Yarrow

  Then, just before the final tide of darkness washed over him, he could see the face right above his own. Close, so close. The hands, strong but gentle as they gripped his head. And the eyes. Those soulless blue eyes boring into his soul…

  Lysistratus bent over his victim, his fingers gripping the man's head tightly. He had seen this one before. In the park by Tamson House. What were he and his friend doing here? Had they somehow discovered his secret? If they had thought to become hunters, they were fools. All they had accomplished was a quick journey down the Acheron, where Hades would take them into his keeping. But first he would devour their souls. First he would rip the—

  They came out of the night— two screaming furies. Before he could protect himself they were on him, spitting and clawing at his eyes. It wasn't until the pain reached his brain that he realized what they were. Cats. Cats attacking him?

  He let Ben's head drop as he rose to his full height, sweeping them from him. But like rabid beasts they swarmed up his legs, clawing through the cloth of his trousers, savaging the flesh underneath. He swept them from his body again, then was suddenly aware of what set them upon him.

  The impossibility of what he faced almost made him question his sanity. Before him stood a straying fragment of Cat's dreaming. It seemed she dreamed all too true.

  The small being's saucer eyes were instilled with such hatred that Lysistratus took a step back. The cats pressed at him again, and again he drove them away, this time with the glittering strength that burned in his gaze. The cats fled howling. When he turned his attention back to the little man, he smiled to see the diminutive figure trembling, but unable to move.

  Lysistratus stepped over Ben, blood dripping into an eye from where one of the cats had torn a long cut across his forehead. His gaze froze Tiddy Mun where he stood. But as his hands reached for the little man's throat, the night handed him one more rude surprise.

  His own small club hit him on the shoulder. Tiddy Mun drove for the shelter of the hedge as Lysistratus turned to face the new attack. His eyes blazed, but this enemy would not meet his gaze. Blood streaked his face as well.

  "You sonuvabitch!" Mick roared.

  He tossed aside the club and his switchblade appeared in his hand, the blade springing from its handle with a sudden snick. Lysistratus stepped back as the knife flashed toward him, but not quickly enough. Mick opened the parasite's cheek with his first slash, cut the forearm that was raised to ward the next blow with his second.

  Lysistratus retreated. He could taste death in the air and knew that it might well be his own life that would be forfeit if he didn't end this quickly. But before he could launch a counterattack, the other man was upon him again. Mick feinted— left, right— then stepped in close and drove his knife into the parasite's abdomen. Lysistratus lashed out furiously and succeeded in driving his opponent back. Then, rather than following up on this brief opening, he snatched the opportunity to escape.

  He hobbled down the street— not home, but where? Pulling the knife from his side, he heard it clatter to the pavement as he staunched the sudden flow of blood with the flat of his hand. If he survived this night, they would pay. Each and every one of them.

  He stole a backward glance and saw that Mick was swaying on his feet, attempting to follow, but too weak from the head blows he'd taken to go far. For a moment Lysistratus was tempted to return and deal with them now, but his own wounds— especially the one in his side— were too serious. In his present condition even a child could do him harm.

  Hand pressed against his side, head bowed, he stumbled on toward Riverdale.

  Mick was so beat he could hardly stand. He watched his opponent flee, clutching his side as he hobbled around the corner and out of sight. Mick knew he'd cut that sucker— cut him good. But that didn't do much to help the way he was feeling just now. His vision kept jumping from double to normal, and there was a hum in the back of his head. Gingerly he felt his scalp. The skin was broken and his fingers came back bloody. The guy'd got a couple of good whacks in. The cuts were probably going to need stitches.

  Retrieving his knife, he made his way back to where Ben was sitting up. Ben looked groggy. A light went on in Cat's house— upper left window. Others followed, blazing a trail down the stairs until the porchlight went on. A man appeared at the door, peering out. Bad move, Mick thought. He'd see better with that light behind him turned off.

  "Your name Peter?" Mick called to him.

