“Perhaps you should wait out the rain.” Israfel picked up a crystal bottle within reach, unplugging the stopper and savoring the nectar inside.
A drop escaped, trickling down his throat, wetting his collarbone.
“That is,” he said as he licked his bottom lip, “unless you’re going to kick me out of my nest.”
Brendan was staring openly now.
Israfel turned away from him, rearranging another set of decanters on the table. Eventually he settled into the loveseat, offering his crystal bottle, swishing the small portion of nectar sparkling inside. Brendan took the hint and sat next to him, fastidiously plucking at his black coat. Its contours were slim and sharply cut, but the fabric remained buttoned down to his ankles. More sweat beaded his forehead, gathering in a thin line above his collar. The young man ran a shaky hand through his curls, blinking only to find Israfel gazing into his eyes.
“Well,” Israfel said, “go ahead and ask.”
Brendan’s handsome face paled. “Ask you what?”
“All right. I’ll answer.” He placed the bottle in Brendan’s hands. “I’m male. Now why don’t you have a drink? Where I come from, it would be a great honor for you to share my glass.”
The young man took the decanter, examining it with a slight frown. Then he raised the rim to his lips, sipped, and sipped again, unaware that some of the nectar was dribbling down his chin. “You’re a—male,” Brendan said, surfacing for air. “A man . . .” He laughed nervously but choked down his last mouthful and set the bottle on the floor, looking like he’d been wounded somehow.
Israfel bit his lip, trying to contain his amusement.
Rain had matted the fine feathers of his hair, and he gathered them into a short rope near his chest, stroking the strands down to their tips.
Brendan remained silent, staring down into his lap.
Every now and then his glance flicked back to Israfel, taking in his long neck, his tapering fingers.
“So now you must tell me something about yourself.” Israfel shifted closer. “Perhaps you have an interesting family . . .”
“My family.” Brendan’s expression hazed over. He slumped lazily into the couch cushions, shut his eyes to the candlelight and the broken ceiling lamp. Sweat dampened the hair around his ears, shone across his temples. “All I have left is a sister. Angela.”
Lightning flashed outside, brightening the walls of the room to silver, briefly revealing piles of feathers that had drifted near its corners. But Brendan wasn’t paying attention, and the thunder followed soon afterward, slightly drowning out his voice.
“I’m told she’s arriving here soon.”
Brendan sighed, his broad shoulders rising and falling heavily. In one swift movement, he unclasped the hooks holding his collar closed.
“Her and the hundreds of other blood heads that show up every semester.”
“I see.” Israfel clenched his fingers into the couch’s armrest, fighting off a round of painful cramps and a wave of nausea, his newest smile tight and perceptibly forced. Already. He’d timed the last injection to keep him going for hours, but either his ailments were getting worse, or the hours of singing were finally taking their toll. Well, it was obvious now that he didn’t have much longer to wait. According to Brendan, Luz was the right city after all. Perhaps he should take this opportunity and indulge himself for a change.
Human souls were rumored to be quite sweet.
“You said you wanted me to leave this place.” He slid a hand over Brendan’s. “But what do you really want, Brendan? Why are you really here?”
The young man looked at him, at his fingers, pale. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Yet the thirst was there, gleaming behind his eyes. His lips parted, voiceless.
A second passed where they regarded each other.
“I—” Brendan slid nearer, tentatively touching Israfel’s arm, breathing hard. He was shaking all over; visibly disturbed by the idea of whatever he thought or felt. But then he reached out again, delicately stroking the length of Israfel’s neck, looking like he expected the dream to be over at any second. His fingers were chill and much damper than before. “You’re saying that you would sing it for me—” His voice choked away. “The song I’ve been hearing until now?”
“If you’re willing.”
Brendan went rigid, his eyes wide. “I’m—willing.”
“All right then . . .”
So Israfel began softly, his tone soothing and warm. Such shyness deserved a gentle beginning. But after a short time, Israfel subtly switched to a longer series of verses, his tone pure, yet with each note more powerful than the last. The room throbbed with their closeness, with a new heat. Brendan’s body relaxed, his tension dissipated, and Israfel’s lilting voice reached out for his Beloved and back again, until the universe seemed to gather around them, tight and suffocating. Even with his eyes closed, he saw the stars, the water, the beauty of their dawn. A flashing, living past.