Page 14 of Caroled
“You want dames, you’re gonna need to go somewhere else. Here you can get sauced.” He scrunched up his face unhappily. “And listen to the canary over there.”
Charles nodded and didn’t ask whether, since girls were off the menu here, boys were on offer. Or one boy, at any rate. He didn’t want to create a scene. “What’s the canary’s name?”
“Dunno. My boss calls him Fish.” A slap of his towel on the counter seemed to signal the bartender’s displeasure at the subject, and with a frown in Fish’s direction, he moved away.
Fish had been watching while they spoke. Now Charles locked gazes with him, but the kid didn’t smile or leer or give any other come-on; he simply looked sad. And he continued singing, finishing a Peggy Lee tune and launching into “Winter Wonderland.” It was the first holiday song he’d done since Charles and Tenrael entered.
Over the next thirty minutes or so, Fish sang “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town,” and “Little Drummer Boy,” and a host of other Christmas favorites, and Tenrael had his third whiskey while Charles choked down his second. Nothing else of note happened. Nobody left and nobody new entered. The bartender poured drinks and took money. Charles’s back felt hot and tight, the wing scars reminding him of their presence.
Then Fish began “White Christmas,” and for some reason that was too much. Charles dismounted his stool quickly, gave the bartender a nod, and walked to the door as fast as he could without breaking propriety. Tenrael followed.
The cool, damp air did nothing to settle Charles’s gut. He made it half a block before lurching to the railing and puking into the bay. He vomited so long and so hard that he was positive he’d lost most of his internal organs, and he would have happily jumped into the cold water if he’d been sure it would stop the pain and roiling inside him. Tenrael stood close behind, blocking him from the view of passersby, for which Charles would later muster some gratitude.
Eventually Charles’s legs grew weak, and Tenrael caught him as he began to fall, easing him onto the pavement with his back against the railing, head in his hands.
“I can take off the ring and fly you somewhere more comfortable.” Tenrael’s voice sounded tight with concern.
Charles pictured himself hanging in Tenrael’s arms like a mouse in a hawk’s talons, and he very nearly puked some more. “No,” he managed. “Just… give me a few minutes.”
Tenrael didn’t push the issue, bless him, and didn’t try to engage in more conversation. He simply stood close and scanned the area for threats. Thankfully there weren’t any. This late at night the street was almost deserted, although Charles could still hear the faint sounds of Fish singing.
Finally Charles’s gut settled enough that he could move. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and slowly rose to his feet, pointedly ignoring Tenrael’s proffered help. His mouth tasted like a ten-day-old corpse. “Let’s find a cab.”
“Do you need to eat something? You lost your dinner.”
The thought of food made Charles’s stomach lurch. “No. Just water and a bed.”
They walked slowly for two or three blocks. Charles felt like an old man with his achy joints and stiff muscles. He found himself wondering what it would have been like if he had chosen a different profession—librarian, plumber, bank teller—that wouldn’t have required him to drink booze now and then. But none of those jobs had ever been a real option. Townsend had found him when Charles was still a college student, alone and without any real idea how he’d make his way in the world. And Townsend had convinced him the Bureau was his only path.
But if Charles had refused back then and had instead become an accountant or a groundskeeper, he never would have met Tenrael. That idea almost made him sick again.
He was thankful when a cab turned the corner and approached them; happier still when he successfully waved it down. He and Tenrael climbed into the back. “St. Francis Hotel,” Tenrael told the driver. “And go easy. He is ill.”
The cabbie seemed relieved when they made it to their destination without Charles making a mess in his car. Inside the elevator, Charles sighed and leaned against Tenrael. “Sorry. That was ugly.”
“I think if you drink much more it might kill you.”
“I can think of ways I’d rather die.”
“I do not want you to die.”
Charles, feeling his own mortality, didn’t answer.
Boar’s Head Carol
Charles slept very latethe following morning and awoke feeling groggy. His spirits improved, though, when he discovered that Tenrael had ordered room service. A huge tray of pastries awaited him, along with an assortment of fruits and a tall glass of orange juice. Tenrael seemed relieved as he watched him eat.
By the time Charles took a shower, he felt almost human.
They spent the afternoon wandering the city by streetcar and on foot, partly to get the lay of the land and also because Tenrael enjoyed it. Charles decided his car could remain in the hotel garage for most of their stay; walking, cabs, and streetcars were easier here than navigating and parking. They bought chocolate at Ghirardelli Square and clothes for Tenrael at City of Paris. They watched little fishing boats and large cargo and military ships sail through the Bay. They gazed at Alcatraz, where the Bureau had once considered building a prison before opting for a location in the Nevada desert instead. While the island was a secure site for human inmates, it wouldn’t work well for prisoners who could swim like eels or fly like birds. In general, Tenrael and Charles saw a city humming with enterprise and visitors, and especially buzzing with wartime efforts.
They visited a few more places on their list—skipping the bars, which Charles couldn’t yet face—and introduced themselves to Donne and Ferencz’s contacts. They picked up a few pieces of gossip that way, but nothing urgent. Some wolf shifters had been reported in the Marin Headlands, but they hadn’t attacked any people or livestock. Three soldiers from Fort Baker had gone missing, reportedly after visiting some of the bars in San Francisco; but it was also possible they’d gone AWOL, not wanting to be shipped off to fight in Italy. A couple of people claimed they’d seen an enormous snake slithering through Golden Gate Park.
“It could be a lindworm or a naga,” Tenrael speculated as Charles ate his way through a second piece of pie at Bianchi’s.
“Could be. Or a basilisk or yuxa or tizheruk. Although I think tizheruks are mainly aquatic.” He shrugged. “Could just be a good-sized king snake.”
“We could look.”
