Venomous

CHAPTER FOUR

L OCKE! TELEPHONE!”

Maybe if I push my face hard enough into my pillow, I’ll sink into it and disappear forever.

“LOCKE!”

No dice. “For Christ’s…Who is it?”

“No idea!” my brother yells out.

Yuck. Something happened to my hair last night. It’s grosser than normal. What day is it? Sunday? Has to be. I was out last night. My mouth tastes like vomit and my shoulder blade hurts. I wonder-oh. Oh wait. Oh yes, thank you, memory, you bastard. The collage of emotions that was my night whizzes before my mind’s eye: first excitement, then joy, then fear, then rage, then disappointment. Jesus, Locke, if this isn’t proof that you just shouldn’t leave the house, I don’t know what is.

My hand scrambles around the floor of my room, among books, magazines, CDs, and socks. Phone…phone…there. I grab the cordless and put it to my ear, pressing the talk button. “Mrf. Hello?”

“Locke?”

There’s something about the voice that I can’t put my finger on. “Yes?”

“It’s Casey.”

I wake up really quickly. He sounds like a different person when he’s sober. More timid, maybe. How did he know my number? “How do you know my number?”

“Randall gave it to me.” A pause. “Did I wake you?”

I shake my head, then realize he can’t see that. Locke Vinetti as the yardstick of human intelligence. “No, my little brother woke me.”

He chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s no big deal. Really.”

“Okay.” Another pause. This one’s much longer than the last one. I’m this close to blurting out, So, about last night when Casey cuts in. “You live on Eighty-sixth and Broadway, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna go to Three Star?”

Is this a joke? Getting lunch with this guy is the last thing I want to do. “Um, wow, I’m not sure that’s, y’see, my mom needs some help today. I gotta look after Lon, my brother.”

“I won’t keep you long. C’mon, just get a burger.”

“No, I mean, if it were up to me, man-”

“Come on, Locke, give me…” He sighs, then takes a deep breath. “Listen, Locke, I know it’s asking a lot, but please, do me this favor, even if you owe me nothing. I’m no good at this, but just…five minutes, if that. I promise. You’re free to bail at any time, guilt free.”

He sounds desperate and confused to the point of tears. Cruelty isn’t in my nature (Locke’s nature). I make plans and hope I won’t regret them.

Three Star Coffee Shop is a diner on 86th Street and Columbus. It’s a quaint, ratty little place with great coffee and great burgers-and that’s it. Everything else there is terrible. Their fries aren’t even that good. But seeing as it’s already 11:30 by the time I wake up, I think a burger and some coffee might do me good.

As I walk out of the house, I yell out to the house in general, “Mom! I’m going out to lunch!”

“With who?” I hear from somewhere in the apartment.

I brace myself. “Casey!”

The next thing I know, my mom’s in front of me, wiping her hands on a rag, one eyebrow almost leaping off her face. “Casey. The boy from last night.” I nod slowly. Her eyes become slits. “So why are you going out to lunch with him?”

“I dunno. He sounded like he wanted to apologize.”

“I’m not sure I want you spending time with this creepy little rapist.”

“Mom, he’s not a rapist.”

“No one treats anyone that way, Locke, and especially not my boy.”

“Mom, come on. He’s, y’know, troubled.” The words leave my mouth, and I realize what I’m trying to get at. “Like me.”

She shakes her head, but I can see her face soften a little. It clicks. “All right. Just don’t let him try anything else, okay? Remember, honey, men are pigs. They’re thinking with something other than their minds, something arguably smaller and certainly less important.”

“You always wanted a daughter, didn’t you?”

She laughs. “Just so I could say that.”

“That last part, the ‘arguably smaller’ bit, that was good. You’re funny.”

“Don’t be a wiseass. No one likes a clever teenager.”

Casey’s there among the tobacco-tooth yellow interior of Three Star, staring into a cup of coffee as if it was a scattering of animal bones and he was a shaman. My nerves shiver at the very sight of him. Sweat starts forming on my brow and chest. I’m not used to having lunch with people I hardly know. The only reason I even considered approaching Casey last night was because everyone had seemed so cool and relaxed with me. And here we are, in the most intense conversational situation imaginable. Welcome to my nightmare.

