Chapter 2

One Year Ago

Between the shots, the wine, and the blazing fire barrels, Marko's beginning to feel pleasantly fuzzy. But a different kind of warmth kindles in him, watching Paul sort through a jumbled pile of cassettes while Dee Snider wails about hunger and fire from the boombox. He's not sure if the snakelike sway of Paul's hips is intentional or not…
…Paul glances over his shoulder and grins. Oh. Yeah, it's intentional. Marko swallows and looks away, but he's not fooling anyone.

"You like it here, Marko?" Paul comes over and takes a seat right beside him. Not that he minds.

"You're kidding. This place is amazing." He casts his eye over the beachcomber's hoard that makes up the boys' kingdom. Several feet away, David and Dwayne are playing some kind of card game that involves throwing darts at each other between hands.

"You should stay." The way Paul says that tells Marko he's not just talking about tonight. He looks away, his sneakers scuffing patterns on the dusty floor. The others are all in boots - real leather, beneath the road dust and grime. The sort of thing he could never afford. One more thing about these boys that doesn't make sense.
Paul apparently misreads his silence, because he catches Marko's eye and says, "Not everywhere is as fucked up as it is out there, you know?"

What the hell do you know, anyway? Marko wants to snap. But the look on Paul's face stops him. There's something lurking beneath his dumb puppy-dog nature that runs deep, and cold, and knows far more than he lets on.

He flexes his fingers, feeling his knuckles creak in protest. "You seem to know a lot about me," he says instead.

Paul shrugs, mischief tugging at the corners of his mouth. "For a little guy, you leave a big impression."

"Screw you!" Marko has to laugh, despite himself, and when Paul's knee bumps his, he doesn't move away. Something flutters inside his ribcage.

"So, are you gonna stay?"

Marko blinks at him, pulse quickening. "Sure," he says, forcing a shrug. "It's late." That's not what Paul meant. He knows it, and Paul knows he knows it. But when Paul leans in, lifting a hand to his face, the bruise on his cheekbone throbs in warning. He can't help himself; he stiffens.

Paul's no fool. He catches the way Marko's gaze flickers to David and Dwayne, still caught up in their game. He shakes his head with a faint laugh. "You don't have to worry about them."

No? Marko's made that mistake before. But Paul knows these boys far better than he does, and they're right here in plain sight, sitting inches apart, and no one's screamed anything foul at them yet. Paul's touch is feather light on the back of his neck, but he doesn't pull him closer. He simply waits.

Waits for Marko to close the gap between them, and kiss him.

There's no impatience here, no expectations or demands. Only lips and calloused fingertips and the taste of tobacco smoke and the easy pressure of Paul's tongue against his bottom lip. The tension slowly unknots in Marko's shoulders. It's okay. He's okay. It's the middle of the night and he's in a cave kissing a boy he's just met. But for the first time in a long time, he feels safe.

Maybe Paul's right. Maybe there is a place for him, after all.

«•»«•»«•»

Now

Marko jolts awake as he's deposited roughly on the ground. Through sheer instinct he lashes out, his boots connecting with something fleshy, netting him a grunt of pain and a cuff round the ear. He snarls and hurls himself at his attacker. Or at least he tries. His limbs won't obey him. Because, he realizes with a flash of dread, his wrists and ankles are zip-tied.

"How is he awake already?" complains a vaguely familiar voice. One of the humans. They keep shining their torch in his eyes, blinding him, leaving spots dancing in his vision. "You left a helluva lump on his head. He should be like, concussed or something."

Heavy footsteps come crunching closer. "Well, he doesn't look very concussed to me."

Marko is far too vulnerable like this. Every synapse in his brain screams at him to get away. He draws his knees up protectively to his chest and tries to breathe deeply, but the air is acrid with ash and soot. As the torch beams sweep around, he can see he's lying amongst the debris of the chapel. Not that there's much of it left. The scorched earth is littered with beer cans, takeout containers, and worse.

And yet, this place makes his skin crawl.

A booted foot plants itself in his ribs, rolling him over in the blackened dirt. "So, kid. Just what the hell are you?" The man standing over him looks like a walking army surplus store, all pristine camo pants and a stupid American flag bandana on his head. He settles in a half crouch, just out of reach.

"You," Marko spits, "are so fucked." He flexes his arms to snap the plastic straps, but his strength fails him. The best he can manage is an ineffectual wriggle. The bottom drops out of his stomach. It's the church that's sapping his strength. Has to be. Despite the damage done by the fire, whatever magic shit they put in the ground is still doing its work. He fights the sudden urge to throw up.

