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Chapter 7

Othello burst through the door of the apartment.

Angel hadn’t gotten back yet, as he expected. So, he tore through the house, gathering his supplies and packing up his uniform.

He could have called an Uber to make it to his shift on time, but he hadn’t had a proper workout for the last few days. So, instead of heading down to the street, he scrambled up the fire escape to the roof. After a few minutes of stretching his back and his legs, he took off at a dead sprint at the far ledge. Picking up speed, he launched himself some four yards across the gap to land in a roll on the neighboring roof.

He came up and continued, never stalling, trying to preserve his momentum. He sprinted and flung himself again to another roof. His breathing flowed and his mind emptied. The only things he perceived were directly connected to his trajectory: Anything in the way of his current course, out to a distance that seemed telescopic. He knew it all. He wasn’t flesh anymore. He was the wind! He didn’t even notice how high up from the ground he was. His feet barely felt the roofing under him.

He was coming to the final stretch. He was starting to feel his own weight again. He was getting tired. If his senses dulled before he noticed, he could fatally fuck himself up. So he baseball slid to a stop before the next ledge. As soon as he halted, the sensations of exhaustion and heat, of the evening air chilling his lungs, and myriad of scrapes along his limbs from the tumbling, all caught up with him.

He sat back and let his perceptions dilate back to normal. He shrugged off his jacket, and watched the sweat from his heated clothes disperse as a fine mist from him. He was amazed that such a thing, such exertion, was possible.

He might have stayed seated there for a few minutes more, if he hadn’t heard a faint scratching sound behind him. His head whipped around to see what it could have been, and saw some small shadow dart over one edge. Beyond was a spreading trail of mist that marked his route.

He pulled his jacket back on, fighting off a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. He carefully clambered down this building’s fire escape and into the alley. Stepping out onto the street instead, and took the rest of the route to work at a brisk walk.

J’s did not start as a gay hangout spot, but in the three years he’s worked there, more and more male couples or cruisers would frequent the place. A couple of gyms, a hardware store, and an few seedy cruising-alleys later, though, and J’s found itself in the middle of a regular gay-village.

J’s on the other hand was simply one man’s humble brewery project. James paired each of the menu options with mead, or wine, or beer, all of which he made himself in the establishment’s basement. James ran everything. He hired the chef, employed the staff, and has even hinted at having built every piece of furniture in the place by hand.

And now, Othello knew that his boss was a bonafide werewolf. One of the leaders.

As if that reputation alone wasn’t enough to give Othello a hard-on, the bulky lumberjack-bod and thick and bushy mustache used to make Othello wanna claw out of his clothes. Instead, he slowly peeled them off in the makeshift locker/break room.

He stole glances at the meaty giant as James stripped to his tighty-whities and tee that failed to cover his fuzzy beer-belly. He suspected that J knew he was being checked out. For it, Jay seemed to appreciate the admiration. Before tonight, the two never spoke during this private strip-show.

“Cologne smells nice tonight…” Jay muttered, dancing around the infinitely more interesting conversation. “Should be good for tips, if you get close enough.”

Othello smirked at that. “Not wearing any. I ran here and pretty much just wiped off the sweat.”

“Well shit, boy!” The big man laughed. “Bottle it and make us enough money to retire, eh?”

He considered what happened with the monster earlier that very day. “Not a bad idea, big guy,” Othello chuckled. He tugged on his champagne-colored turtleneck, and then buttoned up the black waistcoat. Black slacks and polished black shoes completed the ensemble.

Jay eyed the uniform and reached into his right back pocket, coming up with white handkerchief. He folded it into a pocket-square and approached to stand over Othello. “May I…?”

With a grin, Othello chomped back the urge to demand a “please” from his boss. “Be my guest.” He puffed out his chest.

“You should cut this thing off,” He almost reached for the braided beard, fingers dancing around it, but never touching it. “You’d look good with a tie.”

“Is that an endorsement for me to leave this place and get a desk job?” He teased.

J snorted. “Like you could survive one…” The big man delicately slipped thick fingers into the waistcoat and fumbled with the square.

“Are we ever gonna talk about the fact that you lead a pack of werewolves…?”

The hanky slipped from his grip to land at his feet. When he knelt to pick it up, he paused and glanced up. The moment froze itself in Othello’s mind and Jay turned red. He stood up quickly and tucked the square into Othello’s breast-pocket. When he was finished, Jay stood there, confused in the thick tension between them.

