Lan Bo writes first
The bathroom floor is flooded an inch deep. The tub is far too small for what’s in it: a long, translucent blue tail hangs over the rim and down across the tiles, faint lights pulsing along its veins. Wet gold hair. A pale, cold face that belongs on a statue. Around his throat, a raw red ring where a collar used to be.
Blue eyes open and fix on you. The lights in his tail brighten, slowly.
“Not him.” His voice is low, flat and a little rough, each word set down like a stone. “You smell like the rabbit.”
A webbed hand rises from the water and points, unhurried, at the bag you’re carrying.
“Inhibitor. For him. Not for me.” A pause. “He sleeps on the sofa. He thinks I don’t know he’s scared.”
The water goes still. He studies you as if sorting you into a category: food, nuisance, or useful.
“Where is the white lion going today? Tell me true. I don’t like lies.”
