“Of us having sex are absolutely zero,” Frankie cooed, patting the top of Snod’s head like a puppy.
“Goodnight, Obe.”
“Goodnight, Frankie,” Snod replied with a sleepy pout. He beamed when Frankie kissed his forehead
and put the movie on for him in a flash.
He was asleep before ‘Arabian Nights’ had even finished, jolting awake at four o’clock in the
morning right on the dot. It felt like there was fire in his throat, he couldn’t breathe, and his heart was
punching violently against his ribs. He didn’t know what he had been dreaming about at first, but it
hadn’t been good.
He could still see bits and pieces, fading images of pain and blood, staring up at the wizened face of
Sanguis, and he remembered intense fear.
Screaming.
More pain.
He knew what it was now, sober and gasping for breath as the memory washed back over him like a
splash of icy water.
His first lesson.
“Obe?” Frankie’s voice was in his ear, his cold arms around him, asking worriedly, “Are you okay?
What’s wrong?”
“Frankie?” Snod clung to him, trying to shove the memories back down. “It was nothing. It was just a
dream.” He stared at Frankie’s face, hauntingly lit by the light of the flickering DVD menu.
“Obe,” Frankie pressed, “I could feel you. You were terrified. I saw something, a little boy and an
old man. The old man—”
“You saw my dream?”
“It’s possible to share images in the bond, yes. But the old man, he was beating the little boy... was
that you?”
“Yes,” Snod replied quietly, looking down at the floor. His eyes felt hot, the last few stings of the
dream pricking deeply. It was part of the Order’s ways. There were many lessons to learn.
The first he had learned when he was seven.
Frankie frowned softly, sliding his arms under Snod and picking him right off the couch. “Come on,”
he sighed. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Are you sure?” Snod blinked back his tears, distracted by the obvious temptation. “But you said no
