Horn Gate by Damon Suede

Author:Damon Suede [Suede, Damon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi

4:

The Book

AT 5:17 in the god-awful morning, Isaac stood naked in front of the mirror chewing the air in shock. He could barely look at himself without blinking. The transformation was startling, even though he’d expected it.

Hard to say how, exactly, but a million small shifts had scoured away his blemishes and irregularities. His glasses sat crooked and blurred his vision. His trousers hung like loose sacks that ended at his shins. All the extra flesh had dissolved into gently rounded sinew with none of the graceless bulk he’d come to expect from bodybuilders. His legs bunched with supple power. His penis had gained another inch in length and girth, with his testes plump as kiwis in their silken sack. His chest and ass invited the hand and eye. The fearful symmetry of his face made his stare almost uncomfortable: an unclouded brow, delft blue eyes, sullen lips, and a nose that begged to be stamped on a coin. Discomfited, he paced across and away from his reflection. Every bone and joint, every curve and slope, braided seamlessly so that he moved with a predator’s grace and a prey’s allure. Like Scratch.

And yet he looked like himself, an Isaac with nearly everything vulnerable or human polished away. The sight was unsettling and hard to examine at length or close range.

No fucking way he could go out in the street like this. People would stare. Hell, he was staring, and it was his dumb body. Maybe this is what Scratch had meant about turning him.

Why had his incubus been so eager to escape him? Why didn’t he feel relieved?

He’d slept intermittently, but for much of the night, he had listened for an exotic voice that never spoke. He remembered something his father had said when he was a kid. When you can’t sleep, it’s because you’re awake in someone else’s dream. Maybe Scratch hadn’t forgotten him just yet. Do demons dream?

Here’s hoping.

Even though the early morning air was ninety-three degrees, Isaac pulled on a baggy shirt and loose cords. After he fished out his bulkiest hoodie, a cap, and sunglasses, the mirror beckoned one more look. Thirteen years of scaly eczema and fiery acne had melted away, leaving taut skin that provoked touch, even his own.

Outside, hot summer rain pelted the concrete as the sun struggled to rise. He almost doubled back for an umbrella, but after the past three days, he felt odd even worrying about getting wet.

Getting from Park Slope to East Broadway was a disaster. Yesterday people had flirted; today they stared openly and seemed to forget what they were doing and saying. A rubbernecking woman almost fell down the stairs, and in Manhattan two cars and a messenger bike collided when he crossed Pike Street. His phobia about being touched only made the congestion worse. He jogged and hugged the early morning shadows to dodge attention that had taken on an ugly intensity. Commuters dropped their purses and packages to watch him possessively. Strangers pressed close and hurried to follow him.

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