“How does this look?” The mover asked, wiping away the dust from his solid blue work shirt.

Blaine brushed a strand of dark brown hair out of his eyes. “Hmm. Maybe put it over there, instead.” He pointed to an empty spot in the corner of his living room.

The tattooed man picked up the handle of the dolly, maneuvered it to the middle of the room—barely scraping past the television set, and positioned it between the stereo and TV. “That good?”

“Perfect.” He eyed the lifelike effigy which stood about eight feet high. The angel, a gift from an old family friend, was a male's perfectly chiseled body sculpted in a neutral pose. Hands at his sides with palms turned outwards. And nothing obstructing the beautiful naked body.

After it was kept in storage for years, Blaine had finally found a place with a ceiling high enough to display the massive figure and take in the breathtaking artistry.

“Hey,” the mover said, dabbing the sweat from his pierced brow with a handkerchief. “You should put a light shining right on it.”

Blaine agreed with a nod. His eyes locked in on the stone figure. It seemed as if the angel itself was moving. Its wings were trembling and it winked its eye. Blaine flushed and turned to the mover. “I like that idea.”

The man laughed. “Well, I guess it's your choice. I better get going. Got a lot of other jobs to do.”

Blaine escorted the mover to the door, offering a tip on his way out. The guy climbed into his work truck. Blaine closed the door and stood for several moments with his eyes on the tiled floor.

That damn hangover headache was making his eyes bleary. Statues can't be alive. That's absurd! No, he surely drank too much whiskey the night before, plus he hadn't had a good night's sleep at all which could be fucking with his head.

But the statue was looking at him. He could swear up and down it was. When he crossed back into the living room, the statue remained just as they'd left it—inanimate, granite, with its eyes focused on the couch, just like it should be.

Blaine opened the refrigerator and grabbed a cold beer. He stood, debating if it would make his headache worse or cool his thoughts. The frigid moisture numbed his fingers and he popped open the tab to take a swig. It couldn't hurt to find out.

The bitter liquor slid down his throat, helping him to relax, and he sighed as he slid onto a hard metal stool at the counter.

He grabbed the bowl of popcorn that he'd made the night before and popped a stale kernel in his mouth. His stomach protested with a hungry gurgle, wanting more.

After a few minutes of fixing dinner in the microwave, he returned to the living room with a warm plate of pizza. With a quick glance at the angel's fabulous muscled build and stone white eyes that seemed trained only on him, Blaine turned his attention back to the television, flipping the channels in search of a movie.

Ring.

He jumped at the noise of the phone and leaned over the couch. Juggling his plate on his lap, he picked up the cordless receiver. “Yeah?”

“Hey, are you coming out tonight?” Katlinne's familiar voice asked.

“I sure am.” He took a quick bite, chewing quickly to say, “’Round eight, right?”

“Blaine, I hate it when you eat and speak at the same time,” she gruffed. “I'll see you at eight on the dot. Don't be late. We'll practice first before heading over to the bar.”

Blaine swallowed his bite. “I'll be there.”

He hung up the phone and settled back on the couch with his plate. Blaine's attention wandered to the statue; its eyes seemed to focus on him with a hard stare. The angel's cheeks were modeled high and sharp with a round cut jaw. Lips carved perfectly emotionless. No smile, no scowl. Blaine wondered if the angel were alive, would he be friendly?

His focused back on the television, taking another bite when out of the corner of his eye, the statue appeared to wink, again. He fixed his eyes immediately on the angel, but it was the same as always. Hmm, maybe I should lay off the beer for a while.

Stolen novel; please report.

After dinner, he cranked up his stereo, blasting the melodic metal tunes of his favorite band. Luckily, his neighbors were fellow metal heads, and he wouldn't hear a single complaint. More like the question, “Hey, who's that you were cranking up last night?” He loved all the classic melodic metal bands and even his band, Til’ Dark, had passed up the mainstream music to find their own style.

Blaine stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, drawing black lines around the lower part of his eyes with eyeliner. He leaned across the sink to get a closer look, but accidentally bumped his elbow on a can of shaving cream, making him spread a little too much eyeliner across his eyelid. Damn bad luck. He sighed, ripped off a piece of toilet paper, and dabbed at the extra. Then, he fiddled with an errant lock of hair, deciding to grease it back along with the rest of his fringe.

