Heavy metal blasted from the living-room speakers, trembling the cabin walls with throbbing bass. There were too many people to fit inside, some spilled onto the front deck and yard. Angel sat in his arm chair amidst the haze of smoke. His heightened senses surged in overdrive. Liquor buzzing in his brain shifted him outside of himself to observe how the party became a joyous thing of destruction. Everything swirled together.

Spilled cups poured sticky drinks onto the carpet. Joints and cigarettes scattered ashes. Conversations and laughter fell lost under the thick guitar riffs, mixing together with the music. It all culminated into noise vibrating Angel's bones. People danced, bumping into each other and objects, knocking things over, tripping over themselves and furniture. He had tucked anything of value away in his bedroom. Which wasn’t much, just his guitars. Everything else could be fixed or cleaned in the morning.

All manner of mutants gathered in his living-room, laughing and drinking. It seemed like half of Portsmouth island was crammed into his tiny cabin.

A man with horns peeking out of his short red hair leaned against the archway, flirting with a woman with bright red eyes. People so drunk or high, or both, crowded onto the threadbare couch. They sunk into the cushions and against each other, staring up at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. The rest of the living-room was treated as a dance floor. Bodies writhed together in time to the music. Drinks splashed out of clumsy hands to slurred laughter.

Angel scanned the crowd for Nyx. There was no guarantee she’d come, but he held out hope. Her sister Cassie had already come and gone. The third triplet, Alistair, was around here somewhere.

I don’t need to be lectured all night anyway.

Still, his heart sank with the realization she wasn’t going to appear suddenly in the crowd.

Figures. She never comes out anymore.

Restlessness got the better of him. Angel took a final drag off his cigarette and tapped it out in the overflowing ashtray on the side table. He got up and squeezed his way through the writhing crowd, trying to make his way to the kitchen. Some part of him still hoped to find her.

She’d probably take one look around and leave anyway.

A firm hand clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his reverie.

Fuck.

He cringed and turned around, finding exactly who he dreaded it would be. Timmy scowled at him with beady brown eyes. Shaggy brown curls pasted to his forehead with sweat. Blotchy freckles stood out against his pasty skin.

“Where’s my money?” he demanded. “It’s been a week already.”

Angel plastered on a smile, digging in his pocket for another cigarette. “Who invited you?”

“It’s not like you can’t see the party from a block away. You can’t keep dodging me, so where is it?”

“I don’t have it.” Angel shrugged, putting the cigarette in his mouth. “Sorry Tim, you can’t bleed a turnip.”

“You’re a fucking turnip alright. You owe me, so cough it up. I don’t care if you sell one of your damn guitars to do it. Figure it out.”

“Not gonna happen.” Angel exhaled a plume of smoke, trying not to laugh. He’d sooner sell a limb. “Look, how about this. We’ll fight for it.”

“Fight for it?” Timmy exclaimed. “Face it, you lost the bet. You owe me, I’m not gonna fight you.”

“You scared or something?” Angel teased. “Tell you what, If you lose, we’ll call it even. If you win, I’ll still owe you, plus you get the pleasure of kicking my ass.”

“Alright then,” Timmy said. “Deal.”

Angel popped the cigarette in his mouth and extended a hand to shake. The two men pushed through the crowd in the small living-room and out the front door onto the deck. The balmy night air cooled the sweat on Angel’s skin and blew his long black hair around his shoulders.

Some party guests milled around on the lawn, smoking and laughing. The music was so loud they could still hear it out here. The scent of brine carried in from the nearby sea. If one were to look hard enough, it was possible to see a sliver of ocean peeking between the roofs of the other cabins. A low pressure system thickened the wind with humidity.

Thunder was coming.

Angel hurried down the sagging wooden steps with Timmy right behind him. They waded through the tall grass and weeds, finding a clear enough space. Anticipation prickled his skin. His pulse quickened. Angel flicked away the butt of his cigarette and stripped off his shirt.

Scars scattered across his bare skin. Many had faded off into pale white lines while other, fresher markings remained pink and angry. On his back, just between the shoulder blade and spine, extended twin lines like deep gashes where the skin barely touched. To an unknowing eye, these looked like wounds refusing to heal. Instead, they made space for his wings to emerge.

With a gentle push, and slight pinch of pressure, coal black feathers bloomed from his flesh, blossoming toward the night sky. Angel exhaled, rolling his shoulders back to release tension, spreading his long wings with a flourish.

A flicker of doubt flashed in Timmy’s eyes before they sharpened again. He wasn’t as tall as Angel, nor as muscular but determination writ ferocity across his sharp, thin features.

“Wanna forfeit?” Angel asked, a smile playing on his lips. He raised his fists, quick blue eyes tracking every hint of movement. “Call it a draw?”

