Looking for Some Touch

By K.Z. Snow

Chapter One 
Night breaks, 
Not day. 
Bend your back, sway
Your hips to slake
* * * *
"Hey, cute hooker-man, how ya doin'?"
Closing his notebook, Pablo Creed glanced up at the greeter. Lily, of course. It was okay that she'd interrupted his writing. The solar-powered light on his pen had begun to fade.
The heavy, intertwined scents in the bar—perfume, sweat, alcohol, herb smoke—had made his eyes sting as soon as he'd raised his lids. Pablo was cursed with mild allergies. As he got older, he realized irritants came in all too many forms.
Given a choice, he would've been in one of the greenspaces, watching people and birds as he waited for lines of poetry to unwind in his mind. But it was cold and windy outside. He'd soon be in the weather, anyway. No point in prolonging his misery.
Lily pulled out a chair so she could join him at the small table. Round and rickety, it rocked on its gimpy legs. The tabletop was scarred with dark burns and pale incisions. Pablo's own initials were carved there. He'd dug into the wood when he was younger than his current twenty-four years, when he still believed it was possible to make an enduring mark on the world.
"Just get off work?” he asked.
Impulsively, he reached across the table's narrow span to push a damp hank of pink hair off Lily's forehead. It was striking against her dusky skin, like a dead carnation lying on loamy soil.
Smiling, she lifted a hand to aid his. “Yeah. Made some bitchin’ tips, though. CASA had a luncheon today."
"I don't know what CASA is."
Lily craned her neck and looked around the bar. “The Compressed-Air Station Association.” After snagging a waiter's attention, she ordered a drink. “Green tonic with mango, please."
Without poetry-writing to distract him, Pablo began to feel restive. His nose itched, working toward a sneeze. His ears rang from the cacophony of raised voices clashing with electronic music. The watery excuse for wine that sat before him, its glass slick with condensation, reeked faintly of spoiled fruit.
Besides, it was time to go to his street corner and look alluring. He had until midnight to earn some coin. After that, the third shift took over, and givers couldn't infringe on others’ hours.
"I was just about to leave,” he said, sliding the little memo booklet into his hip pocket. He'd tried writing on an electronic pad, but it just wasn't the same as putting pen to paper.
"Oh, you can't!” Lily curled a hand over his forearm. “You're my good-luck charm."
"You'll do fine without me. You always do."
"Wish I'd gotten off earlier.” Lily feigned a pout.
Pablo got up. “You made good money today. Be grateful for large favors. Now I have to get to work.” He skimmed a hand over her hair. “I wish you'd lay off the straightening. I loved it when you had that springy cloud on your head."
"My natural wasn't enough to straighten you, though."
Pablo smiled. “You know the reason for that. Cut me some slack, lady."
Lily was well aware he'd been with plenty of women—preferred men, yes, but could swing the other way. It seemed to bug her that she wasn't one of those women. He suspected Lily had a bit of a crush on him, but he had no desire to take advantage of it. Friends simply didn't cross certain lines.
At that moment, as if on cue, a man sidled past Pablo, pausing just long enough to give his ass a little brush of cock. Pablo slid a veiled glance at the stranger before he was swallowed by the crowd. A patch on the right side of his chest proclaimed him a hydro-plant worker. Not bad looking, either.
Pablo sighed. His clients were rarely attractive or even interesting, despite the money they had to spend on themselves. He'd certainly have a much more satisfying evening if he took Mr. Overalls up on that implied offer.
The come-on made him think of something. “If you plan on getting lucky tonight,” he said to Lily, “I hope you have some protection with you."
Lily slid the drink's straw from her mouth. “Always.” She patted her handbag.
"AV spray?"
"You bet. Condoms, too."
"Good.” Lily might not be his lover, but he cared about her. “That new virus that's surfaced, it can do bad things—"
"To your good stuff. Yeah, I know. What do you think of the spray?"
"It seems to work,” Pablo said. “That's all that really matters. The smell and taste are getting better with every batch. Kind of minty. It's tolerable, if you're into what you're doing."
"Most anything is tolerable if you're into what you're doing."
"Ain't that the truth?"
Lily grew serious. Her hand glided down Pablo's forearm. “I worry about you."
Trapping her hand, he gave her an appreciative smile. “I worry about you, too. I'm probably taking fewer risks than you are, out here on your own looking for some action."
"At least I can be picky,” Lily pointed out. “You can't."
Pablo had no comeback. She was right. “What happened to that guy you met last week? What was his name again?"
"Andre. Hung like a horse.” Lily shrugged in resignation. “But he moved like one, too. Galloped right out of my life."
"That's better than having to chew your arm off to get away, isn't it?"
Lily grinned. As Pablo withdrew, she grabbed his wrist. “Oh, I almost forgot. When you get outside, check the ad board over Fietsen's. There's a job available in the UC. Looks interesting."
Pablo pulled down the corners of his mouth. “The Undercity?"
"Yeah, just check it out.” Lily lifted his hand and kissed it. “Now go forth and don't multiply. More important, take care."
"You too."
Pablo made his way to the exit, angling between people and tables. He was glad to be leaving. It was the night air and relative quiet of the darkening city he looked forward to, not work. Money was the only thing that made his job worthwhile.
Lampposts were just beginning to glow to life as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Vehicles swept in a silent procession down the street. They made him think of the man in the bar, the hydro-plant worker who'd given him that suggestive body press. Pablo had heard there was a shortage of fuel-grade hydrogen due to subversive activity at the dam that powered the plant. He'd also heard the saboteurs may have come from the Villius metroplex, the next one to the northwest beyond the sizable stretch of Interzone. Pablo hadn't given the matter much thought, however, since he pretty much walked everywhere. Now he vaguely wondered if that flirtatious man's work schedule had been cut back, and he was out looking for ways to spend the extra time on his hands.
Yeah, it would've been nice.
He looked toward the Fietsen building, a small rise of only fifteen stories. Bright, multicolored ads flashed on its roof sign. Each one paused for ten seconds, then dissolved as the next one took shape. Pablo watched five ads come and go before he saw the one Lily must have been referring to.
* * * *
Wanted: Experienced Touch to spark coven of three male Alters & serve as liaison w/Overcit's of all classes. Must have pleasing appearance, phys & comm skills, discretion. Apply 86 Guardian Station, UC.
* * * *
"Hm.” Pablo absorbed the spotty information.
Alters were obviously Alterationists, which meant they dabbled in magic. They could be witches, sorcerers, wizards, or some type of shaman. The word coven only meant they worked and possibly lived as a group. It made sense they were headquartered in the Undercity portion of the Regenerie metroplex, where all the Otherbeings dwelled.
Pablo checked his watch. He couldn't dawdle any longer. Walking to his workstation would take a while.
The day's misty rain had ended, leaving behind an autumnal dampness that infiltrated clothing and seeped into bones. On days like this, Pablo thought, it would be nice to live in one of the domed cities. As he headed east toward his post, which was fourteen blocks away, he zipped up his jacket and turned down his head. Wind occasionally slapped at him from the northeast.
Pablo reached into his pocket and checked for the reflective green armband that designated him a bi-giver. Straights wore white. Gays wore yellow. Any giver willing to service a vampire was called a donor and wore red, sometimes in addition to one of the other bands. Pablo had heard that sex with vamps was deeply involving and uniquely thrilling. It could also be dangerous, which accounted for part of the thrill. But he had no desire to take such risks. Mortal human beings were unpredictable enough.
There were no donors with Pablo's group tonight. Even though specific areas of the city were devoted to the four different types of givers, the Powers still required armband identification. Theoretically, it was reassuring to clients, especially those from out of town, to be able to see from their vehicles what kind of prostitute they were approaching.
Pablo couldn't help thinking about the want ad. It would be a step up in his life to quit the Givers Agency. His only consolation was that he had a second-shift position; second was more profitable than first and less grueling than third. Recently, he'd thought about applying for Assigned Service, which would mean he'd only have one or two clients to tend to on a regular basis. But A.S. had distinct drawbacks. Givers had no say about the clients to whom they were assigned. Pablo knew he'd hate being tethered to men or women he didn't find appealing. And appeal, to him, was an indefinable quality. It was either there or it wasn't, and it had little to do with age, gender, or looks. Even a gorgeous twenty-year-old could be ugly to him if he found that person off-putting.
No, Assigned Service wasn't a viable option. Pablo knew the quality of his life, not exactly stellar as it was, would plummet even further if he consistently had to have sex with people who pushed his Turn-off button. No matter how many Elysoria capsules he popped, he'd still be miserable.
Toiling away in a factory would be even worse. Outdoor labor might be tolerable, except off-season he'd still get stuck in a factory. Only older, long-term workers could avoid this fate in the winter, when they were usually given positions in transportation, maintenance, or snow removal. Service-industry jobs like Lily's restaurant position had long waiting lists. And Pablo certainly didn't have the skills or education to qualify for Professional status.
He hugged himself against the evening's creeping chill and mentally reran the help-wanted ad.
Three male Alterationists.
Pablo hadn't dealt with many residents of the Undercity, much less with practitioners of magic. Sub dwellers were sub dwellers for a reason. The Powers didn't trust Otherbeings. Most Overcity residents didn't trust them. They were generally considered alien and stealthy and a potential threat to the general population. That's why they were segregated below ground and their activities carefully monitored. All this suspicion and wariness did have an upside, though. Sub dwellers enjoyed the kind of respect and, sometimes, preferential treatment that stemmed from fear.
What would a Touch be expected to do for these men? As Pablo understood it—and his understanding of the profession was limited—Touches were not healers. They were more like stimulators. By laying on hands and saying certain things in a certain way, they could infuse their clients with positive energy. This, in turn, supposedly led to increased physical vigor, mental clarity, and spiritual renewal. Sometimes their ministrations involved sex, sometimes not. So this little enclave in the Undercity, which wanted a Touch to “spark” it, must feel its collective magical battery needed some charging. And given how covens operated, sex would likely be involved.
But if this particular group wanted a dual-purpose Touch—a new presence that would revitalize them as well as serve as their link to residents of the Overcity—they likely wanted a female.
"Fuck.” The expletive drifted out of Pablo's mouth on a cloud of vapor. Temperatures were falling.
As he approached his post, which took up one corner of a small park, he saw that three of his five coworkers were already there. It was standard operating procedure for six to ten givers to man any given post. Clients liked having a choice. Pablo was due to be rotated to another part of the city in a few weeks.
Same shit, different pot.
Shadows cast by the trees made shifting blotches, like creeping mold, on the park's browning lawn. November—Pablo hated November. The sight of his hunched and restless coworkers deepened the month's bleakness. They seemed to struggle to keep their very souls warm.
The unpleasant weather made for curt greetings. Everybody was a bit surly tonight. Pablo, who'd always prided himself on his civility, felt less guilty about being unsociable.
"Any drive-offs?” he asked, slipping on his armband. “Or haven't the others shown up?"
An aspiring gymnast named Aaron answered. “Both. Suze got picked up by a limo. Tilka isn't here yet."
"A limo.” Pablo pulled down his mouth and raised his eyebrows. “She could be in for an orgy or ménage."
"I could go for that,” Nicholas said. “A change of pace.” He flipped open a small bottle and tossed a pill into his mouth. Elysoria, possibly, although Nicholas was known for carrying a veritable pharmacopeia of drugs. He'd already OD'd twice on cocktails that were either too potent or had the wrong mix of ingredients. The legal recreational drugs available in Regenerie might be non-addictive, but they sure as hell weren't safe in large, mixed quantities.
Pablo doubted Nicholas ever worked sober. It was sad. The man was wasting away. He was a handsome guy who once had a pretty girlfriend, but she had dumped him when he became a giver. Seemed he still hadn't gotten over it. Or maybe he couldn't get used to doing men, since he really didn't have a natural penchant for it. It was just that bi-givers got the best pay.
"Wonder where Tilka is,” Pablo murmured.
"I know she applied for an A.S. position,” said the third man, Thomas, “and the boss was willing to cut her one sweet deal."
"How so?"
"He offered her choice of clients."
"No shit?” The news stunned Pablo. That was unheard of.
Yessir, being a shemale like Tilka was the way to go if you wanted to shine in this business. Rich and powerful clients often liked the exotic. Hell, they just liked having things few other people could have. What better way to feel privileged among privileged people than to purchase a rare human being—like a partner with large breasts and a big dick?
"Well,” Aaron said, “if we don't have some form of woman at this post tonight, there's bound to be flack from displeased customers."
"That's not our problem,” Nicholas muttered.
A car pulled up, and the four available givers sauntered over to it so they could be examined. The tinted window on the passenger side lowered. A nondescript, middle-aged man leaned out while his driver discreetly stared straight ahead. Pablo figured the man was a Vip, since Pros almost never had chauffeurs.
A glint of reflected light came from the man's narrow eyes as he surveyed his choices. He had fair, neatly trimmed hair and a doughy face with little definition. Even his nose looked shapeless. Crawling blobs of shadow made his features melt further.
The pie man, Pablo thought. Whimsical phrases sometimes leapt into his head. Maybe that was because he liked writing poetry. Language had always been one of his favorite toys.
"You,” the man said, lifting a stubby finger in Pablo's direction. “Take off your jacket and shirt."
Pablo withered like the grass beneath his feet. Wonderful. Such a balmy night, perfect for a striptease. Still, he did as he was told. Defying a Vip could have serious consequences. As he handed Aaron his shed clothing, the cold air slid over his skin like sheets of metal.
The potential client's stare moved up, down, around Pablo's torso. Then he murmured, “Turn around.” After a moment, he said, “Very nice. Very nice. You can get dressed again. Do you exercise to keep your body toned?"
"When I have the chance.” Pablo slipped his black knit shirt over his head and donned his jacket. He realized he hadn't been to one of the free gyms in a while. He wasn't big on workouts, but he couldn't afford to neglect them. A nice body was a giver's stock-in-trade.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
The man nodded in approval. “Are you...” He licked his lips. “Are you well endowed?"
"I exceed the minimum requirement for a giver,” Pablo said mechanically. He was already tiring of this encounter. The intriguing want-ad again swam through his mind.
"Exceed substantially?” With a kind of salivating hope, the man's gaze bounced between Pablo's face and his crotch. His crotch got most of the attention.
"No. I'm not extraordinary."
The man seemed to consider this. Pablo was afraid he'd have to pull out his dick to be scrutinized. It wasn't a farfetched concern. Such things did happen.
"I assume you're clean,” the man said.
Guy must've been new at this. “Of course. We've all been vaccinated. And if a client wants extra protection, we'll use extra protection."
"I do like your body. Very much, in fact. I assume you have a service computer for record-keeping?"
Pablo pulled it out of his jacket pocket. A small plastic tab embedded with a microchip hung from one corner—his employee card.
"Log yourself in,” the man said.
Pablo inserted the tab into the appropriate slot. He handed the device to his new client. The man inserted a similar tab—his UMoR ID card—in the slot on the opposite side. The meter was officially running.
"Good. Now get in."
For a split second, just a split second, Pablo almost bolted. He had an urge to run for the nearest sub entrance and flee into the Undercity. But he didn't. He slipped into the backseat of Pie Man's car.
I'm going to regret this. 

Chapter Two 
They didn't end up in some outlying mansion, as Pablo half hoped they would, but in the penthouse of a tall rise. So this Vip, while clearly important, was not one of the politicos who made up the Powers. The man never divulged his name. That was his prerogative. Pablo had no choice but to call him “sir."
Although the man was taciturn, his eyes spoke volumes. He ogled Pablo almost unrelentingly. It was a prelude all givers were accustomed to. Clients often fed their own anticipation.
They were no sooner behind the closed double doors of the penthouse than the man said, “Take off your shoes and socks and strip to the waist. Open your pants, but leave them on. Maybe shove them down your hips a little.” He sounded breathless.
Silently, Pablo followed him into a large living room before executing the orders he'd been given. The man went to a sideboard and poured some dark amber liqueur into a snifter. He immediately sipped, then sipped again. When offered a drink, Pablo declined. He liked keeping his wits about him when he was working.
"Just casually walk around,” the man said, seating himself in an overlarge leather recliner.
The chair seemed to have a variety of features. VR goggles affixed to a swinging arm could likely be pulled into place with a single, swift movement. Pablo suspected his client's virtual-reality tours included lots of sexual activity in decadent settings. Prissy clients were usually porn-hounds.
Pablo ambled around the spare, tasteful room, aware of the man's hungry gaze on his bare chest and back, the still-clothed swell of his ass. He occasionally ran a hand over his pecs in a caressing way, coaxing his nipples into rising. Oh, Mr. Mister, look how delectable I am. Slipping a few fingers inside the waistband of his briefs, he ran them over the plane of his belly, just grazing his pubic hair. He raised his arms over his head and stretched. If he read his client right, this was the sort of thing the man wanted to see.
Beyond the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, Regenerie glittered against the night. Clown-colored ad boards and news boards stood out from the white-dotted grid formed by lit windows. Pablo wondered vaguely if the Undercity portion of the metroplex was as active after dark as the Overcity.
Trying to focus on the task at hand, he slowly slid his hands over his crotch. The bulge there was still modest but growing. Pablo knew he could never get off on Pie Man, but he could at least be stimulated by Pie Man getting off on him. He glanced at his client. Yes, the guy was definitely paying attention.
Pablo continued his leisurely, seductive ramble around the room. He glanced at the desk as he walked past it. Not much there. On the right, a closed book, facedown; it was the size of an old-fashioned photograph album. On the upper left, a small stack of stationery embossed at the top with UM of R and the city's official seal. The words Utopian Metroplex of Regenerie were printed in very faint ink at the bottom of the page. This paper seemed a much finer grade than the usual fibrous, recycled stuff available to the public, and there was precious little of that. No doubt about it—Pie Man was a Vip.
The open computer caught Pablo's eye. One word in a large font, as if it were a portion of a title, shimmered briefly into visibility. Must be the beginning of some report about one of the wards in the metroplex. Pablo quickly turned away from the desk, lest he seem too nosy, and faced the man who ogled him.
"I've never seen you on the circuit before,” Pablo said. Casually resting his butt against the edge of the desk, he crossed his arms and legs. The posture, he knew, would emphasize the contours of his biceps, chest, and crotch.
It didn't go unnoticed. Pie Man's gaze rolled over him. “I ... uh ... I've just recently felt free enough to ... to indulge my—"
Poor guy was at a loss for words.
"Secret passion?” Pablo suggested in a molten voice.
The man reddened. His self-conscious laugh was clipped. “Not so secret anymore, is it?"
Pablo stayed where he was, since the stance seemed to be effective. “It's as secret as you want it to be. I don't discuss my clients with anyone."
He'd already pegged this client as a “cummer"—somebody who'd get aroused by the sight of him and then shoot somewhere on, but not in, his body. He hoped he was right. He had no desire to have any physical contact with the guy.
Pie Man cleared his throat. “Damn, you excite me.” He'd started idly fingering his crotch. “Hair, face, skin, build. Everything about you."
Pablo gave him a taunting smile. “Good. I'm glad."
The man seemed ready to jump out of his skin and onto Pablo's. “Take off the rest of your clothing and kneel on the sofa, facing forward. I'll be right back.” He got up and hurried to another part of the penthouse.
Here we go. Once he'd stripped, Pablo stroked his dick to get it hard. The man's scrutiny had already excited him somewhat, although the man himself hadn't. Cock rampant, Pablo knelt on the sofa cushions as he'd been told to do.
Trouserless, his small erection bobbing, Pie Man came back carrying a mass of studded leather straps and metal rings. “I want you to wear these,” he said, forcing out the words. He was in such a lather, his voice had nearly abandoned him.
One item was a full-torso harness that terminated in an open codpiece rather than a cock ring. Pie Man was so inexperienced and so wound up that his trembling hands couldn't seem to move without fumbling. Pablo had to help put the harness on himself. Pie Man did manage to get the neck-and-wrist restraint into place.
With the codpiece affixed snugly around the base of his sac, Pablo's arousal heightened along with his erection. His cock was turgid now, nearly to the point of discomfort.
Then he thought about those circles of metal. And the rest of the leather goods. Pie Man had also fetched electrified scrotal and penis rings and a leather thong whip with multiple spiked tails.
Oh, shit, Pablo thought. Shit, shit, shit.
Although not immobilized, Pablo was securely bound. It was enough to impede freedom of movement. Situations like this made him nervous unless he was with a Dom he knew and trusted. And he didn't know this squirrel from Adam.
Head darting forward, Pie Man suddenly clawed his fingers into Pablo's chest and slurped at his nipples. He grabbed Pablo's cock and ran the swollen head over his face. And then he lifted the flail.
Pablo cringed. They'd never even gotten to the “safe word” part. So much for making assumptions about client behavior.
Sweat beading on his expansive forehead, Pie Man stepped back and made a half-dozen swipes at Pablo's chest. Much to Pablo's relief, it wasn't that bad. Hardly a whipping at all. Tentative and awkward, the man's wielding of the flail revealed his inexperience. Mild warmth spread across Pablo's chest. He could tolerate that as easily as he could tolerate a playful spanking.
Pie Man's gaze flickered from Pablo's torso up to his face. When he saw the lack of reaction there, or perhaps when he saw nothing more than a slight burgundy tint to Pablo's skin, his face gathered and set in a hard pucker of determination. He stepped back and raised his arm higher.
And the volcano erupted. Pie Man whipped with vicious ferocity, his mad excitement spiraling on each stroke. The sudden intensity stunned Pablo. Gritting his teeth against the fire laid down by the lashes, he tried not to flinch. Appearing weak in front of a weak man would be humiliating. His bound body quivered with concentrated pain and the effort not to show that pain.
Pie Man managed to fracture Pablo's self-containment. The sharp bite of the spikes provoked a reflexive hunching Pablo couldn't control. Occasionally it felt as if sharks’ teeth were ripping into his skin. Not often and not deeply, but enough to bring a tight, quavering whimper to his throat. This, too, he tried to suppress. He thought of simply falling sideways onto the couch, but he suspected this would only incense the overzealous sadist and invite a beating to other parts of his body. Worse yet, he'd seem to be cowering.
He felt leaking beads of heat on his chest.
And, suddenly, it was over. Only then did Pablo realize his eyes were squeezed shut. Only then was he aware of any sensation other than the continual burn of narrow leather and pointed steel studs striping and piercing an expanse of tender flesh. Opening his eyes, he glanced at his chest. It looked like a jumbled grid of runways dotted with red lights.
At least the thrashing, while frenzied, didn't last long, and the lust-driven client forgot all about the electrified rings.
He didn't forget to take care of himself, though. What Pablo saw next made him wither more than his first glimpse of the flail. Stepping up to Pablo, erection firmly in hand, Pie Man frantically plied his dick. He came quickly, thin cum dribbling over Pablo's blood-speckled pecs.
"Damn it,” he said afterward, still catching his breath. “Damn it, I wanted to suck you."
"Then do it now,” Pablo grated, falling back on his haunches. “You drew blood, so you can at least get me off."
He shouldn't have spoken like that. It was a breach of conduct that could have unpleasant consequences. But he couldn't help it. His chest and shoulders stung like hell. His nipples felt like hot match heads. He thought his balls would burst, as tightly as the codpiece cinched his scrotum. His swollen cock was purpling, its veins tautly engorged.
"All right,” the man said. “Yes, it's only fair."
His oral play was maladroit. Throttling Pablo's shaft, he made a few staccato draws on the top half of the head, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. Pablo tried drifting into a fantasy but couldn't pull his mind from the cesspool of reality. He didn't look at Pie Man, couldn't bear to look. Sheer, desperate need had made him turn over one of the most valued parts of himself to an odious creature who'd abused him.
He concentrated on the look of his cock and balls in that codpiece. Finally, with a few weak jerks, he felt a shallow spasm of climax. It was the least satisfying orgasm he'd ever had.
In a final act of casual disrespect, Pie Man spat the ejaculated semen into his hand. He quickly wiped his hand as well as his mouth on a towel he'd also brought into the room. Afterward, he at least had enough presence of mind to help Pablo out of the restraints.
When Pie Man spoke, he wouldn't look Pablo in the face. “Would you like to bathe? Or have something to eat? I'd love it if you stayed awhile."
"No, thank you. I need to get back to my post.” Pablo's politeness came as easily as taking a long swallow of cod liver oil.
He had to get out of here. Giving Pie Man enough time to become aroused again would surely lead to a session of genital electroshock and possibly another beating. Pablo had played submissive before, but only with men and women who knew what they were doing. This crazed jackass, however, could kill him.
Reaching under the sofa cushion, the man slid out a coin purse. He extracted a gullion, the largest gold piece available, and handed it to Pablo. “You did wonderfully well. No one's ever made me feel this way. It was just ... sublime."
"Thank you. I'm glad you're pleased.” An even bigger swallow.
Standing, Pablo grabbed the towel off the floor and daubed at his chest. At least the blood wasn't streaming. There were droplets, mostly, and a few thin runnels. It should clot soon.
Pie Man watched him with a strange impassivity. Maybe he mistook Pablo's stoicism for satisfaction.
Grateful he'd worn a dark shirt and jacket tonight, Pablo went to retrieve his clothing from the plush ottoman across which he'd draped it. He winced as he slipped on his shirt. The wounds made by the spikes were small and shallow, but they still felt like scorch marks. After pulling on his jeans and slipping the gullion into a pocket, he got his business computer and employee card out of his jacket.
When he turned, Pie Man still hadn't put his pants on. It seemed he didn't want to leave the room. He wanted to watch his boy toy.
"I've been researching and stockpiling sexual accoutrements for a while,” he said, fondling the leather straps. They were now spread over the sofa cushions like a dead squid. “Just looking at them has thrilled me, but actually seeing them put to use, on someone as delectable as you...” Wistfully, his voice dwindled.
Pablo came back to the sofa and stood before him.
Pie Man looked up. His eyes were very light blue. In fact, his coloring everywhere looked thin, like a watercolor wash. He ran an admiring hand down Pablo's thigh. “I think I'd rather like it if you started calling me Master."
A reply was impossible. Pablo swallowed down a rise of bile. “You should get your card and check out now.” He set his small computer on the sofa. “You don't want to be charged when you're not being serviced."
Reluctantly, the man rose and went to another room. Expelling a long sigh, Pablo pulled his hands over his hair. It was damp. Being beaten while bound would make anybody sweat. Good thing he kept his hair short. At least it would soon be dry.
Pablo began pacing. Eager to be gone, he wouldn't allow himself the luxury of sitting down. Not even for a few minutes.
As his weary gaze roamed the living room, it again passed over the laptop on the desk. He couldn't see the lone, large word from where he was.
"You know what I'm considering?” Pie Man said as he reentered the room. “Putting in a request. A very special request."
He still hadn't donned his pants. Maybe he imagined Pablo was sneaking glances at him, wanting him. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Smiling, the man lifted Pablo's record-keeper and tabbed his ID card into the right-hand slot, then handed it back.
"Have you ever been in Assigned Service?” He didn't wait for an answer. “I've heard about givers being committed to one or two people rather than standing on corners every day, year in and year out.” He swept an arm around, indicating the penthouse. “These quarters are very comfortable, as you can see. And very well stocked with the best of everything. The view from the balcony is stunning."
"Yes, I see that.” Pablo slipped the computer into his jacket pocket. “But I really do have to go now. Thank you for your patronage.” He moved toward the foyer and relative freedom. The man's implication had been sickeningly clear.
Pie Man followed, swinging dick and all. “Well, sweet Pablo, I would indeed like to be your patron. So don't be surprised to find yourself rescued from the streets.” He lightly placed a hand on his giver's shoulder. “I'll no doubt have to take care of myself tonight, perhaps several times, while I think of you. Especially while I think about everything else I'd like to do to you. Pity you have to return to that dismal park."
They stopped at the doors. “I don't have much choice,” Pablo said. “If I don't service at least two or three clients a night, I'm asked too many questions. We have to keep ourselves available to as many drive-ups as possible. Givers in General Service aren't allowed to play favorites."
The man responded with a wily smile. “Then we'll just have to change that.” He pushed an intercom button on a panel in the wall. “My guest is coming down,” he said into the speaker. “Please take him where he needs to go.” Smiling again, he looked up at Pablo. “If somebody in my position wants a giver to play favorites, believe me, the giver is allowed—pardon the weak pun—to give in."
His tone bore a smug and bloodcurdling confidence.
On the way back to his post, Pablo sat slumped in the car seat, his head resting against its back. “Is there a waiting list to become a chauffeur?” he asked the driver. All he wanted to do was go home, take a long bath, and hit the sack. But he couldn't indulge his lethargy. He did indeed have to return to his station.
"There's no waiting list,” the chauffeur said. “Vips usually choose their own drivers."
Scratch that option. 
Pablo couldn't stop thinking about the dreadful likelihood that he would soon be at that nimrod's beck and call. In this case, Assigned Service would be Assigned Servitude. And Pie Man was not the kind of person Pablo found an appealing slave-master.
By the time he got back to the park, he'd trained his focus on a single goal.
The remainder of the night went smoothly enough. An older Pro simply wanted to talk, and a younger Pro wanted to touch Pablo's cock while Pablo jerked off. A lot of straight guys came to male givers for stuff like that. It was amazing how many of them needed a good listener or were turned on by other men's genitals.
By the time he got back to his studio apartment, all Pablo could do was flop onto the daybed for a few hours’ sleep. He had to get up early and put his escape plan in motion. Until then, he could not answer his phone or his door.
He knew with certainty that Pie Man would act quickly. The guy was voracious and determined. Depending on his status, the assignment could come at any moment and perhaps even be hand delivered. Vips had that kind of power. If they wanted to trace someone's whereabouts, they had means at their disposal for doing so.
Pablo fell asleep wondering how to convince those Alterationists they couldn't function without him. Unless and until he could secure other employment, he'd have to remain under the thumb of the Givers Agency. And all the Vips who always got their way.