I walk in and sit down across from Casey. He looks up and smiles a little, resting his head on his folded hands. It’s all bullshit, though; a vein like a blue tree root throbs under his brow. He’s terrified.

I order a cheeseburger with Swiss and a cup of coffee, and we sit in silence.

Finally Casey says those fateful words. “So, um, about last night.”

I can’t help but laugh a little. He looks up, slightly hurt, a little jumpy. I just shake my head and say, “It sounds like we had unprotected sex.”

He grins. “You’re right. Sorry. Nerves. Weird position I’m in. Don’t quite know…”

“Same.”

“Well, I’ve never been choked before, I’ll tell you that,” he says, sipping his coffee. He tugs back at the collar of his shirt, and I wince: On either side of his throat are perfect little circular bruises, obviously from my fingers. I feel like I’m on COPS. “That was new. Definitely helps my street cred.”

“Glad I can help,” I say. My face begins to burn. I’m such a jerk. Normal people, healthy people, don’t do things like that. Everything’s dramatic and powerful, out of my control, until I have to stare down the ugly purple marks that my “situation” leaves behind.

He reads me with a glance and frowns. “I’m not trying to be glib, man. It was okay that you choked me. I think it was for the best.” My shrug doesn’t seem like enough for him, so he keeps pushing. “I mean, how do you feel after last night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“How do I feel?” This isn’t the question I was expecting.

“Yeah. What’re your reactions?”

“How the fuck do you expect me to feel?” I blurt, getting venom-tremors along my fingers and forearms. “When I said all that shit, I kept punctuating it with ‘never told anyone this before’ for a reason, dammit, and then it all gets spat back at me because I’m not a…”

Casey beams as I twitch and sputter. “Oh, man, this is the best part. Watching you search for a term.”

My face floods cherry, ’cause he’s got me right on the money. “That’s not funny. This isn’t funny.”

“Are you kidding? This is hilarious! This is like the part in a Van Damme movie where they explain the accent!”

“Shut up! I’m not a homophobe!”

“I never said you were,” he says, now compassionate. His eyes still have the knowledge they carried last night, an unfamiliar understanding; he knew exactly what buttons he was pushing and how many times he could push them while still being fair. “That’s not what I’m trying to do here, Locke. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t even know you were gay.” I sigh. “You left that part out when we were talking. I didn’t know.”

“You’re a guy,” he says. “It freaks a lot of guys out. Makes them think I’m just going to hit on ’ em nonstop. Plus, Randall’s friend and all, you know how it is.”

“So what, you don’t tell me so I won’t see it coming? Thanks.”

“Okay, okay, bad explanation. Forget it, I’m a moron.” He holds up his hands in defense, giving me his most humbled, pitiful look. “Last night was my fault, no questions asked. I’m really, really sorry I acted that way, and you have every right to be mad.”

The question that’s racked my brain all night bubbles up to the surface: “Why?”

His eyes go to his coffee, irritated, angry at himself. “Number of reasons, I guess…Well, the easy one is that I just broke up with someone. Religious kid, typical self-loather. He got in a fight with me Thursday night, called me a lot of really fucking awful things, and then told me never to call him again. Which is why I was sitting alone, drinking myself into a warm little coma. So there’s that…” He makes eye contact with me again, and it hurts; there’s shame there, the kind that I recognize on a daily basis. “But also, y’know…You’re not the only one who realized they weren’t alone last night. The black is something that’s been screwing with me, mucking up my whole existence, for as long as I can remember, and soon I convinced myself that it was just me. That my anger, my hate, was unique, because it existed in a way that no one else seemed to understand. Trying to kiss you last night was sort of impulsive and…and drunken, but a good deal of it was…excitement? Rejoicing?” He shakes his head. “That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry, Locke. Really, really uncool, I know.”

