"He left!" Tate said to Constance, offended that Michael took his leave without even bothering to acknowledge the fact that Tate not only showed up but wore the dumb suit that Chad had picked out for him. "I'm not staying if he's not."

Constance rolled her eyes and sucked on her cigarette. "It's his twentieth birthday, Tate," she said, exhaling smoke in a sigh. "You can't give him the gift of your presence for an hour or two?"

She was dressed to the nines in a floor-length caftan awash in a swirl of reds, burgundy, and blacks, reminiscent of the rose garden in her back yard. She had her hair done up in a way that made Tate think of when she used to host dinner parties at the house.

There was one particularly memorable party when he was six. Constance had filled a big Igloo cooler with what looked like red punch and put it in the foyer next to a table of snacks and other drinks. It had chunks of fruit floating in it. There was also a green bowl of fizzy drink with marshmallows in it. Tate had sampled some of that earlier, before bedtime, but Mama wouldn't let him have any of the red stuff.

The little boy liked red Kool-aid and red Hawaiian punch so he didn't understand why she wouldn't let him have the red fruit punch. That night after he was supposed to be in bed he got up and asked her for a drink. While she was busy trying to find a clean cup in the kitchen, he sneaked a mouthful of red drink from the plastic ladle in the Igloo cooler. He swallowed automatically then realized how bad the stuff tasted. It was like grapefruit only it burned more. Mama came out of the kitchen with a sippy cup of water and Tate gulped it eagerly as she pushed him toward the stairs. After that, he never wanted any of the punch drinks people served at parties.

"Michael's not even here," Tate pointed out the obvious again. Then he switched tactics. "Fine. I'll stay. I always wanted to see what an orgy was like."

Constance fixed him with a steely glare. "You're not goin' to any orgy."

Now Tate was truly affronted. "I have to stay for this bullshit, but I can't go to the orgy? Michael gets to!"

His mother bristled. "Don't you take that tone with me! You're not goin' and that's final." Her tone was iron.

Tate glared at her as hard as he could with tears blurring his vision. She met him gaze for gaze, her own cool and lofty. His chin trembled then his composure cracked.

"It's not fair!" he asserted. "You always let him do whatever the fuck he wants, and I never get to do anything!"

"Fine!" she snapped. She didn't want to deal with his attitude on top of Michael's nuclear mood. "Go on home, then. I'm sure that queer will have somethin' for you to do when you return that suit to him."

That sounded suspiciously like he was being sent home to do chores, to Tate. Which is not what he wanted to do. He was reluctant to ask for clarification though. In the mood she was in, Constance would make it that even if it wasn't what she was thinking.

"Well?" she prompted as she exhaled more smoke. "Why're you still standin' there? Go home."

The direct statement translated into an instant impulse, an urge to return to the mansion that was as strong as anything the house itself had inflicted on him. When his room resolved around him, he felt a surge of anger. His mother had just banished him. He hadn't left the party; she sent him home. It was like being told to 'go away' only instead of disappearing from her ghost-world, she displaced him in the material world.

He frowned and left the bedroom, partly to establish that he could. Then he got mad at Constance again; mad at her for trying to guilt him into staying at the stupid party, mad at her for not letting him go to the stupid orgy, mad at her for sending him home without his consent. He was also mad at her for giving him what he wanted in a way that made him not want it.

Confused by his own illogical feelings, Tate shed the nice suit as he went, leaving the coat and pants and starchy shirt in a trail as he headed away from the bedroom. The fancy shoes went with the pants. In his underwear, socks, and a white t-shirt, he padded silently down the hall. When he got to the back stairs he sat down on the top step and propped his chin with his hands.

It only took about two minutes before Chad was behind him with the shed clothes in his hands.

"Are you kidding me?" the dark-haired man lambasted. "This is a fifteen hundred dollar suit! And you just drop it on the floor?!"

"Money doesn't mean shit anymore," Tate dismissed without lifting his head. "Especially not to us."

"It still buys food at the market," defended Chad. "We may be dead, but the almighty dollar isn't. And that's not the point, anyway." He dusted the pants off and folded them over an arm. "These are nice clothes. I didn't get them for you so you could use them as runner rugs."

"I never asked you to get them," said Tate. There was no spirit in the debate though. His tone was as flat as his expression. "Didn't want to go to that stupid party anyways."

Once the shirt was folded, Chad felt much better and could focus on other things, like Tate's demeanor. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Well, except that dragon coming out and taking the priest's ex-wife."

Chad rolled his eyes and lowered himself to sit next to the teen on the top step. "Nothing but that minor detail."

The sarcasm rolled right off Tate. "Michael bailed after that. Then—" He wrinkled his nose, suddenly not sure he wanted to share the next detail.

"Then?" prompted Chad.

Tate glanced at him sidelong then shrugged. "Constance told me to go home."

"You actually did what she told you to do?"

