The horned head lifted from the ground. The pulse of her lifeblood mingled with the energy stored in the longstones— ancient batteries awaiting a key to unlock their mysteries. She saw herself reflected in Lysistratus's eyes. She shook her head. She didn't understand what she saw— not the weight on her brow, nor the cold fire that filled her palm with more than pain and sent it speeding through her abused body.
She was aware of it all on a subliminal level. Far clearer was the knowledge of the parasite's hands reaching for her, the Otherworld as a wasteland and herself lost in—
Milton's 'Paradise Lost': "The seat of desolation, void of light…."
An emptiness from which there would be no return. A banishment that was ultimate. Final.
Lysistratus gripped her by the throat and lifted her, his face inches from her own. Her lungs begged for air. His gaze drove into hers. He ignored the sprouting horns, the potential for power that was dying stillborn with each passing moment. He had her. She was his. That was all that mattered. And not all the transformations in this world or any other were going to save her now.
Tattershank, the wizard from her own Cloak and Hood, forcing Meg to her feet to face the demon: "I am dying. Save at least yourself. Your world…."
She lifted her arms to strike at Lysistratus. Her blows were ineffectual, but blood sprayed from her wound, momentarily blinding him. The blood burned where it struck his eyes and skin.
His grip faltered, and she tore herself free to stumble across the withering grass. She forced air through her bruised windpipe with deep rattling gasps. When she fell, it was against one of the three standing stones. She pressed her cheek against its bruising surface. Strength surged through her from the stone. She turned, her back to it, her head still heavy with the unfamiliar weight on her brow.
Half blind, Lysistratus moved toward her. His eyes no longer had the power to bind her, but there was the undeniable pull of his radiance that made her want him almost as much as she needed to destroy him. And there was still strength in him— enough to suck her empty, enough to bleed the Otherworld barren….Her world…
She braced herself against the stone and met his outstretched hands with her own. Beyond fear, she joined her gaze to his. The buffeting power of his will pounded against her own. She fought him as best she could, awkwardly, the raw power filling her, but spilling uselessly from her untrained mind. He battered aside her clumsy defenses as soon as she erected them, drove into her with the skill of centuries at his command.
His feral eyes blazed. His hands were locked around hers, crushing bone, drawing her out of herself….
But she heard only— Tattershank: "Save at least your world…."
The Otherworld a wasteland, bowing under Lysistratus's fierce hunger….
"Save at least yourself…."
He was too strong. She couldn't keep him out of her. One traitorous part of her commanded her to let him have his will. The effort of holding him back was a monstrous, gibbering pain. He loomed over her— in height, in skill, in strength. She was a frail leaf ravaged by the force of his gale, an ugly smudge compared to his radiance. She was falling into a—
"…void of light…."
The longstone rasped against her back as she was forced to her knees. With success so near, Lysistratus laughed. The sound bled into her—
"…with howling glee…."
Mynfel, help me! she pleaded to the night skies. There was no reply except for the endless jabbering inside her own head.
"No future!"
"…destroyed by madness…."
"Save at least your world…."
There was no deeper Otherworld to draw Lysistratus into, as she had with her first assailant. No Toby waiting there with knife in hand to help her. There was nothing. Only—
"…desolation, void of light…."
A darkness inside her like a prison rose steadily upward through her mind, drawing into it all that made her who she was. It stilled the cacophony, swallowing the voices one by one. It was a black cage steadily consuming her.
No! she cried as it threatened the very core of her being. That's all I have left— that's all that's me!
Mine, the blackness demanded with Lysistratus's voice. Sibilant. Triumphant. Come to me and be mine.
"No!" Cat screamed.
Despair towered in her. She lifted her face. Her horns struck the longstone behind her. Sparks of witchfire flew about at the contact. Blind rage stabbed through her. Power swelled.
"You go into it!" she cried. "It can't have me!"
She was unskilled. Her use of the power was awkward. But her desperate fury, her final need, overcame her lack of knowledge. The Otherworld itself came to her aid, feeding her the strength she needed through the standing stone that supported her. The dark prison meant for her enveloped Lysistratus in a cloying, unbreakable web. Down it plunged inside her, dropping as though all the fiends of hell pursued it, drawing the parasite with it, locking him deep inside her with no escape, no reprieve, no mercy….
Lysistratus's hands loosened their grip on hers. She saw the fading light in his eyes. The blue fires in the depths of their pupils dimmed. He gave a wailing cry that echoed deep inside her.
You were mine….
His body fell across her. She shrunk from the contact, pushing at him, rolling the body away. With stunned eyes she watched it dissolve until no trace of him remained. Only a distant moan— but that came from inside her… from the shadow prison… the blackness….
"Oh, God. No."
She couldn't live with that inside her. What if it broke loose, spread cancerously through her, made her into what he had been….
Would that be so wrong? the treasonous part of her that had been attracted to the parasite asked.
She couldn't live with it— live with it and know how close she came to giving herself to him.
There was no other way, her reason told her flatly. This is the price she would have to pay if she wanted the Otherworld to be preserved, if she didn't want him loose, feeding on the dreaming minds of her own world, if she didn't want to take his place.
