·       Hey y'all, Stephen Wormwood here, thanks for clicking on this! Hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can spare the coin. As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome – stephenwormwood@mail.com – love to hear from y'all.

 

 

**********

 

A SMALL SOUL LOST

 

**********

 

The Bus Shelter – The Underpass – The Greggs & The Poundland – The Toilets – The Streets – The Father – The Builder – The Builder's Flat – The Builder's Bedroom – The Cambion – The Probe – The Thaumaturge – The Second Probe – The Dirty Sword

 

**********

 

In truth, Harry half expected the rain to keep him up that night. Its light pitter-patter rattled the dirty grey windows around his head, brought an unseasonal chill to the air, and fogged his breath as he huddled for warmth beneath his beaten black puffer jacket. As it so happened, he slept like the dead. Nothing woke him. Not the rain, not the passing cars or distant sirens, it was (somehow) the longest sleep he'd had in weeks.

 

"Oi!"

 

It was a bus driver who woke him. Harry peeled open his sleep-crusted eyes and glared up at the man, his potbelly bulging out his hi-vis jacket and baggy overalls. There was a now familiar look of disgust in his eyes.

 

"C'mon," The driver threw a fat thumb over his shoulder. "Up you come, mate. You can't stay here."

 

Harry ignored him.

 

"D'you hear me?" The bass rose in his voice. "I said do one!"

 

Harry ignored him still.

 

And then the driver's boot went thundering into the plastic-aluminium frame holding up the shelter. It thudded around Harry's ears, his hood no cushion to it, as three empty cans of Stella fell off the red plastic bench and clattered against his trainers. The message could not have been clearer – scarper, or else. The boy threaded his arms through the muck-stained straps of his rucksack and shuffled off down the pavement towards Fordham Park.

 

He took a glance behind him before he left though. The bus driver, a scowling Turkish schlub, picked up the empty cans and hurled them into a waste bin. "That's why we shouldn't give you lot money," he spat. "You just fucking waste it all on booze and fags."

 

The Stellas were stolen of course, but the good gentleman didn't need to know that.

 

If Harry had had a dad growing up, a real one, he'd imagine he'd be somewhat similar. Stout and earthy maybe, a bit foul-mouthed, and frothing at the jowls in blue collar snobbery. The kind of dad who wouldn't help him with his homework but was quick to bitch about all the hours he wasted on his PlayStation; the kind of dad who prided himself on never putting his hands on his wife no matter how tempted he was.

 

What did it say... that Harry still would've killed for a dad like that?

 

He sniffled. He tried not to think about his parents. If he thought about where his mum was... or who his dad might've been, he'd start crying again – and he was so fucking sick of crying. Instead, he slipped his black hood over the unbrushed tangle of whorls he called his hair and slipped off down the road towards the green in search of a bench. It was still dark out, and with only a couple more hours to go before dawn broke and the mid-morning rush began, he figured he'd finish off what the bus driver interrupted – just to reset his brain for the day to come.

 

But it was just Harry's luck that as he found a half-decent bench to kip on, the smoke-coloured skies above broke open again. At first the rain came down as it did last night, a pattering little drizzle, but then it grew worse and worse until it drenched the grass in a muddy sludge.

 

`Fuck,' thought the boy. `The underpass.'

 

It was his best bet to escape the rain. Harry scowled, drew the strings around his hood to make it tighter, then bounded back across the park towards the footpath. The headlights of a coming 225 flashed past him through the torrent, but he dashed ahead of it and scrambled across the street to the short, graffiti-stained tunnel beneath the train tracks.

 

Harry stopped and caught his breath, slumped against the uncomfortable curving wall at the edge of the tunnel. His eyes and face were soaked with rainwater (and a few welling tears if he was honest) as he drew his legs into his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and buried it between his knees. He did cry, then.

 

He tried to sleep but the rain was too loud, and the thoughts wouldn't stop. What if the police came? What if social services caught up with him? What if the Thaumaturge couldn't help? What then? Worries mixed with memories... memories of his mother, of beatings and bloody noses, of cracked Gameboys and broken cartridges, of screaming, of Stephen Welsh kissing him behind the bike shed; of kids chanting "FAGGOT, FAGGOT, FAGGOT!" when they found out. Memories made the tears fall.

 

But worst of all was the hunger.

 

The dirge of it, the ache of it, the rage of it. It wouldn't stop and it wouldn't stop, and it wouldn't stop. He was so fucking hungry. And he was so fucking tired... and he was so fucking tired of being hungry. But it wouldn't stop.

 

What the fuck would it finally take to make it stop?

 

**********

 

From postcode to postcode some spots were better to beg from than others. Some spots were cornered by other homeless people who might drive you off if you hung around too much and cut into their coin. Other spots were good for an hour or so before the local business owners called the Blue Boys on you. Spots near train stations tended to be good because they brought a lot of white collars with them – professionals young and old, all suited and booted with their Michael Kors bags and their Charles Tyrwhitt shirts. The tunnel beneath the tracks was a good spot for their sort. Every few minutes they trundled past Harry in herds of twenty or more with Costa cups in hand as overground trains roared above their heads. Most ignored him. No one liked to look homeless people in the eye – there, but for the grace of God, go I – but a few were kind enough to toss a few coins in his cap.

 

He didn't like this spot much, though.

 

There was a school on the other side of Fordham Park, and the kids there were like kids everywhere – utter bastards to him. They couldn't pass him by without a stare or a comment or a giggle. They had to do something. Jokes, mostly. `Don't get too close, man might have AIDS, innit?' Harry bit his lip. He tried to ignore them, and by 9ish they were mostly gone, but the echoes of them rebounded.

 

Tramp.

 

Dirty git.

 

Bum. Crackhead.

 

Hobo. Junkie. Scrounger. Bin surfer.

 

They weren't clever names, really. But they hurt. They always did. And they were just the newest in a line of words that had plagued him since primary school – fag, faggot, poof, woofter, bum boy, batty boy, sissy boy, cock-socket. But the new ones hurt worse because the new ones felt true. He'd been on the streets less than a week... but the words stung.

 

If there was anything in this world lower than a faggot, it was a homeless faggot.

 

Much as Harry hated the underpass, by midday its passers-by had dropped a good £4.21 in his cap. He did a count of it all from a bench back in the park, as by then the rain had stopped and a squad car full of Bobbies pulled up on the other side of the tunnel. They weren't there for him, but he didn't want to take any chances.

 

The boy found an unoccupied oaken bench, its wood half-rotten and green from years of wear and tear. He sat down and slipped the change into a hidden zip inside his fraying Nike backpack, then took out a brochure with a scrunched paper chit inside – the Thaumaturge's address. Harry kissed it with cracked lips like it was his lifeline... maybe it was. By god's grace maybe he was the only man on this earth who could save him.

 

When he first arrived at the local station three days ago, he went up to the kiosk and asked for the cost of a ticket to Knightsbridge. "£6.70 for an Anytime Day Single," She had said brusquely, a yawning Jamaican woman in a bright orange overall pinned with an overground badge. "Ya want a ticket, me darlin'?"

 

It was a quick trip – seven minutes from here to London Bridge, then twenty more minutes from London Bridge to Knightsbridge Tube Station. Harry just didn't have the money then.

 

He still didn't, but now he was only a couple of quid off.

 

But the hunger... that fucking hunger.

 

A pang of it punched his gut like a bully. Harry doubled over and nearly fell off the bench, groaning between gritted teeth and willing himself not to cry out and attract any more attention to himself. `Fuck,' he thought. `It's getting worse...'

 

The hunger was always bad, and it was always there, as palpable as a whisper in the ear, but this... this was worse than that. This was like a doctor's needle boring its way through his eardrum into his brain. And spite of himself Harry gave it voice inside his mind.

 

YOU CAN'T IGNORE ME.

