Metal Angel Read Free Page B

“Thanks,” the tall young hunk said, as he had not thanked Texas for saving his ass on the street. “You do not think I have utterly failed?”
    â€œBetter get some ice on the wing,” Texas mumbled.
    He helped Volos to the bed. Only the one double bed in the room. Made you know what kept these sleazy hotels going. He had Volos lie face down, noticed that the hurt wing smeared blood on the bedspread. He would end up paying for the damn thing. Terrific. Maybe they charged double for supernatural blood. Maybe with any sort of luck he would get sane soon and figure out what sort of hallucinogen he had been breathing in along with the yellow, oily-smelling L.A. air. Texas brought his last towel and dumped all the ice he had into it for a cold pack. “Hold on, now,” he told Volos before he touched the injury.
    â€œThat was not as bad as before,” Volos said after a while.
    â€œI tried to take it easy this time.” Texas sat beside him on the bed, holding the ice pack so that it sandwiched the wounded wing. A few streets away a car security system screamed. Through the wall Texas could hear athletic lovemaking going on in the next room. Why did that not bother him? A while back he had been feeling blue as a Hank Williams ballad, but now … It had to be four in the morning, and he hadn’t slept, yet he did not feel tired. More than that—he did not feel wretched. When had he last faced the night without feeling desolate? He could not remember. But just being around this crazy kid, he felt as if someone had finally taken in his orphaned soul off hell’s cold doorstep.
    Christ. He had to be tired. He was getting sappy.
    â€œWhat is your name?” Volos asked him.
    â€œBob McCardle. But you can call me Texas.”
    One hollow cheek against the bedspread, Volos nodded. “Yes. Texas. I like your boots.” They were new, top-of-the-line Laredos with real snake-leather feet and tooled-cowskin shafts, so he better like them. “You are a son of the state Texas?”
    McCardle laughed. “Son, I ain’t a son of much of anybody.”
    After a while he judged that the wing was numbed. Easing the ice away, he warned Volos to hang on, then parted the feathers and looked. It was not a large wound, but it was ugly, not a clean cut but more of a tear. Some sort of laceration. Had to hurt like a sonuvabitch. No way to wrap it up that he could figure, either. He put the ice back on it.
    â€œShit, kid. Your wing’s a mess. What the devil am I supposed to do with it?”
    â€œLet it rot and fall off. The other one too. I do not want them.”
    Texas said, “Talk sense, Volos. Is there someplace I can take you?”
    Volos shook his head against the pillow.
    â€œYou got a home address?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSomebody I can phone? Anyplace you’re supposed to be? Anybody worrying about you?”
    Faint smile of bruised lips told Texas McCardle: Here was someone far more alone in the world than he.
    His cop training made him try one more time. “Know anybody who could help? Any more like you around here?”
    â€œNo. Just me.”
    â€œDamn. Well, at least it’s stopped bleeding.” In a few hours, once the stores were open, he would go get the kid some kind of antiseptic.
    The ice had melted into slop. Texas took the wet towel away. “You want something for the pain?”
    â€œIt will not work to just let it hurt and die?”
    He was serious. Texas sputtered twice before he barked at him, “Kid, that wing’s part of you! Jesus Christ. Sit up there so I can give you some aspirin.”
    Volos spilled water down his chin, swallowed the pills with difficulty, lay down again afterward. “To lie down feels better,” he said in a tone of mild surprise.
    â€œGo to sleep if you can.”
    â€œHow do I do that?”
    â€œHoly …” Texas felt his patience slipping. “Just lie there! Close