I’ll be kinda disappointed if he says ‘yes.’

“You wish,” Timmy growled, squaring up.

Angel laughed.

By now, the other party-goers had taken notice of the commotion and gathered around to watch the impending carnage. They cheered, some egging Timmy on while others took Angel’s side. One way or another, all were eager for a fight.

Timmy rushed forward, swinging. Angel had to give him credit, he was faster than he first suspected. Still, Angel managed to duck, then caught him around the waist. Momentum worked against him. They tumbled backward, hitting the ground. Angel straddled him, spreading his wings for balance. Timmy’s eyes widened in brief surprise before Angel landed a punch to the jaw.

Heat surged under Angel’s skin. Thoughts vanished, his focus narrowing to pin-prick intensity. Blood pulsed in his ears, throbbing beneath his temples. Timmy’s fist connected to the side of his cheek, filling his mouth with the copper tang of blood.

Laughing, Angel swung again. Timmy blocked him. Writhing and wriggling with all his might, he finally squirmed free and scrambled to his feet. Grass tore up around them in clumps of dirt and mud. Angel’s bare torso and jeans were already stained with it. Timmy wasn’t much better. The sleeve of his t-shirt ripped away from the seam. Blood and sweat plastered his curls to his forehead.

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They squared up again, catching their breath. This time Angel struck first, catching Timmy in the jaw with his fist. Knuckles crunched. One popped as it broke. Pain brought stars to Angel’s eyes. He blinked them away in time for Timmy to drive his knee into Angel’s diaphragm. The air whooshed out of his lungs in a strangled gasp. He flapped his wings to stay steady, but failed and doubled over. Timmy used the motion to connect his knee to Angel’s nose in a burst of blood and broken cartilage.

Fireworks burst behind his eyes. Despite the pain, exhilaration surged within his chest. His heart raced.

This is it.

As his vision blinked out, only for a moment, the gnawing emptiness under his ribs finally dissipated. Adrenaline brought sweet relief. There was no care in the world outside of second to second survival, the gnashing of teeth and blood on his tongue. Every burst of pain a reminder he was truly alive.

Timmy lunged forward, practically feral at this point. Angel welcomed the impact, blocking his fist with a forearm. Fully in the zone now, he anticipated action like an owl hunting a mouse. Quick reflexes allowed him to block blow after blow.

The crowd melded into a faceless blur, their cries and cheers morphed into a cacophony unable to be heard through the pounding blood in his ears. Dancing and dodging away, he laughed, even at the punches Timmy managed to land.

A warmth like sunshine slid under Angel’s skin and for a moment, there was no pain.

Bliss.

Odd, but he didn’t question it.

Must be the adrenaline.

Snarling in frustration, Timmy landed an elbow to Angel’s temple, snapping his head to the side. Pain zinged another explosion of stars behind his eyes. Reality came to the forefront again just as Timmy tackled him to the ground.

Sweat blurred his vision. Angel hardly recovered from the initial impact before cold metal pressed on his hot skin. With barely enough time to register the situation, Timmy had pulled his pocket knife from his jeans, driving the blade into Angel’s shoulder, tearing it out again. Fire ripped agony across Angel’s chest and into his arm.

“Fuck you, I want my money,” Timmy snarled, his breath ragged and desperate. Sweat, dirt and blood coated his face and chest.

The ecstatic warmth completely vanished, replaced by cold rage.

You cheating little fucker.

Angel’s vision narrowed Timmy’s busted face into hyper detail before it clicked out, flickering from red, to black. Blinded in fury, he blocked the next thrust of the knife with his forearm, the blade sinking into his skin, slashing it open.

Angel pushed Timmy off, flapping his wings for momentum and pinned him. A rodent in the talons of a hungry hawk. He pulled back and punched, catching him in the jaw.

“You fucking cheater!”

When he drew back again, someone caught him by the wings, hauling him off and away from the other man. Startled, he turned to see Alistair towering above them, his emerald eyes hard and lips drawn into a strict line.

Shit.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Alistair said, still gripping Angel firmly by the edge of his wings. “Fight’s over. Come on.”

Timmy got to his feet. Adrenaline faded and the realization of his injures crept in. Blood poured down his chest and from his forearm. The crowd looked on, though some started to disperse.

“Party’s over too,” Alistair called to the lingering on-lookers. He waved his arms in a shoo-ing motion for emphasis. “Get.”

“What about my money?” Timmy demanded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I won.”

“You didn’t win!” Angel yelled. Wrestling away from Alistair, he turned toward Timmy with raised fists. Fury still bit at him as the wounds stung and throbbed.

Alistair pulled him back, gripping his biceps. “Knock it off! It’s done.” He turned to Timmy. “How much to get you to fuck off?”