My cheeseburger comes, and I load ketchup onto it, giving myself time to think through this emotional swamp before me. How can I hate him for feeling the same elation I did, knowing there was someone who gets it? The venom growls, aching for action, but I manage to push it down with a bite of burger. Condemning Casey any further for acting the way he did last night wouldn’t be warranted; it would be cruel, unnecessary.

“Well, look,” I say, “I’m not gay, so please don’t try that shit again.”

“Yeah, duly noted.” He chuckles. “Well, there go my plans for the afternoon.”

I laugh despite myself, and he can tell we’ve slain the monster of this particular conversation, and we’re okay again. The laugh feels good, unscripted, real. “You okay from last night? I didn’t do any real damage, did I?”

“Nah, after some coughing and sputtering, I was fine. I ended up going to Renée’s, spilling my heart out to her about the whole thing.”

The venom raises its head, interest piqued. “You told Renée about what happened?”

“Yeah. She likes you, by the way. I can tell. Randall really has talked about you a lot, you know? We’ve been mad excited to-”

“Bullshit, Casey, don’t try to make me feel okay. My dad does that voice on Christmas a lot better. You didn’t tell her about me, did you? About, y’know. The venom.”

“Well…yeah,” he says, puzzled. “Kind of an important part of the story, that.”

Anxiety explodes into my head. “Oh fuck, Casey, why? That was private! I didn’t expect you to tell anyone about…fuck. Fuck.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” He sneers. “Look, Renée’s been one of my best friends since God knows when. She knows all about the black, so it’s not like you freaked her out that much or anything. Honestly, the only thing that upset her in the least is that I made a move on you. Relax.”

As we finish up the meal and pay, I try to calm myself, pushing away the idea that any chance I had with Renée is already poisoned and heading toward a slow death. We come out into the glaring autumn sunshine, burning out our retinas from a hundred reflections in a hundred apartment windows. Casey effortlessly throws on a pair of stylish wraparounds, transforming him from angsty teenage gay guy to slick badass villain. Which reminds me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Casey nods.

“When you’re…every night, going to sleep, I have a character, or a couple of characters, and I play out situations in my head. They’re superheroes, or wizards, and the venom is…their power, the source of what drives them. It feels really childish, but I play out these story lines in my head, and it makes me feel safe, like the venom’s not my enemy anymore.” I gauge his reaction to my ramblings and find it’s not wary or weirded-out, but anticipatory. “Do you do that?”

“Not really,” he says slowly, his brow furrowed seriously. “It’s not characters and superheroes for me, but I sometimes think of the black as a power. Something I can use, tap into if need be. However, while we’re on the subject of superheroes…” He reaches into his tote bag and pulls a book out with sort of a Shakespearean flourish. “Check page forty-five.” There’s a slap on my shoulder and a warm smile, and then he bounds away uptown in a jovial, charming sort of way.

The book is a graphic novel, a collection of Spider-Man comics. The cover shows Spider-Man leaping out of the path of what looks like his evil twin, a big, bulky Spider-Man dressed all in black with a gaping mouth full of sharp alligator teeth and a long, thick tongue. The character looks familiar, and I try and remember who he is for a few seconds before looking at the book’s title.

The cover reads, Spider-Man versus Venom!

The world around me goes silent, and everything on Earth becomes this all-too-perfect creature trying to tear Peter Parker a new one on the cover of this book. This is going to be good.

Absentmindedly I flip to page forty-five. Sitting there is a small scrap of paper reading, “Renée,” followed by a phone number and an address.

This is going to be very, very good.

The rest of the day is spent in my room, on my bed, with this book open, falling in love with Todd McFarlane, comic-book artist extraordinaire.

