Yarrow (24 page)

In the lifespan of the universe he was shown to be less than a mote, his life as pointless and inconsequential to the overall order of things as some one-celled microscopic organism's life was to his. The truth settled in him and he fled screaming deep inside himself, desperate to escape it.

But wait,
a voice called softly in his head, drawing him back to view other possibilities.
It doesn't have to be like that.

New imagery cascaded through his wounded soul. He saw life unending, saw himself wielding power over others until he was godlike in his stature. He learned how the life essence of his fellow men could feed his own immortal soul. He saw himself savagely coupling with overpowered partners, debasing them as he took and took, giving nothing in return, leaving them as less than nothing, while he grew stronger still.

Imagine the pleasure,
the voice whispered to him,
of loosing your seed into a victim as you feed on their soul.

Lysistratus knew Rick, knew just what was needed to play the man like a marionette.

The apocalypse inside Rick lay forgotten. Aging and his own inevitable death faded until all he could see was the proffered power. Greedy, Rick reached for it, understanding that it lay dormant in each and every human soul. It was a dark core of self, fueled by the primal instinct of self-preservation above all other considerations. An evil that needed only a key to be unleashed inside him. A key that he was now offered.

But remember,
the cold voice inside him warned.
What I have given, I can take back.
Then slowly the presence withdrew from his mind.

Rick staggered, staring wildly about as his eyes came back into focus. The dark knowledge, the power seeded in him, muttered sibilantly in the back of his mind. He stepped up to Stella, lifting trembling hands to cup her face. The power reared inside him. A pulse fed through his hands like liquid fire as her energies filled him, roiling inside him, lifting him to a crescendo that he could no longer bear.

He dropped his hands and stared stupidly at them while the stolen strength rushed through him— ambrosial, a sweetness that made him want to weep with the pleasure of its taste inside him. He regarded Lysistratus with tears blurring his gaze.

"Jesus fuck," he mumbled. "It… I…"

Lysistratus smiled. He had felt that same blind euphoria when he had come into his own power. His mentor had been Agis, a scholar of Delos whom he met in the agora of the Delians in the same year that the island broke free of neighboring Naxos— Agis, who would still be alive today if he hadn't had a falling out with an actor in Athenae and been stupid enough to drink wine laced with hemlock when it was offered to him.

The actor had thought himself a good friend of Lysistratus's before he died.

The parasite had rarely shared his gift with anyone else in the ensuing years. He knew too well how easily it could backfire on him. But sometimes it was necessary— though in each such case, the favors had been taken back once their recipients had served their purpose. Lysistratus had learned the lesson that Agis never had.

"What… what do I have to do to… to keep this?" Rick asked.

Lysistratus laughed. "Nothing you won't enjoy."

More images filled Rick's mind— faces, thought patterns. Coupled with them was the information he would need to track them down. A feral light glittered in Rick's eyes as he turned to leave. He paused at the door as Lysistratus called after him.

"You can do what you want with the others," the parasite said, "but the woman's mine."

Rick grinned. "Sounds like a good deal to me."

"Oh, it is," Lysistratus said as the door closed. He turned his attention to the two women— Debbie lying slack on the couch, Stella weaving where she stood, eyes blind though they were open and staring. "It's a real bargain."

Tiddy Mun crept out from under the refuse he'd been hiding in all day, changing from cat shape to gnome then back again. His every nerve was stretched taut as a bowstring. The night had come, and it was time for him to begin his search. But now that the moment was at hand, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

The shadows surrounding him were dark— more so because of the pools of too-bright light just beyond them. Anything could be lying in wait for him. There was too much noise beyond the alleyway, too many iron dragons, too many shadows. Too much of everything and not enough of him. He was only one very small and frightened gnome.

At length the alleyway itself became oppressive, and he ventured out beyond its mouth, onto the street. He cast back and forth, trying to find the one mind among the many that he was looking for. He pictured the banded hair, the knife blade, the courage…. When he found it at last, he hurried off, hugging the walls of the buildings. He threw many a backward glance over his shoulder, his little heart pounding hard in his chest through the whole nightmare journey.