  The head turned, eyes squinting. "Yeah." The voice that replied was wary.

  "Well, I got a friend of yours out here who could use a hand. Name's Ben Summerfield— ring any bells?"

  "Ben? But…"

  Peter came down the stairs in a rush, stopping dead when he took in Mick's bloodied head. Pain was hammering in his own temples. Trying to fight it back and take in this surreal scene was almost too much for him— the stranger with the Mohawk cut, supporting Ben, who looked like Peter felt. And all the blood…

  "Jesus! What happened?"

  "We had us a little run-in with a lunatic. Say, look. I'm not feeling so shit-hot myself, and I don't really feel like hanging around out here, waiting for the man to come cruising by. I don't have many answers to the questions he'd ask, you know what I mean?"

  "What? Oh, yeah. Sure."

  Peter helped Ben to his feet and the three of them made their way up the porch steps. Cat met them at the door, her face haggard with the strain of her own experience with Lysistratus.

  "Peter?" Her eyes widened when she saw who he was with and their condition. "My God. What's going on?"

  Stella didn't let up on the gas until she reached Bank Street, and then she drove with the window down to cool her off, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. At that moment she was almost beyond feeling hurt or being angry. Instead she felt like a fool. What made it so infuriating was that she felt like she'd just stepped into the middle of a country & western song, and she was the token innocent done wrong by her man.

  She turned right onto Riverdale after crossing Billings Bridge and tramped on the gas again. The car shot around the corner. Why she hadn't broken up with Rick the first time he pulled one of his—

  She almost missed seeing the man stumble off the sidewalk into the path of her car. She swerved to the left— thank God it was late and there was no other traffic— and shot a glance in her rearview mirror to see him tumble to the pavement. She stamped on the brake. If she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt she might have gone through the windshield. As it was, the belt dug sharply into her shoulder. Her head went forward, then whipped back. The car stalled.

  She sat stunned for a moment, then fumbled with the buckle of her seat belt. The man was just lying there. She could have sworn she hadn't hit him, but the way he'd fallen… She ran back, heart thumping, high heels clattering on the concrete. He lay facedown. She hesitated, remembering something about not moving someone who'd just been hit because of possible internal injuries.

  "Mister?" She swallowed, her voice a hoarse croak. "Hey, mister?"

  The way he lay there, so still… With shaking hands she took hold of his shoulder and turned him over. Her hand came away all bloody, and she barely stifled a scream.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. I've killed him.

  She looked wildly around, a hundred thoughts fluttering through her. If no one had seen the accident, maybe she could just— God, what was she thinking? Bad enough she'd run him down without adding hit and run charges.

  It was all Rick's fault. If he hadn't come in like he had, with that woman on his arm, and upset her so…

  "M-mister?" she tried again.

  Two things happened. She realized that the cut on his cheek and his other scratches were too clean to have come from hitting the pavement, and his eyes snapped open. They were crystalline blue, and pinned her with their opening gaze. She was dimly aware of other wounds. One on the arm that he lifted toward her. Blood seeped through his coat, soaking his torso. His trousers were shredded in places, a
s though he'd been attacked by an animal.

  His fingers brushed her cheek, the hand coming back to lie against her skin. Then there was something inside her, another mind inside her own, forcing its will upon her.

  "Home," he demanded in a voice that was weak, but would brook no argument. "Take me to… your home."

  Numbly she helped him to his feet, supporting him as they approached her car. She wrestled him into the passenger's seat, went around and got in herself. A part of her screamed that this couldn't be happening, but the sheer intensity of his will was too much for her. She couldn't escape the demands it made.

  The car took two tries to start. It jerked as she changed gears, ran sluggishly under her captive guidance. And all the while the stranger beside her kept his hand on her knee, and his mind inside hers. She refused to accept what was happening. But she took him home.