"But I'm not strong enough," she whispered.
Her fear of dying was nothing compared to what she felt now. She would always have to be on guard against him— against a part of herself as well. She would always feel that pinprick of evil inside her, knowing that it would be loosed again if she ever dropped her guard, knowing how close she came to welcoming it….
"M-mistress… Cat…?"
She turned a dull gaze in Toby's direction.
"Did… did we win?" he asked.
Submerged, faintly, she felt Lysistratus stir inside her. "I don't know," she said tonelessly. "It… it doesn't feel like we won…."
She lifted a hand to touch the heavy weight on her brow. The antlers grew insubstantial, just as Lysistratus's body had, fading under the touch of her fingers. But though they were gone, she could still feel their weight. She looked at her hand. The cut on her palm was a white scar. The blood that had woken the bond between her and the Otherworld was gone. The wound was healed, but the bond remained.
A sense of vertigo came over her. The hilltop spun in her sight. She was tired… so tired… drained….
Toby touched her shoulder and she toppled over.
"Mistress Cat?" she heard him say, then she was—
—looking into Ben's face.
"Cat? Jesus, Cat— are you all right?"
"Ben…?"
She was back. In her own world. The rest was all a dream. The Otherworld and— She felt the faint stir deep inside her, and shuddered. No. It had been real. God. How could she live with that… that thing inside her? And when she thought of how she'd almost just given herself up to—
"Everything's going to be okay," Ben said. He glanced at where the two bodies lay sprawled— one on the floor of the car, the other outside on the concrete. "It's over now, Cat. They're both… dead."
But it's not over, she wanted to tell him. Not when the crea
ture was still inside her. Not when she'd almost let him seduce her to his side. Not when she could still hear that traitorous part of her, whispering and sibilant— its voice a combination of the parasite's and her own.
But she didn't have the strength to speak. She heard the sound of approaching sirens. Ben helped her to her feet and kept an arm around her shoulders for support. The physical contact was comforting. She saw Peter leaning weakly against the side of the car. Both Ben and Peter looked like they were just barely holding themselves together. She knew just how they felt.
"Somebody must've called the police," Ben said.
Peter nodded. "When we talk to them," he warned, "let's just keep it straight. No dreams. No vampires. No little magic—" He glanced over to where Tiddy Mun had been flung, but there was no sign of the little man. "No little magic people. Okay?"
"Whatever," Cat said dully.
"We believe you, Cat," Peter said, "but we've got to leave it at that, or they're going to lock us all up."
"Okay," Cat whispered. "No… no dreams. No ghosts." Just a monster imprisoned inside her.
Ben wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. Peter lowered himself down to the pavement and leaned against the wheel of Rick's car, staring at his shaking hands. That was the way the policemen in the first patrol car found them.
The ringing of the phone jarred Potter out of a sound sleep. He reached blearily across his wife and hooked the receiver with a hand, bringing it to his ear. The side of his face was pressed against his pillow. His voice was muffled when he spoke.
"Whazzat?"
"Potter."
The authoritative tone of the voice dissolved the muddiness in his head. "Yeah."
"Got us a hot one. Tag-sheet says you want to be buzzed if we pick up another slasher victim."
Potter was fully awake now. He sat up. "What've you got?"
"You better get down here— underground garage at the corner of Main and Lees. The Marquis— you know the place?"
"Yeah. Who's the victim?"
"The body's not here, at least not that one. Listen, Potter. It gets real complicated. It'd be a lot easier if you'd just get down here."
"I'm already there," Potter said.
He hung up and started to get dressed.
Yarrow
May I be an island in the sea,
may I be a hill on the land,
may I be a star when the moon wanes,
may I be a staff for the weak one:
I shall wound every man,
no man shall wound me.
—traditional Scots charm
15
Friday Morning
The four of them sat in a special waiting room at the Riverside Hospital, waiting for the plainclothes detective who had questioned them earlier to return. Peter and Ben's minor wounds had been treated, and like Debbie, they had both refused sedatives.
Cat had come through her ordeal physically unscathed, except for some bruising around her throat. Her real wounds lay inside, still open and raw. But while she had refused to be treated for shock as well, her reasons were radically different from those of the others. She was afraid of the balm that the sedatives promised, afraid of finding herself back in the Otherworld and having to go through it all again.
Becki and Stella were both in another room under police guard, after having been treated for shock.
There was no conversation amongst the four as they waited. Ben held Cat's hand. Peter sat on the other side of her, staring at the floor. Debbie was in a chair across the room. They all looked up when the door opened and Detective-Sergeant Potter returned.
"Okay," he said. "Forensic's come up with a set of prints that match Kirkby's." He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Peter, Cat, and Ben. "I just want you to go through how you ended up under the Marquis again."
"We've already told you," Peter said.
"So humor me. Tell me again."
Peter glanced at Ben, then shrugged. "Okay. Ben arrived at my place, told me that Mick had been killed and that Cat was in danger."
"And you thought she was in danger because of this prowler, the one that you"— he indicated Ben— "and this Jennings had a run-in with a couple of nights ago?"
Ben nodded.
"And then?" Potter prompted.
