Oh, Gods, he couldn’t breathe—couldn’t even gasp for air. Pushing back his panic, Cecil forced himself to take short, controlled breaths.
Each draw of air was a struggle, but Cecil refused to give up. The last thing he wanted to do was pass out. And judging by the black spots forming at the edge of his vision, he was pretty damn close to doing just that.
Resting his head against the brick building behind him, Cecil continued to focus on just breathing. It took longer than he thought was normal for him to finally move past the ‘about to pass out’ stage.
Not that he was breathing particularly well, Cecil just no longer felt like he was about to die. Which was all well and good, but his current distress cemented the fact that his body was truly fucked up. And because his burst of adrenaline was fading, Cecil now had the joy of experiencing all the new twinges of pain, courtesy of his fall—because I so needed more, he thought with an eye roll.
Needing something to take his mind off the shitshow that was his life, Cecil pulled his backpack off his shoulders. Ignoring the stinging of his scraped palms, he opened it and pulled out a leather roll that he quickly unrolled—inside was a knife.
For just a moment, Cecil stared blankly at the shining blade. Then, without hesitation, he slid it across the damaged skin of his left palm. Drawing on the powers infused into his very existence, he pushed it into the blood that was welling up. In his mind, Cecil saw the beginnings of a creature, an arcanid that lacked both thought and purpose—a blank canvas. A creature who would move onlywhen instructed, one who would have purpose only when it was given.
With his thoughts, Cecil infused it with his will. He molded it after all that came before it. Cecil instilled in it traits that would comfort, and movements that would convince many that the creature had a will of its own. Movements that covered up the fact that the creature was nothing more than a mindless drone following a program. A drone that could be created again and again, and be exactly as the last.
When Cecil shoved his wants and needs through his veins, the creature rose up and formed. The arcanid’s body was divided into two sections; it had ten legs, fangs, and wings on its back. While the wings were not for show, Cecil created them for no specific reason other than that he liked them.
The arcanid continued to twitch while its form stabilized, the creature’s iridescent silver skin shimmering with each movement. Soon, the awkward shifts stopped and it stared up at Cecil. Its wings fluttered, flinging off the blood it had emerged from.
Smiling sadly down at it, Cecil murmured, “Welcome back, Drop.”
Drop affectionately nuzzled against his hand. If only that affection were real…
Cecil examined his face in the dingy mirror—courtesy of the crappy motel he was currently staying in. After three days, all of the bruises and cuts had healed—except one. The dark purple bruise on his right side hadn’t gone away. In fact, it had spread, and Cecil now had a matching one on his back.
Leaving the bathroom, he sat carefully on the bed.
His breathing hadn’t improved. Whatever had broken—one of his ribs, probably—was preventing something inside him from healing. And because Cecil wasn’t an idiot, it was obvious to him that the ‘something’ was his right lung.
On top of that, he was almost out of money. The motel may have been terrible, but it was more expensive than the others because they had better security. Still cheaper than an actual hotel, of course.
So, right now, his options were limited. Either go to a hospital to have whatever was broken fixed, or make some money and then go. Considering he would need a place to stay after being released, getting money first was the bestoption. Thank fuck healthcare was free—well, unless you wanted special shit.
A soft chirping and a small nudge against his hand had him glancing down. Drop was acting like the pet Cecil had programmed it to be. It wanted his attention—his touch.
It wouldn't for long though. Arcanids could only keep their form for a limited amount of time. The power Cecil had used to create Drop would dissipate. Feeding Drop his blood would prolong its existence, but even then, it would begin to lose its purpose—its fluidity. At most, the thing would last two more days.
Cecil gently rubbed the top of Drop's head. Its wings fluttered and it let out a satisfied tweet.
“Sadly, your days are numbered, little buddy.” His words had no effect on it, Drop just stared up at him dumbly. “You can't comprehend life or death, can you? Then again, you can't really understand anything. You listen but can't follow. You can move, mimic life, yet you aren't really alive. But you are all I have, so I guess I just have to accept that.”
Drop’s wings fluttered a few more times before it flew to his shoulder, scrunched up, and nuzzled into his neck.
Snorting, he said, “You know, it's possible that if I go out, I will come back to a puddle of blood. Which is why you get to wait in the bathtub while I'm gone. Because I can't afford to replace whatever you fall apart on.”
After placing Drop into the bathtub—with the order to stay—Cecil changed into the sexiest outfit he owned; a skin-tight, long sleeve shirt that was the color of his eyes, and black skinny jeans that molded to his legs and ass. The jeans took some painful maneuvering, but at least they looked good.
Grabbing the key to the door, Cecil left his backpack andthe suitcase he recently purchased behind. The motel was secure enough that he trusted they would be there when he got back.
Cecil walked out. Locking the door behind him, he wandered off down the sidewalk in the direction of where the rich roamed.
It was time to make some money.
Sin had to fight back the urge to roll his eyes at the nonsensical lies and blatant bribery coming from the man sitting in front of him. Lundgren must know nothing about him to think that Sin would ever tarnish his dignity or his honor by accepting a bribe.
“Mr. Lundgren,” Sin drawled, cutting the man off. “I feel I must stop you there. From what I have heard so far, continuing this meeting would be a waste of my time. I came here under the assumption that you had proof of your innocence, so we could possibly avoid a pointless trial. What I have found are only lies.”
Dozens of immortals were missing, yet for some reason, he had made the choice this morning to grace this fool with his presence.
“Mr. Draven, I?—”