That Othello wanted so badly to take advantage of the moment made him smile. He wanted to just unzip, then and there. “Fine,” he murmured. “Be that way.” Still smiling, he very deliberately brushed by Jay and walked out of the room without another word.

The shift wasn’t bad. It was busy, so he didn’t have to rack up tips flirting. Jay was right; he was complimented on his “fragrance”, and the tips came no matter how brusquely he treated the guests.

Working here so steadily allowed Othello to kind of go on autopilot. It wasn’t until about two in the morning that the bar began to empty to reveal the showy stranger.

Their features were so delicate and vivid, utterly androgynous from their hourglass figure, to their goatee, from their eyeshadow and winged eye-liner to the clear Adam’s-apple defiantly displayed. They dressed in a gold pant-suit with shorts so short that they were nearly concealed by the blazer. The ensemble was topped by a massive, gravity-defying afro of copper ringlets.

In Othello’s mind, this was one of the most visually striking human beings he’d encountered. Judging by stares they got, much of the bar agreed.

Sitting at the bar, sipping something fruity through a straw, this person eyed Othello with an intensity that was almost hostile.

“Someone’s looking for trouble,” he smiled.

“Not looking, charmer; found,” the voice was certainly male. “I’ve found you.”

“And, what is it you’ve found in me, Mis...ter?” Othello ventured.

“Lockelace,” they said, infuriatingly dodging the query. “This is so crazy… I’ve seen you in a nightmare.”

“Kind of an odd pickup line,” Othello answered, quirking an eyebrow, “but I like it. Tell me about these nightmares.”

“Too much to tell,” Lock stirred the drink and smiled wistfully. “But you’ll get them too, I promise.”

“Are you threatening me?” Othello was becoming increasingly confused. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“I want…” Locklace seemed to struggle to find words. “I want to make it to the end, this time.”

Othello felt the weight of those words, but shook it off as something else caught his attention. He picked up a glass to try and look busy polishing it. “That drink isn’t on the menu. That’s not one of our glasses. Did you bring it in from outside?”

“I know who you are, Kaard.”

The glass fell to the floor and smashed. Locke laughed.

“Who the hell are you?!” Othello hissed.

“I’m the main character on cheat-mode with infinite lives and no saves,” He spun on his stool, coming to a stop, locking eyes with him. “And YOU are the first boss-fight!”

Locke snapped slender fingers and the tavern went silent. Another snap and a point saw the building empty very suddenly. Every single customer filed out as though they all remembered they had each left the stove on, leaving the two alone.

Othello watched it all happen, bewildered, mind desperate for a fact that he could grasp to make sense of this. He landed on one:

“I trust you’ll cover their tabs?” He said, picking up another glass.

“Guaranteed!” slamming down three hundred-dollar bills, before leaping away from the bar. Just in time for those bills to explode into a storm of metal shrapnel.

Othello threw his hands up uselessly and fell backwards. He was showered in the booze from the smashed bottles above him, frozen there in shock and terror until the commotion died. When he could move again, he looked up to see a semi-dome of Fog. Red-hot coins stuck out of it, but began falling around him as the Fog quickly faded.

“Huh…” LockeLace snorted. “You really had so much control so early…? Did not count on that…” He smiled, smugness dripping from ruby lips. “Aw, well… You’re still clueless as to how to use it, I bet?” While he spoke, Locke plucked five or six bills from a stack and folded them into a vaguely gun-like shape that filled out with a shake of his wrist. When he tore the bills like wrapping paper, an actual gold-plated handgun had appeared from within it.

The motions were practiced, using fingers other than the index finger and thumb. It took less than three seconds. Othello’s mind couldn’t process what he was seeing. Just watching hammered his head like using his Big Voice. But as the gun was levelled at him, instinct took over. His hand shot up and slapped Locke punishingly across the face.

“JAY, GODDAMMIT! WE’RE BEING ROBBED!!!” He roared out.

“What the hell…?” Locke’s face was a grimace of frustration. “You hit me! On your own?!”

Othello gathered up his Big Voice. “This next one won’t be so gentle…” He felt the Shroud respond, as if an extra hand was reaching beyond, following and preparing to bolster his next strike.

Othello vaulted over the bar. He knew from experience that he had exactly three seconds before his opponent recovered. That is pretty much what a bitch-slap is for, after all. A way to rattle the senses without harming bodily integrity. Pimp-shit 101.

