Crazy little thing called a winged golem

[Raphael Malai]

Raf was having the time of his life.

Never had he seen such a wonderful place full of wonderful things. Old things, yes—worn things, definitely. But everything he laid eyes on or touched had emotions and memories attached to them, which made them precious. He wandered up and down Brayden Smith's apartment, touching everything. Everything. And anything his curious fingertips brushed evoked an emotion. A teacup made him feel the warmth of a grandmother's smile; a fleece blanket brought with it the sensation of a mother's hug. The worn coffee table sitting before a threadbare couch had been restored with loving care. Even a chipped bowl brought an image of a young Brayden Smith being comforted by his mother, who filled it with soup and handed it to him with words of comfort and support.

Mild empath abilities came in handy on days like these, where there was so much to explore. Raf had been all around town touching things, experiencing the stories behind them, but most of them were quite plain and uninteresting. Brayden Smith's things were like a treasure trove. If he ever wondered what it was like to grow up loved and wanted, this was the place to immerse himself—in someone else's memories.

But there were painful things, too. A cracked little snowglobe told the story of a careless lover who swept it off the bookshelf and didn't bother to apologize for it. That worn book sitting way off in the corner—the last book that Brayden Smith's father gave him before he passed away. The manuscript sitting in a desk drawer spoke of hesitation and ambitions not realized.

He curled up on the couch with the fleece blankie over his lap and began to read the story that Brayden Smith had written about a place called Darkwell, while Marge sat in the loveseat texting with somebody. Raf had briefly been inspected by her earlier, and then she shouted at him and shook him like a ragdoll for about a minute, before telling him to amuse himself while they waited for someone called 'Charles' to come by. It was all very mysterious but Raf chalked that up to her being a seer and a witch—witches were notoriously... moody.

"What're you reading?" Marge asked, lifting her head from her phone.

"I think it's Brayden's book! A book he wrote, I mean. Look." He held it up; on the cover was written WHITE RABBIT FALLS by Brayden Smith.

Marge took it from him with a frown. "You shouldn't snoop through his stuff. Don't think he wants us reading his book," she muttered even as she flipped through it and scanned through a few of the pages. Then she slowed and began to read more carefully, before passing it back to Raf. "Tell me that doesn't sound like Jack. That paragraph right there."

A man sat at the lip of the well. Or... he didn't so much sit there as he did sort of lay himself out. Splay himself, really, along the broad stone rim, with a pipe dangling from his mouth. As soon as he heard Quentin approaching, he took the pipe out of his mouth and blew out a curl of smoke. "Hello." His voice was as smooth as the black silk robes that draped oh-so-artistically across his long frame. It looked as though every fold and every pleat had been so meticulously arranged as to leave no one in doubt that he was a work of art and desired to be viewed as such.

Raf read it through twice. "Oh! It does! He's even wearing a robe, just like Professor Jack!" Laughing, he scanned down the page, and then gasped. "Margie! Margie I think he's the dark wizard! Look look!"

Marge came to sit beside him and together they read the passages, pausing once in a while to comment on how much the dark wizard was definitely Professor Jack, and how they speculated that the dark wizard and innocent, shy Quentin were going to end up together. Which, as it turned out, they did—several chapters later, in a steamy scene that made Raf giggle a little immaturely into his sleeve, and Marge let out an impressed whistle.

"Bee's got some imagination, doesn't he?" She remarked as she flipped the page.

"Do you think... they're doing that right now?" Raf's cheeks heated up at the thought but he was also grinning a touch foolishly. It was easy to see that Professor Jack loved Brayden Smith! Why, just earlier, they were sitting together as close as he and Marge were now. And Brayden Smith had been awfully nice to him, chatting to him and making him feel welcomed. He even tried to persuade Professor Jack to keep his promise, something that produced a favorable impression of him with Raf.

Raf liked Brayden Smith; there was something wonderfully understated about him, that one would miss at first glance. If Raf passed him in the street, he didn't think he would look twice. But having experienced his kindness and having spoken to him, he realized that Brayden Smith was really quite princely. And of course, Professor Jack was tall and handsome, just like the Fallen King who sired him, flashy but also princely after his own fashion. They seemed suited to each other, or perhaps it was their obvious attraction to one another that produced such an impression. Either way, Raf could see how Brayden Smith could be considered dangerous to the King's cause.

"Wouldn't put it past them," Marge muttered with a mysteriously dark look at the door, as if she could see beyond it and into Professor Jack's apartment.

"I don't think even Rhys could dislike Brayden Smith," mused Raf to himself as he turned his gaze back to the page and continued reading. He let out a low gasp. "Ooh Margie! Oh no! I think Quentin's going to find out his lover's the dark wizard in this chapter!" His hands flew to his cheeks as they read on.

"Who's Rhys?"

"He's... he was... my best friend. I think."

"You think?" Marge looked at him with an amused smile. "Don't you know?"

Raf sighed. "I thought I did..."

"Oh my God, not another pining little gay boy," groaned Marge.