Poised in Either Eye

By B. Pigeon and Fell A. Marsh

Five years have passed since Mateo chose to live among humans, and he had not yet encountered another dragon in his city-until now.

Mateo is content with his choice to leave the austere, artless world of dragons for Earth's subcultures-but he's running out of money, and worried that the presence of a clueless newcomer, Zephyr,

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. Pigeon
• Release date: Jan 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087990392

B. Pigeon

B Pigeon is a queer, trans author of LGBTQ+ contemporary fantasy. You can learn more about them at homoliterature.org.

Book preview

Thank you to all of our patrons for your continued support, and to Caleb, for beta reading.

PROLOGUE

IT SHOULD NOT have come as such a surprise when the portal at the opposite end of the dimensional sea dropped him into, of all things, the ocean. But it took him unawares, anyway, and so his first act in his new body—disoriented, his form freshly reshaped and spat out of an abyss of inter-planar magic—was to try not to drown.

For several agonizing seconds, he writhed in the slow, crushing coolness as it pushed and pulled at him, until he remembered that water was his native element and swirled upright, a spasm of near-involuntary magic sweeping him toward the shore. When he stumbled, coughing, out of the waves, his limbs folded beneath him and sent him falling onto hot sand, his synapses lagging as his brain rewired itself atop an alien nervous system.

Control trickled back to him, and eventually, Zephyr sat up, wiping his stinging eyes.

He only had to blink in his surroundings for an instant before he understood that his life had just changed irrevocably—and infinitely for the better.

A solitary yellow sun shone out of a cloudless blue sky onto a beach absolutely swarming with humans. The sheer amount of motion, color, sound, and smell that struck his senses with full force overwhelmed him so thoroughly he thought he might keel over—and his determination to remain fixed, single-minded, on his goal vanished.

Then the moment passed, and Zephyr felt himself come alive in a way he never had before.

Much of what happened next was a blur.

He dashed across the sand, around reclining or frolicking humans—taking in their ornamentation and how different they all looked from each other—almost tripping several times as he tried to take everything in, his eyes darting in every direction. Then Zephyr’s feet were on something flat and burning, and a crowd of humans swallowed him up, sweeping him into another world entirely.

Bright, flashing lights twinkled all around, human structures and odd metal sculptures rising toward the sky, painted with vivid shapes and designs. Humans flew and spun through the air above him, their laughter and choruses of delighted screams floating over dings and smacks and ratcheting chains. And before he knew it, Zephyr was with them, crammed into a sparkling metal cart that sent vibrations rumbling through his body before it took off, whipping him around, his human mouth used for the first time to shriek, giddy, alongside all these other creatures, their bodies soft and warm as they pressed into his.

Afterwards, streaming between lanes of stalls, he snatched funnel cakes and baskets of fries off tables and quick serve counters, the crowds and the apparent stupidity of the humans allowing him to go unnoticed without using a single drop of magic. Zephyr promptly designated the place he found himself—an amusement park, he read on several different signs, unsure of how to say the words but finding his human brain able to parse them—his favorite place in existence.

Some shining stretch of time wound past. He ate; he ran; he shouted; but more than anything, he watched and listened. And as Zephyr settled more fully into his body, his new reality, this strange realm of humans, he realized two things:

First, he could return to this place, to this dimension, to Earth. Second, he undoubtedly had much more left to discover here.

He had no time to waste.

Etching the name of the park in his mind, Zephyr dug his toes into the pavement and took off, under the arched entrance and out onto the boardwalk, turning his back on the portal and disappearing, swallowed up by the tangled sprawl of a human city.

PART 1: DISSONANCE

THERE WAS A certain comforting familiarity to the vintage store down the street from Mateo’s apartment, the origin of which he could not identify at first.

Only after he began stopping by on a regular basis—including the visits in his weekly routine of checking the record shops in his neighborhood—did he realize why: despite being small and cramped, the space was overcrowded with things. It was nothing but an accumulation of random objects, many of them useless, and this was a human impulse he could truly understand.

They really didn’t offer the best selection of music, but he found that it was worth the visit as often as not; nearly every other time he stopped in, he could expect to find something rare and interesting, and typically underpriced.

Most of their business, he assumed, was not in selling records, but clothes. The floor was covered in narrow rows of used garments, all hung from wooden hangers on sturdy metal racks, none of them appealing to the aesthetic sensibility he’d sharpened in the past five years; everything was too colorful at its best, too gaudy at its worst, while Mateo dressed only in understated black.