 

He scowled and fixed his cloudy eyes on the damp grass beneath his dirty Reebok Classics until his body weathered the convulsions. His fists and shoulders jerked horribly, but his nails dug deep into the park bench's withered oak and held himself steady until they passed. When the hunger pang faded, the boy caught his breath and mopped the sweat from his suddenly sweltering brow.

 

`I've got to get to him soon,' thought the boy. `I can't do this anymore...'

 

But Harry knew his body. When the hunger got this bad it didn't just make him tired, it damn near drained the life out of him. Food didn't normally help, but it kept him on his feet. If he was going to make it to Knightsbridge at all, much less before dark, then he needed to eat something to take the edge off.

 

With one hand clutching his stomach, Harry weakly pushed himself up to his feet with the other and lumbered off in the direction of the nearest Greggs.

 

**********

 

It wasn't busy that morning.

 

In recent days Harry came been by a few times when the `normal' hunger got the better of him. Normally it had a queue backing up out of its doorless entryway into the market, but today (and especially for a midday) it was quiet. Two old women with push trolleys full of fresh fruit and veg fresh occupied its indoor seats, two cups of coffee and two Cornish pasties between them. A queue of three stood in front. Behind the counter, two middle aged women in hairnets and white smocks slotted pizza slices and pastries into greasy paper bags with their smeared tongs. The tone was quiet and business-like. And for a minute, Harry tricked himself into thinking he was just like everyone else.

 

But then a flat-capped man ahead of him wrinkled his nose and made an audible *SNIFF*.

 

Like something foul was in the air.

 

"Jesus..." He sniffed again. "Ah wah di bloodclaat is that dutty smell?"

 

Harry balked and tucked his eyes away, only then noticing the two old ladies discreetly covering their noses. The man ahead sat down his shopping bag full of yams and topside meat, cursing at the smell, before turning around and discovering its source. He had the decency to look embarrassed when he did – but not half as much as Harry was. If a sinkhole suddenly opened up beneath his feet and devoured him right there and then he would've thanked it for its service. He'd never been so embarrassed in all his life. And then the lady behind the counter called out, "Next!" and the line moved forward. And then again. And then again until it was Harry's turn. He daren't look her in the eye.

 

"You alright, love? What can I get you?"

 

He didn't want to cry again. "J-just a sausage roll, please."

 

"Alright darling," Harry fixed his eyes on his shoes as she clapped her tongs together and crackled open a new paper bag, slotted in his order, and scrunched the bag shut. "That'll be £1.20 please, darling."

 

Harry quickly gave her the change and shuffled outside to disappear into the market crowds. He dodged his way past old women, cyclists, and stall traders into Frankham Street before sliding down a wall in humiliation. How many days had it been since his last shower? The last one he remembered was at a gym he snuck into in St. Albans, and that was damn near four days ago. He hadn't had another one since he arrived in London. What would the Thaumaturge think if he showed up at his door, dishevelled and sweaty and smelly?

 

Harry brainstormed ways to get clean as he cracked open the bag and found two sausage rolls in there instead of one. He smiled, slightly. Then he thanked the lady in his head and felt guilty for not being able to look her in the eye. And then he ate. He woofed both down, one after the other, barely giving himself a moment to breathe. He felt a little better after that... but not by much.

 

`I need a fucking wash,' thought the boy. `I can't see the Thaumaturge like this...'

 

But for that he'd need soap.

 

Harry thumbed the crumbs off his face, slipped his hands into his pockets, and wandered off into the crowds again. `I hate this,' he thought, keeping his head down as he scanned the streets for just the right shop, and he didn't stop until he found one – a Poundland.

 

It looked a little different from the one in Stevenage.

 

He remembered back home, back then, when him and Stephen Welsh used to walk through Westgate Shopping Centre afterschool together carrying boxes of barbeque chicken wings and chips smothered in burger sauce, peeking their noses in CEX for the latest games. They didn't know it at the time, but they were both scared of going home – and both for the same reasons. Harry's fosters Jeff, and Joan, were making his life miserable and Stephen's dad was beating him – with new bruises every week to show for it. All they had was each other... for a time. They kind of... lost themselves in each other. All they wanted to do was hang out together, fuck whatever it was they were doing, if it was together. And Stephen... he loved robbing that Poundland.

 

`Staff don't give a shit,' A present day Harry tightened his hood strings as Stephen's teenage voice ran through his mind – kind of like it always did when he was about to do something stupid. `Poor old minimum wage buggers. Back me up, yeah? What d'you fancy? Kinder Bueno? Bag of Doritos? Some Starmix? Distract the security and I'll get you something.'

 

The plan was always simple. A slightly younger version of himself would wait until the security guy was by the doors then brush past him; hood up, head down, looking as shady as possible, then stop and start around the isles to make the guard follow him. Pick something up, look at it, then put it down and slowly wander into the next aisle and do it over again. Meanwhile, a slightly younger Stephen would slip inside the store and shove as many crisps and sweets in his Fila bag as he could before he slipped back out again. Sometimes a do-gooder on the tills would ring the bell and point him out, but most of the time the shop floor staff just pretended not to notice. "The way these kids are these days?" No one on minimum wage was looking to get stabbed over a box of Maltesers.

 

Of course, that was then, and this was now.

 

Harold "Harry" Moore was nineteen now, not fourteen. Fourteen-year-old thieves got a telling off and a ban. Nineteen-year-old thieves got nicked. Any veneer of apple-cheeked innocence was gone. And he was on his own this time. And Stephen? Stephen now rested a stone's throw from his grandfather's plot in Weston Road Cemetery.

 

But... those long five years sharpened Harry's mind.

 

He didn't even need a plan, really. He just stood by a lamppost across the road, hands in his pockets, and waited around until the school kids started to emerge at the bus stops and train station. That was when he made his move. Harry watched the security guard, a burly puffer-jacketed bench presser, as his focus turned to a group of black schoolkids, four or five of them, laughing together in a debate about who was the lengest teacher in school. Any idiot could see that they didn't mean any harm. That didn't stop security from tailing them, though.

 

And it didn't stop Harry taking his shot.

 

The boy pulled his hood off, smoothed his hair out, and tried to look nonchalant as he crossed the road into the store and made his way to the beauty aisle. He walked up to the bay half-full of men's toiletries, opened his bag, and slipped in a bar of Dove soap, a grey face cloth, and a can of Lynx Africa. No one noticed.

 

Maybe no one cared.

 

**********

 

It took Harry hours to find a toilet with running water that was quiet enough to wash in. There were no public toilets nearby anywhere he could see, not even in London of all places, so he made do with a local Sainsburys nestled at the bottom of a hill between a car park and the overground tracks. He kept his head down as he hustled through the security barriers, eyes away from the staff and trolley pushers ferrying around their wares. He was fortunate. No one stopped the emaciated, scruffy-haired homeless boy as he shoved open that swinging white door into the men's toilet, and there were only a few people inside when he did. He hid in one of the cubicles until the room was empty, then ripped open the soap box, ran a tap, and worked up a lather. There was foggy mirror overhanging the sink, but he didn't dare look at it.

 

For some reason Harry couldn't bear to look at himself, then.

 

**********

 

It was dark out when Harry emerged from those Sainsburys toilets – a gaunt face surrounded by knotted whorls of darkened hair, hood up, eyes lidded heavy and half-starved. He was cold. There was a bite in the air that brought the fog out of his breath. He sat by the bus stop a spell, pretending to wait for a P13 to Streatham, then stuffed his hands back into his pockets and made his way.

 

Orange headlights flashed through the blackness and fog as he broached the hill. Cars and buses passed him by as if he wasn't even there. It was then, when that fucking hunger struck him once again, that he remembered he was still short on his train fare. Judging by the lack of foot traffic outside the station he'd missed the early evening rush of commuters too, only a handful of suits and some schoolkids shuffled out.

 

But the HUNGER...