He slid into tight, black leather pants, threaded a matching belt through the loops, and closed a shiny chrome skull buckle with a snap. After throwing on a clean band t-shirt, he eyed himself in the mirror one last time. He turned to examine how the leather squeezed his ass cheeks.

Yeah, he looked great for an on stage appearance. Tonight wasn't about going to a bar to pick up dates; he was looking at scoring his band a permanent gig. This was their chance. The manager had been highly impressed when he'd listened to Til’ Dark earlier in the week.

That's what it was always about—the band. They'd been friends for years, forming their band in high school as a side project for the hell of it. After a while, he didn't care about anything that a teenager should: dating, friends—except for the band—or even school. Once he did graduate, he'd spent his entire days writing music and tabs and dreaming of playing a real show.

The few times they had scheduled shows, the place always seemed to cancel for one reason or another. Such as the time the Battle of the Bands was canceled due to freak severe weather. Blaine had always chalked it up as bad luck; those long years of horrid misfortune.

At twenty four years old, he dreamed of making it big more than ever. Maybe, tonight his luck would finally improve?

Back in the living room, Blaine grabbed his leather jacket from the couch and threw it over his shoulder. He took another long glance at the angel statue in the corner of the room. Admired the magnificently carved abs and graceful pose. Those eyes... there was certainly something odd and majestic about them.

Blaine stood near the angel, taking in its magical stare and it's wonderfully carved feathered wings. The sculptor had certainly put a lot of skill into his artwork. Blaine scanned from the top of the statue's head to the base. Nothing had been carved into the short base, not even the name of the sculptor. But Blaine knew who that was.

Mr. Dominquez had been a friend of Blaine's father for years. He remembered the man's house from when he was a child. Whenever Blaine went to visit, the man was working tirelessly to complete the sculpture in his gallery. For hours he’d labored; sometimes failing to greet Blaine and his father, or ignoring them all together.

Blaine had always thought Mr. Dominquez strange. What was so important about the statue?

He forced himself to step back, snapping back to reality. After slipping his arms into his jacket, he grabbed his keys, and disappeared out the door.

***

“Daddy, what is that thing in there?”

His father's big brown eyes looked down to Blaine, tugging on his pants. “That's Augustus' statue he's been working on.”

Blaine turned his head, the gallery's doors were opened just enough for him to see a sliver of the granite statue's height.

“It looks kind of scary,” Blaine said with a shudder.

His father chuckled, his voice a deep baritone. “It's not scary, son. Wait until Mr. Dominquez has finished and you will see.”

Blaine stared wide-eyed at the sight of the statue. He could just barely make out the legs in the slab of stone the man was chiseling. The cracking noise of shattering stone sent chills down his spine. He wondered just how long they would have to wait until the man came out to greet them.

“What do we do?” he asked his father.

“Come on.” His father sat on the couch in the living room. “We wait for Augustus to finish up.”

Chip, crack, clunk—the pieces of stone fell to the floor. Finally, the man peeked his head out the door. “I'll be there soon, David. Why don't you take Blaine to the kitchen for a snack.”

Father walked with him into the kitchen. Mr. Dominquez always had the best foods. Tasty treats he bought from street vendors, such as candy and crackers, and a few unknowns from foreign markets. The room always smelled of chocolate and mint, too. But Blaine had thought it was funny that the older man had all these sweets when he never had a child of his own.

“Thanks for waiting, David.” Mr. Dominquez came into the kitchen, wiping the extra dust away from his jeans. “And Blaine, glad you could come over today.”

Blaine nodded, wildly. “Yes, sir! Do you have anything new today?”

“New?” Mr. Dominquez tipped his head to the side. “I think I do. Let's check.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a box of animal crackers. “I purchased these from a new vendor in the city.” He handed the box to Blaine. “I bet they're really tasty.”

Blaine hurried to open the box. Golden brown crackers settled in the inside wrapper. He dug one out and noticed its shape.

“Um, Mr. Dominquez, this is a snake.” Blaine held up the cracker.

The man grinned and patted the boy on the head. “Indeed, I suppose it is.”

“These are weird,” Blaine said. He took a bite, the cracker crunched between his teeth and the taste of cinnamon and spice overwhelmed his tongue. “Wow.” He chewed. “These are good.”