“You know how you could help, man? You could crawl back under your rock and leave the people’s world for people.”
Something snapped in Alan. “Canada for Canadians, right? Send ’em back where they came from, right?” He stalked to the railing that divided their porches. The taste of blood stung his mouth.
Krishna met him, moving swiftly to the railing as well, hood thrown back, eyes hard and glittering and stoned.
“You think you can make me feel like a racist, make me guilty?” His voice squeaked on the last syllable. “Man, the only day I wouldn’t piss on you is if you were on fire, you fucking freak.”
Some part of Alan knew that this person was laughable, a Renfield eating bugs. But that voice of reason was too quiet to be heard over the animal screech that was trying to work its way free of his throat.
He could smell Krishna, cigarettes and booze and club and sweat, see the gold flecks in his dark irises, the red limning of his eyelids. Krishna raised a hand as if to slap him, smirked when he flinched back.
Then he grabbed Krishna’s wrist and pulled hard, yanking the boy off his feet, slamming his chest into the railing hard enough to shower dried spider’s nests and flakes of paint to the porch floor.
“I’m every bit the monster my brother is,” he hissed in Krishna’s ear. “I made him the monster he is. Don’t squirm,” he said, punching Krishna hard in the ear with his free hand. “Listen. You can stay away from me and you can stay away from my family, or you can enter a world of terrible hurt. It’s up to you. Nod if you understand.”
Krishna was still, except for a tremble. The moment stretched, and Alan broke it by cracking him across the ear again.
“Nod if you understand, goddammit,” he said, his vision going fuzzily black at the edges. Krishna was silent, still, coiled. Any minute now, he would struggle free and they’d be in a clinch.