 

Harry snatched his stomach with a grimace. He didn't have enough money for Knightsbridge, but he didn't want to spend another night stuck here scrounging around for enough pity change to take him to salvation. He was tired, hungry, heartbroken, and half-set to scream at the first bastard to walk past him without stopping to see if he was ALRIGHT, but he had to keep moving. He was sick of these streets. Harry tightened his hood, shucked his rucksack back on, and set off up the road northbound towards central.

 

He knew his way by a roadmap he stole from a WHSmith's in Lewisham. With his weak feet and mud-battered trainers he cut a trudging a path through the graffiti-smattered chicken shops of Peckham up the A202 past the academy and the fire station towards Camberwell Green, where he allowed himself some rest on a park bench. Some twenty minutes later he pressed on up Camberwell New Road from the PureGym all the way to the Oval by Kennington Park – the most famous Cricket Grounds in the entire country – and it faded past him like snow melting into nothingness.

 

The Ashes – England vs Australia at the Oval. Those were the highlights Stephen had on the telly that lazy Sunday morning when they first kissed. Not that Harry remembered much of it. He remembered everything of Stephen though. His sea-spray eyes, his slick brown hair, his horny smile. His breath was terrible, a foul mix of Tizer, Silk Cut cigarettes and cheese & onion crisps. But his kiss...

 

...it was a flicker of a memory. And yet it struck Harry's mind like a bolt, almost violently, wrenching up deeper memories long buried in his brain. Him and Stephen checking out trainers in Sports Direct, him and Stephen scoring weed in Shephalbury Park, him and Stephen running up to their secret shed afterschool that day, him biting his lip as Stephen kissed him and took his clothes off, him going to his knees and unzipping Stephen's trousers, him sniffing pre-cum in the air as Stephen's girth slipped out through the zip...

 

...and that glassy, unblinking stare that looked down on him when he sucked Stephen dry.

 

Harry stumbled. One of his feet tripped over the other and he fell against a low stone wall. A passer-by tried to help him up. The boy slapped her hands away. He ran. Off down the road, screaming for no one to come near him. He ran until his feet burned. He ran until he was hoarse. He ran until he couldn't run any more. The road ahead was black and mottled with tears, the road behind was full of death and sadness. And Harry was so... fucking... hungry.

 

Somewhere between Vauxhall Bridge and Pimlico Station his feet finally buckled, and he fell like a drunkard into a narrow side street littered with crushed cans, fruit rinds, chicken bones and ciggy butts from an overturned rubbish bin. Harry tasted blood on his lip, but he couldn't move. He was too tired to climb out of the filth.

 

And it all just kept going.

 

Bessborough Street. Pimlico. Central. London. Everything around him...

 

...none of it seemed to care.

 

**********

 

He... saw him some nights.

 

The background was incalculable. Dancing shadows amid roiling flames, a mind lit like tinder, guilt and pleasure dripping from his soft lips, ill thoughts at every corner. And he watched as the shadows played out his life for him. Marionettes of his foster father and mother, so kind and so boring and so stupid, with wooden lips full of threats about Stephen. Harry watched them fade into the smoke as they bickered with him. Deeper probed the shadows from a time before Stevenage, bouncing back from Welwyn to Letchworth, from care home to care home. Harry sat unblinking as a shadow shaped like Tommy punched a shadow shaped like Harry behind a tool shed. A shadow shaped like Fumi called him a FAGGOT. A shadow shaped like Ahmed stole his phone. And a shadow shaped like Mr. Wilson called him to his office and made him strip.

 

But there were deeper shadows.

 

Shadows of a woman.

 

She was pale. She was thin. She was his mother, he supposed. She was called Meredith. And she was mad. His own shadow was only three when she first burned it with her cooking spoon. `Don't tell any tales or they'll take you away you naughty boy...' And they did one day. Her last day. Shadows shaped like social workers came and got him when they found her, foaming at the mouth with a stomach full of pills, and a crumpled note clutched in her stiff hand.

 

YOU DID THIS TO ME, it said.

 

And then the shadows showed him the night. A night before his birth, a night of conception, when a shadow shaped like Meredith slept softly in her bed, and the windows rattled open in the breeze, and a godless darkness swept into her room in the form of a man. Cavernous crimson eyes over a cadaverous smile, lustful and wanton, its wings outstretched, its tail thrashing, its hooves pounding. Throbbing horns. Heaving breath.

 

The Father.

 

**********

 

A thick, slightly calloused hand slapped him awake. Harry stirred; eyes groggy as they fluttered open. He saw rubbish around his feet. It was daylight. And when he looked up, he saw a man staring down at him with a wide, full-lipped smile.

 

"Hey," he said. "You alright, lad?"

 

Harry felt his arm shaking like a leaf at his side. His fingertips felt sharp and numb.

 

`...I'm out of time', he thought.

 

"What're you doing down there?" The man spoke with a northern lilt. Yorkshire, maybe. Or Manc. Harry couldn't tell. "Night out on the town gone wrong or what?"

 

The man's smile deepened as bone grey sunlight filtered in from the high street and poured over his broad shoulders. Tall. That was the first thing Harry really noticed about him. Tall. Taller than him by a head and a half, had to be well over six foot. He had a workingman's body, lightly muscled and thick thighed, his slight paunch held in check by a tight belt and a pea green polo shirt. But more than anything else it was his smile that caught Harry's attention. In his brief nineteen years of life, he'd seen many variations of that smile – nervous, angry, impatient, desperate, reluctant – all undergirded by a single emotion.

 

Lust.

 

He patted his chest. "My name's John. What's yours?"

 

`Walk away from me,' Harry thought. "...Cam. It's Cam."

 

"Nice to meet you, Cam. You hungry? How `bout we get you something to eat?"

 

`Please don't do this...' Harry shivered. "...I..."

 

"Come on, mate. You know you're starving, look at you. Up you come, let's get you fed."

 

The boy could have run away. He could have screamed. He could have swung for John's balls and snatched his phone, wallet, and keys as he legged it. He could have done anything, anything, except play along.

 

...But he was hungry.

 

He was so fucking hungry.

 

John extended his heavy hand again. Harry took it. The stronger man lifted him off the ground with a single arm, bringing him to his feet and dusting off his trousers and jacket. There was a white van at the end of the alley, parked up against the black bollards, with the slogan JOHN TAYLOR BUILDING SERVICES LTD stencilled into its sides.

 

John led Harry past it to a rustic little café across the street.

 

It was nothing like the Café Neros and Pret a Mangers dotting the city from high street to high street. It was a bistro, cosy and discreet, with low lighting and small circular two-person tables. The café was decorated with bunched ferns, lacquered bookcases, hand-knitted doilies, and copper-coloured coffee machines. A big blackboard stood above the counter with the week's lunchtime specials written in chalk.

 

 

 

 

 

There Harry was, so inordinately hungry... and none of it sounded appetizing.

 

John, oblivious, addressed one of the aproned women working behind the serving counter as Phyllis. "Morning, Babe, you alright? You couldn't give us two of those USA-style's, could you? And two teas, please." He turned to Harry. "How'd you take your tea, mate? Two sugars? One?"

 

He hated tea. "...No sugar, please."

 

"Two teas, Phyllis, no sugar in his, two in mine."

 

She nodded, giving Harry a sour look, then set on a kettle. There was an empty table at the back. John led him over to it. They both sat down.

 

"Right," said the builder. "That takes a load off. Well thank God I'm done for the day. Just finished off on me night job over Wandsworth there, fitting up a new leccy cupboard for a client. It's good pay, mind. Time and a half. Work can't be done during the day `cause of the customers, you see. How about you then? D'you work?"

 

Harry frowned, barely able to look him in the eye.

 

"...That's alright, mate. Tough times and all that," John scratched his beard. "Are you looking for work then?"

 

"...I'm just... here to see a friend."

 

That was when Phyllis came over with a tray carrying their order. John thanked her kindly as she set down two teas and two hot USA-style Chicken & Cheese Sandwiches. "Enjoy," she said as she stepped away.

