Yarrow

  Oh, God, Debbie thought. I've got to get out of here.

  Whatever was going on here was too much for her to handle. Gingerly, she rose from the couch. She paused near Stella, uncertain whether she should try to rouse her or not. What if she were dead? She was lying so unnaturally still. What if—

  Get out of here! Debbie told herself. Now. While you still can.

  She hesitated a moment longer, then crossed the room, stepping carefully, one hand pressed against a temple. She never reached the front door.

  "Debbie."

  She turned to see him standing in the doorway that led to what she supposed was the bedroom. Her pulse hammered. His eyes, she thought suddenly. Don't look into his— But she warned herself too late.

  "You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" Lysistratus asked softly.

  Against her will she shook her head. She could feel him inside her, moving her body as though it was a puppet and his mind was the hand inside it. He made her return to the couch.

  "Are you unhappy?" he asked.

  Debbie could make no reply. She stared blankly into nothingness, her mind devoid of thought. Lysistratus joined her on the couch, sitting close. He took her hand between his and caressed her slack fingers.

  "I can make you happy," he said as he began to unbutton her blouse. "Happier than you can begin to imagine."

  Ben and Tiddy Mun ducked down the nearest driveway so that they could approach Mick's apartment from the rear. Once off the street they plunged into deep shadow, tall dark houses rearing up on either side of them. There was a '78 Accord parked in the driveway that Tiddy Mun gave a wide berth. He squeezed himself against the nearest building, teeth chattering at the proximity of the metal.

  Once in the backyard they crept towards their goal. It'd be just their luck, Ben thought, to get spotted as prowlers themselves. When they reached Mick's back door, Ben hesitated. Now what? Smash their way in? That'd be sure to rouse the neighbors— though that might not be such a bad idea. They'd call the cops and the whole problem would be out of his hands. Except that the noise would warn the Dude, and there was no way the police would get here in time.

  The baseball bat was slippery in his hand. He transferred it from right to left, wiped his palm dry, then took it up again. With the bat gripped tight, he tried the door with his free hand. The knob wouldn't turn. Okay, Ben thought. I've seen enough cop shows. This I can handle.

  He glanced around, then holding the bat between his knees, dug out his key ring. The key holder had a long slender piece of plastic at the end embossed with an orange tree and the words Souvenir of Florida on it in gaudy lettering. With his heart pounding wildly, he slipped it into the crack just above the lock's face plate and brought it down, jiggling as it went, until it caught the angled bolt latch. He gave the door a push and it swung open.

  Shoulda been a thief, he thought. His hand shook as he replaced the keys in his pocket and took up the bat again. Right. Sure. He took a last look about the backyard, then pushed the door farther open and slipped in. Tiddy Mun was right behind him.

  They found themselves in Mick's kitchen.

  "Where's the Dude?" Ben whispered. "Can you tell what room he's in?"

  "The Dude?"

  "The… the evil you sensed."

  "Very near. Not in the next room. Perhaps the one beyond."

  Ben swallowed. As he started to step into the hall, Tiddy Mun tugged at his arm. Ben turned.

  "The eyes," the little man warned. "Beware of its eyes."

  Remembering his own experience the previous night, Ben nodded. He stepped into the hall, every nerve screaming. The moment of truth was at hand, and he didn't think he was going to measure up. He'd gone into a funk last night. What was going to make tonight any different?

  The bat was a leaden weight in his hand. He'd been in this house a hundred times before, but right now it was all alien territory. Mick's bedroom was the second or third door on the right. First there was the bathroom, then a small room Mick used for storage, the bedroom, and finally the living room at the end.

  Ben paused, hearing something. Tiddy Mun bumped into him and he almost died of fright. Terror lanced through him, white and hot, before he realized what had happened. He was about to turn to warn his companion to be more careful, when he heard the sound again. It came from down the hall. From the bedroom. It sounded like a quiet laugh.

  Ben edged forward nervously, the bat held out in front of him. When he reached the doorway to the bedroom, he stepped in.

