Part of the problem was his diet. Those Ensures were about all he could handle without getting sick, and they didn't have a ton of calories in them. The trouble wasn't just food-related, though. His genetics were a bitch. At the age of twenty-three, he was five feet, six inches tail, 102 pounds. He didn't need to shave. Had no hair on his body. Had never had an erection.
Unmanly. Weak. Worst of all, unchanging. He'd been this size and this way for the past ten years.
The sameness of his existence wore him down, exhausted him, drained him. He'd lost hope he was ever going to turn into a man, and the acceptance of reality had aged him. He felt ancient in his little body, as if his head didn't belong stuck atop the rest of him.
But he did get some relief. He loved going to sleep. In his dreams he saw himself fighting and he was strong, he was sure, he was… a man. At night, while his eyes were closed, he was fearsome with a dagger in his hand, a killer who did what he was so very good at for a noble reason. And he wasn't alone in his work. He had the company of other men like himself, fighters and brothers, loyal to the death.
And in his visions, he made love to women, beautiful women who made strange sounds as he entered their bodies. Sometimes there were more than one with him, and he took them hard because they wanted it like that and that was what he wanted, too. His lovers would grab onto his back, scratching at his skin as they shuddered and bucked underneath his crashing hips. With roars of triumph, he would let himself go, his body contracting and spilling into the wet heat they offered him. And after he came, in shocking acts of depravity, he drank their blood and they drank from him and the wild frenzy left white sheets red. Finally, when the needs were spent and the fury and cravings were over, he held them gently and they looked up at him with glowing, adoring eyes. Peace and harmony came and were welcomed as benedictions.
Unfortunately, he kept waking up in the morning.
In real life, he couldn't hope to defeat or defend anyone, not the way he was built. And he'd never even kissed a woman. Never had the chance. The opposite sex had two reactions to him: The older ones wanted to treat him like a child and the younger ones looked right through him. Both responses hurt, the former for underscoring his weakness, the latter for stealing any hope that he would find someone to care for.
Which was why he wanted a woman. He had this tremendous need to protect, to shelter, to guard. A calling with no conceivable outlet.
Besides, what woman would ever want him? He was so damned scrawny. His jeans hung off of his legs. His shirt pooled in the concave pit that ran between his ribs and his hips. His feet were the size of a ten-year-old boy's.
John could feel the frustration building in him, but he didn't know what he was getting upset about. Sure, he liked women. And he wanted to touch them because their skin seemed so delicate and they smelled good. But it wasn't like he'd ever been aroused, even if he woke up in the middle of one of his dreams. He was a total freak. Suspended somewhere between male and female, neither one nor the other. A hermaphrodite without the odd equipment.
One thing was for sure, though. He definitely wasn't into men. Enough of them had come after him over the years, pushing money or drugs or threats at him, trying to get him to blow them in bathrooms or cars. He'd always managed to get away, somehow.
Well,
After that, he'd moved and started carrying his own handgun.
He'd also called the Suicide Prevention Hotline.
That had been ten months ago, and he still couldn't stand the feel of his jeans against his skin. He'd have thrown all four pairs out if he could have afforded to. Instead, he'd burned the ones he'd had on that night and taken to wearing long Johns underneath his pants, even in the summer.
So no, he didn't like men at all.
Maybe that was another reason he responded to women like he did. He knew how they felt, being a target because they had something someone more powerful wanted to take from them.
Not that he was about to bond with someone over his experience or anything. He had no intention of sharing what had happened to him in that stairwell with anybody. He couldn't imagine telling the tale.
But God, what if a woman asked whether he'd ever been with somebody? He wouldn't know how to answer that.
A heavy knock hit his door.
John sat up in a rush, reaching under his pillow for his gun. He released the safety with a flick of his finger.
The knocking came again.
Leveling the weapon at the door, he waited for a shoulder to hit the wood and splinter it.
'John?' It was a male voice, low-pitched and powerful. 'John, I know you're in there. My name is Tohr. You met me two nights ago.'
John frowned and then winced as his temples stung. Abruptly, like someone had uncorked a floodgate, he remembered going somewhere underground. And meeting a tall man in leather. With Mary and Bella.
As the memories hit, something stirred even deeper in him. On the level of his dreams. Something old…
'I've come to talk to you. Will you let me in?'
With the gun in his hand, John went to the door and opened it, keeping the chain in place. He craned his head up, way up, to meet the man's navy blue eyes. A word came to mind, one he didn't understand.
'You want to put the safety back on that gun, son?'
John shook his head, caught between the strange memory echo in his head and what was in front of him: a man of death in leather.
'Okay. Just watch where you point it. You don't look real comfortable handling that thing, and I don't want the inconvenience of having a hole in me.' The man looked at the chain. 'You going to let me in?'
From two doors down, a volley of yelling rose to a crescendo and ended with the sound of breaking glass.
'Come on, son. Little privacy's a good thing.'
John reached deep into his chest and felt around his instincts for any sense of true danger. He found none, in spite of the fact that the man was big and hard and undoubtedly armed. Someone like him just had to be packing.
John slipped the chain free and stepped back, lowering the gun.
The man shut the door behind him. 'You remember meeting me, right?'
John nodded, wondering why his memories had returned in such a rush. And why a splitting headache had come with them.
'And you remember what we talked about. About the training we offer?'
John flipped the weapon's safety into place. He recalled everything, and the curiosity that had struck him then came back. As well as a fierce yearning.
'So how'd you like to join up and work with us? And before you say you're not big enough, I know a lot of guys who are your size. In fact, we have a class of males coming in who are just like you.'
Keeping his eyes on the stranger, John put the gun in his back pocket and went over to his bed. He grabbed a pad of paper and a Bic pen, and wrote
When he flashed the pad, the man read the words. 'You don't need to worry about that.'
John scribbled,
'I run the place and I need some help with administrative stuff. You could work the cost off. You know anything about computers?'
John shook his head, feeling like an idiot. All he knew how to do was pick up plates and glasses and wash them. And this guy didn't need a busboy.
'Well, we got a brother who knows the damn things like the back of his hand. He'll teach you.' The man smiled a little. 'You'll work. You'll train. S'all good. And I've talked to my
John lowered his lids, growing wary. This sounded like a lifeboat in a lot of ways. But how come this guy wanted to save him?