 

John, smiling broadly, held the chequered teacup to his lips. "Eat up."

 

Harry wondered how ridiculous he must have looked to the other customers nearby. He could certainly feel Phyllis straining desperately not to stare at their table. "Sweet old John," she must have thought, "There he goes again, giving food to yet another waif, yet another stray... he'll pick his pocket before he's done, he will."

 

She had no conception of what was really going on.

 

Harry bit his lip, eying the sandwich, lettuce and mayonnaise bulging out at the sides, marvelling at how little he fancied it. Then he looked up at John, smiling down at him over the rim of his cup, as if butter wouldn't melt. Such a kind smile.

"Where's your friend based, Cam?" The older man took a few sips of his tea before tucking into his sandwich. Harry did the same, albeit more slowly. The food wouldn't sate him in the slightest, but it would keep his strength up.

 

"...Knightsbridge," said Harry. For a moment, the boy thought better about telling John where he was going – but deep down inside he knew that soon enough, it wouldn't matter. "I have to see him. It's important."

 

John's cheek rose and fell with each chew. "Oh aye? Why's that then?"

 

"It's personal."

 

"...Fair enough," the builder leaned in. "Feel free to tell me to bog off, obviously, but... you're looking a bit rough for somewhere like Knightsbridge, mate. When was the last time you had a shower?"

 

Harry blushed.

 

"D'you fancy getting cleaned up first...?" Said John. "Me flat's not too far from here, you know. Just over the river there. Peacock Street. What d'you say, eh? After we're finished here let's get you cleaned up and then you can go see your friend. I'll even give you a lift in me van – and I won't even charge you for the petrol."

 

Harry heard the words `God will never forgive you,' in his mother's voice, cold and shrill, that old needle in his ear again. But he was so overwhelmingly hungry... how much longer could he fight it?

 

"Okay," said the boy. "Thanks."

 

**********

 

"Make yourself at home," said John. His door keys, laden with travel tokens from his various trips abroad (Paris, Jamaica, Holland, Mexico, etc) jingled in the lock as he opened the way for Harry. The younger man, eyes to the ground, shuffled in on weary feet. He was still tired from last night and his back ached where he'd slept against that cold stone wall, but then he felt something for the first time since leaving Stevenage, something he hadn't realized he'd almost forgotten.

 

A house's warmth.

 

The radiators were on, even in that hallway. A nearby drying rack nearby was mounted with seven days' worth of Lenor-scented work overalls, polo shirts, boxers, house tees and thermal socks. It was a familiar smell that put him in mind of calmer times. And for a second, just a split second, Harry really did feel comfortable.

 

John shut the door and threw on the latch.

 

"Can't be too careful around here," he said. He threw his keys into an empty bowl on a tall-legged coffee and shrugged off his brown jacket. He pointed to an open door on the left side of the corridor. "Living room's just through there. You have yourself a seat while I make us some coffee."

 

Harry did as he was told and made his way in. It was a large room – a good seven metres from wall to window, a window half-shuttered by faux mahogany blinds, just enough to illuminate the messy dwelling that John Taylor called his living room with a few thin blades of sunlight. There were bundles of paperwork everywhere, dozens and dozens of bundles of invoices from Travis Perkins and Jewson's and Toolstation. There were stacks of pizza boxes in the corner, along with recycling bags full of empty beer cans and wine bottles. An unplugged Xbox sat alongside a dusty copy of FIFA 19 and several stacks of unmarked DVD cases beneath a wall mounted Samsung TV. Empty fag packets were everywhere. On the floor, on the windowsill, on the dining table. There were even a few Rothman boxes on top of the telly.

 

It still felt warm, somehow. Lived in. Secure.

 

A weakened Harry waded his way through the mess towards a russet leather three-seater. He pushed some invoices to one side and sat down, huffing out a little sigh of reluctant indulgence. It was the first comfortable thing he'd sat on in days.

 

John came in some minutes afterwards with two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. He gave one to Harry, who thanked him for it, then sat down next to the boy. He stretched out and took two luxurious sips of his sugared Kenco Smooth before setting the cup down on his glass table and reaching for the cigs and lighter in his pocket. He put a single B&H Gold between his lips and extended the pack to Harry.

 

"Fancy a smoke?" He offered.

 

He hadn't smoked once since Stephen died. The boy shook his head `no'. John shrugged, slipped the pack back into his trouser pocket and lit his up. He leaned back, exhaling a brief smoky plume before stretching out his now bare feet on top of the glass table.

 

"So," John perched his cigarette off his right hand and reached for the coffee cup with the other. "Who's this friend of yours you're going to see?"

 

Harry couldn't stop thinking of Stephen for some reason. "...An old friend from school. We haven't seen each other in a while, but... he invited me down to his place."

 

Although the boy didn't dare look John in the eye, he knew the older man was smart enough to know that was a lie. He also knew that the older man was smart enough to know which buttons to push and which ones to avoid. A man like John was well-practiced, of course. They always were.

 

"School. Blimey, that takes me back. When'd you finish?"

 

`Bastard,' thought Harry. "A couple of years ago."

 

The older man paused, struggling (and failing) to hide his small smile. There was a glass ashtray next to his feet filled with old fuses and pennies for some reason. John leaned over and flicked his ash into it. "...I thought you might be meeting an old girlfriend or something. Handsome lad like you."

 

Blood rushed to Harry's cheeks. The hunger bubbled inside him now, but for once it did not buck him like it usually did. It churned within him, calm yet furiously anxious, waiting, almost as if it sensed the slow momentum developing between himself and the older man.

 

"I've never had a girlfriend before."

 

John chewed his lip.

 

"...D'you like music?"

 

Harry nodded. "Some."

 

"Oh yeah? What genre?"

 

"House," he admitted. "A bit of Pop. Some Shoegaze."

 

"... `Shoegaze'?" John chuckled. "...I'm not even gonna guess what that is. Tell you what. I'm gonna put some music on. Something old school. You go ahead and have your shower, bathroom's the second door on the left, just opposite the front door."

 

The thought of a shower was tempting, even as the kindness behind the gesture just peeled away from it like a fruit rind, piece by piece. The hunger screamed silently inside himself as the young man thanked John for his hospitality (again) and excused himself back out into the hall into the bathroom. It was small, tiled, and boxy, with just enough room inside for a toilet seat to the left, a shower compartment to the right, and a square ceramic sink directly in front.

 

Harry sighed, shucking off his rucksack and tattered puffer jacket. "Soap," he said to himself. "I need some soap." There was a medicine cabinet above the sink. He opened it. There was a flannel and some soap on its top shelf. On its second was a bottle of Brut aftershave, a pack of razors, and a can of Gillette shaving foam. And on the bottom shelf? A single red bag of Durex Thin Feels, a half-squeezed tube of KY jelly, a bleached black butt plug, a speculum, a metal cock ring, a rubber cock ring, a stoppered jar of what he could only assume were Poppers, an enema kit...

 

...Harry slammed the cabinet shut.

 

As his hunger stirred, tiny droplets fell into the sink. No tap drippings, just tears. Harry sniffled, biting his lip and willing himself not to cry anymore. "This isn't me... I'm not a bad person... why can't I fight it...?"

 

**********

 

In my eyes

Indisposed

In disguises no one knows

 

Harry took the longest shower of his life. He worked up a lather with some Dove and some Radox and scrubbed himself clean from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. Thick black rivulets of dirt and sweat oozed into the tiled drain beneath his feet. It was the filth of the streets, and he was glad to be rid of it. The boy started the morning a brunette but emerged from that Peacock Street shower stall a dusky blonde again. There was a comb hanging from a hook by the cabinet. Harry helped himself and carefully brushed every tangle and knot out of his hair. Then he took out one of the razors, slathered his jaw with foam, and slowly shaved off over a week's worth of stubble. And then, when he shut the cabinet doors, he could finally look at himself in the mirror again.

