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Stella sighed. Who was she kidding?

Lysistratus ignored his usual vantage point tonight. There was something in the air that made him nervous, so when he left his home after dropping off his gym bag, he took a more circuitous route to Cat's home. He still kept to the shadows, but tonight he hid in the deeper ones along Bellwood. The house wasn't so easy to watch from here. He could see the lights were out. But the street seemed too awake.

He sensed that she had someone with her again. The two of them were drifting in that twilight place between waking and sleep. He reached out for Cat with his mind, snatching at her half-formed dreams. As the first taste of their opiate sweetness entered him, he knew he needed physical contact with her. Last night he had withdrawn because of her companion, but tonight… the man would have to take his chances. Tonight Lysistratus was in the mood for killing whatever got in his way.

Peter awoke with a start, wondering what had woken him and how long he'd been asleep. The tape was still playing, so it couldn't have been that long. He looked from the cassette machine to Cat, and his eyes went wide with shock.

There was something perched on the arm of her chair, shaking her arm as though trying to wake her. Last night's hobgoblin, all eyes and gangly limbs. It seemed almost insubstantial, as though he could put his hand right through it, but it was there— something
was
there!— all the same.

For a long moment he and the curious apparition regarded each other. The creature was poised as if for flight now, like a startled hare just before it bounded off, or a squirrel suddenly aware that a cat was stalking it. Slowly Peter reached a hand toward it. He had to feel if it was real. He had to know if it was really there. Then Cat made a sharp, moaning sound.

The hobgoblin vanished. One moment it was there, saucer eyes watching him, and the next it was gone, replaced by a small glowing ball of gold light. Then that too, like the Cheshire cat's grin, winked out.

The room grew cold. Peter swept it with his gaze, but Cat drew his attention. Her Tiddy Mun— if that was what it had been— would have to wait. Cat was twisting in the chair, her features tight with pain. Peter took her by the shoulders and gently shook her.

"Wake up, Cat. Wake up!"

That's what the strange being had been trying to do as well. Why was it so important that she woke up? What was happening to her? If she was in trouble in… in her Otherworld…

The chill in the room grew more pronounced. Cat no longer fought her dream. She lay slack in his grip, head lolling to one side.

"Cat!"

At that moment Peter knew the first inklings of terror. The hobgoblin, strange as it had been, hadn't frightened him. But what came now… creeping up his spine… spreading through his nervous system…

His gaze was drawn to the window and beyond it, to the street, to the shadows of a house and the gaze there that searched for his own. Cat slipped out of his numbed fingers, falling back against the chair as paralysis gripped him. Something was in his head, shredding his feeble attempts to push it out, and he knew if it stayed there he would never return from the blackness that came washing up to swallow him.

A curious memory came to him: He was sitting in his own living room, reading, when one of Cat's books leapt from the bookshelf to hit the floor. He saw it again, falling in slow motion, and wondered if it had been a premonition of some sort, some warning that he had neither realized nor accepted for what it was.

Then the darkness was all.

Lysistratus drank in the heavy nectar of Cat's dreaming psyche. As the first fires coursed through him, he knew that he had to go to her. He had to feel her skin under his hands, feel her heart tremble against his. He had to fill her with the hardening penis that swelled between his trousers and leg.

The net of his power reached out to draw Peter into its web. Lysistratus saw the face at the window and locked his gazed into the other man's. Peter dropped unprotestingly, dropped like a stone into the dark sleep that Lysistratus woke inside him, and soon his psyche was feeding the parasite as well.

With their combined essences rippling through him, Lysistratus stepped from his hiding place and crossed the street. He was still only skimming the surfaces of their souls. He needed physical contact now to complete the bridge— flesh to flesh. He would drain the man until he was empty. Then he would fill the woman with his seed, fill her and take her pleasure back into him again, multiplied a hundredfold.

He imagined the bubbly voice of Clare Grogan, lead singer for Altered Images, and smiled at the song she sang in his mind— "See Those Eyes." His own eyes glittered like blue fire.