The store offered long dresses in bright geometrics or muted florals, multicolored sweaters in a similar array of patterns, denim in every imaginable wash of blue, jackets of leather and corduroy and manmade crinkly waterproof material. On the shelves above were a disorganized collection of handbags, hats, pairs of shining heeled boots and simple flats.

There were other products for sale, of course: a glass-doored wooden cabinet near the register held displays of costume jewelry and piles of ancient, leather-bound books; the far corner, opposite the one in which the albums were stored, consisted of a jumble of furniture, a line of bookshelves pressed to the walls surrounded by stacks of mismatched chairs and wooden end tables.

None of this drew his interest except for the records, though. He always walked straight to the back of the store to paw through their selection, contained in two milk crates atop a short, dusty bookshelf that held CDs, cassette tapes, and paperbacks.

The options were not promising today, he thought, as he skimmed past corny 80s pop, sterile white R&B, soundtracks to old musicals, religious propaganda.

Unlike the clothes for sale, there seemed to be no curation of the offerings here, and consequently most of it was garbage, worthless even to him. Elevator music-style smooth jazz. Implicitly conservative country albums, adorned with American flags on the cover and everything. Then, promisingly, an album—which he happened to already own—of some one-hit wonder new wave duo.

As he approached the end of the second box, he stumbled on something of surprising value, if only to him: an EP from a local hardcore punk band that broke up the year of their foundation, after producing perhaps ten minute-and-a-half long songs. This was rare, obscure, the kind of shit that nobody in the world cared about owning except for Mateo, and possibly some of the older guys who showed up to local shows just to corner strangers about how great the scene used to be when they were young.

He was skimming the tracklist when, suddenly, he sensed a presence that made his breath catch in his chest, and hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder to find its source.

Even if the boy wasn’t so easily identifiable—if he hadn’t drawn Mateo’s attention the way he had—it was impossible to avoid noticing him, since he appeared to be attempting to fit the maximum possible amount of color on his small frame.

His hair was orange, although it was at least, mercifully, a strawberry blond rather than the bright, clashing hues of his clothing. An oversized rainbow tie-dye t-shirt tucked into pale blue cutoffs, the translucent plastic fanny pack around his hips decorated with cartoon keychains and multicolored pins, neon turquoise socks peeking out from dirty white tennis shoes—dressed like a human child, though he must have been Mateo’s age, if not older. In his arms were a few stuffed animals, their price tags still attached, emphasizing how very childish he looked.

And despite all of these distractions, Mateo knew at once what he was looking at—and the boy apparently recognized the same, his mouth falling open in surprise.

He clutched his plush toys tight to his chest, and turned away from the sunglasses display he had been admiring to take in Mateo with his brown eyes wide, sweeping from his head to his feet, looking surprised and perhaps excited to find another one like him in such a strange place—

Mateo didn’t think twice before he darted around the bookshelf and towards the door, navigating around plastic totes of silk scarves and handkerchiefs, past the unsorted bucket of discounted old t-shirts, past the round tables covered in leather belts and various pieces of jewelry.

He didn’t think about the EP in his hands or how strange it might look to the employees to see him hurrying so abruptly out of the store with a comically small amount of stolen merchandise, or about what the boy’s actual intentions were; his only focus was to put more space in between the two of them as fast as possible.

And as he pushed the door open, he finally realized that he had shoplifted without meaning to, and resolved to return another day to drop off the $3 and apologize profusely—but that would have to wait, because he was running as soon as his feet hit the sidewalk. Maybe it was unnecessary to do so, but he was caught off-guard, and he was going to have to cross town to tell her what he’d seen, anyway, so he ran.

The boy certainly could have caught up with him, if he tried, but he didn’t. Mateo ran for most of a mile and then got on a conveniently passing bus, tapping his card and collapsing into a seat near the front, trembling and breathing in short, ragged gasps, both from the run and the anxiety-inducing sight of another one like him, out in public, looking like he was trying to draw attention to himself...

He sat, attempting to regulate his breath while thinking in circles about what he’d just discovered, and hopped off the bus twenty minutes later, right across the street from his destination: a small, pale blue, unassuming storefront, the only identifying feature a neon sign in the window labeled Psychic.

- - -

Jasia was giving a reading when he arrived.

These generally happened in the semi-private corner of the shop marked off with a beaded curtain—but some of her customers asked to have their fortunes read right there in the front, at the round wrought iron table next to the window, so that people walking by could bear witness. This was a desire Mateo could never understand, but the people who chose to hear their supposed futures so publicly always overacted their responses, so he assumed they were just dying for the attention.

When he walked in, the woman receiving the reading even had actual tears forming at the corners of her wide, unblinking eyes, and Jasia was playing along, too—her hands trembling on the tarot cards as she interpreted their meanings in a hoarse, distant whisper.

