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I am a junkie, he realized.

Except he didn’t have enough left in him to care. Death was everywhere around him, the stench of sorrow and failure polluting the air he breathed. He needed off the crazy train for a little while, even if it meant getting on another kind of sick ride.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Butch and V didn’t last long at the club, and they were all home a little after midnight. As they walked into the vestibule Phury was cracking his knuckles, a flush breaking out under his clothes. He couldn’t wait to be alone.

“You wanna eat?” Vishous said, yawning.

“Damn straight,” Butch said. Then he glanced over as V walked off for the kitchen. “Phury, you with us for some chow?”

“Nah, I’ll see you later.” As he hit the stairs he could feel the male’s eyes on him.

“Yo, Phury,” Butch called out.

Phury cursed and looked over his shoulder. A little of his manic drive bled out as the cop’s knowing eyes burned up at him.

Butch knew, he thought. Somehow the guy knew what he was up to.

“You sure you don’t want to eat with us,” the human said in a level voice.

Phury didn’t even have to think. Or maybe he refused to let himself. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Careful, my man. Some things are damn hard to undo.”

Phury thought of Z. Of himself. Of the shitty future he had little interest in slogging through.

“Don’t I know it,” he said, and took off.

When he got to his room he shut the door and dropped his leather coat on a chair. He took the packet out, grabbed some red smoke and a rolling paper, and doctored up a blunt. He didn’t even consider shooting up. It was just too close to addict status.

At least for this first time.

He licked the edge of the rolling paper, pressed the joint up tight, then went over to his bed and sat back against the pillows. He picked up his lighter, flicked it so the flame leaped to life, and leaned into the orange glow, the hand-rolled between his lips.

The knock on his door pissed him off. Fucking Butch.

He clicked off the lighter. “What?”

When there was no answer, he kept the dutchy with him and pounded across the room. He threw open the door.

John stumbled backward.

Phury took a deep breath. Then another. Chill. He had to chill.

“What’s doing, son?” he asked, stroking the blunt with his forefinger.

John brought up his pad, wrote a few lines, and turned the thing around. I’m sorry to bother you. I need someone to help me with my jujitsu positions, and you’re so good at them.

“Oh…yeah. Ah, not tonight, John. I’m sorry. I’m…busy.”

The kid nodded. After a pause, John waved good-bye. Turned away.

Phury shut the door, locked it, and went right back for the bed. He flicked the lighter on again, put the blunt between his lips—

Just as the flame hit the tip of the hand-rolled, he froze.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t…He started gasping. As his palms grew wet, sweat broke out above his upper lip and under his armpits and all down his chest.

What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was he doing?

Junkie…junkie motherfucker. Low-life junkie…motherfucker. To bring heroin into the king’s house? To be lighting the shit up in the Brotherhood’s compound? To be polluting himself because he was too weak to fucking deal?

Hell, no, he would not do this. He would not disgrace his brothers, his king, like this. Bad enough he was addicted to the red smoke. But H?

Shaking from head to toe, Phury ran for the bureau, picked up the packet, and bolted for the bathroom. He flushed the blunt and the heroin down and flushed again. And again.

Stumbling out of his room, he raced over the hallway’s runner.

John was halfway down the grand staircase when Phury burst around the corner and all but fell down the steps. He caught up to the boy and dragged him into his arms so hard, those fragile bones must have bent.

Dropping his head onto the kid’s shoulder, Phury shuddered. “Oh, God…thank you. Thank you, thank you…”

Little arms came around him. Little hands patted his back.

When Phury finally pulled away, he had