"Peter!" Ira greeted warmly.

  He fell to his knees and extended his arms outwards to her. She trotted forward, mewing angrily. Melchior smirked to himself. They really were alike.

  Ira scooped her into his arms and pulled the grumbling cat to his chest before he rose. He entertained himself by placing gentle greeting kisses along her soft and small ears.

  Peter seemed content to give in and quickly stopped her fitful meowing. Ira tucked his nose against her soft shoulder blades and fell silent himself. So, Melchior greedily turned his ears to what he could still hear; the faithful thump of Ira's eased heart.

  He could have stood there all night, listening to the soft beat of Ira's heart just as he would his favorite song but the world kept ticking by, and eventually the reminders of reality began to settled. Melchior winced, giving in to the pain gnawing at his stomach.

  "Are you hungry?" Melchior asked because he was, and Ira had much less in his stomach at the moment. Melchior didn't mention it, though. Ira had seemed pretty shaken by his brief episode by the Kaaterskill.

  He'd never seen Ira that way, and he was still trying to piece it together. He'd dissolved a Beast as easily as cotton candy, but waking up from a simple nap had left him pale and gasping. He wanted to ask again, but he thought he might start encroaching on the perimeters of the deal he'd stricken.

  Ira wouldn't ask Melchior about his curse, and Melchior wouldn't treat him as the Soul of the Progeny. And they could just be two pilgrimaging Deacons.

  Melchior shrugged off their duffle bag, shivering as the rough straps scraped along his bare arms. He dropping it at the mouth of their apartment, thinking to himself that he'd take care of it later.

  He placed his palms against the wall to balance his aching body and began the troublesome task of fighting himself free from slightly damp leather hiking boots.

  Once he'd finally struggled out of his muddy boots, he occupied himself with rolling his sore shoulders and rubbing at the back of his neck. Every muscle ached, and each fiber of being thrummed with discomfort, but somehow, he was just happy to be standing next to Ira and Peter in their simple dormitory.

  Ira laughed. The sound was muffled by the tabby's striped coat. "You're not worried I'm gonna lose whatever you feed me?"

  "Oh," Melchior blushed. He hadn't expected Ira to bring it up first. He couldn't suppress his smile. Ira was always doing what Melchior least anticipated. "I didn't think you still felt sick. Do you just want to go to sleep?"

  "No!" Ira said quickly. He froze, and his heart pittered pitifully. "I'm too gross to go lay down, I'm gonna take a shower. You can eat without me."

  "Oh." Melchior said. He furrowed his brows and forced his teeth together to contain the questions fizzling on his tongue. He couldn't press on Ira's bruises. It wasn't fair. So he forced his mind to wander off, think about what to make for himself, but it quickly pittered out.

  He didn't really want to eat without Ira. He didn't have a reason, either. It just resonated inside as a wasted opportunity somehow. Melchior frowned. Well, maybe when he was clean, he'd feel better, and he could try convincing him again.

  "Okay, I'll make something." He agreed.

  "Will you feed Peter, too?" Ira asked. He set the cat on the floor, causing her to again grumble in protest. She rolled her flank along the bottom of Ira's worn jeans, flicking her tail in all manner of direction.

  "Of course." Melchior promised.

  Ira smiled briefly. He sighed and stooped to give a final stroke along Peter's spine. The cat made a soft mm'rope type of sound before padding off to the kitchen in anticipation of Melchior's service. Ira dismissed himself with a tired sigh, trudging across the apartment to the bathroom.

  When his golden hair disappeared behind the door, Melchior turned his attention back to Peter, who was walking circles around the kitchen tiles and meowing loudly.

  "Now, what do you think you're doing? You just know I'm about to make dinner, don't you? I wonder how much Ira has spoiled you." He spoke to her so easily, knowing that she'd never respond.

  There was a comfort to be found in animals that didn't speak back.

  Melchior's heart thudded painfully behind his ribs as the harsh reminder settled into his mind. The Ze'ev from the forest had quickly fallen to the bottom of his list of priorities, but considering the intensity of the list, that still wasn't a great place to be.

  He flicked down the imaginary list to occupy his racing mind as he went about the mundane task of making dinner.

