Page 73 of Stags

“You like that?” said a voice at her ear.

She looked up to see that a vulturekin boy was standing there. She said boy because she was pretty sure he was maybe sixteen or seventeen, not yet full grown, but plenty big, and with those beady vulture eyes. There was an unkind set to his beak, but she told herself that maybe she was being prejudiced, assuming ill-intent because of her preykin instincts to shy away from predatorkin.

“If you like that,” he said, “you should see what I have. I have jewelry I’m selling.” He pointed. “Around the corner.”

“You make jewelry?” she said, surprised. He did not seem like the type.

“Yeah, it’s a hobby.” He ducked down his head in such a way, and she was suddenly scolding herself for being this way to the poor kid. He was obviously struggling with his enjoyment of something soft and sweet and pretty, and she should be encouraging to anyone brave enough to go after their bliss when there was societal pressure against it. She determined that she would buy something from this kid, even if it was ugly.

She smiled at him. “Okay, show me.”

He gestured with his head and she went with him.

But when they rounded the bend, they were in an empty alleyway. Empty except for the other vulturekin, who looked older than the kid.

That man moved into her path, blocking her exit. “Well, well, told you they think they’re entitled to everything.”

Now, she was feeling panic well up in her. She didn’t know what was going on.

“It’s disgusting,” the older vulturekin informed her. “Thinking you can have what amounts to a sex party and then take over our town like it’s some legitimate festival. We all know what you’re doing up there.”

She let out a breath. “Sorry you feel that way,” she said, and tried to move past the man who was blocking her exit.

He moved into her path. “I bet,” he said, “you’re whore of a thing, because all of you deerkin are. I bet you wouldn’t take much convincing to let us have a look at you.”

She froze.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak.

But her thoughts were racing, and she was berating herself, telling herself to scream, to run, to yell for help, to do something.

And she just stood there, dumb and still, and—

“Hey, what the hell is going on here?” It was Stockton.

“Oh, look,” said the teenage vulture. “She has a protector.”

“Fucking deerkin thinks he’s tough,” said the other vulture.

Stockton put down his head like a bull. It was like he glided across the alley, only stopping when his antlers hit the wall, with the older vulture’s face trapped between two sharp points, and an array of other sharp points right in the vulture’s features.

It was silent, the vulture very still, just blinking his beady eyes.

And then Stockton straightened, and the vulture wasn’t hurt, not even touched. He squared his shoulders, but he didn’t say a word.

The vulturekin fluffed his feathers. “Let’s go,” he said to the younger birdkin. Together, they hurried down the alley.

Rora was still frozen, screaming internally, angry at herself for doing nothing.

Stockton looked her over.

Her eye twitched. Her ear twitched. Her whole body twitched. She let out something like a wail, and then she vaulted herself into Stockton, who put his arm around her.

“It’s okay,” he said in an urgent voice that let her know he was panicked, too. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She wrapped her arms around his midsection.

He held onto her.

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