Tyke’s Fear

TYKE

My hand rushes toward the door latch as soon as I release the handbrake.

There is a strange feeling in my chest, and it's rising unevenly.

It's this same old darkness again... and as I step out of the car, it begins to engulf my mind. It always comes back, no matter how I try fanning it.

The first time I felt like this, I must have been fifteen, and my heart is beating the same way it did back then.

My memories are vivid.

My sister and I were setting a behemoth trap in the woods. Normally, it should've been the three of us, but my brother, Jaroh'k, had been killed three years earlier while fighting at the front—at the base of a breached Wall that was supposed to keep us from harm. Despite the war raging south, our tribe was at peace, confident that no fae could fly so far out as to reach Jor'kahal. But we were wrong...

That morning, Jayara was upset because our father had confiscated her hammer. Hell, I remember being as unsettled as she was. With it, she'd knocked down an unwanted suitor, giving him a glimpse of her pride, mostly mine. I supposed she nearly killed one of our own, and that went against the rules of our village. Even so.

"By Gruumsh, I'll have a word with him. Father's not sound. He cannot be."

"Tykerish, from the roots beneath my feet to the sun above my head, I swear this idiot's words were searching for war." Jayara had both knees on the spring bar, pressing as hard as she could to break the iron jaws open. "And when his hands found it on my rear, he got a taste of it. I should've been rewarded, not punished. Besides, he's still alive."

"I need more of your weight. Just sit on it," I huffed, standing at the raised oval of a massive gin trap. The whole of my arms and thighs ached as they strung under the tension. My hands were gripped on the sides of the trap's rusty jaws, trying to push them apart, but they refused to yield.

"I'm sitting on it. What else can I do?"

"You're made of air, sister. Mother Aida ain't feeding you enough." I recall being hot with sweat, uneasily manoeuvring around a sharp, giant set of metallic teeth as I kept an eye on Jayara. Freak accidents weren't uncommon, and I wanted my sibling to live long after I did. "You should've let me deal with him. It serves you right."

"I'm a female of honor. The only orc who can fight my battle is me," Jayara breathed, focused on the jaws, like me, struggling to open them.

"Well then, don't complain." I realized her teen muscles were still developing and nowhere near providing the results I had hoped for. So I grabbed my hammer with one hand and dropped it on the spring bar right beside her. The jaws flapped wide open, hitting the forest floor with a creak.

"Could have done this earlier! Why watch me struggle!?" Her barking made me laugh as I went for a thick iron plate, and I remember lifting it up felt like carrying a behemoth itself. Warriors were trained on lifting those sensors for a reason; they'd strain muscles and bones, making us just as solid and heavy... and for a young orc like me, I was proud to be handling one just as they did.

"You need to muscle up." I chuckled, even though I was already fighting with a giant wheel of steel twice my size.

She jumped on the pine-needled ground, a stomp from me, and crossed her arms. I smiled at her plump cheeks, rippling from a snarl. She was so young. "I cracked his skull!"

"Exactly what I'm saying, you need training. Next time, wait for me. Everyone deserves to have their suffering put to an end. As far as it would have lasted, that's up to anyone's taste..." I breathed, positioning the sensor in the center of the jaws as gently as possible.

"Brother!" she giggled, a memory I'm only left to cherish because she never laughed after that.

Light instantly dimmed and a faint whirring sound caught our ears. When we both looked up, thousands of giant metal-winged locusts were swarming the skies—motorized airships all heading toward Jor'kahal.

Had we known this day would be the last time seeing our family, we would have spent it differently.

These bombs were full offaemagic that eradicated life for miles on end.

In my dreams, these bombs still explode beneath my feet.

I release a grunt of pain I can't seem to identify.

If something happened to this girl...

My head slightly jolts when my brain picks up the slamming of a door closing behind me.

With a harsh blow, shitty misery escapes my clenched teeth.