  He scooped kibble into a small bowl and started at the beginning.

  The Trammel was torn, and Beasts were emerging.

  He scratched Peter's ears as he placed her food on the ground.

  The rip had to be somewhere in the mountain range of New York. He had two months and a half to figure out where from--or Ira Rule was going to kill him.

  Peter ate in giant gulping gasps that seemed surprisingly ungraceful for the little creature.

  Was Ira going to kill him? How sure could Melchior really be about his loyalty to him or to the Progeny? That was pointless to worry about. For now, being killed by Ira wasn't the right problem. To meet Ira's blade, they'd have to survive the full three months, and on that particular matter, Melchior had his doubts.

  He crossed the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink.

  The countdown from the Cardinal was pretty generous, considering that he was running out of time much faster than what he'd been given. Melchior's fingers ached to dip into his pocket. He had a habit of fumbling with his pill bottle whenever he was nervous. And he plenty of reason to be. Melchior's curse had been worsening.

  The shower hissed from the bathroom as Ira turned on the faucet. It seemed so much louder than the sink, even behind the thick oak door. Melchior quickly shook his head, turning his eyes back down into his own task and worries.

  Maybe it was connected to the hole in the Trammel. Maybe he was always going to run out of time. He didn't know. He didn't think the reason mattered. Much more pressing was the count: one bottle, twenty-two pill capsules.

  Ailbe hadn't sent him with any more than that. Then he was out, and he didn't know what happened when he was.

  He had no one to blame but himself. It'd be easy to excuse himself, saying he thought it had been obvious. That he'd never hidden that he'd been making more, taking more, and needing more--but he knew that he'd intentionally never said it.

  He hadn't wanted Ailbe to worry because he didn't know what side of the blade it would have put Melchior on if he did.

  Melchior retrieved a pot from the cabinet to the left of the sink. Even drowning in his own concern, he could still be glad that the apartment had come furnished, and fit, and with a few days of extra pantry items. Even if he had never been greatly interested in ramen packets.

  He sighed to himself. It was starting to become increasingly evident to him that the lies mounted on the shoulders of this curse were growing. The weight was building up to a crushing force against his bones. He thought they might break, but what else could he do but wait for the moment they did? Would it suddenly make it all feather light if he told Ira the truth?

  He placed a pot in the sink and watched as it slowly began to fill with water.

  How could he? If Ira knew what his curse could really do, he'd never agree to wasting all this time, hoping they could figure it out. In the three months they'd been given, the Trammel could worsen, or the Third Prince could make another move althogther. They were playing with too much risk. If Melchior lost his shield of human appearance, Ira would take him straight to the Cardinal for his execution.

  He clicked on the stove and watched as it grew red-hot. Melchior flinched, wrapping his arms around his chest. He had to turn his eyes away from the heat. His stomach rolled, thinking of the way the Kaaterskill had melted his skin down to the muscle over the bones of his feet. He could still feel the freezing chill in his newly grown skin.

  He wished he'd never promised Ira any honesty. Well, did that promise even matter? He'd made plenty of false pledges. He'd told his brother he'd do what it took to survive, even if it meant ending Ira before he could end him. Had he ever meant that? He was sure he didn't.

  He'd just wanted Ishmael to let him go. Why? So, he could put the golden soul of the Progeny beneath his eerie green gaze? Melchior didn't know why he'd put himself up for so much risk. It was an unexplainable feeling. A knocking in the base of his skull, a whispering that told him he belonged here.

  Maybe it was the angels, telling him that he really was the boy from the Prophecy. He scoffed to himself. Angels, really? Speaking to a boy like him? His head was already too full of Ze'ev barking.

  The price to pay for world peace. It was no small thing, but was that really all he was? Was Ira going to kill him? He would if he had no choice, and the Third Prince had left them short of options when he'd ripped through the Trammel wall.

  Melchior placed the pot on the burner and covered it with a lid.

  "It'd be better that way." He murmured to himself. He wanted Ira to be the one to do it if he was going to die at the end anyway. His heart hammered in protest against his mind. The taste of being split in half was bitter.