  Diffused streetlight spilled through the bedroom window, mixing with a small lamp on the floor. The light illuminated all Ben's fears come to life. His gaze took in a swirl of details at a glance. Becki lay sprawled on the floor by the bed, wearing nothing but an oversized Clash T-shirt. Beyond her Mick's stereo lay smashed. Records spilled across the room. An armchair lay overturned by the window. And at the bed, rising from it, was a man in a light-colored suit. Mick lay nude on the bed. Unmoving.

  As the man turned to face him, Ben froze with shock. A stranger faced him. Not the Dude. Not the vampire. A stranger. But the same intense light glittered in his eyes. Feral. His eyes were…

  Ben tore his gaze away. He'd almost been caught again. For a long moment the tableau held. Then Ben's fears drained and rage leapt through him.

  He charged forward, the bat held high. The man spun from the bedside, a knife in his hands. Its blade gleamed with a wet glisten as it caught the light. Swinging the bat, Ben hit the man's arm and knocked the knife flying. Before he could regain his balance to swing again, the man lunged at him. His shoulder struck Ben, sending him across the room, where he hit the wall hard and slid to the floor. The bat flew from his slippery grip. The stranger picked up the wreckage of Mick's turntable, but before he got a chance to pitch it at Ben, a hissing, clawing fury leapt onto the man's back, talons digging deep into his shoulder muscles.

  The turntable fell to the floor with a crash. The man cried out in pain as he fought to dislodge the big tomcat from his back. When it clawed its way to his head, he got a purchase on a forepaw, tugged the beast free and flung it at Ben. Ben was scrambling to regain his weapon when the cat struck him. As it rolled from him to land spitting on the floor, Ben's fingers closed on the handle of his bat. He rose, weapon in hand, but his attacker had fled down the hall.

  Ben followed to see the stranger reach the front door, fling it open, and escape into the night. By the time Ben reached the open door, the man was getting into a car about a half block from the house. The engine roared, the car tore away from the curb, and the man was gone.

  The last few minutes' action settled on Ben as he stood breathing heavily in the doorway. Adrenaline had sent his heartbeat accelerating until it seemed his heart would burst. It lay sour in his stomach now. The full realization of what had happened hit him. That hadn't been the Dude. There was more than one of the creatures! Then he remembered Mick and Becki.

  He started for the bedroom, his footsteps lagging in fear of what he'd find there. Tiddy Mun met him in the hall. The little man limped and favored one arm. Ben brushed by him. He took a deep breath in the, doorway, then flicked on the overhead light. The glare blinded him for a moment.

  He knelt first by Becki. A bruise was starting to discolor the skin above her left eye and the cheek below it. Ben lay the bat aside and awkwardly put his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse. He could feel one, but inexperienced as he was, he couldn't tell if it was normal or not. At least she was alive. He tugged her T-shirt down over her hips, then went to check on. Mick.

  When he reached the bed he looked once, then turned away. Bile came roiling up his throat. He didn't want to look again, but he couldn't stop himself because he just couldn't believe what he'd seen. Mick's throat had been cut from ear to ear, the slit gaping like a macabre grin. Blood soaked the bedclothes.

  Ben went white and tumbled from the bed. He only just made it to the toilet bowl, where he threw up the contents of his stomach, heaving long after it was
empty. He pressed his face against the porcelain, his mind numb with shock. His vision blurred with tears.

  "It wasn't even the Dude," he said in a strained voice. He turned to face Tiddy Mun, who was standing in the doorway watching him. "It wasn't even the fucking Dude!"

  He got slowly to his feet and forced himself back into the bedroom, keeping his eyes averted from the bed. He leaned weakly against the door jamb. He had to call an ambulance, the police. He had to—

  "For Christ's sake," he told Tiddy Mun, who'd crept into the room after him, "how many of those creatures are there?"

  His gaze locked on the little man's, pleading for answers. But Tiddy Mun didn't know what to do either. This wasn't his world. He shivered, hugging his hurt arm to his chest.

