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Is it like this
In ****'s other Kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

T.S. Eliot - the hollow men.

. . . But not just for him. He knew he was serving as an entree to the feast they hoped to dine on soon.

Ducking into a doorway, his fingers fumbling from the cold, he struggled to reach into his pocket and retrieve a smoke. People had said they'll kill him eventually, but he didn't particularly care. Maybe they would, but they'd have to get in line. The back of a very long line.

Cupping a hand stiff with cold around the tip, he lit it up, savouring the feeling as the sweet smoke hit his lungs. The smell of the smoke drifted up through the bitter night air as he breathed out , but the curtain of rain stopped it escaping far enough to be seen from the street. The flare of heat from the tip as he took another deep drag was an entirely different matter though. Against this cold it was like a beacon announcing his location. Which was perfect.

'Rule Two kids. If something is hotter than you, it gets discovered first.'

Emptying the contents of the tobacco tin safely into his inside pocket to keep it dry, he took another deep drag. It felt like a loosing battle trying to keep it alive in this, but he was nothing if not determined. After carefully placing a small clump of the dry brown tobacco inside the box with the lit cigarette, he placed the lid back on the tin. Reaching up high into the alcove where he huddled, he wedged the package tightly upside down into a crack in the wall.

The tobacco in the box flared, heating the metal in the tin as the ember brought it to life. Tada. It didn't exactly have the showmanship of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but as a decoy it wasn't half bad.

It was one of many tricks he'd perfected in the past few months, but it was the one that worked the best. The simple ones were always the easiest to pull off, especially when you're under pressure. His now infamous 'turn someone's head inside out trick' was a real crowd pleaser. That one was perfect for children's parties.

Dawn wasn't far away, fingers of sunlight were slowly pulling their way over the horizon. The notion of sitting and waiting it out crossed his thoughts, but somehow he doubted his luck would stretch far enough for that. So, wait or run. Or possibly hitch a ride on a passing unicorn to safety. The unicorn was probably the more likely of the choices at this point in time. The makeshift decoy wouldn't burn for long, and time was something that was in short abundance tonight.

Pulling his jacket tight around his torso, he cocooned himself with it against the bitter night air. He had to make for the home stretch, it was the only viable option. It wasn't that far on flat ground, but trips rarely went in a straight line these days. Being on his home turf put the odds slightly in his favour, but maybe not enough to make the difference that was needed. This was their playground now, not his, and he hated to not have the advantage. Boots to the floor, head to the ground, he ran from the doorway into the night.

His run took him about as far as you can piss against the wind before they caught him. He'd been flanked. They must have set him up and circled around. The knowledge all but stole any fight he may have held onto from him. Stupid, stupid him. Smart them. They were learning. Shit, it's no fun when the audience figures out your magic act.

Rule Three coming up. If you let the audience close enough to see how a trick works, don't expect their applause.

Expect disappointment, lots of booing, and enough refunds to put you out of business. Or in the case of a freeloading angry crowd like this one, more pain than your first relationship.

The first blow came so fast his eyes didn't even get chance to register it. He damn well felt it though. The **** of the impact took him clean off his feet and flying into a wall behind. Bricks, or what he hoped were bricks, buckled under his back as he slid down to the floor, the sound of them rising up to join the chorus of teeth as they snapped together in his jaw, along with what felt like a couple of ribs crack for percussion. Oh, look. Stars in the sky. No, no, just me seeing them.

Dark hands, so cold that he could feel the bitterness of them cut through his clothes like a dagger, held him tight as he was yanked roughly to his feet. Trying futilely to stand did him no good, a flurry of blows and kicks rained down from above, leaving him soaking pitifully on his knees on the ground.

He could see blood, and guessed it was his as he hadn't got a single hit in, churn with rain water on the floor and seep away out of sight. His right arm hung limply down by his side, possibly broken, but definitely dislocated. 'Bastards, that was my um . . . punching hand.'

The jacket he'd been wearing was gone, lost back in the struggle somewhere, but at least the cold had seeped into his bones deep enough to numb some of the pain that should have been there.

Tasting coppery sweet blood as it painted a tang across his tongue, flowing from a split top lip and across his gums, he spat onto the floor. One eye was rapidly starting to swell, approaching the point of closing completely, leaving everything to his left in a crimson tainted haze. If something came at him from that side, he would have **** apart from just having to roll with it. You can't dodge what you can't see after all.

Hands rose up to grab his shoulders from either side in grips like iron, keeping his battered body from rising any further, not that he would have been capable of doing so even if he'd wanted to. Two hands snaked over his face, cupping his head from the front, and the pressure of thumbs on his cheekbones settled in.

Twin eyes, glowing deeply with the colour of embers left to die in the hearth, peered down into his, and he could feel those long, sinewy hands snake up over his face until they held it securely in a vice like grip.

Snap.