“What?”

“How much does he owe?” Alistair fished around in the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. “I’ll pay it, then get the fuck out of here.”

Embarrassment flushed Angel’s cheeks. “Alice…”

“Don’t worry about it Grub, I’ll put it on your tab. What’s a little more?” Alistair sighed. “So how much?”

“One-hundred.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, but shaking his head, he dug the cash out of his wallet and passed it to Timmy. Satisfied, Timmy took it and staggered off, limping his way out of the yard.

Angel was glad to see the back of him. Blood loss and liquor churned his stomach with nausea. He struggled to stay steady. By now, the crowd was gone. Only the two friends lingered in the yard. Crickets and peep-toads chirped in the warm night air. He couldn’t meet Alistair’s eyes as they wandered back into the house.

I’m such a piece of shit.

Alistair ushered him into the darkened cabin. They moved from the porch to the living-room. Flicking on the light, they were met with a scene of destruction. The coffee table was over turned. Red plastic cups littered the carpet, creating stains. Smoke still lingered, stale, in the air.

His wings were heavy. Long primary feathers drug across the floor. Angel groaned, not only from pain, but dreading tomorrow’s clean up. As much as he enjoyed creating the mess, he could not tolerate it. Heightened senses made every crumb, and foul scent unbearable.

Blood oozed from his gaping wounds. They rounded the corner to the bathroom tucked under the stairs. Alistair held the door open.

“You don’t have to stay,” Angel grumbled. “I can take care of it.”

Alistair shook his head, his floppy blond hair swished into his eyes and he pushed it away with a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged.

I wish he’d just go, but I don’t want him to leave. Fuck.

Angel leaned against the sink, blood dripping onto the white porcelain. He cranked open the medicine cabinet before he could catch his own reflection in the mirror.

“Let me help you,” said Alistair, stepping toward him from the doorway. Angel stepped aside so he could reach across to rummage for the first- aid kit.

Retracting his wings to make space in the small room, he perched on the edge of the tub. His wounds throbbed and the room spun. He tucked his head between his knees with a groan.

The bleeding had finally stopped. Alistair approached with a wet wash cloth. He stooped low to push Angel’s shoulder into leaning back.

The ceiling danced and swirled above him. “I’m gonna throw up,” Angel complained.

“You better not. At least aim for the tub.”

He winced as Alistair pressed the cloth to his open wound, sucking air through his teeth.

It’s not like I don’t deserve it.

“Where was Nyx?” Angel asked, words slurring. “I couldn’t find her.”

It’s not like that would have changed anything.

Alistair raised an eyebrow. His silver piercing glittered under the harsh light. “She worked late, and it’s a good thing too. You think she should have seen that?”

“Yeah, she would have finished the job,” Angel mumbled, his heart twisting. “Fuck. Please don’t tell her.”

“Like she’s not gonna notice a gaping stab wound in your shoulder,” he laughed, still dabbing at the gash. The rough fibers scraped against tender flesh. “Well, she won’t hear it from me at least.”

“I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

Alistair went back to the open first-aid kit to grab some gauze and a bandage. The soiled wash cloth hung over the side of the sink, dripping onto the floor. He pressed the gauze to the wound, then Angel held it in place while Alistair wrapped the bandage around his shoulder.

“When are you gonna cut the shit?”

“Not now man, I’m so sick,” Angel groaned.

Alistair tied off the bandage and sighed. “Your dad is gonna be pissed.”

Angel clenched his jaw but his chest cinched. “Who gives a fuck. He’s so paranoid. Ivy isn’t going to come to the island over a little tussle over a-hundred bucks. Not when there’s full on fight clubs going on.”

“That you bet on, participate in, etcetera, etcetera." Alistair rolled his eyes. "You gotta knock it off, man. The last thing anyone needs is for Ivy to roll up here and you get caught up in it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Angel pulled his last cigarette from his pocket and fumbled with the lighter. He inhaled, bracing himself against the pain in his shoulder. His heart quickened, grinding his teeth at the thought of it.

I’m too fucking drunk for this.

Part of him wondered if Alistair was as sick of him as he was of himself.

“Just something to consider,” said Alistair, plucking the cigarette from Angel’s fingers to borrow a drag.

“You don’t have to stay here,” Angel grumbled. “I got it.”

It didn’t need to be said. He wasn’t going anywhere. It had been that way since childhood.

He’s bound to be getting tired.

Alistair joined him on the edge of the tub. Blood streaked across his white t-shirt. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. A thin wisp of smoke trailed from the end of the cigarette.

“Happy birthday by the way. I hope it was a good one,” he muttered, flicking ash into the bottom of the tub. “Cheers to another year.”