep a struggling person inside, only stop a

thief from getting in. But what pushed out was a thief in its own right."

It came

from beneath me, echoing up the sides of my building and the building adjacent.

Lifting my toes slightly to keep my claws off the grating concrete, I moved

quietly to the edge. I surmised he hadn't been there a few minutes ago to hear

my tired, clumsy landing. Or else, he just hadn't minded; it was possible that

being on rooftops was commonplace. After all, I wouldn't know.

"It

heaved the lid clear. No good, natural creature could have thrown such a heavy

piece of stone; the strength of the Devil pushed with it."

With

his next sentence, I had come to the edge, right over his head. He was curled

against the wall with his knees drawn up, a glowing object in his left hand, a

feathery paper thing in his lap, resting on his knees. I placed them: flashlight

and book. The light confused me; I hadn't seen anything so bright yet, and it

boggled my mind why he needed it. I'd read my letter without one just fine.

Surely he would only use such bright light, so bright that it was hurting my

eyes even from here, if he didn't really need it.

"It

drove itself out of the coffin, its horrible will to feed will not letting it

die. Die and turn to dust, as it should." His small, thick red tail twitched

and trailed in a cloudy puddle, soaking the fur. He didn't seem to notice. His

ears flicked against his head as his low whispers continued, like he was

afraid. "Stricken with rigor mortis, it jerked and stumbled, its head lolling.

It shambled for the door slowly, determined in its sinister purpose."

There

was a particular noise coming from him, a steady thumping. My ears turned

further down toward him. I wasn't sure what it was, but I liked that sound. It

was like a perfectly timed drum beat, just under the sound of his whispers.

"Its

bare, bone-hard feet clacked on the cold stone floor, rattling ..."

I

realized what it was, as it grew louder, enough that I could hear a wet and

organic quality to every beat: it was his heart. I was hearing the rhythmic

contractions of his heart, betraying his growing nervousness as it grew faster.

I stopped hearing his words, just his hushed, tense voice, interrupted by his

quick breathing, like instrumentation to accompany the lovely, almost

harmonious, beat. I felt a slight lurch of excitement for every pounding in his

chest, and my own heart responded. My heartbeat was not the same as his; it

sounded and felt sluggish, painful, like every clench was a chore. I yearned

for his, that quick in-and-out of his, alongside his breathing, so easy for him

and so perfect a sound. It caressed the inside of my ears, and I could almost

picture the muscle in his chest, pumping tirelessly in perfect time.

The

image made me feel strange, in every cell of my body; all my muscles became

tense at once, pulling on my bones and making them shiver with the strain. The

cold I'd been feeling all night became so acute that I thought I might freeze

solid and shatter; it dug deep into my body, like the night air hated me. I

inhaled sharply, and almost choked.

I could

smell him.

The

burning chemical smells were forgotten; I was so focussed on that nervous boy

with his pretty little heartbeat that I didn't notice anything that wasn't him.

His sweat, slightly sour and metallic with fear, rose off him hotly, carried on

the heat from his body. I could practically feel the warmth of him from here;

he was a fire, smouldering in the dank alley.

My

mouth tingled and gushed with saliva, coating my teeth, which were grinding and

twisting in my gums again. They pushed against the inside of my lips, their

points parting them. I cracked open my jaw to give them room. They'd shoved

their way outward with intent, and with every breath I took, every little

nuance of his scent I savoured, I became more and more sure what that intent

was.

My

fangs were dripping; in the glare of his flashlight, I see could drops falling, landing on

the pages of his book. He stopped speaking, and craned his neck back, pointing

his muzzle straight up. I met his wide, dark eyes, savouring the little stutter

in his heartbeat. For one second, neither of us moved, knowing what would

happen next.

He drew

in air. I shoved myself over the edge and dropped down, stretching my forepaws

toward him. He only had time to let out a high yip before I collided with him,

pinning his small, skinny body down, one massive paw pressing his muzzle

against the wet, black pavement. His hot, fragile body writhed helplessly

beneath me, warming my belly. I drove my huge teeth right at his exposed chest,

where the music of his life came from. They speared right into his flesh,

sliding in easily with the fluid of my mouth, and he gave a weak shudder,

choking wetly. I tossed my head back, yanking my teeth out and the unblocked

wounds spurted with blood.

All I

could process was the heat, and the bittersweet taste, as more and more sprayed

out of his body onto me. I opened my jaw as wide as I could, swallowing gulp

after gulp, whimpering with relief. The unimaginable warmth flooded the center

of me, shot out to the very tips of my wings, drove away every trace of the

painful cold. It was a long, glorious time before I could no longer hear his

heart, and the flow stopped. I licked up what remained, slurping the still

blood out of his thin fur, ripping at his wounds a little to see what more I

could get out of the corpse. The vitality, the heat, was gone; I only wanted to

get what little was left of his warm life before the chill of the night air did

its work.

When he

was cold under my paws, as cold as I had been mere minutes ago, I walked off a

few paces and sat down to lick his remains out of my fur. This thick fur

trapped so much blood that I honestly wondered if any amount of licking and

grooming could get me clean. I remembered what he'd been holding, and turned to

see the book and the flashlight, still lying off to the side where he'd dropped

them. I kicked aside the useless light, and picked up the book. There was

surprisingly little blood staining its pages; a few drops along the edges, but

it was otherwise alright. It must have landed in just the right spot to avoid

the splatter.

Gingerly,

I turned over the cover, revealing the impossibly thin, delicate pages. His

hands had been so much smaller; it was obvious that the book hadn't been meant

to be handled by claws like mine. I debated whether to try and read it; after

all, the last thing I'd read had been so disappointing. But, this had many more

pages than the letter, and what he'd been whispering to himself had intrigued

me. It must be worth something to keep it.

But,

there was the matter of how I was to carry it with me. I looked at his bloody

shirt, and got an idea.