  He didn't want to die. He just wanted Ira.

  Melchior's thoughts halted, slamming against an invisible brick wall in a massive fiery collision. Why had he--when did he--where had that come from? It had washed over him as easily as breathing, and now he had no idea why.

  No idea? Really? Melchior groaned to himself. He placed his burning face in his palms and swallowed down his eagerly pounding pulse.

  It was true that he had thought Ira was pretty the moment he'd first seen him. How could he not? He sparkled brightly even in Melchior's color-lacking world.

  Melchior frowned. Somehow, that didn't feel right. He didn't like Ira just because he was pretty.

  Angels, Melchior cursed to himself, do I like Ira?

  The question knocked against his ribs as powerfully as a second heartbeat. Melchior groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. Did he like Ira? It was such a childish thing to think. He knew his brother would have chided him until his ears fell off. Even in the privacy of his own head, it stung with bitter embarrassment.

  He had real problems to handle. Life threatening, world ending, actual real problems. His dwindling supply of both medicine and Ossein arrows, the clock hanging over his head, the punishment waiting for him if he failed, the Ze'ev in the forest--the apex predator it warned of.

  Not to mention--Melchior 'Monster Bait' Brisbane was dragging the Soul of the Progeny around behind him, attracting all manner of sky-big Beast from across the entire National Park region of New York.

  The scent of his blood was submerging Ira in more danger than he knew. So, there couldn't be any room left to worry about Ira Rule--not in that way.

  Melchior trapped his bottom lip between with teeth and chewed on it to express his frustrations. It would be smart, he reasoned, to quickly dismiss this bubbling confusion. It was just a distraction.

  Then again, Melchior would have greatly liked to be distracted from the downward spiral he feared he was trapped in. And he'd never been known to make the smart decision--so he stilled his mind before he could finish chasing the thought away. And for a moment, he let himself sink into childish what-if-ism.

  What if he liked Ira Rule? He wasn't lacking reason. He was as charming as he was ill-tempered. He lit up redder than christmas lights every time Melchior teased him. He was smart, brave, and a little bit cold--until he was with his cat or stuck to Melchior's side in the aftermath of a Beast hunt.

  On that note, they had spent days locked in a constant state of contact.

  They'd been living together, fighting together, and bickering since the moment they'd met. It would almost be stranger if Melchior didn't start counting the seconds when they weren't side-by-side.

  Except that it didn't feel very comforting to think of it that way. Maybe Melchior was only a spoiled lap dog, and he was developing separation anxiety disguised as a first crush. It was true that they'd always been together--and it was also true that all that lifetime of terror had been crushed down into one long tumultuous week.

  Ira had come into his life only a week ago. How could Melchior even begin to pretend to know him? No, he couldn't. There remained too much in the dark, on both sides, to say they had any sort of connection.

  So the tightness in his chest must have come from the fear he'd been submerged in since arriving in New York. All this fondness was only understanding. Ira was just as trapped in this nightmare as Melchior was, and that fact filled Melchior with comfort equally terrible as it was calming. It must have been tricking him, making them seem closer than they really were.

  Melchior frowned down at the bubbling water, wishing he could pull his thoughts from his head and dispose of them in the pot so that they'd burn away. If he was absolved from this responsibility tomorrow, would he leave New York without any regret? Was Melchior by Ira's side because he wanted to be, or because he had no other place to go?

  The realization settled as heavy as rocks in his gut. There was no way he could like Ira. This was all just textbook trauma bonding. He liked Ira the same way an abandoned duckling liked the first thing to walk past. It wasn't real. It was just something his mind had cooked up to help him through. It had to be because the world weighed a whole lot more than his ill-fated crush.

  It was better to let his mind pull on the tail of his heart, reeling it back down with pesky reminders of reality. It didn't matter what he wanted.

  "Idiot." He muttered sourly.

  It was better to burn it out before it got any worse. Ira wasn't an option--not for him. The Forgotten Prophecy was pretty clear on the matter. They existed as opposite sides of the same coin, with no way to cross through the centimeter of metal between them. There was the boy given by the angels, and there was the cursed blood he was meant to bathe the world in--and there was no happy ending.

