Psyche's Wings

Chapter 5

~ Gray ~

He shut his eyes and sank into the pain. He had no will to fight, and the thugs would get bored soon. Or perhaps they would kill him this time. He hardly cared.

Their leader — Ryan, he thought — shouted angry words in his face and hit him again, on the right side below the ribs, but Gray knew how to take a punch; it hurt and would leave a dark bruise, but the damage would be superficial.

He wondered if his father would be angry with him, when he got home that night, for taking a beating from such 'lowly animals' as these, and would add a few bruises of his own to this new collection. His brothers likely would, if Père did not.

"Constant," his father would say, pronouncing his name with rounded vowels and softened consonants, so that the final 't' was hardly audible. "Constant, you are a disappointment to your heritage. How can you call yourself a seer when you refuse to use your gifts, even to defend yourself? You ought to be ashamed. It is almost better you had not been born, than born a silverblood."

And so on, and so forth.

Les sangs d'argent: the silverbloods, an ancient line of chasseurs, or huntsmen, descended — according to legend — from an angel of death, many centuries ago. They kept 'order' in the world, kept the supernatural and unnatural at bay, and did so with extreme prejudice. They had come here, drawn by rumors of some newly risen power, a dark threat upon the land, which they intended to root out and extinguish by whatever means necessary.

Gray wanted no part of it, and his family despised him for this — even more than these mis-educated miscreants did.

He kept his hands balled into fists and tucked within the ends of his sweater as the three older boys hit him, so that they would not touch his skin; for if they touched him, he would see: he would see their fates, or their heart of hearts, or all the dark secrets they wanted to keep hidden, and it would hurt far more than anything they might do to him with their fists or their ignorance.

All silverbloods had a gift of some kind — something to give them an edge in the hunt — and Gray's gift was to see.

That was why he did not understand.

What made the silverbloods so special? What gave them the right to decide who, and what, belonged upon the earth, when they were as 'unnatural' as any of the creatures they hunted and destroyed?

His father said it was his destiny. Seer, slayer, tracker, spy: every silverblood had a role to play in the hunt.

He would rather, as his father wished, have never been born.

He would rather let 'Ryan' and his idiot friends end him now.

It was not to be.

A high, clear voice called out, speaking words he could not understand through his misery, and his assailants dropped him in favor of a new target. Gray slid to the ground with the wall at his back, and saw a small figure at the corner of the building, standing its ground like a kitten taking on a pack of dogs. He knew how it would end, but he did not care.

He had not asked to be saved.

Then the figure spoke again, something urgent and quick, and to Gray's surprise, Ryan and his lackeys backed off. With muttered curses and threats, they retreated, each giving him one last kick as they passed, and then they were gone.

Gray got to his feet. He did not want help or sympathy, for he deserved neither, and he turned away from the newcomer, trying hard to catch his breath.

A light voice spoke at his back, but he could not hear what was said through the ringing in his ears. His rescuer was persistent, but he knew from experience that if he ignored a person long enough, they would go away.

Then what he feared most: the brush of cool fingers against this hand — the shock of touch.

He reacted without thinking, without meaning to, and used far more force than he intended.

His would-be savior fell back and landed on the ground, and Gray stared down in astonishment as his mind raced to take in what he saw.

A pretty face looked up at him — a boy, Gray thought, though it was difficult to tell. He had long black hair held back by a pair of clips, and large, clear, colorless eyes. He wore a strange, oversized sweater embroidered with butterflies, pink cotton leggings, and pink high tops covered in hearts.

It was not the boy's appearance, though, that had startled Gray. It was what he had seen in his touch.

Nothing.

Pure innocence: the ephemeral beauty in the beat of a butterfly's wing, but somehow eternal — caught outside of time.

He'd felt nothing like it before; never touched a person and not experienced misery and pain. It was startling and lovely, but most of all it was terrifying.

For it was unnatural.

His father said they were hunting something powerful — something dark. This creature, whatever he was, could not possibly be in any way a part of that.

And yet this was the sort of being his father and brothers would destroy without a second thought, if they chanced to discover him.

Gray might not be able to stop that, but he would have no part in it, and that meant having nothing to do with this boy.

He stepped over him without a word and walked away.

He walked towards the parking lot, and then down the long stretch of road to the nearest public bus stop, where he waited an hour for the ride that would take him the closest to home. Disembarking there, he walked along an abandoned railroad track for five miles through the thick, coastal woods.

At last, in the shadowed depths of the primordial forest, where dark things went unseen, the track crossed a narrow lane, which led to the house his family had purchased some six or seven months ago.

And so, three hours after leaving school, Gray walked the last half mile to his home.

His ribs and stomach hurt, and he knew he could not hide his discomfort from his father's keen scrutiny. If he could just get to his room and take some painkillers, though, perhaps he could play it off as a minor strain.

The challenge was to get past the man.

He paused at the large, dark door. The stairs to the second level, and his room, were at the other end of the hall, which passed along the back of the living area. His father would be there, in his heavy chair, drink and book in hand, waiting for him and his brothers to return.

Steeling himself, he entered, and shut the door carefully at his back. Stepping out of his shoes, he set them in the rack and stopped to listen.

The interior of the house was as dark as the woods outside; the silence within as deep and threatening.

After listening a moment and hearing nothing, Gray padded noiselessly along the hall, headed for the stairs. He'd almost made it when his father's low, gravelly voice reached him.

"Constant," his father called in French. "What have you learned today?"

He did not mean from his teachers or from books. He meant what had he learned of their quarry.

Gray considered how to answer. His father was adept at detecting lies. Remembering the butterfly boy and his wide, clear eyes, he at last settled on the truth.

"Nothing, Père. I have learned of nothing," he said.

"Hmm," his father grunted in reply.

Gray took this as a dismissal, and continued on quickly, ascending to the safety of his room.