Blow it out, Tyke. Fuck. My car keys and phone are in the damn car! I can see this black thing sitting in its dashboard holder.

It will just have to be another 'Fuck it' moment.

"Hey, you can't park here!" Some random squeaks catch my attention, so I turn and find a security officer peeking out of his booth, munching on some grass they callsalad. This lad's got his eyes fixed on my tires, still smoking from the hard brake. "Move your car. This parking space is for our residents!"

"Residents?" My gaze is hooked on the revolving door of the hospital entrance, an urge to run ahead gnawing at me.

"That's right; our doctors in training!"

I don't have time for this bullshit.

A poor attempt at bluffing, I fling my studio keys at him. "Best of luck moving her."

"It's my break!" This four-foot-tall dwarf gives me a dirty look, waving his green mush-filled Tupperware at my face—knees in this case—with which I'm about to smash into his face.

Trying to remain calm, I gaze up at the sky, cursing whatever divine being is playing with my patience.

And as soon as I glance down, I can't help but growl, "You want to taste one of my fists?"

The little creature curls up in his rectangle tin box and squeaks, "It's cool, bro."

I slap the reception desk with two hands, startling the lady on the other end.

The gruesome sight behind the counter makes me recoil internally.

By Karald'esh tusks, that is... nasty!

Orcs aren't really fond of snakes, and this lady has an entire hair ornament made of them. Yes, serpents whirling all over the place, their heads masked with tiny cloths.

It's a gorgon. What a rarity... This is my second run-in with one ever since I was moved to New Orc. Heard they prefer Centaurus' scorching climate over New Orc's tempered one.

There are some interesting stories about them, enough to tell me I shouldn't cross this lady's boundaries. Those stories also come with irreversible hard-stoned endings...

"Fayra Jinksovan." Throat rumbling, I swallow the mistake I just made. Gotta keep my manners in check with her. "Fayra Jinksovan, please."

Speaking through a snotty nose, she asks, "Relative?"

This is my least favorite thing to do, but sometimes you need to use your public authority over these pesky private matters. Sliding my badge on the counter, I let her guess whatever she wants.

As the metal of my police crested badge scrapes toward her, she raises one hand above her ledge and probes the object.

Taking a deep breath, she exhales her foulness at me—foul enough to irritate my nostrils.

"First floor," she croaks, readjusting her oversized spectacles.

She's not fooling anyone. Gorgons are blind, if not for the eyes of those whirling serpents on her scalp. And if I'm not mistaken, those masked snake eyes can't see a thing, either.

"Ward?" I grunt.

In response, she lets the phone ring and smirks into the void.

Then, this terrible mistake that is her face sniggers at me before shoving her attention back to her braille keyboard. This is another instance of someone behaving in a close-to-ignoring manner.

It'sokay; I'm used to this shit.

Almost everyone hates orcs.

My fist strikes the reception desk. I guess I'm not thatokaywith it after all.

"Emergency," she finally puffs before picking up the buzzing phone.

My heart races.

Fay...

"Em-emergency?!" I stutter, unable to contain a herd of shivers taking over my spine.

Bloody orc, if it's not a growl, don't emote.

"Emergency," she snarks between calls.

"Tyke!"

Donna is standing at the ward's entrance, mascara baring her face like an incarcerated convict.

"Where is she?"

Thisweregirlclamps my arm, her eyes glistening.

If there is one thing orcs are good at, it's smelling fear. And right now, this woman reeks of it.

"Wait." Donna's hand clenches into claws as she digs deep into her wolf's power—she knows I'm strong. "Listen!" Her breath is accompanied by the familiar growl of wolves, a hint of angst underlining her words. "She's okay."

I scan the emergency room, my eyes jumping from row to row, from drunkard to street fights gone wrong.

"Don't get mad." Donna keeps talking in the background, but I'm not in the mood for small talk. "She just has a..."

It doesn't take long for my gaze to settle on a set of beautiful mother-of-pearl wings, the familiar reflection of pastel blue and green waving as she moves.