  Not for him. He'd lost his chance six years ago. Angels, he'd lost everything. All that remained now was the husk of a boy. Melchior Brisbane was just a shell. One maintained by the parasite inside of him. He would gasp for each breath, fight for every second, until the curse outgrew him. It would expand inside of him, consuming first his organs, then his bones. It'd rise to fill him, eating away the thoughts inside his skull. Until there was no more room to take in shallow breaths--and then he'd shatter.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He'd explode. He might even burst into a thousand particles of sawdust. It was only a matter of time before the thing inside of him became him instead. And then? Well, there was no great conclusion. It'd just be the end. It would only be the moment when Melchior really had nothing left, and it would mean nothing more.

  Melchior stared down at his wrist, where with trembling fingers, he'd sealed away the marking of his curse. He shouldn't have done that. It was a mistake. He'd already begun to forget the shape of those stiff letters. He'd already begun to fool himself into thinking that he could have something.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the bones of his knuckles into his thin eyelids to keep them that way. How much did his feelings matter? If he told Ira the truth about everything? Could he say he knew him then?

  Everything spinning around inside of him was making him dizzy. One second, he was daydreaming of a coffee date and a late night movie--pretending for just a fraction of a second that they were laity college-aged kids in some silly summer romance--then just as quickly he'd stumble.

  He'd falter to his confusion and his fear. Did he like Ira? Or did he just want Ira to like him, so that maybe when the time came to kill him, he might hesitate. If Ira would look at him, even if for only a second, and pause--then Melchior didn't care if he finished it, because it would have been worth it.

  Melchior shook his head until his brain was as scrambled as the rest of him--he sounded crazy. He was crazy. He had the sensation that all of his fears were coming alive inside of him. He was being eaten alive by a million of writhing snakes, each one hissing their worries.

  He could almost fool himself into feeling them all, slipping around inside of the space between his ribs. Melchior pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the pitter-patter of his heart through his skin. An invisible snake must have wrapped around his fragile organ, squeezing it until it couldn't beat anymore, because he had no other explanation for why it all hurt so much just to think about.

  Melchior blew a breath from his nose and scoffed. He wished there really were snakes inside of him. That scared him less than the only real thing settled into the marrow of his bones. His curse.

  The bathroom door clicked open--and all the thoughts whirling inside of his mind suddenly halted. Melchior froze, feeling unable to do anything but turn pink and look down at his socks.

  He knew that if he turned around, Ira's cold blue gaze would see right through him, and he'd know all of Melchior's embarrassing childish whims. He couldn't swallow down the bitter taste of guilt filling his throat.

  "What're you making?" Ira asked.

  Melchior suppressed his flinch. "Uh, I haven't added anything to the water yet. We have pasta, ramen, or macaroni, so,"

  "Are you letting me pick?" Ira asked. As he spoke, he shifted his footing. Melchior's ears twitched, following the sound of his necklace rustle against his skin.

  It was a light silver chain, weighed heavily by the two keys he wore against his throat. The small artifacts made soft tinging chimes as they bumped against each other.

  "Yeah." Melchior murmured.

  He liked that sound. His fingers darted to his own, reflexively stroked the copper key Ailbe had given him. The metal was warm from his skin. He dropped it, causing it to make a small p'ff against the fabric of his shirt.

  Melchior paused.

  "I thought I told you to go ahead and eat without me." Ira chuckled softly.

  He lifted his chain and dropped it again. It made an explosive chime as the keys knocked together and a hollow thump as it landed against his T-shirt. It didn't rustle. It didn't glide across his skin.

  Melchior's heart flipped in his ribs. A sudden realization pierced him. Ira had only just left the bathroom--but he hadn't taken any clothes in with him.

  Melchior's throat tensed, and his tongue dried. Was Ira, the source of his latest internal panic, standing behind him in nothing but a towel? Melchior squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he wasn't as red as he felt inside.

  "Melchior?" Ira pressed.

  He almost whimpered in response.

  Everything seemed so much more alive behind the thin skin of his eyelids. Peter's heartbeats fluttered by his feet. He could sense the heat rolling from her soft fur.