Venom’s actual name is Eddie Brock. Apparently he was a big-time reporter until Spider-Man exposed him as a fraud and his career got ruined, after which he was forced to write for tabloids and scrape together just enough cash to eat. He blames Spider-Man for the whole ordeal. Then one night, while he’s trying to kill himself, he’s attacked by the symbiote, this black, drippy alien that Spider-Man used to have as a costume before he realized it would try and bond with him for life-this thing lives inside a person and manifests itself as a suit, pouring out of the host’s body like black fluid coating. The symbiote bonds with Brock, and he becomes Venom, who’s basically Spider-Man’s insane, buff, and utterly hideous doppelgänger. He’s a good guy at heart, really. Just homicidal.

How the hell have I not discovered this character before? I have the Internet (Topher Grace played him in the movie? Is that a joke?). I’m kind of a geek, in that I don’t have many friends and like reading. But this whole time, there’s been a character in comics literature that looks, acts, feels like he was created for no one but me, and I’ve been clueless to his existence. What the hell, man? Watching him get beaten down every issue is murder. Every sanctimonious speech Spider-Man screams out about innocence and sanity, I want Venom to open his huge caiman mouth and bite that little red head off.

On my way back from grabbing a soda from the kitchen, Lon spies the comic book in my hand. “I didn’t know you read Spider-Man,” he says excitedly. It’s the first time he’s really spoken to me since the whole bookstore thing yesterday, so I take what I can get.

“I don’t, really,” I say, “but a friend gave this to me. It’s really good.”

“Spider-Man’s cool,” Lon says, smiling at me.

“Yeah, but Venom’s cooler.”

He nods thoughtfully, as though I’ve just stated a universal truth. “Yeah, Venom is really cool. Carnage is cooler, though.”

This statement means nothing to me. “Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh times infinity.”

Lon looks at me funny and says in a diabolical voice, “You’ve won this round, boy.”

I actually try not to laugh, but it’s no use. He’s such an amazing kid. He’s so witty and smart and prepared for anything; you can see the gears in his head working at all times. If the Rapture came down tomorrow, Lon would have his bags packed. If Godzilla attacked, he’d have his English subtitles organized and spell-checked. Like I said before, he’s basically the anti-me, a fact that I am grateful for every day of the week. There’s only enough room for one wretched fuckup in this house.

But that’s not what’s really on my mind right now. Right now, I have something else to deal with.

“Stay off the phone, okay?” I say, and saunter back to my lair.

One ring. Two rings. Calm down. The scrap of paper begins to dampen in my palm from all the sweat. I’m trying to hold the phone steady with the other hand, but it’s kind of hard when you’re this nervous. The phone vibrates, like an angry fucking ferret.

A click. Some music in the background. “Hello?”

I gulp. “Hi, is Renée there?”

“This is she.”

Calm down. “Um, hi, it’s me.”

Silence.

“That really doesn’t help me much…”

I AM A FUCKING IDIOT. “It’s Locke. From last night. Sorry. Locke here.”

“Locke!” she chirps. “Locke, Locke, Locke. How are you, Locke?”

“I’m fine. Sorry about, y’know, not saying my name when I first called, I was just thinking that maybe-”

“Locke?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Breathe.”

In. Close. Hold. Out. “Gyah. Sorry.”

“Totally cool. ¿Qué pasa?”

“How’re you?”

“I’m great. I’m playing Scrabble with my cat.”

“Are you, now?”

“Word. He’s not very good. Lots of ‘meow’s and a ‘hiss’ once in a while. So, how was lunch with Casey?”

“You know about that?”

“I am the Hierophant. I hear all.”

At some point, someone will be kind enough to tell me what that means. “Right. It went fine. He apologized, and I ate a burger, and it…was fine.”

“Mmm, burger. Did he give you my comic book?”

“The comic book is yours?”

“Mmm-hmm. Y’know what? This whole phone conversation thing just doesn’t really work for me. I don’t get to see your eyes widen in terror, and what fun is that? You should come over.”

Holy hell, I’ve never met a girl this forward. “Should I?”

“Definitely. I’m sure you’ll be a better Scrabble player than Dupin here.”

“Um…okay…Dupin? Like, ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue’?”

“Impressive. Now get your ass over here.”