"Yeah, I guess," the blond boy said grudgingly. "It was all just some stupid thing to pad Michael's ginormous ego so...yeah. I blew it off after he left."

That answer didn't make a lot of sense to Chad, but he really didn't care about the details of the event. If he had, he would have attended. "That doesn't explain why you decided to strip down in the hall."

Tate shot him an dark look. "I was sick of wearing the suit."

"So, you hang it up," Chad said, in a tone one would use on a toddler. "Is that so hard?"

Tate was tempted to tell him to fuck off but he wasn't in the mood to start a real fight. So, he toned it down a notch. "No, but my dick is. Want to suck it?"

The comment earned him an exasperated sigh.

"Maybe you should go talk to Doctor Harmon." The way he phrased it made it sound like a threat.

The idea wasn't a bad one but since Chad suggested it Tate was inclined to do the opposite. "Maybe," he shrugged.

"..or sit there like a lump in your underwear," said Chad, losing his last shred of patience. He left then.

For a few moments Tate felt better. Then he remembered why he was unhappy in the first place and dropped right back down into a broody funk. He thought about going to find Violet, but he didn't really want to talk to anyone, not even her. He didn't understand what he was feeling or why and because of that he didn't want to do anything in front of anybody that he might have to explain or apologize for later.

…

(Everybody Wants to Rule the World – Lorde)

Michael's leaving was so sudden and unexpected that Troy almost missed it. He had been loitering near the staging room, hoping to insinuate himself into the Antichrist's entourage when they left the arena. When the other guy brushed past him, Troy did a double-take and tossed his flat beer aside to give chase. He followed Michael out to the weed-choked parking lot where several vehicles were parked. Afraid of losing him, Troy called out to him.

"Michael!"

Hearing his name, the young man in black paused and flicked a glance over a shoulder at Troy. "Go away."

"I need to talk to you," the missionary insisted.

Michael turned toward him, chin held arrogantly high. "So. Talk."

Troy came right up to him and stuck out a hand. "I'm Troy. The New World United Church sends its regards."

Michael hesitated, then took the offered hand. When their hands clasped, however, there was a strange shift that made Michael dizzy for a moment. It was a feeling of opening or unlocking, a type of energy flow that was instant and invigorating, like having a battery pack. For Troy, it was the same: He felt a strange sense of opening and a sudden rush of something he couldn't define even as he was feeling it.

The intense sensation grew stronger and stronger until Troy thought he might burst. With effort he ripped his hand from Michael's, stumbling with the force it took to separate himself. The sensation went into back flow and he felt moving up through him like heartburn over his whole body. It centered in his heart then shot out through his arms in the form of twin pillars of flame. The fire scorched the pavement, hot enough to cause the tar to boil.

"Holy shit!" Troy shouted and shook his arms in an attempt to put out the fire.

The action flung blobs of flame all around like napalm. Where the fire landed, the pavement blackened. Michael dodged one fiery missile and stared. He felt juiced up from the contact, but it wasn't like what Troy was going through. The young man wasn't in pain, though; he wasn't burning. When he finally got the flames under control, his hands were whole and undamaged. His clothes were singed but he was unharmed.

Troy stared at his hands. He could still feel the fire inside him, but he had clamped down on it, holding it in like a big burp. "Holy shit," he repeated in an awed murmur when he could speak.

Michael found his amazement amusing. "UNholy shit," he corrected with a crooked smile.

Remembering where he was, Troy looked at him with a dazed smile of his own. "What did you do to me?"

Michael shook his head. "I didn't do anything." He swept his hair back from his face with a hand and gave Troy closer scrutiny, right down to his soul, which was markedly different from normal people. "Whatever it was, that was all you. You're…different."

Troy flexed his fingers, looking at them. There was no evidence of the fire left on him but there was plenty on the pavement. "I always knew I was, but I didn't think I was that different." He looked at Michael again. "What am I?"

"Hell if I know," Michael admitted. "I've never met anybody like you. Maybe you should tell me more about yourself…and this church you're representing."

—

Author's Note:

Weird fact: In addition to a tongue-in-cheek reference to Michael and Troy's leaving the party, this chapter's title was inspired by "Cinderella Man", a Ron Howard film that led to my meeting Max Baer Jr., who played Jethro Clampett on the Beverly Hillbillies. He's also the son of Max Baer, who was a famous boxer. Mr Howard needed a bad guy to give his film a little more punch (ha!), so he randomly picked Max Baer and assigned him villainous actions that Baer never did. Jethro took great exception to this, but the film was already in theaters; nothing could be done. When I found out about it, I reached out to Jethro's camp and was surprised when I got a personal response. I later helped support his attempt to open a casino in Nevada but WalMart sniped the land he was bidding on. And that's a true American horror story, if you ask me.

Next time: Troy gets to know Michael's camp better. Did someone say orgy?