Yarrow (23 page)

Cat laughed. "He didn't!"

"Ah, well. Perhaps not in so many words. But he was full of warnings, that one was, with his wild hair and tattered clothes and eyes like they'd looked once too often into the unknown. Gave me a proper fright he did, at times. If it wasn't for Elsie's foretellings, I might have turned back, there and then."

"What did she tell you?"

"That if I wanted real magicks, I must go to where magicks are real. That there was danger on the Road, but great joy as well. That I would arrive in the place I sought, but would not return." He gave her a wink. "Suitably nebulous, of course, but promising enough to send me packing and—"

"Here you are," Cat finished for him.

"Exactly. A wee touch older than when I left, but not a great deal wiser— though that doesn't worry me overmuch, for: 'If you wait long enough at the ferry, sooner or later you'll cross the river,' or something like that. Isn't it time you told me another story?"

"I suppose. What sort would you—"

But before she could finish her sentence, forest and companion were gone and she was crossing the borders between one world and another, as quick as a hawk dropping from the sky.

Cat woke up and regarded the familiar confines of her bedroom with a certain amount of regret. She should have felt exhausted from all the running around she'd done in her dream. Instead she felt rejuvenated. Newborn. She hadn't had a dream like that in so—

Kothlen's death stabbed through her. Kothlen. Gone forever. Tears brimmed her eyes. Tiddy Mun lost. Mynfel's lack of help. And Kothlen… Kothlen…

She rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, trying to keep the tears at bay. Don't think about it, she told herself. Don't remember. She tried to concentrate on Toby Weye, on how meeting him helped to soothe her heartaches. Slowly the pressure eased into a dull ache. She had to go on. It was as simple as that. Otherwise she'd sink into a downward spiral from which she'd never escape.

Toby, she thought, holding on to her recent memories of the Otherworld as though they were a lifeline. What a character. Surely there was a story in her meeting him? If she could just get working, try to put the worries aside long enough to feel real again… But her brief stay in the Otherworld had been just an interlude. The troubles hadn't gone. Kothlen wouldn't come back. But if she tried,
really
tried…

She wondered if Peter was awake yet. Glancing at her bedside clock, she saw that she'd slept away the better part of the day: one o'clock. Peter'd be long gone. Slipping out of bed, she padded downstairs to make some coffee and found his note waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

She read it through on the way into the kitchen and thought about how lucky she was to have some friends in
this
world finally. She liked Peter, but thinking of him brought Ben's features to mind. She remembered him sitting in her kitchen last night, all big and shy. She liked him too, only in a different way, and was pretty sure that he liked her— she had seen it in his eyes.

Thinking about him gave her a warm feeling inside. She was sure that a relationship with someone like him would be so much better than the disasters her others had been. The sudden urge to call him came then. She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the phone over. Peter would know his number.

She picked up the receiver, ready to dial, then slowly set it back down again. What would she say to Ben if she
did
call him? What if she had just imagined that look in his eyes last night? What if he thought she was just some flake who happened to write books that he liked?

God, things could be confusing.

She stared at the phone for long moments, building up her nerve. I'll just get his number from Peter first, she thought. Then I can decide from there. She reached for the phone again, but it jangled just before she touched it, almost lifting her from her seat. Feeling as though she'd been caught in the act of she didn't know what, she picked it up before it could ring a second time.

"Hello?"

"Uh… hello, Cat. This is… uh… Ben— uh, Ben Summerfield, and I was… uh…"

"I was just thinking about you."

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line, then Ben asked, "You were?"

For some reason the surprise in his voice and his shyness made Cat feel less shy herself. "I was just going to call Peter to ask him for your number."

"You were?" Ben repeated, then he seemed to catch himself. "Jeez, that's great. I mean, well, what I was calling for was to, uh, ask you if you'd maybe like to go to a movie or something with me tonight, maybe."

The warm feeling that Cat had felt thinking about him earlier seemed to blossom inside her. "I'd love to."

"You would? That's great! Would you like to go for dinner before the movie?"

"That'd be really nice, Ben."