When I show up at Renée’s place, she’s wearing a black T-shirt advertising something called BAKER STREET, with a picture of a straight razor on it, and black jeans. There’s less of the eye makeup, lipstick, and paler, making her look less Goth, but still considerably vampiric. Her smile, however, suggests anything but darkness and despair. Her apartment is smaller than mine but much better kept and massively better smelling. She leads me to her room, apologizing for the mess, or as she calls it, “the abattoir that is my life.” That’s a direct quote, by the way.

Her room is just how I imagined it: covered in posters of bands and horror movies, filled with black candles, dripping with teenage pain. Her bed has a black veil around it, making it look like one big funeral shroud. All around the room are blinking Christmas lights in the shape of skulls. Incense burns in the corner. The place smells like a church. Clothes are strewn around the floor; the only white garments are socks.

I’ve never really gotten the whole Goth thing. Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve always sort of felt that one’s dark side is just that: the part of themselves that they keep hidden for a reason. So the idea of purposefully reveling in the things that make you dismal and frightening just seems counterproductive to me, even a little ridiculous. I mean, people should be focused on making themselves better human beings, right? Renée seems different about it, though. She cracks jokes about herself and the gloom-and-doom motif, almost adoring the silliness of the entire Goth lifestyle. It’s as though the aesthetic is what drives her, not the feelings of inner pain. Which makes her sort of a poser, I guess. But I’d rather have a happy-go-lucky Goth wannabe than a kid stewing in some inner agony that doesn’t actually exist.

In the center of the room sits a Scrabble board with a cat on one side, licking its paw and dragging it across its head.

“That’s Dupin.”

“I guessed.” Glancing down at the board, I notice a “MEOW,” a “ROWR,” one “HISS,” and a “HACK” in a row. The cat is staring with an intent expression, and for a second I wonder if it actually was playing.

I look down at the words closest to me on the board. “TURN AROUND.”

I do that, and there she is, standing about two inches away from me. Her breasts are actually just touching my chest.

“You’re not a very social animal, are you?” she says slowly.

I shake my head. I can barely breathe, much less speak.

She cocks hers to one side. “Why? You’re cute enough. You seem nice.”

“I’m not as cute and nice as you think,” I manage, trying not to sound too melodramatic. “I’m a bit of a bastard, when it comes down to it. Kind of a loser.”

“Really? Then why haven’t I seen this bastard? Where does he live? What’s he into?”

“Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because you puzzle me,” she murmurs. “You’re very puzzling.”

“You’ve only known me for, like, a day. Of course I’m puzzling; who wouldn’t be?”

She puts her index fingers by the sides of her head and twirls them, the international symbol for loco en la cabeza. “But I am the Hierophant, remember?”

I shake my head again and wave her fingers away. “What does that mean, anyway? What’s a Hierophant?”

“One of the Major Arcana-”

“No, no, I get that,” I interrupt with a sigh, “but what is it?”

By this time, I’m aware of the fact that we’re leaning incredibly close to each other. I’m staring into her eyes, can feel her breath on my lips. She smells a little like chocolate.

“The interpreter of inner secrets and arcane knowledge,” she whispers.

My voice begins to quaver. “And so you’re thinking,” I say softly, turning my head just a little to the side, “that you can interpret me.”

Time slows and reality fades, and-

Whoosh, she’s gone before I can say another word. There’s some masterful darting and leaping around the room, until she’s back in her place opposite Dupin and cleaning off the board. Dupin takes the cue that the game is over and hops up onto her bed, circling his place twice, and then hitting the sheets with an audible thud. “Come!” calls Renée. “Let us Scrabble!”

As I sit there trying to figure out a word with both a Q and an X in it, I jump right into what’s been on my mind since I left the house. “Thanks for the comic book.”

She keeps her eyes on the board. “Hmm?”

“The comic book,” I say. “I really enjoyed it.”

“Everyone likes Spider-Man. He’s cool.”

“Yeah, well, I like Venom more.”

“So do I.”

I stare hard at her. “Yeah, but I think we like him for different reasons.”

A shit-eating grin covers her face. “I bet.”