This was all exasperating to Mateo, who paced impatient circles around the store, walking past the so-called magic supplies she sold—tumbled rocks, tea, incense, and other such useless things, all wildly overpriced—without paying much attention to any of it.

His presence distracted Jasia; he could tell without looking that her eyes were slipping over to watch him instead of meeting her customer’s, and she was beginning to stutter a little, stumbling over her words, speaking faster, as if trying to get it over with. Mateo, restless, set his shoplifted record down on one of her display tables and pushed his hands into a big glass bowl of amethyst to feel the smooth, cool texture of the tumbled gems on his skin.

Amethyst, the attached sign read, is a powerful, spiritual stone with a variety of magical uses! Its energies help to cultivate a calm and tranquil environment, and it is renowned for its healing and cleansing properties.

Mateo closed his eyes, shoving his hands to the bottom of the bowl, the curved glass cold against his palms, the weight of the rocks pressing down against him. This, he knew, was notably weird behavior, the type that drew unwanted attention—but if Jasia was going to make him wait like this, he needed to express his impatience somehow.

With a vindictive sort of relief, he heard her hastily begin to wrap up her reading, giving a brief explanation about eight of swords, reversed, and then moving on to a broader summary of what she had interpreted. That ethereal quality to her voice had vanished, and she was speaking at full volume, fast and nervous. If her client picked up on the change in demeanor, though, she gave no indication, and thanked Jasia profusely for her insight before leaving.

Mateo, his eyes still closed with his fingers wiggling under the amethyst, heard Jasia approach with soft, quick footsteps.

I’m giving you a name tag, she hissed, scooping up the rocks he’d spilled to drop back in the bowl. Next time, you can hang out in the office when you need something instead of distracting me and my clients.

He opened his eyes to look exasperatedly down at her. As usual, she was wearing her fake-psychic best: a sheer black dress embroidered with tiny silver stars, the translucent sleeves puffy and cinched around her narrow wrists, and a wide-brimmed black hat, her blonde braid displayed over one shoulder. The artifice of it all, the way she dressed like a cartoon witch when she was working, was funny when he wasn’t irritated with her.

"How often do I need something from you?" he asked.

Well, you do right now, apparently. What happened?

Mateo withdrew his hands from the bowl of amethyst, spilling a few over the sides as he did, and took a deep breath. "Jasia, I just saw something very strange at the vintage store."

Elaborate, she said flatly.

There was someone... He trailed off, glancing over his shoulder at the door and narrowing his eyes at the people walking by, and then scanned the room to ensure they were truly alone.

Mateo, for fuck’s sake, can you please spit it out? Nobody is here except for us—and you know I’ve warded this place up and down!

A dragon.

You found a dragon? she asked incredulously. At the vintage store?

In human form, obviously! And he looked brand fucking new, too, he said, growing louder and more indignant as he spoke. He was dressed like an eight-year-old and carrying stuffed animals around, but I swear he must be at least my age.

For a moment, she was struck silent, and just stood there, staring at him. You don’t think he followed you here, do you?

He glanced out the window again, slightly paranoid, but steadied himself with a long, deep breath before answering.

No, he said, slower and more thoughtful, "I don’t think so. I didn’t sense him behind me on the way, and he didn’t follow me on the bus… and besides that, he seemed surprised to see me, too, so I think we honestly just ran into each other. There are only so many places where they can end up, you know—but the portal stretches out, I’ve heard, from Tijuana to LA. How did he end up here?"

Jasia shook her head in disbelief. Maybe he’s looking for you, she said, eyebrows knitting with concern. Would any other dragons have a reason to try and find you here?

Definitely not, but I’m more worried about being found by humans, he said, his voice grim. He’s not inconspicuous, and if anyone discovers a dragon in town…

"You’re inconspicuous, though, she said, her face and tone both softening, calming. I don’t think you have anything to worry about yet—and nobody’s told me anything about any dragons around here, so it seems like he hasn’t been discovered. But I’ll keep an eye out, okay?"

Could you find him? he asked, giving her what he hoped was a genuine, pleading look. Talk to him? Tell him not to be so obvious?

I will try to dowse for him when I have the time, she said, frowning at him, "but, as you know, dragons are more difficult to track than humans; it took weeks of consistent work to find you, if you recall. I imagine you’re much more attuned to his energy than I am. Have you considered talking to him?"

Just thinking about encountering the boy again filled Mateo with a mingled dread and exasperation. No, he said tersely, I haven’t.

She sighed, checking her watch. "Well, I’m happy to try as soon as I can, and I’ll stay in touch.