Strange Candy

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  The bolt slid home and he turned, leaning against the door, relieved. His eyes flew wide. "Who are you?" His voice hadn't caught up to his tall, leggy body; it sounded like a child's voice.

  "I'm Jasmine. I've come to help."

  "You're that new dream teacher."

  Jasmine started to explain that she was not a teacher, was not a part of the school, but standing there soaking up Malcolm's terror, she let it go. "Yes."

  The smell was growing worse, a choking outhouse stench that was filling the room, coming from under the door. Malcolm backed away from the door, until he bumped into Jasmine. He jumped and she gripped his shoulders. He didn't pull away. His breathing was coming in short gasps. The whole dream focused on that door. Jasmine could feel the pull of it. Fear. Fear forced down their throat until more than anything in the whole world you didn't want that door to open. You didn't want IT to come through and get you. And you knew that that was exactly what was going to happen, and there was nothing you could do about it. The helplessness of nightmare, but Jasmine could do something about it. Nightmares were her specialty.

  The girl's focus was strong and pure. Jasmine could not look away from the door. The sound of heavy footsteps scraped outside; the smell of rotting corpses, sweet and putrid, filled the room.

  Jasmine concentrated, willing the walls to dissolve, the dream to end. Nothing happened. She took a deep breath and choked on the stinking air.

  Malcolm's voice was thin with fear. "Do something!"

  She tried. Manipulating dreams was just a matter of will and concentration. Jasmine knew this wasn't real; if you knew that, you could change it. But she had never been inside the dream of someone who matched her powers so exactly.

  "I can't break the dream."

  Malcolm made a small sound low in his throat. He sagged against her. "Oh, God," he said, "oh, God."

  Jasmine swallowed the first rush of real fear, not Lisbeth's creation but her very own fear. She was as trapped as the boy. Trapped in the mind of a sociopathic child.

  Then things began to melt from the walls. Hands, arms reached outward; rotted flesh falling away from white bone, rags of clothes. Things long dead crawled out of the rotting walls and began to drag themselves closer.

  One man had half his face blown away; his tongue rolled between bone and raw meat, a large fat worm twisted round the corpse's tongue.

  Malcolm screamed, one high shriek after another, as four of the things shambled toward them.

  The faces were recognizable; a man, woman, two teenage children. They had been black; now they were the colors of old death.

  Jasmine grabbed Malcolm's hand; his fingernails dug into her palm. His screams became words. "My father, my father! Noooo!"

  Of course, the dead things were Malcolm's family. They were horrible, paralyzingly so to the boy, because this nightmare was designed with him in mind, not Jasmine. The dead things were slow; little pieces of them fell away as they walked, slow.

  Jasmine dragged Malcolm toward the door. He fought her, the dead things turned toward them, but Jasmine was at the door with the boy screaming, tugging at her hand, trying to get free, to run, but there was nowhere to run.

  Jasmine couldn't break the dream, but maybe she could manipulate it. She unlocked the door and flung it open. The dream lurched; the dead things wavered. There was nothing on the other side of the door. Sloppy, Lisbeth, Jasmine thought. There was a sensation of vertigo, then Jasmine filling the emptiness with a stairway, leading down.

  She dragged Malcolm onto the stairs and shut and locked the door behind them, with a thought. Malcolm was running now, still gripping her hand as if afraid she would vanish and abandon him. They clattered down the stairs; suddenly there were walls on either side. The stairs led downward, but now there were walls to hold them, rotting yellow walls.

  Hands grew out of the wall, pale arms, they fluttered, hands wringing. A hand grabbed Jasmine's wrist. The flesh was too soft, doughy, rubbery, but strong.

  Malcolm screamed as hands grabbed his shirt.

  Jasmine needed to be free of the hand; she thought of a sword. It levitated over the hand, and sliced downward in a glittering arc. The arm flopped, spraying warm blood into her face. The hand still clung to her wrist, but she pulled Malcolm free of the bloated hands, and they ran.

  Jasmine sprayed the walls with blood from the sword as it sliced the hands in front of them like a thrasher, cutting wheat. The stairs were littered with pale hands that twitched and bled.

