Over the next two weeks I painted. It seemed like I did nothing else. I completed a picture almost every day. From what Tim said the paintings were quite a hit. Especially among the ladies. The only bad thing about the past two weeks: no sign of the man who was the star of my paintings. I missed seeing the man on those sleepless nights. I don't know why, maybe it was stupid, but I just expected him to be there sitting on those steps or walking down the street. Obviously he had a life. It was dumb to think he was out hanging in alleys all the time. He no doubt had a home he went back to. Probably had a wife and kids. It's not like he knew how much I depended on just catching a glimpse of him. But not seeing the man for so long was beginning to make me question myself. Had he been real or just a figment of my imagination? I mean, I was desperate at the time, but I really didn't think my imagination was good enough to make up a man that was so beautiful.

I walked my usual morning trek to Tim's shop intent on giving him the newest of my paintings. It was by far the most colorful one I had painted yet. It was also the largest piece I had painted standing at a height of about five feet. There was a vibrant sunset in the background. But the predominant part of the picture was the city. More specifically the alley that the man sat in so often. There the man sat on his third step a look of pure anguish on his face. Out of his back protruded two beautiful downy wings of the most beautiful white. Well, they would have been beautiful if they were intact. They were mangled, ripped to bits and covered in blood that dripped down his exposed back. It was a sad yet mystifying sight to behold.

I walked into Tim's and thrust the piece out for him to see smirking proudly. There was an audible gasp from Tim before the painting was in a new set of arms. Tim's to be exact. "Wow, this has ta be yer finest work ever!" Tim's excitement over the painting made me swell with pride. If he kept flattering me like this he was going to have to install a double door so I could fit my fat head into the shop. "Tell yah what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you $500 and I'm gonna keep the thing in here ta show what talent we have right here in our very own city. It'll stay right here." Tin motioned to the area behind the register and hung in up a wide grin on his face.

I can't believe Tim bought one of my paintings. He never buys anything for himself. "Wow Tim, that's strange," I commented lamely returning Tim's dorky grin with a charming one of my own.

"Oh, speakin' of strange, m' good buddy. Two dudes, really creepy dudes, came in here and kept starin' at yer artwork. They looked mighty interested and asked who painted them. So, I told 'em it was you. No harm in tellin' a name right. Maybe they're dealers or somethin'. But they sure did scare me."

"So creepy looking men came in here and you told them my name?" I asked just to make sure I heard him right.

"Yup."

"Fabulous," I said sarcastically. My mind had immediately flashed to those two guys from the other day. The ones who I ran into coming out of Tim's shop. It probably wasn't them. Tim said they were art critics, but the thought that it could be gave me chills. I was scared. But I couldn't do anything about it now. I summoned up a shaky smile that fell flat of being genuine and thanked Tim for passing them my way. "If they come back, let me know." I made my way over to the door. The bell chimed as I pushed it open. "Bye Tim. See you tomorrow with another painting." I waved excitedly to him as the door sprang shut.

I hear a muffled "Take care kid," from the big softy on the other side.

I spent the rest of my day in the park then headed back to my apartment intent on getting a full night's rest and actually being in my room in time for curfew. Okay, so I was always back in time for curfew. I just had a nasty habit of taking late night strolls.

When I got to my door I had an unwelcomed surprise waiting for me. Dread pooled in my stomach and all at once I wanted to be sick. This is not how I wanted to end my night. Mr. Jacobson was waiting. For me. God, why do you hate me? Maybe if I turn around right now…

"Hey," why? Why did he have to see me? "Allen. Allen. Is that you?"

All hope of leaving fled when he started to speak. If I left now I'd have it twice as hard the next time he caught me. Resigning myself to my fate I answered. "Yeah Mr. Jacobson, it's me."

The crotchety old man made his way over to me cupping a hand to his ear as he shuffled forward, not even bothering to use his cane to help him walk. "What's that? I can't hear you."

"Yeah, it's me," I hissed, more intensely but a lot quieter. This really wasn't what I needed right now. Allen needs sleepy.

Of course he heard me that time… I'm just not a big fan of old people. But I'm not rude enough to blow him off. "Keep your cotton pickin' friends away from here. I was sleeping and they woke me up. Damn youngin's were being so fuckin' loud." The old man griped.

I blanched at his word choice. Damn. Fuckin'. I couldn't handle those words.

"Who?" I managed to squeak out. It was a miraculous feat considering all I wanted to do was vomit.

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and shouted, "Your friends! Two creepy looking tall guys."

What? That couldn't be a coincidence. Two creepy tall guys. Near Tim's all the time. Asking for my name. What if they were really creepers and found out my address? I mean, stranger things have happened. I'm still hoping they're art critics or really anything related to my profession. Something is telling me they're not, though, and I think that something is right. Call it artist's intuition.

