Don�t you want�?
 
Clambering up the stone wall, senses open to the wind, he seeks.
 
He�s been on the streets since eleven PM. It's coming up on four now. He hasn�t seen a single damn person.
 
�Cet is amazed, mystified, and beginning to get angry. The Iron Triangle is never this empty. Never.
 
Now in desperation he has ranged to the edges of his territory, running out of places to look. So he climbs the wall, gritting his teeth, digging his claws in. It takes effort; his body is not as strong or young as it used to be. Brick and mortar splinter away from the pressure, rattling clattering down the wall to the ground.
 
This bareness of territory offends him. He resents the implication that he hasn't been working hard enough. So he puts some real effort into it, forcing himself upward in defiance of gravity's strident demands. Dragging his thin body up over the top of the wall, he grips the bricks firmly with his hind talons so as not to fall backwards.
 
Don�t you need�?
 
Yes, he thinks in response. Yes, yes, yes. But there�s nothing on the wind, nothing in the air. Everyone is inside, asleep. Against all odds, the city that never sleeps appears to have fallen into somnolence.
 
Frustration like a bat trapped in a car careens around inside, ricocheting. �Cet has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming into the urban night. That�ll wake someone up, he knows, but not who he wants �
 
Wouldn�t you love�?
 
One hand pressed to his belly, the raindrake wrinkles his muzzle against the pain of a gut cramp. A low whine whistles free. He is empty, so empty. No money, no herbs, no sketch even. He begins to despair of finding anyone.
 
You better find�
 
I know! �I KNOW!�
 
�Hey!�
 
That wasn�t his own voice. An instant later, the misborn finds himself bathed in light.
 
�Cet turns, his overlong musteline tail curling and flicking. He is agitated. If he knows his luck, and he does -- yep, goddamnit -- his lips peel back from his teeth. Looking down the wall, he sees trouble in blue fatigues.
 
Part of him insists this is just a policeman, looking for other prey, that if he is quiet he will move on. But his hunger sees something else, something he remembers. He fancies he smells the blood of predators on this grazer's hands. A low growl purls in 'Cet's chest. A skinkeeper!
 
The cop, a corpulent bovine, is pointing a stinging flashlight into his eyes. Unable to make out the scowl on its distant face, the officer squints up at the figure on the wall with mild befuddlement.
 
�Son, what are you doing up there? And who are you talking to?"
 
�Cet barely hears the skinkeeper's voice. His nostrils are clotted with the heavy scent of bull. Something deep inside lifts its head and roars, something ancient and nameless.
 
"Git down before you hurt yourse -- oh holy Mother, don't just -- !�
 
'Cet lets go of the wall.
 
Falling down at the bull in uniform with knife and claws at the ready, wings pinioned to speed the drop, 'Cet's mind whirls in ancitipation, oblivious to the ninety-foot fall.
 
Not sure what the hell just happened, the cop drops his flashlight in favor of his sidearm, but it's too late. �Cet lands with a whistle and squeal of talons scrabbling over body armor and they both go down, rolling.
 
'Cet howls and thrashes, digging with three sets of claws while he tries to find a place to put the knife, his teeth, but at the same time the bull knows he's got three times the weight of his attacker so 'Cet has to keep jerking, keep them rolling. If the bull gets atop him he'll be crushed. Copper and gut-scent punch through the pseudodragon's nostrils to his brain, something swings down onto his horn and he finds his grip, biting
 
/stutter/
 
(stillness?)
 
�Cet pushes himself up, blinking. He lies across the motionless body of the former policeman. The killer stares down at the lolling head, into the glassy eyes.
 
He doesn�t remember falling.
He doesn�t remember the wall.
He sees only one thing.
 
The gashes, the slashes, the marks of his own claws and teeth. But mainly, the knife. What�s on the knife. What he�s licking off the knife, even before he becomes aware of what it is.
 
Bronze eyes glitter golden in the flashlight backwash.
 
Blood.
 
Blood ...
 
...love...