  Sitting in Cat's kitchen, it took awhile for them to fill each other in. Peter washed out the cuts on Mick's scalp, muttering something about him going to a hospital for stitches, but the mechanic refused. Later, as they sat around the table washing down Anacin with hot tea, they tried to make sense of it all.

  A lot was left unsaid because, except for Mick, they weren't sure how to describe their experiences. Mick saw it as a scuffle, plain and simple, that had come to a draw. Cat stayed mostly silent, but Peter and Ben, the terror of their helplessness still fresh in their minds, needed to talk about it. They just weren't sure what had actually happened.

  "Hypnotism," Ben said finally. "That's got to be how he did it. He's got creepy eyes— I can remember feeling like they were boring right into me. That's how he got into my head."

  Peter shook his head. "What about me? He was across the street when I spotted him. And I never even had eye contact with him."

  No. He'd had eye contact with Cat's Tiddy Mun instead, but that had to have been a hallucination. Because if it hadn't been one, he was really starting to trip out. But then he remembered that when he'd looked out the window, he had gotten an impression of the sort of eyes Ben was describing— reaching right out at him from the shadows across the street.

  "Can't be hypnotism," Mick said. "There's no way it works" — he snapped his fingers— "just like that."

  "It doesn't matter how he did it," Peter said. "What we've got to do is call the police. Let them handle it. This man's too dangerous for us to let him go on walking the streets."

  "You can't call the cops," Mick said. "What're you going to tell them?"

  "For God's sake! He attacked you."

  "Sure. And maybe he's just this sharp-dressing dude, out taking a late-night stroll, who sees he's being followed by a couple of rough-and-readies and decides to play hero. We don't have any proof that he meant to do anything criminal. No proof at all— you know what I mean?"

  "But…"

  But nothing, Peter realized. Mick was right. They had no evidence, nothing to tell the police except that somehow this man had gotten into their heads. They could only assume he was the one harassing Cat. If they took what they had to the police, they'd be laughed right out of the station.

  "So what do we do?" he asked.

  "We don't do anything," Mick said. "I cut him pretty bad. He got away, but he's hurting. He won't be doing a whole lot of running around for a while."

  "And when his wounds heal, and he comes back?"

  "Yeah. Well, there's that."

  Mick frowned into his tea mug. He looked at the small club that they'd found and brought in. It was made of a smooth hardwood, with knobs on either end. Small enough to be easily hidden under a coat. A primitive blackjack, to be sure, but the guy'd wielded it like a pro. Christ, Mick thought. He was lucky to still be up and walking around.

  "There's a lot of weird shit that went down tonight that I can't explain," he said thoughtfully. "Like those cats. I never saw anything like it. They were crawling all over him, and cutting him pretty bad too. Who ever heard of cats attacking somebody like that?"

  "I dreamed tonight, you know," Ben said. "The whole bit. The guy attacking me, the cats coming in like the cavalry…"

  Mick nodded. "Weird shit. And this stuff you guys are saying about him getting inside your heads… next thing we'll be seeing Count Dracula hiding in the shadows, waiting to suck our blood."

  He laughed, but Ben got a very strange look on his face.

  "That's what it felt like," Ben said. "Like he was sucking the life right out of me." Then he shook his head. "Jesus, what am I saying? I must've taken a worse crack on the head than I thought."

  But that was how it had felt, Peter realized. He glanced at Cat and saw that she'd gone very pale.

  "Maybe we'd better call it a night," he said.

  Mick nodded. "Yeah. I'd like to catch me a few hours of sleep before I have to go in tomorrow. Shit, the way I'm feeling, I may just call in sick. Wouldn't that piss Jim off. Can you give me a lift home, Ben?"

  "Sure." Ben looked at Peter and Cat. "Are you guys going to be okay?"

  "We'll be fine," Cat said. "And look. About tonight. I just want to say thanks. If you hadn't shown up…"

  Ben flushed. He felt good about it now. Weird, but good. But he could still remember shitting his pants out there. Cat laid a hand on his arm.