Cat could feel him grinning from the other end of the line, which made her smile.

"I guess I'll pick you up around six," he said. "Would that be okay?"

"Sure. Six would be fine. I'm glad you called, Ben."

"Me too." He seemed about to say good-bye, but then he cleared his throat. "I was talking to Peter this morning," he said, "and he inadvertently let out this thing about your dreams."

Cat thought she'd die. Her pleasure at talking to him went cold inside her. "He… what?" she asked in a small voice.

"He didn't mean to," Ben said quickly. "We were just talking about the Dude and last night and stuff and— well, I just wanted to let you know that, while I'm not sure I understand it all, I'm backing you all the way. And I'm not just saying that to humor you, Cat."

"I…" She didn't know what to say.

"I thought it was important to let you know that I knew— just to be, you know, up front about it all." He hesitated, waiting for her to say something. When there was no reply, he went on. "Look, if you, uh, want to call off tonight, I'll understand."

"It's not that," she managed finally. "It's just… I don't know…"

"You're not mad, are you?"

Cat thought about it, and realized that what she felt was relief, mixed with a certain amount of embarrassment, but relief all the same. "No, I'm not mad," she said. "I'll see you tonight, okay?"

After they said their good-byes, Cat put the receiver down and stared at the phone. Strangely enough, everything did feel fine. For all her embarrassment, the pressures inside her had eased as though someone had just pulled the plug on the tension that had been winding her up so tight. Peter… Thinking about him now, she had an inkling of where he was coming from. He hadn't betrayed their friendship. No. He'd just decided to play matchmaker.

Shaking her head, she reached for the phone again and dialed the number for the store.

Peter looked across the store after he hung up and thought, Doesn't that beat all? Imagine Ben telling Cat about their talk this morning. But that was Ben, always up front about everything.

Had anyone asked Peter how Cat would react to the news that someone else knew about her secrets, someone she hadn't told, he would have said that she could very easily withdraw into her shell again. He wouldn't have taken the chance of mentioning a word to her about it himself— not until she brought it up first. But Ben… well, he had to be doing something right. Instead of being mad, Cat had actually sounded happy. And it was obvious that she was looking forward to her date with him tonight.

Peter smiled, relaxing for the first time all day. Maybe they'd soon be seeing an end to ghosts and Otherworlds— and to weird guys hiding in the shadows, waiting to steal peoples' dreams. Christ, he hoped so.

"Snakes?" Potter asked.

Bill was sitting across the desk from him, filling Potter in on his interview with Ron Wilson. The pencil in Potter's hand beat its inevitable tattoo against the pad in front of him. Bill looked up from his notes and nodded.

"That's what Wilson said. Snakes, or a man with a snake's head."

"Shit. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only thing I can think of is voodoo," Bill said.

Potter grinned at him. "Right."

"C'mon, Potsy. You think I buy that? But what I
am
thinking is, if we've got a wacko, or a bunch of wackos that
do
believe…"

"I see what you mean. They can do as much damage as the real thing. We got anything along those lines?"

"It's being run through Ceepik right now," Bill replied.

"What about this guy in Central Park?"

"I was getting to that. I did some checking around the hospitals, and the first place I hit, bingo! A young woman was brought into the Civic late yesterday evening by the name of"— he consulted his notes— "Lisa Henderson. She was found in a catatonic state in Dundonald Park last night, and died early this morning. She had no history of emotional disorders or that kind of thing. The doctor I talked to said it was like her body just shut down."

The pencil went still in Potter's hand. "And?"

Bill smiled. "I went up to the park and had a look around, talked to a few people. A"— he checked his notes again— "Mr. Winters remembers seeing Henderson in the park last night with a young guy—"

"Blond-haired, well-dressed…"

"Not exactly. Winters was out walking his dog at the time. Says he didn't get all that good a look. Henderson's companion was dark-haired, casually dressed. What Winters remembers is his eyes— forceful, he called them. A piercing blue. Said the guy just glanced at him and he felt like those eyes went right through him. Gave him a creepy feeling like"— Bill read from his notes— "he'd 'put his hand in a nest of snakes.' That's what made it click for me."

