Half Discovered Wings by David Brookes

that
surrounded them – was flung from across the stairwell by something
and forced him back … They were not spikes on the wall but severed
fingers, their nails sharp, twisted, and bloodied. Souls all around
him were being tormented by innumerable dark miscreants, obscure
and spiny, or blood-red and dripping, or made of fire or smoke or
slime.
    Blood streaked his naked legs, and it wasn’t all his own; the
skin on his feet was raw from glass or rocks on the ground. The
pain seemed intolerable. Everlasting agony already a part of him,
Teague was forced along the west wall to the first tower and then
around it, up the southern wall, which was awash with wet blood
that his smoky form swam through, until they reached the Tall
Tower
    The eternal residence of the Lustful.
    The blood had no effect on him, though he could smell it. His
curse had been taken away for this place, and he was no longer a
true theriope, drawn into anthropomorphic transformation by the
scent of gore. He was merely an ethereal representation of himself;
a soul? A self-generated figment? Whatever he was, he was far from
his body, made of only his thoughts and his pain.
    Charos forced
him onto the huge spiral staircase and pulled him down the twisted
steps, through the darkness and mass of twisting bodies.
    ‘How do they
all fit?’ Teague asked.
    It is always
big enough for them. They all experience Hell, as they should.
    ‘Why should
they?’
    A new and sudden pain crackled down his body, through what
his mind still called his bones, through his bloodstream, every
vessel. His arteries, his veins, his capillaries, all flooded with
pain; no, not just pain, but fear. It flooded Teague’s being until
he was made of it, like he was made of the pain.
    Do not ask
questions. You cannot convince me of anything other than what I was
made for. I harvest. I do not consider such things. I am
Charos.
    He wanted to
fall to his knees with agony, but the black creature before him
wouldn’t grant him that; his dark guide, his steersman through the
underworld, and never-relenting tormentor.
    Remember ! said Charos. Remember your sins, and
be penitent.
    ~
    A week before
the death of his mother, the young William Teague leant back
against the cold alley wall and looked up, past the bricks and
tile, at the moon. That near-round disc eyed him unremittingly, as
if in accusation.
    ‘I’m doing
nothing wrong,’ Teague said, crossing his arms in defiance.
    Th e
alleyway was narrow and dark. No light could slant down between the
rooftops to meet him. He was alone and in shadow, but – thankfully
– a second shadow soon joined him.
    ‘Lucia,’ he
said, as she approached.
    She came quickly, brushing down her bodice and pursing her
lips as she met him. ‘William,’ she whispered. ‘Here again?’
    ‘ I couldn’t stay away.’ Taking her waist, he pulled
her to him, and breathed in her scent: perfume and
leaves.
    With his fingers curved around her thighs, her painted lips
pressed against his in that alleyway under the moon. Her scent and
touch galvanised his senses, enflamed his blood and nerves. She
allowed herself to be pressed against the cold wall, breathless,
her legs around his waist.
    ‘ You
know, these aren’t my normal working hours,’ she said.
    ‘ I know.’
    ‘ Still, so long as you’re carrying your purse, you’re worth
staying up for.’
    ‘ I hope so.’
    Lucia smiled. ‘What’s
the matter? You sound like you don’t want to talk about it.’
    ‘ I don’t,’ he said. ‘Kiss me.’
    Her smile did not sit right on her face whenever he asked her
to kiss him. She usually made a rule about no kissing. Maybe it was
the moon this time, shining on a face already beginning to glimmer
with sweat. They hadn’t even started. He wondered if she had come
from another job, another man somewhere.
    She held his
face in her hands, aware that his thoughts were drifting. She hated
it when he was in her, but not thinking about her. ‘Hey. We don’t
have to