 

He looked like himself.

 

Hides the face

Lies the snake

And the sun in my disgrace

 

Harry saw the green in his eyes again. He saw that same kinky, hay-coloured hair Stephen used to play with when they kissed. His skin was smooth again, unmottled and flushed with heat. His face was still gaunt with lack of food, all the baby fat that Stephen used to love on him was gone now, but it was an improvement. The sight of himself in the mirror lifted his spirits a little... but only a little.

 

Boiling heat

Summer stench

Neath the black, the sky looks dead

 

Then John knocked the door. "Cam. I put your clothes in the wash while you were in there. They'll be dry soon, for now just take one of my robes."

 

Call my name

Through the cream

And I'll hear you scream again

 

Harry hated how smooth John was at this. He almost wished he'd run into someone who'd make this harder for him, maybe that way he could've talked himself out of it. But the hunger was still there, quietly gnawing and pawing at him from within, muzzled yet half-mad and ravenous from weeks of starvation. It was too late. He resigned himself to that.

 

Black hole sun

Won't you come

And wash away the rain?

 

"There's nothing I can do," Harry whispered to himself. "I... I can't go on any longer."

 

Black hole sun

Won't you come

Won't you come

Won't you come

 

The boy took one of the robes hanging from a hook behind the door. It was too big for him by two sizes (at least) but it would have to do. He threaded his arms through its sleeves and tightened its belt around his waist, then sighing heavily, returned to the living room down the hall. John was back where Harry had left him, perched upon the other side of the sofa.

 

Stuttering

Cold and damp

Steal the warm wind, tired friend

 

The younger man watched the older man's eyes light up at the sight of him, fresh out of the shower, like the fruit of a certain labour finally paying off in his mind. "You scrub up well," he said. "You were in there for a good couple of hours though, I suppose you'd have to."

 

Times are gone

For honest men

Sometimes, far too long for snakes

 

Harry turned to the window. The blinds were still half shut so he couldn't see much, but whatever he couldn't see, he heard – rainfall. Heavy rainfall, coming down fast and hard, pattering against the glass like hail.

 

In my shoes

Walking sleep

In my youth, I pray to keep

 

"Coming down like mad out there," said John, his smile so smugly scrutable. "Just checked the weather report, they said it's gonna be like this until dark. Not to worry, your friend isn't going anywhere, is he?" He patted the empty space next to him. "Come sit down for a bit, you must be knackered."

 

Heaven send

Hell away

No one sings like you anymore

 

Harry's second hunger growled within him. John had thrown everything in the wash, his shirt, his boxers, his trousers, his socks – there was nothing beneath his cotton robe except naked flesh. But he did as he was told at took a seat next to the builder as he lit up another cigarette between his lips and exhaled grey clouds through his nostrils. The whole room smelt of cigarettes.

 

Black hole sun

Won't you come

And wash away the rain?

Black hole sun

Won't you come

Won't you come?

 

The song faded into the next track a curated playlist, something instrumental and jazzy. The boy put his hands into his lap and fixed his eyes on his toes – peeking out through the long white fabric of the bathrobe – anything to take his mind off the leering smile John fixed on him. He could feel the older man's eyes gliding up and down his body.

 

"What'd you think of the song?" Asked John.

 

Harry nodded softly. "It's... it was nice. Who was it?"

 

"Soundgarden," he said "Black Hole Sun. Grunge wave. 90s. A bit before your time, maybe."

 

`Just how you like it,' thought Harry, bitterly. "I liked it."

 

"Thought you would. Hey! How about some pizza? Meat feast, had it left over in the fridge before I left for work last night. I'll bung it in the microwave, won't be a sec."

 

John climbed off the sofa and left for the kitchen before Harry even had time to mount a protest – not that he would, of course. Down the hall he heard a fridge door open, the clatter of a plate, then the beeps of time and temperature being punched into a keypad before a slow baking hum, and after that, the crack and fizz of two cans. A few minutes later John came back, not just with pizza, but with two Stellas as well, one of him and one for Harry. He set the tray down on his glass coffee table.

 

"Help yourself to the pizza," said John. "And have a beer on me. Nothing like a cold one on a cosy day in."

 

Harry stared at the can's rim.

 

"Go on. It's only a beer. What? You aren't some recovering lush, are you?" John sniggered. "At your age? Come on, have the beer. Put some fuzz on your balls."

 

The boy was not like other people. Other people wouldn't have smelt the sedative in the drink – but he could. Not that it mattered. It wouldn't work on him, nor the alcohol. No drugs worked on him – and he'd fucking tried a few, just to take the edge off the hunger – nothing worked. Harry set the can to his lips, threw back the ice-cold Stella in a few long gulps, then turned and looked John plain in the face. He could barely conceal that tiny little smile of success even as he played the role of the friendly father figure. `I won't make the first move,' thought Harry. `I'm not having this on my conscience, you brought me here, you did this.'

 

So, he ate some pizza. He asked for another Stella. He asked for more grunge. And then, slowly, over the hour, he pretended to feel tired, to feel faint, to feel as though he could barely keep his head on his shoulders. He yawned. He let his eyes drift. And all the while John got quieter and quieter, patiently watching him like a lion stalking a gazelle through the brush.

 

"You okay, Cam?" The feigned concern was palpable. "You look a bit woozy, mate."

 

Harry clasped his head as if it hurt and blinked rapidly. "My head... I feel so... so tired..."

 

That was when John's hand touched his knee. It was slow at first, a pat, an `are you alright, mate?' type gesture. But he didn't take it away. He left his hand there, on Harry's knee, and slowly stroked his fingertips around it. And then, slower still, he gently slid those fingertips up the boy's soft thigh.

 

"Cam?" He spoke. "Are you alright?"

 

`You did this,' thought Harry. `This is on you.' "...My head feels really... weird, John. Can I lie down for a bit?"

 

John's smile grew dark. "Of course you can, mate. You can spend the night if you want. C'mon, you can take my bed."

 

**********

 

The bedroom door cracked open gradually, weighed down by the heavy winter coats and unwashed Hi-Viz jackets swinging from its hooks. John prised it open with one arm whilst his other held up a seemingly dazed Harry at his side. "Come on," he whispered, "Just a bit further..." The builder half-walked, half-dragged the boy across the carpet, his toes still damp from the shower. At the edge of the bed John let him go, and Harry felt himself fall face first into the lemon-coloured duvet, landing with a soft thud. He didn't get back up. He breathed deep and kept his eyes firmly shut. He did not budge an inch – not even when a pair of rough fingers reached up to his nose. They hovered there for a moment to check his breathing, probably, and then they vanished.

 

And then a pair of lips kissed his ankle.

 

He thought of Stephen. Of those weekends when Harry slept over at his house and his dad couldn't afford to top up the gas card (at least until he was paid his JSA), and how they used to cuddle for warmth beneath the blankets as they played FIFA together, shit talking and kissing and making bets with each other, `loser gives the winner a BJ' and the like.

 

Harry felt John slowly take his arms and lay them flat at his sides, palm up.

 

`I miss you so much, Stephen...' thought the boy.

 

Strong hands reached underneath his hips and untied his robe. A chill ran up his spine as it was tugged off his body, leaving him utterly naked from shoulder to toe. He could hear John's breathing in the air, horny and ragged, like he hadn't had sex in months. His two rough hands grabbed both sides of Harry's arse and spread it wide, spat a wad of phlegm at the puckering hole, and with one single thrust he slowly pushed a single digit inside.

 

Harry bit his lip.

 

"Jesus..." whispered the Builder. "Oh, you're fucking tight. Tight as a fucking drum, mate..."

 

John's index finger probed into Harry as deep as his knuckles and he twisted it, brushing lightly against his prostate, forcing a brief, mistaken moan out of his mouth. John paused. Harry paused. The latter kept his eyes shut, focused on his breathing, strained to keep up the pretence, to hold himself back unless he scared away the meat.