And that’s all it takes. There’s a thrust of misery with a pinch of infuriation, and the venom fills me like a drug. This time, though, it’s the loathing and shame, not the explosive rage: I feel clammy instead of warm, lifeless instead of energized, embarrassed instead of bold. The room grows cold, and I try to burrow into my coat, hoping it’ll take me away from this beautiful girl who knows my most horrible secrets.

The venom loves it. Hope you enjoyed that kiss, buddy, it croaks, ’cause it’s the last. She knows. Two words: damaged goods.

“Hey,” she says. She leans over the Scrabble board and runs a hand along the side of my face, warm to the touch. Its movement is one of comfort, and it works. As her hand glides along my skin, the worry disappears, and the despair blows away. “Bad moment there?”

I force a nod. “Came on kind of quick. Sorry. Really sorry.”

“No apologies,” she says, turning back to the game. “I’ve been friends with Casey since we were ten, and he’s had the black for as long as I’ve known him. I’ve had some bad run-ins with it too. But that’s no reason to be afraid of him. Someone’s issues don’t have to define them as a person, do they?” She puts down the word “GOTH.”

I cross with it, using the O: “LOSER.”

She glances at me and smirks. “I mean, are you defined by this ‘venom’? Does that make you who you are?”

The harder I try to say something, the harder the venom pushes down on me. The room is suffocating, incense and candle smoke choking me. The shadowy decor blurs together into a squirming ocean of black. Eye contact is out of the question. The venom whispers angrily at me, doing everything it can to keep me from divulging its secrets. “It affects everything,” I finally say, running my hands through my hair. And sighing. “It poisons everything. Every time I think I’m better, it comes back, and it laughs at me. I’m losing track of who running the show these days-me or it.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not a good sign.”

“It’s not my choice.”

“I didn’t say that. Just that it’s not okay.”

“I know that. God, how could I not know that?”

She puts down a word in front of me, unconnected to the others. I’m about to tell her that she can’t do that when I read the word: “UHOH.”

“Why’d you-” Before I can finish the sentence, Renée’s flung the Scrabble board aside, bent back on her haunches, and sprung forward onto me like a huge house cat. My trench curls around us like seaweed, tangling and binding me until I’m useless. Pretty soon, she has me in a headlock and is giving me a noogie.

“Say ‘Uncle Fester’!” she yells.

“Buh! Never!”

“Say it!”

“Make me!”

She swiftly stops noogie-ing me and lets me out of the headlock. I’m sitting up, leaning against the side of her bed, and she leaps onto me, straddling me. I don’t know how she moves like that, as though she’s been raised in a jungle. Her face is right up in front of mine, moving as if she’s trying to get my scent. “I could, you know,” she whispers.

“Could what?” I gulp.

“I could make you,” she mumbles, and lowers her lips slowly and softly onto mine, the way Casey did last night, only a lot better. She pulls the trench coat around her like wings, and with each kiss, each push together, we sink deeper into it. Finally, snuggled up together like we’re in a big black cocoon, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and nuzzles her face into my neck, stopping here and there for a little nibble. I pull my arms inside my coat and wrap them around her waist, which feels liquid, agile, but soft and warm. Whatever I did to get this lucky, I’ll never know.

“Mmm,” she says. “This is nice.”

I am inclined to agree with this.

Cuddling becomes resting, and resting becomes napping, and napping becomes most of the day’s activity. Sleep is not an easy thing for me, especially with someone else present, because it means letting my guard down (summer camp sucked). The fact that I can fall asleep with this girl nestled on my chest? Unbelievable. Unheard of. Truly a miracle.

When my eyelids drag their way upward, I notice two things: (a) the clock on the wall says I should be home by now, and (b) there’s someone knocking on the door.

I shake her back and forth. “Renée. Renée, wake up.”

“Murf,” she replies.

I hear the knocking again, louder this time. A woman’s voice on the other side calls, “Renée! Renée, you there?”

She squirms in my lap and yells, “Come in!” in an annoyed whine.