  The humidity from the shower seeped into the rest of the apartment, carrying with it the heavy scent of Ira's lavender soap.

  Small drops of water tumbled from Ira's hair, making muffled taps against the skin of his shoulder. He was--he had to be--"Uh, sorry!" Melchior barked.

  "What?" Ira asked, a small laugh lifting the edges of his voice.

  "I'm gonna--I need to--shower! Okay, so you can finish dinner--sorry--sorry," Melchior stared down at the floor as he rushed out of the kitchen. His cheeks were hot enough to fry eggs on.

  "Okay, su-" Ira began, but Melchior slammed the bathroom door before he could finish.

  Melchior sagged against the door, sinking into his skin the same way he did his embarrassment. He dropped his burning face into his hands and swore a curse against the angels. His heart hammered in the confines of his throat.

  "Angels." He whispered. "I do."

  ? ? ?

  The steam collected on the mirror. Melchior wiped it away with his palm, trying to deafen the fitful memories it invoked in him. He couldn't shake the chill from his body, no matter how much skin he grew around the wounds.

  He inspected his ankle with prodding fingertips. It was fine, as if nothing had happened. He grit his sharp teeth and shook his head.

  That's right, nothing had happened. He'd already signed his deceit when he washed the blood from his face with their drinking water, when he'd played the fool and shrugged away Ira's concerned gaze.

  He had no choice. If he wanted to survive, it'd require a few more little white lies because there existed several horrible truths to Melchior Brisbane, and no one but him knew each one.

  He was a puzzle made of shattered glass. It was easier to sweep away than reassemble--and he couldn't expect anyone to try to understand. So instead, he'd except that he was destined for the rubbish bin unless he could extend his time.

  His fingers traced over the smooth skin of his forearms. Ira had grabbed him so tightly earlier that his fingernails had punctured his flesh. Of course, the marks had all healed, but Melchior could still feel the sting from Ira's fear. Why had he been so scared? It was only waking.

  Melchior flinched at the soft knock on the bathroom door.

  "Yeah?" he called.

  "Want me to bring you some pajamas from your suitcase?" Ira asked through the wood.

  Melchior tilted his head, drinking in his confusion. "Uh, sure?" He shrugged.

  He swallowed down his fear with a disarming shake of his head. His small dagger had been left in the duffle bag by the door, and he'd taken his pills into the bathroom with him. There was nothing else he wasn't quite ready to explain. Well, besides everything.

  Melchior listened to the tap-tap of Ira, retreating deeper into the apartment. He breathed into the uneasy silence to follow. It was strange to hear Ira's heartbeat falling from his range. He didn't like it.

  He couldn't even focus on his own, not until Ira's soft pitter began to return.

  "Okay," Ira announced through the door. Melchior drank in the arrival of his pulse, shutting his eyes to sink beneath the waves of it.

  He didn't know why he always needed it so badly. Maybe it had gotten worse since the Beast had shattered his eardrums, and he'd been without it. All he knew was that Ira carried both their heartbeats with him.

  "Let me know if you need a new bandage for your wrist." Ira called.

  Melchior frowned down at the damp brown bandaid. It was cold, full of water, and slipping from his arm. He shuddered in repulsion and peeled the soggy cover away from his tattooed skin.

  Melchior wadded up the bandage and tossed it into the trash. He glared down at the blemish seared into the hollow of his wrist; ?????. It was everything he wished he could tear out, but it was only a simple reminder. One Ailbe had given him when he was thirteen.

  It wasn't the cause of the curse or the source of his fears. It was just a taunt that he could never forget. He suddenly gave into his wave of rolling guilt. He should never have covered it. When he looked down at his hands and saw only bandage and skin, it made him feel relief.

  Relief, like his fondness for Ira, was something he couldn't afford.

  "Did you grab a long sleeve shirt?" Melchior asked.

  It would have previously been a question that he'd never be able to ask, but Ira had bought him T-shirts nearly their first night together.

  Melchior didn't know why. Maybe it was in rebellious defiance of Deacon attire. Or, maybe it was as simple as hating the way Melchior looked burning beneath the New York summer sun.