The ending went as perfectly as either Cat or Ben could have hoped it would.

They had a leisurely dinner at Tramps— one of the many trendy restaurants that were slowly taking over the Old Market area. Both of them enjoyed the decor— which consisted mainly of floor-to-ceiling bookcases loaded with old, leather-bound volumes— and their roast beef. From there they drove to the Westgate Shopping Mall and waited in line with a hundred other people to see Spielberg's
E.T.
They laughed and cried in all the same places and came out holding hands, feeling the warmth of a shared experience and a new closeness.

On the way home to Cat's house the conversation turned to her dreams, and she found herself talking more freely to Ben about them than she could have to anyone a week ago. Maybe she was just getting used to it, she thought, seeing how often she'd talked it through in the past few days.

"I had a lovely time, Ben," she said when Ben pulled the cab up in front of her house. "I'd like to do it again."

"Me too. Are you going to be okay? Are you sure you don't want someone to stay with you?"

Cat nodded. "After the beating he took from your friend Mick, I don't think he'll be coming around for a long time."

Without talking about it, they seemed to have both come to the same decision to take things slowly. Cat put her hand on the door handle, then paused to look back at Ben.

"Are you free tomorrow night?" she asked. "I thought maybe we could have dinner at my place, if you'd like."

"I'd like that a lot."

Cat hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and kissed Ben's cheek. Before he could react, she whispered a quick good night and was out of the car. Ben sat for a moment, watching her go up the walk to her front porch. A silly grin spread over his face as he pulled away from the curb.

Cat turned at the door, not stepping inside until his tail-lights winked out of sight. As she closed the door, she was welcomed by Ginger and Pad, weaving in and out between her legs and crying for their elevenses snack. After feeding them she puttered about the kitchen awhile, then finally went upstairs to her study, where she sat down to reread the twelve pages she'd written that afternoon.

Twelve pages! And they were still good, all these hours later.

She smiled as she laid them aside. Putting out the light, she started to get ready for bed, but a creepy feeling stole over her. She felt as though there were eyes on her. The feeling got so bad that she didn't want to even undress for bed.

This is stupid, she told herself. But the feeling wouldn't go away. She should have asked Ben in, she realized. But it was too late for that now. She padded into her study and peered out the window at the street. Surely he couldn't be back— could he? Mick had really hurt him.

Yes, a small voice said inside her. But if he's really the creature you think he is, would that stop him?

She couldn't see anybody out on the street, but the feeling persisted until she had to go downstairs into the kitchen. The cats were already flaked out for the night on the couch in the living room. Great company. She paced back and forth, peered out the kitchen windows, then out the front. Every creak and noise of the old house made her start. Finally she gave in.

She went to the phone, thought of calling Ben. She dialed Peter's number instead. When he came on the line she had a moment of complete paralysis— this was so dumb— but then she managed to speak.

"Is your… is your couch free tonight?" she asked.

Peter's voice immediately sounded worried. "What's the matter, Cat? Is he—"

"No. It's just nerves— I hope. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. C'mon over."

By the time she was sitting in Peter's living room, she felt more foolish than ever, but it was better than going bonkers in her own house, she told herself firmly.

"How was your evening?" Peter asked.

For a moment Cat didn't say anything. She took a breath, let it out, then leaned back on the couch.

"It was good," she said finally. "Really good. Ben's… well, he's a little old-fashioned, but then so am I. We had a really good time."

"How come you didn't call him? Not that I mind, but…"

Cat sighed. "It just all seems so stupid. I mean, there couldn't have been anybody there, but I just got the creeps. I thought of calling Ben, but I didn't want to come across as a complete flake. Not if we're going to… not if anything's going to come of this."

"You really like him?"

She nodded.

"That makes me feel good," Peter said. "You're both good folks. I'm glad you hit it off."

"You mean old Mr. Matchmaker likes to see a job well done."