Is this girl out of her mind? Delirious with fatigue? She’s making no effort to get out of my lap, no effort to unbutton the coat containing both of us. What if her mom freaks out? What if I’m chased out of the house by an angry older brother? Or two? Or seven? I imagine using the hall fire extinguisher to smash open the skull of a burly Goth sibling, but shake the thought off quick. Venom talking. This isn’t the time.

The door opens, and in waddles a chubby old lady with curly red hair and itty-bitty spectacles sitting on her huge face. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says politely, with a tinge of French in her voice. “Renée, who is this?”

The monster. The pervert. The evil boy trying to defile your precious daughter.

“This is Locke,” she mumbles. “Locke, this is my aunt Marie.”

“Hiya.” I cough.

“It’s nice to meet you, Locke,” she says warmly. “Locke…that name sounds vaguely French, does it not?”

“Maybe. My last name’s Vinetti, though.”

“That,” she says with a chuckle, “sounds not in the least French. Renée, just remember your brother’s staying with a friend tonight, so you have to do the dishes.”

“Umf,” she says, and nuzzles back into my chest.

“Nice meeting you, Locke,” says Aunt Marie, and closes the door.

“Wow,” I heave. “I was scared she’d flip out.”

“Aunt Marie doesn’t care,” she murmurs, shifting in my lap. “She trusts me. Besides, she’s French. The French are a lot worse than this in public.”

“So you have a brother?”

She nods.

“What’s his name?” Maybe he and Lon could-

“Andrew. You know him.”

Wait. Oh, shit, wait. Andrew. Can’t be.

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

“Your last name isn’t Tomas, is it?”

She shifts a bit more. She knew this topic of conversation had to come up at some point. “Yeah. I told you, you know him. He goes to your school.”

He does. That’s the problem. The venom writhes on its back, pointing and cackling, sending waves of worry through me. Nothing can be perfect for me. It’s just not allowed.

T HREE DAYS scouring the city, and no luck. The creature seemed to always be around, but it was rarely visible. A roar would sound and I’d turn left, only to hear claws clattering on the pavement to my right. The beast, while horrid, was incredibly intelligent, and it seemed to possess the hunting powers of a wolf. Even though I couldn’t find it, I could feel those glassy eyes boring into me, twitching as it observed my presence.

I glided noiselessly through Central Park, indistinguishable from the shadows. I had been following the lanky junkie in front of me for a few minutes, waiting. Woe came off him in waves; I could smell his guilt, his hatred, from a block away. He was scrambling through the park, clutching a broken bottle, eyes wide, breath ragged, clothes filthy, hair wild. He was dangerous, and I had to be here to stop him.

The junkie came onto a path and approached a hobo lying curled on a bench.

“It was beautiful fabric,” said the junkie sternly.

The bum looked back at him, half-awake. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and blond. “Whazuh?”

“IT WAS BEAUTIFUL FABRIC!” yelled the junkie. “YOU DIDN’T TAKE CARE OF IT RIGHT. NOW IT’S RUINED.”

“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re on tonight, but-”

“Don’t tell ME what to do,” the junkie shrieked. “I MADE that. It was such a good situation before you came, and now we have NOTHING BUT TELEVISION!”

The junkie raised the jagged glass bottle high, an urban Norman Bates.

I raised a hand, and a lash of black lightning hit the glass, which exploded out of the doper’s hand. He turned, enraged, but upon seeing me, fear took over, and he scrambled away with a scream.

The young bum sat up on the bench, eyes bright, face gnarled into a grimace.

“You have no need to worry,” I said. “I mean you no harm.”

The bum opened his mouth to scream, and all that came out was a hideous, blood-soaked roar.

Out of his mouth squirmed the tentacles-huge, meaty, writhing with a sound like wriggling scorpions; clicking mixed with squishing. All over his body, his skin seemed to stretch, bloat, and then split open, revealing the black many-tendriled body of the creature. Finally his eyes seemed to melt, dribbling down his face. Behind them sat two red, segmented orbs, twitching at me curiously, studying my every move.