Chapter Three 
The Undercity of the Regenerie metroplex was an elaborate warren divided into distinct “neighborhoods” identified by their station names. As Pablo recalled, for he'd only been down there twice, vehicular traffic was sparse. He'd seen bicycles, electric scooters, even a rickshaw. Traveling long distances required getting on the train, which also delivered goods from the Overcity.
Before Pablo descended into this subterranean world, he bought an Undercity map from a street vendor. The sun hadn't yet risen.
"You goin’ down there?” the vendor asked, his grizzled face plunged into even deeper darkness by the brim of his hat.
"I might,” Pablo answered.
The vendor's jaw worked, as if he were chewing something. “Want to get in without using your card?"
Pablo paused, wondering what the man's implication could be. “I might."
"For a quor, you can get a card that can't be traced to you."
"You mean, get a card from you?"
The man nodded. “It'll cost ya a quor. And that'll buy you my bad memory, too."
"How do I know the card will work?"
"I wouldn't still be standin’ here suckin’ air if my cards didn't work."
The price was high but could well be worth it. Pablo dug in his pocket, where he carried some but not most of his money, and found the required coin. The vendor reached beneath the small counter of his booth. After a series of muffled metallic clatters, his hand reappeared holding a valid-looking ID tab. Pablo gave him the coin and got the card.
"If it don't work,” the vendor said, “I give you permission to come back and punch me out.” He seemed to be smirking.
"I won't need your permission for that.” Pablo had been in fights before, always to exact what he saw as justice. Sound judgment rarely failed him in that area. He slid the tab into his pocket and said, “Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Standing beneath a streetlight, Pablo studied the map. Getting to Guardian Station wouldn't take long at all if he boarded the train at 21st and Banyon, ten blocks away. Pack on back, in which he carried money, some clothing, and personal items, as well as his poetry notebooks, he began walking.
Good thing the new restrictions hadn't yet gone into effect. Overcity residents would soon have to submit requests for Undercity passes, at least to visit most stations. Only access to Vizo would remain unrestricted. Those sub dwellers were human and depended on trade from the OC for their livelihoods. But anybody seeking to enter the other stations would have to present damned good reasons for doing so.
At 21st and Banyon, Pablo took two flights of stairs down to the platform. He dropped three dinnies into the token dispenser, then stuck his bogus card in the tab slot. It worked. He got his token without a hitch.
A young couple and a woman who looked like a Pro were waiting for the train. The riders exchanged veiled glances but no words. Citizens visiting the UC had learned long ago to mind their own business.
Almost twenty minutes passed before the train arrived. They didn't run very frequently, since the Powers saw no need for it. The Overcity had its own elevated rail system. Anybody moving around the Undercity, whether resident or visitor, had to expect some inconveniences.
The straps of Pablo's backpack scoured his shoulders. Pie Man's flail had tattooed him there, as well.
Hands shoved in his pockets, Pablo impatiently rocked back and forth as he looked around him. Like the rest of Regenerie, the trains and tunnel were clean. Tiles gleamed. The floor was free of litter. Aside from the lingering odor of disinfectant, the only smells Pablo could detect came from the track basin and, oddly enough, bubble gum.
When the train pulled up, Pablo leapt into the first empty car. He eased the pack off his back, pulled the UC map out of his pocket, and again studied it.
Undercity neighborhood stations had no direct access to the streets above. Instead, they were widely scattered among regular passenger stations. An electronic voice announced the first neighborhood stop, Mythmir Station, where elves and related beings often stayed. Pablo stared out his window. He thought he saw a gnomish-looking individual board the train two cars ahead of his.
The underground portion of the metroplex held a fascinating if somewhat frightening mix of creatures and cultures. Some were human and others were not. Some were mortal and others were not. Pablo glanced at his map.
The train track was a large loop with two spurs at opposite sides. These led to the most outlying stations—Hellven, where the Fallen Ones dwelled, and Animen, the home of weres and shifters. Pablo would only be traveling along a ninety-degree arc in the loop. Guardian Station was coming up next. Beyond that lay Vizo, a community of psychics, mediums, and practitioners of divinatory arts—astrologers, geomancers, skryers, tarot readers, rune readers, dowsers, and pendulomancers. Overcity residents who came down here usually headed for Vizo. Were Pablo to keep riding, he'd pass the Animen spur, then proceed past Raiser Station, a nest of necromancers and zombies, and Sang, a community of vampires. Proceeding past the Hellven spur would take him back to his starting point.
Settling back into his seat, Pablo wondered if his assignment to Pie Man had come through. Afraid it had, he'd set his cell to silent and wouldn't even check his voice mail. His employers would know if he checked it. He wondered about the job for which he was applying and whether he could secure it. Looking out the car's window, he eyed the fence that ran parallel to the train tracks. Between this fence and the wall beyond it was a narrow roadway that connected some of the Undercity's encampments. He wondered what went on in each of them.
The voice announced Guardian Station. Grabbing up his pack, Pablo hustled out of his seat and left the train.
Beyond the well-lit platform with its high gates, dimmer corridors flared out like spokes. Each had its own arched entrance. Pablo walked from one to the next. Embossed bronze plates affixed to the walls indicated which addresses lay along each byway. He headed down the “street” where 86 should be, hoping he'd accurately remembered the number.
Not many people were on the narrow sidewalks, which ran in front of a motley assortment of closely packed, single-story buildings. They were made from wood, brick, cinder block, rubble, even molded plastic and compressed foam. All had roofs, which were obviously for privacy and quiet rather than protection. Above them, shrouded in darkness, loomed a tangled network of catwalks, sweating pipes, and softly shuddering ducts. The ventilation system hummed. From somewhere within the main tunnel, a train's passing sent a rumble through the ground. Evenly spaced sunlamps, meant to simulate daylight, gradually released their timed glow.
Pablo had only been to Vizo Station, which was considerably busier and therefore had more distractions than Guardian. He'd also been a little inebriated at the time, so he hadn't noticed too many particulars. Now, though, tension made him hyperalert. He saw a spotted salamander wiggle into a slot of darkness between two closely pressed residences. The buildings and pavement must have a tinge of moisture. Verifying this, Pablo ran a finger down the wall of a plastic house. A little slick, but not slimy. No heavy mustiness pervaded the neighborhood. Considering how well the Overcity was maintained, the Undercity likely had a sophisticated circulation system that dehumidified and purified the air. Aside from the distant odor of greased machinery, the only obvious smells were pleasant ones.
"May I help you?"
Startled, Pablo turned to the voice. A smiling woman, her skin even darker than Lily's, crossed the streetlike corridor and approached him. She carried a covered basket over one arm.
"I'm, uh ... I'm looking for Number Eighty-six, but some of these places don't seem to have address plates."
"Most of them don't. We know who's where. Besides, we don't like identifying ourselves by number."
"Well, I'm afraid visitors don't know who's where,” Pablo said, meeting her smile. By imperceptible degrees, the sunlamps grew brighter.
The woman pointed back the way Pablo had come. “You passed it. The Coven of Three is in the red-shingled building. I certainly can't guarantee they'll all be there, though.” She placed a hand on Pablo's arm and leaned toward him. “Those men do like to circulate.” After that cryptic statement, she told Pablo her name was Rav and she'd be happy to help him out in any way.
He thanked her and retraced his steps, catching a tantalizing whiff of someone's breakfast as he did so.
Despite the increasing ambient light, candles burned behind many curtained windows. Scented threads, probably from incense, occasionally curled through the air. When Pablo stepped up to the black-and-white door of the red building, he heard quiet conversation and a lazy drift of laughter within. At least somebody was home and awake. Just as he was about to rap, he noticed a knotted rope hanging beside the door frame. He pulled it. Somewhere inside, a bell tinkled.
Within seconds the door swung open. Pablo took a step back. The man who stood before him was very tall, several inches above Pablo's six feet, and dressed in black. It was a stark contrast to his dark amber eyes and pale blond hair, which was spiked and tipped with blue. He looked like a human torch.
As his brows lifted, he merely said, “Yes?” His voice was very deep.
"I'm here about the Touch position,” Pablo said.
The man frowned. “Really."
"Yes, really."
"You're not a woman."
"I'm well aware of that. But I'm still qualified."
"Let him in, Tole, so we can at least have a look at him,” a voice called from within.
Tole stepped aside and swept a hand toward the building's interior.
"Thank you.” Pablo walked through a small foyer into a surprisingly homey and spacious parlor complete with false fireplace.
The room was nothing at all like Pie Man's bland, classy penthouse. It was so rife with personality, Pablo fancied he could see idiosyncrasies bubbling up through the clutter. Quirky mobiles hung from the ceiling. Prints, paintings, and collages of different sizes patterned the walls. Holographic flames danced in the fireplace; images appeared and disappeared within the ghostly blaze. Far off to his left, in the dining area, a large computer touch-screen took up most of one wall.
Although the residence seemed clean, it wasn't tidy. An odd assortment of things covered every shelf and table—books and papers, VR goggles, candles, bells, spherical and ovoid polished stones, wooden chests of various sizes. A worn carpet patterned with flowering vines and fantastic creatures covered the floor. The mismatched furniture, all bearing patterned upholstery, was overstuffed and inviting. Pablo knew he could easily fall asleep on the plump couch.
His gaze returned to the books. They were a particular surprise, since nearly all reading material was electronic. Printed matter in general was scarce, and these volumes looked old. Hell, they could even predate the Great Event, and that would make them as rare and precious as demon tears. Pablo wondered if these men were black marketers and this coven was actually a front. They didn't seem wealthy enough to be high-end collectors.
"Do you like to read?"
It took an effort for Pablo to stop ogling the scattered volumes. “Yes. Very much."
"We all do too."
A different man had spoken. His dark red hair was wavy and nicely trimmed; his large brown eyes were warm and guileless. He wore a terrycloth bathrobe, so he must have just gotten out of bed or out of the shower. Pablo wondered if the third member of the Coven of Three was still asleep.
"I'm Zee.” He rose from a littered table to shake Pablo's hand. A mug sitting on the table in front of him sent up a continuous plume of steam. He was five-ten or -eleven, quite buff, and more cute than handsome. He even had a pair of dimples, which showed in a charming way when he smiled. “You needn't stand there holding that pack,” he said. “Please, have a seat."
"Thank you. My name is Pablo Creed, by the way.” Setting his backpack on the floor, he pulled a chair out from the same table. “I can't get over the books. I was under the impression that after the Great Event, a group of people—"
"The Protectors of the Word,” Zee said. “Yes, even before the metroplexes were raised from the ashes of the old cities, they salvaged whatever printed material was still intact."
Pablo had learned as much in school. “But I thought all of it is now kept in climate-controlled vaults."
"Not all,” said Tole. He stepped away from the door and moved farther into the room.
When neither man elaborated, or seemed inclined to, Pablo let the subject drop.
"By the way, we call it the Darkening,” Tole muttered in his dark voice.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What textbooks call the Great Event,” Zee said. “We find the term objectionable. History texts used in the schools are full of whitewash."
"More like hogwash.” Tole folded himself into a corner of the couch. “There was nothing ‘great’ about that event."
This was obviously a hot-button issue with the coven. Since Pablo was no scholar, he really didn't want to start out his interview by getting embroiled in some academic debate. He cleared his throat. “Does your coven live here or work here?"
"Both,” Zee said “This place is bigger than it looks from the outside. Each of us has his own bedroom. That's in addition to a full bath and the kitchen-dining area.” He motioned toward the space Pablo had already noticed, to the left beyond the parlor. “We have the adjoining building, too. That's where we do our work."
Tole kept eyeing Pablo, running his fingers over his chin and lower lip as he did so. He seemed on the verge of asking a question when the door blew open.
"Oh, you're both up. I was—"
The intruder's words died on his lips as he spied the visitor. Only he wasn't an intruder. He obviously knew Tole and Zee.
Instinctively, Pablo rose, prepared for another introduction. He tried not to stare at the newcomer, but it was difficult to control his eyes. The man was a knockout. Younger than the other two, he fell between them in height and build but far surpassed them in looks. Perfectly sculpted features, longish, wavy hair, a strong but lithe body—damn, he was perfection. The man wore cotton drawstring pants and an equally loose, casual shirt, both in white. They draped beautifully over his form, and that billowy whiteness nicely set off his full, dark-brown hair.
Pablo silently cursed himself. He was applying for a job, for God's sake, not having a session with a client. And it was a job that could save him from future sessions with clients. He had to cultivate some self-possession. But, shit, it had been ages since he'd been close to anybody as tantalizing as this man.
"Mr. Creed is an applicant for the Touch position,” Tole said. He didn't bother lifting his head from his hand or introducing them. It seemed he'd already made up his mind that Pablo didn't fit the bill.
Smiling in a most enticing way, the new man stepped up to Pablo and extended his hand. “We hadn't expected a male to apply. Not that it matters. We can go either way.” His grip was firm, his gaze steady. “My name is Win."
"Pablo."
Win lifted his brows. “Are you from one of the south countries?"
"My maternal grandparents were."
Nodding, Win released Pablo's hand. It took him a while. They stood there for an eternal moment, looking into each other's eyes. Win's were a deep, lustrous, faceted blue. Like the feathers of an indigo bunting, Pablo thought. He loved birds almost as much as he loved words.
Fleetingly, he also thought of the laborer in the bar, how that brief contact had made him yearn for something he hadn't had for a long time. He realized how much he missed the rush of physical attraction, missed tumbling around with a naked body that excited him into dizzy oblivion. Standing near this man named Win made him feel weak. Maybe he was just overtired.
Tole loudly cleared his throat and turned his attention to Win. “So, what mission were you on last night?"
Win dropped onto the other end of the couch as Pablo resumed his seat. He slid his fingers through his disheveled hair, again drawing Pablo's attention to it. Those tousled strands had the rich sheen and subtle highlights of finely polished walnut.
"We don't have to discuss that now,” Win said. “But I did have a few glasses of mobri, so I ended up falling asleep on Dal's floor."
"On the floor,” Tole repeated with obvious skepticism.
"Yes."
"Wonder what she did to you while you were sleeping."
Win yawned behind his hand. “I don't think she did anything. At least, nothing that woke me up.” His mouth slipped into a tired smile.
Tole watched him for a few beats longer. Pablo got the impression that Tole resented Win's allure, but for what reason, Pablo couldn't discern.
"Shall we interview our applicant?” Zee asked, folding his arms on the table.
"First,” Pablo said, “why don't you explain to me why you need a Touch?"
"Why don't you tell us how much you know about the principles of magic?” Tole said.
"Not much,” Pablo admitted. “Such things aren't generally discussed in the Overcity."
Tole took a deep, impatient breath and expelled it. “All right, here it is in a nutshell. Sexual energy has its own kind of power. It greatly enhances the efficacy of magic. Our group was formed on the principle of opposites attracting. We three have different backgrounds, personalities, temperaments, even different hair and eye colors. Nevertheless, we were physically drawn to each other. That combination made for some very effective tension."
"How so?” Pablo asked.
"To feel angered or exasperated by someone while harboring desire for that person—"
"Kicks up the energy level,” Zee said, concluding the explanation.
Win's eyes shifted between the two men. He remained silent but attentive. Pablo was convinced there was something going on beneath the surface of this group. Maybe it had to do with their need for a Touch.
"You spoke in the past tense.” Pablo directed his reminder at Tole. “You said the combination made for effective tension."
"That's why we need a Touch to spark us,” Zee said. “We feel as if our energy has been waning. It's like we're going flat. We thought that by introducing a new element into the mix, a purely human element, we'd sort of start—"
"Effervescing,” Win offered with another of those teasing half smiles. The subtle arch of his brows could make him look ingenuous or impish, depending on how his facial expression supported that arch.
"There's more to it than that,” Tole said. He seemed to have a low tolerance for levity. “An experienced Touch employs certain techniques to help individuals reconnect—"
"Oh, cut the shit, Tole,” Win interrupted, rolling his head on the back of the couch. “You know damned well we have no use for that inner makeover or spiritual connection crap. We are what we are. That's never going to change.” He cast Pablo an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I'm not trying to demean your practices. I'm sure they're effective for most people. But we're not most people. We need two specific things—to ramp up our fusion energy and find someone who can be our contact with the Overcity. All those Touch ‘techniques’ would be a waste of time.” Irresistibly, he smiled. “No offense intended."
"None taken.” Pablo felt encouraged by this turn. For whatever reason, Tole might not want to consider him, but the other two men seemed willing to give him a chance.
One point did need clarifying, though, so Pablo raised it. He addressed no one in particular. “When you said you can go either way—"
"Win said that,” Tole broke in. He obviously resented the fact his plan had been ridiculed. “He wasn't speaking for all of us."
Win rolled up his eyes. “The fuck I wasn't, Tole.” His gaze returned to Pablo. “I meant the Touch's gender isn't particularly important."
The point still hadn't been clarified. “So, even when it comes to the sexual aspect of the job..."
"We're flexible,” Zee said, sparing Pablo further embarrassment.
Shrewdly, Win continued to watch Pablo.
He knew. Win knew which way Pablo preferred to go.
"How nice of you both to have consulted me about that,” Tole said.
"Hey, come on.” Facing him, Win scowled. Or nearly. The expression didn't quite fit his features. “You can't tell me you don't find this man physically appealing."
Face set, Tole seemed to have no intention of telling anyone anything. He twirled his thumbs and stared at his interlinked hands.
Pablo tried not to be too encouraged, not to mention titillated, by Win's support. He could still ultimately be rejected, especially given his lack of credentials. “I'm curious about why you need a liaison,” he said. “You're all handsome, articulate men."
"I'm too freakish by OC standards to function effectively up there,” Tole said without looking up.
"Don't forget gruff, imperious, and intimidating,” Win added with a smirk.
Tole ignored him. “Zee is too naive and trusting. Win is too beautiful."
The mere mention of it gave Pablo an electric thrill. He tried to keep his eyes from sliding in Win's direction. “But wouldn't that work to his advantage?” Yeah, refer to him in the third person; that's sure to score points. He didn't have a chance to correct his faux pas.
"No,” Tole said, allowing no room for refutation. “It's advantageous to be attractive. It's dangerous to be breathtaking.” He flipped a hand toward Win. “Ask him."
There was no avoiding it now. Pablo looked at the subject of their discussion. “How is it dangerous?"
"I get hit on a lot,” Win said. It was an offhanded statement, devoid of vanity. “Even down here. And most creatures, human or not, don't take to rejection real well. It can make them, you know, cranky."
Zee grinned. Even Tole snickered. It was a startling sound, coming from him. The man didn't seem capable of amusement.
"He almost got himself killed,” Tole said, “by spurning a shifter's advances."
Eyes widening, Pablo looked at Win. “Damn. That is scary. What kind of shifter?"
"Female. Cheetah. She was pretty hot, but I'm not into shifters."
Zee tittered. “Tell him why. Never mind, I'll tell him why.” He leaned toward Pablo as if he were imparting a confidence. “Those critters go into heat, you better be wearing a full suit of armor. And make sure it's double plated at the crotch."
Chuckling quietly, Win dropped his face to his hand and rubbed his eyes. “We digress.” He lifted his head, and his gaze went straight to Pablo. “The bottom line is, we all prefer to keep a low profile. So it would help tremendously if we had a messenger-slash-intermediary who's comfortable in both cities and has a pleasing appearance and businesslike manner. Intelligence is important, too. And a knack for diplomatic wrangling."
"I understand,” Pablo said.
Win took a moment to study him. “Think you have those qualities?"
Pablo's heart pattered in his throat. “Yes, I do. I've dealt with all kinds of people. I've had to keep my cool in some trying situations. And I know how to be discreet.” A current sizzled between him and this magnetic man. He knew he wasn't mistaken.
"He does have coloring that's different from the rest of us,” Zee pointed out. “Pitch black hair, light brown skin, dark green eyes. That would be a new element, too."
"Qualifications are more my concern,” Tole said. He gave Pablo a prolonged, taunting look. “Pardon me for questioning yours, but I'd like to see a résumé. Professional Touches don't normally go about wearing bloodstained shirts."