 

But the hunger was raging...

 

He had KY in the cabinet, but John was nursing a hunger of his own and he wasn't prepared to wait. The older man withdrew his index finger, then flipped the boy over like a rag doll. A half-hard cock wobbled through the air as the `sleeping' Harry landed on his back, eyes tightly shut. He heard the distinctive sounded of a belt unbuckling and a zipper pulled down, and the scuff of a polo shirt being yanked off a hairy, barrelled chest. The bed depressed with additional weight as John climbed on top of him and clamped a thick hand around the boy's pursed lips.

 

His pink nipples were stiff with cold.

 

John bit down on one.

 

Harry winced. The bite was so hard he worried if it drew blood – it didn't, but the builder sucked away at it like a nursing babe, moaning in his own mouth and grinding his rock-hard cock against the younger man's leg.

 

And then he was done waiting.

 

John tore his teeth from Harry's nipple, uttering faint curses to himself, grabbing the boy by his thighs again and spreading him wide as anatomy would allow, clambering up to his knees between them. He paused to hack up another phlegm wad and stroked himself slick with it. The bed compressed between their mutual weight as John leaned over and gently aligned the bell end of his cock with that tight ring of wrinkled pink flesh and gradually slid his girth inside it.

 

Harry had to grit his teeth like a bear trap not to cry out from the thrust.

 

It wasn't the longest dick he'd ever taken (Stephen's was longer) but it was definitely the thickest. He'd never been stretched so wide before. His hand reflexively snatched bundled of the bedsheets into his fists, like a wreck survivor desperately clinging to the last splintered piece of flotsam. John bellowed out a deep, hard, guttural moan as he buried all six inches of himself balls deep inside Harry's rectum.

 

"Hmmmmm," he moaned. "Fuck, you feel good...!"

 

John pushed his thighs forward until his belly brushed against Harry's stiffening cock then gradually drew them back before pushing forward again until he built up a slow, steady rhythm. Harry's limp shoulders began to jerk back and forth as John's wide girth thrust in and out of him, slick and slippery with spit. The bed springs creaked. The clap of sweaty skin slapping hard against sweaty skin filled up the room, along with growls and moans of worked up pleasure finally releasing itself.

 

Harry grimaced beneath the builder. He held on for as long as he could, but the hunger was too strong, he couldn't do it anymore – and his eyes shot open.

 

John blinked, struck in a dead panic, but Harry locked eyes with him and wrapped his freshly shaved legs around the older man's jutting thighs, trapping him in place. The boy reached up, grabbed John by the scruff of his coarse russet beard and crushed their lips together, slipping him his tongue and groaning with greedy lust each time that hot thickened dick ploughed into him.

 

"Don't stop," he whispered desperately, "Fuck me... fuck me hard! I want this..."

 

After that a rush of adrenaline took the builder over. John grinned darkly, shoving Harry's back onto sheets again and yanking his legs up onto his shoulders. Harry watched his feet flop and cross behind the man's neck as he stared down at him, furiously horny, sweat glistening from his face and dripping down his furry chest.

 

The bed groaned audibly, along with Harry, as John barrelled into him again.

 

Now that he didn't have to worry about waking him up, the older man didn't show him any mercy. Harry clung to John's shoulders for dear life. The wooden headboard smacked against the wall – Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

 

It was the hardest fuck of his life. Between cries, Harry tried to say something, but a snarling John pushed his face into the sheets and held it there, smothering his words, refusing to let him move. It was like he was just a hole to fuck, no volition, no choice, no say, just a warm hot hole for the taking. Harry watched John rut away at him from the corner of his eye.

 

`You brought this on yourself,' he thought.

 

John grinned down at the boy as he battered away at his stretched arse. "You fuckin' little slag... (*huff, huff*) ...dirty little street whore... (*huff, huff*) ...you fucking like it when I fuck you hard like this, eh? (*huff, huff*) ...make me fucking cum in you, you queer little tart...! (*huff, huff*) ...C'mon! Fuck!"

 

He hit his peak with one final thrust, shot all the way up and buried deep inside Harry's hole. John cried out, almost like a roar, his cock twitching inside the lad as it pumped out wad after wad of hot white seed until he was completely spent. He paused and caught his breath, his dick still lodged deep inside that tight little sphincter.

 

"Fuck yeah..." he whispered hoarsely.

 

Then he tried to pull out to clean himself up.

 

But Harry didn't let him go.

 

John paused, sweaty and out of breath, as the boy's legs clamped around his thighs again, crossing tight behind his back and locking him in place. The builder chuckled a bit, whispered some bullshit about `round two' under his breath, then his sweaty smile fell when he noticed just how strong Harry's grip really was – like a vice around his body.

 

Harry's hand reached up and snatched the man's neck, hard as fucking iron, and dragged his mouth back down to his own, crushing their lips together. John blinked wide-eyed, stunned, and silenced by his kiss as the boy gyrated his hips around that spent fucking cock, refusing to let it go limp, not until he got what he wanted. And so, the boy rode the man, rode him hard, pushing himself back and forth against his cock, until the confusion broke into panic and John strained to get away.

 

But the boy was feeding now and growing stronger by the second.

 

He couldn't get away.

 

When John tried to break the kiss, Harry dragged him back by the neck. When John tried to pull out by his thighs, Harry pulled him back with his legs. When John tried to push himself up with his arms, Harry pulled him back down with his own, flattening himself against that coarse curtain of chest hair. Muffled protestations reverberated in Harry's mouth but by then he didn't give a shit. He was feeding, feeding, for the first time in weeks... and he was so... fucking... hungry. John's stifled protests became horrified cries that blended in with Harry's frantic moans until there was no difference between the two, joining the slaps of flesh and creaking springs and rattling wood. The veins around John's body began to bloat and fatten as his very life energy was pulled from his body, draining like wine into Harry's. One grew weak as the other grew stronger and stronger – but the latter did not relent and rode him on and on until that budding orgasm struck him like a bolt, one of the hardest of his life. Harry broke the kiss and screamed out with sweet release. His whole body tensed, then fell limp into the bedsheets, his sweat-soaked chest heaving up and down with every intake of breath, his nipples still cherry red and sore and speckled with saliva where John had bitten them.

 

And John?

 

What once could have been called `John' was now a gaunt and skeletal sack of human flesh, twitching and stuttering as it fell from the bed in a crumpled heap.

 

Harry luxuriated in the bed, stretching out his arms and legs with a sigh like a mewling kitten. For the first time in a long time... the hunger was quiet.

 

He caught his breath.

 

The fog of orgasm cleared.

 

And then he leaned up.

 

There was a full body mirror in the corner of the room. Harry caught a glance of himself in it. And he almost didn't recognize himself. The Cambion stared back at him. He gasped, stunned, then glanced at his hands. His fingertips had sharpened into talons and his dripping skin flushed as pink as salmon meat, coarsened out into fleshy scales. He felt his wings beating at his back, thin and fleshy and bat-like, not yet fully matured but growing bigger with every feeding – before long they would be strong enough to take flight. His little horns throbbed at his temples. His tail muscles tensed.

 

And then he peered over the edge at John Taylor's corpse.

 

"Oh no... oh no... NO!" The Cambion flew backwards off the bed, away from the skeletal remains, and slammed hard against the rear wall, landing with thud and toppling over a coffee table full of beer glasses that overturned and smashed into shards against the floor. The youngling buried his fanged face into his talons and screamed himself to tears. "...T-this isn't my fault!" He cried out at the dead man, "YOU did this! This is on YOU! THIS IS ON YOOOOOUUUU!"

