by Marie Brown
* * * *
When he woke again, Collector lay in a tunnel spun of cobwebs. He barely felt the music. He scrambled to his feet, dimly aware that the handbag still dangled from his wrist, and bolted. No thought, just movement, get away. . .
The cobweb corridors twisted and turned. He tripped, fell, got up and ran again. Then he stopped, panting, head cocked. What was that?
The music sounded stronger, that way.
He set off to find the music, slower this time, paying more attention to the monotonous grey surroundings. He followed the elusive tug and found himself standing in front of a small child, huddled on the floor and crying.
"What's wrong, little girl?" Collector knelt beside her, and she raised tear-filled blue eyes— the Namer's eyes, the Bound One's eyes—to his face.
"I'm broken," she said, "and no one can put me back together again."
Collector extended a hand towards the girl, who caught sight of the dangling handbag and reached for it, eyes lighting with interest through her tears.
"Pretty," she said, then touched the sequins.
The silver clasp snapped open quicker than thought and sucked the little girl inside. Then it snapped shut again, without even a bulge.
Collector stared.
Blue eyes.
Collector dropped to the curved, faintly sticky floor. Here in Demon Sun, anything was possible. . . including that a soul could splinter into pieces, which then needed to be collected. The Bound One, the Namer, the Inner Child, all shared the same eyes, here in this ever-changing world.
Collector lurched to his feet. "I have to collect them. But how many? And how? Trapped in this cobweb labyrinth, how can I do this?"
By collecting, you will free them all from prison. . .
Shifting, changing, the music led him through the cobwebs, sometimes stronger, sometimes quieter. Then he smacked into something shiny, black, and solid.
"Forgiveness. . ."
Collector stared at what he'd run into: a pillar of gleaming black marble, veined with a delicate tracery of white. "Who are you?"
"I wish to speak with you. Approach, please?"
Collector tentatively stepped around the column. Blue eyes blinked at him from a height that threatened to puncture the tunnel.
"Hello," Collector said, around a sudden surge of despair. How was he to recognize the pieces of the broken soul if they didn't look like people?
"I am Obelisk. And who are you, stranger to this realm?"
"I am Collector," he replied, accepting the talking rock with only eyes and no mouth. "And not entirely a stranger here, although I've been away a long time. Long enough that I have no memory of the Dark Queen."
Obelisk moaned, a sad, quiet sound. "Animara, the Eyeless. She denies herself. She rips our world to shreds. She denies us. We will all die if she has her way."
"Why? Why does she do this?"
"Because she denies that she needs us, and thinks she can live on her own. But she needs us, and we need her, and we all need you. . . Collector."
"Am I right, then? I need to collect the bits of you, and put you all back together?"
Obelisk blinked. Her eyes, so huge and dominant in her otherwise featureless self, locked on his bag. "You are the Collector."
Collector sighed. "Very well, then. I would rather talk to you, as you're the only friendly person nearby."
He opened the bag and held it while Obelisk vanished inside like a stream of smoke into an air filtration system. Then he hefted it, more than a little amazed at the insignificant weight.
"Follow the music it is, then," Collector said aloud, and moved on.
Without the music leading him, Collector would have felt bleak despair, trapped in the featureless grey webwork of the Labyrinth. He had no idea how far he'd traveled, or how many turns he'd made, or even if he'd made the same four turns over and over and over again. But the music drew him, stronger now, stronger. . .
"Hello," a voice purred.
Collector stopped and stared. Familiar blue eyes smouldered at him from an exotic cream and brown mask. Half feline, half human, and all sensual, the being slunk towards him.
"You must be Collector," she said, gliding close to him. A smooth palm caressed his cheek. "I am Lyra. But I don't want to be collected. . . yet."
Collector's eyes popped open when she kissed him, then his hands reached out and stroked silken fur. "The bag may have a mind of its own," he mumbled, all senses afire with the scent, touch, thrill of Lyra. This one must be her sex drive, he thought, then lost even that much coherence when his clothing melted.
"It will not collect me," Lyra growled, nibbling at his shoulder. "You need me."
Need her. . .
"Wait," Collector panted, breaking away. "This isn't fair. You're broken. I'm here because I can help put you back togeth—will you stop that?"
"You don't want me to."
"No—I mean, yes—I mean, stop."
Collector wrenched himself away from Lyra's intriguing, silken body, although he could do nothing about the tail coiling sensuously up his leg. He concentrated ferociously and brought back his pants. Lyra pouted.
"Better," he said, wrenching himself back under control. "Now keep your hands to yourself. Please. I need to figure out how to get out of this place, this Labyrinth. Because at least one part of you is outside, and I missed her. You. Whatever."
Lyra licked her semi-feline mouth with a very red tongue, and drew a fingertip along her lip. Collector lost his train of thought.
"A trade, then," Lyra said. The tip of her finger slid inside her mouth, then out and trailed down her chest. "I get you what you want, you give me what I want. Deal?"
This is the dream world, the land of music, my Demon Sun. What's wrong with having a little fun?
"Deal," Collector said, and if his voice sounded hoarse, Lyra said nothing of it.
"You want out of this maze? Use your power. You have it."
"Power? What power?" Lyra's body moved slowly, sensuously, curving in suggestive ways. . . "I have no power. What are you talking about?"
"Use the music," Lyra said, gyrating to her own internal rhythm. "Tear a hole. Men are good at thrusting through things. Do it."
"Uh. . ." Collector yanked his concentration back into line before his pants could vanish again. Could he shape the music? He'd never tried. He'd attempted to bring the music into his other world, but never controlled it. Lyra ran her hands down her sides, undulating a step closer to him. Collector closed his eyes.
What kind of music to tear a hole?
Heavy metal. Loud, growling, obnoxious heavy metal. If that couldn't do it, nothing could.
The quiet, underlaying thread of gentle music in Collector's head shifted into howling electric guitar and pounding drums. The fabric of reality trembled.
Collector peeked through a half-raised eyelid. He couldn't see Lyra, so he opened his eyes further and watched the wall fluctuating under the assault of the noise in his head. He kept it up, filling his whole being with the driving, pounding beat.
"Yes!" Lyra squealed, distracting him. "Keep it up, Collector!"
Concentrate.
The wall shivered, then with a shriek of tortured guitar strings, tore. Lyra dove through the rent and Collector followed.
They fell together into Demon Sun at its finest, glowing swirls and whirls of color wrapping around them and slowing their descent. Lyra laughed aloud and threw her arms wide.
"Free! Now it is my turn!"
She caught Collector in her embrace, and he didn't even wonder where the giant pillow that caught their entwined bodies came from.