Within minutes he was asleep, and dreaming.
Or perhaps not. Because as he slept, he heard the sound of wings overhead, yet knew these were not wings but wind buffeting glass. The frigid air that bit his face wasn’t a dream, either. He shivered and burrowed deeper beneath the blankets, so that only his nose and cheek were exposed.
When a hand like ice was laid against his cheek, he knew that, too, was no dream.
With a shout he rolled away from the edge of the bed, thrashing against the heavy blankets as he sat up. The darkness was impenetrable: even the faint outlines of window and furniture had vanished. Everything had vanished, save a shape beside the bed. It loomed above him, darker than the surrounding room, so dark that Philip’s eyes were drawn to it as if it had been a flame.
The hand touched him a second time, lingering upon his cheek. “I’m cold,” someone whispered.
Philip lunged for the lamp on his nightstand. Light flooded the room, and for a moment he thought he must be dreaming—nothing extraordinary could withstand a one-hundred-watt bulb.
Then he saw the boy. He still wore Philip’s clothes, the flannel shirt unbuttoned, corduroy pants clumped with burdock and specks of leaf mold. He hugged his arms to his chest and stared with huge black eyes at Philip.
“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Philip.
“I’m cold,” the boy repeated.
Philip stumbled to his feet. He wore only an old T-shirt and flannel boxers, and yes, the room was cold—the door onto the porch was open. He yanked a blanket around him, tossed another at the boy.
“Put that on,” he snapped.
The boy stared at the blanket, then pulled it over his shoulders. Philip edged warily around the bed to close the door, and turned.
The boy didn’t look dangerous, but he was obviously in distress. Mentally ill, probably. And bigger than Philip, too. He cursed himself again for not calling the police earlier.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The boy grimaced, baring those small white teeth.
“Suru,” he said.
“Suru?”
The boy hesitated, then nodded.
“Well, Suru, we need to call your parents.” Philip fought to keep his voice calm. “I’m Philip. What’s your phone number?”
Suru said nothing. He stared at his own hand, lifted then lowered one arm, the blanket suspended beneath like a crimson bat’s wing.
“Come on,” pleaded Philip. “Either you give me your parents’ number or I’ll have to call the police.”
Without warning the boy drew up beside him. His fingers closed around Philip’s hand, a sheath of ice. Again he whispered, “I’m cold.”
The blanket dropped to the floor as he pressed himself against Philip’s chest. Philip tried to pull away, but the boy moved with him, his expression calm even as he thrust Philip back into the room. Philip shoved him, angry, then frightened, as he struck desperately at the boy’s arms and chest.
It was like grasping handfuls of something soft and gelid, fine dry snow or down that shifted beneath his fingers. Emaciated as he was, the boy was frighteningly strong. Philip cried out as the boy forced him onto the bed. He gazed up into Suru’s eyes, no longer black but glaucous, a bright spark within each like a tiny shimmering seed.
Then the boy’s skeletal arms were around him, holding him gently, hesitantly. He cocked his head, as though he listened for a sound other than Philip’s ragged breathing, then slowly lowered his cheek until it rested against Philip’s.
“You’re warm,” said Suru, marveling.
Philip tensed for an assault or whispered threat; a kiss; flight.
But the boy only nestled against him. A minute passed, and Philip extended his hand cautiously, touching Suru’s shoulder where the flannel shirt gaped open.
“Oh my God,” he exclaimed.
It wasn’t dirt flecked across the boy’s shoulder, as he’d first thought, but a number of small black holes. Philip brushed one with a finger, dislodging something that fell to the floor with a loud ping.
Buckshot.
“Someone shot you?” he said, incredulous. “Good lord, you need to see a doctor—”
“No!”
“Don’t be crazy—it’ll get infected. Doesn’t it hurt?”
Suru shook his head. Philip started to scramble from the bed, stopped when the boy cried out.
“No. Please. It does not hurt. Only see—”
Suru gazed out at the snow eddying around the windows and French door, then turned to Philip.
“I lost the way,” he said. “When I fell. I returned but it was gone.”
Philip frowned. “The way?”
“From Tuonela. I fell, and you found me. I tried to go back. The way is gone.”
He clutched his head and began to sob, anguished.
“No—stop, please, really, it’s okay!” said Philip. “I’ll get you back. Just wait a minute and—”
Suru looked at him. His eyes were huge, still that pale gray-green; but they held no tears. “Will you come with me?”
“Go with you?”
“Yes.”
Philip glanced outside. He must be out of his mind, to even think of getting into the car with a stranger in the middle of the night. Though god only knew what kind of people were lurking out there in the woods, if Philip let the boy go off alone.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll go with you. But—well, you know where you’re going, right?”
Suru pointed at the window. “There,” he said. “Tuonela.”
“Right.” Philip made a face. “But not from this side, right? You came from over there, by the nature preserve, or whatever it is? I don’t know those roads at all. You’ll have to tell me where to go. I really think we should just call someone.”
But the boy was already walking toward the door.
“Wait!” Philip grabbed him. “Let’s get you some proper clothes, okay? Stay here. And don’t go outside again. Don’t go anywhere, or I swear to god I’ll call the cops.”
He waited until Suru settled back onto the bed, then went to dig around in a closet for shoes and a coat. The snow seemed to demand something more substantial than a blaze-orange vest. He retrieved his own heavy barn coat, after a few minutes located a worn parka for Suru.
Shoes were more difficult. Philip had an old, well-broken-in pair of gumshoes, but when he presented Suru with a similar pair he’d found in Sam’s office, the boy flatly refused to wear them. He dismissed a second pair as well. Only when Philip threatened to remain at the lodge did Suru consent to a pair of high yellow fishing boots, unlined and smelling of mildew.
But no amount of coercion would get him to wear socks. He still hadn’t buttoned his flannel shirt, either, or his fly.
“You better finish getting dressed,” said Philip. Suru stared at him blankly. “Oh, for God’s sake….”
He stooped to button the boy’s shirt. The silvery hairs on Suru’s arms stiffened, though when Philip’s hand brushed against them they felt soft as fur or down. The boy sat compliantly, watching him, and Philip felt a stir of arousal. He finished with the shirt and glanced at the boy’s trousers.
The zipper had come undone. Philip hesitated, then zipped it, fumbling with the fly button. He felt the boy’s cock stir beneath the fabric, looked up to see Suru staring at him. Philip flushed and stood.