Chapter 35: Bird Buffet
The prison yard was a cracked gray plate baking under a relentless afternoon sun. Heat shimmered rose off the concrete, mixing with the airborne dust kicked up by restless feet. The air tasted of hot metal, old sweat, and a thin, persistent undercurrent of fear. Men moved in slow, purposeful eddies, talking in low tones, playing cards on upturned crates, lifting weights made of smuggled engine parts. The perimeter was a constant, slow patrol of guards in their towers, silhouettes against a bleached sky.
Dominic sat on a low bench in the meager strip of shade cast by the western wall, a king holding silent court. Crusher loomed beside him, a monument in flesh, eyes scanning the yard with passive disinterest. Rafael stood a few feet away, leaning against the warm brick, observing a tense exchange between two newer inmates over by the water fountain. He didn't need to intervene; his presence, and Dom’s, was often enough to quell sparks.
Angel was a darting, pale flash of movement in the sun. After the promised fruit cup (which he’d eaten with ritualistic slowness, saving the single cherry for last), his energy had returned tenfold. Dominic had given him a task: count the cracks in a specific ten-foot square of pavement. It was a pointless, absorbing job that would keep him still and out of trouble for maybe twenty minutes. It had lasted seven.
Now he was at the base of the yard’s lone sickly maple tree, a spindly thing that clung to life against the concrete. He was on his tiptoes, head tilted back, long hair spilling down his back, utterly transfixed.
"Something’s got his attention," Crusher rumbled, not moving his head.
Dominic followed his gaze. Angel had a particular kind of stillness when he was fixated—a total absorption that shut out the rest of the world. It was the same look he got when mapping worms or watching a spider spin a web. "Probably found an interesting beetle. Or a new kind of dirt."
Rafael’s voice was a dry murmur. "He’s listening."
And he was. Angel’s head was cocked, his expression one of rapturous discovery. A soft, chirping sound, almost lost in the yard’s dull roar, drifted from the tree. Baby birds. A nest.
A fond, weary smile touched Dominic’s lips. "He’ll want to watch them. Maybe name them. That’ll keep him busy."
But Angel’s curiosity was never passive. It was tactile, immersive. They watched as he shimmied up the thin trunk with a shocking, squirrel-like agility, his slight frame finding holds the bulky inmates never could. He hooked a leg over a low branch and pulled himself up, leaning precariously toward a messy knot of twigs and grass wedged in a fork.
"Kid climbs like he’s part monkey," Martinez said from a nearby bench, pausing his push-ups to watch. "Gotta give him that."
"Angel," Dominic called, his voice cutting across the distance with a paternal carry."Be careful. Look, don’t touch."
Angel either didn’t hear or chose to interpret ‘look’ in the broadest possible sense. A collective, subtle shift occurred in their section of the yard. Conversations trailed off. Cards were set down. Men who had seen and done unspeakable things found their attention gently pulled toward the boy in the tree. His bizarre innocence was a neutral distraction, a fleeting break from the grim calculus of survival.
He peered into the nest. His back was to them, but they saw the delight in the set of his shoulders. He cooed, a soft, sweet sound utterly alien in this place.
Then he reached in.
A few men exchanged glances. Fletcher lit a rolled cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the heat. "Gonna bring one down to show us, I bet."
Angel’s hand emerged, cupped gently. He peered into his own palm, his face illuminated with pure joy. He murmured something to the creature. Then, with the fluid, unthinking motion of a child popping a berry into his mouth, he brought his hand to his lips and tipped his head back.
There was a brief, shocked silence, broken only by the distant call of a guard.
Angel chewed.
It wasn’t a savage bite. It was a thoughtful, moist crunch. His eyes closed in what seemed like concentration. A tiny, downy feather drifted down from his lips and caught on the breeze.
The yard around Dominic’s orbit went perfectly, utterly still.
Martinez’s jaw was slack. Fletcher’s cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers. Hawks, who had been whittling a small piece of wood, froze, the knife blade gleaming in the sun. Even Crusher’s immense stillness changed quality, deepening from calm to something like profound assessment.
Angel swallowed. His tongue darted out, pink and quick, to catch another feather clinging to his lower lip. He opened his eyes, looking vaguely pleased, and immediately reached back into the nest for another.
That broke the spell.
"Jesus fucking Christ," someone whispered, the words harsh in the quiet.
Dominic was already moving. He didn’t run—the Reaper did not run in the yard—but his stride was long, fast, and full of terrible purpose. Men melted out of his path. His face was a mask of calm, but his black eyes were fixed on his son with an intensity that crackled in the air.
Angel had the second sparrow chick, pink and naked and blindly gaping, in his fingers. It gave a weak, peeping cry. He was bringing it toward his mouth, his head tilting again."Angel." Dominic’s voice was low, a controlled detonation.