  The stairs spilled onto a landing, and the walls closed in, dead end. Jasmine had been concentrating too much on the sword and the hands to maintain the stairs. The smell of rotting corpses began to fill the air.

  "Malcolm, is this the same dream every time?"

  "No."

  "Is there anything that is the same every time?"

  "My family, she always kills my family." Both of his hands dug into her arm. His fear was nearly choking her. Her fear was nearly a cold heat on her skin. The bloated hand had fallen off in the running. She and Malcolm stood alone on the landing, as the stench became stronger. The dead things were coming.

  Malcolm's family, turned into rotting corpses that would tear the boy apart, maybe eat parts of him alive while he watched.

  Yes, that would be what Jasmine would do, if she really wanted to terrify. To horrify. If she really hated someone.

  That was it: hatred. Jasmine called out, "Lisbeth, I know why you hate Malcolm. I know."

  The first rotted corpse began to pull itself from the wall. "You're jealous of his family. Malcolm's family loves him. They love him, Lisbeth. Malcolm's father loves him. His mother loves him. His sister loves him. His brother loves him."

  The corpses had pulled free of the wall and were reaching for them, but the smell was fading. "You're family hates you, Lisbeth. Your mother is afraid of you, Lisbeth. I read your file. Your father tried to kill you, and you punished him for it. Didn't you? Didn't you!"

  The dead things began to melt. There was the sensation of something large sliding through the nightmare, like a whale swimming next to you in the dark. Lisbeth's power.

  "No one loves you. They hate you, Lisbeth. Everyone hates you. Even your own family."

  Silence, not of the ear, but sensation of feeling, silence more profound than soundlessness.

  The dream broke and Jasmine was spilled back to wakefulness. She sat up in bed, heart hammering in her chest. That was it. Lisbeth had never been loved, not by anyone, ever. Even sociopaths need the illusion of acceptance from someone. Lisbeth needed to be loved.

  THAT morning Jasmine went to Malcolm. They met for the first time in the flesh. She promised him that Lisbeth would never hurt him again. One way or another Jasmine meant to keep that promise.

  LISBETH was playing with a nearly life-size doll when Jasmine walked through the door. She knew that Bromley was on the other side of the one-way glass. She no longer cared.

  "Nice doll," Jasmine said.

  "My mommy sent it to me."

  "Why?"

  Lisbeth frowned up at her. "Why what?"

  "Why did your mommy send the doll to you?"

  "What do you mean?" Lisbeth asked. The lovely, golden-haired doll lay very still in the child's lap.

  "Why did your mother send you a doll? Why would she send you anything? Most parents never contact their children once they come to the school."

  Lisbeth gave a lovely smile, eyes shining. "Because she loves me," she said, very matter-of-fact, very sweet, and as soon as she said it, Lisbeth knew it had been a mistake.

  Jasmine laughed, then the laughter died. She stared down at the child, met her brown eyes, and did not look away. "No one loves you, Lisbeth; you and I both know that."

  "I hate you," Lisbeth said, voice quiet and precise.

  "I know," Jasmine said. "Why did you kill Nicky?"

  "Didn't."

  "Why, Lisbeth?"

  "Why what?" the child said, voice sulky.

  "Why did you kill Nick
y?"

  "I could have killed you last night."

  "Then why didn't you?"

  "Get out! Get out!" She stood, screaming. Lisbeth began to beat the doll against the floor. Bits of plastic began to shatter onto the floor. One blue eye lay winking to itself, naked against the floor.

  "Why did you kill Nicky?"

  "Because he wouldn't let me do what I wanted to do. Just like you won't let me!"

  "No," Jasmine said, quietly, "I won't."

  JASMINE waited the following night, waited until the children had been asleep for a couple of hours. Malcolm wasn't sleeping tonight. Vanessa was sitting up with him, keeping him awake, at Jasmine's request. He would be safe tonight, she could see to that.

  Tomorrow night was another problem. Jasmine had made her decision; either Lisbeth was "tamed" tonight, or the child would die. There was one more possibility: that Lisbeth would kill her.

  The thought flowed over her skin like a cool breeze, tickling the hairs on her arms, sliding down her spine like an ice cube. Fear; it was an old companion. Dr. Cooper wouldn't know what to do if she wasn't afraid of her patients.