  "Yeah." Ira answered.

  "Alright, it's fine," Melchior said, "thank you."

  Ira was quiet for a moment, but finally, he hummed a small noise of acknowledgement and said, "Sure, just hurry up. Noodles are getting cold."

  Melchior waited until he heard him step away, and then he stuck his arm out to retrieve the pajamas. The shirt was a dull white, and the sweatpants were a simple gray color. The fabric was soft, and the material fit loosely over him.

  He didn't have many answers for the questions asked of him these days. Even now, Melchior was speechless. He couldn't explain why clothes picked out by Ira suited him so much better.

  Melchior pulled the sleeve down over his tattoo. He fit his keys back around his neck and stuffed his pill bottle into the pocket of his joggers. Melchior patted the last bit of dampness from his hair and exited the bathroom.

  Ira had taken up residency in the kitchen. He glanced at Melchior and then glanced away.

  His hair was longer than Melchior's and was still curled at the edges with residual wetness. It hung over his slightly flushed cheeks, giving him a kinder look than he usually had.

  Or, maybe what was more disarming was his white T-shirt. It was three sizes too big and hung down to the thighs of his pajama pants. He looked like a little kid, swallowed up by his father's suit.

  Ira placed two plates of macaroni on the table and gestured at Melchior to sit. He did, feeling slightly apprehensive at the sudden softness Ira was displaying.

  "Thanks," he said again.

  He smiled softly to himself, watching as Ira poised over a plate of food.

  Ira only shrugged. He twisted his fork between his fingers. Was he nervous? Melchior tipped his head, tuning into the heavy thump of his heart. It was only a little quick. He frowned. What did Ira have to be scared of?

  "Hey," Ira murmured.

  Melchior sat back in his chair. "Yeah?" He answered.

  "I don't really like to apologize for stuff. I've had to a lot. . . and," Ira mumbled. "It doesn't matter. I just think that actions mean more than whatever words you can make up in the moment."

  "Uh, sure?" Melchior said.

  He ran his fingers across his lips, trying to keep his tongue from spilling out stupid accusations such as why are you being so weird, why are you acting so casually, why are you suddenly not speaking in the manner of an eighty-two year old widow--because Ira was still Ira no matter how relaxed he seemed at the time; and Ira was always on the edge of irritation.

  And Melchior was always one stupid statement from being the thing to push him over.

  "Well, anyway," Ira sighed, "I didn't mean to freak you out. I thought it'd be fine since we're both guys."

  "What?" Melchior sputtered. He choked on a mouthful of macaroni and swallowed it down with a gasp.

  "I guess that was outdated of me." Ira winced, "I'm not really used to sharing spaces with others. It's just been Father Pine and I for a long time. I'm not trying to make excuses, I'm just trying to say I didn't think about it." Ira explained, except that Melchior wasn't receiving much explanation.

  "Um," Melchior said unhelpfully.

  "Anyway, I'll be more careful in the future." Ira blew a huff through his nose. His laughter was sweeter than his scorn, but somehow Melchior wanted them both. "I didn't think you were the shy type."

  Melchior sputtered, coughed, and then fell perfectly silent. He might have remained frozen all night, but his heat began to billow up from his cheeks to his ears until he began to melt. Melchior slammed down his palms on the table, causing Ira to flinch and widen his eyes.

  "I'm not!" Melchior said. Or, he wished he had, because he was definitely shouting.

  Ira laughed. He brought his palm to his lips and giggled down into his hands. Melchior turned pale and watched with wide, unblinking eyes. Ira was making those noises? Of his own free will? He began to laugh so hard his shoulders trembled beneath his parachute big T-shirt.

  "Okay, sure," Ira agreed playfully, "you just seemed like-"

  "We don't really know each other!" Melchior blurted.

  He slapped his hand over his mouth, wincing down into his plate of macaroni. He'd been wanting to learn more about Ira since the Kaaterskill, but he hadn't meant to say it that way.