Angel paused, the chick mere inches from his lips. He looked down at Dominic, his expression shifting from focused pleasure to mild confusion. "Daddy? They’re crunchy. But the singing is all inside. It tickles."
Dominic reached the base of the tree."Drop it."
"But—"
"Now."
The command was absolute. Angel’s fingers opened. The chick tumbled, but Dominic’s hand shot out and caught it before it hit the ground. It lay in his massive, tattooed palm, legs twitching, beak opening and closing soundlessly. He handed it, without looking, to Rafael, who had materialized beside him. Rafael took the chick, his face impassive, and placed it gently back into the nest Angel could no longer reach.
"Come down," Dominic said, his eyes never leaving Angel’s face.
Angel shimmied down, dropping the last few feet with a light thump. He stood before Dominic, blinking up at him. A soft brown feather was stuck to the corner of his mouth like a misplaced beauty mark. He smelled of sunshine, boyish sweat, and a faint, coppery tang.
Dominic placed a firm hand on his shoulder and turned him, steering him away from the gathered, silent audience. He walked him toward the blind spot near the utility shed, a relatively private alcove. The men watched them go, a tableau of bewildered, morbid fascination. No one laughed. No one made a joke. The act had been too natural, too purely Angel, to mock. It was simply a fact, now added to the ledger of his strangeness.
In the relative shade of the shed, Dominic stopped. He took Angel’s chin in his hand, his grip not rough but inescapable. "Open your mouth."
Angel obeyed, his dark blue eyes wide and trusting.
Dominic looked inside. He saw nothing but a pink mouth, a seemingly innocent tongue. "Did you swallow it all?"
Angel nodded, his chin moving in Dominic’s grasp. "Mostly. It was small."
"Spit. If there’s anything left."
Angel made a theatrical gagging sound, then spat a small, wet clot of feathers and indistinguishable matter onto the concrete. He looked up, proud of his compliance. "See?"
Dominic released his chin. He sighed, a long, deep exhalation that seemed to come from the foundation of the world. He swiped his thumb over Angel’s lips, wiping away the feather and a smudge of something dark. "We do not eat things that are still singing, baby."
Angel’s lower lip pushed out into a pout. "But it was singing because it was tasty. It was asking for it."
"That’s not how it works."
"It could be." Angel’s logic was a maze with no exit. "Maybe that’s how they say ‘eat me.’ In bird language."
Dominic closed his eyes for a second, summoning patience from a deep, often-tapped well."No. It’s not. The singing means it’s alive. We don’t eat alive things."
Angel’s brow furrowed. "But the worms wiggle. You said not to eat the worms because they were dirty, not because they wiggled." He had him there. The inconsistency in Daddy’s rules was a constant source of fascination and exploitation for him.
"The worms are also alive," Dominic countered, but the edge of the scolding was dulling, replaced by the familiar fatigue of this particular debate. "And they are dirty. Both reasons are good reasons. Birds in a nest are alive, and they are not food. They are… babies."
"So was I, once.You said so." Angel smiled, a sweet, disarming smile. He stepped closer, his small hands coming up to rest on Dominic’s chest, seeking connection, seeking to diffuse the tension with affection. He could smell the shift in Dominic’s scent, the sharp pepper of irritation softening back into the worn leather and cedar of his usual calm. "I’m not a baby bird. You didn’t eat me."
Dominic’s large hand came up and covered both of Angel’s, engulfing them. He looked down at this beautiful, impossible creature he called his own. A cannibal.A murderer. A child who pouted over soap in his eyes and genuinely believed birds volunteered for consumption through song.
"No, piccolino. I didn’t eat you. I claimed you." His thumb stroked over the claiming bite on Angel’s neck, a familiar, soothing gesture. "And part of claiming you means teaching you. No live birds.Understood?"
Angel leaned into the touch, his pout fading. "Understood." He was quiet for a moment, nuzzling against Dominic’s hand. "Did you want one? I could have saved you a leg. It was kinda spicy. In a tickly way."
Dominic let out a sound that was half groan, half laugh. He pulled Angel into his chest, wrapping his arms around him, tucking the boy’s head under his chin. He held him there, in the shade, feeling the slender frame against his own. He looked over Angel’s tousled head toward the yard.
The men had mostly looked away, resuming their routines, but the atmosphere had changed. A new layer had been added to the legend of the Reaper’s boy. It wasn’t revulsion; it was a deeper, more settled acknowledgement. He was one of them, yet entirely apart. The most dangerous monster in the yard was the one who ate living things with the serene joy of a kid with candy, and was then scolded for it like a toddler who’d drawn on the walls.
