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1: ?ns?m?n?a

There were few things in life Dustin hated as much as the rain. It didn’t just make life difficult, it made it all but unbearable: wet shoes, wet hair, wet clothes—dank, dark, moody, blah. It was the kind of weather that teased migraines to life and poked at less than perfect joints. “Weather to hang yourself by,” as his grandfather used to say. The tires of passing vehicles spit ice-cold water, the drivers oblivious to, or uncaring of, Dustin’s discomfort and compounding melancholy. Clouds rolled by, gray and heavy, pregnant with malaise. But for the occasional car, the street was empty. Most people, Dustin chided himself, knew better than to stand in the rain.

His head still pounded from the previous night’s indulgences and his body ached in ways that made Dustin think he should probably remember why said pains existed. His stale, soaked hair had once been cleverly styled but now lay in disorder consistent with rodents’ nests; his eyes had that darkly circled look coveted by vampires and punk rockers alike. He just wanted to get home, climb between his sheets, and sleep the rest of the day away. Which he would do—gladly. If the goddamn cab would ever show up. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that the cab company would want to charge him thirty-some bucks to drive across town. No, they were intent on making Dustin stand underneath a canopy that wouldn’t keep a small puppy dry, waiting in endless frustration.

Dustin closed his eyes, rested his head back against the brick wall behind him, and breathed deep. Earthworms, decay, mildew, and exhaust. A wind—still too freaking chummy with winter than the calendar would lend one to believe—tried to sneak under his jacket. Dustin pulled the lapels that much closer, tucked them against each other and used his arms to keep them there. He lowered his chin to his chest. He was tired. Sick and tired. Sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. Twenty-eight years behind his belt, and he wasn’t looking forward to the next three decades any more than he did the first three. Not that anyone would have guessed it. If there was one thing Dustin could do well it was fake it. At least until whichever chosen stimulant kicked in at whichever moment it was required. Then Dustin didn’t have to fake it: he could let the drugs or the booze remove him from his mind. And if that landed him in the crosshairs of the next Mr. Nobody a little too often, well, that was all right with him. He was single, he was young, and he was fairly cautious. The nightstand had been littered with more than one torn foils when he’d slunk from the blankets and stealthily located clothing that morning—a good sign of precaution at least. Which meant that nobody was getting hurt. Promises were not being made and then broken. Dustin wasn’t looking for Mr. Perfect; Mr. Nobody would do just fine, thanks much. Mr. Nobody went away. Mr. Nobody didn’t bring baggage into Dustin’s life. The last thing Dustin needed was more baggage.

A voice, his father’s voice, chuckled softly in Dustin’s mind. “So how come,” it asked, “if everything is so fine, if everything is just the way you want it, why do you feel so empty?”

How come it felt like it could rain forever, and Dustin still wouldn’t feel clean?

Why did the thought of holding his breath, until his mind fogged over and thought ceased, sound so appealing? Dustin shuddered against the internal berating, against the cold, against his life. It’s just the weather, he told himself, the rain and the residual effects of whatever still swam in his system from the party. That was all, nothing to dwell on. Dwelling wouldn’t help anyway.

The bright sound of bells, out of nowhere and on the wrong side of cheery for Dustin’s somber mood, startled him from his reverie. He had a moment’s thought to search the sky for trinket wearing angels or giggling fairies, before he shook his head at the ridiculousness of the idea. A presence, nonetheless, too close for comfortable, too conscious not to search out, drew his attention. Interest, not fascination he would later tell himself, had Dustin’s eyes traveling over a man who could only be defined as displaced. European, Dustin decided, with dark thick hair that, no doubt, loved the rain—the kind of hair that curled at the ends with even a hint of moisture. He had weathered skin, but in that rugged I’ve-spent-far-too-much-time-in-the-open-air kind of way, and an odd mix of clothing that spoke of a love of comfort and ease of movement, as opposed to fashion or color sense. Two dogs, indeterminate in breed, affectionate in expression, flanked him, their eyes filled with the kind of intelligence Dustin likened only to humans or primates. “You’re cold,” the man said without introduction or preamble, and held out a steaming foam cup. “Tea,” he continued. “Nothing more. It will do you no harm.”

Dustin was too stunned to do anything but reach for the cup. Instant warmth radiated through the material and into his palm. Dustin sought out the stranger’s eyes with his own, was caught by the brilliance of them, a blue so bright it was startling—before realization hit. Blind.