Bug...

Her delicate legs, all bruised and scratched, are swinging off the edge of the bed like a kid waiting for the school bus.

Fay's breathing... and for the first time tonight, it feels like I am, too.

"Miss, we strongly encourage you to take the kit!" I catch as I attempt to politely remove my wrist from Donna's grip. She's been blabbering for the last minute, and I don't want to sound rude, but it's all been for nothing.

What is this nurse implying?

"I told you I don't need it!" Fay pesters, loud enough to be heard across the room.

Wait... a rape kit?!

"Tyke!" Donna's nails sink into my skin.

I let them scrape my wrist down to my fingertips and start walking toward my fairy.

Some guy shouts behind me, "Hey, my IV pole!"

"Well, pick it up," I grumble, feet halting a few inch from Fay's bed.

Her eyes are wider than two flying saucers—she's obviously surprised to see me. Her furtive look of hate on the side, probably aimed at Donna, a confirmation.

"T-Tyke? What are you doing here?"

They want her to use a rape kit... I know the protocol for rape victims. No hug, no physical contact, nothing to remind them.

"Name?" I ask. I want to hug her, squeeze her so damn hard.

And then the urge to burn the world to the ground surfaces when my eyes land on one of her wings. Injuries go deeper than simple abrasions, the veins red as rust, tips shriveled and curled as if they had withered under the heat. My eyes tailgate a tear drawing up to the birth of one. My lungs swell, rushing without notice into my aching ribs.

Little bug...

Seeing her like this, my tongue doesn't want to help me out. I ball my fists out of frustration or fury, probably both.

It's hard for me to find my words. At least I don't need to be worried about lining them up. I am too far ahead of the challenge to get stressed about it.Faerish, not my native tongue, making things worse.

"Name."

"I stumbled on my way back, and my heel went rogue on me. I fell in the gutter, and I sparked up because, well, I..." she gestures a space gap between her index and thumb, "had a tad too much to drink."

Until this goof, I'd never known anyone who was capable of lying so badly.

"Madam, please, the rape kit is painless," insists the nurse next to us.

Fay's smile leaves her, probably ashamed I heard that. "I told you, it's not what you think!"

It's hard to look away from the bite on her shoulder. Blood drips from this gash through her ripped shirt, staining her hips as she sways on the bed.

Whoever did this is about to be pushing daisies.

The look on her face changes as I remove a few strands from her eyes.

She doesn't want to give me a name...

A place, maybe?

"Where?"

Fay's beautiful gaze falls on me, and her split lips—making my blood boil—whisper, "I wanna go home, bear."

Her eyes are blurring, and I can't take it.

The nurse throws a blue hospital gown onto the bed before pulling the curtains with defined harshness. "We're keeping you under observation for the night." Clearly, she's bothered by Fay's unwillingness to listen.

"I'll stay, too."

Lips pinched, the nurse scrutinizes me for a bleak five seconds. "Orcs are not allowed overnight stays."

White-hot shame washes over me and I'm left incapable of processing a single thought.

I try to remain calm as I watch a smile spread across the nurse's face. "But you are not an orc; you're a halfling, aren't you? Overnight halfling visitors are allowed. Let me just fill out the form for you. Name?"

"Tyke Kar'Ael."

"No need to show your face at the desk. Stay here."

Relief jumps out of my lungs in a deep, drawn-out blow, and I turn to Fay.

She's looking at me with the intensity of an axe––the creased lines on her nose, the pitiless arched lines above her eyes, and the grimace on her face, all wanting me to feel unwelcome. But I know from how her throat flexes a dry swallow to how her lips quiver that it ain't the case. I'm staying.

"Tyke, chest always so puff, the tough guy besides the damsels in distress... The savior of the day, one trying to pull the..." She's snarling, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Rumors circulate about Fay. They've been around even before I knew who she was. From everything I've heard, they say she's too wild, gets out of hand, and doesn't want any strings attached.