Rafael approached, silent as ever. He stopped a few feet away, waiting.
Dominic gave Angel one last squeeze and set him back. "Go sit with Uncle Silas. No more climbing. No more… tasting.Sit."
"Okay, Daddy." Angel skipped off, as if the whole incident was a minor disagreement over television channels. He went straight to Crusher, who wordlessly shifted on the bench to make more room. Angel curled up next to his massive form, a delicate sapling beside an oak.
Dominic turned to Rafael. "Any problems?"
Rafael’s dark eyes flicked toward the tree, then back to Dominic."No problems. Just education for the populace." His lips quirked, the faintest ghost of humor. "Wexler’s by the south wall. He caught the show. He thinks we should discuss expanding the ‘no eating’ list to include vertebrates with developing flight feathers. For clarity."
Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. "He’s probably right."
"He usually is." Rafael’s gaze followed Angel, who was now chatting animatedly to a stone-faced Crusher, no doubt describing the symphony of flavors in a sparrow chick. "The guards didn’t see. They were watching a scuffle by the gate. It’s handled."
"Good." Dominic started walking back toward his bench, Rafael falling into step beside him. "He’s going to have a stomach ache.Or not. His digestion is… resilient."
As they walked, they passed Fletcher, who was finally taking a drag of his cigarette. He exhaled a plume of smoke and shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. "Kid’s got a real avant-garde palate, Dom. You raising a gourmand or a gannet?"
"Don’t encourage him," Dominic muttered, but there was no real heat.
"He doesn’t need encouragement," Martinez chimed in. "He’s a natural. Born with a silver spoon… and a feather stuck in his teeth."
The group chuckled, the tension dissipating into the familiar, dark humor that greased the wheels of their existence. Angel’s atrocity was now just another story, another piece of the tapestry.
Doc Wexler met them at the bench. He had his arms crossed, his pragmatic doctor’s face unreadable. "He’s going to need deworming medication.Again. And we should monitor for parasites birds carry. Salmonellosis is a possibility."
Dominic sat heavily. "Add it to the list, Doc."
Wexler sat beside him, his voice dropping. "Psychologically…"
"There is no ‘psychologically’ with him, not in the way you mean," Dominic said softly, watching Angel laugh at something Crusher hadn’t said. "He’s not being cruel. He’s not deriving power from it. He’s… curious. About texture. About life. About where the song goes when you swallow it."
Wexler was silent for a moment. "That might be more unsettling than the alternative."
"Yes," Dominic agreed. "It is."
Angel, sensing his daddy’s gaze, looked over and waved, a bright, sunny smile on his face. He blew a kiss. Dominic’s stern expression softened, against all odds and reason. He gave a single, slow nod of acknowledgement.
The afternoon wore on. The sun began its long slide toward the western wall. Angel, true to his word, sat quietly, eventually dozing off against Crusher’s arm, his head a warm weight. The yard’s rhythm returned to its usual hum of quiet menace and fleeting camaraderie.
Later, in the cell before lock-down, Angel was brushing his hair, humming a tuneless song. Dominic was inspecting his small hands for any new scratches.
"Did the bird sing in your tummy, Daddy?" Angel asked suddenly, putting the brush down. "After you ate it?"
"I didn’t eat it, Angel. You did."
"Right. Did it sing in my tummy?"
Dominic turned his hand over, tracing the lines on his palm. "No, baby. The singing stops."
Angel considered this, his face thoughtful."Oh." He sounded genuinely disappointed. "That’s sad. I wanted a singing tummy." He perked up. "Maybe next time I’ll eat two at once.For harmony."
Dominic caught his wrist, gently but firmly. "There will be no next time. The rule is made. No live birds. No birds from nests. This isn’t a discussion."
Angel’s eyes widened at the finality in his tone. He recognized the edge that meant the line was drawn in stone. He nodded, his rebellious streak cowed by the Alpha’s will. "Okay, Daddy. No more birds." He paused. "What about mice?"
Dominic just looked at him.
"Frogs?"
"Angel."
"Just asking for the list!" he said, defensive and sweet. He climbed into his bunk, wriggling under the thin blanket. "Goodnight, Daddy. I love you."
Dominic stood by the bunk, looking down at him in the dim light. The gentle face, the innocent eyes. The belly that had, hours ago, contained a living, chirping creature he’d consumed with the casual delight of a connoisseur.
He leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, my strange little heart. I love you too."
As he turned to his own bunk, the weight of the day settled on him. He was the guardian of a beautiful, monstrous mystery. And he knew, with a certainty as deep as his bones, that tomorrow would bring a new question, a new fascination, another item to add—or strenuously debate—on the ever-growing list of things his son should not put in his mouth. The work of a father, in this place, was never done. It was just stranger.