On the way home to Cat's house the conversation turned to her dreams, and she found herself talking more freely to Ben about them than she could have to anyone a week ago. Maybe she was just getting used to it, she thought, seeing how often she'd talked it through in the past few days.
"I had a lovely time, Ben," she said when Ben pulled the cab up in front of her house. "I'd like to do it again."
"Me too. Are you going to be okay? Are you sure you don't want someone to stay with you?"
Cat nodded. "After the beating he took from your friend Mick, I don't think he'll be coming around for a long time."
Without talking about it, they seemed to have both come to the same decision to take things slowly. Cat put her hand on the door handle, then paused to look back at Ben.
"Are you free tomorrow night?" she asked. "I thought maybe we could have dinner at my place, if you'd like."
"I'd like that a lot."
Cat hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and kissed Ben's cheek. Before he could react, she whispered a quick good night and was out of the car. Ben sat for a moment, watching her go up the walk to her front porch. A silly grin spread over his face as he pulled away from the curb.
Cat turned at the door, not stepping inside until his tail-lights winked out of sight. As she closed the door, she was welcomed by Ginger and Pad, weaving in and out between her legs and crying for their elevenses snack. After feeding them she puttered about the kitchen awhile, then finally went upstairs to her study, where she sat down to reread the twelve pages she'd written that afternoon.
Twelve pages! And they were still good, all these hours later.
She smiled as she laid them aside. Putting out the light, she started to get ready for bed, but a creepy feeling stole over her. She felt as though there were eyes on her. The feeling got so bad that she didn't want to even undress for bed.
This is stupid, she told herself. But the feeling wouldn't go away. She should have asked Ben in, she realized. But it was too late for that now. She padded into her study and peered out the window at the street. Surely he couldn't be back— could he? Mick had really hurt him.
Yes, a small voice said inside her. But if he's really the creature you think he is, would that stop him?
She couldn't see anybody out on the street, but the feeling persisted until she had to go downstairs into the kitchen. The cats were already flaked out for the night on the couch in the living room. Great company. She paced back and forth, peered out the kitchen windows, then out the front. Every creak and noise of the old house made her start. Finally she gave in.
She went to the phone, thought of calling Ben. She dialed Peter's number instead. When he came on the line she had a moment of complete paralysis— this was so dumb— but then she managed to speak.
"Is your… is your couch free tonight?" she asked.
Peter's voice immediately sounded worried. "What's the matter, Cat? Is he—"
"No. It's just nerves— I hope. Do you mind?"
"Not at all. C'mon over."
By the time she was sitting in Peter's living room, she felt more foolish than ever, but it was better than going bonkers in her own house, she told herself firmly.
"How was your evening?" Peter asked.
For a moment Cat didn't say anything. She took a breath, let it out, then leaned back on the couch.
"It was good," she said finally. "Really good. Ben's… well, he's a little old-fashioned, but then so am I. We had a really good time."
"How come you didn't call him? Not that I mind, but…"
Cat sighed. "It just all seems so stupid. I mean, there couldn't have been anybody there, but I just got the creeps. I thought of calling Ben, but I didn't want to come across as a complete flake. Not if we're going to… not if anything's going to come of this."
"You really like him?"
She nodded.
"That makes me feel good," Peter said. "You're both good folks. I'm glad you hit it off."
"You mean old Mr. Matchmaker likes to see a job well done."
"Now you sound like Ben."
Cat laughed. "He's got a name for everybody. You know what he calls you?"
"Peter Baird, the Bookstore Laird."
"I wonder what he'll come up with for me."
"Cat the Brat," Peter said.
Cat laughed harder, and Peter joined in. When they caught their breath, he looked at her for a long moment.
"Things are going better now, aren't they?" he asked.
Cat nodded. "I've started writing again— twelve pages today. And except for a bad case of nerves tonight, I guess things are looking up."
They talked some more, neither of them bringing up the man that Mick and Ben had chased off last night, then Peter finally stood up and called it a night.
After he'd gone into the bedroom, Cat changed her clothes for an old flannel shirt that she liked to sleep in, and got into her makeshift bed on the couch. She lay awake for a while, thinking of Ben, then wondered if she'd dream tonight, and if she did, whether she'd find herself back at Redcap Hill or in the part of Mynfel's wood where she'd left Toby. She drifted off, still wondering.
Mick stretched out full-length on his bed, leaning his head against the headboard with a pillow propped under him. Christ, he was beat. And his head. He had a headache that just wouldn't quit. One of Honey Bane's early punk singles, "Boring Conversations," was playing at low volume on the stereo.
"Want me to turn that off?" Becki asked as she came into the room.
Mick shook his head, grimacing as the movement set up a new wave of pain.
"You look like shit, you know that?"
"I feel like shit," he replied.
Becki came to sit on the side of the bed. She pulled a bent joint out of the back pocket of her jeans, straightened it, and regarded it critically. When she was satisfied that it had survived her pocket, she offered it to Mick.
"Want some?"
Mick thought about it for a moment. It was either going to help his headache or make it worse. "Fuck it," he said, and reached for the joint.
Becki gave him a light and they passed the joint back and forth until the roach was too small to handle.