"That right? Seems to me you're not doing so great yourself, buddy. Care to explain what you're doing hanging around here all by yourself?" The guy's not even Californian. His accent is folksy, deceptively friendly. Marko's not fooled for a second. Boys like him are sandpaper to that veneer of calm. He knows the ugliness that lies underneath all too well.
"Hey, c'mon. I know you speak American." Impatient, Bandana reaches over and snaps his fingers in front of his nose. Marko imagines tearing the digits clean off. "I was expecting to find, I dunno, a bunch of drugged-up teenagers. Not… whatever the hell it is you are. You the one who's been creeping around Jeb Creedy's place, attacking his horses? You burn down this church too?"

Marko, a city boy down to every hair atop his perfectly curled head, has never been near a horse in his life, and wouldn't set foot willingly in a church if someone paid him. He bares his teeth. "Sure, that was me."

Bandana makes a noise of satisfaction and tosses something to the ground with a plaff . It's a crumpled booklet of photocopied paper, the blocky text on the front upside down. Marko's night-sight is all kinds of messed up from having torches shone in his eyes, but he can barely make out the blocky writing on the front. SATANIC CULTS: A FIELD GUIDE TO OCCULT THREATS.

"Screw this," interrupts one of the other humans, a woman with torn jeans and a buzzcut. Marko might appreciate that if she wasn't staring down at him like he was garbage. "I thought the shit with the horses and the pentagrams was messed up, but kids floating three feet off the ground like they're in the Exorcist? I didn't sign up for this."

"Sasha's right," says the scrawny guy Marko had chased over the wall. He keeps jerking his torch around, as if expecting the shadows to come alive and attack him. "This is out of our league."

"So what do you wanna do?" Bandana huffs. "Hand him off to the cops?"

"No," a quiet voice pipes up from the darkness. Marko spies movement out of the corner of his eye, and jerks his head around to find a black clad figure standing a few feet away. He bites his tongue. There really must be something wrong with him, for a human to catch him by surprise. "This consecrated ground is keeping us safe. Whatever evil influence has a hold over this boy, if we try to move him it will only put ourselves in danger."
This man is older than the others, grey streaks in his hair catching the torchlight. The way he speaks - clipped, precise - makes Marko feel very uneasy indeed. Then his gaze falls on the gleaming crucifix hanging around his neck, and everything starts to fall into place.

"You know what's wrong with him, Rev?" Bandana asks, sounding a lot more respectful. There's no question who the leader of the group is.

The old man's gaze is razor sharp. Marko shivers and looks away. "Not yet, not for certain. But I have a… working theory. And, fortunately, there's a very simple way to test it."

"What's that?"

"We wait for the sun to come up."

«•»«•»«•»

One Year Ago

Marko's come to the conclusion that David is kind of an asshole. Which is fine, Marko's an asshole too, he's not here to judge. But he can't help but feel a spike of annoyance when, instead of letting his drunk, homeless ass fall asleep on their ratty old couch, the older boy shakes him awake.

"Rise and shine." The firelight gives his face a sinister cast as Marko sits up, rubbing his eyes. "It's not time to go to sleep yet."

"I'm really tired, man," Marko's aware of how lame he sounds, but it's the truth. Spending the whole day watching your back is exhausting. But David has already turned away, no question in his mind that Marko will follow.

Paul leans over the couch and slaps out a rhythm on the dusty fabric. "You can sleep when you're dead, Marko-Polo!" he declares. "Time's a-wastin'!"

Marko recalls the taste of cigarettes on the man's tongue and looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. Fine, whatever. They brought him here and fed him, and shared their booze, even if there was probably something wrong with it. The least he can do is oblige their weirdness. For now. He shrugs his jacket on and follows the boys up the steep climb to the cave entrance. But he checks to make sure his switchblade is still tucked inside his sleeve. Just in case.

Once again, when they reach their bikes, Paul motions to him to saddle up behind him. Marko slings his arms around his waist, and tries not to think too hard about the lean muscles shifting beneath the man's jacket. His head's spinning anyway, from the booze or lack of sleep or both, and as his mind wanders he imagines getting his hands on a ride of his own. Imagines himself at the handlebars, the world falling away around him as if he could take flight.

Their journey brings them to a stretch of railroad tracks in what feels like the middle of nowhere. Up ahead, the skeletal frame of a bridge looms out of the darkness. Marko vaguely remembers some story about teenagers jumping into the river and bashing their brains out on the rocks below. It's probably bullshit; whatever water used to be down there has long since dried up. The ghost of a river. He shoves his hands in his pockets and follows along behind the others as they venture out onto the bridge on foot.

"Well, here we are," David announces. He's smirking. "End of the line." It's clearly not, given that they're standing on a rail bridge in the middle of nowhere. Marko eyeballs him warily, sensing he's missing something. A hundred possibilities run through his head, none of them good, all of them taut with the promise of violence. Stupid, stupid Marko. He tenses, already reaching for his switchblade, when David calmly places a hand on Paul's sternum and shoves him over the side of the bridge.