What they fail to understand is that Fay doesn't need to be tamed.

I don't want her tamed; I want her to run wild with me.

If my village was still standing, I would have taken her there and made her my mate. Kidnapped her in the middle of the night and made her mine. I bite my cheek at the thought. This fairy would probably love the abduction revolving around this nuptial custom...

Down for the count, a series of low grunts rumble out her mouth as she shoves her legs under the blanket. The corners of my lips twitch as her hand jostles the sheet, erratically pushing the patient gown back out of bed until it plops at my feet.

"Stop looking at me like that!" she hiccups.

The knot in my stomach tightens.

She's taking it out on me, and I'll let her. Anything that makes her feel better.

She's been given a sedative and has been out for two, maybe three, hours.

The moment I witnessed the passing of a hollow needle through her skin, my fingers somehow found their way into hers without objection, and they have remained there ever since. My eyelids struggle to stay open, yet my clasp upon her sleeping one is steadfast.

It's 3:43 a.m., and I know I should go home, but I can't seem to leave her bedside.

There is no better place for me to be, anyway.

I pause on her chest waving up to the heavens and down again, envisioning a heart pulsing this grace that is her life.

Softest skin, softer than rosewater, ensnared, my gaze trails over it. It journeys up to her throat, and halts at those lips, so red, purer than blood.

But then I feel sick to my stomach for the slit across them.

A grunt rises out of me, my fingers tensing.

Thin ones return the gesture.

She's awake, lashes fluttering in the penumbra. The girl's made of wings inside out. "Little bug," I whisper. "Please tell me a name."

Nothing. Nothing but the muted sound of tears being held is enough for my guts to liquefy.

I squeeze her hand, pleading, "Please, Fay."

"Hell's Garden," she rasps between tears.

Her little hand snakes around my resting arm as I start to lift myself off the tiniest stool the medical staff thoughtto give me. "I don't want you to go just yet."

"I'm right here." This must be the very first time Fay has asked for me this way.

I settle on my seat and, leaning forward, carefully secure her hand in a shell made of my fingers. "There's a saying in Jor'kahal, 'When an orc drowns, a fairy saves him; and when a fairy is falling, an orc spreads her wings."

"Shut up. You made that up." Her laugh is like liquid sunshine running in my ears, and I can't avoid smiling like an idiot.

"Yes, I did." A frail snigger busts out of me, and I feel like clubbing myself with the monitor beeping next to me.

Over and over again, our eyes have met. But how Fay's gaze runs into me like an electric charge is enough to fan off my smile, if not stop me cold.

Unable to resist this magnetic pull, I bend further down, fighting the urge to hold her.

"Don't look too close," she says, shying away from me. "I'm ugly."

I want to discern her expression, the contours that shape this living wonder. And as gently as possible, I slowly turn her face toward me.

She looks so beautiful, and she doesn't even know it.

"Whenever a mirror crosses your face, Fay, you'll see what I like."

"Stop."

"A Masterpiece with a capital M." Fuck, I can't stink more with words, can I?

With her ocean-colored irises landing on mine, my body begins messing things up.

And as I involuntarily stroke her head, a rush surges through me.

This smooth hand that comes overlaying mine, I can't take it no more. Soon the oval of her perfect face goes cradling into my palm as I slide it down.

This girl...

She's turning my poor blood into vapor.

"You have arrived at your destination."

I turn off the navigation system and drive the remaining few miles of this dead-end street on my own. Growing into my vision is a pointed, black thatched roof, with early morning sunbeams shooting up from behind it.

Curses fill my mouth as I look up at this haunting place. Hell's Garden is a relic from the past. A witch cottage tucked between two skyscrapers converted into a trendy venue, right down to the orange street lanterns stemming from the cobbled pavement to Hell's Garden's metallic sign— a cauldron swinging its rust in the breeze.