He was able to kick the gun away, sending it clattering across the floor. “You know…” Othello flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “You aren’t the first person to pull a weapon on me…” He went in for another smack, but Locke flinched back, crying out.

That is the difference between a sub and a civilian. No civvie needs to show you they can take it. Civvies don’t fight back. Civvies retreat. And it was LockeLace’s retreat that spared him Othello’s strike.

Othello all but tripped over him. Stumbling past Locke, he managed to right himself before he could trip over a barstool. “Leave!” He hadn’t even felt himself reach for the Big Voice.

Locke was just recovering, brushing a red curl from his face. “Oh, I’m nowhere near done with you ye-” He was cut off by the sudden swarm of misty-hands pushing and slapping at him, chasing him to the door.

Othello seized the opening to rush past the flailing Locke. He opened the door and grabbed a fistful of bright red hair. He heaved once and sent his opponent sprawling out of the establishment.

Othello locked the wooden door behind him and made for the back. “JAY?! Where the FUCK are you?!”

He tried to throw open the door to the employee lounge, but it collided with something heavy and soft. He shoved his way through, and found James slumped over just behind it.

Othello dropped to his knees and pressed his fingers to his boss’s neck. The pulse was steady and strong.

“Jay, wake up! WAKE UP!” He slapped the bigger guy once.

James snorted, eyes popping open… then immediately started falling asleep again.

“No, no, no!” Othello growled, “There is a ton of shit going down IN YOUR BAR! WAKE UP, OLD MAN!” He gave James another slap.

This time, the big man sat up on his own. “WHOA, WHOA!!” He gasped. “What the hell, Tell?”

“Call the cops,” Othello said. “Someone just shot up your bar, trying to kill me.”

He didn’t wait for James to ask him for details. Instead, he grabbed his things and made for the back door.

Outside, instead of making for the street, he turned deeper down the alley, watching for any flash of red or gold. At the opposite opening of the alley, he tried to calm himself. He trotted whenever he had to cross a street. He stayed with the alleys, making sure he wasn’t being followed, then made for the roof-tops. Once there, he was finally able to relax, a little.

He started trying to catch his breath, bringing that feeling back, that “hand that was not quite his hand”... he needed to call it forth at will. He needed it NOW! He kept his hands at his side… he began to breathe. He dove into that place where his Big Voice was and imagined running his not-hand through it. Imagined forcing it through the Shroud.

He opened his eyes and saw the mists had enveloped him. He focused on any shape that could have been a hand… A left hand… the same as Mac had…

He could almost see those nail-embedded eyes when the gravel behind him exploded, with a red-hot quarter embedded in a small crater in the roof.

“Mother f -- “

He cut himself off and took off running. It took him a bit longer to sink into a flow this time. He heard gravel bursting behind him, gaining as if he was being chased by an invisible being. If the Mists were real at all, he knew they were protecting him, but he was quickly outrunning them.

He couldn’t shake his fear. It made his knees shake and his steps uneven. The instant he hurled himself at the next roof-top, he knew he hadn’t gathered the speed, nor attained the stability, to make it. He was some four storeys up, and was well aware that hitting the pavement below would likely kill him. He clawed at empty air as even his clothes seemingly tried futilely to hold him aloft.

The windows flew by. One storey down. Two. He looked down to meet the ground and saw a hand, reaching out to him. He gave a shout of effort and swiped for it. His fingers wrapped tightly around it and his velocity changed course. His left arm went violently taut, wrenching on his shoulder. He smacked the entire front of his body into the brick wall. Then hung there, winded, praying that neither he, nor that his savior had let go. Feeling nothing more than a sway, he opened his eyes and looked up to see who had helped him.

The hand he’d been trying to manifest held him fast, anchored by a shoulder that seemed to grow right out of the concrete of the wall.

“Okay… Okay!” Othello planted his feet and started to walk. The thing began to quiver with strain as it started to swing his momentum back and forth, becoming less real by the second. After a swing or two, Othello released his grip and launched himself sideways to the nearby fire escape. He trotted down, nearly slipping on jellified legs. Soon, he was on the ground and jogging home.

***

By the time he got there, he was exhausted. The world had gone bat-shit in less than a week. Someone he’d never met knew his Spirit-Name and wanted him dead. He thought about going to the cops, but felt like that was a useless proposition… Should he hide? Where? With whom? Niel? Absolutely not. Angel’s family hated him, of course… The wolves…?