Chapter Four 
That got everybody's attention. Pablo felt his face flush. Why the hell did he wear a pale yellow jersey today? He should've known hauling that pack around would chafe the cuts he'd sustained via Pie Man's flail.
He decided to brazen this out rather than be cowed by Tole. He was damned sick and tired of being cowed. And what did he have to lose?
"I don't have a résumé,” he said. “My shirt looks the way it does because a client got carried away. A Vip, actually. I guess he liked me as much as that shifter liked Win. In my case, though, I took some hits because I accepted him, not because I rejected him."
Tole nodded. “I figured as much. I think I've seen you on some corner with your coworkers."
The other two men looked utterly baffled.
"So you think that makes you qualified to act as a Touch?” Tole asked. “Sadistic bigwigs get their jollies by waling on your firm, young body?"
Pablo mustered his confidence along with his defiance. “In a roundabout way, yes, it does qualify me."
Frowning, Win raised his arm, which had been draped on the back of the couch. “Would one of you care to explain what the hell you're talking about?"
"This man isn't a trained Touch, he's a common whore.” Tole got up from the couch, walked over to yet another mounded table, and turned on a large lamp with a stained glass shade. Pablo could've sworn he glimpsed movement on the parti-colored pieces of glass, but he was too preoccupied at the moment to focus on them.
Zee looked stupefied. He gaped at Pablo. “You're a giver?"
"I was a giver. Damned if I'm going back to it. The same asshole who did this"—he plucked his shirt away from his body—"wants me assigned to him."
Win's look softened. “Would you mind showing us what he did to you?"
Pablo stood and yanked the jersey over his head. He turned to display his back, then turned forward once more. His chest had taken the worst of the whipping, although the tips of some tails had flown across his shoulders and struck his back.
"Jesus,” Zee whispered.
Win's arresting gaze moved over Pablo's torso. “Are you good at what you do?"
"I've never had any complaints. In fact, that overly enthusiastic client I had last night slipped me a gullion to thank me for the pleasure of my company."
Zee uttered, “Wow."
Pablo was still focused on Win. The man's eyes seemed to draw him in. For the first time in months, Pablo's cock stirred without any physical coaxing. “Have you ever seen an indigo bunting?"
Win's inviting mouth moved a few millimeters toward a smile. “The bird? Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?"
"I noticed that...” Pablo lowered his eyes. What was he thinking? “Never mind,” he said, and slipped his shirt back on. “Anyway, I'd be much more of an asset to your group than some classroom-educated Touch."
Tole, still standing, eyed him with lingering distrust. But the assertion clearly intrigued him. “Care to explain?"
"I've spent a lot of time in intimate situations with Pros and Vips. I've spent a lot of time, period, with common folk. Needless to say."
"And?” Tole prompted.
"Isn't it obvious? A person lets his guard down when he's seeking or having sex. It's not often we're afforded a glimpse beneath people's shells—you know, the facades they present to the world. But I've had plenty of glimpses. In fact, I've often gotten a pretty good eyeful. All the schooling in the world can't give you that kind of insight into human nature."
Win had been watching Pablo since the big revelation. His eyes, slightly narrowed, seemed to be honing his perception. Pablo tingled beneath his scrutiny. It was as if Win were delving into him, layer by layer, the way one might carefully peel an onion.
"How long have you been a giver?” Tole asked.
"Six, seven years."
"And how many Pros and Vips have you spent time with?"
"A lot,” Pablo said. “They make up the majority of my business."
"And now a Vip wants you transferred to Assigned Service,” Win said, as if he were weighing that fact.
"Yes. That's what pushed me into coming here. I need another job ASAP. Because as long as I'm an employee of the Givers Agency, I'm at that Vip's mercy. And the man makes me sick."
Win angrily slapped the couch arm, startling Pablo. “That's an untenable situation,” he said to his comrades. “It has to change. I had no idea those egotistical bastards running the OC were putting such a stranglehold on people."
Tole, his knuckles resting on the table, leaned forward and seemed to study the lamp. Maybe he was considering the pros and cons of hiring someone he didn't particularly want to hire. Maybe he was thinking about something else entirely. It was hard to tell.
"Vips have too damned much autonomy,” Tole said. “Nobody keeps them in check. People being what they are, you give them power and they'll likely abuse it.” With a forefinger, he lightly touched one of the glass pieces of the lampshade. Then he smiled. After staring at the shade a few moments longer, he swiveled his head to face Pablo. “What else do you have going for you?"
"I know my way around the human body.” Pablo was determined to make his case. “I've been with women and I've been with men."
"Do you have a preference?” Win asked, his voice going quiet and smooth, his gaze changing in the opposite way.
The current between them resurfaced, shivering and snapping. “I believe you already know the answer to that."
Win's eyes glimmered. “And do you still enjoy sex, in spite of the job you've had?"
"I think I do.” When Pablo realized what he'd said, he grimaced and added. “Jesus, that was a lame answer, wasn't it?"
"No, not at all."
"What I meant was—"
"You need to rediscover it,” Win suggested. “With someone of your choosing. Then you'd enjoy it again."
Pablo could barely breathe. An unsettling tension curled ever more tightly in his lower abdomen. Just looking at Win made his nuts hurt.
"Yes,” he said. “I'd enjoy it a great deal."
The inscrutable Tole continued to pay keen attention to their conversation. Zee did, too, but he seemed considerably more accepting.
"I assume you're quite familiar with the Overcity,” Win said.
Pablo nodded. “I've spent a lot of time on the streets."
"Are you comfortable in the Undercity?"
"Comfortable enough.” Pablo couldn't suppress a smile. “Of course, I haven't run into any horny shifters."
Win smiled back. “Don't worry about it. That was a rare occurrence."
"I'm not too familiar with the UC, though. I've only been down here twice before now."
"Don't worry about that either,” Win said. “You'd get a tour."
The longer Pablo was there, the more hope took hold of him. It was a sweetly persuasive but alien feeling. Maybe there was more to life than drudgery and dead sleep.
He realized how much the men's acceptance meant to him. He particularly wanted to know Win better. The other two fascinated him, as well, but not in the same way. In fact, their whole lifestyle fascinated him.
"What do you like to do?” Zee asked. “Just for fun. Just to relax."
Tole rolled his eyes and shook his head, probably because he found the question irrelevant, but Win seemed interested in all of Pablo's answers.
"Simple things, like hanging out in the greenspaces on nice days, watching people."
"And watching birds?” Win asked with a hint of a smile.
"Yes. And playing with people's dogs, listening to music, reading, writing a little."
"Writing what?” Win asked. His fine, dark eyebrows had drawn together.
Pablo felt himself blush. The question made him self-conscious. “Poetry. Random thoughts. It's kind of a release for me, I guess."
"Do you go to bars, clubs?"
"Only occasionally, maybe to meet up with friends and have a drink or two. But I hate the crowds and the noise. I never stay long. Besides, since I work the evening shift..."
Win nodded in understanding.
Tole glided back to the couch and eased into its available corner.
Silence engulfed the room. Pablo, still sitting at the table across from Zee, looked down at his tightly interlinked fingers. He had no idea what he'd do if the Coven of Three didn't want him. Pie Man had certainly put in his request by now, and that meant Pablo couldn't quit the Givers Agency even if he kicked up a fuss. Only if he had other employment secured could he get off that foul hook. That's how it was for Coms.
Maybe he'd just head for the Interzone. He'd heard it was possible to disappear there. The Regenerie metroplex was ringed by its own farms and greenhouses, waste dumps, and treatment plants and factories—what was called the Production Area. Beyond that lay dense woods, open fields, and occasional small settlements. Humans and Otherbeings who dwelled in the Interzone were completely free creatures who could live however they chose. They just had to live without metroplex amenities. Pablo figured if he found the Interzone lifestyle too primitive, he could always travel to the next metroplex and petition for residency.
It wasn't that Pablo disliked living in Regenerie. All in all, it was a decent place to be—a hospitable, orderly, almost crime-free city that had achieved zero population growth and offered all its residents a solid education, continuous employment, and complete health care as well as elder care. But being indentured to a repugnant “Master” would definitely take the bloom off the Regenerie rose.
"Shall we move on to the next step?” Zee asked. “I think we should."
Pablo looked up. He didn't know what Zee meant.
"I think so too,” Win said. “Definitely."
All eyes turned to Tole. He merely shrugged—still resistant, but at least willing.
"We need to do a little interpersonal-chemistry test,” Zee explained to Pablo.
"All right,” Pablo said, although he had no idea what the man meant.
"I hope you don't mind, but there has to be physical contact involved,” Zee went on. “You touch us or we touch you or both. Nothing heavy, though. We just need to determine how much spark can be generated."
He rose from the table and went to the center of the room. Tole and Win got up from the couch and did the same. The men stood in a loose circle.
"Come, join us,” Zee said to Pablo. “Stand in the middle."
Pablo was nervous. He wasn't used to the feeling. Touching was part and parcel of his job, after all, and he'd always been confident of his ability to please. Now, though, he wasn't sure what was expected of him.
He joined the Coven of Three, positioning himself in the center of the small group.
"I assume we'll do this by age?” Zee said to the others. He untied the sash on his bathrobe, letting the garment hang open.
Pablo's breathing became shallow. The combined force of the trio's masculinity made him light-headed. Trying to control himself, so he wouldn't seem like some bumbling, hormone-driven teenager, he emptied his mind and waited for their cues.
Tole was apparently the oldest in the group, for he said to Pablo, “Please loosen your pants. You can leave them on, but undo all the closures.” His voice sounded rougher, the words more slurred.
The sound fueled Pablo's excitement. He undid the button and lowered the zipper of his jeans, aware of the pressure of his thickening cock. Tole's steaming gaze slid below his waist. Lifting one hand, he carefully slid it beneath the waistband and squeezed one of Pablo's ass cheeks.
His fingers were long and cool. Very subtly, he urged Pablo's hips closer to his. Head lowering, he let his nose graze Pablo's neck as his exploring hand moved over Pablo's butt. His respiration was more like sniffing, rapid and abrupt, as if he were sampling Pablo's essence. His hand continued its fondling sweep.
"I confess, I would love to fuck you,” he breathed against Pablo's throat.
Pablo felt the briefest push of Tole's cock against his own. Then Tole withdrew. Pablo didn't know what to make of this man's abrupt shift from surly to seductive, didn't even know what to make of his own wary, mixed reaction. It was hard not to be affected by so bold an advance—hell, Pablo had always been drawn to sexy men—but Tole's attitudes made him withhold any obvious response.
Zee parted his robe and let it fall to his waist. He held it there, revealing the impressive contours of his upper body. Impulsively, Pablo began caressing the man's smooth, mounded chest. He began a slow massage, his fingers digging into the pronounced muscles, his thumbs skating around and pushing against the beaded nipples. Zee's eyelids closed on a ragged exhalation. Dipping down, Pablo slowly drew each nipple between his lips and flicked it with the tip of his tongue. His mouth returned to each and gave it a firm suck.
Zee groaned. He took a step back and closed his robe.
Weakened by mounting desire, Pablo made an unsteady turn to face Win. The man's eyes immobilized him. He waited to see what Win would do, what move he would make to indicate what he wanted. But Win did nothing and said not a word.
Pablo cupped the side of his somber face and let the ends of his fingers disappear into Win's hair. Fucking beautiful, he thought, so awed by that beauty he didn't know how to approach it. There was nothing like this in his world—not in human form, anyway—so he balked. He knew with certainty what he'd like to do. He knew, but he felt too daunted to take the initiative.
Then Win whispered, “Do whatever you want."
The space between them disappeared. The balmy press of Win's lips felt like grace materialized. There was no wildness in the kiss, no lustful desperation. Melding, their mouths flexed tenderly; their tongues touched. Humid breath, another kind of caress, rebounded from Pablo's skin. His whole being shrank to the kiss, to its obliterating soft passion.
Their mouths parted briefly, only to glide and press elsewhere—on flushed cheeks and closed eyelids, damp sideburns and pulsing throats. Then their lips came together again, pressing more insistently, and their tongues thrust into each other's mouth.
Pablo wanted it never to end. Even the aggressive swelling of his cock wasn't more thrilling than the delicate pulsing of capillaries whenever Win's lips met his. To kiss simply for the sake of communion—he'd never known anything like it.
"I don't think I can walk away from this,” he murmured against Win's face.
Win kissed his neck. “You won't have to. I won't let you."

Chapter Five 
"Hi. We have our Touch, so take down the ad. I'll send you the information from his ID and employment cards ... Yes, his. A man. Just make sure his current position is terminated immediately. Any outstanding assignments or obligations are null and void. And I mean any. Hold on.” Win curled a hand around the phone. “Pablo, you will be staying here, won't you?"
"If it's convenient."
"I'm sure he thinks it's quite convenient,” Tole said when he saw the grin on Win's face. The tall man seemed to be softening, but there remained a sliver of truculence in his attitude.
"Okay, go ahead and change his address,” Win said into his cell. He listened for a moment. “Yes, please, take care of that too."
Immediately following his phone conversation, Win playfully skimmed a hand over Pablo's close-cropped hair. “It's official. You're no longer a whore."
"Correction,” Tole said, again strolling over to the table lamp. “Now he's our whore.” He glanced up at the other three men. “Just kidding, more or less."
Win took Pablo's ID and employment cards, stuck them into the coven's trans machine, and sent the information on its way—presumably, to the Overcity Central Employment Office. All legitimate employers and employees were registered there.
Pablo couldn't remember the last time he'd been so purely happy. After six years of catering to the often bizarre needs of others, six years of swallowing his pride and his preferences and allowing humiliation to become an integral part of his daily life, he finally had something to look forward to. He hoped this job challenged him. He was determined to do it justice and validate the faith these men had placed in him.
The four of them had just finished eating a hearty breakfast Pablo had helped make. He didn't often get to cook but he enjoyed it, thanks to his mother. Every time he prepared a meal, he felt like he was honoring her memory.
Sunlamps set behind false windows cast a remarkably natural-looking light throughout the residence. Still, Pablo's new employers had assured him that he could visit the Overcity almost any time he chose. He wouldn't be deprived of real sky or fresh air.
After breakfast, Win went to shower. Pablo watched him walk through the living room and disappear down a hallway into another part of the house. He wondered if the men had a water or water-free shower. The thought of seeing and feeling Win's wet body sent another twist of excitement through his belly.
Tole cleared the dining table. Apparently out of respect for its purpose, the men kept it free of junk.
"Would you both excuse me for a moment?” Pablo said to Tole and Zee. “I need to contact a friend of mine in the Overcity and let her know what's happened to me. If I don't, she'll worry."
"A friend?” Tole asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Yes, just a friend. But a good one.” Pablo walked to the front door. “I'll be just outside."
He stepped onto the street. The level of underground light mimicked the degree of cloud cover in the world above, so it must be overcast today. At least the temperature, Pablo thought gratefully, wasn't replicated. Pulling his cell out of his jeans pocket, he hit the button for Lily's number as he paced slowly in front of the coven's house.
"Hi, it's me,” Pablo said when she answered. Further identification wasn't necessary.
"Calling to ask me on a date?"
He could see the taunting little smile on her face. “I won't be going on any dates for a while. I got the job in the Undercity. That's where I am now."
"You got it?” Lily's voice ascended by an octave, reaching for a squeal of excitement. “Wow! Congratulations! What are you going to be doing, exactly?"
"Living down here for starters. So you probably won't be seeing me around—not for a little while, anyway. I can't say much more than that right now. I don't really know much more than that."
"Oh, baby, I'm gonna miss you!"
"I'll be in touch, Lil. And we can still get together. I just have to get oriented."
Lily responded with a faint, petulant groan. “So, what's your impression of the Alters? Think you'll like working for them?"
It was impossible to give the question a concise answer. “What I think, sweetie, is that this job is going to change my life forever."
Pablo quickly wound up the conversation. He didn't want to seem rude by ignoring his new employers too long. Lily had to get to work, anyway.
When he walked back into the house, Zee was at the table on which the mysterious lamp stood. He immediately turned around and smiled. “I imagine your friends in the Overcity are going to miss having you around.” He approached Pablo. “Don't worry, though. You'll have plenty of opportunity to see them. It isn't like we're going to keep you on a leash."
"That's good to hear,” Pablo said on a tight laugh. “I've been on enough leashes, literally and figuratively."
"Want to see your private quarters?” Zee laid a hand on Pablo's shoulder.
Pablo felt another spring of gratitude. The fraternal gesture further boosted his confidence and cautious optimism.
He liked Zee. That mild voice, he'd come to realize, reflected a kind and charitable spirit. Dressed now, Zee could have passed for a handsome young entrepreneur.
"You'll be staying behind our workroom,” he explained, “in the building next door. It's pretty nice back there, actually. A suite with private bath. We've been using it for guests, but they can always be put up elsewhere."
"Sounds great,” Pablo said. The coven had arranged to have his belongings moved here and the lease on his studio apartment terminated. “Right now, though, I'm really curious about that lamp."
Zee followed the line of Pablo's gaze. “Oh, you mean the ‘Prick Watch’ lamp? That's what Tole calls it. He loves that thing. Here, I'll show you how it works."
Tole ambled out of the kitchen as Zee led Pablo farther into the living room. “You do need to become familiar with all our methods and materials,” Zee said over his shoulder, then added with a cryptic smile, “among other things."
The lamp was still on. When Pablo got close enough to give it a good look, he gasped. Each piece of glass bore a tiny, moving scene, like a miniature TV screen. Mouth agape, he turned to the other two men.
"Those things are all going on right now, above us,” Zee said. “The lamps are one way we can keep track of creatures in need. We have a couple more.” His expression sobered. “I'm really sorry, Pablo, that we didn't see your client hurting you last night, but we were all doing something else at the time. I'm afraid we're not omniscient."
Pablo laid a reassuring hand on Zee's back. “Nobody is. Magic lamps or no magic lamps, don't even think of blaming yourselves."
Zee wrapped a strong arm around his waist and gave him a quick hug. “Anyway,” he said, “this particular lamp is Tole's baby. He has it tuned primarily to animals. He takes real delight in throwing abusers into a world of hurt. Thank God there aren't many violent people left in Regenerie."
That was true. Sociopaths and psychopaths—the exceptionally cruel or irredeemably perverted offenders—were isolated in submarine penal colonies, where they were allowed either to kill each other or learn to live like civilized creatures. The choice was theirs. The colonies had no guards, no rules. They proved an effective deterrent to heinous crime. Minor lawbreakers and even felons who could be rehabbed were monitored but not warehoused. They paid their debt to society in sensibly productive ways.
"Tole!” Zee called out. He pointed at one of the lamp's glowing shards as Tole strode toward the table.
Pablo peered over Zee's shoulder. There, an adolescent boy aimed a slingshot at a mourning dove that was pecking at seed beneath a bird feeder. Pablo wanted to slap the kid. But Tole had something better in mind. Scowling, he touched the piece of glass. The boy instantly flung aside his weapon as if it had stung or burned him. His mouth stretched wide in a howl of pain. The bird, unharmed, flew away.
"Good job,” Pablo said in amazement.
Tole sneered. “Little punk. He wasn't doing that because his family needs food."
"You should see what Tole does to adults,” Zee said. “Guy once grabbed a cat by the neck and was about to throw it into a bonfire. Tole broke all his fingers."
"Grisly but effective.” Tole continued to scan the panes.
"Not as grisly,” Zee said, “as the time Win nearly ripped the arm off that man who was beating a woman. Talk about effective. Or better yet, the would-be rapist whose dick—"
"Uh, I get the picture,” Pablo said. “So all you have to do is touch the scene?"
"While imagining a form of prevention,” Tole said. “We all use different ones."
"Sometimes I just freeze people's bodies for a few minutes,” Zee said. “If they keep acting up after that, I paralyze them longer until they get the message."
Tole glanced up with a scampish look. “What I do depends on how badly people are behaving and how much it pisses me off. Win's the same, but he doesn't get genuinely incensed too often."
"Will I be able to do this?” Pablo asked.
"No. Sorry.” Satisfied that no other malfeasance was taking place in the OC, Tole looked up from the living lampshade. “You might be one of us now, but you're not like us."
A phone trilled. Tole grabbed it off the table just as Win, fresh from his cleansing, ambled back into the living room. Oh yes, the coven had a water shower. Pablo couldn't keep his eyes off Win. Moisture glistened in his softly curling hair. His face, rouged from the water's heat, glowed like fine porcelain. Faded jeans hugged his narrow hips and lean legs. A simple, navy blue tee painted his torso. The lines of his arms, fluid with the movement of long, hard muscles, were pure artistry.
Desire flared. Pablo wanted to hold that man. Tightly. He wanted to kiss Win with all the abandon he'd earlier withheld and grind his hips against Win's crotch. He wanted to fall to the floor with him and keep kissing him and fondle his chest and pull that luscious cock into his eager mouth. He just knew Win's cock was every bit as gorgeous as the rest of him. A faint, delicious scent of soap drifted past Pablo's face, further enticing him.
He sat on the couch, afraid his growing erection might be visible. Shit, he had to get a grip. If he could just get his rocks off, get all this unspent lust out of his system...
Win only made matters worse by dropping onto the couch next to him. He rested a hand on Pablo's thigh. “Did you get an introduction to the Prick Watch lamp?"
"Sure did. I'm really impressed."
"Well, don't expend your cache of wonder just yet. There's a whole lot more we need to show you."
Breathing out a whew, Pablo shook his head. Damn, this could be one wild ride. The thought of it exhausted him even further. He rubbed his face, noticing his eyes were sandy from lack of sleep.
Win peered at him. “I imagine you're starting to feel a little overwhelmed."
"Yeah, you could say that. Guess I'm kind of wrung out, too."
"Why don't you go lie down for a while in your new digs? I know it's been a taxing day for you."
"I just might do that."
Win twisted around to look over the back of the couch. Tole, who'd wandered toward the kitchen, was still on the phone. His conversation wasn't clearly audible. Win turned to Pablo again. “You know, I can't wait until—"
"Calvin Carlyle's wife has disappeared,” Tole announced, striding back to the living room. He tossed the phone back on the lamp table.
"Meaning what, exactly?” Win asked.
"Meaning she allegedly went to a Pet Sanctuary fundraiser yesterday and never came home. Carlyle claims a sub dweller is responsible. Says she caught this creature's attention a few weeks ago, when she accompanied her husband on a tour of the landfill-gas energy plant."
"The one beyond the Animen spur?” Zee asked. He'd been puttering with some things on the fireplace mantel. They looked to be antique gyroscopes and old timepieces.
"I assume so, yeah—the methane facility. Carlyle swears his wife has been stalked since then by a dark sidhe, ‘an opal-colored man of the wind.’ According to him, this Unseelie male followed them home. He's been appearing outside their balcony doors and leering at her."
Win burst into laughter. The other two men smiled.
Pablo looked from one to the other. “What's so funny about someone's disappearance?"
"The disappearance isn't funny at all,” Win said, “but the story is ludicrous. There's never been a member of the Seelie or Unseelie Court in the Undercity. Or anywhere near Regenerie, for that matter. One sure wouldn't be hanging around a garbage dump."
"May I ask why they avoid the metroplex?” Pablo couldn't quash his curiosity. He knew very little about faeries.
"The fae like to stay close to nature. Unspoiled nature.” Win dropped his head back. “Fuck."
"We'll likely have to get involved in this,” Tole said. “I've never met Carlyle. Have either of you?"
Win and Zee answered in the negative. “I just know he's a member of all kinds of energy committees,” Zee said, “and oversees the wind farm on the lakeshore. I think that new geothermal tap is his brainchild, too."
"He's also chairman of the Interfaith Council,” Win added.
"Well, Reynolds has met Mr. Carlyle.” Tole sat down in one of those enveloping, overstuffed chairs. “Says he's very intelligent, very genteel. Kind of private-school aristocratic."
"A bluenose,” Win said. “Yeah, a lot of our civic leaders fit that description.” He addressed Pablo. “Reynolds is our primary contact in the Overcity. The man's invaluable."
Trying to absorb this sudden bombardment of information, Pablo nodded. His questions could wait.
"Have OC authorities made any progress?” Zee asked Tole.
"No. That's why Reynolds called. Before investigators and curiosity seekers start swarming the UC, he thought we might want to see what we could do to help. This dam could burst at any time. It seems Carlyle is mighty antsy to put the word out and get his sidhe hunt under way."
Win groaned and rolled his head.
"Wouldn't the psychics at Vizo be the ones to contact?” Pablo asked, glancing from him to Tole.
There was an abrupt pause in the conversation. Then Win said, “We have different kinds of tools and methods at our disposal. Normally, yeah, a team of psys would be consulted. But given Carlyle's position..."
He didn't have to finish his explanation for Pablo to understand. The man in question was obviously a Vip. Any crime involving a Vip could turn sensationalistic very quickly and upset the whole city's equilibrium. Magicians could do things the psys couldn't.
"This is just weird all around,” Zee said with a frown.
"Sure is.” Chuckling, Win wagged his head in disbelief. “Did Reynolds really say ‘an opal-colored man of the wind'?"
"He was quoting Mr. Carlyle."
More bemused laughter came from Win. “Guy must read a lot."
"Maybe the woman was kidnapped,” Pablo offered. “Maybe she's being held for ransom, but the kidnappers just haven't contacted the Vip yet."
Tole glanced at Pablo. “You must read a lot too."
"It's the fact he immediately blamed a sub dweller that makes us suspicious,” Win explained. “Especially a kind of creature that's never been near the Undercity. The sidhe dwell in Interzone areas."
"There's another possibility,” Pablo said. “Maybe you just haven't been aware of a sidhe presence in the UC."
"Oh, we'd be aware of it,” Zee said.
Win slapped Pablo's leg. “You'll understand in time. Now, why don't you go get some rest?"
* * * *
The shortest route to Pablo's rooms was through a door built into one of the kitchen's walls near the rear of the Alterationists’ house. It only took several steps to get from there to the neighboring building. The guest suite, now the Touch's residence, had its own entrance.
"The way we have it set up,” Win said, leading Pablo inside, “you can come and go without having to walk through our work space, which takes up the front of the building."
"I assume the coven doesn't want to be interrupted when it's working."
"Not if we can help it.” Win activated a control just inside the door. LED sunlight bloomed behind the curtained windows.
More spacious than Pablo would have imagined, his new quarters contained a sitting room with small kitchenette and a separate bedroom with full bath. Unlike the main residence, no attempt had been made here at interior decoration. It was stylish and comfortable, yes, but in the way an upscale hotel room might be—neutral tones, clean-lined furniture. Made sense, Pablo thought. When a living space had to accommodate a variety of people, it couldn't have a personal stamp.
There was, however, a mobile similar to the ones in the other building. Made from bits and bobs, it had dangling metal cutouts, colorful beads and stones, indecipherable symbols wrought from various metals, and even natural detritus like acorns and bark. Often, one kind of material adorned another. Pablo regarded the decoration as he dropped his pack on a settee.
"Do you like the mobiles?” Win asked.
"Yes, very much. Where did you get them?"
Win raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I made them."
Sensual, smart, and artistic. Pablo was ever more impressed by Win. “Do they have a purpose, or are they just for decoration?"
"Some are designed for protection, some to generate inspiration. They're similar to amulets and talismans, only different.” Win stood beside Pablo for a moment before dropping onto the settee. “They're also my creative outlet, I guess."
"Like poetry is for me."
Again, Win's gaze dived into him. “Do you have any of your writing with you?"
Pablo wasn't comfortable answering the question, but he didn't want to lie. “Yeah. In there.” He motioned toward his backpack.
"May I see it?"
The request wasn't pushy. Pablo suspected if he demurred, Win would drop the subject. But maybe these men, and this man in particular, should be allowed a glimpse into his psyche. It might aid their mutual understanding.
"All right.” Pablo sat beside Win and dug the notebook out of his pack. “Remember, it's just scribbling. Writing is a pastime for me, not a profession."
"Don't worry,” Win said. “I'm no literary critic.” His smile underscored the reassurance.
Pablo handed him the notebook. Win didn't nosily page through it. He simply opened it and began to read. When Pablo saw the poem, he averted his eyes. Other people reading the awkward expression of his thoughts and feelings always made him acutely self-conscious. His pulse picked up speed, sending a flush through his body.
* * * *
After Saturday Night
My head
is encased in ice.
My mind
like large feet
Bound too tightly
strains, picks
its way
Across the
asphalt, cold
cold with night.
Thoughts itch;
I cannot sweat
them out.
A slow car—
the linen
stiffens.
Doorway.
Corner.
Marquee.
Small frozen
feet kick
fitfully.
Please,
Drop me
in a glass
of scotch.
Please,
Find a
bedpost to
unwind me.
* * * *
Win drew a breath. It wasn't a sound of awe or astonishment—Pablo knew full well he possessed no exceptional talent—but Win's inhalation seemed a little too ragged to be normal.
Pablo hesitated before he looked up. Win's mouth was compressed; his eyes, shut. A thin line of moisture silvered the seam of his lashes.
"We've been failing people,” he whispered.
Win's distress confounded Pablo. He didn't know how to counter it. “Don't say that. Your group isn't responsible."
Closing the notebook, Win quickly regained his composure. “That Vip you were with last night, did he tell you his name?"
"No. I have no idea who he is."
"But he did have to use his card to register the transaction."
"Yes, of course."
With two fingers, Win wiped away the wetness that lingered on his eyelashes. “Shit, that's really no help either. A lot of those people have cards attached to blind accounts. And a lot of them use time-share spaces or just ‘borrow’ residences for their little trysts."
Pablo wasn't familiar with such things. He was too far down on the social ladder. “It doesn't matter. That's all behind me now."
"Oh, it matters.” Win's voice had a flinty edge.
"Whether it does or not,” Pablo said, touched by his concern, “if Vips are so good at covering their tracks, only the Powers would be able to trace all their activities. It isn't your responsibility."
Win, who seemed too preoccupied to be listening, placed the notebook on Pablo's pack. “Would you mind removing your shirt again?"
Pablo hesitated. He had no idea what Win's motives could be. There was no sexual tension in the air, as there'd been before, and apparently no further need to test his capacity to spark excitement. But he complied.
Removing his shirt still caused Pablo discomfort. The nicks to his skin set up a sullen burn when fabric chafed them.
As soon as he bared his torso, Win's lower lids contracted in an empathetic flinch. He angled toward Pablo. “Don't misunderstand this. I'm not making any demands on you."
"You have a right to make demands on me,” Pablo said with a smile, trying to be lighthearted. “You're paying the bills."
"Don't say that. Don't even think that way.” Win leaned forward. He pressed a light kiss to one of the abrasions on Pablo's chest. And then to another, and another.
Eyelids fluttering, Pablo tentatively cupped the back of Win's head.
A spill of honeyed summer air washed over his skin. One by one, the welts and lacerations disappeared. Little by little, the small, fevered pockets of pain became indistinguishable from the normal warmth of his body.
"Turn around,” Win whispered.
The Alterationist dropped more tender kisses onto Pablo's upper back while he ran his hands down Pablo's shoulders and over his biceps. There were some collateral scrapes here, as well, and these also vanished beneath Win's touch.
Soon, each crimson mark was gone.
"How ... how did you do that?” Dazed, Pablo glanced over his shoulder. The feat alone was wondrous enough, but the residual feeling was better than the effect of Elysoria. A glow of well-being filled his body as well as his mind.
"I can't explain it now. But I do think you've already begun to spark us. Or at least me.” Win still hadn't moved. He hovered at Pablo's back like an unfulfilled promise.
"Whatever you did, I thank you for it.” Pablo reached for his shirt.
Win's hand closed around his wrist. Loosening, it slid up his arm. “You have beautiful skin.” His gentle breath caressed the slope of Pablo's neck. Both hands came forward and glided over Pablo's chest, hardening his nipples.
Pablo's breath broke into short chops. His desire resurfaced like a poorly extinguished fire. But he didn't know if he should succumb to it. He didn't yet know the rules governing his position within the group. Perhaps sexual interaction could only take place when they were all together.
Then Pablo both heard and felt Win sigh. He knew his conundrum had just been resolved.
"I should leave,” Win said, “and you should get some sleep.” He rose from the settee.
Pablo got up. They stood inches apart, facing one another. Lowering his eyes, Pablo let his gaze roam over Win's mouth. His body yearned for another of those incomparable, sensual kisses. His imagination, fueled by need, raced. It was maddening, thinking of those plush lips feathering over his rigid cock and then tightening around it.
"I'm sorry,” he forced out. “I don't ... I don't know how to act. I don't know what—"
"I don't either,” Win said with a wan smile. After lightly cupping Pablo's neck, he walked to the door and left.
Pablo's need for relief was unavoidable now. He'd gotten no sexual satisfaction yesterday, and he'd had an abundance of stimulation, both visual and tactile, today. So the first thing he did after Win's departure was walk to the bathroom and strip off his clothes. Standing in front of the mirror over the vanity, he studied his body. “Incredible,” he whispered, marveling again at the unmarred skin of his chest. Somehow, some way, Win had indeed managed to restore its tawny smoothness.
He began fondling his semi-erect cock, imagining Win watching him, being wildly aroused by him. A vivid recollection of their earlier kisses drizzled from his mind to his groin. He envisioned those cushiony lips parting, eagerly descending...
It didn't take long to find relief. But that relief came with little satisfaction.

