Cian

Bus stations were the most pathetic places on earth.

The more time I spent in them, the more I knew it was true. The stations usually consisted of one bench, maybe two, with the paint peeling from it, ancient gum stuck in just about every crevice. Ads, usually for medicines or some play that was showing at the local theater, hung on either side of the open shelter, the canopy above the seating made dingy with mold.

Perhaps the people were even more pathetic. Most were homeless bums who had scraped up enough coins to make it a few blocks away, or drug addicts, or both.

I sat on the edge of a bench, huddled as far from possible from an old guy who seemed to be talking to himself. I hated this, but there was no way out. I'd barely scraped by with that angel guy; if it was just one more bus ride to endure to make sure I killed my bastard of a father, I'd go through it. I could not risk any more suspicion. Humans and angels alike were much too good at sticking their nose in everyone else's business.

It was early morning, and cars' headlights were warm amber blurs in a sea of heavy fog, the sun shut behind the same haze. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm, and I drew my jacket tighter around myself, bitterly grumbling under my breath.

It was going to be fine.

Once I reached Los Angeles, I'd spill the blood I really needed, and then the energy within me would be unstoppable.

There was a burning in my chest. Stunned, and a little annoyed, I pressed a hand over my heart, groaning. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt pain, but I knew it hadn't been like this, sharp and unyielding.

The discomfort climbed up to my head, and doubled. Suddenly I was against the cool concrete, shaking. There were a bunch of emotions within me at once: fear and confusion and worry and love. They rushed up like a tidal wave within me, and I slipped into their depths, unable to breathe.

"No," I said, and cursed. "No—"

I was mildly aware the crack addict was watching me, but that was the least of my concerns. I was gasping, trying to keep myself anchored, but I fell away anyhow.

When I woke up, I had no idea where I was.

I shuddered in utter terror; I was pressed against a cold sidewalk, curled in a fetal position, my hands fisted. I unfurled them, and there was blood caked underneath my nails.

I had so many questions—so many.

I sat up, flicking wary eyes from place to place. I didn't recognize my surroundings. The sloping hills of home, of San Francisco, were replaced by flat land, and though there was a river in the distance, it wasn't the bay. I was in an entirely different town, maybe even an entirely different state, and I had no idea how I'd gotten there.

I scrambled to my feet. I'd been in the car, with Vinny, and now I was here. How the hell—?

The traffic on the road beside me moved in slow, languid motions, like fingers through oil. I was nauseous and I was terrified and God, I just wanted my brother. Ignorance was far from bliss; it was torture.

I was in an empty bus station, and when I walked, I heard coins jingle in my pocket. I wore clothes that I didn't recognize; a pair of faded jeans and a black sweater that still smelled like lemon-scented laundry detergent. None of this made any sort of sense.

There was a gas station behind me, and I turned and went for it, stumbling through its convenient store until I found the bathroom. The door clicked as I locked it, and I staggered up to the mirror, my breath heavy within my chest.

That was when I realized.

I could see.

This whole time, I'd been moving around without a thought, without tripping. It was when I looked up at myself and noticed the eyepatch was gone and that my eye was—actually almost normal looking, that I realized my vision was back.

I should have felt relieved, but somehow I knew it hadn't healed by normal means.

The scar where Nick had sliced the skin wasn't entirely gone, but it had faded considerably, and some pigment had returned to my iris, leaving it only a shade or two lighter than my uninjured eye's deep sapphire. It wasn't perfect, but it was way more than enough.

My hair, long and unruly, hung down over my forehead and ears, curling in flaxen strands against my temples. It was in desperate need of a trim, but that was the last thing on my to-do list.

Overall, I looked surprisingly okay, well taken care of. This only deepened my confusion.

My next stop was the pay phone, since my own cell phone wasn't in my pocket. All that was there were a few wallets whose owners I didn't know, a wad of dollar bills, and a bunch of quarters. I held the phone to my ear, punching in the numbers with nails bitten to the quick.

I had his number memorized by now.

When he finally picked up, he sounded uneasy. "Hello?"

"Vinny," I exhaled his name, my first real breath of air in who knows how long. "Hey, it's me."

There was a long, meaningful pause before he spoke next. I thought I heard the squealing of car tires, and some bickering in the background, but his voice cut over the sound. "Cian? No. It can't be you. Is it really you?"

"Of course it's really me," I said, my eyebrows drawing in. "Look I—I think I passed out again. It's so much worse this time. I don't know where I am. I don't even think I'm in San Francisco."

Vinny was hesitant, but still as logical as ever. "Okay. Okay, slowly, tell me what you know, okay?"

So I did. I told him how I'd woken up against the ground, dazed, unsure of how I got there. I told him how my sight had somehow been restored, how there was money in my pocket from likely unpromising sources. I described my surroundings. I told him everything because he was my only hope. I told him everything because I didn't have a choice.

"And something's wrong with me," I added, like that wasn't already obvious. The demon venom within my system was getting worse. I no longer knew how long I had. "There's something...dark within me. I can feel it, even now. It's like another person, Vince...a monster, inside my head. I really need you. I really need you to come get me."

"Cian..."

"I want my life back," I exhaled. "I want...myself back."

"I'm coming," Vinny said into the phone, and his voice sounded unsteady. "I'm coming, but you have to hold on. Just for a little longer—"

And I wished I could have, but all at once everything drained from me. The something was in my heart, freezing and blackening it, calling me back to oblivion, to the dark. I still had the phone against my ear, but I was wheezing, crouched against the ground as I tried to regain myself.

My vision was washing with black, and my head was spinning in a thousand directions. "Vinny," I breathed out, my voice hoarse. "Vinny—I can't—I—"

"No, Cian. Hold on! Hold on for me! Just a little longer, please!"

He was back. Whoever he was, he was back, and he was pulling me away.

Maybe the most terrifying part was that, somehow, I knew it was only myself I was fighting.

"I can't," I said. "I love you, Vinny, but I...can't...hold it back..."

My last word was more of a choked sob. The phone slipped from my grasp, dangling by its cord.

I was swallowed up again.