Three days pass before I see her again.
Three days of jumping at every shadow, flinching at every footstep, waiting for Tommy's friends to find me and finish what they started. But the streets remain strangely quiet, and I wonder if it's because of the two boys' dead bodies, even though a corpse on the street is not that rare of a sight.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that I'm living on borrowed time. Without her protection, I'm just another street rat waiting to be crushed. So I do what any desperate creature does. I hunt.
Not for food, though my stomach gnaws at itself with familiar emptiness. I hunt for her.
I know she's still in the area. The question is where.
I start with the obvious places. Abandoned buildings without easy roof access, many-stories-high apartments for rent, the skeletal remains of construction projects left to rot when the money ran out. Places where something with wings could come and go without being seen, but humans would not wander there.
On the third night, I find her.
She crouches on the edge of a five-story tenement, wings folded tight against her back, watching the street below like a gargoyle come to life. In the pale moonlight, she looks even more otherworldly than she did in the alley. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
I climb the wall of the building. It has many sharp metal pieces sticking out between the bricks, which are probably dangerous but useful and I'm actually a very good climber, as that was the easiest way to get away from bigger boys like Tommy. By the time I pull myself over the ledge, the demon's already turned to face me, those inhuman eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
"You again," she says, and there's no mistaking the irritation in her voice.
"Yes, ma'am," I reply, because it's best to be respectful to somebody that can eat you. "I've been looking for you."
"Yeah, I've seen you following me around here like a–" she cuts off and takes a deep breath. "Do not call me ma'am. I'm not some noble human woman." Her lip curls slightly, revealing the tips of her fangs. "I am called Xaveon."
"Xaveon?" I repeat, unable to hide my shock. That means beast. Her expression hardens.
"Is there a problem with that?"
I shake my head quickly, not wanting to offend her further. But… that's her name? She said she is called that. But who exactly called her Xaveon? Well, I suppose she is…
"What's your name, boy?" she asks, though she sounds like she doesn't really care about the answer.
"Reagan," I tell her. My name means king.
Something flickers across her face–surprise, maybe, or amusement. "That's… unique."
"Yes, ma'am. I mean, yes, Xaveon." I can't quite suppress the bitterness in my voice. "My father said it was aspirational."
A demon named Beast talking to a street rat named King. If the gods have a sense of humor, it's a cruel one.
She studies me for a long moment, and those glowing eyes seeming to see straight through to my bones. "How old are you, Reagan?"
"Twelve," I answer. "What about you?"
The question seems to catch her off-guard. She's quiet for so long I begin to think she won't answer at all.
"I don't know," she says finally. "The place where I was raised didn't... celebrate birthdays."
There's pain in those words, carefully hidden but unmistakable. I want to ask more, but something in her expression warns me away from that path.
"Well," I say instead, "you look about my age. Maybe we could say you're twelve too? If you want, I mean."
She blinks at the suggestion, as if the idea of choosing her own age had never occurred to her. "Twelve," she repeats thoughtfully. "Yes. I suppose I could be twelve."
We fall into awkward silence after that. Or, at least I find it awkward. I really can't tell how she feels. I shift uncomfortably on the cold rooftop, trying to think of something useful to say, some reason for her to let me stay. But every conversation starter that occurs to me seems inadequate in the face of her obvious desire for me to leave. However, she hasn't flown away yet…
"Please protect me, please!" I beg, dropping to my knees.
I need her. She already knows what I have, or rather what I don't, have to offer, so I can only hope she will help me out of mercy. Not a plan at all, really, but she's the best option I have.
I hear a sigh and a voice, tired of this, interrupt my begging:
"Why exactly do you keep following me? I will not help you, understand?"
I stop, considering my words carefully. "Because you saved me. Because you're the only thing in this city more dangerous than what's hunting me–I'd be safe with you. Because..." I trail off, not sure how to put the rest into words.
"Because?"
"I don't have anyone else. I really don't. Not a single person cares. Anyone else would have left me in that alley and I…"
I can't bear to say any more. She doesn't respond, doesn't offer comfort or yell at me or any of the things a normal person might say. But she doesn't tell me to leave again either. I raise my head in hope, but see that she's gone.