  Jasmine flowed from dream to dream; bright glimpses of color, motion, thoughts, feelings. She pushed forward like a swimmer, concentrating on getting to the other shore. Then it came, terror, it screamed along Jasmine's nerves, opened her mind, called to her.

  She didn't enter the dream this time, she pushed at it from the outside, shoved the fear aside. Lisbeth's anger flared over her, but there was nothing for the girl to use to trap Jasmine. Outside of dreams, you were safe. "No, you can't. You're afraid of me, like all the others."

  Jasmine smiled. "You made the mistake they all make. Just because I'm afraid of you doesn't mean you shouldn't be afraid of me."

  Lisbeth began to gather her forces. Jasmine could feel it, like a thunderstorm building in the distance. She might break the dream, or at least change it. "How would you like to visit one of my patients?"

  The girl hesitated, power swirling around her. "Patients?"

  Jasmine explained what she did; by the time she finished Lisbeth was smiling, that same angelic twist of perfect lips. Lovely and meaningless as a lifelike doll.

  "Would you like to see one of their dreams?"

  "Do you mean it?" Lisbeth asked.

  "Yes."

  Lisbeth licked her lips, breath easing out. It was almost a lust reaction, anticipatory, and far too old for the child. But then in many ways Lisbeth was no longer a child; she had haunted people's dreams too long for that. "I'd like that."

  "All right." Jasmine paused as if thinking. "We'll visit William. You'll like William, and I know he'll get a kick out of you."

  Lisbeth giggled, the first real little-girl sound Jasmine had heard her make.

  "I can hold on to you and take you to his dream, if you stop fighting me."

  Lisbeth frowned at that. "What does that mean?"

  "Just relax and let me do the work. Be the passenger for once instead of the driver."

  "You promise to take me to this William. Promise I'll get to see a real killer's dream."

  "Promise," Jasmine said.

  Lisbeth nodded, and lowered her protection. Jasmine felt Lisbeth's consciousness slide against hers, almost a faint bump as the child released all control. An adult empath would never have lowered everything, but Lisbeth didn't have the experience in dealing with people who were her equals. Until now she had had no equal. Ten was still very young.

  William was asleep, and he dreamed, as he often did, of past glory. He was lying on a twin bed with a little girl. She was wearing blue shorts and a red tank top with cartoon figures on it. Jasmine remembered the clothes from photographs. This was six-year-old Caitlin, and it was William's version of a wet dream.

  Lisbeth sighed. "Oh, this is great."

  The child was crying, saying, "I want to go home now, please."

  "Not yet," William said, voice soothing, as his hand rubbed the tiny bare leg. "Not yet, soon. If you do everything I say, I'll take you home."

  "You said there were kittens here. Where are the kittens?"

  "I'll show them to you."

  "I don't want you to touch me. Don't!" The child's fear stabbed outward like her words. A sharp gut-jerking cry.

  Lisbeth hovered as close as Jasmine would allow, soaking up the terror. Feeding off the child's small body. The cries for help, the pleading; Caitlin would ask about the kittens William had promised to show her just seconds before he placed one hand around her slender baby neck and squeezed. He would crush her windpipe. He was a very strong man.

  Her small, nude body lay beside the man, dead. Her head was thrown to one side; eyes mercifully closed. She looked like a broken doll, skin perfect and flawless.

  Jasmine brought herself and Lisbeth into the dream. The broken little girl vanished, and William was suddenly fully clothed again.

  He stared up at her, fear plain on his face, his fear crawling along Jasmine's body. She enjoyed his fear, enjoyed making him suffer.

  Lisbeth said, "He's afraid of you."

  "I know."

  "I been good," William said. "I done everything you told me to. Why should I be punished? What'd I do wrong?"

  "Oh," said Lisbeth, "he's so afraid." She walked closer to the bed, and he shrank back from her, eyes shifting from Jasmine to this new little girl.

  "I'm not here to punish you, William. I want you to help me."

  "Anything, anything you want, Dr. Cooper. You just name it."

  Lisbeth reached for him, and he jerked away as if she had burned him.

  "Did you enjoy William's dream, Lisbeth?"

  "Oh, yes, it was great."

  "Would you like to see another?"