 

 

**********

 

 

 

 

**********

 

He saw this place before without knowing it – Knightsbridge. Snippets of ad hoc BBC interviews with smug MPs with slicked-back hair and well pressed suits, proudly brandishing their poppies as they dodged questions and spat lies. There was always some jogger or madam nearby, walking her corgi past the black-painted spiked fence sectioning off the clean swept pavement from the looming sandstone tenements beyond. The location always screamed `wealth' to him in a way that the politicians never seemed to realize – though it certainly occurred to Stephen.

 

"That's where I'll be," he used to say, "up there with the big wigs. Making my mark on the world. You'll see, Hal. They'll see it too one day..."

 

It was never somewhere Harry expected to be acquainted with – but he was, somehow. There was a certain sort of faint familiarity in seeing something before experiencing it. It was a curious feeling, one that brought both security and pause – that place from the telly – but there was no happiness in the moment.

 

It was a pitch-black night then. The streets were barren and un-marauded by police. Near the black-painted railings stood tall faux-Victorian lantern posts encircled by small pools of golden light. Cold winds howled through the leafless trees like bone chimes. Parked cars sat inert by the roadside. No one had bothered him so far – and they were wise not to. The feeding had made him strong again. Violence would never be his choice, but at least for now, it was an option. And there the boy stood, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed beneath his hood, slouched against the railing opposite the Thaumaturge's flat.

 

It would've been better to confront him in the morning. It wouldn't do, he told himself, to show up at a man's door at 2am, dishevelled and desperate. But he was desperate – because if he didn't do this now then someone else would die. It had to be now. Harry crossed the street, skipped up the steps to the flat door, and then with his head hung low, he rang the buzzer.

 

There was a pause. There was some shuffling. The curtains twitched in the windows two floor above his head – and then there was nothing, nothing until the sound of cushioned footfall trapsing down carpeted steps from within. And then a gruff voice came through the intercom.

 

{"...Who is it...?"}

 

"...My name is Harry," said the boy. "I saw your advert in the Yellow Pages... it said you study the supernatural, right? They call you the Thaumaturge, the miracle worker."

 

He paused on the other end. {"No one here by that name, go away."}

 

With the strength Harry had acquired from the feeding he could have torn that lacquered oak door from its hinges and hurled it sideways through the upper windows. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I NEED your help! You don't know what it's taken me to get here...!"

 

{"Son. I smell your sins. I – cannot – help you."}

 

Harry booted the door so hard it left an imprint of his trainers in the gloss. "If you don't help me then people will die! Do you hear me? Are you listening to me? People will die. If you know that and you're still so FUCKING HEARTLESS enough to say no, then this is on YOU as much as it is ME. Help me! HELP ME!" This time Harry's fist slammed the door. The Chubb lock and brass hinges rattled in the frame as tears slipped the boy's scrunched eyes. "...I just... need someone... anyone to help me..."

 

A pause.

 

And then the door buzzed and unlatched.

 

Relief swept over him as the door slowly swung open and he met there a portly, stooping, bespectacled man swaddled up by the belt-tie in a cream-coloured bathrobe. The Thaumaturge was a small man. And he eyed the boy with thinly veiled scepticism. "Come inside... and lower your voice."

 

`Finally...'

 

The door clicked shut. The Thaumaturge beckoned for the boy to follow as he led the way up a narrow flight of steps at the end of the chequered foyer. Harry scrubbed the tears out of his eyes and tailed the older man all the way up to his first-floor apartments, which he unlocked with a specialized key card. The doors clicked open into narrow corridor with little more than potted ferns and a mahogany coffee table to furnish it, not much to look at or think of – at least that was what he first thought. It wasn't until he followed the Thaumaturge around the corner to what seemed to be a dead end that he realized there was so much more to this man – and his home – than what met the eye.

 

The older man stopped and then breathed deep and exhaled as he set his palm against the empty plastering – and a faint white glow lit the tips of his fingers.

 

"Sigillum tutela..." He muttered, "Expergisci! Aperta!"

 

Harry watched the Thaumaturge trace nigh invisible symbols into the wall and gaped in awe as a sigil, a sun-shaped eye embedded with the Celtic cross at its pupil, spread outward from his palm like a pulse of golden light. The glittering symbol swallowed up the wall and shot out streaks of mystical energy from floor to ceiling. Harry had to shield his eyes lest the light blind him. It thundered in his ears like pounding blood until it slowly ebbed away, and it was safe once again to open his eyes.

 

He gasped.

 

The far wall was gone.

 

In its place stood a dark rectangle of null space brooked only by falling beams of light in the shape of a stairwell tracing down into black depths. The Thaumaturge warned the boy to be brave and follow him in.

 

And so, he did.

 

He set his foot to a beam of light and felt nothing – but it held him firm, regardless. He breathed deep and took another step. And then another. And then another. And slowly the boy followed the man down and down into the very pit of the darkness, dozens of metres below their frame of entry and onward into a second doorway where the pitched black met the archway of gilded light through which they walked.

 

And then Harry's feet touched solid ground again.

 

He blinked.

 

Two dozen metres ahead of him a roaring hearth lit up the room; a high-walled and circular lounge decorated with hundreds upon hundreds of occultist relics and specimens. Bookcases filled with mystic tomes and ancient apocrypha; bisected foetal remains of unspecific forms trapped in formaldehyde jars, bleached dhampiric skulls and were-pelts, wall-hung fragments of Sanskrit scroll and the mounted heads of fallen Wendigos; tables full of alembics and drought vials; enchanted talismans and millennia-old rainmaking tools; Magatamas and Brazen Heads, ghast-cleansing torches and quicksilver quills; and thousands upon thousands of hand-scribbled notes stacked up and collected into book-shaped sheafs of onionskin.

 

Harry gawked at ghoulish and awe-inducing menagerie around him, not knowing whether he should be impressed or horrified.

 

Two high-backed seats sat at the centre of the Thaumaturge's parlour. He took one and offered the boy the other. They both sat down. Harry sunk into its deep brown leathers and looked to his right. Beyond the alchemical tools and taxidermal models there was a window overlooking a towering skyline – one full of spired churches, bright oranges roofs, clocktowers and piazzas. "W-where are we?"

 

"Prague," uttered the Thaumaturge. "Vítejte, as they say. I have clients on the Continent who rely on me just as much as my own do, Brexit be damned."

 

`Clients,' thought Harry. "I... I don't have any money."

 

"Look at the state of you – of course you don't. And don't insult me. You said turning you away might risk lives, did you not? That is the only reason you have my ear. Now speak. Say what you wish."

 

Harry sighed. "...I wish to be cured."

 

"Of what?"

 

"Of my affliction..."

 

The Thaumaturge sneered. "Don't riddle a riddler, boy. I'm losing patience and I am not defenceless. Spit it out – why are you here?"

 

He was at his strongest, Harry knew, when he fed. When he was starved, he could barely walk, barely talk, hardly even move a muscle. But when he was fed, he was at the apex of himself; sight lengthened, muscles strengthened, senses heightened. Even now as he looked at the Thaumaturge he saw not merely the man but his aura; lashing tongues of white-hot fire burning about an indignant silhouette sat cross-legged and finger-folded in his towering armchair. His very DNA was saturated in holy magics and the boy's cambion eyes were fully attuned to it.

 

"My mother..." Harry lowered his head as he spoke, "...It all started with her. She swore until her dying day that was a virgin. She said no man had ever touched her... but somehow, she gave birth to me. She called me a devil, a curse. And she hurt me... one way or another... every day of my life until she just... couldn't take it anymore and topped herself. That was when the council took me away and put me in care. I survived it. Barely. But nothing got better until I met my foster parents... and Stephen."

 

The Thaumaturge's eyes thinned. "...Go on."

 

"We..." The boy paused and looked away, even if only for a moment. He'd never actually sat down and told anyone he was bi, not even the police when they questioned him about Stephen's death. It was a curious thing to be scared about – given everything else gone wrong in his life. "We were best friends. We used to spend all our time together. We... we messed around. Just kissing at first, then... then one night we had sex and he..."

 

"...He died?"