Potter frowned. His instincts were buzzing up a storm. "What do you think, Bill? Is it worth putting an APB out on him?"

Bill shrugged. "I don't know, Potsy. We'd need both descriptions. Wilson didn't say anything about weird eyes, but—"

"I've got a feeling," Potter said.

"It's not a hell of a lot to go on."

"Don't I know it? But what else have we got? At least we can have the uniforms keep an eye out for him."

Debbie felt overdressed when they arrived at Stella's apartment. Where she and Rick were dressed for the office— he in a summer-weight light-brown suit, she in a knee-length slitted skirt, designer blouse, nylons, and high heels— Stella looked enviably comfortable in a pair of hip-hugging jeans and a dusty rose T-shirt.

"Hi," Stella said brightly, stepping aside so that they could come in. "Glad you could make it."

She closed the door and locked it. Rick mumbled something, and Debbie thrust out her hand to Stella.

"Hello, yourself," she said. "I'm Debbie Mitchell."

Stella shook without any firmness to her grip. "Nice to meet you," she said.

Something about her made Debbie pause. It was in her eyes. They had a not-quite focused look about them. Maybe she'd been building up her nerve by smoking a joint or starting early on the drinks. She could do with a drink herself, Debbie decided. Then she saw that a fourth person had been added to their cozy threesome.

"Rick and… um, Debbie," Stella said. "This is Lucius Marn."

Gorgeous was the first word that Debbie came up with to describe him. But then, just as Stella's eyes belied the cheerful hostess image she was trying to put across, this man's eyes radiated cold, raw power. There was a fresh scar on his cheek that lent him an even more fiendish air.

She sat down on the couch across from Lysistratus and nodded hello. She could hear Rick ask Stella in a stage whisper, "Who the hell's he?" Lysistratus ignored him, and Debbie missed Stella's reply. She was too busy watching Lysistratus watch her. All his attention was focused on her, and she was beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable. She was used to being stared at— liked it, in fact, so long as it didn't get too weird.
This
was getting weird.

She tugged her skirt hem down to her knees, but couldn't concentrate on what she was doing. Those blue eyes, crystalline and compelling, seemed to draw her right out of herself. She felt as though she were falling into darkness. The last thing she heard was Rick's voice, edged with concern.

"Debbie? Hey, Debbie? Are you all right?"

No, she wasn't all right. But she couldn't answer because her vocal chords were paralyzed and every bone in her body had turned to jelly. Her head slumped back against the couch's cushions.

Lysistratus was in a good mood.

The woman was remarkably well-endowed, but she had an appeal beyond her obvious physical attractions. There was a vitality in her that promised strong dreams. She had a defined sense of self as well, though it was weakened by a willingness to care for others. The potential for too much loyalty— to her friends, to the human race in general— lay inside her. Such attributes were liabilities for what Lysistratus had in mind. Regrettably, she would be useful for nourishment only. But her companion…

He was an excellent specimen. A strong sense of self ran through him, a loutish concern for himself above all others. He lived for sensual gratification, which made him a perfect subject for Lysistratus's uses.

Debbie was quick to fall under his influence, unconscious moments after he'd made eye contact and touched her mind. Later he would make her sleep and dream. Later she would gratify his needs in ways that Rick could never imagine. But first he must deal with Rick.

"Debbie? Hey, Debbie? Are you all right?"

Rick bent over her worriedly, then turned to look at Stella. She regarded him blankly, as though her mind had shut down. Frowning, he turned to Lysistratus. The parasite was waiting for him, eyes flaring with power, a thin smile on his lips.

What's with this guy? Rick thought. He looks like he wants to—

Pain exploded in Rick's skull. A cold fire spun through his body like a vortex, centering in his groin. His mind flooded with apocalyptic visions that ranged from Miltonesque hellscapes to the final horror of his own death. He saw his face deteriorate with age, his body become frail and brittle. Death came to him, moment by inexorable moment, until he was nothing but bones and a mouldering skull fit only to house maggots and worms, until bone became dust, and no trace of the man he'd been remained at all.