For a split second all Marko can see is Paul's windmilling arms, his eyes wide with surprise. And then he's gone, and the ice in Marko's veins turns to fire. He darts forward, brought up short by a pair of strong arms that wrap around him. Dwayne may be tall, but he moves like a cat.

Marko squirms in his grip. "What the fuck?" he yells, beside himself. "Why would you do that?"

"Help! Help me!" Paul's voice floats up to him, and his knees almost buckle. He tears himself free of Dwayne's grip and drops to his knees at the edge of the bridge.

It's impossible. Marko saw him fall, heard his scream swallowed up by the dark. There's no way he had time to react. But there is Paul, hanging onto a girder by his fingertips. His shoulders shake with sobs of terror. Then he tilts his head upward, and Marko sees his massive grin stretched across his face. "Saaaave me, Marko!" his voice rises to a mocking falsetto. He's not crying, he's laughing.

A white hot streak of anger shoots through Marko. "You asshole!" he yells, slamming a fist into the wooden sleeper beneath his knees. He's not sure whether he's yelling at David, Paul, or both. "I thought-" he bites off the end of that sentence before he can say I thought I just witnessed a murder. He gets up and paces, shaking his arms out furiously to dispel the adrenaline coursing through him.

David is laughing. "We're just having a little fun. I'm sure Paul appreciates your concern." He catches Marko's eye and actually winks.

"Hey!" Paul's voice floats up to them. "Are you boys coming down or what?" Dwayne chuckles and steps off the side with a swiftness that sends Marko's heart careening into his mouth. But a second later he hears whoops and laughter coming from below.

"Well, Marko? Things aren't always what they seem to be," David says, leaning in close. "I made you an offer. No more fear. But first, you have to trust me," he finishes, breath hot against Marko's ear, and Marko sees with a jolt that he's somehow moved without realizing it. He's standing on the very edge of the bridge, his toes jutting out over empty air. David's presence at his back sends lightning down his spine.

He must be drunk, crazy, or both to consider what comes next. But something fundamental has shifted, as if the world has tilted on its axis. He's right there at the crossroads again, only this time the devil is at his shoulder, whispering promises in his ear.

Whatever happens next, it's in his own hands.

Well, what the hell.

Marko takes a deep breath.

Steels himself.

And jumps.

«•»«•»«•»

Now

This is all wrong. Surely the boys must have realized he's been gone for too long. Their blood grants them a bond, after all, but he can't feel them at all, only a hollow ache near his heart where their shared pulse should be. He can only assume it's the same for them, that they can't tell where he is either. Or maybe they cut their losses and left him. Would he risk his own ass to rescue him, in their place?

He casts his gaze out in what he assumes is the direction of the lake. The occultist-hunting weirdos have stopped shining their torches in his face, at least. Bandana has lit a sputtering propane lamp, but beyond its washed out glow the night is - to Marko's dulled senses - no longer limned in silver, but impossible to make out.

Fine then. For now he has to assume he's on his own. Just like old times.

The humans are mostly ignoring him, secure in the knowledge that he's bound and helpless. They alternate between standing guard, smoking and talking between themselves in low voices. Moving at a snail's pace to avoid catching their attention, Marko strains his bound arms and reaches for his jeans pocket. The plastic bites into his wrists, leaving welts, but they'll heal quick enough once he gets away. He breathes deep and pushes past the pain. But when he finally gets there, his fingers close around nothing. Damn, damn, damn. Forgetting to be quiet in his rising panic, he fumbles for his other pocket, but to his dismay it's empty too.

"Looking for this?" The woman with the buzz cut - Sasha - saunters over, dangling something metallic from her fingers. His switchblade. Marko's body fizzes with rage as she lazily flicks it open and shut.

"You've got no idea what you're messing with," he grits out, lifting his chin defiantly.

"Oh, I think we do." Sasha squats in front of him, twirling his blade between her fingers. Up close, he can see faded numbers tattooed on her knuckles; 22:18. She jerks her chin toward the man they call 'Rev', standing by himself at the edge of the lamplight, his head bowed. "See that man over there? That's the Reverent Apostle Wallace Orben. He hunts down Satanic freaks like you."

"So, what? You go around attacking teenagers for fun?"

Sasha snorts, snapping the switchblade closed and stuffing it into her back pocket. "You attacked us, bub. You don't get to play the victim here. But if you're lucky, the Rev will purge whatever demons are infesting you, and you'll get to go home to Mommy and Daddy." She smirks and reaches over to tweak his collar. "That's a sweet jacket. Maybe I'll keep it, as payment." Marko jerks away, adrenaline spiking through his veins. Don't touch me don't touch me don't fucking touch me-

"Aw, what's wrong?" Sasha pouts mockingly. "Not so tough on holy ground, are you? You miss your buddy Pazuzu?" She slaps his cheek lightly, once, twice. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him who holds the power.