Chapter Six 
Pablo awoke disoriented. It was a good half minute before he realized where he was and why. But for a single lamp casting subdued light from a small table, the room was steeped in darkness.
Muffled sounds drifted into the bedroom from beyond one of its walls. After getting his bearings, Pablo focused on the wall his suite shared with the coven's work space. Slipping out of the large bed, he padded across the room and listened.
The male voices he heard stood out against a backdrop of white noise—a low, whirring drone similar to the hum of a beehive.
"No, don't wake him. The man's exhausted. I think we're all stoked enough.” It was Win who'd spoken.
Tole responded. “You're the one who's stoked. Don't carry it too far, Win."
"I only did what needed to be done."
"It's all for the best,” Zee said.
The next string of utterances was too muted to hear clearly. The men must've been moving about the room. Pablo made out the phrase moral turpitude, which was stated with emphasis. By whom, though, he wasn't sure. He turned one ear to the wall. Somebody said something about the city's Vips. Then Win spoke again. “There can't be two sets of Powers, or the whole noble endeavor will go down the toilet."
"Human nature could send it down the toilet, anyway,” said Tole. “And there's only so much we can do about that."
Zee said something about cynicism and concluded with, “But it's true we can't alter human will. It's forbidden."
"Still,” Win said, “our focus and responsibility..."
Pablo lowered himself to the carpeted floor. Knees bent, he let the side of his body hug the wall as he flattened his ear to its surface.
Win continued to talk, although his voice kept fading out. Only disjointed words and phrases came through. Pablo heard “infrastructure” and “social structure,” “physical environment” and “human environment.” There was some banter about erosion of rights and freedoms. Then “power-tripping Vips” came up again.
Then Zee's voice came through the wall quite distinctly. He must've been standing near it. “Seems to me, the best way to counteract selfishness is with selflessness."
Tole responded, “I'd rather squash them all and have done with it."
"Pure genius, as usual,” Win said.
Somebody chuckled. It sounded like Zee. “Tole's mind-set aside, we need to exercise humility rather than force. So, gentlemen, let's put pride aside, admit we're feeling overwhelmed, and conjure up some wise counsel. We obviously need direction."
"And what about Carlyle's wife?” Tole asked.
The answer, which seemed to come from Win, was unintelligible.
The men fell silent. Gradually, the background hum increased in volume. It soon began to waver and then to break into distinct, harmonious threads. The air in Pablo's room felt heavier, more pressurized.
Warily, he eased away from the wall and got up. He wondered what was going on in the Alterationists’ work space, how exactly they engineered the magic they performed. Maybe, at this very moment, they were engaged in some “energizing” sex. They'd emphasized the importance of such activity. After all, that's why Pablo was there.
Slipping on his jeans and shoes, for he'd removed them before crawling into bed, he found his thoughts straying to Win. What was going on with him? Pablo knew he must live and work in concord with all three of these men. And that included being intimately involved with all three of them, at least on occasion. Already he felt guilty for favoring one over the others; the group obviously had to maintain a certain balance. So why was Win behaving so seductively?
As Pablo walked to the door, it occurred to him that he was being put to a test. This made more sense the more he thought about it. The group had taken a big risk in hiring him, a brash amateur. So maybe they felt a need to gauge his ethics and his capacity for professional behavior. And what better way than to set out the most enticing man as bait and see if their new Touch could withstand temptation? If he couldn't exercise restraint and evenhandedness within this small group, how could he be expected to do it with the Overcity's many residents?
Troubled by this possibility, Pablo slipped from his suite into the Alterationists’ house. He didn't think it was possible to resist Win—not if the man was persistent enough. Deprivation had put a sharp edge on Pablo's longing. Any sexual release he'd found through being a giver had been superficial and unsatisfying. He craved a deeper indulgence, one that was both exhilarating and profoundly fulfilling.
Pablo pulled a plate from the cupboard, some cold chicken and a pear from the refrigerator, and sat at the table to eat his modest meal. He'd been told he had free access to the kitchen, dining, and living areas, could eat what he wanted when he wanted, and use the group's entertainment center. But he couldn't go into their bedrooms or handle any magical paraphernalia, and he couldn't yet use their computers. The men were still undecided about which of their books and papers Pablo could peruse. So, for the moment, he stayed away from all their belongings.
Eager not to overstep his bounds in any way, he decided to remain seated at the dining table. The men wanted to discuss some things with him. If he went back to his quarters, he might be inviting another stressful visit from Win.
The front door creaked open, startling Pablo out of his thoughts. A flurry of voices drifted from the living room. The coven was back, and in the middle of a heated discussion.
"I still say you weren't completely in it,” said Tole. He sounded miffed. “And I have a pretty damned good idea why."
Pablo heard a shhh that might have come from Zee. And then, definitely in Zee's voice, “Well, there's our man!"
"Hope you don't mind that I grabbed something to eat.” Mustering a smile, Pablo lifted his empty plate and got up. After putting it in the dishwasher, he returned to the table.
"Of course not,” Zee said, smiling back.
The coven strolled into the house. Pablo's eyes moved to one man. He couldn't prevent it.
Pink swatches rode high on Win's high cheekbones. Except for those blots of color, he looked pale. In fact, his skin seemed smooth as marble. But Pablo knew from their moments of closeness that it was much, much warmer than stone. And he knew that mouth was the opposite of stone. Both titillated and unsettled by these observations, he forced his gaze away from the man who'd so captivated him.
Scowling, Tole snatched his cell phone off the lamp table and strode toward the rear hallway. His darkness was, as usual, offset by Zee's good-natured brightness. Win, eyes downturned, didn't seem to know where to put himself. He ambled over to a desk beside the fireplace, where a computer sat. Keying in something, he stared at the monitor. He touched portions of whatever had appeared on the screen, either enlarging those elements or following links.
Zee approached the dining table and sat in one of the chairs. “How was your nap?"
"I really crashed,” Pablo said, making a concentrated effort not to look in Win's direction. He heard intermittent clacking as Win's fingers plied the keyboard. “Guess I was pretty beat."
"It's understandable, considering what you've recently been through.” Zee turned in his chair and looked toward the living room. “You going to come over here?"
"Yeah. In a minute.” Win finished up what he was doing and moved away from the desk. Rather than joining them, he disappeared down the hallway. Pablo soon heard a muffled knock, then voices that sounded vexed.
"We need to start filling you in about your duties,” Zee said to Pablo.
"Good. I'm eager to learn.” Distracted, Pablo slid a glance toward the invisible hall. “Is something wrong between Tole and Win?"
"I think it's more between Tole and the world, but it will work itself out. It always does.” Pablo must have looked confused, because Zee added, “That's another one of those things you'll comprehend in time. We have a complex dynamic going on here. You have to experience it rather than just be told about it."
"I'm starting to think I've upset that dynamic,” Pablo said. Muffled voices still rolled down the hallway.
"Of course you have. That's why you're here. We needed to be jostled.” Zee, too, cast a curious but not particularly troubled glance across the living room. When he again looked at Pablo, it was with a comforting serenity. “Pardon the cliché, but everything happens for a reason. The going may be a bit bumpy while you become integrated into the group, but we'll find our groove again. It's just going to be a different one, that's all."
Win reappeared; seconds later, Tole followed. As they approached the dining table, the tall man grabbed Win's arm, forcing him to turn. Transfixed, Pablo stared at them. Tole's long fingers gripped Win's jaw. With restrained ferocity, his thumb moved back and forth over Win's slightly parted lips. He leaned forward and replaced his thumb with his mouth. The kiss looked bruising. Tole's breath sawed through the air as he ground his lips against Win's.
Pablo felt his face flame. Swallowing hard, he looked down.
"Self-control was never his strong suit,” Zee murmured.
This kiss must have finally ended, because Win spoke. “You really need to get over the impression that we're a pack and you're the alpha. Don't even think of trying to play that domineering shit again."
Pablo hazarded a glance at the two men. Tole's brassy gaze seemed to bore through Win, who didn't flinch from it. “It was only a lesson, lovely Aethiel.” Then those intimidating, eerily colored eyes turned to Pablo. “That's just one of the many things you need to get used to, Mr. Creed. And believe me, some of the others are far more intense than a kiss."
Pablo nodded. The muscles in his neck felt like wood. But Tole was right, of course. He may have had a rude way of proving his point, but prove it he did. No matter how much of a liking Pablo took to one man, he'd damned well better resign himself to sharing.
He vaguely wondered about that odd term Tole had used to address Win. Maybe they all had special names within the coven, as witches had.
"Thanks for the alert,” Pablo said. “I probably needed it."
Tole kept eyeing him. “If you mean that, there could be hope for you yet.” He detoured to the kitchen and grabbed something from the refrigerator.
Win sat at the dining table. “Overbearing bastard,” he mumbled. His delectable lips looked a bit swollen. And even more delectable.
"You know he can't help it,” Zee said. “It's in his nature."
"I'm really getting sick of that old refrain. We can all temper what we are."
"To a point. You can't help certain things, either.” Zee looked from Win to Pablo back to Win. He sighed. “Yes indeed, this is a big step for us."
Carrying a glass of what appeared to be nearly black beer, Tole joined them. “Let's get started,” he said, slapping his hands down on the table, “before I have to fuck somebody.” He looked at Pablo, grinned quite wickedly, and winked. “You do have a damned nice ass."
After a second's worth of shock, Pablo recovered. “So I've been told."
The other men grinned. The skirmish was over.
For the next few hours, the group got down to business. Pablo learned, in broad terms, what was expected of him. Occasionally, he would have to participate in rituals that required the sharp energy-spike provided by sexual arousal and climax. He would have to learn how to direct that energy toward specific goals. He would not become a full-fledged wonderworker, like the others. He would simply aid them.
The three men debated whether to use Pablo in their attempt to locate the still-missing Mamie Carlyle, but they decided against it. Some training was necessary before the new Touch could become a working part of the coven's magical machinery.
Pablo's Overcity responsibilities would be entirely different. Once Zee, whose taste was exemplary, helped Pablo acquire a new wardrobe, the Touch would work on becoming an envoy extraordinaire. The Coven of Three was often employed by government agencies and private businesses to acquire information or help effect desired changes. Pablo would meet with representatives of these agencies and businesses to make sure they and the coven remained on the same page. He would deliver progress reports, smooth ruffled feathers, and exercise persuasion “to keep any fuckers from going off half-cocked and overstepping their bounds,” as Tole so charitably put it.
Little by little, the men assured Pablo, he would come to learn how various Overcity groups operated and how to assess both personal and collective motives. He would also learn what made the Coven of Three tick, and how much its standards would either jibe or clash with those that existed above. He'd have to help figure out how to capitalize on similarities and overcome differences.
Although Pablo asked questions, he sat back, most of the time, and simply absorbed what was said. He also studied the men's demeanor and interaction. The Coven of Three was a mystifying group. Tightly knit as it seemed to be, it was also a study in stark contrasts. Tole had a decidedly jaundiced view of humanity. Zee's was just the opposite. Win's fell between the two extremes.
Pablo was also intrigued but befuddled by the moral and ethical undercurrents of the men's comments, and by their emphasis on doing what was best for Regenerie as a whole. Why, he wondered, should their concerns be so broad? Assuming their work earned them a living, morals and ethics and the common good had little to do with giving clients what they wanted. Pablo had never thought about the welfare of the metroplex while he fucked and sucked his clients; he only thought about getting paid.
When he posed these questions, the men were taken aback.
"I'm surprised you picked up on that,” Zee said.
"I'm not,” said Win. He wore a hint of a smile.
Tole poured more beer down his throat and smacked his lips. “Noticing the nature of our vision is one thing.” He set the glass down with a thump. “Grasping it is another.” He pushed back from the table. “Why don't we pick this up tomorrow? It'll be dark soon. I need to get some work done before my synapses start to fizzle out."
Win stretched an arm toward Pablo to get his attention. “Hey, now that you're revitalized, you want to take a ride around the Undercity? It isn't all that late."
There was no resisting the invitation, which floated to Pablo on a smile. “Yeah, okay.” He tried not to sound too enthusiastic. “Sure, let's go."

Chapter Seven 
"This is only your introductory tour,” Win said as they stood on Guardian's platform. “We won't get off at every stop. Someday soon, though..."
Although Win had paid their fares, he'd gotten them through the gate without using either his or Pablo's ID card. Magicians, Pablo figured, could do things like that.
They boarded one of the cars. Win said he'd keep other riders out of it, because nobody else needed to hear what he had to say. Again, Pablo supposed he'd achieve this privacy through magic, although inquiring about it would be pointless. He doubted he'd understand, even if Win didn't find the questions too intrusive. When the train stopped at Vizo Station, eight or ten Overcity residents got on, in addition to a couple of more eccentric-looking types who could have been Vizo dwellers.
"You already know about this place,” Win said, “so there isn't much I can tell you."
Pablo turned his attention away from the window. “What do you need to tell me? About the other stops, I mean."
The train again lurched forward. Win, who sat just ahead of Pablo, had draped an arm over the backrest and jacked his left leg onto the seat.
"Let's start with this. The Undercity isn't what people think it is."
Pablo lifted his eyebrows. He remained attentive, awaiting elaboration.
"The Undercity doesn't exist to keep Otherbeings from mixing with the OC population. It exists to keep the OC population away from Otherbeings. That's why we're so concerned about any attention surrounding Mamie Carlyle's disappearance."
"Isn't that the same reason stated in a different way?"
"Not really,” Win said. “Creatures aren't imprisoned here. They're simply offered a haven. They can come and go as they please, as long as they swear not to harm or interfere with other lives."
Now that part stunned Pablo. “You're saying the Undercity is a refugee camp for Otherbeings?"
"Something like that. Humans can be petty, vicious, irrationally fearful and judgmental creatures. They're capable of attacking anybody who's different from themselves. There've been waves of hate crimes in other metroplexes and even in some Interzone areas. Villius, believe it or not, actually has groups of ‘hunters’ whose only job is to seek out and destroy paranormals."
"That isn't right,” Pablo said. He hated hearing about senseless violence.
"It isn't right for all kinds of reasons,” Win said. “Do you realize that after the Darkening, many Otherbeings were responsible for the survival of countless species? That includes saving a lot of people. We owe them."
Pablo could only look at him in stunned silence. Of course he'd learned about the Great Event in school, but never about OB heroics. “Haven't the Powers considered an educational approach to the problem? Enlightening people?"
"They're apparently working on a program right now. But obviously, it will only go into effect in Regenerie. And it won't change the fact that Otherbeings prefer to be segregated. They don't trust humans much more than humans trust them."
"I'm sure some nonhumans can be aggressive, too,” Pablo said, thinking of that cheetah shifter.
"Damned right they can. My point is, any paranormal who feels threatened, by whatever or whomever, can stay here.” As if the word threatened were a cue, Win twisted around to look out the train window. “Shit, I knew something was making the back of my neck prickle."
His curiosity piqued, Pablo looked, too. But he saw nothing. The train had already flown past the spot. “What was it?"
"Irinia, that female shifter Zee told you about."
No wonder Win looked a little shaken. Pablo smiled. “There. The perfect example of Otherbeing aggression."
"You don't mind bypassing the spur to Animen, do you?” Win asked.
"Not if it'll keep you in one piece."
"Fuck. I thought she'd left the UC.” Win seemed to be thinking aloud. He soon turned his attention back to Pablo. “Shifters and weres move in and out of Animen. They don't like to be confined for too long. That's why their station is on a spur. They can blow out of Regenerie and head for the Interzone without having to go through the Overcity."
"What about the vamps at Sang?” Pablo asked.
"They seem to like it here. Sang Station has the largest population after Vizo and Guardian."
"I suppose living underground suits them."
"That's it exactly,” Win said.
The train stopped at the Animen spur. Pablo couldn't tell if anybody got on or off. As he understood it, shifters and weres only posed a threat to humans if they were strongly attracted to those humans or it was a certain time of the month. Still, he was glad Win had secured their car.
"We will get off at Raiser, though,” Win said. “It's the next stop."
The prospect gave Pablo a chill. He couldn't control the shiver that snaked through his body.
"You got the heebie-jeebies?” Win asked with a smirk.
"I'm really not looking forward to seeing zombies,” Pablo said. “I can handle most anything but that."
"Good. Judging by your reaction, the propaganda campaign has been a success.” Win reached out and touched Pablo's shoulder. “There are no zombies at Raiser Station, Pablo."
Relief was instant, but it came with confusion. “You mean at the current time?"
"I mean ever. That's just another ruse.” Win withdrew his hand.
Pablo could still feel its warm imprint. “What about necromancers?"
"Since necromancy is a form of divination, those people reside at Vizo. They consort with the dead, yes, but only outside the city limits, where there are still some old-fashioned graveyards and several crossroads."
"So Raiser Station is empty?"
"No,” Win said. “That would be a waste of valuable space."
When the train stopped there, a surprising number of people, and two elfin-looking creatures, got off and got on. Many of them waved to Win or called out his name in greeting. Raiser had a more spacious platform than the other stations. Pablo couldn't see beyond the gated wall that separated the platform from Raiser's entrance.
A large sign below the station name read RESTRICTED ACCESS. Attention, Overcity Residents: This area can only be entered with a URAC. A standard ID card will not admit you. Please reboard the train if you do not have the required card.
Puzzling over it, Pablo read the sign again and tried to figure out what the station's secret could be. He turned to Win, but someone else had already garnered his companion's attention.
A man who looked a little like Tole, except with flowing black hair instead of spiked blond hair, approached Win with long, loping strides. He was handsome in the same severely aristocratic way—narrow eyes, but the color of charcoal rather than amber, with brows like slash marks; strong, straight nose; broad mouth and symmetrical lips; assertive jaw.
"Win, what a nice surprise,” the man said in a velveteen voice. His dark gaze, underscored by an insinuating smile, moved over Win's face like the fingers of a lover. One hand rose to clasp Win's upper arm. “It's good to see you again."
Pablo got the distinct impression the men had been lovers. He tried not to let the assumption rattle him too much. He and Win were not a couple, after all, and they both had pasts.
"Hello, Ridley.” Win's look and tone were more neutral than the other man's. He nodded toward the shimmering Heal-aid that wound around the man's left wrist. “What happened?"
"I'm not entirely sure,” said Ridley. “But I'll wager one of those damned OB haters from Villius is responsible. Last night a woman approached me and tried to get my attention. But as soon as she grabbed my wrist"—the man extended his hand—"this happened. It's a rather bad burn. I took off immediately, of course."
"You were in Villius?” Win sounded both surprised and displeased.
"Near,” Ridley said. “In the northwest Interzone."
"Hunting?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it ‘hunting.’ You know I'm not a predator."
"Sorry,” said Win. “But why were you out there? You know we have donors right here in Regenerie."
"Too boring. And then all that mucking around to find some privacy. I like variety, and I don't like feeding in public. The possibility of finding new hosts and enjoying them in an out-of-the-way place excites me.” Ridley smiled again, but this smile had a slightly different cast. “That's just the way I am. Some creatures need a variety of lovers; I need a variety of donors."
"I'd say you need both.” Win's smirk was barely perceptible, but it was still there.
Ridley's unsettling gaze remained fixed on Win's face. Like Tole's, that gaze was piercing. “Actually, I wouldn't mind having a full-time lover."
Feeling uneasy, Pablo shoved his hands in his pockets. He shifted his stance and looked at the floor. Yes, these men definitely shared some history. Their interaction, bloated with nuance, made him feel like an intruder.
Win said nothing in response to Ridley's last statement, as if he were studiously ignoring it. Instead, he looked at Pablo. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he said. “Ridley, this is a new GS resident, Pablo Creed."
The man nodded in acknowledgment. “Why don't you have an Alterationist name?"
Pablo frowned. “I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"He means a monosyllabic name,” Win explained, “like the rest of us."
"I've wanted to ask you about that,” Pablo said, aware of the stranger's perceptive eyes turning to him, sizing him up.
"We all chose simple names because they're appropriately humble. And because they're as easy to forget as they are to remember. You won't have to change yours, though.” Win turned his attention back to Ridley. “Pablo isn't an Alterationist. He's our new Touch."
The man's eyebrows rose. “Lucky you."
Pablo couldn't tell if he'd addressed the comment to him or to Win. In either case, it made his face warm.
"Sorry, didn't mean to embarrass anybody.” Ridley looked more amused than apologetic.
"I'm not easily embarrassed,” Pablo said. “Usually."
A question about this man knocked in Pablo's mind, but he thought that voicing it would make him look both ignorant and rude. He needed to start cultivating a more blasé attitude toward UC residents. From now on, he must stop seeing them as threatening curiosities.
"I assume you'll be staying at Sang for a while,” Win said to Ridley.
"At least until I'm healed. By the way, can you people design amulets to protect OBs from attack?"
"That depends,” Win said. “There are lots of variables. But I'll mention it to the other Alters."
"Something has to be done.” Ridley gingerly rested his injured arm in the crook of his opposite elbow. “Nobody knows if the Powers plan on dealing with the whole Villius and Interzone problem or not. I suppose it isn't their responsibility, since this shit is happening outside the metroplex."
"They'll have to deal with it. They can hardly ignore it,” Win said. “Well, we have to run. Be sure to lay low. At least you know you're safe here."
"Will you come to see me?” Ridley asked.
Now it was Win's turn to blush. He hesitated before answering. “Actually, we have our hands pretty full right now."
The other man glanced at Pablo. “Yes, I suppose you do."
His implication was clear. More prepared now, Pablo took the comment in stride. He knew he'd better get used to people's assumptions about his presence in the Coven.
"Give my regards to Tole,” Ridley said. “Oh, and Zee.” With a final taunting smile, he turned and walked to the edge of the platform.
Win and Pablo passed through the gates and approached Raiser Station.
It shocked Pablo, but not for the reason he'd thought it would. The first thing he saw was a large space resembling a lobby. In its center, three women and a man worked behind a sizable, crescent-shaped front desk. Several wheelchairs as well as regular padded chairs and settees were arrayed along opposite walls. A fountain burbled and splashed somewhere behind the counter. The workers appeared to be human, but one could never be sure in the UC.
Clean, well-lit corridors, not dim alleys, flared out from the reception area. Occasionally, a person or Otherbeing appeared. From what Pablo could see, there rooms along the hallways. In the distance ran another corridor, like a rim connecting the spokes of a wheel.
Win led Pablo to a bank of chairs, where they sat side by side.
"See?” Win said with a smile. “Nary a zombie in sight. Raiser Station is the UC's infirmary."
"I'll be damned. And the staff know how to treat all residents, human and nonhuman? And they have whatever equipment and materials they need?"
"They do. It's a state-of-the-art facility."
Pablo studied the people who moved quietly around the station. At the same time, an unresolved issue dogged him. “I take it Ridley's a vampire.” He tried to keep his voice low.
"Correct,” said Win.
"And you've been involved with him. Intimately."
Win slid Pablo a glance, perhaps to read his expression. “Only once. It was more a matter of necessity than anything else."
"What do you mean?"
"It's important for us—Tole and Zee and me—to understand other creatures. I mean, you know, so we can better help them. Like you said yesterday, intimacy leads to insight."
There'd been the slightest hiccup in this explanation, as if Win weren't coughing up the full story. Pablo couldn't do much but let it pass. Tilting toward Win, he lowered his voice even more. “Is a vampire a good lay?"
Win chuckled. He leaned into Pablo until their shoulders were pressed together and their foreheads nearly touched. “That depends on the vampire. They're not all the same. Generally though, yeah, vamp sex is a scorcher. They're intensely erotic creatures."
The air felt thinner. Pablo was still horny. As he lowered his eyes, he glimpsed Win's parted lips.
"Maybe you should try it,” Win said, his mouth maddeningly close.
"Vampires don't really appeal to me."
"You should try it."
"Are you giving me an order?"
"No, just making a suggestion.” Win's mouth curved up. “You'd love the feel of Ridley licking your body. I swear the son of a bitch has a prehensile tongue."
Pablo matched Win's smile. “As long as he doesn't have a prehensile dick."
Win lifted his head as he laughed. “Wouldn't that make for an interesting encounter?” He got up. “Come on. Let's get back on the train."
"Isn't Sang the next stop?” Pablo asked. He remained a wee bit leery of Win's motives.
"Yeah. Maybe you'd better sit on me so I don't haul you off for some fantasy fulfillment."
Pablo didn't know how to answer. The more blatant Win's flirtation became, the more it confused him. Was he being tested?
They got on the next train and cruised past Sang Station without a problem. Beyond that lay the spur to Hellven. Win had another surprise in store.
"I wish we had more time,” he said. “I'd like to show you Hellven, but it takes a while to see and appreciate the whole thing."
"And hobnob with demons?” Pablo sounded a dubious laugh. “I'm sure they're better conversationalists than zombies are—gotta be better looking, too—but I have my doubts about hanging out with them."
"Hellven Station is the UC recreation area, Pablo."
"With or without supernaturals?"
"Without,” Win said. “Shit, why would angels and demons even want to confine themselves?"
It was yet another startling break from commonly held belief. Small wonder the Powers wanted to keep Overcity residents from doing too much exploring in the UC. This subterranean world was indeed a well-organized haven for the most shunned of society's outcasts.
"So what is Hellven really like?” Pablo asked.
There was both pride and pleasure in Win's face as he talked about it. “In many ways, it's the jewel of the Undercity—a large, underground park and cave complex. All the plants are natural, from grass to trees. There are pools and fountains, and a pond stocked with fish. The sky is a perfect, ever-changing hologram. There are even squirrels and rabbits, bees and butterflies."
"And birds?” Pablo asked.
Win's smile broadened. “Yes, and birds. There's even a good deal of natural light, brought in through a system of solar panels and reflectors."
"I would love to see it."
"Then we'll come back soon,” Win said. He paused. “Just you and I."
With a nervous twitch of a smile, Pablo blinked and looked away from him. Damn, what was with all the insinuating glances and invitations, words and gestures? He couldn't help but be affected by them, even though reason dictated he should let them pass.
He stared out the window. “Are we getting off at Mythmir?"
"No,” Win said. “We just passed it."
"Hm.” Just passed it. Pablo hadn't even noticed. “I've always wanted to see Mythmir,” he said, still feeling distracted. “For some reason it's always intrigued me."
"There isn't much to see. That station is nearly empty. It's a work in progress."
"What's being done to it?"
"Little by little, it's becoming a sort of a retirement home for forest paranormals. It's the advance of civilization that they find most threatening. So they're fussy about their habitat."
The female electronic voice announced Guardian Station.

