Without Wings: Prologue

Prologue

“I can’t take him Sam.”

The high walls of the narrow Parisian alley sheltered two dripping figures from the storm outside. Low hanging oil lamps burnt weakly against the dark, casting deep shadows down weathered faces.

The men wore black, hooded raincoats that stretched to their ankles. Water dripped from the hem and pooled on the smooth cobblestone walkway. Trickles of water snaked between the pebbles, disappearing at the edge of the lamp’s warm yellow glow.

The taller of the two held a white bundle of cloth tight to his chest. He pushed back the hood of his coat and stepped toward the other black, dripping shape. His eyes caught the light of the oil lamp and shimmered an icy blue beneath the wet, sandy blonde hair stuck to his face.

“I don’t have time to argue Peter; I’m being followed.”

The shorter man slipped the wet hood from his head and let it fall about his shoulders. Dark brown hair, black with the damp, clung to his cheeks. A coarse muzzle framed his jaw and deep purple circles hung beneath his eyes. He looked tired: far too tired to be arguing in an alley at 3am.

“Which side?”

“Both.”

Sam’s face could have been carved stone. His jaw was set firm, his eyes were locked on Peter’s. The cool cloud of breath that passed his lips and hung in the air was the only indication that he was even alive. 

“But why would –”

“You’re the only one I can trust with this Peter.”

An arc of lightning lit up the world beyond the alley, a world asleep. A crack of thunder echoed in the distance.

Peter’s gruff sigh went unheard against the torrential rain, but Sam seemed to understand.

“You know I wouldn’t be asking had I any other choice.” Sam’s eyes had softened and he’d let a thin, worn smile slip through the cracks of his stone features. “Asking you to take care of a fragile child, how desperate must I be?”

Peter laughed. Fine creases and lines broke out across the man’s face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam’s piercing blue eyes flashed white hot as a heavy boom raced through the alley, rattling the high walls and shaking dust from their mortar. The oil lamps swung viscously from side to side like burning insides of a grandfather clock, twisting and deforming the men’s shadows into creatures and beasts on the still shaking red-brick walls.  The air was thick and heavy and hard to breathe.

“Did you feel that?” asked Sam, his words were almost sarcastic as he stepped to Peter’s side.

Peter nodded. “It’s Levi.”

Two white lines ran from Peter’s brow to the top of his lip. His hand slowly traced the thin scars up and down absently. 

“Take the child.” Sam pressed the bundle into Peter’s chest.

“I can’t, it’s not safe.” Peter growled, his eyes searching the darkness at the end of the alley. “You take him and get the hell out of here… I’ll hold him as long as I can.”

Sam grabbed Peter’s hand, which was still tracing the scars on his face, and wrapped it around the bundle. “And where would I take him? They would find us. They would find me. Take him. Take him and disappear.”

“But –”

“Run.”