"Now you sound like Ben."

Cat laughed. "He's got a name for everybody. You know what he calls you?"

"Peter Baird, the Bookstore Laird."

"I wonder what he'll come up with for me."

"Cat the Brat," Peter said.

Cat laughed harder, and Peter joined in. When they caught their breath, he looked at her for a long moment.

"Things are going better now, aren't they?" he asked.

Cat nodded. "I've started writing again— twelve pages today. And except for a bad case of nerves tonight, I guess things are looking up."

They talked some more, neither of them bringing up the man that Mick and Ben had chased off last night, then Peter finally stood up and called it a night.

After he'd gone into the bedroom, Cat changed her clothes for an old flannel shirt that she liked to sleep in, and got into her makeshift bed on the couch. She lay awake for a while, thinking of Ben, then wondered if she'd dream tonight, and if she did, whether she'd find herself back at Redcap Hill or in the part of Mynfel's wood where she'd left Toby. She drifted off, still wondering.

Mick stretched out full-length on his bed, leaning his head against the headboard with a pillow propped under him. Christ, he was beat. And his head. He had a headache that just wouldn't quit. One of Honey Bane's early punk singles, "Boring Conversations," was playing at low volume on the stereo.

"Want me to turn that off?" Becki asked as she came into the room.

Mick shook his head, grimacing as the movement set up a new wave of pain.

"You look like shit, you know that?"

"I feel like shit," he replied.

Becki came to sit on the side of the bed. She pulled a bent joint out of the back pocket of her jeans, straightened it, and regarded it critically. When she was satisfied that it had survived her pocket, she offered it to Mick.

"Want some?"

Mick thought about it for a moment. It was either going to help his headache or make it worse. "Fuck it," he said, and reached for the joint.

Becki gave him a light and they passed the joint back and forth until the roach was too small to handle.

"Well?" Becki asked.

"Got any more?"

Becki produced two more from the same pocket and Mick grinned. Already he felt better.

Ben was still beaming by the time he got home. He was too wound up to go to bed right away, so he spent a couple of hours poring over various books he'd picked up at the library that afternoon. They dealt with vampiric lore— both fictionalized accounts and supposed fact— but he didn't come up with anything that related to his own experiences with the Dude, didn't come up with anything even vaguely useful.

By then he was tired enough to hit the sack, and he fell asleep thinking of Cat and the evening he'd just spent with her. And dinner tomorrow night…

It was close to two in the morning when he woke up, not really sure if he was still asleep and dreaming, or if he had indeed woken up. There was a steady rhythmic pressure on his pillow, like a cat kneading it with its forepaws, except—

I don't have a cat, Ben thought.

He turned with a sudden movement. An icy chill started up his spine. There was nothing there. He put out a hand and gingerly touched the pillow. It lay there unmoving and very pillowlike. He stared at it for long moments. Slowly the prickle of fear subsided and he breathed easier.

A dream. Not as weird as the one the other night, but still just a dream. Thinking too much of a different kind of Cat.

He was about to lie down once more when a soft golden glow rose up from the pillow. It swirled into a ball-like shape, hung suspended before his stunned gaze for a few shocked moments, then shot down the hallway into his living room. A cold sweat broke out on him as he watched it go.

Ghosts of the evening's reading preyed on his nerves. What he'd just seen had nothing to do with what he'd been reading, but it belonged to the same realm— that of the impossible. It was one thing to suppose that these sorts of things might be real. Quite another to experience them.

Then he heard a sound from the living room. A scratching noise, as though something was worrying at his window screen. He stared down the hallway, every night fear he'd ever had choosing that moment to return to him. It wasn't a loud sound. More a spectral whisper. As though something was trying to get in.

He waited for it to stop, praying to a God he'd abandoned in public school. The Dude's features rose in his mind's eye. Last night's helplessness returned in a rush. He was out there. The monster was real, and he was out there. Trying to get in. And neither a locked door nor his screened windows were going to keep something like him out for long.