Now, though, he trembled and yearned to take
Krishna by the throat and ram his head, face first, into the column that
held up his front porch, again and again, until his fingers were slick
with the blood from Krishna's shattered nose.
Alan hurried past him, his shoulders and fists clenched. Krishna
chuckled nastily and Alan thought he knew who got the job of sawing off
Mimi's wings when they grew too long, and thought, too, that Krishna
must relish the task.
"Where you going?" Krishna called.
Alan fumbled with his keyring, desperate to get in and get the keys to
the coach house and to fetch the shovel before the new tunnels under the
park collapsed.
"You're too late, you know," Krishna continued. "You might as well give
up. Too late, too late!"
Alan whirled and shrieked, a wordless, contorted war cry, a sound from
his bestial guts. As his eyes swam back into focus, he saw Mimi standing
beside Krishna, barefoot in a faded housecoat. Her eyes were very wide,
and as she turned away from him, he saw that her stubby wings were
splayed as wide as they'd go, forming a tent in her robe that pulled it
up above her knees. Alan bit down and clamped his lips together and
found his keys. He tracked mud over the polished floors and the ancient,
threadbare Persian rugs as he ran to the kitchen, snatching the
coach-house keys from their hook over the sink.
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