  "If… if there are more than one of them—" the gnome began in a small voice, then broke off, unsure of how to continue, unwilling to complete the thought that rose fearfully inside him.

  Ben caught the unspoken fear. "Cat," he cried. "Oh, Christ! Peter and Cat!"

  Death lay on the bed, filling the room with its presence. Its smell was heavy in the air— blood and the stink of fear. Was it reaching out at this moment to strike the rest of his friends— hitting them all at once? Was there one of these monsters breaking into his own apartment right now? He shivered, torn between fear and a need to act. To warn Cat and Peter. To call the police. To do something before—

  Becki moaned, drawing his gaze like a magnet. As her head moved, shifting slowly from side to side, her eyes fluttering open, Ben was galvanized into action. He reached her before she could sit up and look at the bed. She stared at him with a glazed expression, as though she was finding it hard to focus on him.

  "B-ben…?" she asked uncertainly.

  He knelt by her, helped her up, keeping her face from the bed.

  "There… there was this guy," she said slowly. "He… he had a knife, Ben…"

  "You're okay," Ben said. His throat felt tight, like it was clamping shut.

  Becki regarded him strangely. She lifted a weak hand to touch his cheek. "You… you're crying," she said. "Ben, why are you— Mick!"

  She tried to pull away from him, but he held her close.

  "You… you don't want to see," he said in a choking voice. Fresh tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

  She fought his hold on her, panic skittering in her eyes. "Mick!" she cried. "What's happened to Mick?"

  "He's dead, Becki. He's… the guy cut his… He's dead…."

  She went slack in his arms, her face white as his words sank in. "No," she moaned softly. "Please, no."

  They had to get out of here, Ben realized. If she saw what was on the bed… if he didn't want the same thing to happen to Peter or Cat… They couldn't stay. He had to find the strength to step past his grief. Warning Cat and Peter, getting Becki out of here— if he concentrated on those things, really tried, he might get through it. He'd never get rid of the horrific memory of Mick's throat and all the… all the blood….

  He forced his feet to move. With Tiddy Mun's help he got Becki out of the room. Don't look back, Ben told himself. Jesus, don't look back. He discovered that the phone was dead, so he couldn't even call Cat or Peter. They'd have to go to their houses. Becki let herself be led from the apartment to Ben's cab. She sat meekly in the passenger's seat, never even giving Tiddy Mun a second glance.

  With shaking fingers, Ben got the key into the ignition. He kicked the engine over, put it in gear, and pulled away from the curb. His knuckles were white from the force with which he was gripping the steering wheel. He kept seeing Mick's face, then Cat's or Peter's features superimposed over it. Now it was their throats that were cut, their blood soaking the sheets.

  The car seemed to inch its way to the corner of Third and Chrysler. It took every measure of concentration that Ben could muster just to keep going. South on Chrysler, down to Fourth. Peter was closest, so he'd go there first. It wasn't more than six blocks to the store. He just had to get there in one piece.

  Please, he begged the faces rolling through his head, their throats gaping and fountaining blood. Please, go away.

  13

  The Hounds are Loosed

  Peter listened to Cat's story with mounting apprehension. This abrupt about-face worried him almost more than the initial supposition that there actually was an Otherworld— a place of dreams that was real, or at least real to Cat, if not to him. To see her now, huddled in the chair across the table from him, feet on the seat, knees pulled up to her chin, her face like a mask, rigid, expressionless… The sharp pain in her eyes told him all too clearly what she was going through.

  "Cat," he said softly. "You're letting things get to you, that's all."

  "You don't understand," she said. "Don't you see what this means? I am insane. I've always been insane. Not dangerous, maybe, but right off the deep end all the same."

  She caught the shrillness in her voice and looked away. Taking a deep breath, she spoke again, her words deliberate. "It's like all those stories about the autumn of the elves and their magicks failing. It's autumn for me now and my magicks are failing. My magicks never even were."

  "You never lost your ability to write," Peter began. "Not really. You just—"

  She cut him off. "I'm not talking about writing! I'm talking about dreaming. I'm talking about living my whole life all tangled up with fantasies and ghosts that never existed."