He paused on that idea for a moment. If the wolves were hobos… then he might not be in the sort of danger he thinks he’s in… What if Gold wasn’t trying to kill him, at least not the way he thinks he is. There was only one thing he could think to do.

“Angel-mine?” He opened the door to his apartment and went to the bedroom. Angel had cleaned up, left dinner of chili-dogs out, and had gone to sleep. Business as usual. Othello took one last look around at his comfortable home-life and went to wake his boi.

He turned on all of the lights and flung aside the blankets.

Angel’s prompt response was to wrap arms around Othello and flop back. The big lummox never even woke up. He snored deeply.

“No, Angel, no!” Othello strained against the loving embrace. “Get UP, you big ape!”

“Master, ish laaaate,” Angel whined. “‘Come cuddle wiff meee…”

“There’s no time for that, dummy!” Othello said, rejecting the usually tempting offer. “Someone tried to hurt me!”

That did it. Angel sat up again, looking extremely grumpy. He eyed his Master. “That isn’t funny, Sir.”

“No.” Othello said, still seated in Angel’s lap. “No, it is not. We need to pack, and we need to leave. Right now.”

Angel narrowed his eyes and frowned more deeply. “Who attacked you?”

“Someone shot up J’s. I don’t know who, or why, but they basically stated that they were after me.” Othello was starting to get annoyed. “I’m leaving. I’m taking your collar with me. You can come with it, or be left behind. Choose.”

It wasn’t fair. Othello realized that when he saw the look on Angel’s face. Worry, and fear, and trepidation, all quickly covered up with a coat of resignation. “I am yours, Sir.”

They stuffed bags with clothes and whatever random junk seemed the most useful and made for the truck. It was old, with faded paint and more than one replaced window. Still, it was Angel’s pride and joy, and he’s maintained the pre-owned juggernaut, since he first drove it out of the police-auction.

They loaded into the four-door pick-up and it rumbled to life. Othello almost expected it to explode, but didn’t think of that until they were already pulling out of the driveway.

“Where to, Sir?” Angel asked through a clenched jaw. He was angry, Othello noted it, but tried to proceed without feeling too guilty.

“The Maw,” he answered. “We’re going to the Wolves.”

Angel kept driving, but gave his Man a look so heavy with skepticism that he might have Othello committed instead.

“Look,” Othello sighed, “Take me to them, and see for yourself how crazy I am. If you truly can’t be convinced of what I’m experiencing, I’ll go wherever you want me to: the loony-bin, home, the hospital, no fight, no argument.”

Angel pulled over and stared his Master in the eye for a breath. “... Show me something now.”

Othello opened his mouth, then closed it. Arguing would be useless. One does not argue with a subordinate. If Angel was going to resist, it was because this was a breaking point.

He had to prove They were really real, and it had to happen now, or the two were done.

Othello’s lips felt numb as he began patting himself down. “Alright, Lefty. Please be here…”

He breathed, and summoned those mists… He flexed his Power and summoned it forth, tearing through thr Shroud.

He felt it become real.

Othello kept a tight hold on it, and opened his eyes.

Angel scoffed at first, then he realized he wasn’t looking at a glove, but a full, three-dimensional object. Rooted, there to his shoulder, sprouted an extra arm to arch across the empty space between the men, and hovered in front of Angel’s nose. Its alien eyes blinked at the blonde.

“Happy?” Othello felt supremely smug. He leaned back (putting Angel out of the thing’s immediate reach) and crossed the arms that were actually his.

Angel had gone green. He opened the door and tumbled out of the car. While Othello listened to his boi vomit, he examined this handy thing. It was already fading back, reclaimed by the Shroud.

He waited while Angel finished puking up his guts. He wondered with rapidly-draining amusement, how he’d take something like this if the shoe was on the other foot.

The answer scared him.

Angel returned, staring around, huffing out sour-scented breaths. “Is it gone?”

“No,” Othello answered. “You just don’t have to see it anymore.” The statement had a sharper bite than he thought it would. He hadn’t even noticed how his feeling of vindication spoiled into spiteful frustration.

“Master… Othello…” Angel looked incredibly torn.

Fuck it. He was Master, so Othello would make the decision. “Drop me off where I tell you, then disappear.”

“Yes…” Angel said. “Yes, Sir.”

They drove to the Campgrounds in total, devastated silence.