Chapter Eight 
Pablo told Win a little about his background as they strolled back to the Coven of Three's house. He kept the information sparse and superficial, since he was too tired to field personal questions. When he and Win walked in, Zee stood in front of the large wall computer, which displayed a detailed 3-D view of Regenerie. Whenever he touched the screen, images zoomed in or out. Sometimes the whole panorama tilted, as if it were set on invisible gimbals.
After grabbing something to drink, Pablo sat at the dining table and watched. Win headed down the hallway. Pablo figured he was looking for Tole, who wasn't in the living area, but Win was back in less than a minute. Maybe he'd just gone to the bathroom. He joined Pablo at the table.
"Is there a certain time you'd like me to report for duty tomorrow?” Pablo asked the two men.
"Just wander in when you're ready.” Zee glanced over his shoulder. “You're not on a schedule. Yet."
"All right.” Pablo rose from the table. He had plenty to think about. “I doubt I'll be sleeping late. I'm eager to get started."
Win, chin in hand, silently regarded him.
"Good night, then.” Pablo tried to include both men in his parting look. It wasn't easy.
* * * *
The suite's bathroom was outfitted with both a water shower and a pulse shower, since most people were still torn on which they preferred. Pablo had tried a pulse shower only once, when he was at a client's residence, but felt unnerved by it. Whatever waves the thing emitted felt strange against his body—his genitals in particular—and made his nipples itch. He suspected a lot of users were aroused by these sensations and got off in their pulse stalls. But he ended up with the feeling that something was crawling under his skin, and despite the shower's alleged cleansing properties, he'd felt more disinfected than washed when he got out.
The room also had a small, corner spa-tub. Since Pablo had bathed pretty thoroughly that morning, he decided simply to relax in the hot, bubbling water. As the tub filled, he examined the bottles of bath crystals arrayed on a nearby wall shelf. He chose lavender-vanilla.
The environmental control panel, which gave him a choice of seasons, was already set to spring, so he let it be. Spring was his favorite time of year. As soon as Pablo activated the control, holographic birds flitted and sang overhead; daffodils sprouted from the baseboards; pendulous lilac blossoms nodded from a bush in one corner of the room. They even released their distinctive perfume. Laughing in delight, Pablo turned round and round, gawking like a kid in a theme park.
He ran his hands over his chest and down his abdomen. In the mirror, he saw the wry smile on his face. It was this very act that had ignited Pie Man's ugly lust. How wonderful it would be for his naked body to provoke passion rather than brutality. Sex with the coven, he figured, might be frenzied but at least it wouldn't be abusive.
It wouldn't be lovemaking, either. Pablo couldn't remember if he'd ever enjoyed genuine lovemaking and began to wonder if he even knew what it was. Almost invariably, sex with his clients had been about the destination, not the journey.
Dropping his arms, Pablo sighed. “Can't have everything,” he said to his reflection.
He turned away from the mirror, stepped to the tub, turned off the water, got in. “Niiiice.” He exhaled, sinking into this small, gently churning harbor cloaked in aromatic mist. He didn't bother fiddling with any controls. The simple act of submersion was satisfying enough.
Pablo stretched out his arms on the spa's rim and parted his legs. Just as he arched his neck, ready to recline against the molded back- and headrest, he noticed another panel in the wall. It bore words aligned with the flat buttons of a keypad, words that indicated different kinds of music. He pressed Spindrift, then slid his finger across the volume bar until the sound level was just right. Ethereal strains, both vocal and instrumental, mingled with the steam.
Contentment engulfed Pablo like the gentle press of water. Dozing while an image of Win's face floated through his mind, he had no idea how much time passed. What's more, it didn't matter. No chilly corner awaited him this enchanted evening.
When he finally emerged from the spa, ready to crawl into his large and welcoming bed, he emptied the tub and turned off all the room's lights and controls. Grabbing a thick burgundy towel, he patted himself dry as he walked out of the bathroom.
Entering the dimly lit bedroom, Pablo pulled up short. His heartbeat stuttered.
Win rose from the edge of the bed. He wore those seductive drawstring pants. And nothing else.
Pablo gaped. “What are you—” He stopped himself. It seemed both presumptuous and idiotic to ask, What are you doing here? Hell, the man owned the place.
"You, uh ... you left your ID and employment cards at the house.” Win lifted his hand to show them, then looked around and tossed the tabs on a nightstand.
The men stared at each other. Win's torso was as sleekly muscled as his arms. A delicate fan of dark hair flared above the low-riding waist of his white pants.
Pablo's throat went dry. His balls felt like knuckles; his filling cock had already begun to arch away from his groin. Win's sultry gaze continued to flow over his body.
Pablo tried securing the towel around his waist. Little late now, he thought, but it still seemed like the proper thing to do. He didn't want to come across like an exhibitionist.
"Don't,” Win said.
Pablo cleared his throat. “Why?"
"Why?” Win repeated on a chuckle. “A handsome, naked man is standing right in front of me, and I need to explain why I don't want him to cover up?” He glanced down at himself, then back at Pablo. His thin pants had already begun to tent out at the crotch. “Talk to the dick, why don't you."
"Now you're embarrassing me."
"Tough. I'm standing here with an ever-growing boner and you're asking me stupid questions."
The conviction that he was being tested made Pablo secure the towel around his waist, regardless of Win's order. “Okay, here's a not-so-stupid question. Why do you keep coming on to me?"
Win's eyebrows shot up. He looked flabbergasted. “Because I like you? Because I'm attracted to you?” He exhaled a single, disbelieving laugh. “Are those good enough reasons?"
"I don't know. Are they?"
Win put his hands on his hips. “What do you want me to say? How much more straightforward can I be?"
"Straightforward enough to tell me what's really going on here, why you're giving me more one-on-one attention than the others are."
Win tossed up his arms in exasperation. “I just told you what's—"
"Listen, Win,” Pablo broke in. “I am just a common whore. Aside from that, you really don't know the first damned thing about me.” He speared his fingers at his chest. “Me, the whole person. Yet you treat me like some sort of, I don't know, blessing."
Win took a step forward. “I know more about you than you think. And maybe you are a kind of blessing. More to the point, maybe you're just not used to being appreciated."
Pablo took a step forward. “Even more to the point, you have no goddamned reason to appreciate me!"
They both fell silent for a moment. Win, brows drawn together, studied Pablo's face.
The whole situation tore Pablo apart. He wanted Win so much he could taste it, but he wanted and needed this job even more.
"What's wrong with you?” Win asked quietly. “Don't you trust us? Are you having second thoughts about taking this position? We're not like your former clients, you know."
"I never thought you were."
"Then what the hell is going on?"
Locking his hands behind his head, Pablo dropped his chin to his chest. He blew out a sigh. “You're the ones who are going to have second thoughts about hiring me if I show a weakness."
"What are you talking about? You haven't shown any weakness."
Pablo abruptly dropped his arms and raised his head. “Yes I have. For you. Jesus, Win, I can't remember the last time somebody filled me with a nut-busting craving I couldn't seem to con—"
The words died in his throat as Win stepped up to him and yanked the towel from his waist. Pablo's mind hazed. He felt the soft crush of Win's lips against his mouth, the hard crush of Win's cock against his abdomen. Knees nearly buckling, Pablo grabbed hold of the other man so fiercely that he thought they would both go down.
This kiss wasn't careful. It was more a clash of wills than a communion. Breath coming out in gusts, their greedy mouths never lifted from each other's skin but kept up their hungry prowl.
Instinct led them, still intertwined, to the bed. Win immediately pulled off his pants and kicked them to the floor.
Every nerve in Pablo's body sang with arousal. “Tell me what you like,” he said on a thread of breath.
Win slid on top of him, hands holding his head in a firm but gentle vice grip. The thrilling press of his smooth, warm body emptied Pablo's lungs. All he could do at the moment was lie there and stare into that bewitching face.
"You want me to get raunchy with you, Pablo? Or do you want me to rhapsodize? I can go either way right now. My heart is filled with sentiment, but my mind is filled with smut."
Win's eyes had darkened to an inky blue. His mouth looked utterly sinful. At that moment, he would've made the perfect incubus.
"Straight up,” Pablo said. “No garnish."
"You mean, like this meal?” Win's hand crept down and glanced off Pablo's hard-on, making it jump.
"Shit, just start talking."
"Should I say it in your ear?"
"Yes, with your lips against it."
Win's head lowered until his mouth touched the sensitive whorls of Pablo's ear. “I love cock. Raw, naked cock. I love it hanging and I love it high."
His voice was a tattered whisper; his breath, hot. The damp, pillowy flexion of his lips made Pablo moan. His skin suddenly felt too tight.
"I love looking at cock and gripping cock and sucking cock and feeling cock inside me.” Win's narrow hips slid over Pablo's, nudging solid shaft against solid shaft, plump head against plump head. “I love your cock. I want to feel it everywhere in me and on me. I want you to shoot on my face and chest and belly and crotch. I want your cum to drip over my lips. Then I want you to lick and kiss it off of me. When you shoot in my mouth, I want you to suck what I don't swallow from my tongue."
Then Win kissed him, wet and deep. Their tongues intertwined like wrestlers. Crazed with desire, Pablo knotted his hands in Win's hair. He squirmed beneath Win's delicious weight, back arching and muscles bunching, as Win pressed and rubbed against him. Pablo wanted to feel all of him at once, every silky smooth and solid centimeter. His groans mingled with Win's coarse breathing. Their kisses became more frenzied. Stiff cocks poked and slid against unyielding muscle and through damp swirls of body hair. A taut thigh slipped between Pablo's legs, knee carefully massaging his tight balls. Pulsing, his cock leaked. He was making sounds he'd never made before. Win's mouth seemed to be pulling them out of his throat.
"I can't hold on,” Pablo said on a shaved breath. He licked the glazed stubble on Win's jaw, kissed it, nibbled at the underlying flesh and bone.
Panting, body glazed with sweat, Win moved down Pablo's torso. His hands, still above his head, curled into Pablo's pectoral muscles like the tines of a tiller, fingernails scraping across the pebbly nipples.
Pablo ground out, “Damn.” Another blast of arousal flashed from his chest to his crotch. He twisted his hips, shoving his dense erection against the taut plane of Win's body. He could've jizzed right then and there.
Win's caressing hands moved down Pablo's rib cage and abdomen. In between, he made another trail with his mouth. Soon he was doubled over between Pablo's legs, gleaming walnut hair nearly shielding his face. He gripped Pablo's ass as he nuzzled his face in Pablo's pubic nest. His deft lips nipped at the base of Pablo's cock.
Never before in his life had Pablo been so happy to be a man.
But he was about to get happier.
Alternately firming and relaxing his lips, Win plucked his way down the length of Pablo's shaft. Its fine sheath of skin slid over its blood-dense core. Win's hand curled around it, squeezing a bit, as his mouth continued to make a moist path. When he got to the swollen head, he carefully rimmed it with his tongue. Then, as he hugged the cap with the lining of his lips, he traced its thin fissure with the very tip of his tongue and flicked at the tiny hole. With long, lapping licks he made his way back to base camp on one side then back to the summit on the other. His mouth again closed over the head and gave it a firm draw.
Panting, Pablo grasped the sheets on either side of his body. “Sh-shit,” he exhaled. His balls felt like fire-seared rocks. His cock, fully engorged, pulsed in anticipation of release. “Do it."
Win slid his mouth over Pablo's cock down to the root, where his hand still held fast. In perfect unison he sucked and pumped, his tongue folding over the thick cylinder that ran like a beam on the shaft's underside, his lips a tight, sliding, rhythmically flexing band.
Pablo's mind shut down. Only one vague remnant of thought remained—he was getting perfect head. The feeling was beyond exquisite. When he saw Win stroking his own hard-on, his excitement sharpened a hundredfold.
He thrust his hips toward Win's face, his cock craving more of that sinful, suctioning mouth, and he knew the end was near. When Win's earlier words echoed in his mind—that lewd declamation about what he liked—the whole structure of Pablo's body shuddered. A throbbing quake radiated from his pelvis to his limbs. An electric charge branched like lightning. He grunted helplessly as cream jetted out of his cock, planting seed all the way down Win's throat to his stomach. It wasn't just the incomparable feel of the blowjob that rocked Pablo; it was the sight of his full, solid dick completely lost in a gorgeous man's mouth; it was the thought of that gorgeous man's own arousal and the sight of his release.
Pablo's orgasm tugged at every tissue in his body, as if each part of him had been coaxed by Win's mouth into coming. For a long, glorious moment nothing existed except pounding pleasure.
As Pablo's spasms diminished, his trembling body relaxed into the bedding like a piece of tissue dropped into water. It took a while before he could lift his heavy eyelids and even longer before his breathing became slow and regular. Through his lashes, he watched Win, who continued to hold his shrinking cock captive. This can't be happening, he thought—as light, tender sucks diminished to light, tender licks. When Win finally released the spent cock, Pablo let out a long breath and briefly closed his eyes.
Win unfolded himself and slid toward Pablo's face. He wiped something across Pablo's lips, then gave him a passionate, openmouthed kiss ... and Pablo did indeed feel the stickiness and taste the salty tang of cum. But it wasn't just his own. Win's was mingled with it. He licked it off Win's lips, drew it off his tongue.
Sated, they sighed down each other's throat. After they exchanged a brief flurry of light, sweet kisses, Win rolled onto the tousled sheets and lay on his back.
Pablo tilted on his side and faced his new lover. His fingertips traced the lines of Win's cheekbone, nose, jaw. “Thank you for being persistent. If I get fired for caving in, it was well worth it."
Win chuckled. “My handsome paranoiac.” Gradually, his expression became more wistful. “My Touch."

Chapter Nine 
"Why was Tole so determined to hire a woman?” Pablo asked.
They sat up now, resting against the headboard and angled toward each other. Pablo occasionally ran a hand down Win's upraised leg or forearm. Win did the same to him. The idle caresses were simple steps in the act of discovery ... and, for Pablo, inexpressibly gratifying. He still had trouble believing this was really happening. It occurred to him that he was under some kind of enchantment, that the coven was sparking him through an elaborate pipe dream.
But damn, Win certainly felt real enough.
"I think he wanted a female Touch for just this reason,” Win said. “Tole has a jealous streak."
"He fancies you?"
"It's more a matter of him thinking he has a proprietary interest in me. In Zee too. He can be a flaming asshole, but he has his good points. You just have to know how to deal with him."
"And women don't make him jealous?"
"Usually not.” Win cupped Pablo's drooping cock and smiled. “He knows what I'm about."
Yeah, it was pretty obvious what Win was about. It was also obvious he could have his pick of partners. “Have you had many affairs?” Pablo asked.
"No, just brief flings. The three of us are supposed to function as a balanced unit. I've tried to honor that."
"So aren't you violating the group's principles by being here?” Pablo asked with concern.
"Probably. But we're pretty forgiving of one another. We have to be. Besides, we know we all have different needs."
"And what are yours?"
Win's dreamy gaze moved over Pablo's face. It was a moment before he answered. “To take joy in the company of an ordinary man."
Pablo had never heard ordinariness lauded as something extraordinary. He tried not to read too much into the statement, tried especially not to be encouraged by it. High or utterly false expectations didn't coexist very happily with reality. And Win sure as hell had the ability to generate such expectations. A man like that could easily spin a pretty illusion of love from the dross of lust.
Well, this was a complication he sure as hell hadn't anticipated. Pablo's nerves trilled. He knew he had to keep tight reins on his overactive imagination.
"It's getting late,” Win said, “and you'll have another busy day tomorrow."
Pablo nodded. He tried to smile but didn't fully succeed. “I have to confess, I like having you with me.” Stay! his mind screamed. “Win, I know I don't have the right to ask this."
"Then don't."
Pablo pressed a hand to his forehead. “Damn. I'm sorry. I just like having you with me. I know I'm pushing my luck."
"No. No. I meant, let me ask.” Win fully faced him. “If I had a hat, it would be in my hand right now. Mr. Creed, may I spend the night with you?"
Momentary disbelief left Pablo dumbfounded. “Holy shit, yes.” With a grin that surely laid creases along his eyes and cheeks, Pablo slid under the covers and lay on his back.
"Ever had a massage?” Win asked, smiling down at him.
"Once. Kind of. My friend Lily gave me a shoulder rub, but when she seemed to want to do more than that—"
"Ah, I see.” Win got out of bed. “That doesn't surprise me. Do you mind if I give you a massage, just a plain massage, to relax you? I promise it'll lead to a restorative night's sleep."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
Pablo saw no reason to refuse the offer. “I'll take it."
Win headed for the bathroom. He returned bearing a bottle of oil and a towel. Climbing back into bed, he pulled the sheet off Pablo's body, fully exposing it, and knelt beside him. “Just let yourself sink into it,” he said in a hypnotic voice.
Pablo closed his eyes and emptied his mind. He tried to ignore his cock, which seemed to be expecting anything but relaxation. Soon he felt the assertive glide of Win's oiled hands over his left shoulder and arm.
"I love the way you feel,” Win murmured.
"Ditto. Now stop saying things like that or I won't be able to sink.” Hell, I'll rise. Pablo imagined Win smiling.
Next, his left leg. Win's palms and fingers applied perfect pressure. They occasionally paused in their downward slide to work certain muscles—carefully, precisely. Pablo purred with pleasure. Either Win had a natural talent for this, or somebody had given him expert instruction.
Moving to the other side of the bed, Win tended to Pablo's right limbs. It was heavenly. Pablo's body had never before felt so coddled, even treasured. The oil seeped into his skin along with Win's adoration. One warmed his body; the other, his soul.
Or so Pablo fancied. However far from the truth, it was a lovely thought. So he sank into it, as well, allowing himself to believe. He knew he'd soon have to relinquish that belief, but for the moment it was something he needed.
Again changing position, Win began massaging Pablo's torso, shoulders to abdomen. He lingered over Pablo's chest. Rotating, the heels of his hands dug shallow pits in Pablo's pectoral muscles. Fingers gently kneaded them.
Then his thumbs caressed Pablo's nipples. “Ever had any piercings? Like here?"
Things were getting dicey. Arousal was only a few more words and moves away. “Actually, yeah, I did at one time,” Pablo said. “Matching nipple rings. But some clients got a little too carried away with them.” He tried not to squirm beneath Win's touch, which was quickly becoming more stimulating than soothing. “Why do you ask?"
"I can't help thinking how damned provocative they'd look on you."
"Would you like it if I started wearing them again?"
"Yes, I would. I'd like it very much. Gold rings. I'd love to see them against...” Voice dying, Win lowered his head. He sucked and tongued one nipple, then the next. “Now roll over so I can do your other side."
Just as Pablo was about to reach for him, he moved back to give Pablo room. Reluctantly, Pablo flipped onto his belly. “You don't have any piercings. Does Tole or Zee?"
"Uh-huh."
Win's hands began their sweep of Pablo's back muscles. Pablo felt and smelled a fresh application of sweet-almond oil.
"Tole also has a few hafada piercings with titanium hoops,” Win said. “No stones, of course."
Pablo lifted his head. “A few what?"
"Scrotal piercings, midline and sides."
"His balls are pierced?"
"Just the skin, not the testes themselves,” Win said with a laugh. “Tole's not that much of a badass."
"Still...” Pablo dropped his chin back to the pillow.
"When we're all together for the first time—you know, when you do your Touch thing—diddle those rings with your tongue. For Tole, that's ecstasy."
"Is that what you do to him?” The thought made Pablo uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why.
"Actually, he likes me to use my mouth, but to pluck with it."
"Down there, you mean."
"Isn't ‘down there’ what we're talking about?"
Pablo had to remind himself that these men had a unique relationship, a highly specialized connection that made such interaction both necessary and commonplace.
"Pluck ... with your lips?” he asked.
"That's what he likes."
Despite a twinge of jealousy he knew was wholly inappropriate, Pablo felt a radiant tingle in his groin. It was an unsettling mix of reactions. The image he'd just been fed made his cock restless. Win mouthing another man's balls. Damn.
A dense roll had formed beneath Pablo's belly. Not wanting to aggravate this condition, he tried to remain still. But his hips reflexively pushed forward.
"Did that revelation arouse your interest?” Win asked in an arch tone.
"Uh, no, not too much.” Pablo felt his butt cheeks contract. His willful erection wanted to connect with something.
"Then why are you humping the mattress?"
"I'm not. I'm just trying to move a length of rebar somebody left on the bed."
Win broke into laughter. His hands glided to Pablo's ass. Their movement wasn't quite as languid as before. Regardless of the effort at restraint, Win was groping him. No two ways about it. His fingers kneaded the tough muscles and the firm flesh that overlay them.
"Maybe it's time I took a shower,” Win said, his voice graveled. “A cold one."
Pablo's cock throbbed, growing thicker, more rigid. “Something happening back there I should know about?"
"I hadn't intended for this to happen.” Pablo felt a slap of dense meat against one cheek. “I thought I had better control. Guess I was wrong."
"Piss on the control.” The dispassionate back rub was obviously over.
"I don't want to fuck you, Pablo."
He cranked his head to the side. “Why?"
"That isn't why I came here. I wanted to make you feel good, not take advantage—"
"Win, don't make me beg."
The mattress bounced. Win was at the nightstand in a flash. Yanking open its drawer, he soon pulled something out then quickly repositioned himself over Pablo's thighs. Anticipation sped up Pablo's breathing.
Win's thumbs widened the cleft in Pablo's cheeks. Pablo felt the moist dart and swirl of Win's tongue at his opening. He gasped, his ribs tightening. The stimulation was light without being tentative, and its very delicacy continually sent shockwaves through Pablo's abdomen.
Fingers took the place of tongue. One circumnavigated the entrance, palpating its tender walls, and then two repeated the move. Gradually, they slipped inside. The soft, petting pressure continued, accompanied by the sound of Win's excited respiration. Another pleasurable shock clutched Pablo's belly.
He remained prone, cock stiffening beneath him and balls clenching. The sound of Win's breathing, and the feel of his slick, expertly probing fingers, and the image of his rosy erection all combined to make Pablo grind his hips against the mattress. But he had to remain still. He'd come in a heartbeat if he kept writhing. What's more, Win wouldn't be able to enter him properly.
And then, as Win lowered himself onto Pablo's back, he gradually slid in. The man knew his stuff. Pull back, reenter, turn this way, turn that way. Long, slow, stirring strokes led by that satiny head. Pablo's prostate seemed to balloon; Win's rigid cock kept finding it.
A purely psychological response suddenly accompanied the physical sensations. Pablo realized he loved being filled by Win, loved the concept as much as the execution. His body melded perfectly with his lover's body—the thought alone transported him—and he tightened his hold on that dense, soft-hard rod.
Ramming a hand under his body, Pablo found his own wood. “Soon.” He gasped, gripping his straining shaft. Just a little squeeze and slide, and he'd blow.
Rising up, Win pulled the base of his cockhead to the sphincter. Teasing himself as well as Pablo, he repeatedly buried the plump helmet and pulled it out—slow and easy at first, then with more insistent force. Then Win let loose a guttural cry and began to jerk just as Pablo's body locked into the rigor of orgasm. Pablo's eyes rolled up as yet another surge of pleasure rolled through him. Wave curled upon wave while Win's pulsing cock filled him still more, with a thinner, wetter heat.
If that expert massage hadn't melted his muscles, Pablo thought, this climax surely had.
Audibly exhaling, Win wilted onto Pablo's body then slid off to the side. As his cock popped out, it left a warm, moist trail.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?” Win asked.
"No offense, but you aren't that big.” Smiling, Pablo faced him. His fingers coaxed the damp hair off Win's cheekbone and temple. “In fact, you're just right. I don't want to leave this bed as long as you're in it."
Win's nonchalance was gone. He looked almost demure. “I want you to know that I'm not just smitten with your body. And I'm not trying to get one up on Tole and Zee. And I don't intend to ‘bind’ you to me or any of that witchy horseshit."
"The last two possibilities hadn't even occurred to me,” Pablo said, wondering why Win had even brought them up. Still, a dozen more questions ran through Pablo's mind. He didn't know where to start with them, didn't even know when or if to raise them. “The first one, yeah, that occurred to me. You know, the novelty factor."
"There's no novelty factor,” Win said. “Believe me, I've had plenty of opportunity to experience novelty."
"Then what makes me so special?"
Win's gaze plumbed Pablo's. It was a searching look, not at all lewd. “Nothing. Everything.” He wrestled briefly with the tangled top sheet before crawling under it. “Come on, it's time to turn in. You'll maybe get your introduction to our work space and the Celestine tomorrow."
"The what?"
"The Orb. Never mind. You'll see it soon enough."
Rather than ask more questions, Pablo was content simply to join Win. After getting up to turn off the light, he slipped beside the man of his dreams and lay on his side. Win folded against him, his front to Pablo's back. His arm curled over Pablo's rib cage. Impulsively, Pablo lifted Win's hand and kissed it, then held it against his chest.
"I asked that question about the indigo bunting,” Pablo murmured, “because your eyes are the same color."
Win didn't respond. Just as Pablo began to assume he wasn't awake, he answered, “I thought so."
Fit together like puzzle pieces, they slept.

