Alexander

The public shower room was silent, all save for the amplified sounds of water from one of the room's four tubs. They were lined in a straight row three feet from the sterile, white tiled wall on the room's western side. Close, but spaced apart enough to allow free movement, the tubs were like squat, ceramic stalls.

Alexander lay back in the furthest on in, resting the back of his head on its edge. Sighing, he closed his eyes, feeling his tense muscles go lax in the hot water. His long hair floated on the water's surface like a sea plant, some of it stuck to the nape of his neck. Both angular knees stuck out like masses of wrecked ships from the soap-stained water. Languidly, he rested his skinny arms on the sides of the tub, feeling the rest him of lose form.

A minute later the loud click of the door brought him back. With a frown, his pale eyes opened. It seemed his moment of being alone was up. He sighed though his bony nose, turned his head.

Alexander's eyes widened, breath locked in his throat as if the very air was strangling him. As hard as his hands gripped the tub, they couldn't stop shaking.

A foot away from him, water was dripping off the other person. Red water. It ran from her petite hands from the once white blouse, now soaked red. It ran from her short, dark curly pageboy hair. Wide-eyed, she stared at Alexander through death-bleached eyes.

Her blue lips scarcely moved as she spoke. "*Nikita.*"

One of her dripping hands rose, and with a distant screech, flipped open a rusty straight razor.

It came down across his stubbled throat, cutting it open like an overripe tomato. His blood gushed out, flowering down his chest and into the water of his bath.

Water frantically splashed onto the floor. Alexander reached for his throat, only to find proof he neglected to shave the past two days. Shaking, his eyes searched the room, but it was empty. The only other sound came from the dripping of a showerhead on the other side of the room. Alexander had fallen asleep in the tub.


~~~~~
Dazed, the Russian walked, half-tranced down the first floor hall. Stopping in front of the elevator doors, he pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Unconsciously, he started smacking it against the palm of his left hand. Through fallen strands of wet hair, his eyes were locked on the number above the doors as it counted down. He was going to need some air from the roof, and he'd be damned if he were taking the stairs.

Three.

Two.

One.

Ding. With a bump the doors slid open. A young woman with long, strawberry blond hair and arrogant brown eyes stood before him.

"*Hello Alexander.*" Her Russian came in a different accent through a haughty smirk. "Or, should I say, Nikita."

Someone up there forgot the KY.

"*Larisa.*" He almost dropped his cigarettes. "*What are you doing here?*"

"*Something you're not suppose to be. Because, I should assume by the alias, you're here on something you're not suppose to be doing.*" She glanced at her watch. "*I would love to stay and castrate you here. But, I have an appointment.*"

Alexander glared at her as they passed each other. She turned as he stepped into the bulky machine.

"*Chiorny, was it? I shouldn't be surprised you're using her name.*"

"*Better than using your's.*"

"*Fuck you.*"

Alexander used the American symbol using his index finger and pinky. "Abstinent." He retorted in English.

Then the elevator doors shut.


~~~~~
Back up on the roof, he lit up a cigarette, the light Zippo flaring against the pale mirrors of his eyes. Alexander's gaze uncharacteristically focused on the rocks on top the roof. It was the third time he had one of those dreams in two weeks; their realism never wavered. Three years had gone by in slight-of-hand speed, yet every detail had yet to escape memory. It was his fault, they said in anger at the funeral. And he believed them.

He was the one who watched her die.

Like two tiny rainstorms, tears threatened to erupt from the Russian's eyes. He shook his head, landing a fist in the chimney. It didn't even crack, though the skin on his knuckles did. It worked for the time being, her memory once again retreated to the back catacombs of his mind.

Warmth glowed from the right-hand pocket of his pants. The gold chain burned his skin slightly, like the beginning of a sunburn. Alexander jumped, nearly dropping his smoke. Then looked up into the New England night sky. Something was moving.

Less than a minute, he knew what it was, despite the fact he had never seen one before. Again, his breath caught in his throat. It was a dragon. Just visible enough for feature and even color to be seen, yet still transparent even to his eyes. Although not as large as the legends told, his size could still rival a Blue Whale's nonetheless. As the massive creature passed through the hot night air, the stars turned different shades of red, orange and purple as they were seen through him. The very sky seemed take a crimson tint. Its body seemed made of gel, rippling through the air. Its eyes looked forward into the night, a shimmering, opaque scarlet.

"His name is Dracon."