I'm no stranger to this place. It's always to pick up a fairy late at night, the same one, more often in drunken tears than not.

I flank the Cadillac along the street and hit the brakes.

Funny how bars look so unattractive in the daytime.

As I step out of the car, my eyes immediately latch onto the roof. I'm looking for security cameras, and the main entrance has one.

But there is a one percent chance that Fay's ordeal could've happened in broad sight.

I need footage of the entire venue.

The door sings as I push it, old tavern-style bells jingling against each other. I step in, and it rings a second time when the door flaps shut behind me, triggering a low groan in my throat. I hate Hell's Garden.

The smell of old liquor and tobacco immediately fills my nostrils. "Anyone here? I wanna speak to the owner."

I scan the place, starting with the bar. The neatly stacked shelves with all sizes and shapes of liquor bottles pique my interest. Remains of glass shards, from what must be past broken bottles, glitter between the standing ones. On the floor, other peals of forgotten glass crunch beneath my boots.

My heels turn to find crooked mirrors, some broken, plastering the walls with fake stuffed unicorn heads and demon horn props hung between them. Several are dangling sideways.

Something shook the place.

I grunt at my reflection. I look like a decaying body that died from a lack of sleep.

"In the flesh," this female centaur says, wiping her hands on a cloth as she slips out from behind her counter. The burnished hues of this place make her fawn color hard to discern, and I must admit, she went unnoticed.

She tilts her head to one side. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Though she's seen me here countless times, she never seems to recognize me—orcs are all the same to her. I evade her question with another. "What happened here?"

She gives me the once-over, taking note of my police uniform.

Her heavy-draught hooves bang on the wooden floor as she trots toward me, polished... "Are you here for yesterday's bust-up? Quite surprising. Wouldn't have thought my call was gonna be taken seriously. Fae is all that matters these days..."

I knit my brows. "What fight?"

I get the full eyeball from head to toe. And throughout the entire look, she smiles with a sly smile. "Two orcs and a group of witches. I'll let you guess who did the most damage." Centaur-lady sucks in a cheek and can suck it whole if she wants to.

Rather than reacting, I stare at her, shooting my disinterest to the back of her skull. "I'm investigating an alleged fae assault."

Her almond eyes spread, teeth clamping into a grimace. "No such thing happened here," follows a shake of her head as if I believe her.

She crosses her arms. "Can I put a name behind this joyful face?"

"Officer Kar'Ael, NOPD. Where's the back door?" The shortcut I just took makes this business owner frown a brow. The girl seems to have enough acumen to know some pieces are missing. Hope she's not the chatty kind, because the warrant in my hands isnonexistent.

"This way. Why?"

I follow her, her chestnut rump waving from one hip to the other as her tail slashes across her hindlegs as if chasing flies. "I'm not sure yet."

She clamps her two hands on a purple lateral bar and swings the door wide with one big push. "Here you go." The demi-horse clip-clops to the side, freeing me the way.

"Thanks." My neck twists, revolving in a 180-degree angle, picking up a twisted streetlight, a broken dumpster, and traces of soot on the wall. I want to light a smoke so badly, but I promised Fay I would quit for her if she asked. So I stick a toothpick between my teeth instead and take several steps back.

The street, littered with trash and graffiti, is ripe for crime.

Jackpot, Tyke! There's a camera here as well.

It's fixed above the lintel's door, and my eyes narrow to where it's angling at—a massive halo. It's one of burnt impact and scarring most of the wall siding the exit. The conflagration must have been powerful enough to smut it in all its width.

I crouch.

What is this?

Pixie dust...

Fay... What did you do?

I glance to the opposite side of the alley, where there's a metallic fenced wall. It's torn, parts of it flat on the ground, and behind it, a dumpster bent in two. There's an imprint on its symmetry line that resembles a body—and my gut tells me it must have been a strong one to have survived the blast.

I need to see the footage.

