[He still had nightmares about the party – horrible dreams where he was a limp wet rag of a man, slumped over a bar and throttled at the mercy of a horrible monster. His wings were ragged and useless
, curled tight against his back and occasionally fluttering as if they longed to envelop him, a shield from all evils.
Dallas still had the scars. There was a faint white line that ran vertically down the center of his cheek, and it had a twin across his throat. He was mottled black and blue with bruises that slowly, steadily faded to ugly shades of green and yellow over the course of a couple weeks.
Of course, worst of all were his wings. When Dallas dared to tug his shirt over his head and take a glimpse of his back in a mirror, he was horrified by the scars that ran the length of his spine. There the feathery appendages had been attached, and there they had been torn free as the Ripper used his body and slit his throat.
Dallas was broken. Hideous. He felt sick.
A few weeks after the ordeal, he mustered the courage to dial a single number.Ring, ring