"Well?" Becki asked.
"Got any more?"
Becki produced two more from the same pocket and Mick grinned. Already he felt better.
Ben was still beaming by the time he got home. He was too wound up to go to bed right away, so he spent a couple of hours poring over various books he'd picked up at the library that afternoon. They dealt with vampiric lore— both fictionalized accounts and supposed fact— but he didn't come up with anything that related to his own experiences with the Dude, didn't come up with anything even vaguely useful.
By then he was tired enough to hit the sack, and he fell asleep thinking of Cat and the evening he'd just spent with her. And dinner tomorrow night…
It was close to two in the morning when he woke up, not really sure if he was still asleep and dreaming, or if he had indeed woken up. There was a steady rhythmic pressure on his pillow, like a cat kneading it with its forepaws, except—
I don't have a cat, Ben thought.
He turned with a sudden movement. An icy chill started up his spine. There was nothing there. He put out a hand and gingerly touched the pillow. It lay there unmoving and very pillowlike. He stared at it for long moments. Slowly the prickle of fear subsided and he breathed easier.
A dream. Not as weird as the one the other night, but still just a dream. Thinking too much of a different kind of Cat.
He was about to lie down once more when a soft golden glow rose up from the pillow. It swirled into a ball-like shape, hung suspended before his stunned gaze for a few shocked moments, then shot down the hallway into his living room. A cold sweat broke out on him as he watched it go.
Ghosts of the evening's reading preyed on his nerves. What he'd just seen had nothing to do with what he'd been reading, but it belonged to the same realm— that of the impossible. It w
as one thing to suppose that these sorts of things might be real. Quite another to experience them.
Then he heard a sound from the living room. A scratching noise, as though something was worrying at his window screen. He stared down the hallway, every night fear he'd ever had choosing that moment to return to him. It wasn't a loud sound. More a spectral whisper. As though something was trying to get in.
He waited for it to stop, praying to a God he'd abandoned in public school. The Dude's features rose in his mind's eye. Last night's helplessness returned in a rush. He was out there. The monster was real, and he was out there. Trying to get in. And neither a locked door nor his screened windows were going to keep something like him out for long.
He shot a glance at the phone. He could try to call someone— Mick, the cops— but by the time they arrived, he realized, it'd be all over. He could try to sneak out the back way, but that would leave him exposed and alone in the middle of the park, dressed in his skivvies, with nowhere to hide.
"Jesus," he whispered into the cloying darkness. "What am I going to do?"
There was an umbrella that someone had left in his cab, leaning in the corner by his dresser. Taking a deep breath, he eased out of bed and fetched it. With the umbrella clutched in his sweaty hand, he started down the hallway— better to face his fears becoming real than to just lie there, waiting for it to come to him. The scratching sound grew louder with each step he took. His bladder threatened to release the liquid it had stored while he slept. As he neared the darkened doorway that opened into the living room, it was all he could do to keep moving.
I'm going to die, he thought.
Holding the umbrella so tightly that his knuckles went white, he edged forward. He raised his makeshift weapon in front of him and entered, gaze snapping to the window. For a long moment he stared at the silhouetted figure outlined by the streetlights. Then slowly his fear ran from him.
"A cat," he said, "A frigging tomcat!"
He crossed the room and tapped the handle of his umbrella against the window beside the screen.
"Shoo!" he cried. The umbrella went clack, clack. "Bugger off, you!"
His attempts at chasing it off only increased the cat's scratching. It rose on its hind legs, caught its claws high in the screen and hung like it was being crucified. Ben shook his head and went up the stairs to the door. There was no accounting for some animals. Especially cats. Did it think it was going to earn a saucer of cream for this performance?
He opened the door and waved the umbrella at the animal. "Go on! Get out of here!"
The cat pulled free from the screen with the calm assurance of never having been actually caught in the first place, and faced Ben. The reflective layer behind its retinas glowed red as they caught the glare of the streetlights.
"I mean it!" Ben cried. "Go on!"
It leapt off the low windowsill, straight up at him. For a moment Ben flashed on his dream, on last night, on cats attacking—
He jumped back, startled by the animal's unexpected move, and it dodged between his legs, darting down the stairs and into his apartment. Ben swung the umbrella at it— a half second too late.
"Shit! Look," he told it as he followed it down into his living room. "You can't stay in here, okay?" Christ, what if it was rabid or something? "Why don't you just go back to whatever alleyway you crawled out of and…"
His voice trailed off.
The big tom was up on its hind legs again, but this time there was no screen for it to claw. Instead its body shimmered. A ripple ran through it the way an image reflected on water undulates when it's disturbed. Then the cat was gone, replaced by a small skinny man with large watchful eyes and a wild mat of hair.
The change left Ben staring slack-jawed. The umbrella fell from a suddenly limp grip and clattered to the floor. He. wanted to bend down to pick it up, but didn't dare take his gaze from the strange manifestation in front of him, wasn't sure he'd even be able to get back up because his legs were feeling so shaky….
"Please," the little man said. "I mean no harm. I am Cat's friend."