Chapter Ten 
The next morning, Pablo got the naked tumble he so craved. He and Win reveled in each other down to the last eyelash. They stamped kisses everywhere. Finally, they jerked each other off and licked each other clean. And, when there was no skin that had gone untouched, they showered together to get themselves even cleaner. It was also a convenient reason to glide their hands over one another's water-slick body.
By the time they entered the main house together, it was nearly eight-thirty.
Tole sat at the dining table, legs propped on a second chair, studying something on his notepad computer. He flipped it closed as soon as the men walked in. Zee sat across from him, keying into a slightly larger laptop. Looking up, he smiled and said, “Well, don't you two look chipper."
Silently at first, Tole watched Pablo and Win enter the room. His pointed scrutiny made Pablo feel like a criminal. Tole's tenacious gaze then latched on to Win, who seemed oblivious to it. “Guess I don't have to ask you this morning where you spent the night."
"You never have to ask. I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, you sure the fuck can,” Tole said, still glaring at him. “And I know you sure can fuck."
Win poured something from the beverage dispenser into two mugs. The bitter-rich scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted over to Pablo before Win handed him a mug.
"Add whatever you'd like,” Win said. There was a wire of tension in his voice.
Tole pushed away from the table so forcefully that it shuddered. He seemed to fill the house with storm clouds. “Oh, I can see this is going to work. Our zippy new Touch will be so preoccupied with our resident Pretty Boy that Zee and I will be invisible to him!"
"Relax, Tole,” Zee said in his usual even tone. “You're blowing things out of proportion."
"And you don't know what the fuck you're talking about,” the tall man shot back.
Win's color rose. Pablo got the impression it was ire, not shame, that drove the blood to his face. Win all too carefully set his coffee on the table and looked at Tole. “Zee does know what he's talking about. And don't blame Pablo. I went to him."
Tole's mouth twisted. “You mean there's actually some creature good enough for you?” He lifted a chair, set it back down with a thud. “Selfish prick."
"Don't push me,” Win said quietly.
"Push you, hell. You need a kick in the ass!” Tole fired a forefinger in Pablo's direction. “How can this man perform his job properly if you've already monopolized every last shred of his libido?"
"I can perform,” Pablo said, stepping up to him. “Try me."
Tole was stymied for a moment. He apparently hadn't expected to be challenged by their new employee. Then his mouth tilted into a nasty smile. “You know, I should do just that. I should throw you down right now and bare that flawless ass of yours and—"
He didn't get to finish the threat, although its conclusion was easily enough inferred. Win bolted up from his seat and wedged himself between Tole and Pablo.
"Lay off,” he said into Tole's face. It was more a snarl than a statement.
"Getting possessive, huh?"
"We all knew this was coming,” Zee said. “At least I did. Now we have to accommodate it."
Eyes blazing, Tole's head snapped in his direction. “Shut up, you sanctimonious little shit."
Win's hands locked on to the front of Tole's shirt. “Man, you need to watch your mouth and learn some respect. Fast."
Pablo backed away. This conflict was among the coveners. Whatever undercurrents he'd sensed yesterday were beginning to surface, and they'd likely existed for a while.
As Tole stared into Win's eyes, he got uglier, literally. Baffled, Pablo watched him. Maybe it was just fury that distorted his features. But they seemed to be changing.
"Get your hands off me, Aethiel, or I swear I'll fling you into a black cavern of pure pain."
"Stop it!” Zee thundered.
Pablo jumped at the shocking sound. The other two men also paid heed. What the hell was going on here?
Zee seemed embarrassed by his outburst. “I can't believe we're acting this way."
Looking chastened, Win dropped back into his chair. “I can. It was inevitable."
Tole paced around the table.
Win's gaze followed him. “We need more than each other, Tole. This arrangement worked fine for a while. We accomplished a lot. Now it's becoming unnatural. And crippling."
"There's nothing wrong with us that the right Touch can't fix,” Tole said.
Win sighed. “No damned Touch can reverse our stagnation."
"The right one can.” Tole's eyes slid toward Pablo, who had moved to the living room. “One who's qualified, for starters. And impartial."
Win met this assertion with a cry of “Bullshit!” then banged a fist on the table. “Jesus, when are you going to pull your head out of your ass? Can't you see what's going on here? We're like a collection of cells in a single organism. We function as a unit, when we're functioning properly. But we still need nourishment from outside ourselves.” When Tole passed him, Win grabbed the tall man's wrist to get his attention. He looked into Tole's face, driving his point home. "We need more than each other."
After a brief stare-down, Tole wrenched his arm free.
"Win's right,” said Zee. “And you know it. Your turn will come. Mine too."
"I don't need a fucking turn,” Tole shot back. “You want a boyfriend, Win, find one on your own time. We didn't hire a Touch to be your personal plaything."
This was more than Pablo had bargained for. Hovering near the couch now, he'd given up trying to understand what was going on. All he knew was that he'd stumbled into a crucible of dysfunction. He didn't need to be there, didn't want to be there. This was some combustible stuff, whatever the stuff was, and his presence seemed to be igniting it.
Rather than pass through the kitchen to reach the back door, for the coveners were still clustered around the dining table, Pablo walked to the front door.
"Wait!” Win called out.
Pablo paused.
"Where are you going?"
"To the suite. I just want to be alone for a while."
Grateful Win didn't follow or try to stop him, Pablo walked to the space between the coveners’ two buildings and made his way to the guest suite door. He went in and sat on the bed for several minutes. The linens were still a jumbled mess. Pablo lifted the top sheet and held it to his nose.
Sex. And musky maleness. With a hint of lavender and whatever scented Win's soap and shampoo. It was a heady, evocative blend of aromas that made Pablo's heart ache.
He didn't want to leave. He'd finally found something worth keeping, maybe even cherishing, but he had to give it up. There was no place for him here, unless he wanted to be the pivot point for the coveners’ free-floating discord. No amount of sex or money could persuade him to put himself in that position. He'd dealt with enough shit in his life.
After stripping the bed and heaping the sheets on the mattress, along with used towels, he stuffed his few belongings into his backpack. The blood-spotted shirt had already been consigned to the trash. Turning off the lights, he walked into the false sunglow of the Undercity. With each step he took to the train platform, his brief sojourn at 86 Guardian Station shed its reality.
The two people he saw smiled and nodded at him. They didn't know what had brought him to the UC. He hadn't been there long enough for word to spread.
Pablo again used three coins and his phony card to get a token. This time, Win wasn't there to make the ID card unnecessary. He inserted the token into a slot beside the platform gates and passed through.
He was on his own again.
A train came by in just under ten minutes. Pablo had been hoping Win would appear and persuade him to return. But nobody appeared. The three coveners were likely still in their red-shingled house, hashing out their differences. As far as they knew, he was still hunkered down in the guest suite.
He boarded the train and settled in.
No trip to Hellven today, he thought as he watched the Undercity rush by. In fact, he doubted he'd ever come down here again.
But where would he go? The lease on his studio had been terminated, his belongings were on their way to the Undercity, and he no longer had a job. As the train neared the OC station at 21st and Banyon, Pablo figured he'd crash at Lily's place until he had a plan. That gullion Pie Man had given him would keep him going for a while, maybe as long as a year. He knew how to be frugal.
The Interzone could very well be his best bet—a complete break from his past, a fresh start.
Back in the Overcity, Pablo walked in the opposite direction of his old neighborhood. He didn't want to run into anybody he knew. The invigorating autumn morning was bright and brisk. It seemed a world and eternity away from the sodden, oppressive day that marked the turning point in his life. He didn't mind walking in weather like this.
After passing the organ-growth facility, which took up a full city block, he paused to study an ad board. There was no job for which he was suited. Two blocks farther on, he stopped to read a news board. The dam was operating at full capacity again. Cures for a number of neurological disorders, among them autism and epilepsy, were imminent. The Pet Sanctuary fundraiser was a resounding success; in a related story, spay-and-neuter rates were nearing 100 percent.
The Pet Sanctuary fundraiser ... Just as Pablo realized why it had caught his attention, another item appeared. REWARD, began the next item, for any information relating to the disappearance of MAMIE CARLYLE. The words dissolved and her picture formed. Her picture gave way to a description.
The notice made him think of Win, whom he'd kept out of his mind since getting on the train. Looking away from the board, he resumed walking. He had a future to plan.
He soon found a wayside on Hart Street. It was far from the places where he usually met Lily and his other acquaintances, and that was precisely why it appealed to him. For a few hours, at least, he did need to be alone.
The music within was soothing, not nerve jangling. The Public House Owners League had agreed a couple of years back not to permit raucous music until midafternoon. Some owners refused to offer it at all. Regenerie residents were developing an appreciation for the peace and quiet that reigned in the metroplex and, as a result, noise was rapidly becoming more the exception than the rule.
Pablo retreated to a corner table and ordered a milky Compleat, a concoction that contained a full complement of vitamins, minerals, and other essential nutrients. He needed to keep his strength up. There was a lot more walking and thinking in store for him before the day was out.
He dug his paper notebook out of his pack and laid it on the table. Staring at it, he silently cursed himself. He wished he could scrub his brain. Thoughts and images of Win plagued him. An urge to write a poem about Win seized and shook him.
Not good. Pablo wondered if he was actually falling in love or just falling prey to a romantic fantasy conjured by his own needs. He suddenly felt like a man struggling not to lose his balance at the edge of a precipice, arms pinwheeling to prevent a plunge.
"Fuck it. Play past it,” Pablo whispered, echoing the advice of an old poker buddy. He dropped his face to his hands.
Had be been too rash in his flight from Guardian Station?
No.
He told himself to put the whole episode behind him. Time and distance would pull him back from the edge. He'd just have to count on that.
To keep his mind occupied, Pablo jotted down the kinds of work he'd like to do, the kinds of people he'd like to meet, the way he'd like to live. It wasn't a formal blueprint, but the exercise did help him zero in on his values and priorities.
He kept coming back to Regenerie and that liaison job. And Win.
An hour passed, then two. Lunchtime brought more people into the Hart Street wayside. Pablo couldn't help but notice that nearly all were men. Most looked like Coms, but there were some Pros in the crowd, too. A few of them glanced at him and smiled.
Those are ice-breaker smiles, he thought and then realized he'd wandered into a gay gathering place. Since Pablo wasn't a “trawler"—a person who cruised from one public house to another, looking to net some action—he wasn't familiar with the reputations of Regenerie's various watering holes. He only knew that waysides served food and drinks, bars served drinks alone, and clubs offered drinks as well as drugs, dancing, and, sometimes, shadier activities. Their business hours differed.
In the course of forty minutes, he was approached three times. Courteous as the men were, Pablo had no desire to hook up with anybody. He'd need some time to get Win out of his system. Only then would he be open to another partner.
Just as the lunch hour peaked, Pablo saw something that knotted his stomach—a doughy face marked by a bland smile and pale, jittery eyes. Pie Man, probably searching for his next diversion.
Pablo turned down his head and drew on his drink straw.
That's when it hit him. That's when it clicked. There was a big snap in his mind that scattered all other thoughts and left a single, chilling connection. The lone word in a large font he'd seen on Pie Man's laptop was part of the same word he'd recently seen on a news board.
REWARD.

Chapter Eleven 
Same font. All letters uppercase. And, although the word on Pie Man's computer screen looked like a title or header, it wasn't centered. The word was skewed too far to the right—which is exactly how it would appear if an R and E preceded WARD but weren't visible from Pablo's viewing angle. Now that he thought about it, he may have glimpsed a ghostly hint of those letters, but he couldn't be sure.
If there was a connection, it didn't make sense.
When Pablo saw that word on Pie Man's computer, Mrs. Carlyle's disappearance hadn't yet been discovered. A husband wouldn't be composing a reward offer unless and until he was certain his wife had vanished. Moreover, based on what Tole had said after his phone conversation, Calvin Carlyle hadn't reported Mamie as missing until the following morning, which would have been yesterday morning.
The evening before last, when Pablo was with Pie Man at the penthouse, Mrs. Carlyle would still have been involved with her fundraiser, or maybe socializing afterward with some of the attendees. She wouldn't have been considered a missing person at that time. It was too soon.
Must be some weird coincidence.
Pablo kept trying to tell himself that, but he wasn't convinced. His physical reactions underscored his lack of conviction. There was a prickling along his spine that ran down his arms. His stomach felt like a nest of snakes.
He thought of walking up behind Pie Man and addressing him as Mr. Carlyle, just to see if he'd get a response. But that wouldn't work. He wasn't supposed to know Pie Man's identity. The guy would immediately be on his guard if it was his name.
Thinking he should contact the coveners, Pablo was about to pull out his cell when he reconsidered this move. If Tole answered the phone, his call would be futile. If Zee or Win answered, he'd be grilled about what he was doing, where he was going. Besides, he knew nothing for certain about Pie Man and was loath to cloud the waters with conjecture.
Pablo realized he would have to take a different, and much riskier, tack. He slipped his notebook into his backpack and rose from the table. Writhing, the snakes in his stomach coiled and uncoiled.
Pretending to be oblivious to Pie Man's presence, Pablo walked past him, ostensibly on his way to the men's room. It wasn't more than two seconds before he heard what he expected to hear.
"Pablo!"
Feigning surprise, he turned. Pie Man trundled toward him, pudgy hand outstretched. When the hand closed over his wrist, Pablo's flesh began to creep.
The man's eyes turned up to him. They had an almost preternatural sheen. “The Givers Agency said you were no longer with them.” His voice was hushed and hurried. “I nearly went into mourning!"
"I'm not with them,” Pablo said with all the composure he could muster. “I quit. I'm sort of freelancing now."
The man's palm had begun to sweat. His hand crept up Pablo's arm. “Please don't leave with one of these guys.” His gaze skittered around the room. “Come with me. Now. I've begun setting up a special room. A playroom."
"You'll still have to pay for my services."
"Yes, yes, of course. You know I have no problem with that. Name your price."
"We can discuss it later,” Pablo said. “Are you sure you can get away from your work?"
"I can do most anything I want. Nobody short of the Powers has much right to question me.” Pie Man's thin lips twitched toward a smile. “I'm too valuable to the metroplex."
Pablo slung his pack over his shoulder. “Let's go, then."
Idiot, chided the rational part of his mind.
He wondered if Win had fucked all better judgment right out of him.
* * * *
Same driver. Same destination. The penthouse looked just as sterile as it had two days ago. Maybe Pie Man didn't live here. Either that, or he had a dearth of personality and it was reflected in his surroundings.
The laptop and album were gone from the desk. Pablo dropped his backpack onto the same ottoman over which he'd earlier laid his clothes.
"Follow me,” Pie Man said, scurrying down a hallway.
Pablo followed. He felt hinky about this meeting, even more so than he'd felt before their first encounter. If he could just get the information he was after...
Pie Man opened a door at the end of the hallway. He flipped a light switch. Once Pablo was inside, Pie Man closed the door behind them. Pablo heard it lock. That didn't bode well, but he didn't feel unduly anxious. He could easily overpower this guy.
The room Pablo saw confused him at first. It looked like a storage area. Then he realized the space had been used for some other purpose until just recently. Its previous contents were in the process of being packed up. What appeared to be pieces of furniture were stacked in one corner, covered by a sheet or dropcloth. Boxes were piled in another corner. A tray full of cosmetics sat on top of them. It was an odd thing for a man to have, unless Pie Man was a cross-dresser.
It was the dungeon equipment that now took center stage.
"I've only just started on this,” Pie Man said. He strolled around his playroom, idly caressing the haphazard array of slings and halters, punishers and restraints.
Intuitively, Pablo knew the man had never bothered learning how to be a good Dom. Getting it right was a combination of training and instinct, with a hefty measure of sensitivity. But Pie Man didn't seem the type of person who appreciated tutelage. He probably just hopped around the Internet, viewing hardlove sites and slavering over pictures and videos of bondage. That was surely the same kind of stuff he enjoyed vicariously through his VR goggles.
"Do you know how to use all this stuff properly?” Pablo asked. He doubted it.
"Its use is pretty self-evident, wouldn't you say?” Pie Man picked up a cat-o'-nine and ran its leather tails over and over his palm. “I like to be spontaneous. I like to do whatever strikes my fancy at any given moment. It's the excitement factor that counts.” He pivoted to face his favorite sub. “You excite me, Pablo.” He slapped the cat against Pablo's crotch—not hard, just firmly enough to display his control. “Now strip."
"Before I do anything,” Pablo said, “I want you to tell me your name. Whenever I address you, I'd like to do it with a name.” For an extra measure of persuasion, he tacked on, “We need to develop more intimacy."
"I'll tell you once you're in position,” Pie Man said curtly, dismissing the request.
Pablo hesitated, then shed his clothing. He expected Pie Man to comment on how quickly and thoroughly his chest had healed. The man, who'd already started fondling him, didn't even seem to notice.
"Over here,” he said, already breathless. “Kneel with your back to this post."
"I won't tolerate any flogging today.” Pablo refused to move into any position until he got a guarantee. “You need to agree to that before we start. And if you go back on that agreement, I'll never come near you again."
"All right,” Pie Man said, eyeing his body. “No flogging. Not today. I give you my word."
There were things hanging from the post—studded leather straps and chains, bolted to the wood. The post itself was set into a broad, flat, steel base that was screwed into the floor. An upholstered chair sat a couple of meters in front of it.
Pablo knelt in front of the post. It wasn't much higher than his head. “Now tell me your name."
Pie Man lifted some of the straps. “You're not in position yet."
He fitted Pablo with an upper-body half harness. Leather straps came over his shoulders in a V and connected with another, wider strap that circled his torso just beneath the pecs. That wasn't so bad. But some of the bad came next. There was a short but sturdy length of chain hanging from the wooden post. Before Pablo knew what was happening, Pie Man secured the back of the harness to this chain, tethering Pablo to the post.
Breathing ever more heavily, Pie Man snapped leather straps around Pablo's thighs. Connected to each of these, also by a short length of chain, was a wrist cuff.
"No cuffs,” Pablo said, yanking his wrist out of Pie Man's clammy and trembling hand. “I want my arms free.” He pulled forward, testing the back chain. It held fast.
"Don't you dare defy me!” Face contorting, Pie Man slapped Pablo with a stunning alacrity and force he didn't seem capable of.
The blow staggered Pablo. His vision shattered into stars. As he reeled, dizzy and disoriented, Pie Man snapped the cuffs around his wrists.
"Argyle,” Pablo whispered, then exhaled a thin, convulsive laugh. It was his safe word. But he'd never had a chance to share it with Pie Man. What's more, this rapacious Dom would certainly not have respected it.
Of course Pie Man ignored the utterance. He didn't even bother asking what Pablo meant. Single-minded in his hunger, he grabbed a small metal chest from behind the post and opened it. He pulled out a Y-shaped length of chain. There were duck-billed clamps at the ends of the chain's arms. These he snapped on to Pablo's nipples, screwing them down until Pablo winced. Inhuman, excited sounds came from Pie Man's fleshy throat. There was a metal circlet at the bottom of the chain. Hands shaking, Pie Man fitted this around the base of Pablo's genitals.
If all the jackass did was jerk that chain a little while he beat off, Pablo had nothing to worry about. He was used to harnesses and nipple clamps and cock rings. At the moment, he was more concerned about getting Pie Man to drop his defenses and divulge some information. But Pablo soon realized he did indeed have something to worry about.
The next thing Pie Man lifted out of the box was a smaller black box. A controller. Anxiety speared Pablo's gut. He glanced at the chain that connected his chest to his groin. A wire ran through its links. A goddamned wire.
"Tell me your name,” Pablo rasped.
Pie Man clumsily removed his trousers and shorts. His winkie—Pablo couldn't bring himself to think of it as a cock—was already stiff. He stepped up to Pablo and swiped the head across his captive's sealed lips. Bending over, he tugged at the chain. Pablo arched forward as the clamps held, pulling his nipples.
"It's Edward,” he said. “Call me Master Edward."
Pablo knew he was lying. All Pie Man had coughed up was his chosen Dom name, not his real one.
He stumbled to the chair, lifted the controller, and sat holding the dreaded black box in two quaking hands.
"Stop right now,” Pablo growled. He had no other recourse.
"It won't harm you,” Pie Man said in a rush, unconcerned. “And I'll pay you well."
Clenching his jaw, Pablo braced himself.
A filament of current shot simultaneously into his nipples and through his genitals. He uttered a strangled whimper as his body reflexively bucked and his arms stiffened, bouncing out to the sides. Their movement was abruptly halted by the chains that connected the wrist cuffs to the thigh cuffs.
A spangling aftershock cascaded through him. The feeling might be arousing, he thought dimly, if the right man were at the controls. But “Master Edward” was not the right man. As the revolting and inept Dom pumped his own erection, Pablo felt a slight wave of nausea.
"I'll get your cock hard,” the man muttered. “Don't you want it standing up, hard and thick and tall?” His own words excited him.
A stronger bolt of electricity arrowed into Pablo's nipples and wound through his cock and balls. Spine bowing, he cried out. The sound appealed to Master Edward. Uttering a string of grunts, he stroked himself more furiously.
A sudden clatter, completely out place, broke through the haze of Pablo's pain. With a shriek of distressed metal and wood, the door blew inward and crashed to the floor, barely missing Master Edward's viewing chair.
What rushed into the room seemed more like a force than a being. Pablo first noticed shimmering wings, which folded up and back when the creature came through the empty doorway. He saw the head of cat—a leopard, perhaps—but it was on a man's body. Or maybe a rearing lion's.
The figure was little more than a misty gold swirl of muscle and movement. And fury.
Master Edward screamed like a terrified child and dropped his controller. He curled up until he resembled a shrimp, legs and arms drawn protectively against his trunk. Pablo thanked God for strange favors. Sagging forward in the harness, head hanging, his only thought was, Please release me before you slaughter me. That's all I ask.
"Mr. Carlyle,” a voice said evenly. It was a human voice. A familiar one.
Pablo looked up. He saw Pie Man look up. Then he saw Win.
There was no rabid were-leopard or gryphon in the room. Only Win, his erstwhile lover.
Pie Man's eyes bugged. The rest of his face melted like a candle. “Oh Jesus, you're one of the Triumvirate!"
"You bet I am. Now just stay where you are until I get this man freed. If you move before I tell you to, I swear you'll regret it.” Win approached the post and began undoing Pablo's clips and rings and bindings. He glanced over his shoulder at the man he'd pegged as Calvin Carlyle. “You cower well. Maybe you should consider being a submissive."
"How did you find me?” Pablo asked in a cracked voice.
"I can find anybody who means something to me. And the closer we've been, the clearer his or her location is."
"Does it have to do with ... psychic signals or something?"
"Something like that.” Win peered at the left side of Pablo's face then gingerly touched it. “Did the bastard hit you? Your skin is inflamed."
"Yeah. I struggled. He took offense.” Pablo managed a smile.
"Motherfucker's gonna pay.” A hint of bestial fury remained in Win's voice. He paused after he unclipped the back chain and ran a hand over Pablo's hair. “You damned fool, what possessed you to come here?"
Pablo explained the “reward” connection, how it had aroused his suspicions.
"No shit,” Win said. “Now that's interesting."
"But how did you know this asshole was Carlyle?” Pablo asked. “You said you'd never met him."
"We got his info yesterday, while you were taking your nap. Address, photo, lots of other details.” Win, now kneeling in front of Pablo, leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “When I set out to find you, it became pretty obvious as I neared this building that you were with Calvin Carlyle. This is the address he has on file as his residence. I couldn't imagine what was going on. Until I began to feel your discomfort."
Win pivoted on one knee and glared at the deposed master.
Carlyle pointed a quivering finger at Pablo. “Who ... who is he?"
Win's face clouded. “Someone I care about. A fine man with whom you've taken unacceptable liberties. And that displeases me more than I can say."
"I took no ‘unacceptable liberties'.” Carlyle snapped, showing his first sign of egotistical Vip defiance since Win's appearance. “That man is a damned prostitute. I've had him before. I certainly didn't force him to come home with me today."
Glowering, Win spun around and loomed over him. His shoulder blades seemed to jut out from his back. Pablo gaped at the sight. Then, with a noticeable lift and roll of his shoulders, Win settled back into his usual form.
"You try my patience, you foul, arrogant hypocrite.” The voice that spoke wasn't quite Win's. It was mean and deep, with a hint of gurgling rumble. “I advise you not to do it again. Now get out of that chair and get dressed. We're going to have a little chat."
Carlyle's bluster fell away like a shed skin. He floundered around in the chair, trying to gather enough coordination to rise.
When Win turned back to Pablo, he was completely himself again. He laid a hand on the uninjured side of Pablo's face. “Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Win, what the hell was that thing that came into the room?"
"I'll tell you in a little while. First I have to take care of some business.” After helping Pablo up, Win stepped over to Carlyle and shoved him toward the doorway.

