Antonio missed feeling loved.
If he could just hear it more clearly, maybe he’d remember where he’d heard it before.Maybe he’d know why the melody shivered down his spine, a realization trying and failing to surface.
There was no reason not to follow.There was nothing else as important as this.
Wait.He needed to…
What did he need to do?
What, after the night he had, could be more important than comfort?A family that didn’t want him.Where he didn’t fit.And a song, a presence, that promised to take him something better.Just as it always had.
Antonio took a step.Another.Then he stopped, rocking in place.Fingers rubbing at the inked leaves on his arms.There was something he needed to remember.
Something about iron and nettles and wings of bone.
The song.If he only found the song, everything would make sense again.Everything would be the way it wassupposedto be.Hewould be the way he was supposed to be.
Boiling ink.Flower stems sharpened to knives.A city burnt to ash.
Strange visions.Antonio shoved them away, focusing on the music.He knew better than to let his senses lie.All he had to do was stretch out his hand.
It shouldn’t be difficult.Why was heafraid?
His fingers shook, as he reached toward empty air.
A warm, smooth hand closed around his.Gentle strength tugged him forward, as empty air gave way to … Calloway.
“You came to me!I knew you would.”That too-familiar voice spoke in quick, hushed tones.“He didn’t hurt you?I’m getting ahead of myself–let’s get you to safety, Antonio.”
The calm gave way to smoke.Not an orange sky from a distant fire.Smoke, like tied above a lit pyre.Smoke, like the house coming down around you.Smoke that burned in the throat, stung the eyes, and you always died from the smoke before the flame could even touch you.
Declan.That was Declan.
WherewasDeclan?It was still so hard to think.The air felt thick, like Antonio’s thoughts.He should be terrified, but his feelings were dim, distant things.
Rage through the bond.
Antonio focused on it, on the sense ofMurderpunk, still close.Sharp and painful, an ink-black needle puncturing skin.Pain wasn’t always a bad thing.
“Let go,” he snapped, jerking against Calloway’s grip.“Jesus, Calloway.This isn’t a game.You don’t get to rescue me.”
Calloway held on, stepping forward.Still so fucking soft and pretty and nice.Soyoung.It made the past couple decades feel impossibly long.
“Someone has to.You don’t understand, Antonio,” Calloway begged.“They can twist how you think about them, how you see other fae.When they’re in your head, it’s easy to succumb.You’ll see that if you just getawayfrom him.”
The words came to him from a shocky, floating distance.
“You’re a wisp,” he said.“Twisting how people think is whatyoudo.”
“Antonio, he’s amonster.”Calloway’s voice was choked with genuine disgust.
Declan smiling with his lips closed and his wings tight.Declan and his “fifteen minutes a day.”Declan laughing, easy, at Antonio’s side.
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Please.Please,Antonio,” Calloway said.“I beg you, come willingly.I can help you.I want to protect you.”
There was a crack from somewhere back in the direction of the water.Calloway started, and the blurred strangeness of the air drained away.