  "Thank… thank you for being there, Ben," she said.

  "Yeah, well…" He shrugged, his flush deepening. "We'd better get going."

  "He's stealing my dreams," Cat said when Ben and Mick had gone. "That's what he wants from me."

  "You know what that sounds like?"

  "I know what it sounds like, but that's what's happening. He's stealing my dreams. He's the… it was his presence that attacked me in the Otherworld. He's the thing that Tiddy Mun warned me against."

  There it was again, Peter thought. The impossible Tiddy Mun and her other ghosts. What exactly had he seen tonight? Cat's imaginary gnome or… or what? If he accepted even a part of it, then it could all be real, and that he couldn't accept. It opened the door to bona fide certifiable insanity, and he knew that once they stepped through it, there might be no return.

  He looked at Cat. By that reasoning, she was already heading for the white-jacket boys. He couldn't accept that either.

  "He's the one that killed Kothlen," Cat was saying. "He's some kind of… of parasite. A leech. He's a vampire, Peter. That's what he is. A vampire that sucks up dreams instead of blood."

  "I can't go along with that."

  "But what if… what if it's true?"

  If it was true, if her ghosts and her Otherworld were real… The hobgoblin's features reared in his mind's eye. It couldn't be real. But no matter what Peter's reason insisted, he also couldn't shake the feeling that what he'd seen hadn't been some sort of hallucination. And if it was real, then maybe Cat wasn't so far off with what she was saying about tonight's intruder. God, what was he thinking? It had been bad enough imagining him as a potential psychopath. But if Cat was right…

  She was looking at him, gaze searching his for reassurance. He tried to find something comforting to say, but an abyss had opened inside him, and reason appeared to have fled.

  "If it's true," he said softly, "then we're in more trouble than we can possibly imagine."

  Hounds and Ravens

  Father, dear father, I dreamed, dreamed a dream,

  I fear it will prove sorrow;

  I dreamed I was pulling heather bells

  on the dowie dens o' Yarrow.

  —from "The Braes o' Yarrow';

  traditional ballad (Child 214)

  10

  Heart of the Wood

  Cat lay alone in her bed, staring at the shadows that crowded the ceiling above her, and tried to sort through her feelings. While it was comforting to know that Peter was sleeping on the couch downstairs, she found herself thinking more of Ben and wondering what his reaction would be to her problems. She had the feeling that, unlike Peter, he would be able to accept the enemy for what it was: a parasite. Sucking not only her creative energies from h
er, but her life force as well.

  For that was what had been happening. How she knew it was true, she couldn't have put into words, but when Mick had jokingly mentioned vampires, the truth went through her like a shock. She just knew this was the reason she'd been feeling so dragged out lately. The headaches in the morning. Not being able to dream. Or write. Being more uncommunicative than ever. Was it any wonder when this… this thing was feeding on her?

  She shivered and drew the blankets closer. She was frightened— petrified would be a better word. And very angry. This violation was worse than a simple break-in, worse even than being physically assaulted. For it was her mind that was being abused, her soul being raped. Slowly but surely the monster was consuming the very essence of what she was.

  She wished there was some way she could escape. If she could just stay in her land of dreams forever. Never come back to this world. Never wake up.

  She felt real in the Otherworld. It was here that she was the phantom— as much of a ghost as Tiddy Mun was. But the Otherworld wasn't a haven anymore— the enemy had penetrated her dreaming as well. If she slept and dreamed, who was to say that the dark winged shape wouldn't have her this time? And if she didn't wake up before it caught her?

  Turning, she buried her face in the pillow. She had no defense against this enemy. He was gone for now, but when he'd recuperated from his wounds, what was to stop the nightmare from beginning all over again?

  She could move, she supposed. To another city. Another country. But would running help? Why had she been picked anyway? Because she dreamed real and other people didn't? Surely she wasn't the only person on earth that spun her life across two worlds? Surely other people had their Tiddy Muns and their… their Kothlens….