Chapter Twelve 
Pablo got dressed as Win led Carlyle down the hall. Just before he left the makeshift dungeon, he stomped the controller box. Childish, but it brought him some satisfaction. He found the other two men in the living room—Win on the couch, Carlyle in a chair. He sat beside Win.
"Now tell me what's become of your wife,” Win said. “And don't try handing me any crap about an opalescent sidhe."
Carlyle's face distorted. Tears began spilled silently out of his eyes, blurring the pale blue into rippling puddles. “What's going to happen to me?"
"That depends on what you have to say."
Carlyle said nothing. He simply gulped air.
"You'll probably undergo a Conscience Examination to start with,” Win told him. “It seems some personality profiling is in order, just based on your behavior with Pablo and your behavior right now."
"I've been a productive citizen, an asset to the city. Surely that's in my favor.” The man's hope was pathetic. Pablo almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"It is,” Win said. “I doubt you're an ongoing, irredeemable menace to society, aside from the fact you don't know how to dominate worth a shit. So if you're guilty of something, you probably won't be consigned to a penal colony. There will be consequences, of course, but they'll be far worse if you lie."
Carlyle's chin quivered. “I had to get her out of my life,” he finally said. “She was suffocating me."
The way he spoke the words made Pablo's skin rise into gooseflesh.
"How was Mamie suffocating you?” Win asked.
"She wouldn't let me be what I am, wouldn't let me have what I need."
Pablo knew immediately what he meant. Carlyle got his sexual kicks through bondage and sadistic treatment of young men. It wasn't surprising that his wife—likely a staid, fiftyish socialite, active in church affairs—would find this preference impossible to tolerate.
"Has she known about your tastes all along?” Win's gaze hadn't moved from the man's stricken face.
Carlyle struggled to maintain his composure. “No. She just found out in the last month or so. When she discovered my ... things. The things I thought were hidden.” His face contorted. “Prying bitch,” he hissed.
As sickened as he was absorbed by this interrogation, Pablo merely listened. He couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to. The ball of lead in his throat matched the one in his stomach and the one that lay on his heart. Besides, Win maneuvered through these polluted waters with a cool-headedness Pablo couldn't hope to match.
Win had paused after Carlyle's vitriolic epithet. Maybe he wanted to absorb its implications. Or maybe he wanted to see if Carlyle would react to his own words. There was no reaction.
"So you came clean,” Win said.
"What choice did I have?” Carlyle dolefully wagged his head. “Oh, God, maybe I hoped she'd find the stuff. So, yes, I told her what I wanted, what I wanted more than anything. I told her I planned on going after it because I couldn't bear depriving myself any longer. I had to tell her."
Steepled forefingers pressed to his lips, Win stared at the man for a silent moment. “I assume she had difficulty accepting this side of you."
"Difficulty?” Carlyle barked out a bitter laugh. “She threatened to expose me, publicly humiliate me if I pursued my ... my needs. She even threatened to have me followed and to get photographic evidence.” He stretched his hands toward his questioner. “Don't you see? My private life would've become a public spectacle! I surely would have lost my position on the Interfaith Council. My reputation within the political and professional communities would have suffered too. People would have looked at me like ... like some kind of freak."
Win then voiced what Pablo was thinking. “Why didn't you just get a divorce?"
"Because we've been married for thirty-one years, and Mamie couldn't give up, wouldn't give up what those thirty-one years had brought her. Money, status, the respect of the community. Her delusion that we've been close, that we've been a happily married couple. She wanted to force me into prolonging that delusion for her. She tried to coerce me into self-denial."
Carlyle uttered this last sentence as if it were speaking about the most reprehensible act in the world. And maybe, to him, it was. Living a lie for decades, being unable to satisfy his deepest desires. Pablo was surprised the man hadn't killed himself. But he was clearly too selfish to take that route and too much of a coward to pull his true nature out of the cellar and into the light. Instead, he eliminated what he saw as the one impediment to his personal fulfillment.
Holy shit. The things people did to themselves. Pablo wondered how often the Coven of Three was drawn into such toxic webs. He particularly admired Win, who managed to keep an even temper and a sense of fair play while drawing Carlyle out. That strange episode of shape-shifting, whether real or illusory, mattered less and less.
"Do you have any children?” Win asked the Vip.
With a series of jerks, as if he had a tic, Carlyle shook his head. “I never wanted any. It didn't feel right."
"Well, that's a minor blessing.” Win took a deep breath and expelled it. Dropping his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment and shoved his hands into his hair. Then he looked at Pablo. “Is there anything you want to say to this man? You have a right to speak your mind, you know."
Within his slack and misery-drenched face, Calvin Carlyle's gaze moved haltingly in Pablo's direction. The former giver now knew why he'd suffered at the Vip's hands. The cruelty was, he suspected, a boil-over of the man's long-simmering inner conflict. Every harsh stroke of that flail or upping of amperage said, Goddamn you, I crave you, and I love how you excite me, but I hate you for instilling me with that craving and that excitement. It's because of you my wife had to be dispatched.
Eyes suddenly stinging, Pablo pulled his thumb and forefinger against them.
Win gave him a solicitous glance but let him be.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you,” Carlyle mumbled. “I thought I could do whatever I wanted with you, that you'd even like it. I thought your type was used to it."
On those words, Pablo vaulted from empathy into outrage. “My type?” His voice felt like a roar as it exploded from his chest. “You mean the type who loves long, slow kisses with men like this?” He pointed at Win. “The type who watches birds and writes poetry and likes feeling the pink hair of black girls beneath his palms? That type?” He took two deep, ragged breaths. “You didn't want to do anything with me; you just wanted to do shit to me.” Finally freeing his outrage, he launched himself in Carlyle's direction.
Bolting up from the couch, Win caught him around the waist, hugging him as much as restraining him. “You might have a bit of Penemue in you,” he whispered against Pablo's ear. Whatever it meant, and Pablo had no clue, it helped stop his forward momentum.
"I think, Mr. Carlyle,” Win said, “you'll never fully know and accept yourself until you try knowing and accepting others. I was inclined to pity you until the depth of your self-absorption became clear."
"But I didn't mean to hurt him!"
"Yes,” Win said, “you did. And without bothering to find out first if that's what he wanted. In fact, I'm willing to bet you never even bothered asking your wife for a divorce. You just wanted her out of the way. Now tell me how it came down and don't feed me any bullshit. What you saw before was only a hint of what I can become."
The guilty man shrank into the cushions of the fine leather chair, as if he could disappear into their embrace. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at nothing. When he spoke, his statement was a flat recitation. “I told Mamie I'd hired a second driver and he'd be picking her up after the fundraiser. I told her to meet him at a nearby parking ramp where he'd be waiting for her, since she didn't know exactly when the event would end."
"Who was this driver?"
Carlyle gave a laconic shrug. He looked disconnected. “Some worker at the methane plant. We just sort of hit it off when I was there. It was obvious but not obvious, if you know what I mean. So I slipped him a business card. We got together a few times.” Carlyle's watery gaze shifted in Win's direction. “Nothing heavy. Just some mutual fondling.” His eyes returned to that empty space. “He needed money. I can't remember for what. I gave him some, but it wasn't enough. So we struck this deal."
"What's his name?” Win asked more stridently, emphasizing each word.
"I'm not sure. I think it started with a B. Maybe an R.” Carlyle's thin lips moved into a bemused smile. “Funny how he hardly seems real anymore."
"Fuck it,” Win said, fed up with Carlyle's fogginess. “He'll be found. So where did he take Mamie?"
"Where do you think?"
"I ask the questions and you answer."
"The landfill,” Carlyle said. He made it sound like the most sensible recourse, as if he were talking about garbage disposal. “The guy said he had access to ... to the incinerator that's used for...” He stopped speaking, as if a circuit had blown.
"Carrion,” Win said. “Roadkill."
No response came from Carlyle.
Win slapped his knees. “Well. Mystery solved. Law enforcement can take it from here."
Pablo's ill feeling intensified.
Rising from the couch, Win pulled his cell from his jacket pocket. “Would you mind watching Mr. Carlyle for a minute?” he asked Pablo. “I have to make a couple of calls. In private. It won't take long."
Pablo nodded. Carlyle looked catatonic.
Win turned toward the suspect. “Now you listen to me,” he said, pointing and shaking a finger, “if you head for the door or try going after my friend in any way, I will shred your ass and kick the pieces from here to eternity. After Pablo kicks your ass, that is, since he already has every right to do so.” Win leaned forward. “Do you understand?"
Carlyle's bleary gaze only fleetingly moved in Win's direction.
"Do you understand?" 
"Yes.” The word was barely audible.
Win strode toward the hallway that led to the dungeon room. Maybe he wanted to grab some handcuffs, too.
Carlyle watched him for a moment then looked at Pablo. “He's quite beautiful, isn't he?"
"Yes,” Pablo whispered. His lips hardly moved.
"Are you lovers?"
Not only did the question have no clear answer, but Carlyle had no right to ask it. Still, Pablo heard himself say, “Yes."
"How wonderful it must be,” Carlyle said in a monotone, “to be young and have a beautiful lover."
Pablo stared down at his hands. His eyes began to fill. He squeezed them shut for a second, forcing back the tears.
A few minutes passed. Pablo's mind went blank.
"I need some air.” Carlyle got up from the chair.
"You can't leave."
"Obviously,” Carlyle said with a limp smile. “You're far stronger than I."
The statement struck Pablo. “Yes, I am,” he said, finally able to look at the man. “In more ways than you realize."
"I just need some air.” Carlyle shambled toward the balcony, the same balcony from which an opalescent man of the wind supposedly leered at poor Mamie.
Pablo turned on the couch to watch him. It wasn't really necessary. They were thirty floors up.
Win reappeared. He immediately noticed Carlyle's absence. “Where's—?” Following the line of Pablo's gaze, he murmured, “Not good."
Just as Calvin Carlyle's form folded over the railing like a sack of grain and dropped from view.
* * * *
The next couple of hours went by in a blur. Pablo was numb. With all thought and feeling suspended, he moved about like a robot.
Using his magical prowess, Win kept Carlyle's broken body from public view by throwing up barriers at either end of the block. He called for an ambulance and the coroner; he'd already called the police. He and Pablo then went down to the sidewalk to await the arrival of the authorities. Pablo had the foresight to bring a blanket from the penthouse.
Win removed his supernatural roadblock just as the first jetcop landed. At least the body was concealed now. A few other jetcops hovered over the site, the thrusters on their personal transports stirring up leaves and street dust and threatening to uncover the corpse. When they noticed this, they flew farther away before landing. A couple of police cruisers pulled up to the curb.
Giving statements took the longest time. Pablo got to meet the mysterious Reynolds, a burly, sandy-haired man who was one of the coven's contacts in the Overcity. Personable in a businesslike way, he held some important position, but nobody bothered explaining what that position was.
Between the first and second round of questioning, while Carlyle's body was being prepared for its trip to the morgue, the two witnesses walked a half block away from the scene and sat on a public bench in front of a makeover shop, a place where people went in search of youth and beauty. One of Pablo's former coworkers, Suze, had once been a consultant in a makeover shop. She'd quit the position because, she said, it was too depressing.
Now Pablo understood her reaction. He wondered if Calvin Carlyle had ever come to this house of smoke and mirrors, buying into its illusions, hoping to make himself more appealing to the young men he so coveted.
The thought further saddened him.
"How are you holding up?” Win asked. He linked his little finger around Pablo's and gave it a quick squeeze.
"I'm okay. Just drained, exhausted. It's been a pretty grueling day."
"To say the least."
They exchanged lackluster smiles.
Their slight but meaningful contact made Pablo realize he didn't want to walk away from Win. Not again. A bond had formed between them. Maybe its first link was forged the very moment they looked into each other's eyes.
Then again, Pablo thought, maybe he was being overly sentimental and idealistic, simply in reaction to the day's sordid events. And in reaction to Win's rescue.
A disturbing possibility had been nagging at him. He had to bring it up, because he cared about Win. Whether or not his feelings were exaggerated right now, Pablo did care.
"Won't you get into trouble for taking this into your own hands?” he asked.
"How so?"
"You know. Super-magician or not, you've just meddled in a high-profile investigation involving a Vip. You actually interrogated him. And your interference led to his suicide. At least that's how the Powers are going to see it. Shit, they're going to come down on you like—"
"Don't worry. That's not going to happen."
"How can you be so sure?"
Win glanced down the street as Calvin Carlyle's body was lifted into the ambulance. “We are the Powers, Pablo."

Chapter Thirteen 
"We who?” Pablo asked.
"The Coven of Three. Well, the metroplex bigwigs call us the Triumvirate. That's our official title."
Pablo gaped at him. “You mean, you, Tole, and Zee? Just the three of you?"
Win smiled at his astonishment. “Just the three of us."
"The Powers? Of the whole damned Utopian Metroplex of Regenerie?"
Win chuckled. “Yes. That's why our headquarters is called Guardian Station. We're the city's guardians. That's why we're called Alterationists. We can alter reality ... to a point.” He leaned toward Pablo's ear. “The public doesn't know any of this, of course."
"What about the other residents of Guardian Station?"
"They act as our assistants. And they're part of the camouflage."
Pablo gathered his wits enough to ask the next logical question. “So, you're not just practitioners of magic?"
"Well, we are. Sort of. But not just."
"Then what else are you? Something must qualify three men to have such control."
"We're not just men, either. We're hybrids.” Win made the explanation sound both evident and logical.
"Hybrids,” Pablo echoed, still lost. “What's—?"
"Angelic-demonic-human. Each of us has a different mix. In Tole, the demonic element dominates the angelic. Needless to say. In Zee, it's just the opposite.” Win smiled. “I'm fairly well-balanced, except when I get really pissed off. As you saw."
Pablo had trouble accepting this. It didn't seem possible. This overtly sensual man, the best lover he'd ever had, couldn't be anything but human. And his irreverent humor, his sensitivity ... No, it wasn't possible.
"What did I see?” he asked. “I mean, when you came bursting into that room."
"I guess you could call it the evidence of my demonic heritage. That was Sitri, one of my ancestors. A Great Prince of Hell."
Pablo drew back, his eyes rounding.
"Don't look so horrified,” Win said, laughing. “I told you, he only manifests when I'm over-the-top enraged. I have more than enough Seraphim influence to keep Sitri in check. More than enough."
"Seraphim,” Pablo repeated.
"Mm-hm."
"What ... what about the others?” Pablo remembered that weird morphing of Tole's appearance, earlier in the day. And the startling change in Zee's voice.
"Tole has a really wild mix of ancestors,” Win said, “heavy on the nasties—six, actually. But there are Throne and Dominion angelic influences there, too. His birth name is Maligar. Zee carries a bit of Eligos, a Duke of Hell, but his primary line of descent comes from the angelic Principalities. His birth name is Thimien."
"And yours is Aethiel."
"So you picked up on that."
Pablo nodded, or thought he did. He was too bowled over to be fully aware of his reactions. “But, you all look and act like men."
"That's because we are men, primarily. The shifting thing is ... well, let's just say it's rare. And each of us has a personally tailored incantation that keeps the bad boys in check.” Win beamed like the naughty devil he partially was. “I just didn't feel like reciting mine today."
It was a lot to digest. Pablo's humble, thoroughly human life had become tangled up with angels and demons. The Powers. Could he extricate himself? Should he?
"Why don't you live in one of the mansions I've heard about?” Pablo asked, making a desperate attempt to prove this was all a fabrication. “Or the most luxurious penthouse in the highest rise? Why do you live in the Undercity, of all places?"
"It's important we stay safe. And part of that entails laying low. An assassin could take us down as easily as he could take you down. Nature could, too. For millennia, creatures have sought safety underground.” Win rose from the bench. “Come on, let's wrap this up and get the fuck out of here.” He paused, looking down at Pablo. “Please, please come back with me to the Undercity. We need you."
Pablo balked. “That isn't good enough.” It pained him to be so blunt.
Win gave him a puzzled look.
"Listen, I'm not going back to that madhouse just because you need some missing ingredient for your mystical power mix."
"You're not just an ‘ingredient.’ There's more to it than that. And if you're worried about Tole—"
"Of course I'm worried about Tole! Fucker is eighty-parts demon and despises me. I'd say that's cause for concern."
Win's lips pursed in a smile. “He doesn't despise you. He envies you, just like he envies me."
"Why does he envy us?"
"Because we're more human than he is. And because we're drawn to each other.” Win dropped to one knee in front of the bench and looked into Pablo's face. “I need you. And I want you. Is that good enough?"
Pablo wanted desperately to touch him. But they were in public, and they'd just witnessed a man's suicide, and Win was one of the mighty Powers. And, and, and...
"Go ahead,” Win said softly. “Touch me.” Those blue-feather eyes carried their own message.
Pablo slid his hand down Win's glossy hair to the side his face. Aethiel, he thought. The name suited him.
Putting a hand over Pablo's, Win turned his head and kissed Pablo's palm. “You still haven't told me if my reason is good enough."
"It isn't good enough,” Pablo said. “It's better than that.” Then, realizing where this concession could lead, he thought, my dumb ass.
* * * *
It didn't take long for the men to fulfill their obligation to on-scene investigators. After several more questions and answers, they were free to head back to Guardian Station. Carlyle's body had been whisked away. A street cleaner now scrubbed away all evidence of his demise.
"You told us you'd been to the Undercity a couple of times in the past,” Win said as they walked toward the saner world. “Where did you go? I meant to ask you yesterday, but then Irinia appeared."
Smiling at the recollection, Pablo nodded. “Well, once I went down there with a client. He wanted me to service him while we rode the train. We never got off anywhere, though."
"Did he get off?” Win gave him a playful poke in the ribs. “By the way, do you realize how easily you blush?"
"I hadn't been aware of it until lately.” Feigning annoyance, Pablo swiped Win's hand away. He was tempted to hold it but didn't. “Yeah, he got off. A couple of times. It must've given him some weird kick to have sex in the UC."
"Was he a UC resident?"
"I don't know. He didn't tell me much of anything."
"Most of your clients probably weren't too forthcoming,” Win said. “What about the other time?"
"I came down with a couple of friends who wanted to consult the seers at Vizo."
"Understandable. That's usually where Overcity residents go."
They stopped at a corner. Win looked both ways down the street, probably trying to determine which sub entrance to head toward.
"Why do seers live in the UC, anyway?” Pablo asked. “They're not Otherbeings."
"They're not ordinary human beings, either. They just prefer to live with their own kind. Besides, they all earn more money by congregating in one place. So they're bound together by economic as well as esoteric interests.” Win nudged Pablo into turning left. “Come on, let's go this way."
They never did hold hands as they walked along. Neither circled an arm around the other's waist. They just sauntered side by side, two seemingly ordinary citizens who could be friends or coworkers, engaged in casual conversation.
Casual but decidedly odd conversation.
"I didn't know demons and angels fucked,” Pablo said.
"Of course they fuck. How else can they procreate? More important, how else can they get their rocks off?"
Pablo snorted. “I didn't know they needed to do either."
"Maybe they don't need to, but they sure like to. They can even do some strange kind of coupling when they're not in body. If it's uninvited, though, it's called invasion. And that's some serious shit."
"You don't think Tole would ever..."
"Hell, no.” Win turned onto another street, and Pablo followed his lead. “I told you, all of us are more human than anything else. We don't go around shifting at will. If we did, which I doubt is even possible, there'd be pretty severe consequences."
Stopping at a cart near Sixth and Shinen, Win bought a bag of Tunglees, a candy for which he had a passion. Pablo thought the stuff was freaky even though it was lauded as “the ultimate taste treat.” A complex blend of flavors, it slithered around the eater's mouth, all by itself. Each flavor cluster was somehow drawn to just the right place on the tongue.
It wasn't only the nature of their conversation that made this a very strange afternoon stroll. The fact it was so pleasantly mundane just didn't jibe with the events that preceded it. As Win chatted with the vendor, Pablo suddenly realized he and Win needed to inject the day with some normalcy. If they were ignoring the hovering phantom of Carlyle's felony and suicide, it was only because they knew they couldn't avoid it indefinitely. They'd undoubtedly face the whole ugly mess again, in one way or another.
It's okay, Pablo thought. This is right. Affirming his belief, he lightly ran a hand down Win's back. Turning to look at him, Win flashed a delighted, fond smile.
Good for us, thought Pablo. They had every right and every reason to seek refuge in a peaceful interlude.
Pablo looked around and took in the city.
He saw Regenerie, in all its humaneness and efficiency, through new eyes. The urban features he once took for granted now seemed more worthy of appreciation. Mature trees lined both sides of the avenue. The flower boxes set between them were “greenhoused” now, allowing their plantings to thrive throughout the fall and winter. No snow or ice would ever coat the sidewalk beneath his feet or the street than ran parallel; sensors set in the pavement would trigger a flow of just enough heat to keep them clear.
Passersby—most of them, anyway—had an air of contentment. A near-perfect environment could not eliminate all sources of unhappiness, though, so there were a few grim faces. People were complex creatures.
Pablo's gaze crept upward, moving over the surrounding rises. He'd never taken much time to study the ever-changing art that decorated their facades. Overhead, the serpentine white tracks of the air-rail wound between buildings and skywalks.
"Sure you don't want something?” Win asked, turning to him.
"No, thanks.” Pablo shifted his backpack.
"You getting sick of toting that around?"
"Yeah. My shoulders are starting to knot up a little. Could be tension as much as anything."
"Take it off,” Win told him. “Then turn your back to me."
Pablo did so.
Win swept his flattened hands over Pablo's back and shoulders. He lifted the pack from the sidewalk.
"Okay, it'll follow you now, not hang on you."
Turning his head, Pablo peered over his shoulder. The pack seemed to be bobbing at his back like a balloon. Knowing a practitioner of magic certainly had its advantages. “That trick must come in handy."
"It does.” Win briefly closed his eyes and moaned in satisfaction as the Tunglee in his mouth glided over an appropriate section of taste buds. The candy's aroma and movement were also supposed to enhance the consumer's pleasure.
"I wish you wouldn't eat those things around me,” Pablo said. “It sounds like you're getting off."
Win chuckled and swallowed. “Kind of feels that way. Why do you think I love these damned things?"
They resumed walking.
"No appetite?” Win asked.
"Not much."
"I take it you're still upset about what happened today."
Up rose the phantom. Pablo didn't want to face it again. Not just yet. “I'm trying not to be,” he said.
Win paused. “You feel sorry for Carlyle. Even after what he did to you. And what he did to his wife."
Pablo shrugged and continued walking. He couldn't admit to his sympathy. He resented these feelings, since the late Vip sure as hell didn't deserve them. But the Carlyles’ deaths were just such a colossal, senseless waste.
"Must be a bitch to transform a city into a utopian metroplex,” Pablo said, “when your raw materials are human beings.” Regenerie was so clean, so very, very clean and orderly on the surface, yet beneath the harmonious of hum of perfect progress, an ugly dissonance droned. How could three beings possibly keep it in check? It suddenly seemed an absurd case of arrogance to apply the adjective utopian to any earthly settlement. Or maybe it was an absurd case of hope. Like Pablo's own aspirations were.
Win, head downturned, was silent for a moment. “It's definitely a challenge,” he finally replied. “People can be a royal pain in the ass. Since we can't do much to change them, we're always trying to figure out how best to deal with them."
"Why can't you change people like Carlyle?” Pablo made an arc with one arm, indicating the city around them. “Look at everything else you've done for the common good."
Autumn leaves danced around their feet. Win gave the still ones a few desultory kicks. “We can't countermand human will, Pablo. People were granted wills for a reason. We're not allowed to read their minds, either, although we can sometimes pick up on feelings and urges."
"Like you can with me?” Pablo asked, for he'd suspected as much.
Win gave his back a quick, affectionate rub. “Yeah, kind of. It's easier with you than most, because of our, you know...” He didn't seem to know what to call it any more than Pablo did.
"Attraction is good enough,” Pablo said. “So, how are you allowed to deal with people?"
"Well, we can educate, persuade, entice, even intimidate. When all else fails, we can cull out and isolate the twisted pricks who pose the worst threat to society. We can try to foresee problems and take proactive measures. We can work a little ‘magic’ to facilitate desirable changes. But we can't alter human nature and individual will or penetrate minds."
"I suppose that would be the ultimate invasion,” Pablo said, torn between respecting and pitying the Triumvirate. “Okay, so why don't you just eliminate all frustration and unhappiness and anger by giving everybody what they want? I mean, so long as it isn't destructive."
"And what's your definition of destructive?” Win had probably heard this proposal before, scoffed at it before. “Think about it. Nobody would ever die. That, needless to say, would lead to gross overpopulation. And everybody would be drowning in money. That, needless to say again, would destroy the economy. We'd have a society of consumers with nothing to consume, because there'd be nobody willing to produce goods or provide services."
It didn't take much reasoning to see where such a situation would lead. Constant, complete wish fulfillment would only generate laziness and a selfish sense of entitlement. It would also strip people of their dreams and aspirations, motivation and determination.
"Would you want everything handed to you on a silver platter?” Win asked.
Loaded as the question was, it didn't influence Pablo's answer. “All I've ever wanted,” he said, “was opportunity.” Maybe for the first time ever, he realized this had always been the most fundamental of his desires.
Win looked pleased.
"I'm sure I'm not the only metroplex resident who feels that way,” Pablo added. “Shit, Win, all the Powers really need to do is put a little more effort into clearing our paths."
Win nodded. “That's one of the reasons we need an ordinary citizen among us. Someone who can adjust our perspective and give us more insight into the lives we're supposed to be improving. Someone who can make us more aware of what's going on up here, from the bars to the boardrooms.” He laid a hand on Pablo's shoulder. “You can help open our eyes. Changes are coming, and you'll have a hand in instituting them."
There it was again—the “missing ingredient” factor. Pablo wondered why it so rankled. There was nothing insulting about the view; just the opposite, in fact. Being seen as a vital component of the Powers should have flattered the hell out of him. In speaking of him this way, Win was giving him the ultimate and ideal nod of acceptance.
Only...
Only now, Pablo felt a whole new yearning. Win's attention had sparked more than physical desire in him. It had sparked emotional needs, as well. Pablo wasn't even aware he had such needs. He'd never allowed himself to have them.
Silently, Pablo chided himself. He really had to get over this reaching-for-romance crap. It was turning him into mush. Where did he get off wanting anything more than respectful treatment from Win? The fact they got along so well, both in and out of bed, was a big enough bonus.
Win regarded him as they walked along. “If I may make a suggestion,” he finally said, treading lightly on the words, “you do need to work on something."
"What's that?"
"Getting your face not to betray every damned thing you're feeling."