  Ira paused, tipping his head with a small frown. "Uh, I mean, I guess not. No, I know we don't--but we already agreed-"

  "I don't care about that." Melchior interrupted. He sunk his teeth into his tongue and wished he could just bite it off. "I care! Angels, I care. I'm sorry, I mean I want to get to know you, kitten. I don't want to hear about what the Progeny thinks of you."

  Ira turned pink, as he always did when Melchior teased him. "I. . . don't know what to say."

  Melchior frowned down at his plate of macaroni. He didn't know what to ask. Peter mewed gently, breaking the silence they'd fallen into. Melchior's eyes darted towards her. He watched as she jumped up on the couch and curled herself into a little ball.

  "Why Peter?" Melchior asked suddenly.

  Ira glanced up from his food, "huh?"

  "Why'd you name her Peter?" Melchior said.

  Ira laughed softly, "is it weird?"

  "A little," Melchior admitted, "but it's cute."

  Ira flushed red and glanced away. "Uh, I just liked the name, I guess."

  "Kitten," Melchior laughed, "I'm trying to get to know you here."

  "Fine." Ira rolled his eyes and looked down at his plate. "I found her when I was ten. She was just some sickly little alleycat, clinging to life in a pile of trash. I begged Father Pine to take her home with us, and for some reason, he agreed."

  Ira sighed, turning his eyes to her sleeping form on the couch, "I stayed by her side for an entire week. I was so scared. I thought if I looked away, she'd be gone when I looked back. When she finally started to eat, I knew she'd make it. I just. . . felt so happy. I kind of wondered if maybe that was how Father Pine felt once upon a time when he brought me home."

  Melchior tilted his head. Right, he'd heard that the Soul had been given to them as an abandoned orphan. He quickly shook his head, discarding anything Ira didn't tell him himself.

  "I knew she was part of our little family of strays, and I wanted to give her a traditional name--a name befitting a member of the Progeny." Ira blushed and chewed on his bottom lip, "I know how silly that is--but I was ten, so,"

  "So, Peter?" Melchior laughed.

  Ira huffed and crossed his arms. "I really do just like the name, okay?"

  Melchior smiled and shook his head, "then. . . Father Pine? Is he your mentor?"

  "He is, but he also raised me." Ira said.

  "My mentor raised me, too," Melchior admitted. He paused, suddenly realizing he shouldn't have. Deacons did always spend missions and training with their mentor, but it wasn't common practice to be raised by your teacher. "Uh, sort of. I left home when I was twelve, and he took me in."

  "Really?" Ira asked. "Why?"

  Melchior's tongue was dry against his teeth. He'd definitely made it worse.

  "Oh, is it hard to talk about? I shouldn't have-" Ira flushed.

  "No, no! It's fine!" Melchior said, but it wasn't. He blew a breath from his nose and shrugged. "My family. . . well, they're the Brisbane legacy--and I just didn't fit anymore."

  "Your family are legacies?" Ira asked. He blew a huff from his nose and nodded. "Wow."

  "Yeah, for more generations than I could count." Melchior shrugged. There were only two ways to become Progeny. Be born into it, or find it. "Father Pine? Is he like a priest or something? A real one? I mean, that's a strange title by Progeny standards. Is he New Progeny?"

  "Angels, no. He's definitely not New Progeny. He might have once been, but the world is much larger than the simple myths the New Progeny want to believe in." Ira laughed, shaking his head, "but he was a laity priest, once upon a time. He found the Progeny through his service to the church. He was trying to solve problems much bigger than a laity man could, and that was how he met the Cardinal."

  Melchior raised his eyebrows. "He knows the Cardinal?"

  "Yeah, their relationship is how Father Pine came to raise me," Ira nodded, "but so does your mentor, right?"

  Melchior shrugged, "sure but Ailbe is-" more of a warden, "an archbishop, so,"

  "Right, I noticed. He carries himself very well, but he seems quite fond of you. I was a little thrown off, to be honest. He must have had a thousand Deacons, but he seemed to really care for you." Ira smiled and shrugged shallowly. He barely seemed to move from beneath his large shirt.

  Melchior frowned. Was that true? He didn't think Ailbe seemed that keen on him, but he had given him a lot more chance than he deserved.

