a Pleasure Rites, #1 by Ines Johnson (top ten books of all time TXT) 📗

him to the end of genteel civilization. Only male bodies, young, mature, and elderly, littered these streets. The discarded thirds and enterprising second sons ruled these outskirts. Many hungry, calculating, desperate eyes landed on Khial like a swarm of flies on a carcass. What little self-preservation he had left told him he needed to get off the streets if he wanted to make it to morning.

Khial stood still.

He'd drifted for days in an effort to untether himself from this world. Perhaps if he stood still long enough, someone would come by and pop him off. The idea held merit, but Khial's legs wobbled. Perhaps in the morning, he would stand firm in the middle of the streets and wait for oblivion. For now, Khial ducked into a boarding establishment.

Though the Sisterhood had no care for or reach into the outskirts, their charity provided a number of free shelters where males could get a cot and a warm meal for the night. Looking around the interior of one such establishment, Khial realized he'd never seen so much squalor. He could make out each grimy fingerprint on the wall. Cakes of dirt decorated the corners of the room. Filth stained the cot mattresses, a chorus of rusty springs sang lullabies. The men all smelled. Khial took one look in the showers and turned the other way.

It baffled him. He'd always thought women held high standards for the shelters of the city's discarded boys. He'd been told the discards lived in clean homes and received three square meals a day. His stomach protested as it tried to digest the stale bread, bruised vegetables, and questionable meat.

He couldn't complain too much. In truth he'd taken a step down when he came to live with Dain and his family. Dain's family home had been a small cottage compared to the splendor that was his mother's royal estates. Khial never felt a sense of belonging amidst the jeweled fixtures, the priceless art, and the antique furnishings of his status. He walked away from all of that to be with the boy he loved and his infamous parents.

Color vibrated from every corner of Dain's home. Nothing in glass, nothing broken. Shouts of joy rang out morning, noon, and night. His family gave gifts frequently, never taking them back to measure a child's response or condition a behavior.

Khial would often sit on the sidelines and watch Dain's fathers play with him. Watch the affection they had for each other and their wife. Watch them hug and kiss. They offered the same affection to Khial, but soon realized that it was difficult for him to receive. Khial remained wary of grown men and women. The only person whose embrace felt right was Dain's.

There was an ancient saying: Home is Where the Heart is. Whenever Khial laid his head at Dain's heart he felt peace, he felt safe, he felt home.

And now his home was gone.

The rusty bed groaned as Khial slumped down onto it. His shoulders caved in, curling around his chest. He'd chosen a cot in the corner, the farthest away from the others. As the night settled, the room began to fill with bodies. They were a haze to Khial, who couldn't see much farther than his hands. He clenched and unclenched his left hand. At turns trying to dull the ache in his chest. At other points trying to get feeling once more in his limbs.

"Did you hear me, turd? I said, that's my bed!"

Khial looked up slowly. The thick body of a man came into focus. Slightly less filthy than the others, this man looked young, younger than Khial.

The man surveyed Khial from head to toe and then back again, as though Khial's two halves didn't quite fit. Khial knew he must look filthy from wearing the same clothes for days. He hadn't taken anything with him when he left the house. When he'd felt Dain's spirit leave his body, Khial felt himself become untethered to this world. What need did a balloon have of clothing? Cloth was like string and Khial wanted to be free.

The man peered down at Khial, his menacing mug changing slowly to something else. "If you're comfortable there, I would consider letting you share with me."

"I beg your pardon?" Khial tilted his head to the side, his foggy brain grasped for comprehension.

The man grinned. "Oh, I'll make you beg."

In a flash, the grin turned to a leer. A hand reached out and cuffed Khial at his ear. For a moment, Khial stared at that meaty palm. His chin pressed into the soft flesh left by the space between the man's thumb and forefinger. Khial realized with amusement that he was being manhandled. Literally.

A chuckle broke the surface of Khial's fogged brain and then his world turned off kilter as the meaty fist gave him a powerful shake.

"You think yourself funny, you little pansy?"

Khial met the man's eyes and startled. His head ticktocked the other way, and then swung back again as he grasped for focus. The man's eyes were green, like Dain's. Only there was no mischievous light in the man's eyes. Khial glanced behind the man to see a crowd had gathered. They stood at a distance, no one willing to lend their own hand.

"It's clear you don't belong here, pansy. But since you stopped by I'll make you mine for the night. What you show me under the sheets will tell me what I do with you in the morning."

Khial's head straightened. He faced the vile man head on. Of all the insults hurled at him, the man's claim of ownership brought Khial out of his stupor. The only man who could lay that claim was gone. Khial clenched his hands to get feeling in them. Clenched them once more and then swung his arm.

The element of surprise must have been on his side. The man released him and stumbled back. Both he and Khial stood there in shock. The man must not have thought it in Khial.