Alexander spun on a heel, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Someone else stood only ten feet away. He needn't read his aura to know that the stranger was Awakened.

"*Chto?*" His reply was unconsciously Russian.

"The Dragon." The teenaged stranger pointed with a red Bic toward the apparition in the sky. "His name is Dracon." Thereafter he lit up a clove.

Alexander exhaled smoke through his nose in a long huff. "Who the hell are you?"

"Tristan." The blond puffed on his smoke. Randomly flicked the ashes onto the wet rocks. "And this is where you tell me who you are."

He pulled another cigarette from the pack just as the last reached the butt. It was one of those nights. "Alexander Chiorny. I'm going to be here for the next three weeks."

"Where are you from?"

"Russia."

Tristan tightened his ponytail with one hand. "Your English is good."

"I know." He chuckled, lit another cigarette. "I mean, thank you."

"What do you do?" He brushed away some wayward ashes from a black T-shirt with a gothic band's logo. "Or, better yet, what can you do?"

"Death magic." The Russian dead panned.

"I see." Tristan took another drag off his clove. "So, you're a Forsaken Child as well?"

"Sure."

"Rough shit." In a final puff, Tristan flicked the but off the cigarette and headed toward the door. "Talk to you later."


~~~~~
Three days passed, and it seemed things finally quieted down after the "church incident." Ashley pulled his red Mustang into the parking lot of the Portland International Jetport, rarely ahead of schedule. Raising his arms above his head, he stretched away his morning sleepiness, shirt rising to reveal a small navel ring. It was an eighteenth birthday present he gave himself the previous fall. Nothing flashy, it was only a sixteen-gauge silver loop. But probably still pretty effeminate to the average Mundane.

He reached out for the sunroof, opening the top up so the morning heat radiated into the car. The heat only made the teen even more sleepy. Soon, Ashley drifted back to sleep. An hour later a knock from the passenger-to-be awoke him.

The redhead jumped. "Anesan!"

Karadai was back in Maine.


~~~~~
Alexander was getting restless. Scratch that. Restless was when the twenty-four hour mark passed, then paranoia set at 48. After marking close to another three days without rest, the Russian was ready to feel his body split in half from the crest of his head down to his intact groin. Something had to have been wrong. He usually heard from his contact at least once to twice daily. Now all contact had simply ceased.

Impatiently, he sat through two of the sessions signed in for ahead of time. Most of the topics covered in these meetings he already knew, under different circumstances. He sat in the last row, slumped in his chair to hide his height, ignoring the looks he got from wearing his long coat. So what if it was almost June? As usual, he also wore his fedora, but at least he left his goggles off. A few funny looks from the kids' at his unusual colored eyes could be amusing. From what he heard, he already knew the basics, energy balls, shifting aura into the typical grey Mundane color to divert anyone reading, and at best, elementary level spirit sight and speech. Needless to say, he was nearly bored to tears.

Pacing, Alexander glanced at his watch. It was only a little past two. It felt like it should have been at least an hour later. Again, he was on the roof, cigarette in hand. A form caught the corner of his eye, making him stop mid-step. When he turned, it was gone. Forget it, he thought, it must be an echo. (Sometimes, if a psychic had a strong enough emotion in a certain spot, they created an energetic fingerprint on that spot, that would flash only a few times, depending on it strength.)

Alexander shook his head, continued to pace. A cry escaped him as the cell phone began to vibrate. Finally! In less than five seconds the phone was at his ear. "*Allo?*"

There was no greeting. "*Be in front of the St. Peter and Paul's cemetery at four o'clock. Bring the artifacts. Someone will be meeting you.*"

"*How will I know it's them?*"

There was a chuckle at the other end. "*Just ask him for your tea.*" Click.

The Russian looked at the phone, frowning. The doctor could be an annoying man at times. There were times when Alexander would have walked out on the deal, but there was the contract. Well, blackmail on paper if you stripped all the pretty words to soften the blow away. Ah, the funds of being illegal in both this and your native country. Ah well, better to do what the good doctor (British son-of-a-bitch as he was), says and all would even out in the end.

But there were now complications. Larisa was here, and that just brought more attention to the fact that indeed god was trying to sodomize him for fun. She was bound to tell someone, so it was best just to come out and ask her what she wanted for him to get her to shut the hell up. With the final puff of his smoke, Alexander set off to find a coffee shop to past the time. If he didn't find some culture, he was going to go mad from the day.