 

Harry rubbed his eyes before the tears fell. He was sick of crying. "Yes. My body changed... my skin, my fingers, my feet... I had wings! Fucking wings... my mother was right... she was right all along. I was a monster."

 

There was a bookcase just two metres from the older man's armchair. He flicked his fingers at it and a leather-bound book flew from its dusty shelves into his palm. The Thaumaturge cracked open its dense 500+ pages and turned to an entry on pg. 353 – the Cambion.

 

"`Cambions'," he spoke. "`The half-demon offspring of human women and incubi. Associated with miraculous birth due to the low rate of impregnation in such unions. These rare creatures typically inherit both human and demonic traits, the latter of which maturate during puberty, albeit to a weaker degree than their non-human progenitors. Such traits include elevated senses, heightened levels of aggression, increased muscle mass resulting in monstrous strength, and wing-sprout averaging at around thirteen feet in cambion females and fifteen feet in cambion males. Upon maturation Cambions begin to feed from the sexual energies released during coitus, and as a result they possess insatiable sexual drives, generally resulting in the death of their human victims.'"

 

The Thaumaturge shut the book. "I trust that all sounds familiar?"

 

Harry nodded `yes'.

 

"...You have my pity. Truly you do. The war between heaven and hell rages on... and poor small souls like yours are often the greatest causalities... but I was not lying earlier. I cannot help you."

 

A fist tightened. "...W-what do you mean you can't help me? You're the Thaumaturge, right? That's what your ad said. It said you `cure the demonically afflicted'. It said-"

 

"It said affected not afflicted," The Thaumaturge lifted a single hand into the air. Harry watched on as golden light danced around his fingertips like smoke. "I heal broken souls the way a doctor would a bone. But in truth I have no power – I am merely the conduit through which God works His miracles. But His miracles only cure the wounds and injuries done to His flock by demonic forces. They cannot cure someone born of those forces. There is no cure for demonism other than death. You are what you are."

 

"So... that's it?" Harry chuckled ruefully. "I'm just... stuck this way?"

 

The Thaumaturge sighed. "Son. You are not the first to seek me out nor the first I've disappointed. I've met blood-drinkers, wolf men, the dhampiric. I've felt their sorrow, their pain, their utter horror at the magnitude of their own sins... but even amongst them you are a statistical rarity. Succubae cannot incubate human life and most human women do not survive sexual contact with incubi. Those who do have less than a 0.05% chance of producing a cambion – much less one viable enough to reach maturity. And you still have a soul, despite your affliction."

 

Harry's head drooped into his chest. His shoulders felt low and heavy. All this way for nothing. "...Why does any of that matter if there's no cure? What's the point of even living...?"

 

"Let me tell you what I told them," Said the Thaumaturge. "We may not know God's means, but we always know His motives. If something of your rarity exists in this world it is because God wills it to be so. All is His will. He made you as you are. Perhaps, even in this ignobility, He has a plan for you."

 

"What plan?"

 

"That will be for you to learn," the older man snapped his glowing fingers and in an instant that gilded arch of light re-appeared between them. It shimmered and hummed with holy energy. Their time was almost up. "For now... I encourage you to think deductively. God made you as you are for a purpose. Suicide is a sin, and you must feed to survive... and as it just so happens... our world is overflowing with wicked men ripe for punishment."

 

"I don't understand..."

 

The Thaumaturge smiled darkly. "Don't eat the good ones."

 

**********

 

 

 

 

**********

 

 

"Did she forward our invoice over to the agency yet?" Northolm spat. "Oh, for fuck's sake, John! How bloody hard could it be to type up a simple fucking e-mail and stick a blasted PDF attachment on it? A trained fucking monkey could do this job for ACTUAL peanuts! Bloody fucking hell – listen to me. I want that firm billed by tomorrow morning absolute latest, and I want those contracts printed off and ready to sign for my 2pm with Bartley. And tell Amanda that if such simple instructions are too much for her, she's more than welcome to reacquaint herself with the fucking Jobcentre."

 

It was abominably (and abnormally) cold that night. Frost blanketed the car windows, icicles dangled from bridge cracks and drainpipes – rain puddles turned to ice overnight. A half-frozen city passed Harry by as he gazed at the murky streets beyond the hire car windows. Had it been a year since he last called them home? Maybe two?

 

Their driver for the night, Aleksandr, took the discreet side roads from the Lord's humble second flat in Finchley through Cricklewood and then east at St. Pancreas. The sat nav had him crossing the river via Blackwall Tunnel before verging onto the A2 southbound for Northolm's "pop-up surgery" in Chatham. The Honourable MP for Rochester and Strood had taken a bit of a beating online after voting `no' on a debt-relief bill that would have frozen interest rates on student loan repayments for five years. His advisors had told him this was good, however. Students weren't his base – better to frame them as part of the amorphous blob of the metropolitan elite and juxtapose himself against them. That was why he was driving down to Rochester and why he was so keen to be seen to be getting back in touch with the common working man and his big white van, you know, the `real' voters.

 

He'd even tweeted as much a few hours earlier.

 

"Heading down to Chatham for another pop-up surgery," he'd said. "I encourage other MPs to do the same. It's high time we listened to taxpayers and took their concerns seriously – no more pandering to online woke mobs. #RealVotersFirst, #GoneBlueStayBlue, #UKProud."

 

"Cam, check my twitter," he said. "What are they saying?"

 

Harry fished his phone (a Samsung Galaxy Note 20) out of his jacket pocket (a £3,000 single-breasted Givenchy blazer) and checked Northolm's feed. His mentions were an utter bomb site. "Couple of retweets from Ian Duncan-Smith and Darren Grimes. Some replies from David Lammy and Rebecca Long-Bailey. But it's mostly just a bunch of looney lefties calling you a twat."

 

"Fucking arseholes," The older man sighed. "Never mind. This weekend isn't about them, it's about us."

 

Harry glanced at Northolm from the corner of his eye and caught his secretive little smile washing over him in the darkness. He'd had his hand on Harry's knee since they hopped into the car in Finchley, but now that he was off the phone it slipped up the inseam of Harry's trouser leg all the way to his crotch. The young aide tensed as the MP cupped his genitals through pale grey wool and mohair – and threw a glance at the driver's interior rear-view. Aleksandr averted his eyes though, kept it discreet. That was what he was paid for after all.

 

"Stop it, Tom." Harry bit his lip and made a whisper of it, like a little dance of seduction between them. There was hardly any need for theatrics with men like Thomas Northolm, though. They were so easy to rope in. "What about your wife?"

 

"She'll be at home working on her article for the Spectator. She wants to try for a baby soon, but I can barely touch her. All I think about is you these days..." Northolm took Harry's hand and pressed it against his own crotch – five inches stiff. "Do you see what you do to me?"

 

Harry felt the hunger thumping inside him like a second heartbeat. It had devoured fifteen men since his meeting with the Thaumaturge – all of them bastards: crooks, thugs, scammers, rapists, boyfriend-beaters, and abusive closet-cases all. Thomas Northolm MP was just the next in line. The hunger sensed the prospect of a new meal in the air. It was like he had a ravenous dog in his soul snarling and gnashing its fangs at the nearest morsel up for the feast. Harry was slowly starting to enjoy indulging that ravenousness.

 

But beyond the pleasure there was only utility – one less bastard making the world a worse place to live in. Stephen's old words came to mind... "That's where I'll be. Up there with the big wigs. Making my mark on the world. You'll see, Hal. They'll see it too one day..."

 

Stephen Welsh was the one true love of Harry's life... and he missed him every day. But if he couldn't be with Stephen then he could at least share his dream. He was making his mark on the world... and the hunger finally had a purpose. Harry finally had a purpose.

 

God's dirty little sword upon earth.

 

**********

 

END

 

**********

 

 

·       Thanks for reading, guys! As before your comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you.

 

·       If you enjoyed this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and The Cornishman (gay, historical).