He had never expected it to hurt quite this badly. Pain, like death, age, and other people, was beneath him. But it burned and ached and he could hear muscle and bone and tissue rip apart, could sense fluids mingling which should never have known each other…as the horn tore through his rib cage, David imagined he could tell what death was like. His performance was picture perfect, if mildly Shakespearean, and he was pleased with himself, and with the control which he exercised over ever inch of his body. To the world outside his mind, David was dead.
The worst moment had come as Max repelled Michael, tossing him like a limp rag through a section of the second floor balcony. For a split second, David thought his master might win. But no, David had played too good a hand tonight, two triples: aces and jacks, so what if it was cheating? He'd won. The ash on the air was all that remained of that tyrannical, patriarchal, and thoroughly uptight bastard; and after nearly a hundred years' struggle, David had the dominance. He just wondered how long it would take to re-grow his right atrium.
Slowly, the sounds of terror, relief, and amazement cooled, and discussion of what to do next struggled to its feet, coupled with a few weak introductions. General confusion reigned, and no one seemed particularly ready to take charge. *Get out already,* David thought fiercely at them, as the tell-tale itching reached a furor, indicating that his chest was healing itself onto the pronged antlers. The last thing he needed tonight was to have to rip another set of holes in himself. Had his fingers just twitched? Damn it, they had. *Get out, get out!*
"Well, we can't stay here, whatever we do, we're missing a wall and there's- Oh my God, there's blood everywhere." If David had believed in God, he would have thanked him for mothers. Lucy Emerson would take her children, in fact, all of the children, away from this 'horrible scene', as fast as her weary and confused mind would allow. But how fast was that? He could feel his maddeningly itching skin sealing itself to the bones, and every moment he had to lie still added to the passion he was developing for movement.
"We could spend the night at a motel; clean all of this up tomorrow." *Good boy, Michael, good boy.*
"Have we got the-"
"I can pay for our room on my own," Star interrupted, pulling Laddie close to her, and trying to look reassuringly both at the boy, and Mrs. Emerson. She failed miserably at both, and succeeded only in giving herself a mild headache after crossing her eyes several times. The room in general gave her a confused look, and then, with quiet, tired murmurings and shufflings, the entire crowd began to move toward the outside (to David's unending amusement, they moved single file through the torn-open front wall.)
"Hey, Mom, I had a thought. What if Star and I stayed and picked up some clothes for all of us, and then we could catch up later?" There was a brief pause in which Lucy gazed quietly into her son's face. Had David been breathing, he might have held his breath, but he could hear the jingle of her earrings, the slight swish of her hair as she nodded. It took all he had not to smile. Not that they would have seen if he had.
He waited, mentally cursing the quick healing which had now adhered him to the corpse on which he was impaled. Car doors slammed, the Frogs began shouting directions to their home in competition with one another, and then the whole bothersome lot of them rolled off towards town. David drew in an experimental breath, and grimaced; the movement of his diaphragm was restricted by the flesh holding him to the antlers. Oh hell, there was little else for it.
Ignoring Star and Michael, who both rushed to his side, as if he might (in his own mind, inconceivably) need their aid, he braced himself against the table, and put all his strength into escaping his impalement. He could not help but scream as every one of his wounds reopened, and he left a solid ring of his skin and blood around each horn. To his silent and restricted mortification, he did need to lean heavily on Michael for a moment before he could right himself.
"That took the two of you damned long enough." David growled, stretching, and then prodding a curious finger into one of the gaping holes in his torso. They just stared at him, with that mixture of awe and confusion that made the pair of them both utterly endearing, and completely irritating. As he pulled his finger away from his injury, he caught it in his shirt, gazing ruefully at the torn and stained cotton.
"Ruined," he sighed, "and not a one of the lot of you with the good taste to own solid black." He paused, and flicked them a meaningful look from under thick lashes, "And if you don't stop gaping, I think I'll have to smack you both. I told you, stick to the plan and it all works out."