Her laughter turns to a piercing shriek as Marko clamps his teeth down on her hand. He grunts with satisfaction, feeling the delicate bones grind between his teeth. She wrenches her hand free a moment later, cursing him out. She follows it up with a vicious backhand, but it's her weaker side, and there's no real power behind the blow. All in all, Marko thinks, it was worth it.

The Rev comes hurrying over. "What happened?"

"Jesus Christ, Rev! He bit me!"

"Did he break the skin?"

Damn right he did. Her blood sings of copper and cigarette ash. The other humans cluster around Sasha and the Rev, whose expression goes slack with horror. But only for a second. He rallies himself quickly and turns on Marko with fury in his eyes.

"Bandage your hand," he says over his shoulder. "We'll check it over later."

Sasha lets herself be led away by the others, but not before she spits in the dirt at Marko's feet. He grins up at her, wild-eyed. He can still taste her blood staining his teeth.

"You want some of this too?" he lets out a breathless laugh and licks his lips at the man cutting a knifelike figure in the dark above him. The Rev is all lean limbs and sharp corners, like Paul. But where Paul is always filled with restless energy, moving to the beat of a song only he can hear, the Rev is almost preternaturally still.

Then in the blink of an eye, the man's foot slams into the tenderest spot of his belly, driving all the air out of him in a gasp.

"Disgusting boy," he snaps. Marko barely hears him through the red haze of pain. He curls around himself with a keening groan. Even weakened as much as he is, it shouldn't hurt this much. Not from this frail old man. Then he sees the gleam of metal on the toes of his shoes.

Silver.

The bastard's actually silvered his shoes.

With his wrists tied together, Marko can't press his hand to the burn, but if he could he'd feel the raised welt where the silver touched his skin. There's only one reason someone would do that…

"Oh yes," the Rev says, with a thin-lipped smile at the look on Marko's face. "I see you now, boy. I know exactly what you are." He drops the smile, and in the lamplight he looks monstrous. "A parasite. An abomination. A mindless beast who can't help but give into your… unnatural urges."

An angry tear streaks down Marko's cheekbone and soaks into the dirt. He's been here before, both in his nightmares and in the waking world. Bastards like this have always tried to break him, when they didn't like the way he dressed or who he kissed or how he talked back. But he's survived this far. So he sniffs and rolls onto his back to meet the Rev's harsh gaze with a defiant glare.

"Come on then," he snarls. He'll indulge his unnatural urges by tearing this fucker limb from limb if he ever gets the chance. "Do your worst."

«•»«•»«•»

One Year Ago

Marko wakes to the distant sound of waves. There's a chill in the air, too. As much as he'd like to burrow into his jacket and doze for a bit longer, it's time he got going, before the security guards can do an early sweep of the Boardwalk. He groans, scrubbing at his sleep-crusted eyes with his palms, and - oh.

He's not on the Boardwalk. He's looking at a model of the cavern ruins, spread out beneath him in incredible detail. Right down to the cobwebs on the dusty candelabras.

Wait, no. That is the cave. He's lying on the ceiling, looking down. He sits up, and instantly regrets it. His fingers scrabble for purchase, but he doesn't fall, and eventually his lizard brain stops panicking long enough for the rest of him to adjust to the idea the floor is now the roof, and vice-versa.

But… how?

Think, Marko. He remembers the three boys bringing him here, and kissing Paul, and letting them drag him out to the rail bridge. He shivers as he remembers jumping into the chasm below - what had he been thinking? - and then…

…the rest is a blank.

Experimentally, he raises - lowers? - his hands from the ceiling. It's a weird feeling. It isn't gravity that has changed; he can feel its pull tugging at him still. He even manages to get his feet under - over? - him for a moment or two before he has to sit again, his head spinning.

Well, if it isn't gravity that has changed, then it must be him. Unless he's hallucinating. Maybe there really was something wrong with that wine. He absentmindedly scratches his stomach, and freezes. There's something on his skin, flaking off under his fingers. A perfect, reddish brown hand print, inches above his hip bone.

And just like that, the memories come flooding back. Ocean spray on his face. Strangers beneath the struts of the wharf. Tinny music. Raised voices, ugly words. A frenzy of shoving. The sharp tang of fear, replaced with the taste of copper and fear and pain and the almost blissful release of violence. Paul kissing him again with blood stained lips, pulling him closer without a care for who sees them.

And Marko laughing, and laughing…

"Holy shit," he says aloud, his voice echoing off the cave walls.