  Lisbeth turned, eyes shining, genuinely excited. "Oh, please, yes."

  Jasmine nodded. "She's yours, William."

  "Wh-what!" he gasped.

  "It's the girl that needs punishing, not you. I'm giving her to you."

  "You can't scare me," Lisbeth said.

  "Is she real?" he asked.

  "Very."

  "You think threatening me with him will scare me. It won't. I can make him disappear."

  "I control this dream, Lisbeth."

  William grabbed her wrist. She turned, completely confident that she would destroy him. Jasmine held William's mind and protected it.

  The first trickle of fear rose out of Lisbeth. Fear for herself. She struggled to get her hand free. "You won't let him hurt me. You're not bad. Only bad girls let people get hurt." The fear was still in check, because she believed what she said. Jasmine was a teacher, a doctor, an adult, and would not really hurt a child.

  "I'm not a good girl, Lisbeth, never have been."

  William dragged her against his chest. "NO!" Lisbeth yelled it, anger still stronger than fear. "You can't scare me. You can't make me behave. I'm not like the other children."

  "No," Jasmine said, "you are not, and neither was I." Jasmine vanished from the dream, leaving Lisbeth to the man's tender mercies. She did not want to see it happen, but she was drawn to feel it. Fear at last, full-blown and wonderful. Lisbeth terrified. Lisbeth feeling the only thing she could feel, her own pain. Dr. Jasmine Cooper hovered on the edge of the dream and fed off the fear, the lust, the horror. She drank the sweet breath of evil, and it filled her up. Jasmine, like the child, not only was attracted to darkness but fed off it.

  She broke the dream before William was finished but long after Lisbeth had begun to cry. Jasmine woke and went down the dark hallways to Lisbeth's room. She opened the door to find the child gasping and sweat-soaked. She cringed when she saw Jasmine.

  "You're like me, aren't you? You're like me."

  "Yes, Lisbeth, I'm like you." Jasmine sat down on the edge of the bed.

  "I don't want to be punished anymore."

  "Then you've learned your first lesson. I'll show you how to stay alive, Lisbeth. They won't kill you now, not if you let me teach you." Jasmine leaned close to the child, whisper
ing so the monitor wouldn't hear her, "I'll show you how to feed off them, so that they don't know. You can do what you like with them within limits. You can torture and get paid for it."

  Lisbeth's breathing had slowed to almost normal. "You are just like me."

  Jasmine nodded and reached a hand out to the child. Lisbeth came to her, small arms hugging her. They sat together in the dark, holding each other. Lisbeth couldn't love, not really. But every child needs love, whether they can give it or not.

  "You won't leave me?" Lisbeth asked in a small voice.

  "I won't leave you. You can come visit me during holidays."

  "You're still afraid of me, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "But now I'm afraid of you."

  "Yes."

  The child leaned her back against Jasmine, small hands holding the woman's arms around her. Every child needs to be held.

  She rested her chin on top of Lisbeth's head, and rocked her gently, comforting herself as much as the child. From one monster to another, Jasmine thought, I'll show you how to stay alive. I'll show you how to drink tears and spill blood. We'll carve them up and feed off their fear, and no one will know but us.

  Jasmine glanced up at the room's monitor. Are you there, Bromley? she thought, are you there? Maybe he knew, maybe he had always known. Why did you keep me alive, Bromley? Why?

  She hugged Lisbeth, and felt the first hot trails of tears on her own cheeks. Jasmine whispered into the child's hair, "Monsters beware, here be dragons."

  WINTERKILL

  This story, like the Sidra and Leech stories and "A Token for Celandine," is set in the world of Nightseer. The main character is an assassin, and like Edward in the Anita books, Jessa found that killing ordinary humans was too easy. She kills only wizards. This story shows some of her origins, and that you really can't go home again.

  JESSAMINE Swordwitch stood among the ruins of Threllkill village. The forest had moved in to reclaim the small clearing. Twenty houses it had been at its largest, a tiny inconsequential place, but it had been home.

  One of her mother's roses had gone wild. It climbed over the broken chimney, pale pink flowers clustered against the sun. The air was thick with its scent, cloying sweet. The black-limbed cherry still stood against the shattered pile that had once been the garden wall.