Cary Grant was in the middle of an obstacle race at a country fair when Stella heard Rick's car pull into the driveway. She turned off the TV with the remote and went into the hall, standing under the framed Magritte print that hung to the left of the light switch. She had a half-dozen scathing comments ready on the tip of her tongue, but nothing had prepared her for what came through the door.

Rick stood framed in the doorway with a stunning blonde on his arm, both of them pissed to the gills. Stella stared at them, her mouth half open, and didn't know what to say.

"Hey, Shtel," Rick began. "How's it—"

"Don't you dare talk to me!" she cried, finding her voice.

She looked from him to his companion. The woman had a slightly sympathetic looked behind her glazed gaze that only served to further infuriate Stella.

"Don't be mad, Shtel baby," Rick slurred. "We can… make it a shreesome…."

Stella's cheeks went beet red. She'd never felt more embarrassed in her life. Anything she might have said just then got locked up tightly inside her. Wordlessly she snatched up her purse and stormed out the door, elbowing the pair of them out of her way. Once she had her car started, she squealed its rear tires backing out of the driveway and roared down Briarhill to Heron Road.

"Heads up," Mick murmured.

Ben checked the side-view mirror. "Jesus," he said. "It's the Dude."

"The who?"

"That's just what I call him— I thought he was going to put a make on me in the park back of my house yesterday afternoon. He gave me the creeps. I wonder what he's doing here."

"Well, he's sure a sharp dresser," Mick said. "Think he's a friend of Cat's?"

Ben sat up and swivelled in his seat to get a better view. "I don't know. He's not skulking. But he's going right for her door."

"Well," Mick said, "if he's got an honest reason for being there at this time of night, we can always apologize politely and beat a hasty retreat. And if not…"

Ben nodded. Something hard settled in the pit of his stomach, and his heart was thumping to beat the band. His hands were sweaty as he eased open the door. Now that the moment had come, he wasn't sure he could go through with it. But then he thought of Cat, of the guy that was harassing her, and his resolve hardened.

Mick was already on the street. "Let's go," he whispered.

They jogged down the pavement, silent in their running shoes, slowing down as they neared Cat's hedge. Mick leaned close.

"Just let me do the talking," he breathed into Ben's ear. "You're big. All you've got to do is stand behind me and look intimidating— you know what I mean? You won't even have to lift a hand."

Ben nodded, swallowing with difficulty. Maybe they should have just called the cops. Sure, he wanted to help Cat, but it wasn't like he was Charles Bronson or anything.

Mick took a couple of quick steps so that he'd be the first through the gap in the hedge. Ben saw him turn in, then the figure of the Dude stepped out, one arm raised high. He had something in his hand that looked like a short club or stick. It came down with a crack as it glanced off Mick's skull.

Ben froze. Those strange eyes he remembered from the afternoon in the park— almost luminous in the dark— were tracking him. They snared his gaze, then stopped him dead as he was about to rush forward. He remembered his nightmare— the fish-scaled man with the barracuda teeth. He'd had those same eyes. Those same fucking eyes…

The little club lifted and fell a second time, and Mick tumbled to the ground.

Ben wanted to rush the Dude. He wanted to smash him. But he couldn't move. Couldn't even twitch. He'd never experienced such pure, simple helplessness before.

"I thought I felt spying eyes," Lysistratus said softly.

The man's voice sent a weird shiver down Ben's spine. Jesus Christ! What was going on? Why couldn't he move? What had this sucker done to him?

The Dude's eyes drilled straight through to Ben's soul, and he could feel his legs buckling under him, the pavement rushing up to meet his face. This… couldn't… be… real.

He hit the ground hard. All he knew was the impact— the physical pain of hitting the pavement, and worse, the pain inside his head. Somehow the Dude had gotten inside his head. He was twisting Ben's thoughts into knots, using the pain to raise a sea of blackness in which Ben knew he would inevitably drown. He could sense more than see the Dude's approach. Just as it had happened in his nightmare, he was helpless to protect himself. Was the Dude lifting his club to use on him as well? Or was he opening his mouth to show the rows of wicked teeth…?

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…