Chapter Fourteen 
The two of them turned down the stairway at the Belle Avenue sub entrance. Pablo wasn't sure where in the UC this would land them, but Win seemed to know what he was doing.
Pablo still felt apprehensive about seeing Tole again. “You know,” he said, “considering you're the Powers, you three are pretty screwed up."
Win's laughter rang through the stairwell. “I know. It's ironic, isn't it? A high-toned utopian metroplex run by a contentious trio of hybrids. But it's the hand we were dealt. So we have to make the best of it."
"I hope things have settled down since I left Guardian this morning."
"I'm guessing they have."
Pablo stopped. “You're guessing."
"That's all I can do,” Win said, “since I'm not there. I did talk to Tole. I could tell he's relieved we don't have to deal with that Mamie Carlyle investigation. Now the Undercity won't be overrun."
Putting one hand on the stair rail, Pablo resumed his descent. “I take it he's not too fond of people."
"He likes people just fine if they behave. Kind of how most adults feel about children ... only he's a lot more honest about it."
"Was it his idea,” Pablo asked, “to put those new restrictions into effect?"
"It was, but we all readily agreed. I suspect you know why after yesterday's tour. Overcity residents will still have access to Vizo and more limited access to Guardian. If people want to go to the other stations, they'll have to come up with some compelling reasons. We don't want the OBs we're sheltering to be harassed or, worse yet, attacked."
They neared the ticket area. When Pablo started digging in his pockets for money and ID card, Win gently grabbed his wrist. “You don't have to worry about that stuff. Not for this ride, anyway."
Win didn't have to mess with coins and ID cards and tokens, gates and turnstiles. Of course he didn't. He merely had to touch whatever impediments lay between them and the platform. Like magic—of course like magic—the way was open. A train came hurtling toward them within minutes.
"Where are we, exactly?” Pablo asked as the train approached.
"We're near Raiser right now,” Win said. Lifting a hand, he gave the tendons of Pablo's neck an encouraging squeeze. “It won't be a long ride."
Once they boarded, Pablo didn't much feel like talking. Win, also taciturn, sat beside him. The train rocked softly as it sped along. Pablo's exhaustion soon weighted his eyelids. He briefly dozed off, his head resting against the window. It was a deep, dreamless sleep. When he awoke, his head was on Win's shoulder. He lifted it, trying to disentangle himself from the arms of Morpheus.
The train began to slow. Win rose from the seat.
"Are we back at Guardian?” Pablo asked, looking up at him.
For a disjointed moment, he had the impression he'd just fallen asleep rather than awakened. The man standing over him, that creature of such unearthly beauty, seemed like a tour guide through an ongoing dream.
"Yes,” Win said. “We're home."
As Pablo's levitating backpack dutifully bobbed between his shoulder blades, he paused after he stepped onto the Guardian Station platform. He had to reorient himself, cast off the last vestiges of that strange illusion. It was the second time in as many days that he'd felt this way.
Win, just a half pace ahead of him, stopped and turned. “Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing. It's just that when I woke up on the train, the past two or three days seemed ... unreal."
Stepping up to Pablo, Win curled a hand around the back of his head. The blue of Win's eyes seemed to filter into him, right to the soul. Win's head lowered—just a bit, since he was only an inch taller. And Pablo again felt the expressive, warm press of his lips.
It was no dream. Unearthly beauty or not, this man was definitely made of flesh and blood.
When the kiss broke, Win's cheek slid over Pablo's. The sandy whisper and slight abrasion of stubble grazing skin was also undeniably real. Win's hand hadn't moved. The two of them just stood there for a moment, faces joined, while Pablo let himself be grounded by Win's presence.
"Thank you.” Pablo's hand rose and glided through Win's hair. His lips flexed against Win's ear, placing a tender kiss. “I think I needed that."
"I did too.” Win eased back. “Not for the same reason, but I needed it too."
Dawdling, Pablo hooked his thumbs in his pockets and studied his boots. His swelling feelings didn't rest easy on his heart. Being moonstruck wasn't so bad when he and Win were alone together, away from Guardian Station. It was almost possible to believe they were two ordinary men on the verge of becoming a couple. But back here—facing the prospect of confronting Tole and Zee, entering the mysterious workroom, assuming significant responsibilities, dealing with all manner of powerful and delicately balanced forces—it became glaringly clear there was nothing ordinary about their relationship.
"Win, maybe we should cool it. For a while, anyway. This you-and-me thing, it's sort of muddling my mind. I don't want to—"
Pablo shut up. Every phrase he came up with to fill in that blank seemed to paint him a silly adolescent, lacking in self-possession and easily misled. I don't want to ... misinterpret your attention; get in too deep to get out; start assuming we're committed when we're actually not.
All these, and more, would have summed up his concerns. Problem was, they carried the same implication—I'm such an impressionable dipshit that I'm already infatuated with your gorgeous angel-demon-human ass, and soon I'll be writing love poems about you, and then I'll be on a one-way street to Crazy Fool. So it's best you don't feed my idealism.
A furrow had formed between Win's eyebrows. “That kiss didn't say ‘Let's cool it.’”
"Yeah, well, my body wants one thing and my mind wants something else."
"But I thought you enjoyed being with me as much as I enjoyed being with you."
"More, probably.” Pablo had trouble looking at him.
Win studied his face. “Does this have to do with the things you found out today?"
"No, not really."
"You sure Sitri didn't put you off? Or finding out yesterday that I've had sex with OBs?"
"I'm sure. Pretty sure, anyway."
Win lifted then dropped his arms, hands landing with a muffled slap against his thighs. “Then what the fuck, Pablo?"
"I just think I should save some of myself, so to speak, for Tole and Zee. And, you know, concentrate on my other duties.” Pablo tried to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “You're a big distraction."
Win forked the fingers of one hand into his hair and scratched his head. He gave another shrug, more resigned than flustered. “Okay, whatever you think is best. But we can't avoid all contact. Even sexual contact. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I know.” Pablo searched for some significant difference. “It'll be in a professional capacity, though. Under controlled circumstances. With the other two present."
"The circumstances won't be that controlled,” Win said dryly. He gave the matter more thought then concluded his ruminations with a sigh. “Well, maybe you're right. Maybe we need to pull back."
No! 
"My mind could be a little muddled, too,” Win said. “Hard to tell sometimes if I'm being too impulsive and self-indulgent or if I'm fulfilling a destiny. Or if I'm doing something else entirely.” He paused once more. “Beats the hell out of me. I don't know what personal relationships are about. I've never been in one that's meant anything to me."
No. 
Pablo wondered just what the hell he wanted or expected to hear. Say it isn't so, dear Pablo! Can't you see I'm falling in love with you?
Son of a bitch. How did he ever get to be such a sap?
Saying nothing more, they approached the narrow street where the red-shingled building numbered 86 was located.
A tall figure appeared, jogging toward them.
Tole filled up the street like an avenging angel. His flame-colored hair blazed through the gloom. The long black coat he wore—more like a sleeveless robe, for it was open down the front—flapped behind him.
He wore pants but no shirt beneath the coat. A necklace swayed across his bare chest. Slowing his steps, Pablo watched as Tole got closer. He looked menacing, yes, but also damned captivating.
Coming to a stop, he addressed Win. “We've been waiting for you. Maybe you should go talk to Zee."
As usual, it was difficult to tell what Tole was feeling. Outrage, mere irritation, jubilation, sexual excitement—they all presented themselves with the same smoldering intensity.
After casting them both an inscrutable look, Win shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and kept walking toward the coven's house. He'd said nothing. It was as if he could gauge Tole's mood in an instant.
Pablo, however, could not. He wasn't afraid, just on guard. Arms tensing, his fingers curled into his palms. He remained alert, forcing himself not to stare at Win's retreating form.
Tole waited until Win went inside before he spoke. “Well,” he said, turning to Pablo, “you came back."
"Got a problem with that?"
"Not particularly. Not anymore."
"Why?"
Tole uttered a single laugh. “You're a defiant bastard, aren't you, Creed?"
"Not as defiant as I should be.” When Pablo realized Tole hadn't come gunning for him, he let himself relax. “Right now I might be a little testy, though."
"You're entitled."
Tole didn't know the half of it, but Pablo saw no need to enlighten him. They began walking toward the red-shingled residence. Once they reached it, Tole lingered outside. Pablo sensed the man wanted to talk to him alone, so he leaned against the wall and waited. Accommodating this movement, the floating backpack shifted to his right.
"Win called and told us what happened,” Tole said, facing him.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Pablo nodded. “I know."
"That was pretty ballsy of you, hooking up with Carlyle again on a hunch. Pretty sharp, too."
"Or pretty stupid."
"Could've been. But, from what Win said, it sounds like Sitri emerged. Did he?"
"Yup. In all his raging glory."
"Unholy shit.” This revelation drew a rare smile from Tole. He seemed pleased and impressed. “That's highly unusual. Win must've really been pissed off."
"Guess so."
Tole's smile widened for just an instant. “So, score one for the good guys."
Looking down, Pablo bumped the heel of one boot against the toe of the other. “Nobody scored. Nobody won."
"Sounds like you feel bad for Carlyle."
The assumption made Pablo uncomfortable. He fidgeted, flexing his still-folded arms. “Yeah, in a way. I feel bad for the metroplex, too, considering his contributions."
"Hm. Well, dicked if that doesn't make you the proverbial hooker with the heart of gold."
Pablo looked up. The man loaded with demonic genes was grinning.
"Fuck you, Tole. I don't feel that bad."
"As I said before, there may be hope for you yet."
"Gee, thanks."
Tole's eyes still wouldn't release him. His grin shrank, becoming more of a pensive smile. “Do you think Win will ultimately be your prize if you stay?"
The question made Pablo's heart skip, but he didn't betray his surprise. Or his fresh despair. “I think doing a good job will ultimately be my prize. I have no expectations when it comes to Win."
"Desires, though, yes?"
"Yes. I won't try to deny it."
"Physical or otherwise?” Now it was Tole who looked down. His own prying seemed to embarrass him. “Hey, never mind. I had no right to ask you that."
"I wouldn't have known how to answer anyway,” Pablo said, warming to him. He realized he was seeing a side of Tole he hadn't yet seen, and its facets were possibly more indicative of the man's true nature than all that hostility and snide skepticism Tole had initially thrown his way.
Tole sucked in his cheeks. It was several seconds before he raised his eyes and spoke. “I truly don't know what to make of this. You and Win, how your presence is affecting us. It's something I've never dealt with before, something we've never dealt with before."
"I haven't either. This is new to me, too."
Tole nodded and again lapsed into private thought. “I believe you're a decent man, Pablo Creed."
"I'd like to think so."
Mouth snapping into a fleeting, rueful smile, Tole abruptly ran both hands down either side of Pablo's face. There was admiration in the gesture. “Fuckin’ Aethiel always gets there first."
* * * *
After Pablo and Win gave the other two men a short briefing over a modest dinner, Pablo retired to his quarters. The used sheets and towels he'd heaped on the bed were gone, replaced by clean sets. He saw a pile of neatly folded, freshly laundered clothes on top of the dresser and a few boxes stacked beside the door. His belongings had been delivered from the Overcity.
He took a quick shower and crawled into bed. Win didn't make an appearance. Pablo told himself he was glad but didn't believe himself. He worked up a few more or less convincing arguments. Win's all-too-satisfying attention had been robbing him of perspective and focus. And control. He'd never thought of himself as emotionally vulnerable, and he sure as shit didn't want that opinion reversed.
The squirmy tension in his loins, however, bespoke another kind of vulnerability. Since that was something that would never go away, Pablo had to remind himself of an important truth—randiness and romantic feelings were not identical twins. He'd best not confuse the two.
In his restless mind, kaleidoscopic images spun and shifted. In his restless groin, desire gelled into need. Both finally stilled and faded.
More than anything, his brain and body craved sleep. For that, he was grateful.
* * * *
Pablo walked out of the bathroom the next morning to find Zee, not Win, loitering in his suite. He hadn't come into the bedroom. Zee, angel-heavy, was certainly too considerate to impose.
"Good morning,” he said from an easy chair. “I wanted to catch you before you came to the main house, but I didn't want to wake you."
"Thanks.” Pablo walked to the kitchenette. “Mind if I make some coffee?"
"It's already made.” Zee smiled, sinking those dimples into his cheeks. “I had to do something to keep myself occupied while I waited."
"Thanks again.” Flashing Zee a smile, Pablo walked to the counter. He poured a cup of coffee and kept it black. “What brings you here?"
"I thought I should talk to you before we all go to the workroom today."
That was more of an eye-opener than the coffee. Pablo hadn't expected to be introduced so soon to this aspect of his job. He set the mug on his small dining table before he dropped it. “Will we be working in the workroom, or are you just going to show it to me?” He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Oh, we'll be working.” Zee joined him. “That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you.” Eyes narrowing, his look modulated from kind to clinical, assessing Pablo's condition the way a doctor might. “How are you, really?"
"Good. You don't have to be concerned, Zee. Especially now that things are settling down.” Pablo figured it was probably in his nature to be concerned, which was oddly reassuring.
"Some things might be settling down, but I can tell that others are unsettled."
Pablo took a hefty swallow of coffee, watching Zee over the rim of the mug as he drank. “Like what?"
"Your feelings, I think. You seem more guarded than before. I noticed it yesterday evening.” His visual examination sank beneath the surface. “Don't withdraw and try to second-guess yourself. Or any one of us. You'll smother your potential as a Touch."
"I didn't realize I was doing that."
"Of course not. Part of being self-protective is not realizing you're being self-protective."
Pablo uttered, “Hm,” as if he were considering Zee's conclusions, but he wanted to brush them aside like lint. He'd just started distancing himself from Win. It was too soon to knock down the wall. Then again, maybe he'd been too late in erecting it. In any case, he didn't want to give either possibility too much thought.
Zee leaned toward him, folded, muscular arms sliding across the tabletop. He likely knew what was going on. And he wouldn't be ignored.
"Pablo, what impressed me about you more than anything else was your openness. I mean, yeah, when you're working up there"—he pointed toward the ceiling, indicating the Overcity—"you have to wear a professional mask and keep your cool and not betray what you're thinking. But when you're working down here, with us, you shouldn't withhold anything of yourself. Doesn't matter what. Let it all out. That's how the energy is generated."
The distance Pablo had tried to achieve was already dwindling. Zee wouldn't allow distance. All three men were like that. They commanded attention.
"Let it out physically, verbally?” Pablo reluctantly asked.
"Either. Both. Just don't hold back. We need the power of your honesty as well as your sensuality. This isn't only about the sex. It's about emotional energy, too. So don't be afraid to show it. Turn off your filtering mechanisms."
The implications of this made Pablo edgy, then resentful. “I don't think it's fair of you to expect that."
"I'm sorry, but I have to. We have to.” Zee rose from the table and walked to the kitchenette. He grabbed something out of the small refrigerator—a bottle of pomegranate slurry. After taking a drink, he asked another question, without preface. “Why didn't Win spend the night with you? Please tell me the truth."
Pablo's shoulders sagged as he stared into his coffee. It was the “please” that got to him. He was a sucker for courtesy. “I don't think you fully understand human weaknesses. If you did, you wouldn't have needed to ask that.” He looked up. “I can't let myself fall in love with a hybrid creature named Aethiel.” He raised a cautionary finger before Zee could speak. “End of discussion. I'll join you all in ten minutes."

Chapter Fifteen 
"Meet the Celestine. We call her the C-Orb or just the Orb."
Pablo stood in the dark room and stared at its centerpiece—a massive, globe-shaped crystal suspended in midair. It glimmered with internal light. A pale grayish blue, it looked deep as the sea but far more intricately patterned.
"What's it made out of?” Pablo fancied that if he stared at the thing long enough, he'd fall into it. Right through the surface, sleek as undisturbed ice.
"Gosh,” Tole said with a sarcastic lilt, “why do you suppose we call it the Celestine?"
"That's the material?"
"Yes,” Zee said. “It's also called celestite."
"A mineral?” Pablo asked, turning to him.
"A mineral,” Zee said.
"What's holding it up?” The Orb must have been ten feet in diameter and looked solid.
"That,” Win said, “would be hard to explain."
At the sound of his voice, Pablo's stomach filled with beating wings. When he'd answered Pablo's question, he'd done so without facing him.
Win had been uncharacteristically quiet, even reserved since their little talk yesterday. In fact, he hadn't given Pablo more than a few obligatory glances that barely bore any sign of recognition, much less a hint of emotion.
Now he stood, arms at sides, eyeing the Celestine. Motionless as a marble bust, his face betrayed no hint of what was going through his mind.
His self-containment tore at Pablo more than a hail of abusive words. His indifference hurt worse than a blow. Pablo wondered how Win could have mastered such pervasive blankness when his own heart roiled with conflicting feelings, conflicting urges. Was it that easy for these hybrid creatures to slide through life and slough off the residue normally left behind by experience?
Looking troubled, Zee glanced at Win, then at Pablo. He turned back to the Orb. “Our plates are filling, gentlemen, but we can only address one issue at a time. We've tackled the Vip problem. What should our goal be today?"
"We need to find someone who can step into Calvin Carlyle's shoes,” Win said. His eyes didn't shift even slightly in Pablo's direction.
Tole spoke up. “I already looked into it. Carol Czymanski would make a good successor on the energy front. She has all the right credentials. The Interfaith Council will vote on its own replacement."
"We really have to figure out how best to protect Regenerie from more Villius-spawned incursions,” Win said. “Ridley's experience made it clear their damned hell-raisers are still active in the Interzone, and that puts them too close for comfort."
"Agreed,” Zee said. He extended a hand toward the Orb, as if trying to determine its readiness. Maybe it radiated waves of some sort, sent out pulses only the Triumvirate could detect. “The Powers running that show seem to be blocking our farseeing efforts. I hope we won't have to infiltrate."
"If we do,” Win said, “let's keep sex out of it."
"Don't worry.” Tole turned to him. “We wouldn't involve Pablo. Luscious as he is, you're the designated seducer, Aethiel."
The statement didn't jolt Pablo nearly as much as it jolted Win, who shot Tole a poisonous, narrow-eyed glare. Tole was playing provocateur. Pablo read the man's motives in his smirk.
It grew in size, and degree of wickedness, when Tole saw Win's reaction. Without averting his gaze, he slowly opened his ankle-length, saffron-colored linen robe. The thick droop of his cock, arching from a fine froth of strawberry-blond hair, showed as a faint, fleshy smudge in the glow from the Orb.
Things were heating up.
Zee cleared his throat. “Well, this should be an interesting session,” he said to himself, then raised his voice to address the small gathering. “Let's keep the staged drama to a minimum, shall we? I'm sure more than enough will be generated spontaneously."
Without closing the robe, Tole faced the Celestine. Its eerie light clung to his profile. Washing over the most prominent of his features, it threw the rest of his face in uneven shadow. He did look demonic, a Prince of Hell illuminated by the flames of the underworld.
"Are we in agreement, then?” Zee asked. “Do we try to gain insight into the Villius problem and seek possible solutions?"
The other two men indicated their assent.
Pablo knew what he was to do—Zee had explained it to him when he'd arrived—but he had little understanding of what it was about. As the coven “activated” their instrument, he merely had to keep his place in their circle and give his senses over to whatever he saw, heard, felt. Synchronized movement and complete receptivity would meld his natural “vibrations” with the coven's more sophisticated magic. Whatever happened after that could not be anticipated; Pablo would have to ride it out.
Zee had also assured Pablo that in the weeks to come, the Triumvirate would school him in creative visualization and other techniques designed to hone and direct concentration. The more discipline he acquired, the stronger his sparking capacity would become. For now, though, he would essentially serve as a supplementary power source.
Stationed at each of the Orb's four compass points, the men began pacing counterclockwise around the Celestine like a line of monks—Zee in a brown robe, Win in blue, Tole in gold, Pablo in hunter green. The robes were never removed from the work space, and their colors matched the men's eyes.
They held their left hands, palms out, toward the Orb's glassine surface. In unison, the coven members recited a chant in a language Pablo had never before heard. He remained silent, letting his mind and body fall into the rhythm of the sound as he pondered the meeting's desired result.
The Orb began to rotate. That otherworldly hum Pablo had previously heard through the wall now filled the room. It seemed to palpate his eardrums until mild vertigo set in, compromising his balance. Pablo forced himself to maintain the set pace and keep his thoughts focused.
The Orb's rotation gradually accelerated to a spin. Quavering, the hum split into countless octaves. Pablo's feet didn't seem to be touching the floor. He could no longer see or hear the other men. Still, he had a sense of his own movement. He just couldn't discern where or how he was moving.
Slowing and still glowing, the Orb separated into identical sections without any sound that signaled breakage. The pieces expanded outward, shrank inward, slid over each other. The rate of their movement accelerated. Whizzing through their own precise choreography, the fragments continuously changed places until they blurred.
The room melted away. Four men and the frenzied shards of the Celestine were suspended in black space. Gravity no longer existed. An ethereal luminosity, embroidered with shifting colors, soon wound around them.
Pablo heard muted laughter. He felt his chest connect with another man's chest. Strong arms enfolded him. A mouth played over his temple.
At the feel of that body, his cock twitched and began to rise. The pecs that rubbed against his were smooth and pronounced and hard as rock; the nipples, peaked.
"You're so delectable."
Zee. It was Zee, crushing and sliding his well-muscled frame against Pablo's. His breathing was harsh. The two of them turned horizontally in the air, doing lazy rotations as Zee slid down Pablo's torso to his hips. There was nothing beneath the two of them, nothing at all, yet some force buoyed and cushioned their intertwined bodies.
Convulsing, Pablo's cock rose as his balls drew in. His erection soon found a home in the cozy, humid warmth of Zee's mouth. The whole of his attention shuttered down to his groin, to the energetic sucking that seemed about to turn his dick inside out like a glove.
A sleek rod slid between his ass cheeks. Tole, the backdoor man, let out a long, rumbling moan of pleasure. He didn't seek to enter Pablo, just stroked firmly along the tight chasm dividing Pablo's butt. His hands squeezed Pablo's glutes tighter around his pumping shaft.
Now the three conjoined men drifted together, lost in heightening pleasure. The combination of sensations—another's stiff cock seeking stimulation through him, while his own stiff cock was being stimulated through someone else—shoved Pablo toward the edge.
He gave in to it, not bothering with measured rocking or any self-imposed pinches of control. He just surrendered, letting animal sounds pour out of his throat as his cum throbbed into Zee's. The orgasm seemed to liquefy his flesh and nerves and bones. He fancied he could see his body bleeding sluggishly into the surrounding swirls of colored light. Then Tole shoved against him, three forceful times, and dollops of warm cream landed near Pablo's tailbone. Panting, Tole slid down Pablo's body to bite and slap his ass. Pablo gasped; the last thin threads of cum leaked from his softening glans. He realized he never did get to diddle those scrotal rings.
His hand cupped his spent cock. Pablo nearly sniggered when he envisioned Tole's meat nestled between his cheeks like sausage swaddled in a bun.
Pass the mayo. He did chuckle then, softly. He felt good.
Until he thought of Win. What was he doing, and with whom? With a longing he couldn't suppress, Pablo exhaled Win's name.
Suddenly he was there, in front of Pablo, his eyes large and lustrous and searching. Thinking about him must've been all it took to summon him, at least in this magical space.
The sinuous ribbons of light that twined through this dark gulf began to pulsate. Their silent rhythm matched the beating of Pablo's heart.
"Why are you snubbing me?” Pablo asked, wanting desperately to feel the wondrous press of Win's lips. He couldn't censor himself. “Are you trying to hurt me?"
Win's head moved very slightly from side to side as his mouth formed the word no. And formed it again. Pablo's words seemed to pain him. All the muscles in his face contracted in response to the question, as if it were a slap.
"Then what are you trying to prove?"
"Nothing. What you said yesterday left me confused. About you. About me.” Win circled him.
Tole and Zee appeared. They hovered near by but didn't impose.
"What do you want from me, Pablo? What more can I offer? You've spurned what I've already given you. I don't know what else to give."
That face ... Once Pablo started looking at it, his gaze was riveted. He noticed the play of pastel light on Win's hair, how it drew out the sheen, the subtle gradations in hue. He had a vivid memory of its sweet smell and even sweeter feel. Just looking at the man made him weak, and that weakness angered him.
"Goddamn you,” Pablo whispered.
"Why? What've I done?"
"You made me want you. I just came here for a job, and I found ... you."
"Do you still want me?"
"Yes! Isn't it obvious? Can't you sense it? I just don't know what the hell your attention is all about, Win!"
"I don't know, either!” The shout was an explosion of frustration. Win gave Pablo an agonized look before lowering his head.
That's when realization dawned. Win didn't know what he was feeling. These hybrids understood physical need well enough, and they seemed hardwired with some sense of duty to humanity that made them care about people en masse. They understood love in the abstract. But romantic love? It was probably as enigmatic to them as magic was to Pablo.
"What do you feel for me?” Pablo asked, hoping to provoke some insight. “Aside from desire, I mean. Anything? Or something that's no different from what you feel for all your ‘wards'?"
Win lifted his head. The look of confusion on his face had moderated but not dissolved. He seemed more helpless than Pablo had ever been. “It's ... different,” he said. “Very different."
It. The feeling. Win was baffled by it. Pablo read his bewilderment in his features—the tightness around his eyes, the compressed dip in his forehead. He continued to stare into Pablo's face, as if it held answers.
Zee drifted up to them. “Not many hybrids bond with individuals,” he said. “Especially purely human individuals. We find such relationships elusive."
He put one hand on Pablo's shoulder and one on Win's. A current of emotion sweep through Pablo, as if Zee had established a circuit. The charge bore Win's imprint as clearly as a letter bears the sender's signature. Pablo's gaze moved over Win's face. The feeling swelled. It was so strong, his heart responded in an instant. He couldn't have withheld the response if he'd tried.
Then he heard Zee's voice in his mind. To reach our full potential as the Powers, I'm certain each of us needs to experience love on a personal level. I believe this is Win's chance. He's just not sure what's happening. Be patient with him.
"All I've ever wanted,” Win said, “was opportunity.” Movement whispered across his lips, the tiniest hint of a smile. “Will you touch me now?"
Neither of them mentioned love. Maybe they never would. Regardless of Zee's convictions—or, rather, the convictions of Thimien, descendant of Principalities—none of these “Powers” might ever be capable of profound and passionate attachment to another creature. For all Pablo knew, he might not be capable of it, either.
Or so he told himself, just to level the playing field.
Beaming, he reached for Win.
THE END.