Cat's friend. Jesus. A minute ago it was a cat! But then what it had said sunk in. Not a cat's friend, but Cat Midhir's friend. Jesus H.! This was her little gnome from the Other-world that Peter had told him about.
Ben felt as though his world was tumbling down around his ears. This was too much. Never mind his telling Peter to keep an open mind. This… He realized suddenly that the creature standing there in front of him was as scared as he was. While it didn't make him feel any braver, it did make him feel marginally better.
"You're…" Ben searched for the name. "You're Tiddy Mun?"
A small hopeful smile touched the little man's lips. He nodded eagerly. Slowly Ben sank to the floor and leaned back against the stairs. Another moment and he would have toppled over.
"What're you doing here?" he asked. He was probably still dreaming. He'd only thought he'd woken up. "What do you want from me?"
"I've come to warn you," Tiddy Mun replied. "Your friend…" He spread his thumb and index finger and moved his hand along the top of his head, going from the point of his hairline to the nape of his neck, aping Mick's Mohawk. "With the banded hair. He is in danger."
They were going to play charades now? Ben thought. "Who?" he asked loudly. "Mick?"
The little man shrugged. The name meant nothing to him. He repeated the motion of his hand.
"He was with you last night— he had the knife of cold iron. Tonight the evil stalks him. I… I would have warned him, but I'm too scared." He pointed to Ben. "You're strong. Big. You can help him."
Rick cruised the streets after leaving Stella's apartment, trying to come to grips with what he'd experienced. It was like being high all the time, but a better high than any he'd ever had before. It was like a coke rush, but it was a constant thing, without the numbness. And Christ, did it feel good. With this kind of power…
Look out world, Kirkby's on prowl. Lock up your babes, 'cause as sure as Santa Claus likes his milk and cookies, this dude likes his tits and nookie.
It was well past midnight when he got down to some serious business. First stop was a bistro in Hull, where he used his new moves on some sweet young thing. She was outside, in the back of his car with her dress up around her neck, almost before he could snap his fingers.
That's the way I like it, he thought, driving back into Ottawa after dumping the girl in the parking lot— dazed, but relatively unhurt. No point in making waves. Not when a man's got work to do. But later… He pulled the rearview mirror down so that he could check himself out. Looking good. Time to really boogie now.
It was going on two when he pulled up at the curb about a half block down from his first stop. This was where the punk lived— the one that had knifed Lucius. With rudimentary skill he reached out with his mind as Lucius had shown him, reassuring himself that the punk was there. Humming to himself, he stepped onto the pavement and headed for the house.
With a pair of wire cutters he snipped the phone lines where they entered the building. Glancing back to the street, he saw that he remained unobserved, and headed for the back of the house. The wire cutters went back into his pocket. He'd get the knife he was going to use in the asshole's kitchen.
He was still humming under his breath— Paul Anka's "My Way"— as he moved down the laneway that separated the punk's house from its neighbor.
Help Mick? Ben thought. If Tiddy Mun had been the Dude, Ben wouldn't even have been able to help himself.
"We have to hurry!" Tiddy Mun urged him.
"Yeah. Sure."
Think, he told himself. What do I do? Call Mick. He headed for the bedroom, getting dressed while he dialed. All he got was a busy signal.
"Shit."
Now what? Call the cops? And tell them what? You see, there's this vampire loose and he's going to kill my friend. Well, not a real vampire, this guy sucks out your soul instead of lapping your blood, but you're dead all the same when he's done with you. Right. Tha
t'd go over just great. Okay. How about there's this prowler? He shook his head. They'd only ask how he knew. Mick's apartment was on Third Avenue, south and across Bank Street from where Ben lived. About a block from Bronson. That was a good mile at least. So how did he know there was a prowler loose way the hell over there? Well, you see, this little gnome told me….
He dialed again, but still got a busy signal. What if the phone was off the hook? Or the line had been cut? Did vampires think about things like cutting phone lines? He rubbed his temples, trying to relieve the tension headache that had started up. He glanced at his uninvited guest. He had trouble believing any of this was real.
He rang Mick's number a third time, but knew as he was dialing that he was just putting off the inevitable. When it came right down to it, he had to go himself. No intermediaries. When the busy signal came on the line again, driving the point home, he slammed the phone down and hurried down the hall. Jerking open the door to the hall closet, he scrabbled around through a mess of winter boots, stacks of magazines, and old coats until he found his baseball bat. Hefting it, he started for the door, not even wanting to think about what he might have to do with it.
"Are you coming?" he called over his shoulder.
But Tiddy Mun was already following at his heels.
* * *
Rick came to a window and peered in. A bedroom. Illuminated by a light on the floor somewhere. Lying on the bed was the punk he'd come for. And lying beside him…
Well, now, Rick thought. We might have us some real fun here. Got to kill 'em both, no question about that. But a babe like her deserves a bit of a send-off before we stick the old blade in. She deserves to be stuck with something else first, and Rick had just the thing to do the job. He was getting hard just thinking about it.
He continued on to the back door. Just knowing he could do anything now— any fucking thing— made him want to try it all. He'd thought about killing someone before, wanted to a time or two, but it just wasn't something you did. They locked you up and threw away the key for that kind of shit. But now….
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