  "Yeah, he was actually my brother's mentor. That's how he came to be mine." Well, technically all true. Melchior was just more of a part-time prisoner and full-time headache than he was a student.

  "You have a brother?" Ira asked.

  "Several," Melchior noted dryly. "I have five."

  Ira choked on a bite of macaroni and turned pale. "Five siblings?"

  "No. Five brothers," Melchior laughed, "I have eleven siblings."

  Ira began to cough, and Melchior had to sit on his hands to resist reaching across the table for him. "E-eleven? Plus you? Angels!"

  Melchior rubbed the back of his neck and laughed awkwardly, "Legacy families are like that."

  "I think it'd be nice to have a big family. I'm an only child," Ira suddenly frowned and titled his head, "I. . . think," He stared down into his food, looking as if he was thinking of someone far away.

  "I like having siblings." He murmured. He shook his head and sighed, "I'd like."

  Melchior leaned forward, "are you okay, kitten?"

  Ira smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, I was just thinking. So, are you going to answer?"

  Melchior frowned down into his lap. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to comfort Ira, but he didn't know how with the bitter memories he held. His family? Were they nice? They might have been--if Melchior had been a better child.

  You're going to ruin our family! How could you do this to us! Ishmael, how could you let this happen? Generations of Brisbane blood lost! We're going to lose everything because of that mongrel--

  "My oldest brother taught me how to shoot."

  Melchior forced down the bitter sting of his mother's words for something warmer. "He'd come visit me often, and he always made me jealous with stories of his hunts and of living in the city."

  "You wanted to live in the city?" Ira asked.

  "No, no, I'm really not cut out for it," Melchior shook his head quickly, "he just had this way of speaking about it that always made it seem so nice. I think because of Leah."

  "Leah?" Ira pressed.

  Melchior blushed pink and twirled his fork into his plate of food. "My brother's fiancée. She makes him see the moonlight instead of looking in the shadows for the next monster. I was always jealous of that."

  "Leah," Ira murmured, "it's a Progeny name."

  "Yeah, she's from a Legacy family, too." Melchior said.

  "Is she pretty?" Ira asked.

  Melchior frowned, "my brother says she is?"

  "You don't agree?" Ira raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh, I've never met her," Melchior shrugged.

  He'd heard a million stories, but there hadn't seemed to be an occasion suitable for them to actually greet each other.

  How was Ishmael supposed to justify a trip out to the forest? He couldn't exactly say they were going to meet his little brother, the one they kept hidden in the cellar of a cabin.

  Ira smiled for a moment and nodded his head. "Okay."

  Melchior turned his attention back to his plate and forced a few bites down into his flipping stomach. "Hey, kitten,"

  "Hm?" Ira hummed.

  "Are you okay?" Melchior asked.

  Ira paused, fork midair, and tipped his head. "Right now? I'm fine."

  "I mean. . . earlier." Melchior winced. "There was a moment when I couldn't wake you up--and when you finally did, I felt like I was talking to. . . someone else."

  Ira's fork clattered as he dropped it. He stood up quickly, knocking his chair backward to clatter against the kitchen floor. Melchior flung himself up in response. "Kit-"

  "Stop!" Ira snapped. His heart was pounding harder than the Kaaterskill. "I'm going for a walk."

  "It's late-" Melchior choked on his words. He ran around the edge of the table to catch Ira's wrist as he began to exit the kitchen. Ira flinched, but Melchior didn't let go. "Stop. I'll go. You can just lay down. If you want space, then let me leave instead. It was my mistake."

  Ira tugged himself free and wrapped his arms around his chest. His sky blue eyes fell down to his socks, and they didn't follow as Melchior turned away.

  Idiot. Melchior cursed himself.

  The apartment door swung shut behind him with a bang. Melchior slumped against the outside of the wood and placed his face in his hands. A horrible stinging feeling began rolling around the inside of his ribs.

  Everything was ruined. This was worse than being back at square one, because now he knew what he was missing each time Ira iced him out. Why couldn't he just keep his stupid questions to himself? Why did he always have to push it? Now, he had nothing.

  Not even the one thing he always sought. Out in the hall, Melchior couldn't even hear the thump of Ira's heart.