"Some idiot used magic, and I won't be held accountable. I keep my taproom clean."

I slant my eyes to the left. The hoofed girl is standing in the doorway, her horse ears flicking at the chancel. "CCTV recordings?" I grumble.

"Sure. If it can help you arrest those scums." The centaur ends her kind gesture with a spit on the asphalt. Aside from jealousy and fear, I can't understand why magic is such an issue.

"Follow me. Camera monitors are on the first floor," the bar tenant casually says, throwing her head toward some staircase, nearly whipping me with her long braid as she shoves it behind her back.

After leading me upstairs, she opens a rusty door and invites me in with a 'get going' kinda move of the chin.

It's a small room filled with pickle jars and other bags of crisps. She points at a high shelving unit. "It's behind."

"Privacy, please," I say as I approach the most Orcish desk I've seen since the war. It's a wooden plank laid across two empty beer barrels for pillars. Dusting on it, a camera recorder. Hopefully, it picked up something.

"Anything you want, orc," she mutters, her hooves turning toward the door.

"Special Ops Kar'Ael," I grunt, hunching over the material.

I rewind until the night before, press play, and?—

Fuck. I know those horns, the red wings folding over Fay, this fucking... tail disappearing between her legs.

I tuck in my brows and shut my eyes. I'm going to kill someone.

I'm just not quite sure who.

I skip forward for about ten minutes, nibbling on the toothpick like a psycho.

She made it clear; we're not exclusive. No ties...

No shit, Fay. My body leans forth, sucked in by this tiny black-and-white screen.

I hit a halt.

Sink back into my seat, my mind unable to grasp where I am.

This footage is turning from torture to outright evil as I watch my coworker, whom I thought was a friend, strangle Fay with his tail. My breathing quickens, murderous thoughts and distress racing with one another—each vying for control from how Deon pins her against the wall, tethered to her, controlling her every move...

I don't want to believe it. Can't process.

Not Deon. Not you…

The footage may be soundless, yet my imagination is playing tricks on me, sweet Fay's sharp cries, suffocated grunts ringing loud in my mind as she wrestles for a breath, Deon's roughness on her cutting through me like a knife. The taste of copper swishes over my mouth as I snarl, feeling the tip of my tusk piercing through my lines of disgust. I want to dive into the damn screen, kill that bastard before he can touch her, and jump right out with Fay. My gaze falls to my trembling hands, and I realize my tremors are contagious, spreading to my lips as they press into blood.

Fuck, I need a drink.

And maybe I fucking should! Licking the blood off my lips, I grab both sides of the screen monitor, watching Fay's wings blast up with a magic unseen before, my tinged toothpick landing on the desk.

Like a geyser between her wings, sparks gush forth.

It happens quickly, like a bomb detonating.

I toggle the tabs, alternating between the play and stop buttons. There's something I don't get. It starts out as a small mass of energy, then grows like a well-fed ember blossoming into fire petals, such as a newborn star. It forever increases in intensity until the lens can no longer take the luster and blurs.

Chin clamped, fingers won't stop rubbing, pressing, squeezing out the?—

What did I just witness? Fay's magical abilities have a certain shyness about them. Never really saw anything aside from how it makes her wings glow and shower pixie dust...

No, I don't understand.

I rewind the scene, then again. As soon as I reach a point where a surge of radiance grows at Fay's back, I press stop. I keep going back and forth. Not once or twice, but playing it on loops, eyes gaping.

How does she...? What is this magic?

I exhale and let the scene unfold, even as my questions obsess over Fayra...

My partner flies across the screen and crashes into the dumpster.

Fay was right; she didn't need the rape kit.

My body feels lighter somehow, and my heart less inclined to shatter my thorax every second.

Fay stays there, then walks a little before stalling in the middle.

I can tell she's in shock. My lips compress as I watch Fay sweat out her ordeal for two long minutes in a state of inertia.

Little bug, you did a great job...

