Page 19 of Caroled
“They’re now your friends too.”
In the dark, Charles could sense Ten’s smile.
I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In
By the endof the next week, Charles and Tenrael knew San Francisco well. The hills had become familiar, along with the smells of fish near the piers and coffee and baking bread in North Beach. Twice they’d driven over the Golden Gate Bridge, which spanned the entrance to the Bay with all the brash optimism that California could muster, and they’d explored Marin County without finding anything amiss.
They’d also visited the shipyards at Hunters Point, Mare Island, and Richmond, where Blacks and Mexican Americans and women of all colors were turning out nearly a ship a day. A few of those workers weren’t exactly human, but the wartime industries were too greedy for labor to care very much, as long as whoever they hired was willing to work. As far as Charles could tell, there was no harm in that. Homo sapiens weren’t the only ones who needed to make rent and put food on the table.
A little poking around in bars and, on occasion, at military bases revealed that more soldiers and sailors had gone missing—but not enough to make the brass uneasy. Although there were some rumblings about enacting leave limitations, it probably wouldn’t be practical, given the size of the forces and the numbers of men shipping out.
Charles sampled foods all over the city. In Chinatown he tried dragon’s beard candy, sweet rice dumplings, and egg tarts. He ate cannolis and almond pastries in North Beach, pan dulce in the Mission, and Swedish pancakes with lingonberries a block away from the hotel. But he had a special fondness for Bianchi’s pies, and Bertha doted on him, slipping him extra-big slices.
Although he missed his little bungalow in Santa Monica, Charles had to admit that this assignment was hardly a burden. Tenrael was enjoying himself too. One day they’d even taken a ferry across the Bay and back, just so Ten could ride on a boat for the first time. He stood at the bow and said it was a little like flying.
Sometimes they stopped for a visit with Abe and Thomas, who seemed to enjoy their company and a little distraction from Thomas’s injuries. The four of them traded tales about their various exploits while Abe drank and Thomas smoked. It was surprisingly pleasant for Charles to relax among colleagues with similar experiences, to be open about his relationship with Tenrael, to know that Abe and Thomas were aware of Tenrael’s nature and didn’t care.
“They are kind to me,” Tenrael said as they walked back to the St. Francis one night. He sounded bewildered.
“They like you.”
“Even though they know I am a demon.”
“You haven’t exsanguinated anyone, and you don’t possess people, and I’m fairly certain you haven’t been trying to orchestrate a cataclysmic earthquake. You don’t drink Abe’s liquor. You tell good stories and listen to theirs. What’s not to like?” Although Charles said these things lightly, he was serious.
“I never thought I would have… friends. They are friends, are they not?”
“Yes, they are.”
Tenrael shook his head in wonder. “I would not have believed that humans could… could tolerate me.”
“I do more than tolerate you.”
Tenrael stopped suddenly, grabbing Charles’s arm tightly enough to almost throw him off balance. “You are not an ordinary human, Master. You are unique and extraordinary. I wake up astonished every day that, of all beings on earth, it isIwho am privileged to belong to you.”
Charles’s cheeks flamed, and his heart, which sometimes felt as if it hardly beat at all, now fluttered like a captured bird. If Tenrael hadn’t still been clutching his arm, Charles might have flown up into the night sky, missing wings be damned. He had to swallow twice before he could speak, and even then his voice was hoarse. “I will hold you as long as you want me to. As long as I live.”
Since Tenrael was wearing his ring, his human eyes glowed as he smiled. “I hope we have many years.”
This wasn’t really the time or place to raise the subject of his own mortality, but since Charles hadn’t managed to address the subject properly for almost three years, he might as well get it over with.
“I could get shot tomorrow. Pulled into the Bay by a kraken and drowned. Or be run over by a bus, for that matter.” He let out a breath. “Or I might just keep getting older until I keel over from… I don’t know. Cancer or a stroke or…. Dammit, Ten. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t stay with you forever.”
“We will have as long as we have. And when you die, I will too.” He said the last very matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather.
“Demons don’t die.”
Tenrael chuckled. “But we can be destroyed, as you know very well. I have lived for so long that most of my memories lie in ruins—like the Greek temples I once watched being constructed. Only my time with you matters. And when it is over, I will be grateful to have had such a precious gift, and then I will be over as well.” He shrugged.
Charles could have argued with him. Could perhaps even have ordered Tenrael to remain alive. But this was the sort of decision one had to make for himself. And since Tenrael had been around when the Egyptians stacked stones into pyramids, it would be inaccurate to claim he’d be cutting his existence short. Maybe Charles was simply being selfish, but he nodded and kept his mouth shut.
* * *
“Do you want to go to the pictures again tonight?” Charles asked before taking another bite of mincemeat pie. They’d seenThe Black Swantwo nights earlier, both of them enjoying the pirates and ships and swords. “Gentleman Jimmaybe?”
Tenrael grinned. “The people in Hollywood should tell some of your stories instead. I wonder which actor would portray you.”
Before Charles could finish scoffing at the ridiculousness of that idea, a loud crash startled him. Bertha had dropped a plate of spaghetti and a bowl of soup, shattering the dishes and sending food all over the floor. Tenrael instantly hopped out of the booth and began to help her gather the shards, and a moment later the busboy scurried over with towels and a mop. Bertha looked as if she might burst into tears.
