Thief Of Souls

into that pasty face of yours.” Which was easy for Drew to say. Years running track had left Drew well tanned, and the sun had worked his hair enough to leave it various shades of bronze. It was a look Michael would have wanted to duplicate, but his own hair never lightened, and his pale skin just burned. Drew loved to rub it in. “C’mon, get moving,” he said. “Just because you look embalmed doesn’t mean you have to act like a corpse.”

Drew took off across the sand, toward the paved path that ran the two miles between Newport and Balboa Piers. Michael followed, filling his lungs with the fresh air, and his mind with the pleasant sights and sounds of the morning.

It was good to have a friend like Drew, who arrived like clockwork to drag him out to run. It was good to have any friends at all. The parasite that had laid waste to his soul since sixth grade, had left him friendless for four years. It had twisted people around him, turning them into bubbling cauldrons of their own most base natures. Girls lost themselves in a lust for him so pow­erful he had to fight them off, and guys became angry and aggressive, wanting little more than to beat the crap out of him.

But now his life had filled with others who actually thought he was worth having around. Even his father liked him. Both Drew and Michael were juniors on the track team, and although Michael had no real aspira­tions in track, he didn’t mind the comradery.

The beachside path was already becoming crowded now that the weather had changed. Rollerbladers in skintight Lycra wove around men and women propel­ling their babies in jogging-strollers. Bicycles sped past joggers and power-walkers.

This was where Michael wanted to be—not beating the bushes looking for Dillon again. He had seen enough of Dillon in the short time he knew him, and there were the constant reminders to boot: like news reports on the cleanup in Boise, and expert opinions on the mysterious “virus” that had driven people insane in the Pacific Northwest. No, Michael had no desire to think of his soul mate Dillon Cole—or for that matter, any of his other soul mates. Life was good without the Scorpion Shards. Life was a walk on the beach.

“I’m feeling prime today,” Drew said, picking up the pace as they neared Balboa Pier, and Michael kept up with him. This is a good day, thought Michael. And he was determined to keep it that way.

***

Michael did a pretty good job of holding up the sky that day, through the rigors of school. Afterward, at the mall, he worked his part-time job with a smile and a pleasant air that brought joy to everyone who came to the Dog Kabob.

It was around five that he began to give in to the crushing weight. The skies beyond the atrium windows were beginning to clog with clouds. Michael still felt pretty good, if somewhat tired—but his resistance was low, and he wasn’t expecting a “customer.” At least not one like this man.

“It never rains in southern California,” the man whispered to him over the counter of the Dog Kabob. Michael nodded in understanding. This was one of his real customers.

Michael wasn’t sure how it all got started. Perhaps it had been that suicidal housewife he had hugged in the supermarket once, completely reversing her depres­sive nature—or maybe word got out when he shook the hand of the guy who smacked his kids around, per­manently melting his angry temperament into a cool, even disposition. Or maybe it was his father, who kept bringing Michael into his sales office, knowing that Mi­chael could, with a single grin, woo people into feeling it was a pleasure to buy anything. In any case, a few months after moving to California, troubled people be­gan to secretly seek Michael out, and ask for favors.

“How can I help you?” Michael asked the man at the Dog Kabob counter.

“It’s not me,” the man said. He looked around to make sure no one else was nearby, then he leaned in closer. “It’s my son who needs your help.”

The man looked to be fairly well off. A tailored suit, Armani tie. Michael wondered how much he’d be will­ing to pay for Michael’s services. Sometimes his cus­tomers paid very well. Well enough for Michael and his father to buy the beach house, and the sports car, and all the other trappings that made Newport Beach what it is. His father, having glimpsed Michael’s spe­cial talent, decided not to ask too many questions when money seemed to appear in the bank account. Besides, Michael had tweaked his father’s nature, turning the man into an incurable optimist, so how could he be anything but thrilled?

Usually people would show up at the Dog Kabob with melancholy tales of disappointment, depression, or despair. Some requests were heartbreaking; others were merely self-indulgent. “Make me feel better,” was al­ways the bottom line, and Michael delivered. By now he was single-handedly putting the local shrinks out of business.

“Go on, I’m listening,” said Michael.

“My son’s a good kid,” the man whispered. “He does well in school—a shoe-in for the Ivy League . . .”

“So what’s the problem?” Michael asked, a bit im­patiently.

“He’s got a problem with the girls.”

Michael felt his own toes start to get cold. A wind began to buffet the windows of the food court.

“What kind of problem?”

“Well, you see—it’s like this...” The man stam­mered, and gestured with his hands, fumbling to spit out what he was trying to say. “My son . . . he doesn’t entirely appreciate them—girls, that is. He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t have the requisite feelings for them, so to speak,” whispered the man desperately. “In fact his feelings are decidedly . . . off. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Michael cut him off curtly. “I’m sorry, sir, all we sell here are lemonade and hot dogs.”

The man reeled, confused. “But . . . but I was told—'

“You were told wrong.” Michael handed him a corn dog. “Take it. It’s on the house. May I help the next in line, please?”

The man, corn dog in hand, gazed at Michael de­spondently, then turned to leave. But even after he was gone, Michael couldn’t relax.

There had been others like this man. Too many. Peo­ple who came in wanting to change their own natures, or the nature of someone they loved.

Michael knew it was in his power to do it, but a cold front always seemed to blow in whenever he consid­ ered it. Switching winds and easing depression was one thing—but altering a person’s sexual desire? His thoughts would instantly fill with the memory of the libidinous parasite that had violated his soul. The thing was a succubus, thriving on his member, driving him mad with desire for every woman around him, and fill­ing those girls and women with the same desire.

But it had been dead for a year—and since it was gone, he no longer remembered how that felt. There was no one who aroused him anymore; his sense of passion—his sense of love—was stripped from him en­tirely, leaving him emotionally castrated. Yes, it might have been in his power to alter a person’s nature—but how dare he change the shape of someone else’s desire, when he felt no desire of his own?

It was easy to ignore when the world was a sunny day, and no one asked him questions . . . but a wind was blowing now, and stormclouds flowed in from all directions.

***

He was drenched by a relentless downpour on his way home, and when he got there, Drew was sprawled on the sofa, freeloading leftover Chinese food.

“What are you doing here?”

“Political asylum,” said Drew. “My parents go bal­listic at least once a month, and today they took it out on me. So I launched a major counteroffensive.”

“You had a blowout?”

“We’re talking megatons. I doubt we’ll be able to resume diplomatic relations anytime soon.” Drew held out the leftovers to Michael. “Kung pao?”

Michael shook his head and deposited himself like a bag of laundry on the plush leather sofa.

“C’mon, Michael,” Drew taunted. “Hot and sizzling, fresh out of the microwave—I know it’s your favorite.”

Michael ignored him, trying to sink into the sofa as far as he could go. He wanted to disappear—not think, not feel—and he didn’t care if his mood brought in a season of monsoons.