Peter sighed wearily. "We got to her place just in time to see this Kirkby guy pulling away from her place. We saw that her car door was open, her purse on the ground, so—"
"You gave chase. Who'd you think you were? Clint Eastwood? Why didn't you call us then?"
"I… we… I told you before," Peter said. "We just weren't thinking straight."
Potter regarded him for a moment. They were hiding something. He knew it. All four of them. But whatever it was, he couldn't put his finger on it. The Mitchell woman's story corroborated theirs, the prints on the knife were Kirkby's…. It nagged him that he couldn't get it out of them. But this was the fourth time he'd taken them through it, individually and in a group. He couldn't hold them any longer. He didn't have anything on them.
"Okay," he said with a nod. "I guess you can go. Just make sure you get down to the station later today to sign your statements. Nicholas and Waller, third floor. Ask for Detective-Sergeant Potter. Got it?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"There's going to be an inquest," Potter added. "You'll have to appear at it. Maybe a court appearance. It all depends on the Crown Prosecutor, but I doubt it'll get to court."
"Sure." Peter stood up.
"Your cab's down in the lot," Potter told Ben. "I had one of the patrolmen drive it over for you."
When Ben didn't say anything, Peter nodded his thanks to the detective. "You guys coming?" he asked.
Cat waited for Ben to get up.
"I'm thinking about Becki," Ben said. "Maybe someone should be here when she… you know, comes around."
"The doctor said they'll both be under sedation for most of the day," Potter said. "You might as well go home."
"I guess…"
"Oh, Ben," Cat said. "I'm so sorry about Mick. If it hadn't been for me—"
Ben shook his head. "It wasn't your fault. It's just… just the way things turned out, I guess." His eyes brimmed with tears. The rage that had allowed him to strike down the parasite had long since fled, replaced with a sense of despair that he could be driven to do such a thing. And losing Mick…
Peter put his arm around Ben's shoulders and Cat took his arm on the other side. Cat understood what Ben was going through. The ache of losing Kothen was still fresh inside her.
Across the room, Potter approached Debbie. "You're free to go as well, Miss Mitchell."
Debbie sighed. She looked across the room to where Cat and Peter were comforting Ben. It's funny, she thought. She knew so many people, but after hearing their story, what they'd gone through for each other, she was just realizing how superficial her life had become. Where was the person she could call a friend? A person that could be counted on like these people counted on each other? Where was the person who could count on her?
"If you could just come down to the station later?" Potter was saying to her.
She nodded.
"Do you need a lift home?"
Debbie stood wearily. "Please."
"Anybody else need a ride?" Potter called over to where the others stood.
Peter shook his head. "We'll be okay. Thanks."
"Suit yourself." The door closed quietly behind Debbie and the detective.
They sat in Cat's kitchen, just the three of them now, too tired to move, too tired to sleep, police and hospital far from their thoughts. Dawn was finally streaking the eastern horizon.
"Cat?" Peter said after a while. They'd spoken no more than a few words to each other since leaving the hospital. "What really happened to… to him?"
She looked up, her eyes haunted. "I… trapped him." She tapped her chest. "He's here. Inside me."
Haltingly she tried to tell them what had happened in the Otherworld, watchin
g their faces to gauge their reactions. But the disbelief she'd half expected to see never came. Both Ben and Peter had seen and experienced enough to accept just about anything at this point.
"Jesus," Ben said when she was done.
"I'm scared," she told them. "Scared to sleep, because of what I might dream. Scared he's going to get loose. Scared that he's going to turn me into whatever he was. Scared that some part of me wants to like him…."
Ben reached across the table to take her hand. "Nothing's going to turn you into what he was, Cat."
"We can't know that. We don't even know what he was. Or how he got to be that way."
Peter shook his head. "Ben's right, Cat. There's no way you're going to become what he was. If you were strong enough to… to trap him like you did, you're strong enough to keep him there."
"Do you really think so?" she asked in a small voice.
"I know so." Peter glanced at Ben. "And if you need any help, we're going to be around— for as long as you can stand us."
He said it lightly, but she knew he meant it. Ben tightened his grip on her hand. For a moment she felt good, thinking that there'd be people to share this awful burden with her, then she realized that it just couldn't be that way. She pulled her hand from Ben's and folded her arms so that neither of them would see how she was trembling.
"It won't work," she said.
"Don't push us away, Cat," Peter said.
"I don't want to!" Her eyes brimmed with tears but she refused to cry. "You just don't understand, neither of you. I'm not me anymore, not… not with this thing inside me."
"That doesn't matter to me," Ben said.
Peter nodded. "Or to me."
"Well, it should. I couldn't stand becoming what he was and maybe… maybe finding myself feeding on your dreams…."
Ben tried to reach for her hand again, but she backed away in her chair. He started to say something, then paused, looking helplessly at Peter.
Peter found it hard to meet his gaze. He was remembering how Cat had fled from his apartment last night. He didn't want to get into another argument with her. He didn't want to tiptoe around her, but he figured that after all she'd gone through, after the things that had seemed to prove her to be crazy had finally been validated, it wasn't his place to try to force her to do anything.
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