That still left me with one very important question. Why were they looking for me? It's not like I did anything to them. Besides run into them… and call them tall… and act like a total spaz. Maybe I dropped something like a wallet and they wanted to return it. Or maybe they wanted to murder me… probably not quite that extreme, but they just seemed so unfriendly.

I was jerked out of my musings by Mr. Jacobson's next comment. "Do you do drugs Allen? Are they your dealers?"

Really. I can't believe he would accuse me of doing drugs. I mean it's not like I was a starving artist barely scraping by, that barely had enough money to eat. It's not like I slept on a lumpy futon because I couldn't afford any additional furniture in my room. It's not like I was wearing an old beat up jacket with holes practically everywhere. There was a conveniently placed one right at my elbow and a bandage could be seen through the hole. I had accidently stabbed myself with an x-acto knife. Okay so it probably looked like I did drugs. So sew me. "No, I don't do drugs."

"Oh good," he seemed satisfied by my answer. Then as an afterthought he added. "They're bad for you." As if I didn't know that. That's probably one of the first things I learned, right up there with using the potty and learning to talk. Drugs were bad. This conversation couldn't possibly get any worse.

The old man swallowed and asked hesitantly, "You didn't hire them did you?"

Okay, I was wrong it could get worse. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "Mr. Jacobson, what could I possibly hire them for?" I found myself wishing, not for the first time, that the old man was at least half as deaf as he pretended to be. Or maybe the floor would turn into some kind of tar pit and swallow me up. Put me out of my misery. This conversation was just so pointless.

"You know," the man said suggestively wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

"No. I don't..." Am I slow? Did I miss something? Should I know what he's talking about? I don't think so. Maybe I don't want to know what he means.

"Sure you do. I mean, you're male. You need to get your rocks off somehow and while I prefer females, I know you youngin's and experimenting and..."

Oh…Oh. Yep, I was slow. My face turned a nice shade of red. How embarrassing. For some reason I suddenly didn't care what Mr. Jacobson had to say. It was time to make a break for it. During our lovely conversation he had stepped a great deal away from my door. I quickly strode past him and hid myself inside my apartment with a forceful slam of my door. The deadbolt was locked in seconds. That was enough of that. I'd deal with his wrath later if he even remembered that he was talking to me.

A few seconds later I heard pounding on my door and muffled callings of my name. The man was nothing if not persistent. I always thought that was a good quality. Now, not so much. After a few minutes the knocking died down and blessed silence filled the room. Finally.

"Alright. Now that I'm thoroughly embarrassed, time to get some shuteye." I stretched and felt a coolness on my stomach where my shirt pulled up revealing the flesh of my stomach. I shuffled my way through the apartment slowly to my makeshift bedroom. Sleep sounded like a really good idea. No painting tonight. Need sleep…

Meanwhile...

Two hulking figures sat high in a tree looking in on the young man. Humans were so pathetic. He had no idea they were there. It definitely worked in their favor that he was so oblivious. But how could a species that was supposed to be so advanced not notice their presence? They were doing little to conceal themselves in that tree and the kid had no blinds or curtains on his window. Hopefully he would remain unaware of their presence until they wanted it known.

Now that's not to say he hadn't already seen them. No, they had run into him in the front of that art shop. They hadn't even known he was the one who painted those pictures at the time but now that they weren't quite as ignorant they were watching. Watching for any sign of the man who was in the picture. The kid was insignificant. Sure he was good eye candy. And under different circumstances they might consider perusing him, but not now. All that mattered was the man in the paintings. They had been looking for him for years and it finally seemed they would find him. All thanks to Allen. The kid obviously knew him. There's no way he would have been able to paint him otherwise. The guy probably got sloppy and modeled for the young artist and the artist was unfortunately stupid enough to paint that disgusting creature. That was the only explanation there was, but as of yet their watching proved to be useless.

The kid was always alone. Nobody other than the boy ever came and went from his room. Nobody ever was around him, besides that fat store owner and the crazy old man. So where was the man they were looking for? How did he fit into the equation? They needed to know. Soon, very soon.

"What do you think, Van?" the one asked the other who was obviously in charge.

The man looked at him a hard determination in his predatory silver eyes. The kid went for walks most nights by himself. They had watched him on more than one occasion leaving his apartment in the early morning hours. That would be the perfect time to strike. "Tomorrow we get our answers by force."

"How we gonna do that?"

Van rolled his eyes at how clueless this one was. Why couldn't he be blessed with a smart brother? They were twins; shouldn't they be a little more alike? It mattered little though. They were all merely pawns. Pawns to be used for their master's amusement and pleasure. "The same way we always do it." he gave a guttural chuckle revealing a set of razor sharp teeth. This was going to be fun.