  "Cat—"

  "And what about Ben? Here I thought I'd found myself a guy that maybe things could work out with, but he's going to find out all too soon just what a lunatic I am. Psychic vampires, for God's sake! I can't believe that any of us could even pretend to take that seriously."

  "Ben's not—"

  "It won't make any difference, Peter, though thanks for trying. Ben'll leave, just like every other guy I've ever gone out with once they get to know me."

  "That's not fair."

  "Fair? Don't talk to me about fair. How about being a crazed writer who can't even tell the difference between what she writes and real life— you call that fair?"

  For a long moment their gazes held, then Cat shook her head. She got up from the table and went into the living room, where her clothes lay. She put on her jeans, leaving the oversized shirt hanging out, and stuffed the rest of what she'd been wearing when she came over into her bag.

  "What are you doing?" Peter asked.

  "I can't stay here. I'm going home."

  "What about your prowler? Your dream th—"

  "There is no dream thief— can't you see? There aren't any dreams for him to steal in the first place. He's not real, because the dreams aren't real."

  "And what about last night?"

  "God, I don't know. There's enough weirdness in the world as it is without having to give it supernatural trappings, don't you think?"

  Peter shook his head. The sudden role reversal was throwing him off base. He didn't know if Cat was insane or not at this point, because he was seriously beginning to doubt his own sanity. Nothing was making sense anymore.

  "Did you ever think," he asked, "that maybe those other relationships didn't work out not because those guys couldn't handle you, but because you couldn't handle them? Maybe you didn't so much drive them off as ran away yourself?"

  She stared at him, face paling. Shut up, Peter told himself, but the words came boiling up from inside him.

  "It's like someone just trying to be your friend," he went on. "You say you want friends, but you don't really. As soon as someone gets close, you drive them away. You don't want anything to be real. Just your ghosts. And now that you think they're gone, you've got nothing left, have you? Only where does that leave the people who care for you?"

  He knew he was hurting her. A reverberating echo of her pain tightened in his own chest. But the words all came out in a rush, almost before he knew what he was doing. He was angry with her, more angry at himself. For playing matchmaker, for dragging Ben into this, for the pain it was going to cause Ben— never
mind that hurt Cat was feeling right now. Everything was a mess. Cat, Ben, himself… He looked at her, suddenly sorry he'd said anything at all. But the words hung between them and couldn't be taken back.

  "Oh, Jesus," he tried. "I'm sorry, Cat. I didn't mean—"

  "No, Peter. Maybe you're right. Maybe…" She couldn't finish. Turning, she caught up her shoulder bag and ran for the door.

  Peter stood frozen, watching her go. He cursed his own blundering stupidity, then ran to follow. "Cat!" he called from the top of the stairs.

  She turned, the front door open in front of her, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Just… just leave me alone, Peter. I'm everything you… you said I was. I can't… even handle reality…."

  Then she was through the door and gone.

  Peter plunged down the stairs, taking them two at a time, stopping at the front door when he realized he wasn't wearing anything but a pair of boxer shorts.

  "Cat!" he cried again.

  She ignored him. Maybe she didn't even hear him. He watched her get into her car, heard the door slam, the VW's engine kicking over, catching. The headlights came on and she pulled away from the curb. He watched her make her way down the street until all he could see were the two winking taillights, then he ran back upstairs to put on a pair of jeans.

  When he reached the porch again, he never even got a chance to lock the door behind him. A Blue Line cab was pulled up in front of the store. Peter hesitated, hand on the doorknob. A premonition ran like a wild spark through him. He saw Ben get out, then…

  He saw Tiddy Mun. He stared at the little man, unable to accept the image that his eyes were sending to his brain. It… just… wasn't… possible.

  He never saw Becki slouched in the passenger seat. Never glanced at Ben who was moving toward him with the somnambulant steps of a sleepwalker. His entire attention narrowed to focus on the small figure of the gnome. Tiddy Mun. One of Cat's ghosts. Real. But if he was real…