In the end, Fay slowly collects herself, along with her belongings, and leaves.

As the video progresses, Deon regains his senses and flies away. She could've killed him. I would have covered her crime.

Now, I understand why she didn't want to sell his name out. The force is like family. As much as airing one's dirty laundry and cleaning out goes, it's to be done between us.

Deon, you're as good as cold...

"Whoa, man, you look like you haven't sle?—"

Deon's computer, phone, and paper tray falls to the floor, with Deon and an empty desk chair swiveling away.

"Piece of fuck!" I spit, rubbing my knuckles.

I know I can go harder, and I will.

My blood pressure is racing one of those heartbeats, my body and mind firmly tied to one cause, Fayra. Legs motion by themselves, driven toward the pig, in sync with my balling fists. "Pray the heavens."

"Wait, Tyke..." Torso crunched in two, Deon spits his shit on one side. "I need a minute or twenty-five." He's grabbing his ribs, hungry for air. I snarl, knowing he's about to starve from it.

We're the real deal, the stars of the show, the office dropping to a gawking mutism. Might end up in the Gurnam Swamps, and I'm okay with that. Two seconds pass before my fist locks again, lusting to be slathered with this muttonhead's blood.

"Fayra Jinksovan." I grab him by the collar and raise him high until his stupid horns grate against the ceiling. "Rings a bell?""

Deon's eyes widen, and I think he gets the fucking gist. "Tyke..."

"She's mine, and you harmed her."

He's kicking the air, tail flapping like a whip, the stupid runes on his arms lighting up like cheap glow-in-the-dark tattoos. "I didn't know." His words are fighting to come out, pathetically squeaking as I trade his shirt for his throat.

I squeeze harder.

"Well, now you know." I'm about to pull an orc's death wish blow when...

"Tyke! What the hell, bro!" shouts one of the five-member squad approaching me, their hands flitting at the waist, a taser gun at the ready.

"Go get yourselves some coffee, lads. I won't be long," I growl as I bang Deon's head against the desk, breaking the crappy material in two. He huffs loudly, nails scraping my arm. It's a bloody mess, and I'm pretty satisfied with myself.

"Ter'karhr, Tyke." An orc for an orc, El'Mael is the only one who can hold me back.

I roar in Orcish, "Family business, move on!"

There is nothing worldly about my anger.

"Oof!" Deon receives his second pounding, a perfect kneecap where it hurts the most. Sounds like a low move from male to male, but I swear, I can go lower.

Holding his crushed cock, he staggers, and that's when I drag him out of the police station by his horns.

"What the fuck are you doin'!?" this piece of shit cries, twisting on himself as his wings bat in a frenzy, knocking the pencil pots off the workstations and the files that go with them.

Among the flurry of paper flung in every direction, I tilt my head to the side and grit, "Crush your bones, break your teeth, and eviscerate you. Then I will strangle you with your guts and burn your corpse."

I fling Deon over the security turnstile gates, bending them under my walking weight. Deon's hands squabble about the hall's floor, lamentably trying to pick himself up.

"Here, let me help you." I grab him by the tail and drag him across the exit's rotating doors, his head knocking about like a beautiful pinball. I squint at the sun beaming high above us. Perfect day for a perfect death.

Kicked down the stairs, Deon reaches what should be his deathbed, the piss-reeking pavement.

"Tyke, freeze, goddamn it!" I catch at my back.

No.

"Deon, if you want to breathe, I advise you take big intakes, because this is the last time you do!" I hiss, my clench lifting him by the hair, the head under about to fly. I'm not worried about the velocity it's going to take. I've got this pitcher throw, a fastball that leaves a good print on the mitt.

Deon holds my wrist as if it could save him. "Fuck, Tyke! You've gone mad!"

"Tyke, drop him!"

Upon hearing my name pronounced with an orc accent, I turn my head. "Now!" El'Mael barks, a taser gun aimed at me.