11 Chapter 11: All Part of Being a Dragon, Part 3

"I've turned off my pain receptors," Azrael said. "Still, it will be difficult. How far is it to the nearest service corridor?"

Theresa reconnected to the dispatch computer, and examined its maps. "About a tenth of a mile," she said. She crawled onto his shoulder. "Now will you tell me why you can't manipulate?" she asked. Azrael remained silent. "I'll leave."

"Not in a dark, filthy tunnel full of rats, you won't," he said. "First we need to get to that maintenance door."

Azrael clomped through the tunnel, his torn boots occasionally sticking in the muck. His right foot was twisted, and his left leg dragged behind him. His uneven gait jarred Theresa's neck.

"I can help you heal," she said. Azrael did not reply. His breath came in drawn-out heaves, rattling deep in his chest.

They reached the service room. Theresa slipped her tail into the padlock, and manipulated its tumblers. It popped open, sprinkling rust onto her back. The darkness inside was absolute.

Once they were inside, Azrael collapsed to the concrete floor. "Repairing," he said. "I need forty-eight hours for minimum restoration."

"Good for you," Theresa said. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?" But her partner was silent. She slipped her tail into his ear. He had put himself into an emergency coma without her assistance. "I would have helped you," she said. She unbuttoned his shirt with her teeth, snuggled against his warmth, and fell asleep to the labored rhythm of his breath.

She awoke to the sensation of something crawling on her. She sniffed it, and searched her database. It was a waterbug. She sucked it up. It was a mixture of salty and sour, with a crunchy texture. She nosed around, and found six more. She had not realized how hungry she was. She ate the roaches, wishing for water to wash them down. A leg caught in her throat, and she gagged.

"Dragons can go weeks without water, I'll bet," she muttered.

"Yes," a voice rumbled in the blackness, "they can."

A light flared, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she saw X-Fifty-Nine sitting cross-legged on the cement. A ball of violet flame swirled above his face, casting his gaunt features into sharp relief.

"Theresa," he said, his voice thick and syrupy. He cupped his hands. There was water inside. "Come, little one, drink."

Theresa stared at his calloused palms, and at the reflections of the light that danced on the clear water. She had not been aware of how strong her thirst was. Now it constricted her throat. "No," she said.

X-Fifty-Nine chuckled. "Very well," he said. He pointed to a spot on the cement in front of her. "When this room was constructed, an air pocket lay deep in the ground. Before the cement dried, the earth settled a few inches, and a bowl formed right there." As Theresa watched, a depression, about three inches deep, dimpled in the floor. "There is a pipe above you, carrying clean, potable water. The fitter had an argument with his wife the morning he installed it, in which she mocked his sexual inadequacies. As a result, he did not pay attention to his work, and now that pipe occasionally drips." Drops of water splashed into the depression, filling it. "Is that more of what you're used to?"

Theresa stared at her reflection in the water. "And turning a subway full of people into chickens, and a pistol into an umbrella," she said. "I would love to hear the history of those."

"Ah, you see, that's the difference," said X-Fifty-Nine. "Your ex-partner was bound by the laws of cause and effect. I, however, can manipulate the Tapestry directly. Of course, it takes up much more energy, but a bit of theatrics now and then is necessary, don't you think? How else are we to become the stuff of their legends, the seeds of their nightmares?"

The color of Theresa's skin deepened. "What do you mean, 'ex-partner?'"

X-Fifty-Nine gestured to Azrael. "Access his memory, array Victor, nine thousand twenty-five, Mike, seventy-six."

"I can't - " Theresa said, but before she could finish, X-Fifty-Nine and his fire were gone.

Theresa crept forward in the blackness until her toenail touched the water. She opened her mouth to taste it, but pulled back.

She crept onto Azrael's shoulder. It was not impossible for her to break through his safeguards and access his memory, but it was extremely uncouth. Then again, so was hiding things from her, things she deserved to know. She looked up at him, swore, and rammed her tail into his ear.

Azrael's memory looked to her like a maze of glass boxes submerged underwater, netted together by glowing snakes. Every few seconds, a serpent wormed its way from one box to another, filling it with light. She searched along the array of cubes until she found the one of which X-Fifty-Nine had spoken. She took a deep breath, and dunked her head under the surface.

She became Azrael.

She saw through his eyes as he genuflected before a creature of light. Every hair stood on end. She felt a hardness between his legs pushing against the fabric of his pants. His teeth rattled. The Azrael in the memory averted his eyes. As hard as she tried, all Theresa could see of the being before him were its toes. They were white, immaculate, and shone as if the flesh under the skin was the sun.

"Azrael," a voice said, and it was a voice like honey. It made Theresa want to laugh, cry, dance, and shriek at the same time. If that voice had instructed her to slit her own throat, Theresa would have done so joyfully. "We find it very hard to believe that you are questioning Us. You have never questioned before. What causes you to do so now?"